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“Welcome to Lucha Libre Night at the Taco Bell Arena in Chihuahua,
Mexico. I’m Edificio Del Huevo, your color commentator, and I’ll be
assisted by six-time Mexican female mud wrestling champion, Rosita
La Chingada.”

“¡Hola amigos!”

“We’ll be reporting on the hugely anticipated grudge match tonight
between Mexican champion Comandante Marco and his American
rival, El Grande Bush. There’s a lot at stake in this battle for North
American supremacy, wouldn’t you say, Rosie?”

“¡Ooooh sííííí! Mexico has been pushing for a rematch since 1846,
when the malditos gringos cabrones put a gun to our heads and
made us sign over Texas and California. Now if we want to go there
for a vacation we have to swim through rat-infested sewer pipes, and
mutherfuckers telling us ‘Speak English! Speak English!’ I like English.
I luv it! But I don’t need no gringo mutherfucker breathin’ down my
neck.

“Anyway, if Comandante Marco wins the match tonight, we gonna get
back all our land and then we be telling you cocksuckers to speak
Spanish.

“I know the first thing I’m gonna do when we take over is to move into
the Presidential Suite at the Venetian Hotel in Las Vegas and go
skinny-dipping in the Grand Canal. Show the mutherfuckers what a
real Mexican chocha looks like!”

“Sounds good to me, Rosie, but as they say ‘Don’t count your huevos
rancheros before they’re hatched.’ Remember, the norteamericanos
are not going to give up all that loot without a fight.

“And as we speak, El Grande Bush is entering the ring. He’s wearing
his trademark pink tu-tu, dunce cap and glitter mask, and they’re
playing his music, ‘Cheeseburger in Paradise.’”

“Hey, Bushie, Bushie! Can we get a word from you for our studio
audience?”

“Waal, I’d like to address my remarks to the brave men and women
fighting in Eye-Rack for the forty-second consecutive year. I honor the
sacrifice you are making in the war on terror, and I want you to know
that I plan to win tonight so that when you come home you’ll have a
home to come home to.

“The threat we are facing in this arena here tonight is whether our
western states will remain The Home of The Free And The Brave, or
are allowed to become an open-air taco stand like the one on
Alvarado Street in downtown LA, where the crackheads and stray
dogs hang out, behind the convention center.”

“How inspiring! What’s your strategy for fighting Comandante Marco?"

“I plan to shock and awe him with my lightning speed, twist his head in
the ropes and bite his knuckles.”

“Excuse me, Ed, cut out that shit. Here comes Mexico’s national hero,
Comandante Marco of the Zapatista Revolutionary Army of Chiapas.
He looks ready for battle with his headdress of quetzal feathers,
jaguar-skin tights and crocodile nose mask. His musical
accompaniment is the Mexico City rock band Molotov singing their
anthem ''Viva México Cabrones.' Every time I hear that song it brings
tears of pride to my eyes, especially the part where they sing ‘No Me
Llames Cerdo.’ When I was a leetle girl in the shantytown overlooking
the security wall separating Nuevo Laredo from Brownsville, Texas,
my mother used to lull me to sleep by singing to me from Molotov’s
romantic love song ‘Chinga Tu Madre’, where they sing:

Nos vemos Acapulco a la fin de semana
Mientras yo cuido à tu hermana
Chinga tú chinga tu madre
[Ed. See you in Acapulco
But first I fuck your sister]

“Hey, big boy! You got something to say to your fans?”

“Hola, Rosie. I dedicate my life to the glory of Mexico. After I win, not
only are we going to reconquer our lost territories, but we are going to
sacrifice El Grande Bush on the ancient Mayan altar at Chichen Itzà
by ripping out his still beating heart and feeding it to the pirhana fish
that swim in the holy cenote. The whole ceremony is going to be
filmed by Mel Gibson for his upcoming movie “Jews of The Jungle.”

“Sounds great, sweetie. Only how do you plan to vanquish such a
great warrior like El Grande Bush?”

“I plan to shoot him with a curare-tipped blow dart and then, when he’s
paralyzed, I’m going to stomp on his balls.”

“And there’s the bell! The two fighters are circling each other warily,
looking for an opening, and they are being watched by the masked
referee, El Misterioso, who is also wearing a mask. Ed, what do we
know about El Misterioso?”

“Only that he gained fame as the fiercest lucha libre fighter in South
America.”

