This piece of wrestling history was again, a point in time where I was young enough to believe in the brutal ballet that came on TV twice a week. I remember watching this story unfold with utter disbelief as I haven't seen anything like this in pro wrestling at the time.
It was 1992, the Pirates had a division title, Super Nintendo was eating away hours of my life, and this man debuted in the WWF:
It was 1992, the Pirates had a division title, Super Nintendo was eating away hours of my life, and this man debuted in the WWF:
Keep in mind wrestlers during that age usually looked like this:
Papa Shango was scary as hell. He came out to creepy music, he had a smoking skull wand, and did this weird seizure where his mouth would flutter while his eyes would roll in the back of his head. He captivated my young imagination, as he debuted on Sunday morning Superstars (which was on i notch above mute on the TV to avoid our parents catching us watching such "filth")
Back then a wrestling roster was not big enough to maintain quality matches throughout a whole show, and two actual superstars fighting eachother was a huge deal. Usually Sunday's program was filled with a mid-level card guy beating up the Brooklyn Brawler. Papa Shango took on a no name jobber, and besides his actual appearance, I lost interest quick.
Until this happened:
I looked at Ian with disbelief. Did he just set that dude on fire? How? Why? What?! I needed to see what was next from this guy. What will he do next? How do I buy his action figure? I need answers!
Then came Wrestlemania 8, where the new huge bad guy Sid turned on Hogan by changing his name from "Justice" to "Viscous" after he left Hogan hanging during a tag team match. Bret Hart was coming into the spotlight with a 5 star match against Piper. Randy Savage fought WWF newcomer Ric Flair, and Undertaker was turning into a good guy by stopping a Jake Roberts attack on Miss Elizabeth. It was going to be a good card, and Ian and I had a poorly constructed plan to watch the scrambled PPV that night.
It was the main event, and I don't care what you say back then EVERYONE was a Hulk Hogan fan. Hogan was going through his match theatrics against a sloppy Sid, and for no reason this happened:
There were so many strange things about this, first why Papa Shango came in the first place. I chalked it up to him just being evil, but he had no beef with anyone. It was so random, and between the scrambled technicolor blurs of the show, I really had to ask the next day if what I saw was correct.
Secondly, the Ultimate Warrior coming back. He was gone (fired) for almost a whole year, and wrestling tends to be very good about burying your memory of a departed superstar. He was also rumored to be dead, (before the internet) so as a kid I believed it. So the Warrior coming back was a huge deal, and him coming to the rescue of the top dog Hogan was an even bigger deal.
Now Shango was pissed that the Ultimate Warrior stopped him from beating up Hogan and thwarting his plan to .... well who knows why that all happened.
The line was clearly crossed according to Mr. Shango:
Things were a little quiet for a few days and The Warrior took on Brian Knobbs of The Nasty Boyz. It was a nothing match as no one really beat The Warrior unless it was on PPV. Brian Knobbs pulled off Warriors wrist guard showed it to the crowd and stomped it in front of a tempermental crowd. The match went on for a handful of sluggish minutes until this happened:
What was he doing?! What was he going to do?! I need answers!
The Warrior beat Brian Knobbs, and did his victory tour of the squared circle, and Papa Shango was back! This time shit got crazy. It was spell time for Shango:
Now thinking this was just a psyche out tactic I blew it off as just that. The Warrior then grabbed his stomach in pain and collapsed to the floor writhing in pain. I was shocked (and 12) and they had some suits from the back some to the ring and assist The Warrior, which was then a tactic only reserved for the most severe emergencies. The helped an injured Warrior to the back leaving me wondering, what on earth was going on.
Then we got an update:
Even at an early age I though vomiting was funny, but this creeped me the hell out. The invincible Ultimate Warrior actually (lol) puking on the "physicians" which tried to valiantly remedy a stomach cramp with a stethoscope.
So next week I had, had, had, to see what The Ultimate Warrior had to say about the curse. Was it real? Would it happen again? Well if anyone can "Mean" Gene Oakerlund was gonna get to the bottom of it. Then during the interview haunted me for years:
What in the Holy Hell was that?! Black Blood? Seeing Warrior "act" stunned and scared really threw me through a loop. The Warrior was this unstoppable force who squashed everyone in his way, and now hes scared of something? This was getting too crazy for me.
Next week, needless to say Shango was at the top of my interest. He had a match against some jabroni, and I knew The Warrior would have to extract revenge. Shango went into curse mode:
He just set that dude on fire! What?! I've never seen anything like that before, and although a bit silly now; I was genuinely concerned about Papa Shango's regard for human life. I was so entralled with these events around Shango where I could not turn away.
Ever the professional "Mean" Gene, wanted to figure out once and for all what is going on. This man was gonna ask the tough questions, and demand the answers we all deserve by now. "Mean" Gene was sometimes the victim of a little hazing, but he's untouchable right? I mean, he wasn't a wrestler, the man was just trying to do the job he's paid to do ....
