| “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 |
| Nonsense |
| Bullshit |
| “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 |
| A One-Act Play in the Verse Style of “Cyrano de Bergerac” Curtain Rises Scene: Minneapolis International Airport Men’s Room [Janitor with bucket and mop] Every evening when the sun goes down That’s when I make my working round Jimmy Johnson is my name Mopping toilets is my game I better do my job before the boys arrive If I want to escape this place alive I have to split before those nuts Start sticking things up each other’s butts [Exits the stage] Voice – Is he gone? Voice – He already left. Voice – Well-a one, two, three! [Feet appear inside the toilet stalls and start dancing the soft shoe] Voices – Let’s get down and do the toilet shuffle Take it slow and don’t do no hustle It’s time to do the Dancin’ Feet In the toilet where the gay guys meet Shuffle cool and shuffle neat Hot dog’s what we like to eat We must say it feels real fine Packin’ fudge on the taxpayer’s dime [First Head emerges from the toilet stall] I’m Larry Craig from Idaho Believe me, Bud, I like to blow I’m just up here on vacation From my regular spot at Union Station [Second Head] I’m Mark Foley The Pedophile Fool I like my boys right out of school My specialty is Congressional pages But I’ll accept kids of all ages I’m nice to kids I ain’t no meanie I just like to suck a little weenie [Third Head] I’m Governor McGreevey The Gay American I take it in the butt every chance I can Sucking dick is what I love most I blow guys from Coast-to-Coast [Fourth Head] Hi Folks, my name’s Barney Frank I’m a nauseating skank I got male hustlers shacked up in my home My favorite dog food is Milk Bone [All] We’re a bunch of rancid pricks We just live to suck men’s dicks Hand-Jive in the toilet is our game Because we are completely lame We think we are ancient Greeks But we are just disgusting freaks Mark Foley – Hey, Barney! Barney Frank – What? Mark Foley – I love you because you are a gay guy Every little thing you say and do Your backside has a very special meaning It’s kosher because you are a Jew Whatever the other gay guys tell me I know that you will always be true I love you because you are a fatso And noone can suck dick the way you do! Barney Frank – Hey, Larry! How about a kiss? Larry Craig – Well, OK. But let’s get something straight between us… Barney Frank – Like a dick? Larry Craig – Lissen, I am not gay, OK? I am not gay. But I’m not against suckin’ a little dick if it’s for a good cause. Barney Frank – Like what? Larry Craig – Like a Republican fundraiser for George Bush. Let me put it to you this way: A dick in the ass may be très continental But money is a senator’s best friend You got to show me a handful of green stuff If you want to stick it in my end A campaign is very expensive to run I don’t just go down on a guy just for fun So if you are waiting for me to bend over A check is what you have to send Larry Craig – Mark, why don’t you tell us how it’s done in your neck of the woods? Mark Foley – Well, when I want to get dicked up the ass down Florida way: I go down to Miami to get fucked On old Calle Ocho I quack like a duck For Latin people the duck is man’s best friend It signifies a guy who likes to take it in the end And when the ducks fly down to Old Miami And the gay guys dance in the street The dicks taste so sweet And they shake their culo to the Latin beat Barney Frank – Wow! Let’s stop talking about it, and let’s do it! Larry Craig – We can all fit in the Wheelchair Accessible toilet stall. Jim McGreevey – Last one inside’s a rotten hemorrhoid! [The boys rush in and lock the door] “Bend over!” “Stop blowing so hard. My nuts are flying off!” “Give it to me harder!” “Whoop-de-doo!” [A squad of police enters the men’s room led by a plainclothes detective] Detective – I’m Sergeant Plotz The Airport Dick The mutherfuckers in this toilet are really sick There’s little kids who use this place My job is to see they don’t get a hot shot of jism in the face Open the door you freaks and submit yourselves to custody Voice Inside – Slip your badge under the door so we can see Sergeant – You’re all under arrest for gross indecency Get your clothes on and come with me I’m taking you down to jail And we’re gonna hold you until you make bail [Arrestees exit from the toilet stall] Larry Craig – I’m a senator and I demand special consideration Sergeant – Sorry, Bud, you’re a deviant pervert charged with public masturbation and immoral solicitation Larry Craig – This will ruin my electoral chances Sergeant – You should have thought about that when you dropped your pantses. Let’s go! [Curtain falls] THE END |
