Bowie V. Ibarra's Blog, page 7
April 17, 2016
BLOOD: 'Class of 1999' Movie Review by Horrors of the Universe
Steve-O brings another fun movie review from his 'Horrors of the Universe' YouTube Channel. Check it out by clicking on the VHS box cover below.
And while you're at it, subscribe to the 'Horrors of the Universe' YouTube Channel HERE.
Thanks for stopping by.
Like lucha libre? Enjoy Zombies? Then pick up the ZBFbooks.com title, 'Sword of the Angel', the featured ZBFbooks.com title for April. It's about a Mexican luchador who faces the zombie apocalypse with spectators after a pro-wrestling event in San Antonio. It's a great title you can find HERE in paperback or kindle.
BOWIE V. IBARRA is the author of the 'Down the Road' zombie horror series from Permuted Press. Bowie likes to refer to his works as Tex-Mexploitation, as they all feature strong cultural elements of south Texas, where Bowie was raised. Some titles include '
And while you're at it, subscribe to the 'Horrors of the Universe' YouTube Channel HERE.
Thanks for stopping by.
Like lucha libre? Enjoy Zombies? Then pick up the ZBFbooks.com title, 'Sword of the Angel', the featured ZBFbooks.com title for April. It's about a Mexican luchador who faces the zombie apocalypse with spectators after a pro-wrestling event in San Antonio. It's a great title you can find HERE in paperback or kindle.
BOWIE V. IBARRA is the author of the 'Down the Road' zombie horror series from Permuted Press. Bowie likes to refer to his works as Tex-Mexploitation, as they all feature strong cultural elements of south Texas, where Bowie was raised. Some titles include '
April 6, 2016
FIGHTS: LOUDMOUTH - Chapter 10 - The Flat-Track Dream Realized: The Dust Devil 2006
At the end of my past life, I earned the right to be the first flat track derby announcer with the Texas Rollergirls.
What follows is a very old, very unauthorized, and very unedited version of the document I produced describing my experiences during the genesis of flat track derby. It would be some of the last moments of my past life.
Enjoy.
LOUDMOUTH: Confessions of a Flat Track Derby Announcer
By
Bowie V. Ibarra
Copyright 2007 Bowie V. Ibarra
“… You make it so good I don’t want to leave/So tell me wha-wha-wha-what-what is your fant-t-ta-seeeee!”- Ludacris, “Fantasy”
Chapter X: The Flat Track Dream Realized: The Dust Devil 2006
“These girls play so rough with people they call their friends, imagine what a bout would be like if they were playing people they didn’t care about.” I remember telling Chip and Whiskey that early in the first season. The girls were very rough and very mean to each other on the track. The fistfights between noted rivals Anna Mosity and Rolletta Lynn, Anna Mosity and Barbie Crash, (O.K., pretty much any fight Anna Mosity was in), Vendetta von Dutch and Trouble and… well, yeah, Anna Mosity and Trouble (in front of Trouble’s mom) will be cemented in my mind’s eye forever. Let me say before I move on that Anna Mosity and especially Barbie Crash were some of the dirtiest players in the game. Do I support the nurturing of dirty players on teams? Not necessarily. However, I do understand the reason and motivation for teams to have a dirty player on a team to set them loose on another team in an effort to put an opponent in check. These people are definitely enforcers, even though their tactics go beyond being rough to downright dirty. Whether you love them or hate them, dirty players have a role in every sport, and I believe there is a natural home for the uncompromising scrapper in derby. Used correctly, the dirty player will always bring excitement to a game and, ideally, swing a game in their team’s favor. But I digress…. Just a year after the Texas Rollergirls were up and running, teams were forming in Arizona. And, naturally, there was a split in that sunny state as well. But no one could stop derby from going viral. Soon after, a trailblazer from one of the Arizona leagues formed another league in Las Vegas. Before long, New York and Seattle had teams. Within two years, the viral movement proved to be growing faster than anyone anticipated, and these initial leagues and several others held a kind of flat track summit in Chicago, the home of yet another young league. It was there that the Women’s Flat Track Derby Association was formed, the genesis of the phenomena that was to go global within a few years. It was shortly after the WFTDA formation and the compiling of the first set of official rules that the Tucson league initiated the first ever national championship. The tournament would pit the sixteen WFTDA teams in a four group round robin. The top two teams from each group would advance to the elimination round to determine the best WFTDA team in the nation. But how the blue blazes was I going to get to Tucson for this historic event? THE TRANSPORTATION XXXXX, the baby girl, and I had just moved into a new house, and money was very tight. But several windfalls that came through the house allowed me to have money put aside for the hotel and to split the gas for transportation. The transportation, you ask? Well, I didn’t know what it was either. Somehow, someone negotiated our transport with The Crusher and her friend in what was hyped by Chip to be a fantastic roomy and dependable transport. I still needed to see it to judge for myself. The opportunity would come in an offer to clean out the vehicle to prepare for the trip. It was very cold on the day of the cleanup. I arrived at the address late that afternoon and hoped the vehicle I saw in the driveway was not the transport that Chip proposed would get us to Tucson. The vehicle was a small Toyota or Datsun with a glorified camper. The color reminded me of the old floor of my home in Uvalde: ‘70’s caca brown and white. I really thought I had pulled up to a San Diego getaway for Ron Burgandy, and thought my clean up would reveal a bottle of “Sex Panther”. The Captain Kangaroo era colors, rust, and “CHiP’s” vibe the vehicle was exuding was quickly depleting my faith in the vehicle. As Jim Jones, Chip, and I began to clean out the interior, my faith was spiraling to the proverbial rock bottom. The vehicle might have housed the Commodores on a trip to Town Lake. When I found the “born on” date on the driver’s side door (1982), I was officially looking for new transportation. Since I was partially responsible for financing the trip, I honestly told my colleagues how I felt. “I’m not going in this, guys.” Jim and Chip had faith, but my judgment was giving them second thoughts. Especially Jim. “I’m not going. This thing is over thirty years old. It’s officially a classic car going on an antique. I’m sorry. I’m not going in this.” XXXXXXXXX I left Howard Cosell’s winter home, searching for a way to scrape up dough for a plane ticket that was a week away.
THE FLIGHT AND ARRIVAL
Eventually, I was able to get the cash to pay for the plane ticket. I booked the flight and was mentally ready to leave. It was going to be five days away from wife, work, and my baby girl. It was a huge sacrifice that was going to prove to be the toughest thing for me. I was to leave Thursday to come back on Monday. XXXXXXX Leaving my family at the Austin airport, I remember wanting to cry. Knowing I was going to be away from not only XXXXX, but my baby XXXXX as well. It made me abhor the police state strategy of only allowing passengers on the plane staging area. It was a big personal sacrifice to be a part of flat track history. The flight would have a layover in Vegas before flying to Tucson. Downtown Dave, an announcer for Tucson, would pick me up at the airport when I arrived. The flight to Vegas was interesting. I finally got halfway through a book about hidden treasures of Templar Knights when I could see the deserts of Nevada. It seemed so vast and barren. When Vegas finally came into view, it was literally like an oasis. It was my first time in Vegas, and seeing all the sights that I only saw on TV was amazing. Waiting for the plane to Tucson, I received word that my suspicions about the camper vehicle were correct. The group, who had started their journey almost twelve hours before I did, did not even make it out of the state before the vehicle was showing its age. Desperate, Chip and Jim abandoned ship in El Paso in an effort to rent a car. There was some good news for me, though. I made $8 on the video poker machines./ / / / /
The fight into Tucson was quick and smooth, like taking a laxative after eating at Herberts in San Marcos or surfing with a mayfly. O.K., maybe that was not the greatest comparison. Needless to say, I arrived wearing my Arizona Cardinal’s jersey in a respectful homage to our hosts. It was an old Chuck Cecil home jersey, number 26, complete with the Arizona flag on the sleeve. I thought it would be a nice gesture of appreciation for our hosts and their state. Within minutes after arriving, Downtown Dave pulled into the airport pickup area in his suburban. I was pleased to meet the guy, and he seemed very amicable. Downtown was one of the voices of the Tucson league, along with Jeff Mann and Serge. Downtown was a really cool guy and his accent suggested somewhere other than the American southwest. “I’m originally from Philadelphia,” he answered when queried. We drove from the airport to the skating rink where the competition was to be held. Along the way, Arizona was just as I imagined: a concrete city built on the sands of an ancient desert. Chip and Jim were to be pulling into Tucson in just a few hours, so I was hoping to get a nap in and a good night’s rest before the tournament. Rooming with Jim and Chip, I had a sneaking suspicion there would be no rest for the wicked on this historic weekend.
FRIDAY
The roster for announcing could be described as slapdash at best. Several teams did not bring announcers to the game, so spots needed to be filled. Announcers began to lay claim to these guest teams in an effort for mic time. Which brings me to a pivotal moment among our own announce team. One that would soon turn the team on its ear. As previously mentioned, our announce team in Texas was doing pretty well together. We were proud of being selected to be a part of what was now a national phenomena. Who could blame us? But without leadership, our roles were beginning to blur. Dust Devil was the signature event where certain team members were about to reinvent themselves in an effort to build their reputation along the lines their title did not charge them with. From the beginning, especially after MotorMouth’s departure, I was well aware of the roles I felt had been established, but not clearly defined and demarcated. From my theatre perspective, each role was charged with certain duties and assignments particular to that role. The informality of our early shows and reinterpretations of suggestions from the girls (ie. Everyone being prepared to act as an interim announcer during an announcer absence) were providing space for this evolution, or dare I say, mutation of the assigned roles. Without no true leadership and, perhaps, an early distrust of some of my collegues, I felt I had no one to go to in order to keep this toxic growth in check. My fears were gaining merit with a call from Chip Queso. We were talking about our announce assignments for the bout, and after stating Whiskey and I would be the announcers for all of the Texas bouts, a curious comment from Chip would provide a harbinger of future strife: “But I want to announce a Texas game.” My initial instinct to respond to this was true and justified. “But you’re the crowd wrangler.” I didn’t say it, though I wanted to. “Whiskey and I have been assigned as the play-by-play and color, respectively. We call the bouts.” I didn’t say that, either. With no roles established, or respected, and with no formal leadership to check this ridiculous role shift, I felt like I couldn’t say anything. So I didn’t. I reasoned it was a historic event. There would be only one first-ever National Championship. I trusted Chip. He would never try and assume an announce position, a position I earned. He was going to continue to call himself the Crowd Wrangler for the Texas Rollergirls and never misrepresent himself by calling himself an announcer, which assumes a play-by-play or color role to ears that hear it. Nationals would encourage him to innovate and set a standard for Crowd Wranglers across the nation. In short, Chip would never take advantage of this opportunity to betray Whiskey and I. Only time would tell. But back to the slapdash announce teams…. Initially, the Tucson Announce team were going to announce every single bout. But with a mammoth announce schedule ahead of them and conflicting work schedules outside of the game, they changed their minds. I remember the first day being very long. Many teams were, to put it quite frankly, punked pretty bad. But for every struggling team, there were stars. I remember two standouts from Duke City, Kamikaze Kim and Death Row. Death Row put a huge hit on a rollergirl in the first bout of the night that ten-toed her opponent. I remember Quiet Storm motioning to the crowd with the international sign of quiet when she gained lead jammer status. I also remember Downtown Dave repeatedly telling Chip he could not plug in a fifth mic when the announce team was full.
