Art To Choke Hearts
So we spent part of our weekend in the old neighborhood, a place where people solve life’s niggling little problems by shouting gibberish out of their fifth-story windows and riddling each other with high-caliber bullets. Or used to, anyway, before the White Man came with his Death Cab CDs and his Ironiclaly Sloganed T-Shirts and his Interesting Choices in Facial Hair and rents went up so high that we could no longer afford to live in the ghetto.
Anyway, the former Miss Sakebomb and, um, us? we?* walked around the place that was home for eight years, past the Bad Cocaine Bodega (now a record store) and the place where they make plastic slipcovers for furniture (now a shop where you can buy wildly expensive bookshelves made of tin) and the restaurant that gave us a bad case of the scoots (now a bistro**). Everything was different and it was if we had never lived here, and for some reason or other, this made us really depressed, the kind of depressed where you go home and drink a fifth of whiskey all by yourself and then act out the lead in the E! True Hollywood Story: Sylvia Plath
episode that’s always threatening to unspool in the grimier recesses of your psyche. Thankfully, we turned the corner and discovered a dude paining one of those terrible memorial murals you see in neighborhoods where people like to put holes in each other. Beneath the legend “Cheetah 1976-2005,” the man had painted the scowling face of a dude who looked an awful lot like Ed Norton in American History X
, only Hispanic and with what looked like a pair of dice tattooed on the side of his neck. We stopped to admire the artist’s handiwork––it really wasn’t half bad, and was a welcome relief from all that De la Vega crap that passes for art above 96th St––and asked what Cheetah’s story was. “Cheetah was my friend,” the guy said, wiping some stray paint from his hands on the front of his jeans. “He was everybody’s friend. Everyone in the neighborhood loved Cheetah. Everyone.”
We asked how Cheetah had died at such a young age.
Not missing a beat, the guy goes, “He got shot in the head.”
To our surprise (and extreme consternation, given the circumstances), the Ex-Miss Sakebomb blurted out, “Well, somebody
didn’t love Cheetah, that’s for sure.”
The guy just shrugged this off. “No, no. Everybody loved Cheetah,” he said, turning back to his work.***
Then there’s this
, which brings together the only things we like anymore into one tidy little browser-crashing package. Totally NSFW, BTW, unless your boss is cool with you looking at tits. Ours is in Bavaria right now, so we can do whatever we want this week. Happy Hour starts at 3:00, kids.
*Such are the inherent pitfalls of employing the Royal We, which frankly we are getting totally sick of.
***Over dinner, we decided that NBC could really pull the fat out of the fire if it were to greenlight our new show, Everybody Loves Cheetah
. Luis Guzman would star as a sportswriter for El Diario
who lives across the street from his parents, Rita Moreno and Paul Rodriguez. Much of the comedy would revolve around the tension between Cheetah’s insufferable mom and his blanca
wife (Christina Applegate). Occasionally, Cheetah will make a joke about not getting any sex. And at the end of every episode, someone would shoot Cheetah in the head. We smell prime time Emmy.