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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

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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

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CHUCHA LIBRE

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Everybody knows that Ohio State and Michigan don't like each
other very much, but what if a game caused a shooting war that
resulted in hundreds of thousands of displaced refugees and
thousands of people being hacked to death by axes and swords
or lined up and machine-gunned by firing squads?

Never happen, you say, and you're probably right. Internecine
slaughter between Americans is unheard of (except for the Civil
War ha-ha!). But what about a dirt-poor region of the world
where the population is in cutthroat competition for a postage
stamp-sized piece of arable terrain on which to grow a few
beans or stalks of corn, where people, squeezed out by a
medieval landowning oligarchy of soulless latifundistas backed
up by a heartless military, are pitched against each other in a
pressure cooker atmosphere of Darwinian survival of the
fittest?

As my friend Keeper has aptly pointed out, national rivalries are
sometimes translated onto the soccer pitch, where matches are
frequently surrogated for national or ethnic hostilities. But
sometimes a playing field is not a large enough arena to contain
the antagonisms or even hatreds that lie not very far beneath

the thin skin of nation states. Witness the riots that have
plagued English soccer since the Elizabethan age, which
continue to terrorize Europe even unto this "civilized" era.
There is evil in the hearts of men (and surely in women as well)
that cannot be subsumed on the fields of athletic competition.

The monstrous reality is that we are not long descended from
the apes in the trees and any pretext for barbarity is a welcome
diversion from the narrow parameters of civilized behavior.
The tools of athletic competition certainly play their part, which
explains the brisk trade in baseball bats in countries that have
never seen a baseball.

This monstrous rule-of-thumb has one of its most lamentable
examples in the ugly little war that broke out between the
Central American republics of El Salvador and Honduras in 1969,
ostensibly as a result of an elimination series between those
two countries for the honor of advancing to the 1970 World Cup
tournament in Mexico City.

Maybe if the World Cup had been scheduled for Australia or
Italy instead of the apex of Latin American civilization the
competitive pressure on the two teams might not have been so
pronounced. As the undisputed capital of Latin American
cultural, political, artistic and intellectual life, Mexico City holds
an irresistible allure for all the nations from the Río Grande to
the barren wastes of Tierra del Fuego, and playing the World
Cup there was certainly the Holy Grail of every country's
sporting imagination. But even barring that, El Salvador and
Honduras already had a plateful of contentious issues to
dispute.

By far the biggest was the agricultural terrain of Honduras, a
large portion of which had been invaded and populated over
succeeding generations by waves of Salvadoran immigrants
who had been squeezed out of that region's most densely
populated country by a lack of land to farm because of the
inequitable distribution which favored the large landowners.

This insalubrious conjuncture of unfortunate pressures was
destined to percolate down to the pitch. The series was a best
of three games with the first to be played in Tegucigalpa, the
Honduran capital, where disturbances broke out, but the
situation worsened considerably at the second game in San
Salvador. Honduran fans were beat up, the Honduran flag and
national anthem were insulted and the emotions of both nations
became considerably agitated. As a result, actions against
Salvadoran citizens in Honduras became increasingly more
violent and a large number of Salvadorans were brutalized or
killed. Tens of thousands of Salvadorans resident in Honduras
were forced to flee the country with no possessions.

As might be imagined, the press of both countries, controlled by
the oligarchies and happy to distract attention from the usual
litany of normal miseries, whipped the populace into a
murderous frenzy. Groups of Hondurans armed with machetes
stormed into areas populated by Salvadorans and butchered
hapless bystanders. The Salvadoran air force staged bombing
raids and a Salvadoran armored column fought its way into the
Honduran capital. Thousands died and thousands more were
wounded and maimed until, after four days of barbaric butchery,
the OAS was able to negotiate a ceasefire and the withdrawal of
Salvadoran forces from Honduran territory.

El Salvador won the third and decisive playoff game, which had
to be played on Mexican territory, and went on to play in the
World Cup in Mexico City the following year, where they were
eliminated after losing to Mexico and the Soviet Union in the
group stage. Brazil won the World Cup after beating Italy 4-1 at
Azteca Stadium, and Pelé won the Outstanding Player Medal.

It really happened!

THE SOCCER
WAR!

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