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2 Much Heaven?
Ok. Two days from now comes the big day, and you, Dear Readers, are running out of time to shop! I mean really . . . this event ought to leave Xmas in the dust in terms of orgiastic commercialism run amok. Shopping for the PL ought to be occupying your thoughts more than, say, what your inbred excuse for a president ought to do about the recent electoral victory of Hamas (which he, undoubtedly, pronounces in such a way as to evoke a pig's bottom) or how you (be you male or female) are gonna get laid this weekend without the aid of some date-rape drug du jour and a minor miracle invoked by Our Lady of Vaginal Excretions (most recently spotted on a rotting Sesame Bagel somewhere in northwestern Oak Cliff).
Yes. 'Tis true.
'Tis MUCH more important. So FOCUS, my friends. Get. It. TOGETHER!
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I mean, like, rilly . . . even though I'm not expecting YOU to buy me the tickets to the Sigur Rós concert at the end of the month (I'll be taking care of THAT one myself), or the plane tix to Mexico City (for the month following), I am expecting something cool. A singing telegram, perhaps? Or the world's coolest poem, written especially for me? A lifetime's supply of chocolate-flavored french ticklers? Solar-powered Mormon Undies? A Crystal Ball? The Key to the City of Timbuktu? The Telling of a Thousand Stories and One? A Sentient, Dayglo Blue Buttplug with a keen sense of ironic detachment?
Just use your imaginations (tip: you'll find this much easier if you get rid of your television sets ASAP), but, whatever you do, don't get me a dance partner, m'k? I already have the best one on the planet.
Also . . . while you're in the process of shopping . . . please remember: Nothing in pink. Pink makes me look like a syphyllitic tapeworm on Crystal Meth (and you can trust me here: this is NOT a good look for Yours Truly).
I guess that's enough advice for today. Now get out there and win one for the Gipper. You can do it, regardless of what your mommies are telling you.
Really.
Trust me,
For I was, am, and will always be,
Your,
---PseudoLatino
ps
This evening I once again had a spanish lesson, and once again I was excited by what I was learning. If I actually spend some time working on it, I'll be able to butcher enough español to get by as I travel through Mexico City next month and throughout Latin America in the next few years (Latin America being one of the main places on the planet thus far under-served by Your Favorite Tango Pretender).
Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM
Leophen Dedaloom
In my Humble Leprous way of Being, I wish you, Leopold Stephen Bloom Dedalus, a most joyous birthday! Yours Truly would like to thank you for changing His life irrevocably and wonderfully so many years ago. I mean, like, with you around we should all tell the Groundhog to go fuck itself thoroughly, Nes? Yo?
The ineluctable modality of the risible?
Heh. You Fearful Jesuit.
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I feel compelled to thank you for helping me be a H.O.G. rather than a C.O.G., and for helping me understand that a fuckbird in the hand beats two in the . . . ummm . . . bush. You taught me the true meaning of Onanism and Dignamty, and warped forever my thoughts on Grace and The Dead. Even all these years removed from my literary epiphany, I appreciate the difference between falling softly and softly falling, and long for a day when the snow is general all over Ireland.
Many thanks, Leo.
As you'd wish it: the eyes have it.
Your Eternal Admirer,
---the PseudoLatino
Posted by earwicker at 12:00 PM
Birth
As anticipated, The PseudoSalsero had a nice celebration with the assistance of Company Past, Company Present, and Dance Company. Many thanks to all who braved the beautiful weather, excellent food, latin music and centralized location to help make this a memorable--if bittersweet--turning of His chronological odometer.
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The evening's festivities took place, as many of you already know, at Stratos Global Greek Taverna . . . where the Bearded One and I arrived a little before 8 o'clock pm to stake out a table (Stratos no longer takes reservations for Friday or Saturday nights) and generally get things set up and ready to go. Before long we were joined by Mr. & Mrs. Pooh Bear (don't believe the Disney hype--Pooh's loner image is purely fictional, to keep the kiddies happy; in reality he's been married for many years, likes his liquor hard, and curses like a sailor), Eyore, P-P-P-P-Piglet, and even little "DeeBee" Roo. Next to arrive was DancerX, followed by Liz 'n Beth (one person, with separately-named mammary protrusions), Bad Evil Badness, and DJ Yo' Joe-T in quick succession. At some point McSwiss made an appearance, and then came NutNuker Lee with her own posse in tow. Boris and Natasha called to express their regrets . . . something about a last minute involving a moose and a flying squirrel. Dunno. Similarly Mother Teresa. Her saintly explanation involved bilking oppressive, totalitarian regimes for 10s of millions of dollars in charitable donations in exchange for encouraging the Roman Catholic Church to turn a blind eye to their ongoing crimes against humanity. Well . . . that . . . and something about not eating Gyros after 10pm on Fridays before Labor Day. There was even one Celebrity Spotting during the night: Vanilla "Can you hear me now" Ice. And no, he did NOT sing "Ice Ice Baby."
