Amor Asqueroso

Escenario 2
(Written by:  Inky)

Outskirts of Town

Durango, Durango, Mexico

Fade In:   A dusty old saloon.  Focus in on the barkeep as she slowly wipes down the bar.  Clearly, her thoughts are elsewhere.  Only a few lonely cowboys are sitting in the saloon, tired from a hard day’s work on the rancho.  Four are seated at a table, three are at the bar.  

Small Breasted Raquelita

What will it be boys?  Another round?  asks the 40+ year-old tired barkeep in a monotone, uninspired voice

Random Cowboy at Bar

Si.

Ominous music begins to fade in.  Camera pans to bright blue saloon doors.  The image of black cowboy boots with spurs and faded jeans, can be seen below the doors.  A ten-gallon hat is in view above the doors.  An extra large, manly-man hand is placed on the left door.  Enter El Vaquero.  His left hand rests atop his holster.  In his right hand are two full, large, juicy, chalupas.

Small Breasted Raquelita

Her gasp is heard off camera.  Raul.

El Vaquero

Si. Responds the 40+ year old handsome Mexican cowboy with leathery skin.

Small Breasted Raquelita

You have returned.  Again, she shows no emotion.

El Vaquero

Si.

All in the bar remain silent and captivated.  Their eyes dance between Raquelita and El Vaquero.  El Vaquero takes two steps into the saloon.  The doors swing behind him.

El Vaquero

Raquelita, we need to speak.... in private.

Small Breasted Raquelita

This is private, Raul.  This is as private as I will get with you.  My trust for you exists no more.  She says showing some emotion in her voice for the first time and spitting on the dusty floor.

Enter a brown and white mutt of a dog with floppy brown ears.  The dog begins to yap, yap, yap at the Vaquero as he leaps in the air to munch on the chalupas.  El Vaquero’s chocolate eyes are reflected in the dog’s.  It is clear they are both angered.  Soon, the other cowboys in the bar stifle laughs as they observe the ring of urine the dog has left around El Vaquero.  Including a few drops directly on the rattle-snake skin boots.

El Vaquero

Raquelita, get this dog away before I shoot him.  he says as he shakes the urine from his boot in a very manly-man way.

Small Breasted Raquelita

Luna, vaya!  She shouts at the mutt as her azure eyes, revealing her European heritage, plead with the pup.  The dog slowly backs away looking suspiciously at El Vaquero.  The dog sits in the corner and whimpers.

El Vaquero

OK.  If that is how the game is now played.  I will speak to you in front of these strangers.  Raquelita, I am searching for a man I think you know.

Small Breasted Raquelita

Raul, you and I both know, I’ve known many men.  Her voice is now more angered.

El Vaquero

This is true.  But this man I speak of, I believe, is your brother... Pepino Suave.

Their eyes lock.  Organ music begins.

Small Breasted Raquelita

I have no brother.

El Vaquero

Raquelita, we both know you have many brothers.

Small Breasted Raquelita

This Pepino Suave you speak of, he is not my brother.

El Vaquero

I must find him.  I must kill him.  I must know.  Where is your brother, Pepino Suave, the bald Mariachi Gringo?  Tell me now, or you will die a public death by hanging.

Small Breasted Raquelita

I do not know this man!  She shrieks, now full of emotion as tears begin forming in her blue eyes.

Suddenly, the music crescendos as the camera closes in on Small Breasted Raquelita’s terrified eyes.  Hold for three seconds.  The music stops.  In the distance, a cock crows.  

All in the room gasp.

Cue Abdominales Poderosos commericial.

End Scene 2

Amor Asqueroso

Escenario 1
(Submitted by P. Suave)

FADE IN::

INT. SUNSET AVENUE, LOS ANGELAS, CALIFORNIA - MID DAY

A sunburned mariachi saunters down the street. His haggard looking donkey trails behind him. He pauses in front of the office of Montage, a talent management company. The mariachi reads over the building directory posted next the the building entrance.
He ties his burro to the no parking sign, enters the building. He removes his sombrero, revealing an egg-white bald spot topping his pink face, and azure eyes that give away his European lineage  .
He approaches the receptionist, the former Linoleum Queen of Lick Skillet, PA, a town known for its linoleum production.  

