I know it’s hard to log on to Jose el Retardo at the end of a long day only to find that his razor-sharp intellect has concocted 500+ words for you to digest. You’ve been forced to think all god-damned day, and now this! What an asshole Jose can be—but you’ve all been hanging in there like champs, you’ve read the words, you’ve left the comments, and more importantly, you keep coming back for more.

Now it’s time for your reward. Watch a video clip of this little bitch of a man get owned by his buddy and then CRY about it like some kind of freaking GIRL! It’s so sweet. I give it to you free of charge because I love all of you so very much.

That’s it. No strings attached. Enjoy the rest of your day.

This delectable little gem, I assume to help announce the release of what looks like a must have for anybody’s DVD collection—Heavy Metal Parking Lot—was forwarded to me by stalwart reader, Danzig (more below).

The cats I rolled with took it to an even lower place; most times, we never even had a concert to attend. We just went to random parking lots for the fun of it. If you were not hanging out drunk in some parking lot back in 1986, then I suppose this is going to seem really, really cool to you. Well mister, let me tell you something: if we had been invited to anybody’s house, we would have gone there instead. That parking lot, in reality, was an intensely lonely place.

One of my fondest parking lot memories, circa 1986 (early summer), goes a little something like this:

Me and some guy I barely remember named Ross (shaggy ‘do and big teeth; if this sounds like you and your name is Ross AND you remember hanging with some pimple-faced dork with a blonde mullet, look me up!) lied to our sucker parents with some bullshit line about a sleepover and an amusement park with some friend, then piled into Mike T’s car with as much Mad Dog 20/20 as we could scam, and headed out into the fragrant Council Bluffs, IA night. I have NO CLUE what we might have been listening to that night; rest assured that both Motley Crue and Ozzy Osborne played a part as we cruised the heady streets, hoping beyond hope that each car we passed would be the one…filled with teased hair and garish rouge; loose t-shirts (I can see her bra through it! In the back! In the back!) knotted at the waist over a white denim skirt…don’t look away…please don’t look away…

But of course they look away.

And so what the fuck, ya can’t drive up and down the street all night (or can you?), so we pulled into the residential parking lot in front of what was at the time one of CB’s few apartment building complexes, and proceeded to blare the music while peeling donuts with reckless abandon. So, you know, it was fun for a little while, but after about ten minutes or so, we were back to trolling Broadway. What’s left except for the parking lot? That’s where all the action is anyway, so there’s little use in prolonging the inevitable. Off we flew, the cooling Iowa night at our backs, mocking our every move—was it any wonder we were as angry as we were?

The Hinky Dinky parking lot teemed with the same faceless losers from week to week, yet they all seemed new to me. Did I see myself reflected in their shaggy demeanors, and so was afraid to look too closely? Was my own empty future captured in their beery breath? The blurry stares and slurred speech of the leather vest-clad 20-somethings who had still yet to be invited to anybody’s house on a Friday night? Maybe. Or maybe it was the Mad Dog 20/20.

Mike T leaned against the hood of his old Mustang (more about that car some other time), and immediately struck up a conversation with one of the many slightly skanky young ladies of the time who never seemed to close their mouths all the way; a permanent look of disgust always right there in plain sight. He was the only one out of the three of us to whom girls ever showed any actual interest. I think they thought he was trouble. They were partly right, but not as much as they hoped. Neither Ross nor I were too worried about that, though; we were used to such shabby treatment from the ladies and had accepted it as the natural order of things some time before. We instead headed into the Hinky Dinky to grab a bag of those delicious Chili-Cheese Fritos, so seldom seen these days unless one is traversing the cracked Midwest (roll up your windows and make sure the tank is full, my friend). I don’t recall much of what happened inside the store (Ross was not the most engaging of people…sorry dude…maybe you shouldn’t call me), but I very much recall exiting the store and immediately spying the two police cruisers that had pulled up and boxed in Mike T’s Mustang, their red and blue lights casting an often told tale around the shadows of the grocery store’s ceremonial stomping grounds. Was there ever a better visual created to accompany the heavy metal of the times? Probably, but this was more common. One officer was holding the knife Mike T kept in the glove box (just under the five inch rule—so you see ladies, not bad enough), the other was glaring at Mike T, mid-hassle, brandishing the crow bar Mike T kept under the driver’s seat.

