If only that were the truth, I’d have something to watch tonight.
Some people may see a “fake” athlete and a TV clown, but I see something much, much more awesome.
I see a man who took a job requiring a ridiculous outfit, pancake make-up, and repeated pies to the face in the name of entertaining children; one that made him a television icon, but one whose fame went away when the make-up came off.
I see another who chose a profession that of a choreographed gladiator. Someone who took His job so seriously it became his life. Many luchadores, specifically in that era, would live their entire life behind the mask - living as “Santos.”
Some would call them both crazy, but I think it’s pretty awesome.
Like anything people care for, motorcycle owners usually form an attachment to their rides. They can and do represent a myriad of things to a myriad of people … and for me this particular bike & photo combination, despite having never seen it before today, means something to me.
We now live in a “junk” culture. More often than not, it’s usually cheaper (and less of a hassle) to buy new if something breaks. Here in the western world, we aren’t given a hell of a lot of reasons to keep a busted whatsit and have it repaired.
On top of being just plain wasteful, it also usually means that if that physical object is gone, it’s pretty rare for any of the history that went along with it to be preserved. As someone who writes, makes films, and has an appreciation for a narrative in any of form, that depresses the hell out of me.
Think about it, if this was your grandfather’s harley that was just undiscovered in barn somewhere, chances are you would be fascinated.
Since when did Grandpa Harry have a motorcycle? When did he get it? Where did he buy it? Was it new, or did he buy it used? Did he work on it himself? Did he take any trips? Where did he go? Did Grandma Gail know about this? Is this what caught her eye in the first place? Why did he stop riding? How did I not know this? You would want all of that information, all of the motorcycle’s history; you would want the complete story.
Maybe you would even get out the tools, get that thing running, shine it up nice, and add to that history.
Or, y’know, you could just throw it away; whatever.
In a world of throw-away things, occasionally, people can still come across things this cool, things that come with a history - a personal story - and they do something as small as snapping a picture to help preserve those.
I can’t speak for you, but I happen to think that’s pretty awesome.
The one in what is perhaps the coolest coin-op ride ever? He’s aiming down the sight of his ray-gun and probably zapping some ugly looking alien. It may not look like it from the picture, but he is.
Look at that expression and tell me he doesn’t believe it.
Remember that? Do you remember pretending - believing - and not being self conscious?
That’s your assignment for the weekend? Go find something that gives you that feeling.
And if you find something worth crying “Awesome!” about, let me know.
One of the best ever, in an early - but possibly finest - performance - James Brown and his Famous Flames on the recently released T.A.M.I. show concert DVD.
How good is he?
The Rolling Stones close the show after him and can’t even hold a candle; the don’t even pretend to try to. Mick Jagger, a man many once considered the very embodyment of a rock n’ roll front-man, knew he couldn’t follow a performance like that, and it’s written all over his face.
If you aren’t familiar with James Brown, don’t care for him, or if these three videos didn’t make you like the man … well, then you might as well unfollow and chalk our break-up due to irreconcilably different ideas of awesome.
*Apologies for the weird video sizes, can’t seem to iron it out and make them “fit.”
Ladies: all the expensive lingerie in the world pales in comparison to the sexiness, simplicity, and strength of a simple mens white oxford shirt
I’m not ashamed to admit I agree. I’ve never been a lace, stockings, and garter fan - always seemed like it is trying too hard. Lingerie has its place, but a white dress shirt is eternally sexy.
Cute, classy, or sexy; it works all the way around, and it all comes down to the expression on her face.
Maybe because I’m not huge into sports photographs, but I was not aware of this amazing photo until this weekend. The photo is of Carmen Basilio winning the welterweight title November 30th, 1955 and was taken by Hy Peskin. You can purchase the photo here from the New York Times.
I grew up watching boxing tapes my dad had and, even though today it seems like a dinosaur compared to the likes of UFC, I still hold a soft spot for boxing.
It requires enormous discipline to even train for, let alone actually pursue. You have to rewire your natural instinct to avoid being hit, and to go in knowing that not only are you’re going to be punched, but that it’s also going to hurt. Probably a lot. A boxer has to embrace his primal survival instincts, reject flight, choose fight and do it while attempting to out think your opponent’s strategy and then create a plan to counter it … all while being punched in the face by someone who has actually trained to punch people in the face.
