madame slotsky is going to be pissed

 

I forgot how funny this is, it is from Raincoaster, circa August 12, 2007:

max adams: the Pinkertons dossier

As promised, here is max‘s biography. Consider biographization to be a meme if you enjoy such things.

Warning: your mileage may vary. We assume no liability. No warranty implied. Before beginning this or any exercise plan, consult your physician. Not intended as a replacement for the advice of a competent professional.

Which, if I’d had access to, would probably have resulted in something a lot less interesting.

max adams: the Pinkertons dossier

Editor’s note: In relating the circumstances which have led to my confinement within this refuge for the demented, I am aware that my present position will create a natural doubt of the authenticity of my narrative. It is an unfortunate fact that the bulk of humanity is too limited in its mental vision to weigh with patience and intelligence those isolated phenomena, seen and felt only by a psychologically sensitive few, which lie outside its common experience. Men of broader intellect know that there is no sharp distinction betwixt the real and the unreal; that all things appear as they do only be virtue of the delicate individual physical and mental media through which we are made conscious of them; but the prosaic materialism of the majority condemns as madness the flashes of supersight which penetrate the common veil of obvious empiricism.

max adams is such a phenomenon.

In creating this dossier we have been in constant contact with our offices in St. Petersburg, Istanbul, Silverlake, Ponape, Zurich, Area 51, Abu Simbel, Great Zimbabwe, and of course, Head-Smashed-In-Buffalo-Jump. Although facts are few, and expensively won, we have been able to assemble the following biographical sketch.

max adams is the laboratory-created daughter of the frozen sperm of Errol Flynn and pioneering biologist Nicolette Tesla (granddaughter of the famous physicist) who, deprived by the relentless progress of Glasnost of a ready supply of involuntary subjects, was forced to experiment upon herself.

Succeeding beyond her wildest dreams, she gave birth to max, whom she named Erriol in an epidural trance, during which she recited the entirety of The Tempest, with different voices and everything, pausing only to berate the attending doula for her hopelessly provincial dress sense.

max was raised in Tesla‘s mountain fortress to the age of four, when she was taken away by agents of the state to undertake the gruelling process of being schooled for the Olympic ice dancing team.

During a particularly contentious international competition in Bakersfield, California, max defected to the West and since that time has denied all knowledge of the former European Ice Dancing Championship team of Erriol Tesla and Sergey Brin.

She currently lives a quiet life as a night custodian and DJ at Slim Jim’s Crematorium and Rib House hidden deep in the bowels of the the new CAA headquarters, while maintaining a small scientific consulting practice with an exclusive clientele including MIT’s jet propulsion laboratory, Chicago’s Slam Poetry Championship, and Burger King.

~end~

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Where that hilarity comes from: The Raincoaster, where else?
It is a bit in conflict with the Madame Slotsky biography but what can you do?

 

yoga moments of infamy

 

I’m in class.

There are some new people in class. The yoga teacher is being nice to them. One of them has cut and run and is probably puking in the bathroom. The other two are struggling.

She tells the two survivors the first thing to get used to in Bikram is the heat. That sauna therapy is a big thing and takes getting used to and if they need to sit something out just do that till they are used to the heat, it will come, sitting in the heat is good alone.

I smile and wave my hand. My smile says, “That so works for me.”

[I just sat out the last position.]

She gives me the eagle eye: “YOU are ready to do more positions than you are doing.”

 

the nefarious yoga shorts

 

I got yoga shorts.

It is horrifying looking at my poor bare knees and thighs in the studio mirror — and also a lot easier for instructors to bust you if your thighs are not straining hard enough — but really a relief to not start wanting to rip my pants off halfway through a yoga session.

 

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I am doing Bikram yoga. It is 105 degrees in the Bikram studio. And you are in there sweating your ass off – literally, like leaving wet physical body imprints on your mat every time you lay down and when you are not laying down, raining sweat on your mat that would make any rain forest proud — for an hour and a half.

 

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I am a lot more comfortable, mentally, wearing at least below the knees yoga pants. None of that pesky “Oh fuck me, look at those knees and thighs in the mirror, no no no!” mental stuff going on.

I finally had to either start ripping longer yoga pants off at the thighs Hulk style or get yoga shorts.

Physically, I couldn’t take wet sweat soaked clinging too hot and sweaty yoga long pants syndrome any more.

 

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Bikram totally is more comfortable in yoga shorts. Less “Jesus Christ I have to get these freaking pants off now I do not care who is watching” impulses or moments.

 

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Sometimes my head snaps to the fact I am leaning over in very short not leaving much to the imagination skin tight shorts with a whole lot of people standing behind me and my ass is for sure at least partially exposed by riding somewhere nefarious yoga shorts not approved by the DAR yoga shorts committee.

