Heard My New Pollack Joke?

Every country has an armpit. America, never one to be outdone, has several. Without equivocation, Florida lies well beneath even this most dubious of honors. Florida is nothing less than the asshole of America. As for Texas, despite being a state I find I like more and more, it’s still very much like the land of armpits.

But as I’ve stated above, there is a duality to Texas’ armpititude that kind of crawls up your ass and lets you know it’s sticking around for a while. In a good way. Ya gotta love the yin and yang of it all.

And here in Houston, here in this sweltering marsh of oil-soaked money, here in this morally retarded den of individualistic followers lies countless gems of humanity, under every rock, behind every stained glass door, and lingering at the bottom of every 40 oz malt liquor bottle. Houston is a treasure, a city of down-and-outers, semi-pragmatic and somehow simultaneously reckless labor-drifters, in search of a buck and a place to settle down.

I, like so many others, am a northern transplant, a Midwestern immigrant left behind by his parents and stuck insomuch as I am unwilling to deny the pull this place has on me.

One can sum this town up in so many ways. One can take so many examples of Houston’s genius and manipulate them to demonstrate the ragged glory that is the experience of being a Houstonian - a badge I wear with equal parts honor and shame.

The 80s were a decade that came to paint a face on the shambling mess of rib joints, honky-tonks, and whorehouses that comprised the facade of Houston. With all the yankees heading south for the promised mountain of jobs created in the oil boom came a need for housing. Since we can’t all be executives, many people were relegated to supporting the lifestyles of the wealthy, and Houston’s middle class not only was basically born but exploded in an almost out-of-control big bang of sorts.

Apartments became the living choice of so many hundreds of thousands needing some place to kick up their feet, watch some Oilers games, and learn the joys of air conditioning.

Enter Colonial House Apartments.

Houston’s Southwest has been, as far as anyone can remember, an area that has hung on by the skin of its teeth. By the early 80s, Southwest Houston was a place that really did little to give anyone the warm and fuzzies. There was plenty of gang activity, and plenty more of that Houston brand of semi-urban dilapidation that seems to escalate beneath the blazing might of the summer sun. The fine folks that brought Houston the Colonial House Apartments recognized a need for plentiful, affordable apartment living with a certain amount of amenities to sweeten the deal in their favor. With so many places to choose form, and with their being located in a part of town that wasn’t exactly stellar, this was a development in dire need of some PR.

For starters, the place, built in the 60s, was needing some serious work. It took the developers just 3 months to overhaul the entire complex. What you need to know is that the complex was, and still is, totally fucking massive. The place contains almost 1800 individual units. On top of this, the investors needed to make the bloat seem inviting somehow. This also was not an easy task. Take a few minutes to Google Map the place (5700 Gulfton, Houston), and you will see that the complex looks like a damn penal colony. There are 36 separate buildings, which means there are roughly 50 apartments in each of those 36 buildings.

To sell this beast it would take something equally fierce and ferocious.

Enter Michael Pollack.

Anyone who lived in Houston in the early 80s undoubtedly remembers Michael Pollack. His role as the spokesman for the Colonial House Apartments has rightfully earned its place in the annals of Houston lore forever eternal, he was that good.

The commercials are geared towards a young, partying sort of resident, ready to do some blow at the drop of a pin, dance on the pool patio, and fuck half his building at the foot of Pollack’s cheetah just because that’s what people do at Colonial House.

The ads are notorious around Houston, and deservedly so. Pollack is the quintessential douche. He has brushed back blond 80s hair, two-toned shitty-assed polyester suits that open into bell-bottoms, and a voice that screams rim jobs. As he prances towards the camera, prattling on about free furniture, workout rooms, and a promised move-in gift of a VCR that apparently will be delivered to you by hand from a young lady who will jump out of the pool, giant 80s VCR held aloft, you are supposed to notice the carefully placed dancing imbeciles in the background, coked to oblivion, and ready to get this party started.