/ / / / / /
Friday night was interesting, and after a hard night of drinking, all I wanted to do was sleep. I was sharing a bed with Chip Queso. As we were winding down ready for our old man sleep, Jim Jones enters. XXXXXXXXX I was close to finding sleep when the nightmare of Friday night sleep continued. Chip snored. I was pretty sure at this point I was not to get sleep at all. I had to be three, maybe four in the morning when the Sandman blessed my eyes with sleep, bringing my body to rest above the cacophony of nasal problems that resonated around the room like a pit of satanic demons playing Halo 3 on Xbox 360. Sleep. Thank you, God. Sleep. That is, until my cell phone rang. My wife missed me. And like a good husband, I went into the perpetually well lit hotel hallway to sacrifice more sleep at the altar of my wife’s peace of mind.
SATURDAY
One of the opening matchups the previous day was Texas vs. Kansas City. Leading up to the bout, online message boards were ablaze with Kansas City claiming victory in a Texas/KC match up. Chip and I had chimed in, bringing some levity to the palpable tension, but assuring KC their dreams of derby glory would be thrown out like Bill Clinton’s donated underwear. The seeds of an unlikely derby tradition had been planted. As day two went on, I called my assigned bouts and sat out the ones I was sharing with the others. I must say, my initial reactions to some of the announcers was not necessarily favorable, but would change in time. Perhaps it was the person he was paired with, but I originally thought RockerBoy was a horrible announcer. It also might have been the fact that his team, the Carolina Rollergirls, were stomping the competition. Led by Carolina star jammers, Roxy Rocket and Princess America, Carolina was quickly showing themselves to be a force to be reckoned with. In his enthusiasm, RockerBoy would unleash a screaming commentary that annoyed the hell out of me the first time I heard him. Though initially I was wary to join Whiskey to call about with Carolina, thinking Rocker was going to talk over us and scream a lot. But I was wrong. Like a true professional, Rocker adjusted his style to the more measured, yet whimsical approach of Whiskey and myself. Bob Noxious was another person that stood out to me. His approach was just as whimsical, but very professional. I remember the Tucson duo of Dave and Jeff Mann (before his heel turn gimmick change to Jeffery Calmer, an all-powerful egomaniac who is better than everyone) was a very effective, yet informal, duo. It reminded me of a buddy movie pair, serious at times, but chuckling like chums at other times. As for us, Whiskey was on the mark and hysterical as usual. When paired with a particularly unskilled announcer who, to her credit, actually made a good reference about a skater’s job outside of derby, responded with the most hilarious comment I’d ever heard: “Whoopty frikkin’ do. This is roller derby.” Dust Devil was also a chance for Jim “Kool Aid” Jones to test his play-by-play chops on the field of derby, and he was amazing. Jim had an outstanding eye for the game and his natural, dare I say, other worldly wit and sharp eye made many of the veteran announcers look like second rate hacks. Chip, on the other hand, did not do well, in my eyes. His inflection was minimal, remaining constantly at either a shout, yell, or screaming level. He talked over announcers as they called bouts and somehow remained at the table for every bout, holding on to the microphone like a child with a lollipop. I also did not appreciate how he continued to hound Downtown Dave to plug in his fifth mic during a bout despite Dave repeatedly telling him no. I was embarrassed by his actions, but once again, who could I go to? And who was I to tell him anything. But Chip’s overzealous attempts to force himself into every game was to be a side issue as a miscommunication would nurture the seeds of anger planted on message boards that would sprout into a Texas Rollergirls tradition.
/ / / / / /
Returning from the Saturday night afterparty where I was privileged enough to chat with the witty future WFTDA president, CrackerJack, I noticed a veritable treasure chest of alcoholic glee. It was a kind of “manna from heaven” that confused me at its presence and neglect: Eight completely fresh and unopened Coors Light cans. I had found a Godsend, a silver windfall that, by all accounts, was all mine. Seeing derby activity at a set of hotel rooms, I approached in an effort to magnanimously share my booty of silver bullets. I walked into the first room. It was a contingent of Kansas City Warriors. I feigned the role of Sally Struthers, searching for a home for my neglected cans of silver. Several found a loving home. I don’t recall all the girls that were in that room that night, but I do remember Boobarella. When I mistakenly thought her name was Pooperella, she tried to get me in a legitimate Thai clinch to deliver knees to my bollocks. I walked to the adjacent room where my collegue D’Nouncer Dwayne was said to be present. I once again started into my “Give a Beer a Home” routine and was greeted by a cold indifference. D”Nouncer Dwayne was the first to comment. “Julio, you have a lot of apologizing to do.” “What are you talking about?” I asked with a confused smile. “You called one of our girls a fat ass.” I was immediately stunned. As a general rule, I never insult rollergirls, especially over the microphone. I do remember making a comment when a group of Kansas girls were dancing to a random song the DJ was playing that one of them was “shaking that ass”. But it was in no way an insult. I stood in the doorway, confused and upset. Maybe they thought I called her a fat ass? I had to find the girl and resolve this horrible mistake. But on my way out the door, I came face to face with Dee Klaw, one of the orneriest rollergirls in the world, who confronted me with the allegation. “You know,” she started, looking me in the eyes, “It’s really shitty of you to call (girl’s name) a fat ass and come around here trying to be everybody’s friend.” I had to say something. “I swear I didn’t call her that.” But I was so confused. I had done a lot of drinking, but I tend to remember things I’ve done, with few exceptions. Especially with insults. Dee Klaw wasn’t hearing it, and groaned in disgust. “What you did was not cool, and you’re full of shit.” It was obvious their minds were made up. I walked away, feeling the definition of every letter in the word dejected.
SUNDAY
Saturday had been a tough day all around. Announcing was tough, having to deal with the “fat ass” rumor was another thing. But the toughest thing I was having to deal with was being homesick. By this time, it was the fourth day of being away, and despite the fun that was being had, I was feeling a little guilty having left my wife and child alone. It did not help that I allowed her to listen in on some announcing and, as usual, took something I said the wrong way. Keeping the phone by my side more for her security than mine, I decided to answer her call during a pre-match hype session. I did not talk to her directly, just answered the phone and placed it on the table. I happened to make a comment that I saw the Chicago team changing in the Men’s restroom in an effort to display that the rollergirls owned this skate center this weekend. My wife, on the other hand, assumed wild stuff was happening in the restrooms, and that I took part in it. Man. In spite of my guilt, I was going to enjoy watching the Texas Rollergirls play and, at this point, dominate. The power and the glory of the Texas Rollergirls was unveiled to the flat track nation. Texas finished Tucson decisively, and proved once again to be kryptonite to Tucson’s Supergirl. Pretty much for a full three days, it was one giant party. And with Brown Paper Tickets footing the bill on drinks, it was a veritable Bacchanalle. I remember eating a huge Frito Pie and telling Jim Jones, “This isn’t for nourishment, my friend”. Dionysus would have been proud. On the previous days, I was dressed in my signature guayaberas and zarape. But on the Sunday of this bout, I dressed in my best business gray suit, bright blue shirt, tie, and my zarape, I was “stylin’ and profilin’”. Ric Flair would have been proud. And with my trusty zarape over my shoulder, there was no announcer, bar none, that was a suave as Julio E. Glasses. That entire Sunday, a local mariachi group played in between bouts. I asked the group if they would allow me to sing “El Rey” with their group. I was pleasantly surprised when they said yes. I was even more surprised when exiting the bathroom later that evening when the mariachi were lined up by the announce booth and started to play before I had a mic in my hand. I was a little nervous as I had been calling a lot of games and partying pretty hard. My voice had taken a beating despite multiple vocal warm-ups. But it was as if I was channeling the spirit of Jose Alfredo Jimenez as, per my latin crooner gimmick, I belted out the first verse of “El Rey” with gusto to my flat track derby compadres. It was excellent, and a very proud moment for me. The evening ended with a rather exciting final conflict between the Tucson Saddletramps. After a fierce and exciting battle, Texas came out on top and became the first WFTDA National Champions. As the night winded down, I worked my way to the back door to get to my ride to the afterparty. I was greeted at the exit by two derby fans. “Julio, you were awesome, man.” “Thanks, guys.” I was already buzzed and trying to come down from my drunken haze when the guys offered me a styrofoam cup of benevolently toxic fluid. “Dude, take a shot with us.” I took the medium sized cup in my hand and immediately noticed how heavy it felt. I looked into the cup and observed how it was close to a third full of a dark fluid. The aroma was malevolently strong. It was probably something I should not drink in its entirety. It made me recall a hilarious part of the late, great Sam Kinison’s stand up routine. The legendary comic commented how being a superstar with such a hard driving reputation, people had unreasonable expectations for him. Especially when it came to partying. His joke centered around going to parties where people are doing regular lines of cocaine in and around the party. But when he arrives, they make an extra long line for him, with unprepped powder so big they, “…look like rocks you could put in your driveway”. Sam relates that he understands the danger, but does it anyway because its what his fans and friends expect and he doesn’t want to let them down. By the end of the evening, his heart is thumping at 100 miles per hour and he excuses himself to a backroom to pray to God for his life, all the while encouraging his friends to keep partying while he looks for shoe polish to drink to prevent his heart attack. That pretty much sums up how I felt in this moment. I learned my lesson about hard alcohol during the infancy of my alcoholism in college. Lots of headaches and hangovers and, fortunately, no butt-rapes or pictures taken of me with genitals around my face. Since then, my loyalty has been to beer, sustaining my family tradition. Great, huh? So the cup of Jagermeister that stood before me now is what I could only describe as a “Heroic Dose” by any standard. And like Sam, I felt the pressure. I’m the “rockstar voice” of the Texas Rollergirls. These people know the hard partying reputation of the rollergirls. It was, therefore, my duty to take that shot. For God and country. Or, more appropriately, for Flat Track and Texas. And like Sam Kinison before me, I took it. And the Legend of Frankie the Zarape would begin.