Cursing "Mean" Gene was like breaking the fourth wall. Shit was serious now. Something needed done. That man obviously was not Chris Hahn:
The Warrior enlisted the help of The Undertaker to take out both the Bezerker and Shango. Bezerker tried to stab Undertaker with a sword so the beef was fresh and the match was heavily anticipated. The match was a 7 minute clusterfuck of oversized oafs axehandeling eachother to death.
At least there was some HUSS HUSS HUSS:
Anyways they squared off for a few weeks taking their match on tour all over the place, having the Warrior squash Shango. It ended very anti-climactically with the final match not even making it to TV. It was released on Home Video, and somehow no one cared. Not even me.
I later found out the Warrior failed a drug test, and really couldn't take the story any further. The Warrior was fired a few months later.
Papa Shango tooled around the WWF for a little under a year, where he had a few failed title shots even with Bret Hart and Tantanka. They started to bury his character by making curses "illegal" (no joke) and he faded away right after being on the first ever Monday Night RAW.
I guess what connected me the most to this angle was the uniqueness of it all. Before Papa Shango the The Warrior was made to be invincible; no one beat him, but Shango was the first guy to make him look weak and powerless. The stunts performed during this storylline were cheesy now, but to a 12 year old kid, and in a time where wrestling wasn't outted like it was in the late 90's it was pretty terrifying. Just being that involved with a story line in wrestling is what made it special. Yes, it looking back it was a silly circus, but for a few months it was real to me.
Due to pending active litigative action and legal law--and not because of complete lack of interest, as you may assume--we unfortunately will be discontinuing our "Andy Sightings" series. Here is one last letter that we were legally cleared to post...
Andy K., Memphis, TN
"Paul and Ian Paul and Ian PAULANDIAN!!!!!!
I saaaawwwww yooouuuuuuuuuuu. You didn't know it but I saw you. I was at home in New York visiting fmaily and I was getting a hot dog at Han Bat (best in town!) right before some karaoke (I was gonna go in and lip synch) and there were these two guys... They we just like i don't know perched up on the awning and staring at people ike they were gonna hunt them! I got a quick, blurry picutre but I startled them. They jump off and run away. So I follow them down the street and they didn't know and you don't need to know this but they started holding hands.
When I caught up with them again, they were crawling under moving traffic and trying to direct it, screaming SQUISHY!!! Of course the taxis were very very patient. No just kidding. They were patient and then they started rolling on the street and saying Worrrrrrrmmsss!! This went on for a couple hours so I went and did my carryokie when I finished at the bar it was dawn after 15 encorces. And I thought I had seen the last of those guys but the next day sa fter not singing, there was a rufkus in the town square. At opposite ends, and nocking over people they were charging at each other and I guess keeping score they tried to get other people involved and keeping score but i volunteered and they said AUNT AGNEW andran away again!
Andy K., Memphis, TN
"Paul and Ian Paul and Ian PAULANDIAN!!!!!!
I saaaawwwww yooouuuuuuuuuuu. You didn't know it but I saw you. I was at home in New York visiting fmaily and I was getting a hot dog at Han Bat (best in town!) right before some karaoke (I was gonna go in and lip synch) and there were these two guys... They we just like i don't know perched up on the awning and staring at people ike they were gonna hunt them! I got a quick, blurry picutre but I startled them. They jump off and run away. So I follow them down the street and they didn't know and you don't need to know this but they started holding hands.
Well at one point the one guy stopped and the other guy kept going across the street against the light like a real city street walker, but all of a sudden he stoppoed right in the middle of the road and started dancin around in a circle. The other guy kept yelling at him. RRRNNBAAPP!!!! But heignoerd him i think he was trying to get some guy's attention and I snuck a pohot without the lfash. Then they started chasing each other and shouting about curry. I wanted to tell them about Han Bat, but I didn't wnat to scare them again. so i rean after.
When I caught up with them again, they were crawling under moving traffic and trying to direct it, screaming SQUISHY!!! Of course the taxis were very very patient. No just kidding. They were patient and then they started rolling on the street and saying Worrrrrrrmmsss!! This went on for a couple hours so I went and did my carryokie when I finished at the bar it was dawn after 15 encorces. And I thought I had seen the last of those guys but the next day sa fter not singing, there was a rufkus in the town square. At opposite ends, and nocking over people they were charging at each other and I guess keeping score they tried to get other people involved and keeping score but i volunteered and they said AUNT AGNEW andran away again!
I saw them after the elton jon matines and they climbed up out of the crowd coming out of the thearter and climbed onto an ambulance and they started hugging.