“Wow! Now El Grande Bush leaps forward and head butts
Comandante Marco in the chest, but instead of falling onto the mat El
Comandante does a backflip, kicking Bush in the face. Bush goes
down and Comandante Marco sits on his face, locking him in a French
Butt Hold, squeezing the air out of Bush like an Anaconda python
between the steel vise grip of his powerful glutes.”

“With his last, dying breath Bush reaches between Marco’s legs and
manages to insert his two fingers in the man’s nostrils and flip him
across the ring like a slingshot. Bush jumps to his feet and delivers a
shattering roundkick to the head of El Comandante, who goes flying
into El Misterioso who, enraged, punches him in the face. Hey, he’s
not supposed to do that. He’s the ref!”

“Wait a minute! Now El Misterioso grabs a folding chair and breaks it
over the head of El Grande Bush.”

“The audience is going berserk. The mariachi band Los Tigres Del
Norte has started playing the romantic sentimental love song ‘Volver’,
I suppose expressing their wish for a return of Mexico’s northern
territories. Meantime, on the American side, Ted Nugent is shooting
off machine gun riffs from his guitar. Oh no, that’s not his guitar, it’s a
real machine gun! Now gunfire is breaking out all over the place and
bullets are flying.”

“Comandante Marco and El Grande Bush have recovered from the
surprise attack by El Misterioso, and they’re punching the shit out of
him in the corner of the ring. They rip off his mask.”

“Omigod, it’s Hugo Chavez, the president of Venezuela, and he’s got
an oil gusher shooting out of his butt!”

“Well, let’s get out of here before the whole place explodes. Reporting
to you from Taco Bell Arena, I’m Edificio Del Huevo.”

“And I’m Rosita La Chingada…”

“Wishing you a big cuevo en el culo, cabrones!”

CHUCHA LIBRE

200motels POLITICS

Comedy

Tragedy

Nonsense

Bullshit

Yeah, Brooklyn After Dark! It ain’t no Disneyland. When the sun
goes down the eagle flies and all bets are off.

On our way to Coney Island Beach my girlfriend, Magpie, and I
stopped off at one of the conveniently located liquor stores on
Brighton Beach Avenue for a pint of Cossack Vodka. It being
the height of summer, we determined that a moonlight swim was
in order before the Natalie Cole concert just across the street
from the boardwalk, in Asher Levy Park.

The beach was animated at dusk with beautiful Russian girls in
expensive bikinis, their less beautiful parents showing
unsightly bulges in no less expensive bathing suits,
bodybuilders with shoulder-length bleached-blonde hair, plus
assorted psychos and freaks who looked as though they were
on a day pass from Bellevue.

The sun shone brightly as it descended in a scarlet ball of fire
to the west, resembling the opening credits for a Charles
Bronson cowboy movie. A sprightly breeze animated choppy
waves as Magpie and I frolicked in the surf. Big waves crashed
into the shore, and Magpie and I bounced around happily like
little waterlogged tennis balls, diving into the surf, doing the
breast stroke, the back stroke, floating on our backs. I had
brought along a mask and snorkel, and that was fun for a while,
but I could barely see beyond my arms in the brown, murky
mulch, a far cry from the crystal waters of the Caribbean, to be
sure!

Coney Island Beach/Brighton Beach may not be Cheeseburger
in Paradise, but you won’t hear any complaints from the
immigrants who migrated there from the former Soviet Union.
For somebody who traces his origins back to Kazakhstan or
some little shit industrial city situated in the Ural Mountains,
Brooklyn is paradise. The beaches may not be as pristine as
those that line Israel’s seafront, but the money is American, and
there’s no way you can beat that.

The lifeguards had ended their shift at 6:00, and the beach
patrols in little green dune buggies blew little party horns and
tried half-heartedly to coax swimmers out of the water. This the
city is obliged to do to protect itself from giant lawsuits in case
a swimmer drowns. Naturally the swimmers ignore the
warnings, but that is not the point. The point is, if somebody
drowns, city lawyers can claim, “We took every reasonable
measure to warn him.”

Magpie and I left the beach as night fell, just in time for the
Natalie Cole concert. You could see and hear perfectly from the
boardwalk, which is much more agreeable than sitting in folding
chairs across the street at the band shell. Natalie Cole was in
excellent voice, and she sang a variety of genres from Nat King
Cole material to disco to blues and rock. We found ourselves
next to a lively group of black people who called themselves
“The Jazz Family.” With their beach chairs, their voluminous
picnic food, their dancing feet and their enthusiasm for soul
music, The Jazz Family were the stars of the boardwalk.