THE LEGEND OF FRANKIE THE ZARAPE Let me introduce my friend, permanent announcer sidekick, and eternal friend, Frankie the Zarape. Frankie the Zarape was Made in Mexico and somehow transported to the famous Mercado of San Antonio where it lay for months at a time, its destiny unknown. Most of Frankie’s brothers and sisters were purchased to be draped in windows or along the walls of the various Mexican food establishments that pepper the Texas urban landscape. Frankie was prepared to suffer the same ignoble fate.
However, one day, on a traditional trip to the Mercado to eat at Mi Tierra and drink Carta Blanca and Bohemia while listening to the trios that sing in the famous San Antonio restaurant, I wandered the Mercado in search of a zarape. I had seen a picture several times of Mexican revolutionary Francisco "Pancho" Villa and his wife in which Villa wore a zarape draped across his shoulder. Mexican chic at its best. I had to have one. Searching around a store, Frankie called to me, and I answered her call. I purchased her for a little more than what she might have cost in Mexico, but I wanted it. I immediately tossed her over his shoulder and wore her the rest of the day. My new friend and I returned home, and Frankie sat on a hanger in safety for months at a time. I would only pull her out to take her out with me when I hit Sixth Street to drink alone or with friends. When I made the cut to become a member of the newly formed Texas Rollergirls organization in 2002, Frankie called to me once again. I tossed her over my shoulder like a Mexican Revolutionary and she brought an edge to my traditional guayabera shirt. Together, we called the bouts of the Texas Rollergirls.
And so the legend began…
Back to Tucson… The Jager was attacking me like some kind of industrial strength CIA sponsored drug as I walked out the door. I vaguely remember talking to Sparkle Plenty and someone snapped a picture. It was very curious to see all the orbs and ecto-plasmic swirls when the picture was developed. The night was already resonating powerfully, and I’m convinced these desert spirits were going to join in the fun as well. I was soon spirited away to the Jim Jones-mobile and stuffed into the car like a sardine. I probably shouldn’t have been in there. I’m sorry, Appoca-Lipps. The afterparty was also a blur. I remember Dirty Little Secret of the Rats leaving in her gaudy vintage polka-dot dress as we arrived. This Rat City girl hated my call during one of her initial bouts, and had no problem calling me out and challenging me to a physical confrontation after assuming her name related to a Melissa Ethridge album. Her words still ring clear: “That’s not what my name is in reference to and I hate you for saying that.” I wonder what she meant by that? Seriously, I never thought a girl was going to punch me in the face before that moment. At the afterparty, I remember shambling to the Seattle, New York, and Providence teams and making a drunken ass of myself. And, perhaps, stumbling around the bar drunk as a Mexican skunk might have been the spark a conspiratorial group of rollergirls needed. By this point, the Jaeger, combined with the loads of Old Style (a beer I was dreaming of drinking for years) had provided a convenient and swift portal into the spirit world, ala the ‘80’s hit “Young Guns”. “Why aren’t they shootin’ at us?” As the evening wore on, I staggered outside. “We’re in the spirit world, asshole. They can’t see us.” Communing with the friendly spirits outside the bar in the cool desert night of Tucson, I felt a gentle tug at my zarape. “Did you see the size of that chicken.” The tug turned into a full-blown yank and my zarape was whisked off by shoulder. I spun around like a top and watched visions of red and black scrambling back into the bar with my zarape in tow. In my stupor, I didn’t panic. My thinking was someone was playing a trick on me and I’ll see it by the end of the evening. As I crashed out back at the hotel room I somehow made it back to, I was not to see my zarape again for a long time.#
The next morning, things were to turn from bad to extremely worse. I missed my morning flight. Hung over and reeling, I got my stuff and made a mad dash to the airport. After the cocksucking police state pieces of shit called the FAA profiled me as a potential terrorist because I told them my shoes were not steel toed so there was no need for me to take off my shoes, I made my way to the terminal. By this point, my wife had heard the news and had been yelling at me over the phone. She was grossly upset at my mistake and spouted cruel obscenities and hateful speech at her irresponsible husband. How could I blame her? For the past five days I had participated in a massive party longer than the first Gulf War thousands of miles away from home. My wife was left alone with our infant child with no help. I had promised her I would take the early flight home and be back home relatively early. I failed in that promise. My wife was so upset with me that my own mother had to drive from almost two hundred miles away to pick me up at the Austin airport. XXXXX would not do it. I returned home from the first ever WFTDA National Championship sad and ashamed. For several days after, I was prepared to walk away from the Texas Rollergirls.
=====
More to come...
What follows is a very old, very unauthorized, and very unedited version of the document I produced describing my experiences during the genesis of flat track derby. It would be some of the last moments of my past life.
Enjoy.
LOUDMOUTH: Confessions of a Flat Track Derby Announcer
By
Bowie V. Ibarra
Copyright 2007 Bowie V. Ibarra
“… You make it so good I don’t want to leave/So tell me wha-wha-wha-what-what is your fant-t-ta-seeeee!”- Ludacris, “Fantasy”
Chapter X: The Flat Track Dream Realized: The Dust Devil 2006
“These girls play so rough with people they call their friends, imagine what a bout would be like if they were playing people they didn’t care about.” I remember telling Chip and Whiskey that early in the first season. The girls were very rough and very mean to each other on the track. The fistfights between noted rivals Anna Mosity and Rolletta Lynn, Anna Mosity and Barbie Crash, (O.K., pretty much any fight Anna Mosity was in), Vendetta von Dutch and Trouble and… well, yeah, Anna Mosity and Trouble (in front of Trouble’s mom) will be cemented in my mind’s eye forever. Let me say before I move on that Anna Mosity and especially Barbie Crash were some of the dirtiest players in the game. Do I support the nurturing of dirty players on teams? Not necessarily. However, I do understand the reason and motivation for teams to have a dirty player on a team to set them loose on another team in an effort to put an opponent in check. These people are definitely enforcers, even though their tactics go beyond being rough to downright dirty. Whether you love them or hate them, dirty players have a role in every sport, and I believe there is a natural home for the uncompromising scrapper in derby. Used correctly, the dirty player will always bring excitement to a game and, ideally, swing a game in their team’s favor. But I digress…. Just a year after the Texas Rollergirls were up and running, teams were forming in Arizona. And, naturally, there was a split in that sunny state as well. But no one could stop derby from going viral. Soon after, a trailblazer from one of the Arizona leagues formed another league in Las Vegas. Before long, New York and Seattle had teams. Within two years, the viral movement proved to be growing faster than anyone anticipated, and these initial leagues and several others held a kind of flat track summit in Chicago, the home of yet another young league. It was there that the Women’s Flat Track Derby Association was formed, the genesis of the phenomena that was to go global within a few years. It was shortly after the WFTDA formation and the compiling of the first set of official rules that the Tucson league initiated the first ever national championship. The tournament would pit the sixteen WFTDA teams in a four group round robin. The top two teams from each group would advance to the elimination round to determine the best WFTDA team in the nation. But how the blue blazes was I going to get to Tucson for this historic event? THE TRANSPORTATION XXXXX, the baby girl, and I had just moved into a new house, and money was very tight. But several windfalls that came through the house allowed me to have money put aside for the hotel and to split the gas for transportation. The transportation, you ask? Well, I didn’t know what it was either. Somehow, someone negotiated our transport with The Crusher and her friend in what was hyped by Chip to be a fantastic roomy and dependable transport. I still needed to see it to judge for myself. The opportunity would come in an offer to clean out the vehicle to prepare for the trip. It was very cold on the day of the cleanup. I arrived at the address late that afternoon and hoped the vehicle I saw in the driveway was not the transport that Chip proposed would get us to Tucson. The vehicle was a small Toyota or Datsun with a glorified camper. The color reminded me of the old floor of my home in Uvalde: ‘70’s caca brown and white. I really thought I had pulled up to a San Diego getaway for Ron Burgandy, and thought my clean up would reveal a bottle of “Sex Panther”. The Captain Kangaroo era colors, rust, and “CHiP’s” vibe the vehicle was exuding was quickly depleting my faith in the vehicle. As Jim Jones, Chip, and I began to clean out the interior, my faith was spiraling to the proverbial rock bottom. The vehicle might have housed the Commodores on a trip to Town Lake. When I found the “born on” date on the driver’s side door (1982), I was officially looking for new transportation. Since I was partially responsible for financing the trip, I honestly told my colleagues how I felt. “I’m not going in this, guys.” Jim and Chip had faith, but my judgment was giving them second thoughts. Especially Jim. “I’m not going. This thing is over thirty years old. It’s officially a classic car going on an antique. I’m sorry. I’m not going in this.” XXXXXXXXX I left Howard Cosell’s winter home, searching for a way to scrape up dough for a plane ticket that was a week away.
THE FLIGHT AND ARRIVAL
Eventually, I was able to get the cash to pay for the plane ticket. I booked the flight and was mentally ready to leave. It was going to be five days away from wife, work, and my baby girl. It was a huge sacrifice that was going to prove to be the toughest thing for me. I was to leave Thursday to come back on Monday. XXXXXXX Leaving my family at the Austin airport, I remember wanting to cry. Knowing I was going to be away from not only XXXXX, but my baby XXXXX as well. It made me abhor the police state strategy of only allowing passengers on the plane staging area. It was a big personal sacrifice to be a part of flat track history. The flight would have a layover in Vegas before flying to Tucson. Downtown Dave, an announcer for Tucson, would pick me up at the airport when I arrived. The flight to Vegas was interesting. I finally got halfway through a book about hidden treasures of Templar Knights when I could see the deserts of Nevada. It seemed so vast and barren. When Vegas finally came into view, it was literally like an oasis. It was my first time in Vegas, and seeing all the sights that I only saw on TV was amazing. Waiting for the plane to Tucson, I received word that my suspicions about the camper vehicle were correct. The group, who had started their journey almost twelve hours before I did, did not even make it out of the state before the vehicle was showing its age. Desperate, Chip and Jim abandoned ship in El Paso in an effort to rent a car. There was some good news for me, though. I made $8 on the video poker machines./ / / / /
The fight into Tucson was quick and smooth, like taking a laxative after eating at Herberts in San Marcos or surfing with a mayfly. O.K., maybe that was not the greatest comparison. Needless to say, I arrived wearing my Arizona Cardinal’s jersey in a respectful homage to our hosts. It was an old Chuck Cecil home jersey, number 26, complete with the Arizona flag on the sleeve. I thought it would be a nice gesture of appreciation for our hosts and their state. Within minutes after arriving, Downtown Dave pulled into the airport pickup area in his suburban. I was pleased to meet the guy, and he seemed very amicable. Downtown was one of the voices of the Tucson league, along with Jeff Mann and Serge. Downtown was a really cool guy and his accent suggested somewhere other than the American southwest. “I’m originally from Philadelphia,” he answered when queried. We drove from the airport to the skating rink where the competition was to be held. Along the way, Arizona was just as I imagined: a concrete city built on the sands of an ancient desert. Chip and Jim were to be pulling into Tucson in just a few hours, so I was hoping to get a nap in and a good night’s rest before the tournament. Rooming with Jim and Chip, I had a sneaking suspicion there would be no rest for the wicked on this historic weekend.