Well I wanted a hug ttoo!! And I shouted Hey Construx (I love your Find Andy feature, i sent in one a while ago) And Paul Ian!! Dinner!! And you guys and they ran down the street and shouted werre a dot com were a dot com! They were slurring and drunk and waved the towels. And I got in a taxi and followed them while they were leaving town and this is the only picutre i got of them leaving town. Love Andy. PS Bumperrrrsticccckkkkeerrrrrrr."
classic
crass promotion
cross-promotion
cXnX Shallow Analysis (or George Thorogood's Struggle in the Bourgeois Capatilist Structure)
1:36:00 PMPaulI can't tell if it's important or not to note first off that I am a very big fan of this song. I don’t know if that makes the following “funnier” or not, or if this is supposed to even be funny. A quick construXstyle story: Paul and I went to an Oakland dive bar (Denny's) one night before Thanksgiving with Jill and her then boyfriend (now husband). We maintained a leering dominance over the jukebox for the majority of the night, and this was one of my selections. As the solo kicked in, Paul asserted calmly that it was not to his taste and that while the first 5:30 were amusing, it had gone on too long. Below is my defense of this song's compelling story structure. Try to argue...--Ian
I wanna tell you a story about the houseman blues
I come home one Friday, I had to tell the landlady I done lost my job
She said "That don't confuhn me, as long as I get my money next Friday."
Now next Friday come I didn't get the rent, and out the door I went
Okay, it took me a while to decide if he was saying "I wanna" or "I'm gonna." Either way, it doesn't sound like there's much of a choice. It seems to me like this is the kinda guy who is sittin on the next barstool and allofasutten threw his arm around you and just launched into it all. Now, I like that he isn't making any excuses for himself. He jumps right into it--no backstory about how times are hard or the events that led up to his unemployment. It just is and he is a man of action with a strong sense of duty. I mean, he is doing the responsible thing. He coulda just ducked her for a while. Likewise, herself isn't confuhnt (concerned? confounded? both? Doesn’t matter, she’s unfazed). She doesn't care where he gets the money, as long as it ends up in her hand. Evidently, though, security's tight around there, or this landlady is toff iz nails because that last line sounds like it wasn't really too amicable a parting, but then again, as we've established just now, the speaker of this tale is in fact quite the gentleman...
So I goes to the landlady, I said, "You let me slide? I'll have the rent for you tomorrow the next day, I don't know."
So she let me slide it on, you know, people.
I notice when I come home in the evening, she ain't got nothin nice to say to me.
But for five years, she was so nice. Lord, she was lovey-dovey.
I come home one particular evenin, the landlady says, "You got the rent money yet?"
I said, "No. Can't find no job. Therefore, I got no money to pay the rent."
She said, "I don't believe you're tryin to find no job." Said "I seen you today, you were standin on the corner, leanin up against a post."
I said, "But I'm tired! I been walkin all day--"
She said, "That don't confuhn me, long as I get my money next Friday."
Now next Friday come I didn't have the rent, and out the door I went
I guess I'll start with the most frustrating aspect of this passage which is the looser chronology, it having been so rigidly set in the previous passage. I understand his offering to pay in a timely manner, dependent on new employment, but when he comes home, it's enough to establish a pattern of his landlady's callousness. Conversely, he could be referring to one night, the next night as a stark exception in her conditioned behavior. I do wonder what she said to him at this point if nothing nice... nothing at all? I don't envision her as mannerly as our hero. When I imagine this landlady, this is what I see.
Again, we establish that the speaker is a class act, for if we take the phrase "lovey-dovey" literally, and I choose to, then he could have perhaps propositioned her. This doesn't even cross his mind. Then again, we aren't privy to his inner workings here, just the expository facts. But it makes sense why she would let him stay. I've never lived anywhere for five years yet, much less been an ideal tenant that would prove my worth enough to allow to slide. Still, I feel if she was understanding enough to give him a roof over his head that her demeanor might connote that compassion a little more palpably.
Now if she had been asking him nightly if he had the money, he would have said so, so we must assume that it's here she breaks her silence, or at least doesn't speak under her breath. And when is this one particular evening? I submit that it must be the day after tomorrow, being the last day that he promised, albeit casually, to have his rent money (we can assume safely now that he owes her for two weeks' rent.)
We can go in one of two directions here, by either applauding the speaker's work ethic in his persistence to find a job in spite of the potential cushion that unemployment checks on a job held for at least five years (he may have lived elsewhere while working at the same place) or we can sharply criticize the system that has failed to provide him with this option. Either way, it isn't even broached here, so let's move on. He offers a very simple, ipso facto explanation for his lack of funds, very much in the same manner he is relating this story to us, you know people, so I'm inclined to take him at his word. She immediately refutes this, though, which makes me question several elements of their relationship. Does she not trust him? What was she doing in the middle of the day, walking, driving around? Couldn't she stop and ask him at the moment she saw him? I can give her the benefit of doubt and assume she was in between errands, and not out for leisure. But who, in their leisure time, leans against a post?! He comes right back with a sensible argument that it's exhausting. A job search is a full time job, but landlady has no time for the Houseman Blues and cuts him off when he explains. We then go full circle to the focus of the conversation. The rent. Maybe I am too hasty to judge her, maybe she relies on it to pay house bills. Anyway, they part ways again.