| TIP-TOE THROUGH THE TOILET |
| 200motels NATIONAL POLITICS |
| Comedy |
| Tragedy |
| Nonsense |
| Bullshit |
| “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 |
| Nonsense |
| Bullshit |
| “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 |
| SOSÚA, DOMINICAN REPUBLIC In a world of big ‘putas’ its impossible for a guy to have a little fun. That’s what the little kid discovered, hands cuffed behind his back, as the cop called for a car to pick him up and take him to the ‘cárcel.’ A crowd of otherwise unoccupied Dominicans had gathered around to watch the diversion as the cop held the kid with a firm grip and spoke nervously into his cell phone. The little boy was letting out mournful wails of the type I never heard come out of a kid’s mouth before. They were the moans of an apprehended crook who knew where he was going and what trials awaited him there. Magpie and I speedily walked past. If the crowd of men milling around decided that the kid was being treated with unnecessary roughness, all hell might break loose. Even in the best of times the Dominican Republic is a boiling cauldron of heat, poverty and the explosive nature of the population, of which the lid, the ever- present and massive presence of the various forces of order, was liable to blow off at any minute. Here in Sosúa, about twenty-five kilometers east of Puerto Plata on the north coast, the outward appearances of life are those of an exotic tropical paradise. Brightly colored blossoms explode in the trees. Ocean breakers wash against the volcanic cliffs with picturesque drama. German and British tourists bask topless in hot tubs and on immaculate beaches sipping sweet rum cocktails. In addition to the indigenous descendants of Spanish, Taino Indian and African slaves, there is a sizable and wealthy population of Germans. There is a Goethe Institute and a Jewish museum and synagogue for a community of Jews who were welcomed here in 1940 and stayed to make a sizable contribution to the country. Election posters solicit votes for one of them, the All-Dominican Benny Katz, in the upcoming national elections. As Magpie and I continued our stroll down to the Sosúa municipal beachfront, we made way for a battered, antiquated police cruiser crammed with no less than eight cops, rushing to the crime scene. The Keystone Kops aspect of this heap loaded with cops sitting on each others’ laps dissolved when we got a look at their faces, which were tired, stressed, overheated and indifferent. The Sosúa beachfront is one kilometer of palm-fringed white sand facing an emerald bay lined with condos and hotels perched on the edges of high volcanic lava cliffs. The day before, Magpie and I had scoured the whole bay in our snorkeling gear and found some very beautiful coral formations teeming with many varieties of fantastic marine life. The main coral, about 500 meters from shore, swung around in an arc, dotted with small islands of rock on either side. Schools of yellowjacks darted in and out between fan corals and large, orange flower-shaped corals. Fresh, new corals grafted themselves onto mature or moribund formations. Unusual blue-colored brain corals sat beside the normal white brain corals. White, doughy-looking formations formed underwater lagoons with schools of yellow fish swaying to and fro with the current while gaily colored parrot fish chewed on the edge of rocks. Long, stringy trumpet fish glided head-down, perpendicular to the bottom in their strategy to appear like strands of sea grass. Large, menacing sea urchins, some colored a lethal red, were displayed on ledges like spiked figurines in a boutique. Little purple fish with shiny blue dots and feathery little tails darted in and out between schools of giant violet fish as yellow-and-black striped sergeant-major fish approached us, seeking a handout. We observed large fish with red and green checkerboard patterns, odd-shaped black and white speckled solitary cowfish and flat flounders with intricate snake-like designs creeping carefully across the ocean floor. Large grey fish with serious expressions sized us up as potential meals. Schools of needlefish swimming directly beneath the surface brushed by our heads. The joke of this is that these reefs, an easy swim from the beach, are a closely guarded secret of the snorkeling and diving operators who are in the business of trying to induce tourists to drop large sums of money to be transported to inferior sites farther away. The logic of this is: how can you get a guy to pay fifty dollars and then drive him out in the boat for one minute? So the tour operators pretend the reefs