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Muchas Gracias

Yet another Day of Cheesy Pop Songs has come and gone, and Yours Truly would like to thank all those who made this one memorable. Tangueros, Salseros, Skydiveros, Coworkeros, Rat Bastardos, Spanish Teacheros (did he really have to name it 'One Hundred Anuses of Solitude?'), and assorted random Amigos of all stripes gathered together at various locations to help me ring in, through, and out my all too frequent Day of Days. Gracias Stratos! Gracias Skydive Dallas! Gracias Entre Amigos Milonga! Gracias Skydive Dallas (again)!

And folks . . . always remember that I aka Yours Truly aka That Inimitable Doofus of Arhythmic Dance aka The PseudoLatino am--and shall always remain--Your Knight in Shining Armor from a Long Time A Go-o. Right Here Waiting, I am . . . so . . . I'll see you all out and about.

Let's Dance.

Besos,

---the PL

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

Coping with Coppola

In which Yours Truly corrects some common misunderstandings regarding the reported new feature film, allegedly named "Tetro," by Francis Ford Coppola.

"Tetro?" . . . gimme a break, eh?

::::::::::::::::::::::::::

In a recent email discussion with some of my dear friends from the Land of Misfit Tangueros , I was informed of an upcoming feature film by the legendary FFC. This new film, apparently named "Tetro," is reported to be a "story of an artistic Italian immigrant family making its way in Argentina." Blah blah, wank wank, sob sob. The gods help us! Your Hero, unable to sit contentedly with the notion that FFC has been reduced to the creation of embarrassing and predictable indie-style cinematic soap operas, used some of His VERY special inside sources (yes, it's true, in an interesting twist on the famous Urban Legend involving Richard Gere, Yours Truly has implanted a webcam and microphone inside the rectum of Sophia Coppola's pet gerbil, Malkovich, and receives a continuous live feed of secret information from FFC's enigmatic and talented daughter) to obtain the TRUTH about "Tetro."

My beloved Misfits got it allllllll wrong and I beg upon your indulgence, Dear Reader, as I correct their (mis)understanding . . .

It's not called TetrO, and it's certainly not about some autistic, displaced Guido & Lil' Guida "making their way" in the other Land Down Under. Nope. Here's the scoop (and remember--you heard it here first):

I have discovered that the currently released information about this film is really just a DISinformation campaign to disguise the true nature of the flick before Coppola releases it. My misfit friends are correct that it's semi-autobiographical in that Coppola could never learn tango as a child and his parents ridiculed him terribly for it. As a result, he has always HATED the dance and those that dance it. This film is his way of getting back at the culture that made his childhood misery possible. So . . . the REAL plot and the REAL name:

Coppola's new film is not a standard art or independent film, rather it is a very strange conceptual film in which a maniacal Buenos Aires drug lord (yes . . . from an "Italian immigrant family," fer chrissakes . . . get over it!), snubbed as a child by his own parents because he was unable dance the tango and convinced that his own eldest son is an invincible computer gaming prodigy, has tainted the drinks of thousands of local milongueros with an insidious mind control substance. In his secret kingpin's lair he has created the ultimate gaming console for his boy . . . 30 flat-panel widescreen monitors surround a single chair--equipped with a special ergonomic keyboard, a gaming joystick, and a set of biofeedback electrodes able to convert human thought into human misdeed.

The film will be a bit of a return to the bloody mafioso deeds of FFC's most enduring masterworks, his Godfather series.

The plan? On this coming saturday night, as the traditional Milongas begin to fill up with hundreds upon hundreds of tangueros, his son will use the computer and the drugs to take control of the dancers' minds at the instant they execute their opening salidas. He then controls the motions of these dancers across multiple dancefloors simultaneously, manipulating, twisting, spinning, and leading the adornments of each new couple as they move towards the far end of the room, where he jams the hapless, dancing automatons into the rest of the dance crowd in such a way that they fit perfectly and can no longer move or be moved from their position. He continues this way, adding layer upon layer of unsuspecting couples into the already existing crowd, until the weight of these teeming masses crushes the life from those dancers in the farthest row. At the moment these dancers fall lifeless and mangled to the floor, the devious gamer--descending rapidly into madness--sends a large group of specially-selected thugs to drag these bleeding corpses out of the way so that the next row of dancers can be smashed and trampled to death against the wall.

At 30 Milongas, at the same instant, Tangueros begin to die, dancefloors begin to fill with spinning, mind-controlled couples rotating to their doom; pools of blood spread across the floor. Eyes of dancers fill with terror as they recognize their impending doom. There is no escape. Death awaits.

The drug kingpin laughs. His son, half mad from bloodlust, drools and giggles and smiles at his Papa.

After all these years, the man will have his say. The time has come for his revenge to unfold . . .

the time has come for . . .

.

.

.

.

.

.

"TETRIS Tanguero!"

Sincerely,

---the PL

 

PS

I have also managed to come across some stills from the film, which is currently in production. Enjoy:

Original game being played by the son when the idea occurs to the father

 

The father notices that the mother has made fresh-baked cookies. She serves them in this form. Is he going mad? Or are the gods trying to tell him to proceed with his plan?!?!

 

Mama has also purchased a new bookshelf for the living room. Coincidence, or a sign??

 

Even walking through the heart of the city . . . signs are everywhere!

 

. . . and again!

 

. . . the father has a horrible dream in which he awakens milliseconds before his own FirstBorn dies a horrible death.

 

Despite worrisome visions, here we see the control panel during the son's practice for the Night of Revenge. Notice the floor is nearly full and the crowd immobilized!!!

Posted by earwicker at 04:12 PM | Comments (0)

Sentimental Spring

Well . . . there's something afoot folks. Yours Truly isn't quite sure what it is. Perhaps it's just a trick of the psyche, induced by early onset Spring weather and the other-wordly quality floating on that season's crisp air. Perhaps it's the over-active imagination of a hopeless, dyed-in-the-wool adventurer in the antiquated and generally poo-pooed Romantic style. Dunno. Don't much care, either. What I do know is that something's on its way, ready to make you smile when you don't want to, and perhaps extract a tear or two for things long dead, yet remembered fondly. Next time you step outside, take a deep breath and think about what you were doing 10 years ago, and what you thought (or hoped, or prayed, or feared) you'd be doing now.

How far apart are the dream and the eventuality?

Do you live where you'd imagined? Did you find the truth? Have you read all the books you wanted? Did you write the novel you'd always hoped to read? Did you find the love of your life? Did you visit Spain? Learn to speak Italian? Save the Whales? Learn to dance? Paint your masterpiece?

Well friends, when I fill my lungs with the air of spring I have to admit that I haven't painted my masterpiece just yet . . . but somehow I find myself possessing the conviction that everything's pretty damned great nevertheless, and it's gonna get even better.

As long as the feeling persists, I'll take it and drag my sorry ass back to the canvas. There's a lot left to paint, eh?

Ciao,

---the PL

Posted by earwicker at 11:13 PM | Comments (0)