Thank god for small favors.
All in all it was a good turn-out, supplemented by a large retinue of regulars--friends of Yours Truly since His early days on the front lines of the War Against Arhythmic Terror. Much food was eaten, dances danced, discussions discussed, stories exchanged, laughs laughed, drinks drinked, and, in general, merriment merried. Mrs. Pooh, P-P-P-Piglet, and "DeeBee" Roo even gathered up enough (liquid) courage to participate in Ratbastardo's free Salsa class.
WooHOO!
As usual, the Salsa scene provided an interesting backdrop for the festivities, with a mix of unusual, exciting, and annoying characters of all shapes and sizes. Two newcomers were on hand to liven things up tonight. First there was Chester the Molester, a truly smarmy, awkward, inexperienced and utterly talentless dancer of middle age who--as if the aforementioned qualities were not enough of a turnoff--was visibly on the make: looking for young hotties he could dance with and whom--one surmises--were so utterly clueless about Salsa as not to notice how truly AWFUL he was. One had the feeling that Chester--who definitely did NOT score any babes, hot or otherwise, this fine evening--probably stopped at New Fine Arts on his way home to sit in a booth, spanking his 3-inch JoyToy throughout the entirety of Faces of Death III. Chester did manage to snag Nurse Ratched for the final part of Ratbastardo's lesson and never have I felt as badly for my friend as I did during those few minutes. Nor, for that matter, have I ever laughed quite so hard at her expense (heh).
We also were graced by the presence of a Vampire Dwarf Chick, about whom the signifier sez nearly all that needs be said. Like Chester she was sullenly prowling the entire restaurant, looking for goodness knows what. Some drunken lobotomized male, perhaps, who wouldn't notice he was schtupping a 3'10" walking ballsack with black lipstick and a grimace to make Tim Burton proud?
The aforementioned Bastard King Queen of Rodents was in rare form, chainsmoking (read: drunk) and dancing with Master Yoda--who is now too good to merely dance Salsa, as he has transmogrified from Salsero to Voguero. Pose pose pose, my friend. Pose is 4/5ths of POSER, in case you haven't noticed. And . . . talented or not, posing is, and will always be, posing. AKA that which is done by a POSER. Which is a nice way of saying SELF-ABSORBED, CLUELESS WANKER. So puhLEASE get over yourself, sir. Before it's too late (if it isn't already). At least his lovely partner Famke was there, and it's always a pleasure to dance (as opposed to pose) with her.
After a long and inebriated phone call, we were even graced by the presence of Young King David who--as it turns out--shares Your Humbly Leprous Narrator's precise, exact, duplicate, synonymous, and isomorphic day and month (if not year) of birth. So: Happy Birthday You Biblical Hero You! Live long and prosper, as long as there is food to eat and wine to drink.
I guess that's about enough of this, eh? Shortest wrap-up ever: the Beard-o and I stayed until the dancing was over and the club closed down for the night, after which more dances were danced (despite city ordinances), and celebrations celebrated further.
And with that, another one bit the dust.
Older and Wiser,
I Remain,
Yours Truly,
---the Pseudo Latino
ps
A special thanks to the FeeToash clan for their well-crafted present. Good use will be made thereof. Boy Scout's Honor.
Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM | Comments (0)
Untitled 1
In which the PseudoLatino travels to H-town for a bit of Icelandic Beauty . . . and finds it.
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Although the weather did its best to intervene, Yours Truly managed to drive almost 800 miles over the past 40 hours to attend a concert by Sigur Rós and Amína at the Verizon Theater in Houston, Taycksus. The exhaustion and the tedious driving where more than worth the effort, as He was treated to a living, breathing incarnation of modern, rock-based art music. In attendance were Your Mighty PseudoMeister, The Bearded Wonder--devourer of Lox and Zweibeln, and the eldest Moonchild, daughter of the inimitable Luna and fledgling appreciatrix of the Victory Rose.
Despite the usually sub-standard experience of live music (crappy acoustics, monaural live sound systems, unwanted physical distractions, timbral incompleteness), this show was wonderful. Much of the band's music is comprised of slow, introspective, lush, ethereal crescendi . . . and these were enhanced greatly by the power of live, seat-shaking bass, crisp, biting guitars, and gut-punching drums. Although these are naturally possible with high-end playback gear and forgiving neighbors, few of us possess the former and even fewer live in proximity to the latter. What was lost in stereophonic, spatial effect was regained in spades by the full-body, full-immersion, tactile experience of Sigur Rós live. Add to the purely aural aspects of the performance the extremely well-designed and executed visual components and you have before you the kind of musical experience I have always craved and never encountered in my native classical realm, though I continue to preach its possibilities to those willing to listen to my sermon (not many, I admit). Sigur Rós is a premiere exemplar of what simplicity, sincerity, good taste, integrity, and an unpretentious romanticism can still achieve in the world of music.