And what a party it must have been. By my count, the place currently has 17, maybe 18 swimming pools. Can you imagine how many gallons of human fluids were deposited in those pools over the course of just a few years?

Sadly, this zenith of human accomplishment couldn’t last forever. Eventually, the “dream-suite” fantasy of Pollack and his magical land of eternal sunshine had to come to an end, and reality came crashing in behind it.

Today, the complex still stands. The place is now called the Lantern Estates, and seems to be the home of at least half of the Hispanic immigrants that have come to this country in search of work, the ever-popular cheap housing, loose party babes, and blow.

Honestly, 50% ain’t half bad.

Stock Post

WRITTEN BY: REBSTOCK (TOO DUMB TO POST HIS OWN DAMN SELF)

I had considered less than a week ago giving up on my current career for one in Austin selling weed. That seems like a year ago. I briefly thought a few hours ago, I was moving to Latvia (probably to do the same) but it looks like I may stick it out hold on. “Cookie?”
“That’s a cracker” “cracker?” “ Yes a Ritz cracker, it’s written on the box”
I remove my headphones and the comforting familiar wail of Mark Arm. The kid offering me the “cookie” is Portuguese, he points to the massive molten blob of pink fire on the horizon” is solstice.”Oh cool is all I can muster. Things get distorted on the water, perceptions askew. The moon rises huge, so it didn’t seem that unusual that the sun was so massive tonight. the kid from Portugal and I speak for a while, he humors my broken kitchen Mexican and helps me limp through our conversation then asks me what they all ask me when they have a free night in Houston, where is hard rock café? I tell him I don’t know and give him directions to jimmies icehouse, in the heights, ask for Buzz I tell him. I walk inside to be confronted by my hair doppelganger from” Myanmar?” (What I don’t know could fill a book). It’s got to be a country; they’ve got passports and everything. I saw this guys head from the deck of our small boat before he was brought down in the basket. British / Japanese rockstar hair. Cool he let me take a picture to show whoever cuts mine next. It is what I believe Bowie is alluding to in the song Ziggy Stardust” screwed up eyes and screwed down hairdo, like some cat from Japan”, and ive achieved it, if I can only keep it. Florence Henderson had it for a while, Wayne Gretzky, Jeff beck has had it forever and so has his twin Nigel Tufnell, and of course some of the cooler Frankenstein’s. The mynmarian holds up his phone he wants a picture of my doo. Fine. Im just a big enough ham to enjoy a picture of me circulating in weird circles in some foreign country ive never even heard of. I take the picture and settle down to right next to an Indian named Dashit.Im not kidding. One name, like Sting or Oprah. DashitI filled out the passenger log it made me cringe not because it was funny, I am above making fun of someone’s name but because the rednecks that fill this industry will have a field day with this and ill have to listen to it. .
Let me go back.
The Latvian. On the way out here a kid from Latvia and I had a long conversation in witch we traded stories, mine were better. But his weren’t without their charm. He made Latvia sound wonderful. I told him about the chick who liked to wear a dog collar and get walked around her condo. He told me of the warmth of the Latvian people. I told him about the woman that made me throw her in the tub and pee on her( something I wasn’t really into, but she was hot),and slipped and knocked herself out, got a mild concussion and made me scared I would be an episode if CSI.. He spoke of Latvian art and music, I told him about the time I was telling the story of a friend of mines dad who, in college knew a girl that could lean forward in a three point stance like a center and pee over a car, some drunk chick heard me telling the story and tried it, unsuccessfully, then peed in someone’s open window and passed out on her face. He told me about Latvian women, I was enthralled. He actually had me convinced that I should jump ship and go to Latvia with him. I said I’ve only got 1500$ cash, he said it will go a long way. I told him I have no passport. He laughed and said”goto consulate, your American. I said I’m a felon, he said”no, your American felon.” It was pretty convincing. I asked” what would I say? ".He said you were drinking on boat, you woke up, he held up his hands and looked around, Latvia!
Actually anyone with access to my record would have to believe it, im pretty surprised it hasn’t happened yet. How many times have I woken up, I held my hands up and looked around, Mexico! About this time I hear a familiar sound. The pronounced peristalsis and the thick wet splash of Greeks throwing up. It looks like a combination of cream of wheat and watermelon. I passed out placentas de infirma but these guys were obviously in too big a hurry to use them. I will stop here and just say the urge to bail on my life and start a new one in Latvia was pretty strong. I keep telling myself that im getting closer and closer to a captains license. That with every broken bone, every floor covered in hurl, I am getting closer, but some times it doesn’t help.5 days ago I dislocated my elbow, I think I have a broken thumb I breathe diesel fumes so thick I cant see the wheelhouse from the deck for hours at a time. I can’t tell anyone when I get hurt or they would pull me off the boat, no pay. It’s an investment in my future, if I have one. I seem to bitch about this a lot. Fuck you it’s my blog. They treat me like a dog, work me like a mule and ride me like the only whore in town. They can break my back, but the wont break my will. Does it smell weird to you? Is that vomit or is the dude next to me Dashit? Sorry I couldn’t resist if anyone else here makes fun of him, I will replace their Larry the Cable Guy vehicle movies with Big Black cds. Where was I? Oh yea, Moving to Austin to sell weed. Or maybe Australia.