in the bay don’t exist and take the tourists the long way around to a minuscule patch of coral far away, like the New York taxi driver taking somebody to Manhattan by way of New Jersey and then charging $300. On this day, however, snorkeling was not an option. The Sea God Poseidon was expressing his wrath and smashing breakers against the rocks and cliffs with dramatic fury. Magpie and I tried to swim, but the ferocious undertow swept our feet from under us and the waves knocked us over in a one-two combination that left us sprawled and winded in the sand, feeling lucky to still be alive. As we lay there, we were astonished to see a school of scuba divers appear on the surface of the water, obviously concerned about making it through the surf, weighted down by the heavy oxygen tanks strapped to their backs. One was knocked over by the breakers and dragged back into the surf. She couldn’t get up and needed quick help from her fellow divers. We determined to stay on dry land and go in search of a different class of wildlife, the two-legged variety. This led us to the shanty town of shacks that line the beach road behind Sosúa beach, a phantasmagoria of open-air boutiques hawking cheap handicrafts and improvised beach bars where any drink might be your last. As stray dogs, which are a far cry from the cute little critters that populated Jacques Tati’s film “Trafic,” rooted through garbage and defecated freely on the otherwise immaculate sand beach, merengue and bachata music blared from boom boxes in the boutiques. Every step or two we were accosted by guys aggressively trying to lure us into the store using English, French or German. “Come into my place. I want to show you something.” “My friend, don’t you have one minute to look in my store?” And the old favorite: “Do you remember me? We spoke yesterday.” Blah blah blah. After a while you get the feeling of swatting away black flies in the African veldt, so numerous and pestilential do the hawkers come to seem. Hookers ply their wares there, too, attractive young women in tight white jeans and pink tee-shirts with glittery slogans emblazoned across the front. “Baby Girl” they proclaim, and “Hôtesse de l’Air.” The girls navigate through the rutted path in high heels and gird their waists with cheap studded belts from China. This routine of seedy of seedy rum bars and painted whores follows a tradition as old as Hispañola itself, going back to the days when it was a French colony under Louis XIV. In 1680, René- Robert Chevlier de la Salle, who had for the previous fifteen years explored and mapped the interior of North America from Montreal to Louisiana, received a commission from the Sun King to establish a fort at the mouth of the Mississippi and secure French possession of the whole continent except for the narrow band controlled by England along the Atlantic coast and the Spanish west. To ensure the success of the enterprise, the king had granted de la Salle three ships stocked with the provisions needed to establish and arm a fort, as well as sailors, soldiers and even marriageable women. During the voyage across the Atlantic, one of the ships fell behind and when the two lead ships reached Saint Domingue, which was at that time a French colony, de la Salle moored them near Port au Prince to wait for the third to catch up. As soon as the soldiers and sailors saw all the fun going on, with rum, whores, thievery, murder, voodoo and African marimba bands playing night and day, there was no getting them back on the program. A large number deserted and the rest came down with insidious strains of venereal disease that, along with various miscalculations (like the precise location of the mouth of the Mississippi, for example) and poor management skills on the part of de la Salle, caused him to be assassinated by one of his own investors and the rest of the colony to perish of cholera on the plains of Texas in a scenario reminiscent of the final act of Puccini’ s opera Manon Lescaut. Unfortunately, these lessons of history, of going crippled and blind, of penises dripping foul-smelling mofongo and falling off like leprosy, are lost on the latest generation of sexual adventurers, mild-mannered older European men for whom sexual stardom is just an economy-class ticket away. Back in their home countries of Norway or Germany, these guys couldn’t even get arrested for opening their greasy raincoats and exposing themselves on the subway, the cops probably just giving them a whack on the pee pee and sending them home. But here in the tropics, where twenty bucks will buy you a threesome, they sat together around outdoor café tables, shirtless with