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.

Optimist Prime

Ecclesiates 1:9-10 "The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun. Is there any thing whereof it may be said, See, this is new? it hath been already of old time, which was before us."
I have grown weary of pessimism. I do not speak simply of our country, but of my own will.
It is an age of technological warfare, and unsophisticated jargonistas who vie for our attention and hardearned wages, and our freedoms. An age where there is neither time nor talents to be wasted on the minutia of trinketries and compulsive speculation, brought on by overeducated - underwitted legalists, wishing to steal a few more precious moments with conjecture and assurances. The charlatans!
But it has been going on forever.
We yell at each other. We hurl insults about uncertainties - about things that we do not understand. We learn to hate. We refuse to remember history, and compassion, and adventure, and laughter. We rely upon our kneejerk reactions that have been injected into us by those overeducated - underwitted legalists, as some sort of fix-all elixir. It pains the veins, but its a vaccination and they tell us we need it to get along with them and others. And for lenghty moments, we forget our people - our families.
My solution: simplify! We have to get back to work. I am not talking wages in financial gain, but in life sustaining love for what some call the Unknown, and for our families and beyond.
Ecclesiastes 5:18-19 "Behold that which I have seen: it is good and comely for one to eat and to drink, and to enjoy the good of all his labour that he taketh under the sun all the days of his life, which God giveth him: for it is his portion. Every man also to whom God hath given riches and wealth, and hath given him power to eat thereof, and to take his portion, and to rejoice in his labour; this is the gift of God."
So, I will smile, eat and drink. I will love my Lord, my wife and my daughter. And I will think most fondly of and pray for each of you.

I'll Take a Manhattan - Hold the Cherry Juice #3 (redux)

Hic est nonnullus magis feces ex preteritus

When you're above the reality and the clouds, the very existence of the sky takes on a different meaning. You tread lightly over a snowy field of cauliflower. Underneath lie the ants busily prepping themselves for a chance in the clearing to display their work.
And then you notice the blue. So subtle; from newborn baby blue over which a light mist is blanketed, and you raise your eyes to a surprisingly ominous darkness.
Fly!
Fly very high and far, and through the atmosphere - so empty!
So empty.
Unleashing your Soul Burning brightly - as a sun's.

I'll Take a Manhattan - Hold the Cherry Juice #2 (redux)

More debauchery from meus rabidus preteritus. Commodo utor.

And a strange lonely woman with greasy hair and a filthy knee length knaki winter coat followed my brother and I onto the train.
Her clueless eyes stared blankly into our nonsensical conversation.
I laughed inside and made unnecessary facial gestures to make her change her look - to no avail, and Danny thinks "She's kind of sexy."

The Parable of Aged-Fellow and the Altars of Many Faces

Surely, one must realize that our world - that is to say "human existence" - is a life dedicated to the preservation and evolution of convenience; a means by which this happens of course is through the very means by which one may read this essay, though quite antiquated by the rapidly approaching end of human contact. One can not go about the day without gawking at the expediency and clarity of applicable technology at everyone's senses - most of it not for the sake of betterment mankind, but of entertainments, personalized and bejeweled in apathetic discourse and avarice.

Formerly, part of the human fold was the respected aged-fellow, who spoke truths and tales to the young and naïve in the hopes of carrying them on to the next generations. He reminded them of the cycle of life, and warned them of the coming apathy - to steer away from the many faces. He spoke these in a soft deliberation and calmness – each word chosen wisely, a picture, animated and colorful to remember the darkness, which to some was the light. He taught the significance of the bonded tribe, of battles won and lost, of love and hate, of learning and ignorance, but as time progressed, the latter of each became more significant and more revered, and the aged-fellow, dribbling and weathered felt their cold embrace of indifference.
Sadly, the means by which it was shared - in a patriarch's voice or in gnarly-scribed text - with one's hands and experiences became far too difficult in both understanding and construct. And the darkness was vilified and made human, as though defeat were possible.
So they were built. Altars, made by the hands built by the hands of man to make light of the darkness; they were raised in parasite-filled palaces encrusted with millions of shining, tiny, glass trinkets and cheaply bred sycophants, designed to bleed the aged-fellow, who in turn was ushered away, placed in the wilds that no one ever visited, and left to rot. The altars of the many faces were traded for souls. They were given life through malleable roots, dressed in authority and jewels to breed more sycophants. They were sent to the comfortable asylums of the young and naïve, and were placed in little palaces constructed of regurgitated wood-pulp, abdicating the place where once sat the aged-fellow.
The tribes became smaller as the tales of old were altered and tailored for each. The tribes gathered daily. They knelt in front of the altars of the many faces, basking in the cool neon glow. They knelt on the soft tissues of animals they could not catch, and ate food they did not make. In provocative imagery, the altars of the many faces reminded the tribes of how insignificant and foolish the aged-fellow was. It instructed them to not miss a moment of discipleship; and so it came to pass that the altars of the many faces, reproduced and reproduced again. They were placed throughout various chambers of the asylums where the aged-fellow once visited.
“The fool.”
The altars of the many faces advised each tribe, now separated into small and separate selves, which were found in even smaller sterile chambers, to find and place worthless baubles as sacrifices around the chambers and themselves. The selves ostracized and separated from each tribe. They were ushered away. And the young and naïve selves were given authority in so much as they sacrificed their souls to each altar of the many faces.
The aged-fellow wept.
And so 'twas the altars of the many faces became brighter and more beguiling; the more the faces spoke, the more the young and naïve selves desired. Their commands grew more boisterous as demand called them to be. And with the same souls of the young and naïve selves, who were of certain no different, more were bargained for as the desires of each altar, for greater attention, became louder. Were one to move, the altars jealously noted, the less time could be devoted to them; this displeased the envious altars of the many faces. And they grew smaller, becoming prized idols, and they were lovingly embraced and worn as clothing by the young and naïve selves, who divided from each other - senses numbed by the neon glow.
And the aged-fellow watched.
All around the young and naïve selves, life – once spoken of in truths and tales by the aged-fellow - teemed wildly, but they could no longer see it nor did they desire to. Life now appeared to them as in a dream, where the realities, displayed by the altars, showed it untamed and dangerous; a place where the darkness lurked. It was most assuredly only seen from a safe and uncaring distance.
The aged-fellow, alone in the reality teeming with life, nestled in the wood, his face and hands, made by experience, furrowed, and his hair, the splendor of his struggle, a peppery-white. His eyes now dull; he built an outlawed fire for warmth, with a light, acrid smoke and flitting orange fire-flies that cracked from the fire billowing boldly into the sky.
“The fool.”
The darkness – far older and far wiser than the aged-fellow – witnessed this and came to pass over the reality; and never having enough to consume, the darkness took the outlawed fire, the wood, the teeming life, and the aged-fellow.
The altars of the many faces showed the passing darkness. It fascinated the young and naïve selves, who were assured by the altars that the darkness was yet another dream no different from the others they had seen.
But the darkness – far older and far wiser than the altars – witnessed this foolishness and came to pass over the young and naïve selves; and never having enough to consume, the darkness took the division, the neon-glow and the altars of the many faces.
Now in the wild reality, the young and naïve selves sat chilled by the northern cold. They discarded the altars, whose many faces were no longer. Finding warmth the closer they got to one another, they mourned and longed once more for the aged-fellow. The ashes of his outlawed fire fell coldly between their soft fingers.
And the darkness – aged and wise, and never having enough to consume took the young and naïve one by one.