The first pint of vodka having long previously bit the dust at the
beach, I ran over to Brighton Beach Avenue for another pint of
rotgut, which we cut with pomegranate juice. Magpie lost her
mind and I had to lead her back onto the darkened beach so
that she could take a leak. Magpie can’t hold her liquor,
particularly when she’s happy. She has almost gotten us
arrested any number of times for trying to sweet talk police
officers who don’t have any sense of humor. Also, she loses
control of her motor functions and I have to lead her around
like the guy in the Times Square subway station with the
dancing dummy that he ties to his legs. The only difference is,
Magpie ain’t no lightweight. At 5’9”, she’s larger than most
men. She’s strong as an ox. She can bring home fantastic
loads of groceries and, one time, when we got snowed in at JFK
Airport, instead of quietly acquiescing and sleeping in the
airport waiting area, she marched across a field of waist-deep
snow in her Miami shoes lugging two huge suitcases to catch a
bus that would take us to the subway so that we could sleep in
our own beds in the city.

Magpie is the kind of girl every peasant farmer dreams of
marrying. She’s intelligent, she keeps an immaculate home like
a European. And, she’s so strong you can hook her up to a plow
and she’ll furrow 40 acres. But when she gets loaded she’s all
dead weight, and I was already carrying a big backpack filled
with our beach supplies.

The full moon in the eastern sky shined portentously red, while
to the west the lights of Coney Island beckoned like a Greek
fable. Out to sea the huge cruise liners leaving New York
Harbor glistened like miraculous jewels of the universe like the
Fellini movie “Amarcord” where the simple people go out to sea
in boats to be dazzled and amazed by the ocean liner, but what
we have in modern New York is so much grander, more like
science fiction.

After Magpie finished her feminine business on the beach, we
went back to the boardwalk to see the remainder of the Natalie
Cole show. In the summer the people of Brighton Beach are the
luckiest in the world, and I’m a die-hard Manhattanite who’s
testifying to that. Even late into the night the boardwalk is
hopping. Kids playing ball in the sand under the protective
glare of streetlights, overfed Russian couples having their
promenade, rollerbladers holding hands, wild kids on bicycles
with boom boxes attached. One joker even had a tiny television
attached between his handlebars, I kid you not!

On the avenue cops’ sirens blared an incessant howl,
reminding you that you might be at the beach, but you were still
in Brooklyn. Groups of motorcyclists roared by, rich Harleys
dressed up with fantastic light shows like Christmas trees,
super jazzed-up “Too Fast Too Furious” Japanese Ninja bikes
painted iridescent green and orange, the female passengers
holding on for dear life in the back, their butts stuck up in the
air like a fertility ceremony.

The show finally ended and The Jazz Family turned on their own
boom box, alternating John Coltrane saxophone pieces with
Sam and Dave soul music. I went over to speak to them. The
men shook my hand and presented me to their charming
women. Eugene from Far Rockaway told me, “New York is
brutal, man, but we shall persevere.”

BROOKLYN AFTER DARK

200motels NEW YORK AREA

Comedy

Tragedy

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CHUCHA LIBRE

200motels POLITICS

Comedy

Tragedy

Nonsense

Bullshit

Once there was a king who told his tailor, “Sew me the coolest
suit in the world.”
The tailor said, “Yes, Your Highness.”
The king said, “You better, otherwise I will have my priests rip
out your still beating heart and feed it to the piranha fish I keep
in the royal aquarium.”

The tailor went home and racked his brains, trying to come up
with something that hadn’t already been done. In desperation,
he called his son, who had an MBA from the Wharton School of
Business. His son suggested sewing a suit composed entirely
of bank notes. “Nah,” said the tailor, “that’s already been done
by Jay-Z.”
“Well, then,” said the son, “How about a suit composed of
collateralized debt obligations?”
“What are those?”
“CDOs are the hottest new structured finance instruments.
They’re taking the world by storm. They are securities backed
by the future proceeds of sub-prime mortgages issued to high-
risk homebuyers. Since these mortgages are bad credit risks,
the interest rates are a lot higher. It’s a real cash cow!”
“Thanks for the tip, son. You saved my life.”