FRIDAY
The roster for announcing could be described as slapdash at best. Several teams did not bring announcers to the game, so spots needed to be filled. Announcers began to lay claim to these guest teams in an effort for mic time. Which brings me to a pivotal moment among our own announce team. One that would soon turn the team on its ear. As previously mentioned, our announce team in Texas was doing pretty well together. We were proud of being selected to be a part of what was now a national phenomena. Who could blame us? But without leadership, our roles were beginning to blur. Dust Devil was the signature event where certain team members were about to reinvent themselves in an effort to build their reputation along the lines their title did not charge them with. From the beginning, especially after MotorMouth’s departure, I was well aware of the roles I felt had been established, but not clearly defined and demarcated. From my theatre perspective, each role was charged with certain duties and assignments particular to that role. The informality of our early shows and reinterpretations of suggestions from the girls (ie. Everyone being prepared to act as an interim announcer during an announcer absence) were providing space for this evolution, or dare I say, mutation of the assigned roles. Without no true leadership and, perhaps, an early distrust of some of my collegues, I felt I had no one to go to in order to keep this toxic growth in check. My fears were gaining merit with a call from Chip Queso. We were talking about our announce assignments for the bout, and after stating Whiskey and I would be the announcers for all of the Texas bouts, a curious comment from Chip would provide a harbinger of future strife: “But I want to announce a Texas game.” My initial instinct to respond to this was true and justified. “But you’re the crowd wrangler.” I didn’t say it, though I wanted to. “Whiskey and I have been assigned as the play-by-play and color, respectively. We call the bouts.” I didn’t say that, either. With no roles established, or respected, and with no formal leadership to check this ridiculous role shift, I felt like I couldn’t say anything. So I didn’t. I reasoned it was a historic event. There would be only one first-ever National Championship. I trusted Chip. He would never try and assume an announce position, a position I earned. He was going to continue to call himself the Crowd Wrangler for the Texas Rollergirls and never misrepresent himself by calling himself an announcer, which assumes a play-by-play or color role to ears that hear it. Nationals would encourage him to innovate and set a standard for Crowd Wranglers across the nation. In short, Chip would never take advantage of this opportunity to betray Whiskey and I. Only time would tell. But back to the slapdash announce teams…. Initially, the Tucson Announce team were going to announce every single bout. But with a mammoth announce schedule ahead of them and conflicting work schedules outside of the game, they changed their minds. I remember the first day being very long. Many teams were, to put it quite frankly, punked pretty bad. But for every struggling team, there were stars. I remember two standouts from Duke City, Kamikaze Kim and Death Row. Death Row put a huge hit on a rollergirl in the first bout of the night that ten-toed her opponent. I remember Quiet Storm motioning to the crowd with the international sign of quiet when she gained lead jammer status. I also remember Downtown Dave repeatedly telling Chip he could not plug in a fifth mic when the announce team was full.
/ / / / / /
Friday night was interesting, and after a hard night of drinking, all I wanted to do was sleep. I was sharing a bed with Chip Queso. As we were winding down ready for our old man sleep, Jim Jones enters. XXXXXXXXX I was close to finding sleep when the nightmare of Friday night sleep continued. Chip snored. I was pretty sure at this point I was not to get sleep at all. I had to be three, maybe four in the morning when the Sandman blessed my eyes with sleep, bringing my body to rest above the cacophony of nasal problems that resonated around the room like a pit of satanic demons playing Halo 3 on Xbox 360. Sleep. Thank you, God. Sleep. That is, until my cell phone rang. My wife missed me. And like a good husband, I went into the perpetually well lit hotel hallway to sacrifice more sleep at the altar of my wife’s peace of mind.
SATURDAY
One of the opening matchups the previous day was Texas vs. Kansas City. Leading up to the bout, online message boards were ablaze with Kansas City claiming victory in a Texas/KC match up. Chip and I had chimed in, bringing some levity to the palpable tension, but assuring KC their dreams of derby glory would be thrown out like Bill Clinton’s donated underwear. The seeds of an unlikely derby tradition had been planted. As day two went on, I called my assigned bouts and sat out the ones I was sharing with the others. I must say, my initial reactions to some of the announcers was not necessarily favorable, but would change in time. Perhaps it was the person he was paired with, but I originally thought RockerBoy was a horrible announcer. It also might have been the fact that his team, the Carolina Rollergirls, were stomping the competition. Led by Carolina star jammers, Roxy Rocket and Princess America, Carolina was quickly showing themselves to be a force to be reckoned with. In his enthusiasm, RockerBoy would unleash a screaming commentary that annoyed the hell out of me the first time I heard him. Though initially I was wary to join Whiskey to call about with Carolina, thinking Rocker was going to talk over us and scream a lot. But I was wrong. Like a true professional, Rocker adjusted his style to the more measured, yet whimsical approach of Whiskey and myself. Bob Noxious was another person that stood out to me. His approach was just as whimsical, but very professional. I remember the Tucson duo of Dave and Jeff Mann (before his heel turn gimmick change to Jeffery Calmer, an all-powerful egomaniac who is better than everyone) was a very effective, yet informal, duo. It reminded me of a buddy movie pair, serious at times, but chuckling like chums at other times. As for us, Whiskey was on the mark and hysterical as usual. When paired with a particularly unskilled announcer who, to her credit, actually made a good reference about a skater’s job outside of derby, responded with the most hilarious comment I’d ever heard: “Whoopty frikkin’ do. This is roller derby.” Dust Devil was also a chance for Jim “Kool Aid” Jones to test his play-by-play chops on the field of derby, and he was amazing. Jim had an outstanding eye for the game and his natural, dare I say, other worldly wit and sharp eye made many of the veteran announcers look like second rate hacks. Chip, on the other hand, did not do well, in my eyes. His inflection was minimal, remaining constantly at either a shout, yell, or screaming level. He talked over announcers as they called bouts and somehow remained at the table for every bout, holding on to the microphone like a child with a lollipop. I also did not appreciate how he continued to hound Downtown Dave to plug in his fifth mic during a bout despite Dave repeatedly telling him no. I was embarrassed by his actions, but once again, who could I go to? And who was I to tell him anything. But Chip’s overzealous attempts to force himself into every game was to be a side issue as a miscommunication would nurture the seeds of anger planted on message boards that would sprout into a Texas Rollergirls tradition.
/ / / / / /
Returning from the Saturday night afterparty where I was privileged enough to chat with the witty future WFTDA president, CrackerJack, I noticed a veritable treasure chest of alcoholic glee. It was a kind of “manna from heaven” that confused me at its presence and neglect: Eight completely fresh and unopened Coors Light cans. I had found a Godsend, a silver windfall that, by all accounts, was all mine. Seeing derby activity at a set of hotel rooms, I approached in an effort to magnanimously share my booty of silver bullets. I walked into the first room. It was a contingent of Kansas City Warriors. I feigned the role of Sally Struthers, searching for a home for my neglected cans of silver. Several found a loving home. I don’t recall all the girls that were in that room that night, but I do remember Boobarella. When I mistakenly thought her name was Pooperella, she tried to get me in a legitimate Thai clinch to deliver knees to my bollocks. I walked to the adjacent room where my collegue D’Nouncer Dwayne was said to be present. I once again started into my “Give a Beer a Home” routine and was greeted by a cold indifference. D”Nouncer Dwayne was the first to comment. “Julio, you have a lot of apologizing to do.” “What are you talking about?” I asked with a confused smile. “You called one of our girls a fat ass.” I was immediately stunned. As a general rule, I never insult rollergirls, especially over the microphone. I do remember making a comment when a group of Kansas girls were dancing to a random song the DJ was playing that one of them was “shaking that ass”. But it was in no way an insult. I stood in the doorway, confused and upset. Maybe they thought I called her a fat ass? I had to find the girl and resolve this horrible mistake. But on my way out the door, I came face to face with Dee Klaw, one of the orneriest rollergirls in the world, who confronted me with the allegation. “You know,” she started, looking me in the eyes, “It’s really shitty of you to call (girl’s name) a fat ass and come around here trying to be everybody’s friend.” I had to say something. “I swear I didn’t call her that.” But I was so confused. I had done a lot of drinking, but I tend to remember things I’ve done, with few exceptions. Especially with insults. Dee Klaw wasn’t hearing it, and groaned in disgust. “What you did was not cool, and you’re full of shit.” It was obvious their minds were made up. I walked away, feeling the definition of every letter in the word dejected.