 

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Sweating with your knees locked, your head on the floor, and your hands locked around your heels is not the best time to adjust your shorts.

I apologize in my head to my pilgrim grandmothers and keep going.

 

go grammar nazis go!

 

 

return of what denis leary thinks about st. patrick’s day

 

Because this post is just that cool. Yay! [Also I always pray to God I am spelling that man's name right, ahhh!]

 

I wish I could tell you —

The original source for this. I can’t. I found it on Tumblr and have always loved it. If you know the original source, drop me a line. Meanwhile —

 

What Denis Leary Thinks About St. Patrick’s Day

First thing’s first: There are many Irish-Americans in this country who
celebrate St. Patrick’s Day in a quiet and sober manner, perhaps heading off to work with a muted-olive tie or a small emerald pin as their nod to the day’s events. There are also those who go to the 7 A.M. mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral and consider the day a prayerful tribute to the patron saint of all things green. There are still others who awaken the morning of March 17 and carry on as if it were just another 24 hours — no drinking, no fighting, no puking.

I don’t know any of these people.

Therefore, this piece will be about the red-blooded, hard-boiled, hammer headed souls who patrol the St. Patrick’s Day arena as if it were life’s last call. If you consider the image of a working-class Mick named Fitzy caterwauling down Fifth Avenue wearing a kelly-green plastic derby, well oiled on whiskey and slurring his words, an offensive and demeaning stereotype, then call the Irish Anti-Defamation League (IDLE) right now. I think the number is 1-800-NO-FITZY.

I’ve spent several hundred official and unofficial St. Patrick’s Day celebrations in New York City over the years, and the calm, bespectacled intellectual Irishman clutching his copy of Finnegan’s Wake is a rare sight
indeed. Unless he’s passed out around 3:15 A.M. in the back booth at McQuigan’s Pub.

No, March 17 is not for the squeamish. It’s for the thirsty masses. Those young rebels willing to shout and scream about their Irish blood, the chosen few who will toss raw eggs into open cab windows, the banshees who only want (as House of Pain so eloquently put it) to “get off their feet and jump around.” That’s what St. Patrick’s Day is all about. Doing incredibly stupid things while under the influence of alcohol and wearing neon-green clothing.

Herewith, a guide to spending the day in the Big Apple. This is what I’ll probably be doing this year.

9:00 A.M.
Meet best friend Sully at Greek diner for traditional Irish-American breakfast of wet toast, runny eggs, cold home fries, bitter black coffee, three cigarettes, and the sports page. Curse the Knicks. Marvel at pat Riley’s hair.

9:30 A.M.
Corner of Ninth and 39th. Ring Fitzy’s buzzer 23 times. On the twenty-fourth try, he buzzes us up. Find him naked on the living-room floor surrounded by empty Bud Tall Boys and an open can of paint. His entire body, including his hair, is green.

10:00 A.M.
Arrive at the corner of 51st and Fifth and take our places for the parade. Sully steals three cans of Molson out of some Italian guy’s cooler. Fitzy tosses a half-eaten green hot dog into the middle of the Staten Island Marching Men’s Choir.

10:14 A.M.
Fitzy gives Mayor Giuliani the finger. Mayor waves back. “Fuckin’ typical,” Sully says. Fitzy steals three more beers from the Italian guy.

11:05 A.M.
The Francis Mulcahy School of Irish Step Dancing pauses right in front of us and runs through a rigmarole of jigs and reels. Fitzy bops out into the street and joins them by doing a variation on the twist. Two cops promptly escort him back to the curb. Ends up one of them (Blaney) is Sully’s second cousin. All charges dropped. I steal a few more beers out of the cooler. We toast the NYPD.

12:02 P.M.
The Italian guy accuses us of raiding his stash. Waves his fists in the air. Sully punches him on the neck. Fitzy pulls out a lighter and starts to melt the cooler. Two more cops show up. So happens, one of them (O’Keefe) is Fitzy’s dad’s old neighbor from Brooklyn. Tells the Italian guy to “Move it along, pal, this ain’t Columbus Day.” Brawl breaks out between Irish and Italian bystanders. We throw several punches, grab the cooler, and split.

12:06 P.M.
Drop into St. Patrick’s Cathedral for a quick gander at the Lord. Crack open a couple of beers. Sully and I debate the merits of a short confession. Sully’s argument — “In a half hour, at the bar at Paddy Reilly’s it’s gonna be standin’-room only” — wins out over mine, which involves Eternal Damnation. We opt for a fast Our Father, five bucks in the poor box, and a brief round of candle-lighting. Fitzy, meanwhile, steals a sip of Holy Water.