So I go down the street, down to my good friend's house.
I said, "Look man. I'm outdoors, you know. Can I stay with ya maybe a couple days?"
He said, "Uh, lemme go an ask my wife."
He come outta the house, I could see in his face, I knowed it was No.
He said, "Uh I dunno man, she kinda funny and uh--"
I said, "I know. Everybody's funny. Now you funny too."
Let me make the point here that we are dealing with a Good Friend, not just someone you see every once in a while and say Hi to. I have no reason not to believe that the speaker intends to stay any longer than a couple days. Now, if this were a Good Friend of mine, that is to say, if I were to ever have a friend, my answer would be yes, come in and let's talk to my wife (as if). But we got this sad sac who lets others just boss him around. He is funny! And with the observational skills he displays in this passage, we can quickly see why the narrator has no time for internalizing. All I have learned so far is that womenfolk are very possessive of their living space... unless money's involved. And I'm assuming control of the money in this household is unilateral as well and to have asked to borrow any to pay the rent would have been out of the question. Or perhaps that's not an issue (or a non-issue) because the speaker here is too proud to accept money has hasn't worked for. Please let me point out that nowhere in the text so far has he made one disparaging misogynistic remark, whereas his Good Friend, mind you, makes no attempt to take responsibility or control of the situation, but puts the blame solely on his domestic partner. Moving on...
So I go back home. I tell the landlady I got a job, I'm gonna pay the rent.
She said, "Yeah?" I said, "Aw, yeah." And then she was so nice. Lord, she was lovey-dovey.
So I go in my room, pack up my things and I go. I slip on out the back door and down the streets I go.
She a-hollerin about the front rent, she'll be lucky to get any back rent.
She ain't gonna get none of it.
And in this one passage, we see that we are dealing with a rather conniving, Dickensian rascal. And we can dismiss him as a common lowlife but look at the facts here: Yes he lies, but he couldn't have been gone for more than an hour or two to walk to his friend's down the street and back. Would she truly believe that he had found a job in one hour, when he had not been able to for two days? I guess if she actually thought he was loitering previously, and is so out of touch to think finding a job (off business hours nonetheless) is that simple, that it's easy to believe. And then we learn that the two previous exits must have been forced since he had no time to collect his scant belongings. I honestly believe he must have been looking for a job, because any sneaktheif would have had his belongings packed and ready each Thursday knowing full well he wouldn't have a job because he wasn't looking. So it's become a matter of survival, and she screams loud enough for him to here her down the streets. For one moment he muses that she should feel so fortunate to even get a cent, being as inhuman and disloyal as she is, but then almost as if he reconsiders, or just to make it clear for us, he tells us he has no intention whatsoever of giving this greedy boozh any money.
So I stop in the local bar, you know people. I go to the bar. I rent/wring (?) my coat. I call the bartender.
I said, "Look man, come down here." He got down there. He said, "What you want?"
"One bourbon, one scotch and one beer..."
A couple points: He is obviously not addressing fellow bargoers it becomes clear, or there would be no need to mention he's at the local bar. I can't tell what we does with his coat, but from the description that follows, it makes it unlikely there is a coat check girl present. It's much easier to believe that his coat is sweat soaked from his daily trials. Please notice that he addresses the bartender in the same exact manner he does his Good Friend. This must be a greeting reserved for those close to him, obviously a longtime relationship since the bartender knows what kind of beer without clarification. Of course, it's equally likely this is the kind of establishment where only one kind of beer is available.
"...I ain't seen my baby since I don't know when.
I been drinking bourbon, whiskey, scotch and gin.
I'm gonna get high, man I'm gonna get loose.
Need me a triple shot of that juice.
I'm gonna get drunk, don't you have no fear.
I want one bourbon, one scotch and one beer.
One bourbon, one scotch and one beer."
Again, a safe bet is that he is still addressing the bartender, a longtime confidant with a sympathetic ear who perhaps even personally knows the speaker's lost love (a town small enough to require only one local bar would probably foster that kind of community intimacy). But, herein lies the mystery. Where was he getting the gin (and of course the other assorted liquors he mentions, and even here, is he referring to bourbon as bourbon whiskey like I hope, or distinguishing that he has been enjoying both a fine single malt bourbon as well as some manner of Canadian blended affair--he doesn't call the scotch "scotch whisky")? If he has no job, he has no money to pay the rent. Does he have enough for a spare pint or two, but nowhere near enough to cover a week's boarding? Was he actually leaning up against a post on the corner not from fatigue but because he was going to hurl?? We know that he didn't show up at the bar drunk as he announces intentions to imbibe heavily. And orders three shots of juice to accompany his gin.