So the tailor sewed a suit composed of CDOs and presented it
before the king. “Looks cool!” exclaimed the king. “In fact, I
think I’ll put it on and take a little stroll down Wall Street. Show
the people on the street what real class looks like.” So the
king, attired in his new finery, marched in a procession through
the financial district, accompanied by trumpets and heralds and
bankers throwing rose petals at his feet. All the financial
analysts swooned. “Omigod, the king looks fantastic! Quick,
call my tailor and tell him to whip me up one of those suits!”

The next day every banker on Wall Street was wearing a suit
made of CDOs. It was like a new financial era had dawned. As it
happened, though, a little girl walking with her mother asked,
“Why are those men walking around dressed like that?”
“Why, those are the smartest men in the world,” said her mother.
“Then why are they walking around naked, dressed in worthless
paper?” asked the little girl.

And all at once the bankers realized that the little girl was right.
They were walking around dressed in suits that were composed
entirely of PURE SHIT!

A generation ago President Ronald Reagan reinvigorated a
depressed and demoralized financial establishment by
pronouncing his revolutionary axiom, “Greed is good.” This
dictum has been updated by George W. Bush, who has put into
practice his own improved version, “Stupidity is Heavenly.”

What can the Republican administration and the Republican
congress have been thinking when they enabled the banking
community to put into place the mother of all ponzi schemes,
otherwise known as sub-prime mortgages?

Broken down into bite-sized pieces that even I can understand,
this is how the racket was set up: a mortgage broker unloads a
house on somebody who can’t afford it for $250,000. The first
year the mortgage is set at a low rate, but thereafter it
fluctuates according to much higher market rates. This first
year window of opportunity allows the mortgage holder to sell
off the debt to a consolidator and cash out at the original
$250,000, while the consolidator gets a deed worth upwards of
$500,000, which is what the deal would be worth if the mortgage
was carried out to term. The consolidator then flips the
mortgage again to an investment bank at a discount off the
$500,000. The investment bank bundles thousands of these
mortgages together and issues securities backed up by the
future income to be generated by all these mortgages.

All of these transactions take place in the window of opportunity
period while the low teaser rate is in effect and the mortgagee
is still able to make his payments. After the initial low mortgage
rate expires and the interest rate doubles, the homebuyer
craps out and the ultimate holder of the worthless paper is left
holding the bag.

Theoretically, the scam should have been short-circuited when
the bond rating agencies like Standard & Poors and Moody’s
reviewed the transactions for purposes of rating the bonds, but
these agencies are funded by the investment banks, and they
didn’t do their due diligence. They passed the bonds with top
ratings of AAA and AA. Once these worthless securities went
into the investment pipeline with AAA valuations assigned to
them, they were snapped up by financial institutions around the
world. Most brokers are idiots who play video games and watch
The Simpsons, and they enjoy having their thinking done for
them. Their job is to invest money, and a triple-A rating on a
bond ensures that the placement passes muster with their
manager, which is all they care about.

The ratings agencies subsequently admitted that they had
based their valuations not on any kind of independent
research, but on criteria supplied to them by the bond issuers
themselves, and it’s irresistible to suspect collusion between
the issuers and underwriters of these securities and the rating
agencies. They all would have a lot to gain, and the oversight
system of checks and balances in the securities industry is
flimsier than Paris Hilton’s nightie. If a congressional committee
were to shine a spotlight on this mess and force the managers
who signed off on these fictional ratings to testify under oath,
then the whole sordid truth would eventually emerge.

In China these guys would be shot for economic sabotage, the
same as they shot the head of their Food and Drug
Administration for taking bribes. With the European and
American central banks having been forced to spend close to
five hundred billion dollars to maintain liquidity in the banking
system to prevent a total collapse of the world economy, this
scandal dwarfs Enron and World Com by a country mile. The
worst is yet to come in September and October, when trading
starts up in earnest. There is going to be some serious jail time
handed down to these wiseguys when the whole thing gets
adjudicated.

The curse of Cassandra in ancient Greek mythology was that
she could prophecy the future, but that nobody would listen to
her. I write for purposes of entertainment, and I sure don’t want
to get caught up in a thing like that. But it sure looks as though
these collateralized debt obligations are just the latest in a long
series of rackets devised by overreaching accountants to
enrich themselves by playing fast and loose with the world
financial system. The obvious next question is: how many other
worthless punchboard schemes are currently in circulation and,
when we get through peeling away the onion layers of
accounting shenanigans, what is at the core?

THE EMPEROR'S
NEW CDOs

200motels FINANCE

Comedy

Tragedy

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