12:17 P.M.
In the cab downtown, our driver, one Adjid Sakeel, expresses his opinion that the Irish Lesbian and Gay Organization should be allowed to march in the parade. Fitzy — his large green mug plugged right into the pay slot — begs to differ: “They awready got their own parade downtown inna Village. We don’t go down there, so why should they come uptown ta ours?” Adjid says, “Because this is America.” “No it ain’t,” counters Fitzy. “This is New York City. It’s a whole different ball game.” The argument ends with Fitzy barking like a dog and Adjid veering all over Second Avenue. We get out at 29th Street. I give Adjid a $3 tip and the cooler.

12:22 P.M.
Stop in at Paddy Reilly’s for a few pops. Several rounds of green beer and whiskey. Rogues March — a local band made up of guys who used to know members of the Pogues — bash through a loud, boisterous show. The lead singer — Joe Hurley — stretches his voice to the point of aneurysm. We toast the IRA. We toast the cease-fire. We toast the pope. Fitzy pukes.

4:27 P.M.
Stop in at Molly Malone’s Pub for a few more pops. Eat several slices of green pizza made by Sweeney the Bartender’s wife. She’s Italian. We drink green champagne and vodka. Sweeney calls JFK the greatest man who ever lived. Fitzy calls Mario Cuomo a fag. Mrs. Sweeney kicks Fitzy. Sully pukes.

About a Quarter Past Eight
Over at the Emerald Inn, we drink green Guinness and recite dialogue from The Quiet Man verbatim. The Stogues — a local band made up of guys who used to know the mother of one of the guys in the Pogues — play “Danny Boy,” and Fitzy starts to cry, green tears streaming down his puffy green cheeks. As Sully and I pat Fitzy on the back, the lead singer passes out.

Sometime After Ten
Head over to A Blarney Stone, where we order a drink called the Shane
MacGowan — three ounces of vodka, four ounces of gin, six ounces of Irish whiskey, a teaspoon of something that smells like turpentine, and half a beer. You gotta down it in two slugs. Makes you spout poetic musings with a tongue so thick only Shane could understand. The Problem is — he ain’t here. Fitzy stuffs an entire green bagel in his mouth, swallows it almost whole, downs his MacGowan, and says, “Now this is the life!”

That Same Night
Stop in at Sin-é. Place holds only 75 people, 72 of whom look like they just stepped off the boat. People without green cards drinking green beer. We’re in time to see another local band (really local, since they live in the cellar) take the stage. Call themselves the Fogues. Made up of guys who used to be friends with guys who once bought a round for the guys who used to roadie for the Stogues. During “Thousands Are Sailing,” the guitar player leaps up into the air and stays there. For what seems like a long time. His head is stuck in the ceiling; he gets a standing ovation. The lead singer asks if there’s a carpenter in the house. There is. Thirty-three of them, to be exact.

Later
The fact that we’re in the Dublin House is news to all three of us. But it’s printed right there on the matches. And the wall. And the back of the bouncer’s T-shirt. As my old man used to say: “Wherever the hell you go, there you fuckin’ are.”

Later Still
The thing about painting yourself green is this: It’s a great symbolic way to show your support of the Old Country and your family tree, but it’s a terrible way to go out drinking. Mostly because your friends can’t tell when you’re about to puke. The point is, we didn’t see it coming when Fitzy leaned over an Englishman named Trevor — who was explaining his support of the peace process in Ireland — and let blow. The hot dog, the pizza, the bagel — they made a comeback even Travolta woulda been proud of. And set off a brawl the likes of which we may never see again. Seventeen Englishmen, 27 Micks, and a side order of Hispanic, African-American, and Polish guys. When the cops show up (Carelli, Tiveiros, Jackson, etc.) none of them is related to Fitzy or Sully, so they just pack the whole melting pot in the back of a couple of paddy wagons (just for the sake of historical irony, I guess) and drop us off downtown. I share a cell with Fitzy and a Puerto Rican plumber named Bob. He says the cell gives him “déja-vu” because he had the same one after the Puerto Rican Day Parade last year.

The Next Morning
I wake up to the sound of Mickey Mantle repeatedly pounding a Louisville Slugger across the side of my face. I make a count of my few remaining brain cells — eight and holding. Bob’s droning on about pipe wrenches and putty knives when they come to take us to court. Ends up the judge (McSwiggin) is not only a fifth cousin of Fitzy’s mom but also happened to be in Dublin House last night when the hot dog hit the fan. He thinks the Englishman, the Queen, and the United Kingdom had it coming. All charges dropped. (That should be the motto above the entrance to the Irish Embassy.) We tell the judge about Sully, and fifteen minutes later, me, Sully, Fitzy, and Bob are sitting in P.J. Clarke’s chugging Bloody Marys and discussing the merits of indoor plumbing — copper pipe vs. plastic. Fitzy says he likes plastic: “It’s more modern. And it don’t look shiny.” Sully and I make our minds. Bob turning a light shade of burnt sienna — pukes.