I got my face on.......

and somehow this number makes me feel a little less blue....

a little.

Thank you Sir.

Norman Mailer (1923-2007)

Odds and Ends- No. 1 Boom Boom Edition

If you are now or ever were an even reasonably attractive female than I can unequivocally guarantee you, for the record, that between the ages of 16 and 23 every single strange man who ever spoke to you did so in the most sincere hope than he might one day fuck you. And I don’t mean date you, get to know you, drink coffee with you or maybe even kiss you- no, no, no.
FUCK.
YOU.

That nice old Bus driver (maybe in his 60’s) who dropped you at H.S. everyday with that pleasant smile and happy wave? Oh yes!

That kindly older man at the coffee shop who always tells funny jokes and talks a lot about his wife? Definitely!

That pimply-faced nerd who sometimes asked to borrow a pencil and later in life would help you with your computer? Damn Right Sweetheart!

The super-polite and absolutely non-threatening Doorman of your Building who’s always so very, very sweet? He’s thinking about it every time he smiles at you!

The tired looking shlub taking your application at the DMV? No doubt!

Let me be perfectly clear. I wrote that he is hoping to fuck you. I didn’t say plotting (very doubtful for this takes time, true effort and research), planning (although he certainly may be) or otherwise even half-ass scheming (this is clearly most likely), I gently stated that he is, but this is without doubt, hoping- as in dreaming, wishing and just plain praying that one great day you might in fact give him all you got and make his most humble of fantasies come true. The great good news for you is that you were, are and will always remain in the Drivers Seat regarding these almost always unreal ambitions.
Yes, we men may turn grey while waiting for that crack in the door that signals your wondrous consent as we feverishly imagine your naked flesh and hungry desire but, let it be spoken, we all share the same mind and the same biology and we will tirelessly gnaw on this bone until there’s nothing left but marrow...and then slurp the marrow.
At least until we turn the corner and another One walks by like a vision of Heaven on Earth. And there will always be corners too numerous to count with another Angel about to turn our way.

Now before the storms of Feminine outrage crash my home and bring me to my knees let me say this-
I’ve heard it all before and I know you believe that you have a point but please realize……please……….that you have already won the battle and, if you can muster even the smallest parcel of cool, you will always win the war. Protest is futile for you need only open your eyes or simply, and fondly, remember that innocent age. I bring you the Truth in its undiluted form and not the fast food PC pabulum that may have been shoveled your way.

After 23? You gotta know when to hold ‘em and know when to fold ‘em but no worries. Although we may be the ones dealing the cards you got All the Aces and most of the luck which is much more than I can say for our side.



When I was a damn lucky 34 and my smoking part-time GF was 20 we were diligently working on an Olympic sex record. I’m unsure as to whether we set or broke it but I’d kill or die today to return to that particular competition as we intensely enjoyed our very complicated/uncomplicated relationship. Once, perhaps 6 months into our courtship, as we were laying back and catching our breath she spoke to me. This was somewhat rare because English was not her 1st language and my understanding of her native tongue was far inferior to her fluency in mine.

“You know what I like about you?”

I, in fact, had no idea and tended not to trouble myself about such trivial matters.

“No…….what?”

She sighed.

“You never ask me, “How was it?”

At the tender age of three and a half decades I was blown out of my saddle by this achingly beautiful young girl whose experiences were obviously greatly unequal to mine yet she held my heart in her hands like an egg she didn't need.

“You mean… guys actually ask you that question?”

Somehow, looking into her shining black eyes I believed her.

She wrapped her slender sweet legs around me and laughed,

“All the time.” Then we both laughed.

To any of my unlikely virginal male friends out there- This is not the time for Q&A.
This is the time for hugging and kissing and some discreet talking, finally. If a woman is even slightly satisfied with your performance she will let you know in no uncertain terms. Relax, regroup and get ready for Round 2.
If she invites you back to her bed at any time afterwards then you, my friend, have just scored a touchdown in the Superbowl. So do the Dance.