“What’s this for, buddy?” the cop was saying, “You looking to deal some trouble tonight?”

“It’s for a flat tire,” I could hear Mike say matter-of-factly. Of course, it wasn’t. It was for bashing skulls—just in case a skull needed bashing. I was too shy to bash in skulls. Mike most likely was too, but we’ll never know, because the chance—thank god—never arose.

“State law states that this bad boy is supposed to be stored in your trunk, son. You sure this ain’t for bashing skulls?” asked the officer again, looking bored and angry all at once.

“Yeah. I mean, no, it isn’t. It’s for changing tires.” Bashing skulls. Maybe. Someday.

I can’t tell you the look on Mike’s face through all of this, because Ross and I had already turned in another direction and kept walking, leaving Mike to his fate. Oh well. Fuck him. I never asked him to keep knives and crow bars in his goddamned car, and it’s a damned documented fact that this kind of shit always made me nervous. Ask anyone in town. Eventually we wandered near some other losers like ourselves and were eventually written our own tickets for minors in possession of alcohol. Only drunk teenagers stand near police cars with open bottles of liquor and think nothing will happen.

Since we had absolutely nowhere else to go, Ross and I eventually made our way to the county court house to visit Mike T while he spent the night in jail. I think we felt the need to give moral support and apologize for not getting arrested with him. As it happened, the reason the cops nailed him to begin with is because some understandably concerned nim-rod at the apartment complex had turned in the license plate number of some assholes spinning out in his parking lot. He seemed to take it all in stride, although it seemed as though something was on his mind. We asked him if he wanted us to call his parents. He did not.

Later that night, I eventually made my way home, told a lie, and somehow got out of paying my ticket.

Good times.

I am beginning to fear that the youngest generations are going to grow up thinking that Jack Nicholson’s best work happened in the Bucket List. Oh, the horror I feel when I imagine overhearing a discussion in a bar five years from now, and several youngsters are debating the relative merits of As Good As It Gets over Anger Management. Kill me. Better yet, kill them—I have too much to live for.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed About Schmidt, and I thought Witches of Eastwick had much to offer. Yes, the cherry barfing scene and the church monologue were quite memorable. And even if younger viewers know about One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, how many know of China Town’s cool noire and it’s freaky turns into the bizarre? Or The Postman Always Rings Twice and its steamy, violent sex all over the diner kitchen table (more long, warm, loaves of bread, anyone? You still workin on that, hon?)? I mean, Jesus Christ, they just don’t make ‘em like that anymore, right? Easy Rider isn’t completely my thing, but it’s a pretty goddamned important flick, and Jack’s performance in it is way understated and completely different from his shtick turn in Batman, his big, dumpy ass dancing to Prince—like oh yeah, this guy listens to Prince (don’t get me wrong, I thought that, also, was pretty decent).

Listen to this audio clip I have included from Carnal Knowledge. You may be wondering why, in these days of visual wizardry, I am only including an audio clip, but trust me on this one—the way to experience the following bit of Jack is only through the ear. And, much like the sad demise of Pachino, you will never see (or hear) him crystallize his fury this purely ever again. It will most likely become a favorite thing of yours, too. Just remember where you heard it, you bums.

I have said for years that nothing good can come from consuming diet sodas. And although my friends like to smile and nod, while looking at each other out of the corner of their traitorous eyes (what, did you think I didn’t see, you lousy bastards?), and humor me like I’m some kind of freaking mental case, I present to you a list of articles that you should all pay some attention to before it’s too late. There’s still time:

1. Study: Artificial Sweetener Breaks Connection between Sweet Taste, Calories

2. Aspartame Side Effects

3. Artificial Sweeteners May Damage Diet Efforts

4. Is Artificial Sweetener Destroying Your Health?

5. Aspartame (Nutrasweet) Toxicity Information Center

Look, there is tons of this stuff all over the internet, people. You don’t need me to look it up for you. And yes, I know that much of this stuff is contradicted by other reports, and the argument can go on ad-nauseum. However, I think it’s safe to say that we all know of one sweetener that absolutely will NOT cause cancer and other assorted bedlams: SUGAR. Delicious, pure, kissed by God cane sugar, people. From Hawaii. Growing in the sun.