SUNDAY
Saturday had been a tough day all around. Announcing was tough, having to deal with the “fat ass” rumor was another thing. But the toughest thing I was having to deal with was being homesick. By this time, it was the fourth day of being away, and despite the fun that was being had, I was feeling a little guilty having left my wife and child alone. It did not help that I allowed her to listen in on some announcing and, as usual, took something I said the wrong way. Keeping the phone by my side more for her security than mine, I decided to answer her call during a pre-match hype session. I did not talk to her directly, just answered the phone and placed it on the table. I happened to make a comment that I saw the Chicago team changing in the Men’s restroom in an effort to display that the rollergirls owned this skate center this weekend. My wife, on the other hand, assumed wild stuff was happening in the restrooms, and that I took part in it. Man. In spite of my guilt, I was going to enjoy watching the Texas Rollergirls play and, at this point, dominate. The power and the glory of the Texas Rollergirls was unveiled to the flat track nation. Texas finished Tucson decisively, and proved once again to be kryptonite to Tucson’s Supergirl. Pretty much for a full three days, it was one giant party. And with Brown Paper Tickets footing the bill on drinks, it was a veritable Bacchanalle. I remember eating a huge Frito Pie and telling Jim Jones, “This isn’t for nourishment, my friend”. Dionysus would have been proud. On the previous days, I was dressed in my signature guayaberas and zarape. But on the Sunday of this bout, I dressed in my best business gray suit, bright blue shirt, tie, and my zarape, I was “stylin’ and profilin’”. Ric Flair would have been proud. And with my trusty zarape over my shoulder, there was no announcer, bar none, that was a suave as Julio E. Glasses. That entire Sunday, a local mariachi group played in between bouts. I asked the group if they would allow me to sing “El Rey” with their group. I was pleasantly surprised when they said yes. I was even more surprised when exiting the bathroom later that evening when the mariachi were lined up by the announce booth and started to play before I had a mic in my hand. I was a little nervous as I had been calling a lot of games and partying pretty hard. My voice had taken a beating despite multiple vocal warm-ups. But it was as if I was channeling the spirit of Jose Alfredo Jimenez as, per my latin crooner gimmick, I belted out the first verse of “El Rey” with gusto to my flat track derby compadres. It was excellent, and a very proud moment for me. The evening ended with a rather exciting final conflict between the Tucson Saddletramps. After a fierce and exciting battle, Texas came out on top and became the first WFTDA National Champions. As the night winded down, I worked my way to the back door to get to my ride to the afterparty. I was greeted at the exit by two derby fans. “Julio, you were awesome, man.” “Thanks, guys.” I was already buzzed and trying to come down from my drunken haze when the guys offered me a styrofoam cup of benevolently toxic fluid. “Dude, take a shot with us.” I took the medium sized cup in my hand and immediately noticed how heavy it felt. I looked into the cup and observed how it was close to a third full of a dark fluid. The aroma was malevolently strong. It was probably something I should not drink in its entirety. It made me recall a hilarious part of the late, great Sam Kinison’s stand up routine. The legendary comic commented how being a superstar with such a hard driving reputation, people had unreasonable expectations for him. Especially when it came to partying. His joke centered around going to parties where people are doing regular lines of cocaine in and around the party. But when he arrives, they make an extra long line for him, with unprepped powder so big they, “…look like rocks you could put in your driveway”. Sam relates that he understands the danger, but does it anyway because its what his fans and friends expect and he doesn’t want to let them down. By the end of the evening, his heart is thumping at 100 miles per hour and he excuses himself to a backroom to pray to God for his life, all the while encouraging his friends to keep partying while he looks for shoe polish to drink to prevent his heart attack. That pretty much sums up how I felt in this moment. I learned my lesson about hard alcohol during the infancy of my alcoholism in college. Lots of headaches and hangovers and, fortunately, no butt-rapes or pictures taken of me with genitals around my face. Since then, my loyalty has been to beer, sustaining my family tradition. Great, huh? So the cup of Jagermeister that stood before me now is what I could only describe as a “Heroic Dose” by any standard. And like Sam, I felt the pressure. I’m the “rockstar voice” of the Texas Rollergirls. These people know the hard partying reputation of the rollergirls. It was, therefore, my duty to take that shot. For God and country. Or, more appropriately, for Flat Track and Texas. And like Sam Kinison before me, I took it. And the Legend of Frankie the Zarape would begin.
THE LEGEND OF FRANKIE THE ZARAPE Let me introduce my friend, permanent announcer sidekick, and eternal friend, Frankie the Zarape. Frankie the Zarape was Made in Mexico and somehow transported to the famous Mercado of San Antonio where it lay for months at a time, its destiny unknown. Most of Frankie’s brothers and sisters were purchased to be draped in windows or along the walls of the various Mexican food establishments that pepper the Texas urban landscape. Frankie was prepared to suffer the same ignoble fate.
However, one day, on a traditional trip to the Mercado to eat at Mi Tierra and drink Carta Blanca and Bohemia while listening to the trios that sing in the famous San Antonio restaurant, I wandered the Mercado in search of a zarape. I had seen a picture several times of Mexican revolutionary Francisco "Pancho" Villa and his wife in which Villa wore a zarape draped across his shoulder. Mexican chic at its best. I had to have one. Searching around a store, Frankie called to me, and I answered her call. I purchased her for a little more than what she might have cost in Mexico, but I wanted it. I immediately tossed her over his shoulder and wore her the rest of the day. My new friend and I returned home, and Frankie sat on a hanger in safety for months at a time. I would only pull her out to take her out with me when I hit Sixth Street to drink alone or with friends. When I made the cut to become a member of the newly formed Texas Rollergirls organization in 2002, Frankie called to me once again. I tossed her over my shoulder like a Mexican Revolutionary and she brought an edge to my traditional guayabera shirt. Together, we called the bouts of the Texas Rollergirls.
And so the legend began…
Back to Tucson… The Jager was attacking me like some kind of industrial strength CIA sponsored drug as I walked out the door. I vaguely remember talking to Sparkle Plenty and someone snapped a picture. It was very curious to see all the orbs and ecto-plasmic swirls when the picture was developed. The night was already resonating powerfully, and I’m convinced these desert spirits were going to join in the fun as well. I was soon spirited away to the Jim Jones-mobile and stuffed into the car like a sardine. I probably shouldn’t have been in there. I’m sorry, Appoca-Lipps. The afterparty was also a blur. I remember Dirty Little Secret of the Rats leaving in her gaudy vintage polka-dot dress as we arrived. This Rat City girl hated my call during one of her initial bouts, and had no problem calling me out and challenging me to a physical confrontation after assuming her name related to a Melissa Ethridge album. Her words still ring clear: “That’s not what my name is in reference to and I hate you for saying that.” I wonder what she meant by that? Seriously, I never thought a girl was going to punch me in the face before that moment. At the afterparty, I remember shambling to the Seattle, New York, and Providence teams and making a drunken ass of myself. And, perhaps, stumbling around the bar drunk as a Mexican skunk might have been the spark a conspiratorial group of rollergirls needed. By this point, the Jaeger, combined with the loads of Old Style (a beer I was dreaming of drinking for years) had provided a convenient and swift portal into the spirit world, ala the ‘80’s hit “Young Guns”. “Why aren’t they shootin’ at us?” As the evening wore on, I staggered outside. “We’re in the spirit world, asshole. They can’t see us.” Communing with the friendly spirits outside the bar in the cool desert night of Tucson, I felt a gentle tug at my zarape. “Did you see the size of that chicken.” The tug turned into a full-blown yank and my zarape was whisked off by shoulder. I spun around like a top and watched visions of red and black scrambling back into the bar with my zarape in tow. In my stupor, I didn’t panic. My thinking was someone was playing a trick on me and I’ll see it by the end of the evening. As I crashed out back at the hotel room I somehow made it back to, I was not to see my zarape again for a long time.#
The next morning, things were to turn from bad to extremely worse. I missed my morning flight. Hung over and reeling, I got my stuff and made a mad dash to the airport. After the cocksucking police state pieces of shit called the FAA profiled me as a potential terrorist because I told them my shoes were not steel toed so there was no need for me to take off my shoes, I made my way to the terminal. By this point, my wife had heard the news and had been yelling at me over the phone. She was grossly upset at my mistake and spouted cruel obscenities and hateful speech at her irresponsible husband. How could I blame her? For the past five days I had participated in a massive party longer than the first Gulf War thousands of miles away from home. My wife was left alone with our infant child with no help. I had promised her I would take the early flight home and be back home relatively early. I failed in that promise. My wife was so upset with me that my own mother had to drive from almost two hundred miles away to pick me up at the Austin airport. XXXXX would not do it. I returned home from the first ever WFTDA National Championship sad and ashamed. For several days after, I was prepared to walk away from the Texas Rollergirls.
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More to come...
April 4, 2016
FIGHTS: LOUDMOUTH - Chapter 9 - The Birth.....
At the end of my past life, I earned the right to be the first flat track derby announcer with the Texas Rollergirls.
What follows is a very old, very unauthorized, and very unedited version of the document I produced describing my experiences during the genesis of flat track derby. It would be some of the last moments of my past life.
Enjoy.