Recently while reading comments on another blog I was struck by the number of women who mentioned that they have NO INTEREST in sports. I distrust these women.
No interest whatsoever?
Granted I understand that you may properly lack a somewhat unhealthy obsession in the history, statistics, records and the Line but……………………….
No interest?
I’ve yet to meet a sex-bomb woman who didn’t at least have a voyeuristic fascination with watching powerful, graceful, godlike men heroically straining themselves in complete and serious dedication to their endeavor. Often these women offer fascinating and incisive commentary to the action. The Ex was a grand example. Almost 6 feet of luscious ass and dripping sex she was one of the best football handicappers I ever met yet she put little thought into it. She relied on intuition and, somehow, it served her well. Once, while monitoring a Green Bay/Tampa Bay contest on which I had bet heavily on Tampa, I announced to her in the heat of the moment,
"Check it out, Baby, Warren Sapps gonna drop Favre like a bad habit."
She coolly replied,
"Fat Boy Sapp couldn't drop his Mama."
She finished her coffee as the Packers finished Tampa Bay. At half-time we acted like married people and I didn't care about the game at all.
You got no interest in that, I got no interest in you and most likely we’re both happier that way. Sometimes life works out perfect.



Biology is reality and reality may not be to our liking. Men hunt, Women nest. This is as it is and most likely should be. Most likely you ask?
Yea.
Because you see this Human Race we are a part of has completely taken over this Eden we call Earth and we did it even though we are definitely, physically inferior,puny even,in comparison to the violent enemies we trampled all along the way. We stand triumphantly, sometimes not so much, at the absolute top of the food chain and we ain’t even sweating to stay there.

But we’re slowly destroying this planet you say?
Thanks for the 411 Ghandi but I’m only writing about the here and now. The Nobel Prize line starts over there.

In short, Men seek out the youngest, most fertile females to mate with and procreate. This is our Biological Imperative. We are all hard-wired in this way. It is not deniable.
Women seek out the strongest provider that will allow them to create the safest home. This is OUR reality. Leave us not complain about it.
Let’s, instead, evolve while we enjoy each other and keep the bicthin’ to the serious, gender specific drinking sessions.

It's raining outside so..................

Thanks Jack,
Meg........

and Kate, of course.

One More Reason to Live

As a young lad, and future point man for the MTG, there were few pleasures more real to me than dashing home from grades 3 and 4, heels barely touching the ground, before skidding to a sweaty stop in front of the TV set just in time to mainline my daily “Speed Racer” fix. Immediately following those 30 thrilling minutes my friends and I, while running the streets, would solemnly discuss, rehash, contemplate and dream about the latest episode of the ongoing animated series that was the collective obsession of our adolescent male fantasies.

A brief synopsis for the deprived- Speed Racer was both the title of the show and the sexy moniker of our main protagonist. Speed was a perhaps teenage boy (maybe early 20’s, it was never really established) who spent his days traveling the world in his tricked out car-The Mach 5- sometimes actually rally racing and other times just enjoying wild adventures with his lovely GF, Trixie, occasionally by his side and often his little brother, Spridel, in tow along with Spridel’s monkey friend, Chim Chim. Of course, and inevitably, there were deep dark secrets hidden in Speed’s family past and the formidable Racer X, the Masked Racer, was always lingering on the edge of the plot like a vengeful sword waiting to fall.

And now word approaches (I realize that this news may not be the freshest loaf on the shelf but gimme a break, I’m on the other side of the planet and these Internets confuse and frighten me) that the Wachowski’s (of the Matrix series) are in production and currently shooting for a ’08 release date of a Live Action Speed Racer Movie. I'd call it a film but we all know that this is, hopefully, a movie. Casting is rumored to be complete, filming rumored to be state-of-the-art and the Mach 5 is rumored to be looking SWEEEEEEET!


But, please understand, it is not my intention to critique these rumors, comment on the W project or chime in with unsolicited advice; I’m no filmmaker and so I only wish them all the luck and hope for the best of what may come while simultaneously keeping my expectations very low.

No, I’m here to celebrate- albeit late to the party- the continued cultural triumphs and sustained advancement of even the flimsiest of our MTG childhood fantasies into that of Multimillion dollar cinematic realities soon to be coming to a Theater near YOU! We are ascendant!

They’re giving us Speed, man…….and the MACH 5!
I never thought I’d live to see the day.

And what, the uninitiated are likely asking, is so significant about Speed Racer?