Gringo Mariachi

I am Pepino Suave. I am a Mariachi. I am here to see the bastard William Ferrell. He stole my movie concept. He should prepare to die.

Big Busted Secretary

I am sorry, Mr. Suave. Mr. Ferrell is on location for his next film. How can I help you?

She looks at her reflection in the blank computer monitor, adjusting her eyeliner with a pinkie finger

Gringo Mariachi

You can not help me. This is not women's work. A man steals from another man, he must prepare to die. I demand an audience with the bastard-son-of-a-puta Ferrell!

The young, full figured receptionist reaches back behind her head with her right hand, the side she preferred to use when mixing linoleum cement back home, and swings it 180 degrees full-force, meeting the Gringo Mariachi's sun burned left cheek with all the power of a former small town talent show champion. The Gringo Mariachi's head swings hard to the right. He puts a hand to the blazing flesh and looks off camera for five full seconds. He slowly looks up at the vivacious secretary.

Gringo Mariachi

Ouch! Mami, that hurt! Why did you do that, little flower? Have I offended you?

The curvy office help stands up, eyes swollen and red from crying, and points directly at the dusty intruder. She yells:

Big Busted Secretary

Yes! Yes you have! Is it not women's work to ask a man if he needs help?!  Is it not women's work to spend three hours fixing oneself up in order to be presentable? Is it not? IS IT NOT?!!!!!

Hysterical, the secretary crosses her arms over her very ample chest and collapses, racked with sobs, her mascara dripping down her face. The Gringo Mariachi holds his sombrero nervously in his hands, at loss for words...but never at a loss for Mariachi-style chivalry.  He throws his dusty sombrero to the floor, and leaps over the counter. Grabbing the secretary in his arms, he gently wipes errant mascara from her creamy skin with the thumb of a calloused hand.

Mariachi Gringo

You must not cry, my flower. I mean you no harm. It is just that I must kill your employer, the evil William Ferrell, Hijo de la Gran Puta. He stole my movie concept. He must prepare to die.

The voluptuous secretary looks up into the Gringo Mariachi's crinkly little eyes, and holds a teary-eyed gaze that would make a Sandra Bullock cry-scene seem plastic. She does that looking from one crinkly eye to the next crinkly eye, then to the chin thing that has a neat affect. Her voice full of mucous and emotion, she sputters:

Big Busted Secretary

Prepare to die?

Gringo Mariachi

Yes, my little dulce, the pinche Ferrell must prepare to die.

Big Busted Secretary

But...

Gringo Mariachi

But what, my remolancha?

The big breasted secretary turns to the camera, still gripped in the arms of the skinny, balding mariachi.

Cue organ music:

Big Busted Secretary

I am carrying Mr. Ferrell's baby!

Big busted secretary buries her head into the gringo mariachi's bony chest. Organ music goes steroidal, as the camera cuts to the Gringo Mariachi, his face twisted into a tortured mass of wrinkles, showing all the anguish and loneliness of a former mariachi-turned-public- school-teacher. His loyal donkey brays in the background.

Cut to commercial.

End Escenario 1:  Amor Asqueroso

El Famoso Mariachi Gringo

Nuestro Protaganista/Ensayista

Telenovela Rules

• Each participant will submit a scene when it is their turn in queue (see last entry).
• Each participant has one week to produce their scene (some flexibility here).
• If a participant neglects to post a scene, a scene will be posted by the author of this blog in its place, and the procrastinating participant will be a character featured in the scene who is cuckolded by his wife,  disowned by his parents, charged a hefty overdue fee at the library, and dies a horrible death, only to reappear miraculously in a future scene and killed again - even more horribly.
• Each scene should mimic the telenovela style - over-the-top drama, big breasts, lots of yelling.
• Each scene should flow into the next, as much as possible (even if an author has to stretch a bit)
• Submissions should be sent to: tim.fournier@yahoo.com. I will post submissions to this blog as soon as they are received.
• Participants are urged to subscribe to this blog (see upper right corner of the blog).