I was walking through the endlessly intriguing streets of NYC the other evening (my destination shall remain my own business, thank you very much my dear but sometimes far too inquisitive readers), when I ran across a hole-in-the-wall psychic shop somewhere in the west 20’s. Well, what the fuck, you know, it’s a psychic shop and so the very sight of it makes me grin in a detached sort of way, but what actually compelled me stop and take a picture of the dumpy little den of wishes is the ATM machine that has been installed right outside the door. Click on the image to the left to see a larger version.

In my view, this effectively transforms psychic readings into an impulse buy—and what an impulse buy it is. Some of your more upscale readings can apparently cost $400 or more. Not only this, but apparently, the uglier the psychic administering the read, the more expensive it becomes. If you couple this information with the knowledge that over 60% of Americans under the age of 65 are predisposed to believing in psychic phenomenon (ESP, telepathy, etc), you end up with a fairly nutty industry. Fueling this lucrative psychosis is this odd dichotomy: the more highly educated the person, the more likely he/she will believe in all things kinda spooky. It isn’t difficult to see where this is heading. College educated people have, on average, more cash to blow than those that are not. Psychics know their audience. And any showman worth his salt knows to milk his audience for everything they’re worth.

I am a college graduate, however, it is my firm belief that if I am to ever reach a more enlightened state than the one that I am currently at (which would be damn hard; I am one sharp cookie, bitch), it is simply not going to happen via the telephone or the internet. No, I think I prefer to get my enlightenment the old fashioned way: Peyote. I’ll be in the desert if you need me.

And I simply need more time.  But since I love each and every one of my readers so intensely, I refuse to leave them with nothing.  And so, as a teaser to the big opinions to come, and sure to cause a LOT of drama and debate on all sides of the aisle, I would love for you all to enjoy the following favorite from way, way back…

You’ve certainly seen the video footage of Tom Cruise being interviewed for his cute little award ceremony honoring him as the most famous and bizarre of all the famous and bizarre Scientologists. Well, here it is again, just in case you missed it. (more below)

The first thing that strikes me is Tom’s blatant lack of modesty. This man loves himself like no other human has ever loved anything. His arrogance is a living, breathing animal sitting on his shoulder like a gargoyle. Nothing can kill this little monster perched so obstinately there. You can not quiet it—my friends, it is too late.

The second thing that intrigues me is, ironically, the lack of any real content in anything Tom Cruise says in this relentlessly proud assertion of the power of all Scientologists. He says they (or, more correctly, he) have the power to change the world, but he never says how. He says they are the only ones who can help the rest of us poor slobs, but he never says in what way. He talks about Scientologists being the only ones that can help at the scene of a car wreck, but he gives zero specifics. What would he do? Are all Scientologists trained medical professionals? Do they have healing hands? Are they some kind of new faith healers for the age of Xenu? My god, the man can’t even bring himself to finish a sentence! And this says one thing loud and clear to me: there is absolutely nothing of any real substance to Scientology aside from all the crazy damn nonsense found in L. Ron Hubbard’s silly Dianetics books.

This is a direct quote from the Scientology website:

“Man is an immortal, spiritual being. His experience extends well beyond a single lifetime. His capabilities are unlimited, even if not presently realized — and those capabilities can be realized. He is able to not only solve his own problems, accomplish his goals and gain lasting happiness, but also achieve new, higher states of awareness and ability.”

Sound familiar? Maybe like EVERY OTHER FREAKING RELIGION? Take away the volcanoes and thetans, replace them with a parting sea and a holy ghost, and POW baby! You got yourself some good old, down home Christianity, just like mom used to make. It’s all the same chicken feed, people. Yet another way to keep the ducks in line.