LOUDMOUTH: Confessions of a Flat Track Derby Announcer
By
Bowie V. Ibarra
Copyright 2007 Bowie V. Ibarra
“Angel baby. My angel baby”- Rosie and the Originals, “Angel Baby” Chapter IX: The Birth of Gwendolyn Maya
“I think we should have a baby soon,” I said XXXXX as we sat in hungry anticipation in the Taco Bell drive thru. We knew we wanted a child, xxxxxxxxxxxx. But I preferred practicing making babies until we moved out of the trashy Longhorn Station apartments just off of Riverside down Willow Creek Drive in Austin. I did not even want to consider the creation of another human being until we had a house. And that seemed a long way off to my immature mind. But the infinite love that is the universe has a way of making people plans on this planet we call earth and Bob Noxious calls Krazlon-4. Two months after I made the comment before ordering two crispy tacos with a side of nacho cheese and a nacho supreme with no sour cream but with lettuce, xxxxx was two months late. A trip to the gynecologist confirmed our greatest dream and deepest fear. xxxxxxxx, my wife, was pregnant. For several days, I was deeply depressed. I drank a lot, maybe too much at times. I was not upset that xxxxx was pregnant. Rather, I was upset because we were not living the life we should have been living, or at least the life I wanted for my child. I wanted a house and not these horrible apartments. So for the months leading to the birth, we prepared the apartment as much as we could, knowing our lease would be up. We needed a cheaper apartment, so we made arrangements to move in to XXXX's sister’s apartment. The move would take place soon after our baby would be born. The day finally came when our baby girl would soon join us. Who would she look like? How big would she be? People always asked me if I wanted a boy or a girl. Naturally, a boy would be fantastic and a chance to pass on my family name. But my reality was I wanted a healthy child. It really did not matter whether it was a boy or a girl. I was going to love that child with all my heart and soul. I was already taking care of the child while in the womb. I made sure XXXXX was as happy and relaxed as possible at every moment possible. The idea being that the baby can certainly not understand our words, but it must be able to feel the vibrational energy around it. I wanted to make sure that the energy that was resonating in and around the child was as positive as possible while the chemical reactions were forming our baby. Kooky, I know. My true wish for XXXXX health was also to facilitate her mind and anticipated intelligence. Every night, even into the first months in, I would read to XXXX belly. From Seuss to Homer, from simple poems to scenes from Shakespeare, I would read. I also made sure to make several classical music tapes to play over a headset placed on XXXX belly. I had to let nature take its course, but found my own way to project my love to our future child. Anyway, so the night came when XXX water broke. It was an absolutely horrifying night for me. I was so unprepared. XXXX remained pretty calm, despite being the short tempered and emotional Leo she was. I really thought I could actually go to sleep, thinking her contractions were not close enough together to warrant going to the hospital. That would have been the case had her water not broke. So we had to go to the hospital. As the evening turned to morning, things were to get much worse for me emotionally. XXXXXXXXXXXX When we reached the twentieth hour, it was recommended we have a cesarean. I was heartbroken. Yet my dearest XXXXX, still in immense pain, was as noble, beautiful, and graceful as I’ve ever seen her before. As bizarre as this might sound, I thought she was an angel. As calm as I’d ever seen her, she took my hand into hers. Still tied to monitors, meds, and other equipment, XXXX looked into my eyes and gently whispered, “Everything’s going to be alright.” I swear sometimes XXXX is some kind of spirit medium, channeling a kind of infinite love or some cosmic spirit bent on bringing peace of heart to our world. And as per the duality of that power, she can also be a destroyer as well. And isn’t that just the definition of womanhood. It’s no wonder that goddess worship, a common practice before the patriarchal dominance of Christianity took over the Western religious landscape, was so prominent and sacred. Her magnanimous benevolence reminded me of an evening in the early days of our relationship, during one of our many special moments together. XXXX and I liked to find quiet spots to spend time together, away from the hustle and bustle of the work-a-day world. Occasionally, we would drive into an open field of dirt and dust, the spot of some sort of future crop. Away from the hot lights of the city, the cool light of the stars and moon provided the only illumination for our intimate rendezvous. The Cavalier interior was small, but fiery passion always makes due, no matter how much headroom is available. On this particular night, as the moment was advancing forward intimately, a good Hays County Deputy was patrolling these very backroads and spotlighted our vehicle in the field. Very obviously caught for trespassing, we prepared for the worst. I was very angry and very embarrassed. My distrust and hatred toward law enforcement was at an all time high and I was stewing with rage. As the vehicle pulled into the field, XXXXX took me by the hand, looked me in the eye and said, “I Love You”. In that moment, I knew she was an angel sent to teach me how to lead a better life. But I digress… Back to the birth of XXXXXXX… The surgical procedure was to take place later that evening at ten o’clock, November 23rd, 2004. XXXXXX noted that it was the time Iron Chef was on Food Network, the show her mother and I watched every night. So XXXXX encouraged me to go get something to eat and drink while she rested, waiting for the procedure. I have to imagine she wanted me out of the room, as I was probably stressing her out. Let me also state for the record that, in my opinion, women have the toughest job on the planet. They live in a predominantly patriarchal and male dominated society, pretty much around the entire world. They are subjected to chauvinism, criticism, and exploitation everywhere they go. And then they still have to give birth after having held the child for nine months in constant discomfort, culminating in one of the most physically intense, demanding, and unbelievably painful moments the human body could endure. I walked across the street to Waterloo Icehouse and had a burger and a soda. I was so scared. I knew I had to be brave though. Still upset and disappointed in how things worked out, I still had to gird my loins and prepare to be by my wife’s side during the surgery. Within a few hours, she was prepped, then I was prepped. It was soon time. Like all moments of intensity in life, it was like a dream. Machines and equipment were scattered throughout and faceless and masked hospital staff positioned themselves around the room. Their uniform mint green colored robes and masks give a sense of a group of priests at an ancient Aztec blood ritual. Sheets were hung over my wife’s face, I guess to protect her from having to look at the procedure. I stood by her side holding her hand while I watched the advanced surgical procedure. I also remembered the surgeon being a bit too vociferous and brash during the procedure. This was not the M*A*S*H unit 4077. I wanted to yell at him and tell him to quit clowning around. Goddamn putz! Pay attention to what you’re doing! So the procedure advanced forward. I watched as the surgeons made several precise cuts before pulling our baby from the belly of her mother. It was an amazing moment hearing her cry out for the first time, and an even greater feeling knowing I wanted to hold her and make her feel better. I remember leaving XXXX side briefly to look at our little angel. She was to be fair skinned like her mother, and by all accounts, was going to be as beautiful as her mother. We were moved to an intimate holding room where our newborn daughter, XXXXXXX Ibarra, rested peacefully with her newly blessed mother and father. XXXXX and I snuggled in the bed and despite XXXX severe discomfort, we both took a much needed rest with our new baby child.
=====
More to Come...
What follows is a very old, very unauthorized, and very unedited version of the document I produced describing my experiences during the genesis of flat track derby. It would be some of the last moments of my past life.
Enjoy.
LOUDMOUTH: Confessions of a Flat Track Derby Announcer
By
Bowie V. Ibarra
Copyright 2007 Bowie V. Ibarra
“Angel baby. My angel baby”- Rosie and the Originals, “Angel Baby” Chapter IX: The Birth of Gwendolyn Maya
“I think we should have a baby soon,” I said XXXXX as we sat in hungry anticipation in the Taco Bell drive thru. We knew we wanted a child, xxxxxxxxxxxx. But I preferred practicing making babies until we moved out of the trashy Longhorn Station apartments just off of Riverside down Willow Creek Drive in Austin. I did not even want to consider the creation of another human being until we had a house. And that seemed a long way off to my immature mind. But the infinite love that is the universe has a way of making people plans on this planet we call earth and Bob Noxious calls Krazlon-4. Two months after I made the comment before ordering two crispy tacos with a side of nacho cheese and a nacho supreme with no sour cream but with lettuce, xxxxx was two months late. A trip to the gynecologist confirmed our greatest dream and deepest fear. xxxxxxxx, my wife, was pregnant. For several days, I was deeply depressed. I drank a lot, maybe too much at times. I was not upset that xxxxx was pregnant. Rather, I was upset because we were not living the life we should have been living, or at least the life I wanted for my child. I wanted a house and not these horrible apartments. So for the months leading to the birth, we prepared the apartment as much as we could, knowing our lease would be up. We needed a cheaper apartment, so we made arrangements to move in to XXXX's sister’s apartment. The move would take place soon after our baby would be born. The day finally came when our baby girl would soon join us. Who would she look like? How big would she be? People always asked me if I wanted a boy or a girl. Naturally, a boy would be fantastic and a chance to pass on my family name. But my reality was I wanted a healthy child. It really did not matter whether it was a boy or a girl. I was going to love that child with all my heart and soul. I was already taking care of the child while in the womb. I made sure XXXXX was as happy and relaxed as possible at every moment possible. The idea being that the baby can certainly not understand our words, but it must be able to feel the vibrational energy around it. I wanted to make sure that the energy that was resonating in and around the child was as positive as possible while the chemical reactions were forming our baby. Kooky, I know. My true wish for XXXXX health was also to facilitate her mind and anticipated intelligence. Every night, even into the first months in, I would read to XXXX belly. From Seuss to Homer, from simple poems to scenes from Shakespeare, I would read. I also made sure to make several classical music tapes to play over a headset placed on XXXX belly. I had to let nature take its course, but found my own way to project my love to our future child. Anyway, so the night came when XXX water broke. It was an absolutely horrifying night for me. I was so unprepared. XXXX remained pretty calm, despite being the short tempered and emotional Leo she was. I really thought I could actually go to sleep, thinking her contractions were not close enough together to warrant going to the hospital. That would have been the case had her water not broke. So we had to go to the hospital. As the evening turned to morning, things were to get much worse for me emotionally. XXXXXXXXXXXX When we reached the twentieth hour, it was recommended we have a cesarean. I was heartbroken. Yet my dearest XXXXX, still in immense pain, was as noble, beautiful, and graceful as I’ve ever seen her before. As bizarre as this might sound, I thought she was an angel. As calm as I’d ever seen her, she took my hand into hers. Still tied to monitors, meds, and other equipment, XXXX looked into my eyes and gently whispered, “Everything’s going to be alright.” I swear sometimes XXXX is some kind of spirit medium, channeling a kind of infinite love or some cosmic spirit bent on bringing peace of heart to our world. And as per the duality of that power, she can also be a destroyer as well. And isn’t that just the definition of womanhood. It’s no wonder that goddess worship, a common practice before the patriarchal dominance of Christianity took over the Western religious landscape, was so prominent and sacred. Her magnanimous benevolence reminded me of an evening in the early days of our relationship, during one of our many special moments together. XXXX and I liked to find quiet spots to spend time together, away from the hustle and bustle of the work-a-day world. Occasionally, we would drive into an open field of dirt and dust, the spot of some sort of future crop. Away from the hot lights of the city, the cool light of the stars and moon provided the only illumination for our intimate rendezvous. The Cavalier interior was small, but fiery passion always makes due, no matter how much headroom is available. On this particular night, as the moment was advancing forward intimately, a good Hays County Deputy was patrolling these very backroads and spotlighted our vehicle in the field. Very obviously caught for trespassing, we prepared for the worst. I was very angry and very embarrassed. My distrust and hatred toward law enforcement was at an all time high and I was stewing with rage. As the vehicle pulled into the field, XXXXX took me by the hand, looked me in the eye and said, “I Love You”. In that moment, I knew she was an angel sent to teach me how to lead a better life. But I digress… Back to the birth of XXXXXXX… The surgical procedure was to take place later that evening at ten o’clock, November 23rd, 2004. XXXXXX noted that it was the time Iron Chef was on Food Network, the show her mother and I watched every night. So XXXXX encouraged me to go get something to eat and drink while she rested, waiting for the procedure. I have to imagine she wanted me out of the room, as I was probably stressing her out. Let me also state for the record that, in my opinion, women have the toughest job on the planet. They live in a predominantly patriarchal and male dominated society, pretty much around the entire world. They are subjected to chauvinism, criticism, and exploitation everywhere they go. And then they still have to give birth after having held the child for nine months in constant discomfort, culminating in one of the most physically intense, demanding, and unbelievably painful moments the human body could endure. I walked across the street to Waterloo Icehouse and had a burger and a soda. I was so scared. I knew I had to be brave though. Still upset and disappointed in how things worked out, I still had to gird my loins and prepare to be by my wife’s side during the surgery. Within a few hours, she was prepped, then I was prepped. It was soon time. Like all moments of intensity in life, it was like a dream. Machines and equipment were scattered throughout and faceless and masked hospital staff positioned themselves around the room. Their uniform mint green colored robes and masks give a sense of a group of priests at an ancient Aztec blood ritual. Sheets were hung over my wife’s face, I guess to protect her from having to look at the procedure. I stood by her side holding her hand while I watched the advanced surgical procedure. I also remembered the surgeon being a bit too vociferous and brash during the procedure. This was not the M*A*S*H unit 4077. I wanted to yell at him and tell him to quit clowning around. Goddamn putz! Pay attention to what you’re doing! So the procedure advanced forward. I watched as the surgeons made several precise cuts before pulling our baby from the belly of her mother. It was an amazing moment hearing her cry out for the first time, and an even greater feeling knowing I wanted to hold her and make her feel better. I remember leaving XXXX side briefly to look at our little angel. She was to be fair skinned like her mother, and by all accounts, was going to be as beautiful as her mother. We were moved to an intimate holding room where our newborn daughter, XXXXXXX Ibarra, rested peacefully with her newly blessed mother and father. XXXXX and I snuggled in the bed and despite XXXX severe discomfort, we both took a much needed rest with our new baby child.