The Pitch

Friends and Family,

Here's my pitch:

A Spanish-style soap opera cobbled together by the collaborative efforts of a group of  people.  This proposal is inspired by Lori's success in the past to have us electronically collaborate on US presidents, geography, etc. As well, the telenovela has become an evening staple in our household, which mocks the drama encountered at the office, at the DMV, and while watching Aunt Kelly "be a cat" during holiday gatherings. 

With the spirit of Lori's brainchild in mind (no pun. ok, pun), and with the knowledge that the telenovela is a clandestine favorite of any warm blooded American, I urge you to join in this creative effort  - urge your "peripheral penguins": the Smurfies, Inkies, Pixies, Butches, Goobers, oddball neighbor, Rick Argus, inbred cousin to participate, as well.

Project Working Title: Amor Asqueroso (Disgusting Love)

Your obligation to the project:

When it is your turn in the queue, you must contribute a scene to the telenovela script. The only stipulations are: 1) that your scene flows in some way from the previous scene, and leaves a dangling thread from which the next participant can tie in to their scene. 2) Let's shoot for one submission each weekend 3)There is no other criteria, beside the fact that your scene should mimick in some way the over-the-top, big-breasted drama of a true telenovela.

Consequence for non-participation:

Attendance to Ink's First Guitar Recital and attendance to the Zion Lutheran Church's annual Easter Vigil-palooza - both taking place on the same looooooooooooooooooooooooooong weekend.

You in? In!!!!!!!!! Cool!

Tentative queue (with suggested themes/tips):

Yours Truly (washed-up, middle-aged gringo mariachi star teaches wayward youth (Los Sweat Hogs)

Ink (this is Univision, not broadway. Love you)

Kelly (Cinderella-eque theme. Protagonist wins the heart of a lion tamer).

Talea (J. Beiber camio)

Mom F. (what's the diagnoses for love?)

Dad F. (may be ghosted)

Lor (remember script must remain at the 5th grade reading level)

Rock (remember spell check)

Holly (older man meets real young rising star in the dog-eat-dog Detroit publishing world)

Abby (sorority girls gone [mildly, sweetly, chastely] wild.)

Tyler (can't wait - an explosion and a banana-peel-prat-fall guaranteed)

Mike (remember, in any romance scene, each character must have one foot on the floor)

Rose (just as the story-line gets boring, in come the mob wives!)

Becca (Girl meets boy eunuch)

Nick (Have mom look it over before pressing "send". Then send me your first draft by alternate email. This is gonna be sweet)
Joe D. ("Don Hoser")
Martha D.
Chris Angelari

*please send me names and emails of friends/family who wish to participate. All are welcome.

** Finished product will be sent to Univision.  Proceeds from the sale of the script will be put in a coffee can, buried in Mom and Dad's patio 

planter, and not opened until the next occasion for a Pay the Man tournament.

*** The first submission, Scene 1 of Amor Asqueroso, will sent by the end of this weekend.  Don't worry, it will be worth the wait.

Andale! LET"S DO IT!

El Ensayista,

P. Suave

Thanksgiving 2011

The post-turkey sewing circle.

Some Children Left Behind

The fundamental reason Yours Truly can not accept the Charter School rational is that Charter Schools, although funded by tax money, are fundamentally not public schools. The bedrock principal of public schools, and the main reason why I choose to remain employed in the public schools, is that they accept any student that crosses their threshold; by law, mandate, and volition. Charter Schools have not, cannot, and will not answer the key symptom of our educational crisis: how to educate our most difficult and expensive to service. Where there is not direct profit, charters will not go. I embrace the free market mentality in the market place. The free market does not address the common good. We do.