I must recall that 3rd grade boy and state simply that Speed was everything he was not, did everything he could not, had everything he did not. Devilishly handsome looks, bravery in the face of tasty danger, fast fists in any fight, a passport to the Widest of Worlds and a fine-ass GF with a killer smile to go along with the only keys to the Bossest Ride on the Planet. A car that could jump through the air (and the sound effect of that leap would be unequaled in my childhood world of sound effects until the 6 Million Dollar Man came along and did some jumping of his own), swim through the sea and slice through a forest like a hot knife through butter. The Powerful Mach 5 had a bulletproof cockpit, all terrain tires and a keen robot bird/drone that could launch from the hood to recon or otherwise just harass the enemy and every one of these features was available at the touch of a steering wheel button and, let me tell you, that choice ride looked damned good sitting perfectly still too.
Speed drove fast and played hard everywhere and anywhere, mostly winning in the end but often pressing his luck too far and having to get his ass pulled out of the fire by the menacing, mysterious Racer X, sometime before he sped off leaving Speed to wonder how he got to where he was in one piece.
You see, that little shorty, and many others I imagine, sitting rapt in front of that 70’s Boobtube always believed that if he could grow up to be half the solemn, strong, selfless and quietly loyal Antihero that was Racer X then his life would most certainly be a true accomplishment.
If he could somehow snag a lovely, lively, slender, smiling, supportive girl like Trixie to stand beside him and cheer him on (and before the American Women who I love march on my house with torches to burn me to the ground then stomp on my roasted corpse please let me explain that this was the very early 70’s, sometime before slender, smiling and supportive became misogynist epithets and well before standing beside and cheering your man on became unworthy, un-American activities far, far beneath you) then any cost would be worth the price.
If only life were a race where victory belonged exclusively to the daring and brave and true with shadowy figures remaining strictly in the background waiting to help you when you faltered……………..

And then 5th grade started and I pretty much forgot all about that crap and only wanted, instead, to play baseball and feel some tits, basically in that order.


EXTREME SPOILER ALERT AHEAD!


But, gratefully, the wonders of the show remain forever logged in my deepest memory and although the central mysteries of the series- there were 2 which eternally perplexed me- may struggle to stay fresh in my now fading brain they lay urgent and ever-present in my still aching adolescent heart.

1.) When the Hell is Speed going to find out that Racer X is actually- WAIT FOR IT- his long lost and forgotten brother, Rex Racer, who left home years earlier (after wrecking his father, Pops’, prized vehicle in a lone rookie crash) vowing to never return until he was THE BEST RACE DRIVER IN THE WORLD and could thereby redeem himself in his father’s eyes and rejoin the Racer Clan with his pride intact.

And

2.) Why the f**k does Speed wear a “G” on the front of his shirt? His initials are S.R. and his car is the Mach Five. “G”??????

At last (as of yesterday when I rhapsodized with a MTG J-friend, thank you Naruhito-san, who assured me that the Show was equally popular among J-boys)this secret was revealed to me. Sure some ‘net savvy geeks may have found out with a few flicks of their pipe cleaner wrists but, Dammit, I flew 14 hours and talked to an actual human being in order to discover the answer so how about a little compassion!

Our little American cartoon show, you see, was of course actually created in Japan in 1967(later sold American)by the brilliant Tatsuo Yoshida and its original J-title was- Mach (pronounced MaHa) Go Go Go.
This was a nifty little play on words- Go was the Hero’s first name (and also a not uncommon boys name in Japan) in the original- just like Speed/Speed Racer- as well as being the word for # 5 in Japanese, as in the Mach 5, Go’s ride. In addition, since it was the 60’s, the Go-Go was thrown in for the rebellious connection to a hip rock-n-roll lifestyle and, lastly, Go obviously has its own separate meaning in English which J-folk love to manipulate to their own satisfaction.

“G” for Go/Speed! I cannot explain to you how radiant I am right now, glowing with the most sincere and complete feelings of warm peaceful satisfaction!

And it only took me 30something years.

The following is for nothing. My Dream Casting-

Speed- Elvis, Jailhouse Rock version or Johnny Depp circa 21 Jumpstreet/Platoon.

Trixie- Edie Sedgwick early Warhol era.

Pops Racer- Burt Reynolds right after “Hooper”

Racer X- HERE’S THE KILLER
Steve McQueen (hey, I said it was dream casting) any 60’s/70’s period.


Since all of the male MTG has the American Theme Song permanently burned into their brain pans I figured I’d treat you to the Original. The singing isn’t quite as good as the schmaltzy American version but the Music is the same and the animation(Speed tooling around Africa jumping over elephants and shit) a bit cooler.

We now interrupt your regularly scheduled blog......