This passage actually contains the most intriguing line of the entire piece, and the entire reason I undertook this article (lucky you!): Whose fear is the narrator assuaging?? Since he repeats his order at the end of the passage, I assume it's still the bartender. Why is the bartender afraid the speaker won't get drunk?? Is the speaker a fun drunk, a great tipper when tipsy or is the bartender an enabler who stands behind his wares and believes that the best way to forget a woman is through the bottle?
Then I'm sittin there, at the bar. I'm gettin drunk. I'm feelin mellow.
I'm drinkin bourbon, I'm drinkin scotch, I'm drinkin beer.
Look down the bar, here come the bartender.
He said, "Look man. Come down here." Said, "What you want?"
"One bourbon, one scotch, one beer..."
Feel free to dispute this, but I am certain that the speaker flips the script on us here. In the previous passage, the bartender responded to a beckon, but here he approaches of his own volition. Being unsolicited, I do believe he is the one invoking the usual prelude to any favor. The obvious question is, why is he telling the speaker what he has a taste for?
"...No, I ain't seen my baby since the night before last.
Gotta get a drink man. I'm gonna get gassed.
I'm gonna get high, I ain't had enough.
Need me a triple shot of that stuff
I'm gonna get drunk, won't ya listen right here--
I want one bourbon, one scotch and one beer."
And here is the answer. He wanted some empathy reciprocated. There are several indicators that confirm this is indeed from the bartender's point of view. First, allow me to point out that the speaker has had not one qualm speaking for every character he encounters. Also, in the first half of this passage, the narrator clearly states he's getting drunk, a state the bartender must envy, even opening his entire rant with a mournful moan. At this point, I am inclined to believe they are the only two in the bar. And he confides in his regular patron and good friend that he is going to drink to drown his woes. Clearly, the usual drinks he pours for what I can assume must be a town full of broken hearts looked particularly appealing as he himself has just suffered a heartache. Perhaps he thinks someone like our protagonist who may be an old hand at love can impart some wisdom not found in a bottle. Or maybe he just wants him to listen, right here. This is probably a big deal, because this dutiful bartender stays sober while on the job. He probably isn't too worried about losing his job, because in a town small enough to necessitate only one local bar, it is likely that the owner is also the barkeep. Now the only question left is if they are pouring both the bourbon and the scotch as shots or if one is a long drink...
Yeah…
Now by this time, I’m plenty high. You know when your mouth is getting dry, your plenty high.
I look down the bar, I see there my bartender. I said, “Look man. Come down here.”
He got down there, said, “What you want this time?”
I said, “Look man. Uh, what time is it?”
He said, “The clock on the wall says three o clock. A last call for alcohol.” Said, “What you need?”
“One bourbon, one scotch, one beer…”
So they let the time pass in silence, it would seem, and let the band play on. The speaker acknowledges this lapse, wherein he presumably consumed more various and sundry libations, perhaps including the aforementioned oddity of gin. This is made obvious by the bartender’s uncertainty as to the speaker’s drink selection for the final round. Note the similarities between this and the first “Second Half” passage wherein he specifically mentions calling the bartender, his bartender. I was torn, or thrown, for a moment and wondering whether he said he saw there his bartender or he saw to him. Both are equally plausible, given the nature of their relationship as established in the previous passage, but in the end, owing to context, I am fairly certain he simply identifies his bartender. I stand thoroughly impressed, as always, by the speaker’s observational skills. He has enough wherewithal after a night with drinking to know he’s high. I am nowhere near that responsible of a drinker. Normally I know I’m drunk when I wake up the next morning with the front door wide open, ripped pants, one shoe on and a missing wallet. Equally impressive is the display of manners. True Southern manners. It’s addressed so casually in the story, but to me who never experiences this kind of human bonding, this is striking, at least once we get past the inebriated sass of the barkeep, which seems to be all in good fun anyhow. 1) To start with, even when plenty high, they don’t do anything as crass as shout across a room at each other.2)Before even placing his order, knowing with his keen awareness that it must be getting late, asks what time it is. Does he have a place he needs to be? A curfew? Clearly not, as he has nowhere to go. There’s no curfew when you’re outdoors, you know people. No, he wants to make sure he actually has time to place an order without inconveniencing his buddy. 3) The bartender changes his question, when it’s last call, he knows his regular is in need. He has this pain he needs to shirk. He does not ask to settle up, or remind him of the tab. He’s been a regular for at least five years. You know he gonna let him slide it on. But no one argues with the clock on the wall. The firmness with which the time is stated assures you that if you even try to correct him, you’re out the door. Again, no one argues with the clock on the wall.
“…No, I ain’t seen my baby since nigh on a week.
Gotta get drunk man so I can’t even speak.
Gonna get high man, listen to me.
One drink ain’t enough, Jack, you better make it three
I’m gonna get drunk, I’m gonna make it real clear.