But back to Tom. He’s batshit crazy, and you knew that, and he laughs at strange things with lunacy in his eyes. Katie Holms is a beaten down slave. Body Thetans strive to escape the meat body. The world keeps spinning. Next.

While I’m briefly getting things back up to snuff for my adoring public, please feel free to enjoy this video of a monkey suckling a dog. As far as my opinion on this video goes, let me simply say this: the world is constantly proving to be such a bizarre place that I find myself forever overjoyed to be alive. And even though I know that, even as we speak, somewhere out there a 13 year-old girl is being sold into slavery, we have to balance things out a monkey that will suck on a dog’s tit.

Live long and prosper, people.

When my grandmother was introduced to the internet some years ago and taught the finer points of email, I knew there would be trouble. Not that she wouldn’t be able to handle this new-fangled tool of blitzkrieg communication—the el Retardo’s have a long history of mastering technology at all stages of life—more, I was afraid of what she would send.

It didn’t take long for my fears to be realized. Soon my inbox was overflowing with all sorts of Christian, right-wing, precious moments propaganda. It was at most times very painful to sort through, and more often than not prodded me into angry replies to my grandmother; which of course left me feeling badly conflicted because my grandmother is very dear to me, and I hated to speak to her crossly, but I would be damned if I could let the plethora of heavy-handed, pro-don’t- take-in-god-we-trust-off-my-damn-money propaganda pass me by.

My family gave me my hard head, and by god, they can deal with it.

One email, however, gave me more to think about than the others, more of a pause. On the outside, it was so absurdly false and phony, so completely crass in its obvious ploy to tug at my heartstrings that it was immediately dismissible. For this I hated it. Yet I loved it, to—for it made me laugh until tears came to my hardened eyes on a morning when, like many mornings, something to smile about can be hard to come by.

On the other hand, how skillful! I found that if I wasn’t careful, this son-of-a-bitching email could pull me in, get my pot ‘o feelings all stirred up; I would find myself slapping my own cheek HARD: “Snap out of it, you damned fool!” I would yell at myself, “It’s got you right where it wants you, you weak-minded ass! Can’t you see that?!” Was the writing of this story more adept than I had at first assumed? Was there a feted master-mind of hyperbolic Christian ideals crafting each of these messages? Were these laser-honed posts then handed down to a cracker-jack squadron of born-again public relations gurus, intent on reaching every corner of the Western World with their arresting tales of woe and rebirth? That couldn’t be possible, could it?

But this is how propaganda works, you see.

So anywho’s, I give this story to you, faithful reader, to decide for yourself. And please, leave a comment with what you think, or send me an email. I want a public discussion, if at all possible.

Friends, I give you Shay:

What would you do? You make the choice. Don’t look for a punch line, there isn’t one. Read it anyway. My question is: Would you have made the same choice?

At a fundraising dinner for a school that serves learning-disabled children, the father of one of the students delivered a speech that would never be forgotten by all who attended. After extolling the school and its dedicated staff, he offered a question: “When not interfered with by outside influences, everything nature does is done with perfection. Yet my son, Shay, cannot learn things as other children do. He cannot understand things as other children do. Where is the natural order of things in my son?”

The audience was stilled by the query.

The father continued. “I believe that when a child like Shay, physically and mentally handicapped comes into the world, an opportunity to realize true human nature presents itself, and it comes in the way other people treat that child.”

Then he told the following story:

Shay and his father had walked past a park where some boys Shay knew were playing baseball. Shay asked, “Do you think they’ll let me play?” Shay’s father knew that most of the boys would not want someone like Shay on their team, but the father also understood that if his son were allowed to play, it would give him a much-needed sense of belonging and some confidence to be accepted by others in spite of his handicaps.

Shay’s father approached one of the boys on the field and asked (not expecting much) if Shay could play. The boy looked around for guidance and said, “We’re losing by six runs and the game is in the eighth inning. I guess he can be on our team and we’ll try to put him in to bat in the ninth inning.”