Exhibit 2,345,382:

Test Result: No School for Student with Asperger Syndrome

The emperor is butt-naked,

Profesor Suave

La Changa

Li'l Pepinita and the Author  2003

Swimming with my little girl in Lake Michigan is one of a billion great memories I have of being a daddy. Now I serve more as  an ATM  and taxi; back then I was all jungle gym. Li'l Pepinita crawled on me like a monkey no matter if I was playing or if I was trying to do chores.  I remember counting on her to join me when I putzed around the house - she loved to watch and ask all the questions that came to mind.
Still, there are those afternoons when she wants to throw the football around; or when you absently grabs for my hand when we walk the dog, are when she snuggles into me as we sit in church.
I'll take what I can get and count myself the luckiest daddy in the world.
Papi contento,
Peps

Don Fabio

Above is a picture of Don Fabio. I found him working his conuco one morning in late July. We were playing ball with his grandkids and several other villagers on the other side of barb wire fence while he picked at weeds, and chopped branches with his machete. The utility of a dominican man's machete would put an average North American man's tool bench to shame. As we played beisbol, Don Fabio put in a full morning's labor with one hand and a machete, only stopping to ask if his grandchildren were behaving, and offering them a quick blessing.
Below is a picture of Rodrigo catching a mid-day Atlantic breeze from his porch. I shuffled by his house on my way to see the cliffs of Cabrera that look over the Atlantic Ocean. As you can see from the picture, his shaded patio is just yards from the cliffside. As any warm-blooded dominican would do, he invited me to sit with him and charlar un poco. He told me about his career as a resort waiter, the few jobs he maintains as a retiree, and the good fortune he feels he has won by having a healthy family, and a humble home near the sea. Beyond Rodrigo is the scooter he uses to taxi people throughout Cabrera, often serving as a messenger service, as well.

Cogiendolo suave,
P. Suave

Gibby

Each morning, after walking and feeding the mut, I sit down to a bowl of oatmeal and watch Morning Joe. Today, a clip that Willy showed really struck me. It was a shot of Kirk Gibson, former Detroit Tiger god, and presently manager of the Arizona Diamondbacks, walking out to dispute a call with the umpire. My picture of Gibson is always of a long haired stallion; a hard nosed slugger who could out run a horse. Unbridled passion. Vigor. Perpetual youth. To use an overused cliche, he always leaves it all on the field.

It was hard marrying that picture with the older gentleman limping stiff-legged onto and off the field. It hurt to watch the aging hero. I sensed my mortality, and rubbed my sore knee.

Lastimado,

P. Suave

El Viejo Cojo

Hay Pero Que Calor

Dear Readers,

Pepinoville received its first hot spell today - a high of 70- plus degrees. I pulled my shorts from the back of the closet, and bared my stilts to the world. The afternoon was spent out back putzing around with La Hija de Pastora, and my ladies. And the dog.

Now it is time to get back to school...

Sudando,

Peps

Estacionamento

There is no such thing as an extra-wide drive way, nor a two-car driveway. Just a driveway. You see, a driveway is like Chinese food; no matter how big the order, you still could eat more. My dear child bride and I have had a two-plus car driveway, a one-car driveway, and our present two car driveway. We drive compact cars. Still, we run out of room. You have a good twenty feed of smooth, dry cement, and then that sloppy strip of mud and gnarly grass chewed up by a compact car driven by a spatially impaired chofer. For this driver, the concrete slab is just a suggestion, a general target, a place to set a few of the vehicle's tires when parked.

Desaquilibrado,

P. Suave

1984

We moved last fall. La Casa Pepino sold quickly and cheaply mid-summer, and we moved to Hogar Pepino just before the school doors open. It is an 80 year old house, tastefully updated over the years, and offers plenty of room for family and the accompaning livestock (Angel gets the upstairs, Luna downstairs and a portion of the backyard for her thing).