=====
More to Come...
BLOOD: YouTube Review of 'C.H.U.D." by Horrors of the Universe
Trioxin Steve of Horrors of the Universe takes on 'C.H.U.D.'
Check it out. Click on the movie poster below and leave a comment. Share far and wide if you liked it.
Thanks for stopping by.
Like lucha libre? Enjoy Zombies? Then pick up the ZBFbooks.com title, 'Sword of the Angel'. It's about a Mexican luchador who faces the zombie apocalypse with spectators after a pro-wrestling event in San Antonio. It's a great title you can find HERE in paperback or kindle.
BOWIE V. IBARRA is the author of the 'Down the Road' zombie horror series from Permuted Press. Bowie likes to refer to his works as Tex-Mexploitation, as they all feature strong cultural elements of south Texas, where Bowie was raised. Some titles include '', 'Tejano Star and the , and Alamo Rising.Network with Bowie at his official website ZBFbooks.com.
Check it out. Click on the movie poster below and leave a comment. Share far and wide if you liked it.
Thanks for stopping by.Like lucha libre? Enjoy Zombies? Then pick up the ZBFbooks.com title, 'Sword of the Angel'. It's about a Mexican luchador who faces the zombie apocalypse with spectators after a pro-wrestling event in San Antonio. It's a great title you can find HERE in paperback or kindle.
BOWIE V. IBARRA is the author of the 'Down the Road' zombie horror series from Permuted Press. Bowie likes to refer to his works as Tex-Mexploitation, as they all feature strong cultural elements of south Texas, where Bowie was raised. Some titles include '', 'Tejano Star and the , and Alamo Rising.Network with Bowie at his official website ZBFbooks.com.
April 1, 2016
BLOOD: YouTube Review of "Two Evil Eyes" by Horrors of the Universe
Here's another review from Horrors of the universe for 'Two Evil Eyes'.
Check it out by clicking on the movie poster.
Follow Steve at his Horrors of the Universe YouTube Channel HERE.And if you need a story filled with Zombies, Blood, or Fights, look no further thanHERE.
And if you need more zombie horror, check out 'Alamo Rising' the supernatural horror sensation from ZBFbooks.com. Click on the book to get a copy today via paperback or Kindle.
Check it out by clicking on the movie poster.
Follow Steve at his Horrors of the Universe YouTube Channel HERE.And if you need a story filled with Zombies, Blood, or Fights, look no further thanHERE.
And if you need more zombie horror, check out 'Alamo Rising' the supernatural horror sensation from ZBFbooks.com. Click on the book to get a copy today via paperback or Kindle.
BLOOD: YouTube Review of "Prison" by Horrors of the Universe
Here's another review from "Horrors of the Universe" review for "Prison".
Check it out. Click on the movie poster and go directly to the video review.
Follow Steve at his Horrors of the Universe YouTube Channel HERE.And if you need a story filled with Zombies, Blood, or Fights, look no further thanHERE.
And if you need more zombie horror, check out the 'Down the Road' zombie horror series from Permuted Press. Down the Road, Down the Road: On the Last Day, andDown the Road: The Fall of Austin. Pick them up in paperback or Kindle today.
BOWIE V. IBARRA earned his BFA in Acting and MA in Theatre History from Texas State University. Network with Bowie at his official website, ZombieBloodFights.comtoday.
Check it out. Click on the movie poster and go directly to the video review.
Follow Steve at his Horrors of the Universe YouTube Channel HERE.And if you need a story filled with Zombies, Blood, or Fights, look no further thanHERE.
And if you need more zombie horror, check out the 'Down the Road' zombie horror series from Permuted Press. Down the Road, Down the Road: On the Last Day, andDown the Road: The Fall of Austin. Pick them up in paperback or Kindle today.
BOWIE V. IBARRA earned his BFA in Acting and MA in Theatre History from Texas State University. Network with Bowie at his official website, ZombieBloodFights.comtoday.
March 31, 2016
BLOOD: YouTube Review "The Voices" by Horrors of the Universe
By Bowie V. Ibarra of ZBFbooks.com
Check it out.My buddy Steve-O brings you a great little review from his home in SATX. Check it out, and leave your opinions in the comment section below.
Follow Steve at his Horrors of the Universe YouTube Channel HERE.
And if you need a story filled with Zombies, Blood, or Fights, look no further than HERE.
And if you need more zombie horror, check out the 'Down the Road' zombie horror series from Permuted Press. Down the Road, Down the Road: On the Last Day, andDown the Road: The Fall of Austin. Pick them up in paperback or Kindle today.
BOWIE V. IBARRA earned his BFA in Acting and MA in Theatre History from Texas State University. Network with Bowie at his official website, ZombieBloodFights.comtoday.
Check it out.My buddy Steve-O brings you a great little review from his home in SATX. Check it out, and leave your opinions in the comment section below.
Follow Steve at his Horrors of the Universe YouTube Channel HERE.
And if you need a story filled with Zombies, Blood, or Fights, look no further than HERE.
And if you need more zombie horror, check out the 'Down the Road' zombie horror series from Permuted Press. Down the Road, Down the Road: On the Last Day, andDown the Road: The Fall of Austin. Pick them up in paperback or Kindle today.
BOWIE V. IBARRA earned his BFA in Acting and MA in Theatre History from Texas State University. Network with Bowie at his official website, ZombieBloodFights.comtoday.March 28, 2016
FIGHTS: LOUDMOUTH - Chapter 8 - Buckshot Betsy and Sparkle Plenty
At the end of my past life, I earned the right to be the first flat track derby announcer with the Texas Rollergirls.
What follows is a very old, very unauthorized, and very unedited version of the document I produced describing my experiences during the genesis of flat track derby. It would be some of the last moments of my past life.
Enjoy.
LOUDMOUTH: Confessions of a Flat Track Derby Announcer
By
Bowie V. Ibarra
Copyright 2007 Bowie V. Ibarra
“Keep smiling’. Keep shinin’Knowing you can always count on meFor sure.That’s what friends are for”.- “That’s What Friends are For”, 1985
Chapter VIII: Buckshot Betsy and Sparkle Plenty
Driving home from my hometown of Uvalde late one Sunday afternoon, I noticed a very peculiar baby blue Jeep Cherokee just outside of New Braunfels going up IH-35.
Buckshot Betsy Originally, it drew my attention because of its obnoxious color, standing out from the traffic like a large baby carriage, or pram if you are from Great Britain. As my vehicle revved closer, bold white letters spelled out the Texas Rollergirls website, which is
http://www.txrollergirls.com
by the way. I revved even closer and pulled up beside them. To my genuine surprise, it was Sparkle Plenty and Buckshot Betsy. The girls were pretty much a duo. You didn’t get one without the other, it seemed. You kind of get the feeling they would do everything together, like rob a bank or kill someone. Well, maybe not the “kill someone” bit, but rob a bank, for sure. Their friendship came across as that strong to me. They were staples at some of Austin’s early Air Guitar Championships, and I seem to remember being told they advanced very far in the tournament. For the longest time, their MySpace picture was a great action shot of the both of them rocking out on a stage somewhere, Sparkle dropping the lyrics while Betsy rocked out with the guitar in a pose reminiscent of the ‘80’s glam rock days. It was a great picture.
Sparkle Plenty I waved enthusiastically at them and I think they were also pleasantly surprised to see me, too. I wanted to call Sparkle from my vehicle, but felt it was not necessary. I guess I did not call because I don’t necessarily feel their equal, from a pro-wrestling perspective. I don’t mean wrestling them, either. Anyway, what I meant by a pro-wrestling perspective is that they are the stars of the show. I’m just the lowly announcer. My job is to make sure to get them over. It still made me very happy to see them. The moment brought back a moment from the early days of the league when Sparkle and Buckshot gave me an impromptu phone call, leaving a really cool message about how great my announcing was and how they were happy to have me on board with them. I remember thinking initially that it was good that they left the message. XXXXXX certainly would not have understood their sincerity and would have probably gave me a piece of her mind. Sparkle eventually formed a more professional bond with the announce team while emerging as one of the best pivots in the nation. Buckshot respectfully kept her distance which meant a lot when she did say things to me. She lauded my work when Tucson came over for a second battle with Texas, and I still remember how sincerely pleased she was when she told me she liked some of the things I came up with. The Texas announce team likes to joke that very few people pay attention to what we have to say. That is, if they can even hear us.
But I like to think that Buckshot and Sparkle are listening and I hope that every once in a while, I can make them chuckle while making them proud.
======
More to come...
For more info on the Texas Rollergirls, visit their website HERE.
What follows is a very old, very unauthorized, and very unedited version of the document I produced describing my experiences during the genesis of flat track derby. It would be some of the last moments of my past life.
Enjoy.
LOUDMOUTH: Confessions of a Flat Track Derby Announcer
By
Bowie V. Ibarra
Copyright 2007 Bowie V. Ibarra
“Keep smiling’. Keep shinin’Knowing you can always count on meFor sure.That’s what friends are for”.- “That’s What Friends are For”, 1985
Chapter VIII: Buckshot Betsy and Sparkle Plenty
Driving home from my hometown of Uvalde late one Sunday afternoon, I noticed a very peculiar baby blue Jeep Cherokee just outside of New Braunfels going up IH-35.
Buckshot Betsy Originally, it drew my attention because of its obnoxious color, standing out from the traffic like a large baby carriage, or pram if you are from Great Britain. As my vehicle revved closer, bold white letters spelled out the Texas Rollergirls website, which is
http://www.txrollergirls.com
by the way. I revved even closer and pulled up beside them. To my genuine surprise, it was Sparkle Plenty and Buckshot Betsy. The girls were pretty much a duo. You didn’t get one without the other, it seemed. You kind of get the feeling they would do everything together, like rob a bank or kill someone. Well, maybe not the “kill someone” bit, but rob a bank, for sure. Their friendship came across as that strong to me. They were staples at some of Austin’s early Air Guitar Championships, and I seem to remember being told they advanced very far in the tournament. For the longest time, their MySpace picture was a great action shot of the both of them rocking out on a stage somewhere, Sparkle dropping the lyrics while Betsy rocked out with the guitar in a pose reminiscent of the ‘80’s glam rock days. It was a great picture.
