Tuesday, October 08, 2002

Here’s what kills me about this Iraq thing. I was reading today in the Star-Ledger that some of Saddam’s lieutenants tried to whack him, which I frankly find ridiculous; a man in his position is not likely to have a sit down where anybody but his most trusted associates have come heavy. It’s one of those check-your-coats-at-the-door situations. But let’s say, I don’t know, they surprise him in some Bagdad steak house, al-fuckin’ Sparks or somethin’. And bang, bang, he’s gone. Whaddya do then? In the old days, you’d either leave him there so the Daily News could take a photo suitable for framin’. Or you find a guy who’ll let you use his bathtub and you ruin a coupla hacksaws on the mope. Point is you are careful to recede into the background.

But in Iraq, see, now you got these guys who’ll run to the feds the moment they’ve whacked Saddam. They do the deed, and the next item on the agenda is finding Uncle Sam. Hey, Mr. Army Man, you know that hit on Saddam in the barber shop? That was us, give us a parade! Oh, you want proof it was us? Here’s the gun. Here’s my witness. You’re welcome. No problem. Anytime.

Whole world’s upside down.

I’m not sayin’ Saddam doesn’t have it comin’. I read this article in a magazine Carm left in the bathroom - she don’t read them, but God forbid someone should use one of our cans and not be impressed by her choice of readin’ material - and it was talkin’ about how Saddam keeps everyone in line. He’s some bad shit. He puts the squeeze on children. I got no time for that. But it’s like he set up his own thing on a national scale, with his own family all over the place. It’s as if this thing of ours ran America, and the UN’s the Feds.

I wish. Jesus, if the Feds were like the UN they couldn’t so much as put a tail on someone without unaminous approval from all fifty states.

I don’t know why I’m worrying about this. It ain’t like there’s not enough bragiol on my plate. I just don’t want anyone I love to get the smallpox, for one thing, and for another it would fuck up the business somethin’ large if there’s germs all over the place. I mean, how do you collect on a guy who’s got a quarantine sign on the door? I can hear it now: Tony, I’m light this week, I got the smallpox. I’ll make it up to you. Cough Cough. And the guy’s all sick and covered with sores - you’re gonna break his knee? You could get somethin’ on you.

A guy like me don’t think of being patriotic and all, ‘cause it doesn’t come up, but it’s been botherin’ me since that 9/11. Especially since we got a taste off that scrap metal coming from the World Trade Center. That didn’t feel right.

If anything happens, and they set up some, y’know, widows and orphan fund, I’m givin’ them my cut, and I will strongly suggest the rest of the crew does the same.

They’re standup guys, but they can be such goddamn buzzards sometimes. And buzzards are one ugly fucking bird.

Monday, October 07, 2002

So I walk past the bar on my way to the back room and someone says “Hey Tone, you’re lookin’ happy. You got that shotgun shine.” And I just nod and think, whatever you say, pally, until later I wonder: what the hell was that supposed to mean? What kinda of a whackjob sits around and shines a shotgun? With what, shotgun polish from that Reformation Hardware store Carm loves? I mean a shotgun makes a pretty good argument on its own. Ain’t no one who sees one thinks, oh, that’s a shiny shotgun, now I’m worried. Unless it’s supposedly to be some metaphor for chokin’ the canolli, like, “he’s off in the can shining the shotgun.”

Who was it that said that, anyway? We need to have a little talk.

Sunday, October 06, 2002

Thought: why do we say “I’m gonna rip your head off and piss down your throat’’? Why the last part? The guy’s dead. He’s not gonna notice the indignity. I think the worse thing you can say to a guy is that you’re not gonna rip his head off, because that would be like an act of charity compared to what you are gonna do. A guy hears “your head is stayin’ on no matter how much you beg,” well, you got that guy’s attention.

I think we have a problem with cliches, is all I’m saying. It’s all them movies. Next guy who says “say hello to my little friend” is gonna say goodbye to some little teeth. I’m sick of it.
Okay, here we go. Not sure this is such a great idea - any of the boys find out I’m writin’ stuff down, the wrong people are going to get nervous. But no one will ever see nothing; that’s why I’m putting this on Meadow’s old computer. No one’ll look there.

I don’t know anything about these computers, but I know that you’re supposed to use a word reprocessing program, and this “blogger” thing must be it.