Shay struggled over to the team’s bench and, with a broad smile, put on a team shirt. His Father watched with a small tear in his eye and warmth in his heart. The boys saw the father’s joy at his son being accepted. In the bottom of the eighth inning, Shay’s team scored a few runs but was still behind by three. In the top of the ninth inning, Shay put on a glove and played in the right field. Even though no hits came his way, he was obviously ecstatic just to be in the game and on the field, grinning from ear to ear as his father waved to him from the stands. In the bottom of the ninth inning, Shay’s team scored again. Now, with two outs and the bases loaded, the potential winning run was on base and Shay was scheduled to be next at bat.

At this juncture, do they let Shay bat and give away their chance to win the game? Surprisingly, Shay was given the bat. Everyone knew that a hit was all but impossible because Shay didn’t even know how to hold the bat properly, much less connect with the ball.

However, as Shay stepped up to the plate, the pitcher, recognizing that the other team was putting winning aside for this moment in Shay’s life, moved in a few steps to lob the ball in softly so Shay could at least make contact. The first pitch came and Shay swung clumsily and missed. The pitcher again took a few steps forward to toss the ball softly towards Shay. As the pitch came in, Shay swung at the ball and hit a slow ground ball right back to the pitcher.

The game would now be over. The pitcher picked up the soft grounder and could have easily thrown the ball to the first baseman. Shay would have been out and that would have been the end of the game.

Instead, the pitcher threw the ball right over the first baseman’s head, out of reach of all team mates. Everyone from the stands and both teams started yelling, “Shay, run to first! Run to first!” Never in his! Life had Shay ever run that far, but he made it to first base. He scampered down the baseline, wide-eyed and startled.

Everyone yelled, “Run to second, run to second!” Catching his breath, Shay awkwardly ran towards second, gleaming and struggling to make it to the base. By the time Shay rounded towards second base, the right fielder had the ball … the smallest guy on their team who now had his first chance to be the hero for his team. He could have thrown the ball to the second-baseman for the tag, but he understood the pitcher’s intentions so he, too, intentionally threw the ball high and far over the third-baseman’s head. Shay ran toward third base deliriously as the runners ahead of him circled the bases toward home.

All were screaming, “Shay, Shay, Shay, all the Way Shay”

Shay reached third base because the opposing shortstop ran to help him by turning him in the direction of third base, and shouted, “Run to third! Shay, run to third!”

As Shay rounded third, the boys from both teams, and the spectators, were on their feet screaming, “Shay, run home! Run home!” Shay ran to home, stepped on the plate, and was cheered as the hero who hit the grand slam and won the game for his team.

“That day”, said the father softly with tears now rolling down his face, “the boys from both teams helped bring a piece of true love and humanity into this world”.

Shay didn’t make it to another summer. He died that winter, having never forgotten being the hero and making his father so happy and coming home and seeing his Mother tearfully embrace her little hero of the day!

PS DEAR READERS: Some asshole has written a song about this kid, by the way. Are you still unconvinced of the power of the Schmaltz Machine?

I have pondered whether or not to open my BRAND SPANKING NEW web log with some kind of grand opening statement, and I have decided against it. I have instead opted to start with a photograph of myself, and let the picture speak a couple of words. Honestly, Michael, at my age, is it worth letting people know too much about myself? I have faith in my appearance; it will speak more highly of me than my actions, I am sure.

Things to look forward to in the future:

• Insight on current events and all the crazy shit scientists keep stumbling over
• My opinions on past, present, and future musical offerings from yesterday’s, today’s, and tomorrow’s brightest musical stars
• A critical eye piercing Hollywood’s (sometimes) shoddy veneer
• A section devoted to the insanely critical palate of Katie Dooley as she and I explore every crevice of New York City’s diverse Mexican dining scene (and maybe some Thai food too; and burgers)
• Many, many rants and ravings against Michael Cesari, guitarist for the explosively popular NYC band the Shallow Divers, and fellow opinion enthusiast; find his work at mediumhappiness.com
• A constant barrage of photographs from me and my intrepid partner in crime Katie Dooley as we explore the city we live in
• Some of the smallest bits of fiction you’ve ever read
• And much, much more!

Hang tight, lovers of baseless criticism and unsupported opinions! More is on the way.