Anyone worth their salt has lost a fight. (Yes, even the boy who cried awesome.) They had to go home and explain it to their folks, they had to go to school the next day with a black eye, they had to look the person who beat them up and admit to themselves that on that day, that person won and that they lost.
Now, I’ve always felt that being beaten in a fight doesn’t make that person a loser, as long as they take something away from it.
If boxing has taught us anything (fixes aside), it’s that anyone can beat anyone on any given day - no matter who’s bigger, who’s faster, who’s stronger, or who’s “better.”
And on the days I’m getting smacked around by life, I try to remember that. No matter what, I’ve always got a puncher’s chance at winning.
I’m afraid I lost my pocket knife today. It was my uncle’s.
Sorry to hear that.
I’ve probably lost a dozen or so pocket knives over the years, but the one that bothered me the most was a knife that my dad had given me when I left it in a locker in middle school. Sadly, even though it was a small rural school, they did locker-sweeps and it was confiscated. It wasn’t an heirloom, nor anything expensive or fancy, (just a simple, yellow Case “peanut” styled folder) but it was something I would have liked to hang onto.
I’ve long been a proponent of carrying a pocket knife. Unfortunately, we live in a time when anyone carrying this simple if a tool is viewed as a potential psychopath. I will admit, it has made me take a bit more consideration of what type of knife I use for daily carry - I now tend to look for more plain, less “dangerous” looking folders - but I still carry one more often than not.
Personally, I think a knife is just a notch below a writing utinsel when it comes to daily nessecities. If you have one and carry it regularly, you suddenly realize how useful it is. If you never have, you likely just don’t understand why something so simple has remained with us since man learned to use tools.
Maybe I’m just sentimental (possible) or over-thinking it (doubtful), but stop and think about that - Something that simple that has been of that much use for that much time.
I’m a big Springsteen fan, have been since I can remember being old enough to use my brother’s record player. It wasn’t until I was on a trip from my Northern Minnesota rural hometown to visit relatives in Minneapolis that I was able to figure out why.
All I had was a handful of mixtapes, a janky knock-off walkman borrowed from a friend, and 7 hours stuck in an over-crowded back seat staring out the window, occasionally looking up and watching my dad’s reflection in the rear-view mirror. I remember him driving with the radio turned off while everyone else in the car was asleep. He suddenly looked very tired. It was the first time I can recall my old man looking “old.” There was an argument he and mom had about money as they were packing up for the weekend. It wasn’t the first.
My dad worked on the road doing construction, and my mother worked on an assembly line at a snowmobile factory. Right around this time the family was having some money trouble; namely not having any. I remember realizing that not only were we not a comfortable middle class family, but that our barely-getting-by blue collar clan (I was one 5 kids) was dangerously close to becoming legitimately poor.
I was watching the worry move around my father’s face when I first heard Bruce Springsteen sing “Used Cars.”
My little sister’s in the front seat with an ice cream cone My ma’s in the black seat sittin’ all alone As my pa steers her slow out of the lot for a test drive down Michigan Avenue
Now, my ma, she fingers her wedding band And watches the salesman stare at my old man’s hands He’s tellin’ us all ‘bout the break he’d give us if he could, but he just can’t Well if I could, I swear I know just what I’d do
Now, mister, the day the lottery I win I ain’t ever gonna ride in no used car again
Now, the neighbors come from near and far As we pull up in our brand new used car I wish he’d just hit the gas and let out a cry and tell ‘em all they can kiss our asses goodbye
My dad, he sweats the same job from mornin’ to morn Me, I walk home on the same dirty streets where I was born Up the block I can hear my little sister in the front seat blowin’ that horn The sounds echoin’ all down Michigan Avenue
Now, mister, the day my numbers comes in I ain’t ever gonna ride in no used car again
Sure, I had listened to the song before, but that was the first time I really heard it.
Being a kid and hearing someone sing about what you are feeling - all the worry and shame and futile “I’ll show you” attitude -
Making plans about how it’ll never be like this when you grow up, but knowing it would take something as likely as winning the lottery to break free from that reality? Being young enough to dream of a better life but also being old enough to know it isn’t ever going to come true? That is truly powerful, heart-breaking stuff.
Hearing that song through those nerf-orange spongy, uncomfortable borrowed headphones was the closest thing I can relate to having an actual revelation.
That first time that you hear, really hear, someone who sings not only to you but about you and for you - at 12 years old - that is something nothing short of awesome.
