La Mela

He had only been in New York for a few days. Cocky and arrogant. Fortunately, his brother, an artist struggling to pay for beer and cigarettes was familiar with the ins and outs of the Big Apple.
"Chinese?"
Yeah.
It had not taken entirely too long to hop the L from Brooklyn and into Union Square. The usual fare rode the train smelling of sewage, barf and Old Spice. Hanging on to the straps attempting to talk over the incessant screaming of the L bounding through the underground at breakneck speeds, they pondered whether to walk via the village or take the 6 train.
Well, it was the Big Apple and these two intrepid individuals had a pack of Marlboro Reds, matches, 4 pints of liquid giddiness and were bound for China Town on foot.
Of course, one cannot help getting to China Town via Little Italy, and these two being eager to smell everything from vomit to street crime did just that.
"Wonder what's on the menu?'
Spaghetti, du'h.
La Mela stood out to them - little shop with all the quaintness of a wayward, red speckled Mafioso movie.
"Dude, no prices."
He puffed on his cigarette, reading the tiny print on the menu.
"I wonder wh..."
"You twos look 'ungry."
Before they knew it two of la Mela's goons dragged them into the building. It was no use arguing. By the time fear had washed over them and subsided they were seated at a round table - the footmen lumbering in the sunlight casting long, lonely shadows.
Dire moments.
They stared at the walls of La Mela. They obviously did not know of interior decorating as the walls were plastered like poorly placed machine gun holes with a variety of autographed celebrity photographs. Each one thanking La Mela for the hospitality and a place to store the body. Dean Martin, John Wayne, Sinatra, DeNiro, da friggin' Pope…
Above them a ceiling filled with what may have been fingers and ears for all they had known. And the piece to cause them the greater deal of consternation – a monstrous phallic chandelier
The boys were in big, big trouble...

Ace

The nickname "Ace" has always been associated with awesome fortune or with calm coolness under adverse conditions by a man who knows no equal. "Ace" is synonymous with those who exclusively handle (and well) an impossibly difficult situation or maneuver, particularly and wrongly as it pertains to players of sports or more appropriately among men of great character, valor and ability - as in fighter pilots of yore from World Wars 1 and 2.
It is, of course, no surprise that it is often used to describe a very winning situation, as in the phrase: "He has an Ace up his sleeve.” in which the gentleman in question has been either handed a great deal of luck, or has a skill-set measured far above the task.
To be labeled "Ace", though at times, used as a sarcastic insult to describe a person of most odious character, is a reference given to a gentleman of the highest caliber. Ace conjures images of rakish good looks, high esteem, heroic deeds, the strength of Milo, and conduct a little bit off of gentlemanly. Far more of a character dare say than your author, who would hope to aspire becoming all that Ace represents.
However, to call someone Ace is mostly attributed to the design of a monarch of some standing. To refer to someone as such, one must either be of such noble breeding as to be able to decide another's fate, or to be a rogue of such malodorous being as to blind one's senses with his own fragrance.
The truth in this is that it is uncomfortable to the point of repeat to say these words. To repeat said offense is to one’s own lips entirely too intense for normal day to day conversation. One may wish to esteem another with sir or madam or boss, but attempt if you are thusly inclined to use the word.

Another New Year's Revelation

Over the years, the beginnings of each have always been permeated by the angst of (for) the future. We tremble at our past not really learning from it - just trembling in fear and regret - searching in vane often times for the tasty nuggets of true bliss as we sit drunkenly blinded by envy and disillusionment.
We wonder fervently in that same uneasiness or amusement as to what the possibilities in a newly arrived numeric value to the Earth's rotation around the sun will blossom into; wondering about the will of God, and whether or not any prophetic happening will fall upon each of us, and if any at all preferably onto someone other than ourselves.
We, that is to say some of us, embark upon the task of assigning ourselves to a mission, under the assumption of course that by completing said activity that lives will be bettered; that somehow the past 365 days prior were not sufficient enough for us to commence and continue let alone complete any improvements promised - that the ever enlarging backside that gravity allows us to press to the soft on softer sofa of life will suddenly find itself moved - overcoming inertia and friction as the Earth completes its cycle only to immediately begin anew.
We, that is to say some of us, believe that this natural occurrence has some magical power to alter weak resolve into one of greater resilience; that somehow simply by addressing the desires to conform to what society deems prudent or necessary, this celebrated few (weak in number, weaker in value), comparatively speaking, may more readily accept our renewed selves as they would not do before.
However, if I may respectfully offer a question and a suggestion:
Why resolve one's self for something so low?
Anything is possible - truly with the right backbone. But ask yourself, "Why?"
Why?
Why?
Why?
The American society, as a whole - Oh, we are a pessimistic bunch, not mentioning, of course that we are a group of lemmings so ready to jump the ledge when another of us who (by standards dictated by a powerful subculture solely bent on conformity) is prettier, thus far more enlightened than ourselves, decides to.
We do not ask "why?"
We do not ask ourselves about what our legacy can be, and instead we focus not on our health, but on "buns of steel" or "abs of iron". Our attention is abdicated by wealth management instead familial sustenance.
Family, health, happiness, empathy - the good shepherding or management of these entities is essential in building a lasting birthright.
Failure or success in any attempt at building such an outrageously wonderful creation is not only unique, but everlasting. And if one also takes to task the continued respect for a questioning mind, which is an ongoing opportunity rarely employed, the outcomes of both, no matter the cost, will be magnificent and remembered more endearingly than any wealth or six-pack will be.