Grappler's High

I spend more time training to fight than most people spend watching TV. Six days of the week are spend between Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, Muay Thai Kickboxing, and MMA (Mixed Martial Arts – think UFC), and one day is spent on conditioning. My ass gets kicked frequently at the latter two, but I'm working on it. I typically miss one day of training each week because I fall into a sleep induced coma to let my body heal, just so that I can repeat the process. There is a torn muscle in my back, a new scar on my face, numerous bruises, my right rib hurts lately, my lips are always busted, and I’m getting used to having to drain fluid out of my ear with an insulin syringe when it swells. This is my idea of fun. External beatings keep me mentally, internally, healthy. In comparison to my training partners though, I am something of a sissy. At least I didn’t have my leg broken in five places like my buddy.

Other hobbies take up some of my time, but for the most part, I live what has been termed “The Jiu-Jitsu Lifestyle.” My diet, my surroundings, my overall mood, and often times, my company revolve around my training. It went from being what I do to who I am, and I’m content with it. Wouldn’t trade it for anything. Here’s a link to drive home what I’m talking about. It’s really its own culture, in a way. The first link should give you links to parts two and three, if you get that far.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4lhIU0MiU6w

There is one problem though: I suck, especially when it comes to competing. Some people were born with that little voice in their heads that tells them they have to win. On the other hand, I was born with the who-gives-a-shit gene. As badly as I want to want to win, come fight time, I become apathetic. I don’t know if it’s intimidation, nerves, or what, but the only thing on my mind when I’m fighting in a tournament is nothing. Absolutely nothing. I have out of body experiences, which remove all concept of proper technique and the urge to win or beat the shit out of my opponent. Some were born to compete; I was born to commentate. My record is something like 3-25. The 3 I am sure of, but the 25 is only a guess. Could be more.

My main focus now as far as tournament training is to look to go in for the kill (and not to smile at my opponents, damnit). My conditioning is fine, my technique is fine, but my nerves (desire to win, or whatever you want to call it) suck. The only way to eventually get past that is to compete as often as possible, which I have been. I went to a tournament this past weekend in Austin, and though I lost, I didn’t get completely destroyed like I did a few months ago. Until I get past my Achilles heel, I will continue to help people attain good records. When I finally do get over it, I aim to try cage fighting. Just like it’s hard to have a toy and not play with it, it’s hard to learn skills and never use them. It’s time to train smarter. I’m considering doing the Jiu-Jitsu World tournament in LA in November. As a goal, it’s far enough away that I’ll have time to really dedicate myself. We’ll see.