After glancing at my previous post I realize that I may have been somewhat harsh on the non-MTG generations and so, in the spirit of brotherhood, I make a humble offering.










Thanks Kurt, you said it better than I ever could.


And also-for your viewing pleasure- please enjoy the awesome power and precision of Senor Tony Iommi's axe as his band thunders out a message for the kids.




In case you were wondering... those were actual human beings playing actual musical instruments. They were, in those days, known as "musicians".

Let's do the Lighten Up!

Due to a recent surge in faithful readership (Now 20’s of Us!) I’ve begun to feel a distinct need to further clarify and illuminate this phenomena know as the Manual Typewriter Generation so that We, its elite and rapidly aging members, can stand ever more proudly amongst our fellow citizens and proclaim the righteousness of our existence, the soundness of our thinking, the purity of our intentions as we demand full recognition of our overlooked but honorable fraternity.

So I submit the following as evidence of your inclusion into our brave ranks.

Can you remember that murky time long past before the existence of ATM’s? Where the Hell did we get the cold green paper from back then? Did we just walk around with it stuffed in our pockets at all indecent hours of the day and night? What did we do after dropping that final dollar in the very last saloon before realizing we would require a fat bag of White Castles before the ride home? It’s all foggy to me somehow………..


When making phone calls did you ever carry the actual dialing device (approximate size of 2 bricks strapped together) in one hand with the receiver in the other while being simultaneously tethered to a wire connected to the wall, which, if you sought after mobility, you had to maneuver around your body like you were playing Double-Dutch? Fun, no?


Can you remember when Playboy was risqué and Penthouse was hardcore, sometime before Hustler came along and shocked the Nation with its XXX depravity? And we lugged these glossy smut rags home to our secret stash spot where we collected, drooled on, jerked over and treasured-while guarding with our lives-these sacred texts for years? How quaint we were.
Now in maybe 5 mins and a few mouse clicks I can find porn that, not only haven’t I experienced in life most real, I haven’t even thought of before.


I like Jay Leno. I think he is most probably, in real life, exactly as he appears to be on stage- a likable, jocular, fair, good guy with a sometimes sharp tongue.
But………………Mr. Leno, I knew Johnny Carson…I was a friend of Johnny Carson…and Mr. Leno….You are no Johnny Carson.
Does your heart yearn to hear the opening strains of Doc Severinson’s blasting theme as Ed McMahon trumpets those magic words of the electric showbiz past-
“and…………………HEEEEERRRRES JOHNNY!”
Me too.


Just a MTG question- Do boys/girls even slowdance anymore?
The absolute pinnacle of my 8th grade existence was when I held Adriana Lopez in my grateful arms as we swayed to “Reasons” by Earth, Wind and Fire at our private Graduation “Set”. Sometime near the end of that lovely number I got up the nerve to slide my sweaty, hungry hands down to her luscious ass. She let me.
If I live to be 100 I’ll never be able to thank her enough.


Do you recall when the worst possible post-sex scenario involved either-
1.Pregnancy or
2.Herpes Simplex II (Oh the incurable horror of cold sores!)
The blissful innocence of it all. Only years into my actual practice of this most sublime of Adult pleasures AIDS was being screamed at us everywhere we ran to and had everyone quaking in their chonies with mass-media scare tactics (Sex=Death) possibly/probably designed to destroy sex in America once and forever. Talk about a Buzzkill.


If you can understand and sympathize with these thoughts then you are, fortunately or no, a member of the MTG. If not- and you’re still reading- CONGRATULATIONS! You are the sole owner of youth and beauty and the future is entirely yours (sorry about that one but we did our best you know) so celebrate your transient power and while you’re at it please heed these gentle words of wisdom-

Put down your F*****G cellphones for a second and talk to each other.

Turn off that slavemaster computer and get your face immediately out of that idiot screen. Open a window, breathe some fresh air, taste the Sun while it lasts, feel the wind through your hair.

Stash your Goddamned Blackberries, unplug your mind (if even for a precious moment) from your Ipods, go outside, enjoy the thrill of the freedom as we know it, raise your fists in the open air and proclaim to your world,

“I’M AS MAD AS HELL AND I’M NOT GONNA TAKE IT ANY MORE!”

Yea……………………………..
Welcome to the MTG.


and if this doesn't make you happy (yea the sound is a bit muddy but Archie is in fine voice) then check your pulse.