Pages of Euphoria
Sunday, March 18, 2007
  My Hero
This muchacho is legit. Not the gringo who thinks he's still in Korea, flashing a double Asian peace sign like its going out of style. No, the gringo is far less legit, as proven by the fact that he is a bona fide member of myspace: And I am going to stop talking about myself in the third person starting now. Tony is who I am talking about, the Porteno on the right. He is one fantastic throw back to the seventies, easily the coolest decade in human history, and without a shred of doubt my favorite. Notice the blown dry hair-do, which may or may not have required curlers, putting chumps like Tony Danza and the Bee-gees collectively to shame. He is also sporting a tightly cropped and dashing mustache, which compliments the open button shirt revealing sparse chest hair. This all leads up to my favorite attribute, which is the Santa Claus like portrusion of abdominal fat which is accented well by the shirt. I think after the age of 40, guts are simply fashionable. Yeah they tend to take years off your life, and prevent you from seeing certain parts of your body, but you only live once, and I am saying that one life to live needs to be one of excess. I don't know what kind of shoes he was wearing, but I can assure you he has worn them to either walk a tight rope in a circus or shoot a rocket launcher at livestock.
I came to Tony because I wanted my hair cut. I sat in his chair, he put the zebra rug on me, and then took a long drag of his cigarette. He looked at me and asked what I wanted, exhaling the smoke into my face. I uttered a few words of Spanish which were cut off when he uppercut the back of my head saying "entiendo." He broke out the shears, ate the butt of his Marlboro red cancer stick, and proceeded to give me the finest fo-hawk trim of my life. This guy was a real professional, truly the most skilled hair stylist I have ever encountered. I tried to make conversation with him, but not only was he a man of few words, he was in a deep trance of concentration. In the presence of such coolness, I grew awkward and anxious in the silence. I broke it with saying something like "I like scones with raspberry you?" He paused for about 5 minutes, reached over to the table where he had an ice cold can of PBR, opened the refreshing beverage and proceeded to pound the contents in their entirety. Half of said contents ended up soiling his shirt around the midsection, but not a drop found its way into his gleaming mustache. When finished, he threw the can at his artificial caged parrot named Daryl...which he stood watching, waiting for some kind of response. I don't know how much time went by, but I will estimate another 5 minutes, and then he let out a bone chilling laugh exactly like the Predator did in the movie of the same name when impersonating the laugh of one of the platoon members. At that point I knew it was time to leave, so I got out of the chair, handed the man his rug back along with a fist full of pesos and made for the door. I shot one last look back over my shoulder to behold this mans excellence, gave him the double guns hand signal, to which he returned an obscene gesture. What a rascal. Tony, you now have a lifelong (73 days of his remaining) customer. Adios muchacho.
Good God, you are crazy. Take care.
we have an asian peace sign disease. and no one thinks its cute but us.
lets face it, to us animated models who must be doing something, the asian peace simply beats out the rest of the competition. The rock sign? the hangloose? the bloodz signal? the shocker? these are all put to shame by the sacred index and middle finger combo. im sure in 10 years, i will want to burn every single image in which i am using it.
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Location: Los Angeles, California, United States

I come from a small town north of Seattle, WA, where I learned that rain is a magical thing because it turns things green. I have had the chance to go a few places and see a few things of which all I have are pictures, memories and stories. I am currently living and learning about Los Angeles, California, and what it means to be an Angelino.

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