If the links work, here is one of my earlier wins, as well as my most recent loss. Both are fairly short, considering we were allotted 5 to 6 minutes. The win (I'm in the orange) starts off we me getting taken down (2 points - if no one submits, the winner is decided on a points system, each having to do with being in an advantageous position) which is followed by me pulling guard. In grappling, if my opponents torso is between my legs, I am in an offensive position. When my legs flail about for a second, it's because my opponent applies an illegal move; one which could have injured my neck if he were stronger. Though it's hard to tell, I attempt many submissions, but I can't make anything work for a while. I eventually get his arm across his body and submit him with an arm-bar. The loss (I’m in the blue) is due to a collar choke. We pause in the middle because we go out of bounds. I always get taken down. Hope you enjoyed a peek into the life of a masochist.

Say NO to the shutdown of the NEW AFRIKA SHRINE by the Nigerians Authorities ! Petition

Say NO to the shutdown of the NEW AFRIKA SHRINE by the Nigerians Authorities ! Petition

The First Cut

I had a great piece all ready and spellchecked for the butcher and ill send it someday but this isn’t it. On review it wasn’t grandiose it wasn’t dark or whiney, so I chucked it for this crap. I actually have a level of resentment about forcing myself to be negative. It doesn’t suit me, or that is to say, it doesn’t suit my image of myself. In reality im probably as dark as anyone I just cant focus on it. The result would no doubt be me lying in my car listening to the Afghan Whigs next to a few empty bottles of pills. Negativity filtered through an already disturbed mind has a tendency to amplify.
Ive been contemplating my life since I accepted my current vocation and have made an observation. For the last few years ive made a point of not really processing any thing on a serious level. An unfortunate event (which I wont bore you with) has left me avoiding introspection in any substantial way. It was just tempting enough to believe that blind positivity could help the situation. More likely it would have the same effect as a batter calling his shot and pointing into outer space as he steps into the batters box, a fastball in the mouth. Instead I did what any rational adult would do, I started drinking heavily and quit thinking about it. It seemed to work for a while, and I did forget, but I didn’t heal.
Now years later, I find myself with a job that affords me time, lots and lots of time. Sober time.
The veneer is still in place. Im fine. In fact its actually had some good side effects. Im more patient than ive ever been and seem to be able to focus my attention without getting distracted. But my recent, forced sobriety has made it all to clear that I have this unresolved issue to deal with. Journaling or blogging or writing is a thinly veiled art. The nature of it seems to stay light and spoon feed people what they want. That seems to be the right way to do it. It has recently been proposed to me that since there is no wrong in art then there really is no right either. At least that’s what I got out of it. Im not sure if this was an allusion to morality or quality, or both, or neither. I have a history or missing the point, but im going to take it as an indication that if wish to sit here and work out my personal shit on someone’s blog site without the vaguest hint of it even posing as entertainment, than anyone reading it can just fuck themselves and come along for the ride. Your still reading. Wow your really fuckin bored. Nothing on T V?
So where was I?
Oh yea somewhere between avoiding an unresolved issue and hinting that I might actually work it out here, on the butcher, in front of god and everybody. OK if you want blood, you got it.
Just kidding. Im way too big of a pussy coward to face my own shit sober. What is interesting is that If I were ready to deal with my internal shit, the scrutiny of a public forum would do just as well as a therapist or a bartender or a friend(if I have any left).According to this premise I can actually write about not writing about my personal shit and you can still go fuck yourself. Unfortunately since I cant be right either , it limits my range. But I can bitch. Wanna hear? Actually, I cant. Without a viable solution to a problem, or at least a rant that makes people focus on the problem in a solution oriented way your just looking for sympathy , which I don’t deserve, or attempting to make other people as shitty as you. Its like staring at the sun isn’t it? Reading something you know will have no point, that’s probably going to leave you feeling worse that you felt when you started? Relax, Bill Hicks thought me not to forget the purple vein dick joke and its coming soon.
How about this for a joke. I have a job that consumes a full two thirds of my time. I see my son one day a month. My job will more likely that not, cripple or kill me in the next few years. Im so lonely and bored that I opened a facebook account for attention. When I get off of work every two weeks I binge drink until my brain feels like beef jerky. Ive given up on having any kind of meaningful relationship with a woman as I would never see her anyway. I spend more on tequila than you spend on rent. Ready for the punchline………. Everyone’s proud of me! Oh sorry, I said I wasn’t going to bitch. Now you see why its important for me to stay positive. To focus on something else. The next drink. A good friend. A piece of ass. Whatever it takes to get you through. I will survive, its what I do. A friend of mine once signed a letter to me “ I love life and will never surrender” he hung himself a few years ago. That’s the big unresolved issue. I miss Mark Davis. You got your blood so fuck off. I hope the first cut was the worst. No, I don’t want to talk about it. Acknowledgement is enough for now. Beautiful, sadly mortal and confusing. Very cathartic.