I want one bourbon, one scotch and one beer.
One bourbon, one scotch and one beer.”
Yes, our speaker is again the one who needs consolation. For a long time I was puzzled by the voice of this final passage, and thought it could be a different patron chiming in, but the structure leaves no room for this interpretation. It must still be the protagonist, as he bookends his lament with a typical order (The Broken Heart Special) and echoes his bartender’s guttural utterance of despair. But the time for discussing our problems is finished. Yeah, he’s plenty high, but now it’s time to get far gone. Before or while the drinks are being prepared, though, he does want just a little more opportunity to vent his various and sundry obstacles. Now, I am fully aware that Jack can be a casual reference for any guy, but considering they consistently refer to each other as “man” throughout the entirety of their exchange, I choose to accept that he is on a first name basis with his bartender, an enviable position. Finally, when all the useless words are out of the way and extremes of emotions cease to cloud our view, we hit that sublime point of drunkenness, where we achieve a moment of clarity. I understand there is a double meaning, that he is repeating his order to make it clear, aware he may be slurring a lil, but also and moreso, he has a clear and defined intention, a purpose behind his drinking. He knows he’s plenty high, but tonight, well, that’s just not enough. No, he himself, is going to get to a point of revelatory understanding. We have no other course of reckoning to take aside from believing this last round accomplished that, just beating the clock on the wall, by Jack’s good graces, to arrive at an oasis of solitary solace, at least temporarily.
When we last left the growing and feuding Clemente corral, they had been held near insanity as hostages of the rage that perpetuated and permeated throughout the household for an entire weekend from which there was no escape. These drawings were completed in the same sitting/setting.--cXnX
Left: "What Dad Thinks About To Make Him Angry"-
Paul: It's very much me that made him so angry, in every way I could imagine.
Ian: in the thought bubble, we see latter day teen angst Paul. In the center of the picture, we see a hilarious depiction of our dad's glasses and bottom center, we see what can only be assumed to be a cloud of bad breath??
Right: "Some people see the glass as half empty, some see it half-full. This is how Dad sees it..."
Paul: Dad was very anal about how he liked his house. He would rage-fully shuffle the pillows on the couch, constantly fiddle with the thermostat, and if anything was out of place he would fix it with a pouty huff and a nervous adjustment.
Ian: This was the first drawing done, done by Paul. The quote above is exactly what Paul said when he handed it to me. This one definitely deserves to be enlarged to be seen in detail, including the riotous "ERROR".
Left: "What Dad thinks goes on when he's asleep..."
Paul: This is what I genuinely believe Dad thought what we did while not under his scornfully eye. He would sleep on the couch since he refused to sleep in. He extra time he used in the morning was to fiddle with the house to make sure it was unsullied. His constant struggle to eternally preserve any type of house decor was tireless and ruthlessly enforced.
Ian: Another one by Paul, this time featuring the characters as stick figures. As our dad sleeps in one room in a classic pose, Paul and Ian jumpkick(!) the tv and tear into the couch with gusto. We were often instructed on the proper way to sit on a couch as to ensure its long (non-sitting-on) life.
Right:"Damn I wish I could do something..."
Paul: This was more of a fantasy about setting the house on fire, its as simple as that.
Ian: Paul sets fire to the floor length curtains (maybe they were drapes?) as our Dad laments his helplessness. Definitely created during a time where Paul reveled in the fact that he no longer needed our parents to survive and pushed buttons at every opportunity.
Left: "Mom and Dad's Solution to a Fight, According to Jill"
Paul: This was based on Ian's astute intell when I was gone and a fight would happen. I rarely got to witness the Jill attacks, as they were rare, but viscous and swift. This was based on a particular fight if I can recall where Jill tried to use her super human ability of bossiness to intervene in a Mom and Dad fight, which was dealt with brutal aggression.
Ian: Here is the first shot taken at our Mom as well as Jill. We can sorta see, psychologically, analytically where each Clemente's frustration sourced from. This is based on Jill's irrational fear every time a fight started in our household that she would be the target. In fairness, oftentimes there was plenty misdirected anger. Anyway, note that while I gave our Mom the bad breath this time, I emphasized the horrible teeth years of smoking had left our father with. In the second frame, please note that I stole the angry thought bubble from Paul's earlier drawings. Last frame, please note the Casper t-shirt and the Macho Man style elbow drop.
Right: "Paul Sean and J outside 216 Francis Rd"
Paul: This was my escape from the strife at home. My friends would pick me up, and I would spend time doing just about anything to avoid being home. At one point I would leave for 24-48 hours at a time. I'm sure Ian will mention this, but ME smoking?! Very strange. I think instead of Sean it was my friend Tony pictured on the left.
Ian: This one illustrates Paul's angsty disaffectedness concerning the daily goings-on inside our house. Please note he is smoking here !!! I do want to express admiration for his rendering of the house.