It being spring break and all, I aim to tear through the basement and garage. School and cold began before I could fully unpack and organize these last two portions of the estate. This morning I was pulling apart some anceint shelving in the basement. I grabbed some old newspaper lining the top shelf and read the dateline: August 12, 1984. It was on the masthead for a page of advertising ("Meijer Thrifty Acre 50th Anniversary"). As I continued busting up boards and prying nails, I reminisced about that period in my life. Here is what I remember about the year 1984:

1. I was a sophmore at college with an undeclared major and mounting student debt.

2. I worked summers in the maintainance department at an apartment complex, and midnights as a security guard during the school year.

3. The Detroit Tiger won the World Series against the San Diego Padres. Joe, Pete, and I watched the post-series celebration/inferno from the rooftop of the apartment complex on Jefferson avenue.

4. I rented a $200 a month upper flat in Hamtramck and drove a 76' Malibu (silver/red cloth interior).

5. One semester of full-time tuition at the University of Detroit was roughly $1,500

6. "Owner of a Lonely Heart" Yes

7. "Dancing in the Dark" Bruce Springsteen

8. "Jump" Van Halen

9. The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera

10. Miami Vice

11. Hair, hair brush, and shampoo

Mucha nostalgia,

Peps

El Maestro Vergonzado

I bring shame to my name. While others have worked an entire calendar year, year after year, I sop up gobs of vacation time around holidays and summertime. While the Average Joe could lose his employment at whim, apparently it is harder to can me than it is to grow grass in a desert. I receive guaranteed pay raises, no matter if I produce or not, and I get free donuts each time one of my clients has a birthday. Although I have enough college credit to fulfill two PhD programs, I am an expert at zilch. Although both my customers and supervisors would rather have their jobs than mine, they offer unsolicited advice about how I could do mine better, cheaper, and longer. By virtue of my certification and academic major I am an underachiever, suspect of laziness, pedophilia, and ignorance. Were I to debate the above, add whining, too.

Here's the rub: I don't care. Sure, it is annoying and disheartening when the bashing hits a critical mass; when one cannot open a newspaper, scan the Internet, talk to a friend or relative, or overhear a restaurant conversation without absorbing the mass critique of the job (I would hazard to call it "the profession", only to illicit a smirk from Average Joe). I don't care. If I were to leave it behind tomorrow, I know I would miss it. Not miss it nostalgically, but miss it like an amputee misses an arm or a leg. The zillion irritating, mind-numbingly stupid, ourtrageously incompetent things that happen weekly on the job are only bearable because I know I'd miss it. I'd miss the potential of proving Average Joe wrong, whether he ever knows it or not. I'd miss the potential of actually teaching something, which has the same odds as a batter actually hitting a ball - only to leave me feeling most days like I've struck out. I'd miss a captive audience of people at their most precious stage of life - well before they become Average Joes. I'd miss the euphoria of walking the line between having the power to make or break a person's day, while at the same time having no real power at all. I'd miss the perverse daily dichotomy of the huge responsibility I have without any accompanying authority whatsoever.

I should be ashamed.

