The Many Deaths of the Macho

Posted: December 10, 2013 in Uncategorized
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…wherein we learn of the three-tiered conspiracy which kept Our Good Man from lovin’ on She of the Voluminous Bosom, and that a slow trigger finger on eBay prevented the coronation of a high school metal magazine collector’s belated dream.

An alley cat boasts nine lives. But how many boasteth the macho? This is one of life’s great mysteries. My macho has died four times. Three were in March 2000 on a single date, admittedly ruinously poor timing for perishing masculinity. The fourth happened last weekend.

To those close to me, I have chronicled the death of my first three machos ad naueseum. But for the rest of you, I’ll sit at the loom and spin the yarn anew, that ye in the frigid north might be feel thy flesh warmed by its hearty threads. ‘Twas March 2000. I was a lowly Peace Corps volunteer living in El Salvador, in the mountains of Morazan. My living situation in those days could have been aptly described as an incubator of parasitic infestation, and I lost nearly 40 pounds to stomach afflictions my first six months. Sweeping down from the mount on a random weekend and into the big capital city, as I was wont to do when seeking respite from the considerable isolation of my potable water-less ville, I sought refuge in a woman named Carmen, She-of-the-Voluminous-Bosom. A lab tech who collected my poop samples when bestricken with ghastly intestinal conundrums, I wagered that since Carmen already knew me so thoroughly it was only fitting that we mate. She was a stunner, too: 5’0″ with measurements befitting a certain Sir Mix-A-Lot single you might remember from the 1990s: the one rather celebratory of the gluteus shouldst thou needeth a clue.

And yet the date didn’t pan out as the devils on both my shoulders had strategized, and my macho died three times in a span of 24 hours: first, when she made me watch the dubbed “Stuart Little” (“El Ratoncito”) at the cinema; second, when she watched me get attacked by a gang member while talking to my mother on a pay phone, then get chased screaming down the street by said gang member as he bellowed what I considered  at the time – and still believe tautologically even today! –  credible threats against my life; and third, when after making me spend the night in a separate room after fruitlessly attempting to convert me to the Evangelical faith, she bade me invite her to an amusement park, where I took ill after riding the tea-cups.

One macho, three deaths. And I never spoke to Carmen again.

Last weekend arrived the fourth death, when I lost the best eBay auction of my life: 62 issues of now-defunct-yet-still-seminal 1990s all-things-metal publication RIP Magazine. Outbid in the final 5 seconds by some douche who bested me by $2.50. Scrambling to counter-bid as the clock wound down, alas my trigger-finger was slow on the draw and I didn’t hit Enter on time. The issues up for grabs were from the 1990-1996 period, the magazine’s classic era, covering everything from the Sebastian Bach bottle incident, the recording/release/touring cycle of both Metallica’s “Black Album” and GNR’s “Use Your Illusion” double-disc, the Clash of the Titans tour with Slayer, Megadeth and Anthrax, Vince Neil’s ouster from Motley Crue, and a host of lesser-but-no-less-key metal moments from my mid-teen years. I used to read RIP on the newsstand but nearly never purchased them due to the elevated cover price. Now here was my chance to collect almost the entire run, and I blew it. I was depressed all weekend.

One macho, fourth deaths. And I’ll never get to read RIP again.


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