That's about the highest praise that Yours Truly knows how to bestow upon a coterie of musicians, and I bestow it freely to these unusual Icelandic artists. They're a magnificent group. I recommend them very very highly, though perhaps less highly than the 4 enthusiastic, chemically-altered young lads sitting directly in front of us. One of these gentlemen, tosslehaired and teary, clearly had an experience bordering on the religious--an experience that the multitude of smug, self-congratulatory adherents of the West's most pervasive mythology would hock their equally smug and prissy firstborns to secure for themselves: a REAL experience; undeniable and TANGIBLE. After nearly two hours of head-lolling, sobbing, smiling, hugging his friends, and--though I'm not sure he knew it--resting his head for large periods of time upon my conveniently-located knee, this shiny-faced lad turned to me and, in nearly-complete sentences, apologized for perhaps making me feel uncomfortable or out-of-place during the show. "Not at all," I reassured him, which caused him to grasp my right hand in both of his, to begin crying (happily) again, and to proclaim, ". . . then . . . you UNDERSTAND!!!" Which, I assured him, truthfully, I did.
And it was the truth. I understood perfectly. I was also, tangentially, reminded of the absurdity of my mother country's view on drugs and their recreational usage, her hypocritical excepting of alcohol from the pantheon of abusable drugs (the ridiculous and inaccurate phrase, "drugs and alcohol"--as though there was any distinction, beyond the legal and purely arbitrary--being my favorite manifestation of this irrational double standard), and the happiness I have known on many occasions as a proud imbiber of whatever the fuck I feel inclined to imbibe. Though others may have been disappointed by John Doe's choices, I was delighted . . . and jealous of the intensity with which he both experienced and will subsequently remember this particular, unquestionably moving, moment in his life.
[editor's note: I encourage you ALL to pursue responsible experimentation with various recreational drugs. Leave the incurious, moralizing, irrational twits amongst us to their self-imposed poverty of experience; D.A.R.E. (*hoot!*), on occasion, to take an altered, interesting, and almost always enjoyable look at life from a different perspective. It's just something you should do from time to time]
Speaking of drugs . . . I have to say that I'm a little freaked out by what seems to me to be the utter loss of the public Drugs, Sex, and Rock 'n Roll experience. The Sigur Rós show was profoundly tame: there was no smoking allowed (a rock concert without the scent of Mary Jane! What is the world coming to??!?!); there was no screaming or standing or cheering during the show (well, there was plenty of cheering between songs, but it was very polite and civil); there were no drugs for sale in the men's room stalls; there was nothing but outward submission to prevailing social mores (the one exception? Everyone and their mother was taking photographs of the concert with digital cameras and cellphones, though the ticket-takers and bag-searchers were adamant about the band's "no cameras" policy; of course *I* would not have taken part in this rebellious activity) . I'll admit that Sigur Rós' music doesn't exactly call for a mosh pit, but . . . can it be that today's youth has truly been forced underground? That they've accepted the unacceptability of outward rebellion and disorder?
Let's all hope not . . . in the name of all that's good and holy (and not just in My name). Maybe it was just that this band drew a more sophisticated crowd, and that they understood and respected the music they came to experience.
Yeah. That must be it. I'm holding out hope . . .
. . . because I Am . . .
Yours Truly,
That Dood with the 'tude,
---the PseudoLatino
Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM | Comments (0)
Some Time Away
As was the case once before (in Yours Truly's recent past), a happy personal development has produced a relative paucity of postings on pseudolatino.com. I'll expect you all--each and every one--to wish me well on this new development, rather than bemoaning my decreased output. You are also welcome to send me condolences (cash or money orders accepted) for the recent and unexpected death of my iPod's entire contents (including back-up copies of every post I've written for this site in the last 13 months). You'll each be happy to know that I was largely able to reconstruct the device's Table of Contents (sans "Cheese") and that I view'd the entire process as a learning experience.
The other cause of my silence was the completion of a large project at my new place of employment--a project which took me the better part of 5 months and of which I am extremely proud. Life--as the saying continues to go--is good.
See you out and about,
for I am,
Most Sincerely,
Your,
---pseudoLatino
Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM
Messico
Just booked: flight to Mexico City for the 17th of marzo. Four full days to practice my spanish and to go somewhere new for yet more of my Life Less Ordinary. If the guidebook is accurate, there will be the opportunity to dance Tango AND Salsa whilst there, as well as to see great sights, visit some trendy clubs, do some shopping, and (this is the important part) simply drink in a few days more of what life has to offer.
Always remember that ordinary is a choice . . . a bad one. So don't make it, m'k?
M'k.
---the PL, over and out
Posted by earwicker at 06:20 PM