Con orgullo,

Profesor P. Suave

The Good Rabbi

The Good Rabbi

And it so happened that a tenured teacher approached the conference leader who was speaking to members in the crowd and asked, "Good Rabbi, what must I do in order to teach and be heard and even appreciated like you are?"
"Why do you call me good?" The Rabbi replied. "For it has been said that no one is good but God alone."
After a brief pause, the Rabbi cleared his voice and continued his response,
"You already have The Standards which are spelled out clearly by the County on tablets for you to follow: design interesting, challenging, understandable lessons, have measurable and attainable goals, and forget not to post your teaching objectives clearly in the sand."
The Good Sheppard went on to say,
"Create meaningful assessments and remember always that results reflect as much on you as teacher as they do about even the slowest of `special needs' sheep. Grade them carefully, looking for gaps in their understanding. Don't forget to return graded work promptly, while students still remember and recognize it as their own. Use the feedback to re-teach that which is necessary - although, if they didn't learn it, you didn't really teach it the first time, did you? So try again, coming from a different angle, involving all of their senses and learning styles, until even the `least of these' has that special sparkle in their eyes along with a wide grin of recognition that goes along with that `lit oil lamp moment' and perhaps even a shy look of appreciation on his face. This will be your clue that it is time to press on, traveling cautiously down the sandy and slippery slope ahead,"
The persistent, "all-knowing" teacher replied, "But what if they are too slow? Tending sheep can be frustrating, you know. There is always at least one who gets caught up in the thorny brambles along the way. Should I hold up the entire flock to wake up the one who did not sleep well last night and cannot see straight this morning? He was probably just playing and getting into mischief of one kind or another. Who knows? Maybe he was grazing on alfalfa sprouts or something."
The kind and patient Rabbi kindly replied, "Don't you remember the parable about the shepherd who left his entire flock in order to go look for the one who had strayed off path.?"
Oh yeah, those silly stories. I always remember them," the teacher reminisced. "I remember the songs, the chants, the rhythms and raps… They're hard to get out of my head!"
The Rabbi continued undeterred by the teacher's stubborn demeanor, and continued lovingly trying to teach. "Be proficient in your teaching in order to be worthy of expecting proficiency in return. For what you do unto the least of these is as if you had done it unto me." The teacher beamed and replied confidently, "I have done these things since my first day of teaching. Some sheep just don't seem to want to progress!"
The Rabbi shook his head sadly, and eyeing the teacher with dark, loving eyes, replied, "There is one thing further you must do."
"What is that?" he asked excitedly, hoping to finally hear the true secret to success,
The Rabbi looked deeply into his bright and beautiful hazel eyes and responded,
"Take the student who is most annoying and troublesome to you and treat him as you would your only son."
The teacher walked away sadly, for he was a busy man.

(Adapted by Laura Lytle, March 14, 2011)

Ski 2010

Pepinita bajando la loma.

We returned from our three day ski-fest in upper-lower Michigan this afternoon. We were gifted both sunshine and steady snow, perilous crashes into snow-caked trees, tumbles on turns and straight-aways, bruises, scratches, tongues scalded by hot chocolate, and toes raw from the cold.

Luna the Dumb Dog (still undiagnosed, but commonly assumed to be somewhere on the autistic spectrum) socialized with dumpsters, snow drifts, and fence posts, but otherwise avoided any wildlife, fellow canine, or humans.

Pepinita and dear friend Pegamata spent hours enjoying gravity and snow, chatting at high speeds, eating, talking about eating, arguing, laughing, arguing more, and laughing even more.

My esposada, Pepina, and I had it the best; we enjoyed skiing, and enjoyed watching the kids enjoy skiing.

We return feeling like the most fortunate people on earth.

Resbalando,

P. Suave

Vuelvo

Hola Fanaticos de Todos Asuntos Pepinos,

Para que sepan, I have returned to ink my rants on this blog. Stay tuned for more Things Pepino.

Para servirles,

P. Suave

Lamby Agotado

Pepinita's little charge, Lamby, is very active for his age - 11, something like 111 in lamb years. Here you see him reclining after a day of being a stuffed animal.

Atentamente,

Pepino de Peluche

In Another Time; In Another Place

Fresh snow makes the winter bearable. Snow muffles and cleanses. The harsh months are grittier, meaner, if left grey. Give me snow. And a snow rake. And an occasional melt. And snow pants. Oh, and a car defroster that works. But let it snow.

Hace frio,

Pepino Congelado

Vaya Azul

Gracias Joe!

Ganamos,

P. "Azul" Suave