little wisps of hair lying limply on their sunken chests like some Cracked Magazine parody of Broadway Joe and the Rat Pack, surrounded by their cheap little coterie of teenage hookers. This is the globalization of sex, with the D.R. one of the main purveyors of cheap pussy to the industrialized world. The barkeeper, a lovely Norwegian fellow named Tom, filled me in on the background: “Some of these men live here year ‘round. Others are here on vacation. They are not doing anything wrong, because the girls are all above the age of consent. They have to be – the police watch them very closely. If the police catch a man with an underage girl, it’s very bad. The cops are very greedy. They’ll lock you up and take everything you have and everything you can get your hands on before they’ll let you out. “There are many police. The worst are the National Police. They shake down the girls as well as the tourists. Then there are the local police. Then there is the Politur, which is short for Policía Turistica. Those are the good police who protect tourists, though they don’t speak English. “Then there is the Secret Police. “The girls here have a very short window of opportunity to make money from the tourists. It’s not like Europe, where a woman can age and still be attractive. Here they start to decline when they get to age twenty. I’ve been here five years and sometimes I come across a girl I knew when I first arrived, and let me tell you, it’s shocking how they age! “Most people here don’t live past fifty because of the heat and the hard life.” At that moment, as if to illustrate his point, a crippled stroke victim hobbled by, supporting himself on an improvised cane, the whole left side of his body useless and twisted out of shape. He looked to be about thirty-five. There are many cripples and amputees stalking the streets of Sosúa. It’s not possible for me to draw a comparison to Cuba because I’m not permitted to travel there, but knowing what I have read about that country, that it has an extensive program of medical facilities, it’s unlikely that the Castro regime would permit such people to be left to rot on the street like garbage, to beg scraps from tourists until their accumulated maladies cause them to just die in filthy huts and gutters. And the dogs! It’s a shock for a resident of the Upper East Side, where people dress their dogs in coats and hats, arrange play dates for them, where the dogs have their own reserved areas in parks and expensive day care centers to keep them entertained, where people shell out thousands of dollars for heart transplants for their animals, to see a world where nobody takes responsibility for homeless dogs. They are left to fend for themselves until they expire from misery and deprivation without even the most rudimentary animal welfare program! On one occasion, Magpie and I took a stroll to the outskirts of Sosúa. We had a wonderful time taking pictures of the cows and bulls that wandered freely out of their pastures and onto the road, as well as the free-ranging roosters and chickens, turkeys and pheasants. All of a sudden, Magpie brought me up short with a horrified gasp. “Oh my God!” she exclaimed. Across our path hobbled a three-legged grey dog, one paw withered to a grotesque appendage. Covering the dog’s shoulders and extending back down the side of its grey body was a green, iridescent fungus reminiscent, Magpie said, of that which covers the fur of Sumatran rain forest sloths. The seasonal rains and pervasive humidity that dripped from every leaf caused this green fungus to slowly grow on the dog’s fur while it rested under its favorite bush. It could not reach to lick the fungus off. The dog loped with purpose, making its way toward an open air Methodist church where congregants were breaking for lunch. The dog was hoping for a handout. As much as I love the D.R., its beautiful coral and its beaches, the foothills and mountains bursting with lush tropical foliation of every description, its breathtaking scenery that reveals an explosion of greens, browns, yellows and reds that are revealed with every turn in the road, the shades of lighting and perspective that would tax even the interpretive talents of a Gaugin or a Matisse to honorably depict it on canvas, that much do I detest the place for the curse that history has inflected upon it, the needless burden of exploitation, cruelty and suffering that has been allowed to eat away at its human and animal population like the wretched fungus eating away at the flesh of this pathetic, misbegotten dog! |
| THE GREEN DOG OF SOSUA |
| 200motels TRAVEL |
| Comedy |
| Tragedy |
| Nonsense |
| Bullshit |