Two Things

At an intersection in Greektown, I stopped for the traffic light as a young lady pushed a stroller carrying a baby girl across on the opposite side. On the side closer to me, a middle-aged lady pushed a wheelchair carrying an elderly lady. As descriptive fiction this is corn ball, but it happened in real life so it's earth ballet.

R. Crumb just published a graphic version of the Book of Genesis. The story of how and why, along with a lengthy excerpt, are in last week's New Yorker.  Reading the BoG for the first time in decades, I was reminded of the obvious and almost immediate symbolism in the form of two trees. The Tree of Life and the Tree of Knowledge and Wisdom. Crumb must have thought for a while, how to depict these trees. I must now look into how literalists imagine these trees.

So That Must Be A Mango ... Hmm ...

I have breached the wall and made a run for the throne room. Thing is, once there it’s not really clear where “there” actually is. You’d think with all the ornate tapestry and fresh exotic foods pouring forth upon hand-fashioned tables of the finest imported woods that I had entered the very chambers of the monarch; but there is simply no sign of a threshold, of a promontory housing the painstakingly embroidered and cushioned marvel that seats the hindquarters of his highness.

Peculiar.

Peculiar to think that for all the effort spent in reaching this place, all the blood shed, lives lost, and souls consumed by the darkest depths of my blade, that I am presently at the place for which has been my calling and yet simultaneously nowhere in particular.

It is, quite possibly, my due. And who could argue with that?

We work overtime in our land, and it is my lot to serve as both laborer, journeyman-warrior, and fool. Heavy emphasis on the latter. (Not so much the other two.)

All that has been spent in the name of this quest - and yet the teeth of the ravenous just beyond the great door, chattering, drooling, and stunningly mad with rage - the time is nigh.

It all began with a message brought forth on the wings of a legless eagle (unable to land) - a scrolled plea to rescue these lands from the grip of the horrid Blind Butcher who has ruled over his minions without remorse, without mercy, and without the slightest shred of anything but greed and wanton lust.

Here in his throne room, the very place from which his demonic orders were set forth like a plague upon his subjects causing previously unimaginable agonies.

And yet, the gnashing outside the door, impossible to ignore, work of the very same subjects I would have thought to have been prostrate before my feet as I made my triumphant march towards victory, and their ultimate emancipation. They are undeniably enraged at my presence, clearly motivated without distraction to take my soul to the darkest place a man could imagine, and then much darker still.

What hold must this Blind Butcher have over them? What powers are contained in the four-fingered hand of his perverted lordship? How is it that a great many people could come together, in unison, and defend the master who has forsaken them time and again?

It is not clear.

I do, however, find solace in one single and seemingly irrelevant mote of insignificance, and it is this practically imperceptible bit of knowledge which will insulate me from the pounding madness which awaits me beyond the rapidly deteriorating door between us ...

... the first cut is always the worst.

And this strangely fragrant fruit? Very, very tasty.