Left: "How Dad Views Himself"
Paul: This picture explains it all I think. Dad was the supreme ruler of the house, and he loved every anger soaked second of it.
Ian: Again a pretty expert depiction of our house, althought its proportion to the mountain does set expectations fairly high. Other than that, pretty self-explanatory. THUNDA!!!! LIGHTNIIINNGG-AHHH!!!!
Paul: This picture explains it all I think. Dad was the supreme ruler of the house, and he loved every anger soaked second of it.
Ian: Again a pretty expert depiction of our house, althought its proportion to the mountain does set expectations fairly high. Other than that, pretty self-explanatory. THUNDA!!!! LIGHTNIIINNGG-AHHH!!!!
Right: "What Dad Wishes Would Happen When He Yelled"
Paul: This was a quick picture of Dad yelling at Jill. There maybe some truth to this drawing, but I will have to ask Ian if he recalls it. Anyone peeing themselves is funny.
Ian: A much more realistic and rarified verion of dear ol dad. Who is he yelling at here?! This seems like none of the Clemente childrens.
Left: "Answering the Phone"
Paul: This was a very accurate depiction of what happened everytime the phone rang in the house. Mom would pick up everytime, and (act?) be so fucking clueless to how 20th century technology worked. A classic move would include her picking up the phone and saying "hello" at least 20-30 seconds after it was answered and properly relayed. I also love how Ian paid tribute to Mom's perpetual supply of Hanes sweat suits.
Ian: I don't know if this counts as a legitimate mockery. Our mom did wear sweat suits constantly and she swore by Hanes brand, but I don't think they were XL, much less XXL. Secondly, I think when the phone rang in the house that everyone went for it and that everyone stayed on the line to spy, as happens in every household. This doesn't make it any less frustrating. Paul in his classic trenchcoat, wielding his wily extending baton. New York Times editorial page, here I come!!
Paul: This was a very accurate depiction of what happened everytime the phone rang in the house. Mom would pick up everytime, and (act?) be so fucking clueless to how 20th century technology worked. A classic move would include her picking up the phone and saying "hello" at least 20-30 seconds after it was answered and properly relayed. I also love how Ian paid tribute to Mom's perpetual supply of Hanes sweat suits.
Ian: I don't know if this counts as a legitimate mockery. Our mom did wear sweat suits constantly and she swore by Hanes brand, but I don't think they were XL, much less XXL. Secondly, I think when the phone rang in the house that everyone went for it and that everyone stayed on the line to spy, as happens in every household. This doesn't make it any less frustrating. Paul in his classic trenchcoat, wielding his wily extending baton. New York Times editorial page, here I come!!
Right: "How Mom Sees The World"
Paul: Mom was insanely paranoid. She thought everyone was talking about her, and all situations involved her somehow. I am unclear to when she snapped, and turned her delusions to her own kind, but she was never the same afterwards.
Ian: I think the only item of note here is our Dad's hand down his pants as he points and laughs. I don't think he did that on a regular basis, but our Mom definitely is significantly paranoid... and everyone was usually laughing at her, just behind her back.
Left: "Snow Shovel Caddy"
Paul: Dad's outdoor maintenance routine was as serious as complicated surgical procedures. I remember spending over an hour twice a week mowing the lawn only to fail inspection from the yard king himself (complete with homemade turban, a whole video nostalgia in itself.) Winter time we somehow got out of the brunt of the shoveling by not clearing snow to the standards to maintain a Clemente household.
Ian: This one did not go over so well. I assume the premise is vague or flimsy, but pretty good execution, except for the disproportionate shovels. This is a mock-up of how seriously our dad took winter yard maintanence (putting it on the same level as summer lawn mowing).
Paul: Dad's outdoor maintenance routine was as serious as complicated surgical procedures. I remember spending over an hour twice a week mowing the lawn only to fail inspection from the yard king himself (complete with homemade turban, a whole video nostalgia in itself.) Winter time we somehow got out of the brunt of the shoveling by not clearing snow to the standards to maintain a Clemente household.
Ian: This one did not go over so well. I assume the premise is vague or flimsy, but pretty good execution, except for the disproportionate shovels. This is a mock-up of how seriously our dad took winter yard maintanence (putting it on the same level as summer lawn mowing).
Right: "Where Dad Goes During Fights"
Paul: This was the sides our two halves of the family played (at least in our minds) when the fight would boil over into red level danger one half of the combatants would usually leave. Dad would go to his parents house to do who knows what, but this is what I assumed. This maybe the only drawing in exsistance of Pop-Pop lulling Dad into a semi-comatose state.
Ian: As indicated previously, fights would normally last all day, or at least the awkward uneasiness of the aftermath would linger until beddy-bye time. So, to regroup one parent would usually leave. One would think this is to cool down, but they would come back with full tanks ready for another round. Before we began assuming our dad went to a nearby bar, we often guessed he would go to his parents' house to vent. In fact, we may have been tipped off to this fact by Nana and Popop themselves. -Goo
Left: "Jill's Solution to a Fight, According to Ian"
Paul: When things got heavy I would go into Ian's room, which was OUR room for a few years. It was alot bigger, and the colors weren't a blinding yellow so it seemed like a more peaceful environment. When Jill would get involved in the fight, or get kicked out of the area she would try to impede into Ian's room for sanctum. Ian's depiction of Mom looks like her eye exploded from her head while exchanging corpse scented barbs with eachother.
Ian: As indicated, Jill was struck with terror when an all out shouting match began between our parents. I became frustrated that my room seemed to become the safehouse. This may stem from the time when we had first moved in and I chased everyone (ie Paul Jill and a friend of Paul's???) with a knife and they ran into this room for a few minutes.
Right: "In Case of Emergency"
Paul: Dad's obsessions didn't stop with just the grass, and snow removal it was to keep all the priceless gravel in the appropriate lane designated for gravel. When I was at driving age, I would creep into the driveway at a invalid's walking pace as not to disturb the driveway, but was always lamented for ruining the rocky path with my reckless driving habits. He would come home from work and angrily kick stray pieces with his Pic-Way classix, and eyeball me into my bedroom window with scorn locked and loaded in his rotten pumpkin mouth.
Ian: Another one that was a little too cluttered with ideas to be effective. Anyway, if a tornado carried our dad away, his last words would be to tell us to mow the lawn and all he would be worrying about would be the driveway. I remember showing our Mom this one as well as the snow shovel one. The fact that she not only wasn't offended by them but rather enjoyed them leads us all to some pretty obvious conclusions about the way our household operated.
Left: "Stop Wasting Water"
Paul: This was a tribute to Dad's constant struggle with water conservation. We were limited to 4 minute showers, which were monitored (not personally - thank god) and meticulous time keeping was administered. I remember one simple joy of being left home alone was being able to take a shower without fear for 5-10 minutes. Dad also petitioned a "don't flush" rule where we would all use the same toilet for one planned assembly line of human waste. If there was a flush utilized out of turn, there would be a harsh admonishment for wasting water. I'm pretty sure Ian did get thrown down the stairs for wasting water.
Ian: Despite the somewhat high-concept presentation, including irrelevant and non-canonical depictions--note the crossword puzzle robe--this one went over very well with Paul. A play on both our father's stringent monitoring of our water usage while washing our hands as well as his violent reactions to seemingly inconsequential infractions (like setting the house on fire). I think Young Paul observed with apprecaition, the tongue popping out of Ian's mouth. -Goo
Right: "Sgt. Bob Clemente"
Paul: This is one of my favorite depictions of Dad in his famous "Casper" shirt. I'm not sure for a man who has such mental hang-ups about cleaning and order he didn't give a shit about personal appearance. He claimed all clothes were "stupid" and him not liking anything. The commitment to his jagged root beer rock candy teeth are a classic Dad accoutrement.
Ian: Pretty standard representation, right down to the Casper t-shirt. One time, Dad told chubby Ian [phase 1] after sharply criticizing his eating habits, "I'm 44 (ed. ???), I'm supposed to have a gut." So I like to see this gut underscored, but not so much the bulge under it...
Paul: This was a tribute to Dad's constant struggle with water conservation. We were limited to 4 minute showers, which were monitored (not personally - thank god) and meticulous time keeping was administered. I remember one simple joy of being left home alone was being able to take a shower without fear for 5-10 minutes. Dad also petitioned a "don't flush" rule where we would all use the same toilet for one planned assembly line of human waste. If there was a flush utilized out of turn, there would be a harsh admonishment for wasting water. I'm pretty sure Ian did get thrown down the stairs for wasting water.
Ian: Despite the somewhat high-concept presentation, including irrelevant and non-canonical depictions--note the crossword puzzle robe--this one went over very well with Paul. A play on both our father's stringent monitoring of our water usage while washing our hands as well as his violent reactions to seemingly inconsequential infractions (like setting the house on fire). I think Young Paul observed with apprecaition, the tongue popping out of Ian's mouth. -Goo
Right: "Sgt. Bob Clemente"
Paul: This is one of my favorite depictions of Dad in his famous "Casper" shirt. I'm not sure for a man who has such mental hang-ups about cleaning and order he didn't give a shit about personal appearance. He claimed all clothes were "stupid" and him not liking anything. The commitment to his jagged root beer rock candy teeth are a classic Dad accoutrement.
Ian: Pretty standard representation, right down to the Casper t-shirt. One time, Dad told chubby Ian [phase 1] after sharply criticizing his eating habits, "I'm 44 (ed. ???), I'm supposed to have a gut." So I like to see this gut underscored, but not so much the bulge under it...
This is a clown. Enjoy.