Sparkle Plenty I waved enthusiastically at them and I think they were also pleasantly surprised to see me, too. I wanted to call Sparkle from my vehicle, but felt it was not necessary. I guess I did not call because I don’t necessarily feel their equal, from a pro-wrestling perspective. I don’t mean wrestling them, either. Anyway, what I meant by a pro-wrestling perspective is that they are the stars of the show. I’m just the lowly announcer. My job is to make sure to get them over. It still made me very happy to see them. The moment brought back a moment from the early days of the league when Sparkle and Buckshot gave me an impromptu phone call, leaving a really cool message about how great my announcing was and how they were happy to have me on board with them. I remember thinking initially that it was good that they left the message. XXXXXX certainly would not have understood their sincerity and would have probably gave me a piece of her mind. Sparkle eventually formed a more professional bond with the announce team while emerging as one of the best pivots in the nation. Buckshot respectfully kept her distance which meant a lot when she did say things to me. She lauded my work when Tucson came over for a second battle with Texas, and I still remember how sincerely pleased she was when she told me she liked some of the things I came up with. The Texas announce team likes to joke that very few people pay attention to what we have to say. That is, if they can even hear us.But I like to think that Buckshot and Sparkle are listening and I hope that every once in a while, I can make them chuckle while making them proud.
======
More to come...
For more info on the Texas Rollergirls, visit their website HERE.
March 25, 2016
FIGHTS: LOUDMOUTH - CHAPTER 6 - The Texas Rollergirls Announce Team
At the end of my past life, I earned the right to be the first flat track derby announcer with the Texas Rollergirls.
What follows is a very old, very unauthorized, and very unedited version of the document I produced describing my experiences during the genesis of flat track derby. It would be some of the last moments of my past life.
Enjoy.
LOUDMOUTH: Confessions of a Flat Track Derby Announcer
By
Bowie V. Ibarra
Copyright 2007 Bowie V. Ibarra
“Good God! Good God! Would somebody stop the damn match! Enough’s enough!”- Jim Ross, WWE Announcing legend, during the infamous Mankind/Undertaker Hell in a Cell match
Chapter VII: The Texas Rollergirls Announce Team
For the most part, the announce team has remained a constant. Here is a brief biography of the people who have formally lent their voices to the Texas flat track revolution.
WHISKEY L’AMOUR – PLAY BY PLAY Nicknames: The First Lady of Flat Track Derby AnnuncingSign: AriesMemorable Quote: “Whoopty Frikkin’ Doo, this is Roller Derby.Gimmick: A voice of many colors, Whiskey will forever be remembered for her outrageous costumes and bright smile. Retired after the National Championship 2007.Oh, yeah. And her boobs.Consecutive Three Time Announcer of the Year Award Winner.
LES McGEHEE – MASTER OF CEREMONIES Nickname: MotormouthGimmick: An old school skating announcer complete with vintage suit and skates. In his brief stint, will be remembered for his extremely witty remarks and ad-libbed praise of the Texas Rollergirls. His “foreigners” bit is still used to this day.Notable Recognition: Master of improvisational comedy and author of “Plays Well with Others”, a veritable bible of improve comedy advice and sage words for living.
CHIP QUESO – CROWD WRANGLER Sign: LeoNicknames: The God of Gouda, The King of Chamobere, The Ayatollah of Gorgonzolla, Prince of Provolone, The Chedder Jackass, The Monterrery Jackoff, Cheiftan of Cheddar, Mozzerella Masterbater, Velociraptor.Memorable Quotes: (Something that resembles English screamed over the microphone. Probably Gaelic.)Gimmick: Rarely referenced love of cheese. Known for schmoozing with every rollergirl and league in his general vicinity or driving distance. Never met a camera he didn’t like. Also known for randomly joining group photos uninvited. JIM “KOOL AID” JONES – MASTER OF CEREMONIES Nicknames: The Sinister Minister, “Flat Track Cult Leader”, “Bastard son of Dionysus”Sign: LibraMemorable Quotes: “The couple that swats together… stays together”. “The Hustler defense just fell apart like Chip Queso’s marriage”.Gimmick: A super-intelligent cult leader who calls matches with one of the sharpest eyes in derby. He is easily the quickest wit in flat track today, second only to Motormouth.Known for: Forming the emo/folk/emo band “The Butt Butter Churners” and composing the signature standard “Queso’s Mom is a Fuckin’ Ho’”. Proud supporter of “Find A Ref A Friend”. www.findarefafriend.com HOT WHEELS Nickname: Penalty PrincessMemorable Quote: “Aw, shut up!”Gimmick: A devilish MILF with frightening dominatrix influenced outfits.Known for: Spending her final season whipping people’s asses while pregnant.
THE SCARLOT HARLOT Nickname: The Redhead with BedheadGimmick: Retired Hell Mary bad ass who filled in for Hot Wheels after her retirement.Known for: Short temper and big hits on the track, and a bright smile, amicability, and sense of humor off the track.
JULIO E. GLASSES Nickname: Iron Announcer TexasMemorable Quotes: “It’s a game of angles”.Gimmick: Silly latin crooner turned chef.
Known for: Singing rollergirl inspired song excerpts and making obscure references, studying the names of the visiting rollergirls as well as the home team during skater warm ups. Leads physical and vocal warm ups of announce team. Sometimes takes restroom breaks during bouts. Frankie the Zarape, ZarapeGate, and ZarapeBowl.
What follows is a very old, very unauthorized, and very unedited version of the document I produced describing my experiences during the genesis of flat track derby. It would be some of the last moments of my past life.
Enjoy.
LOUDMOUTH: Confessions of a Flat Track Derby Announcer
By
Bowie V. Ibarra
Copyright 2007 Bowie V. Ibarra
“Good God! Good God! Would somebody stop the damn match! Enough’s enough!”- Jim Ross, WWE Announcing legend, during the infamous Mankind/Undertaker Hell in a Cell match
Chapter VII: The Texas Rollergirls Announce Team
For the most part, the announce team has remained a constant. Here is a brief biography of the people who have formally lent their voices to the Texas flat track revolution.
WHISKEY L’AMOUR – PLAY BY PLAY Nicknames: The First Lady of Flat Track Derby AnnuncingSign: AriesMemorable Quote: “Whoopty Frikkin’ Doo, this is Roller Derby.Gimmick: A voice of many colors, Whiskey will forever be remembered for her outrageous costumes and bright smile. Retired after the National Championship 2007.Oh, yeah. And her boobs.Consecutive Three Time Announcer of the Year Award Winner.
LES McGEHEE – MASTER OF CEREMONIES Nickname: MotormouthGimmick: An old school skating announcer complete with vintage suit and skates. In his brief stint, will be remembered for his extremely witty remarks and ad-libbed praise of the Texas Rollergirls. His “foreigners” bit is still used to this day.Notable Recognition: Master of improvisational comedy and author of “Plays Well with Others”, a veritable bible of improve comedy advice and sage words for living.
CHIP QUESO – CROWD WRANGLER Sign: LeoNicknames: The God of Gouda, The King of Chamobere, The Ayatollah of Gorgonzolla, Prince of Provolone, The Chedder Jackass, The Monterrery Jackoff, Cheiftan of Cheddar, Mozzerella Masterbater, Velociraptor.Memorable Quotes: (Something that resembles English screamed over the microphone. Probably Gaelic.)Gimmick: Rarely referenced love of cheese. Known for schmoozing with every rollergirl and league in his general vicinity or driving distance. Never met a camera he didn’t like. Also known for randomly joining group photos uninvited. JIM “KOOL AID” JONES – MASTER OF CEREMONIES Nicknames: The Sinister Minister, “Flat Track Cult Leader”, “Bastard son of Dionysus”Sign: LibraMemorable Quotes: “The couple that swats together… stays together”. “The Hustler defense just fell apart like Chip Queso’s marriage”.Gimmick: A super-intelligent cult leader who calls matches with one of the sharpest eyes in derby. He is easily the quickest wit in flat track today, second only to Motormouth.Known for: Forming the emo/folk/emo band “The Butt Butter Churners” and composing the signature standard “Queso’s Mom is a Fuckin’ Ho’”. Proud supporter of “Find A Ref A Friend”. www.findarefafriend.com HOT WHEELS Nickname: Penalty PrincessMemorable Quote: “Aw, shut up!”Gimmick: A devilish MILF with frightening dominatrix influenced outfits.Known for: Spending her final season whipping people’s asses while pregnant.
THE SCARLOT HARLOT Nickname: The Redhead with BedheadGimmick: Retired Hell Mary bad ass who filled in for Hot Wheels after her retirement.Known for: Short temper and big hits on the track, and a bright smile, amicability, and sense of humor off the track.
JULIO E. GLASSES Nickname: Iron Announcer TexasMemorable Quotes: “It’s a game of angles”.Gimmick: Silly latin crooner turned chef.
Known for: Singing rollergirl inspired song excerpts and making obscure references, studying the names of the visiting rollergirls as well as the home team during skater warm ups. Leads physical and vocal warm ups of announce team. Sometimes takes restroom breaks during bouts. Frankie the Zarape, ZarapeGate, and ZarapeBowl.
March 22, 2016
FIGHTS: LOUDMOUTH: Chapter 6 - The Wedding
At the end of my past life, I earned the right to be the first flat track derby announcer with the Texas Rollergirls.
What follows is a very old, very unauthorized, and very unedited version of the document I produced describing my experiences during the genesis of flat track derby. It would be some of the last moments of my past life.
Enjoy.
LOUDMOUTH: Confessions of a Flat Track Derby Announcer
By
Bowie V. Ibarra
Copyright 2007 Bowie V. Ibarra
“Well, they’re going to the chapel and they’re going to get married.” - The Dixie Cups, “Chapel of Love”
Chapter VI: The Wedding The wedding of my wife and I was the greatest wedding ever, bar none. Though I was severely hung over, I had one of the greatest times of my life with family and friends. Let me tell you how I met my eternal beloved…..
XXXXXXXX My friends had converged once again on my friend, C.J. Odam’s apartment (later to be Texas independent pro-wrestler and Shawn Micheal’s protégé, Jeromy Sage) for an ECW pay-per-view. I remember choosing Grolsh as my beverage of choice for the evening, and drinking every bottle. A neighbor had arrived outside of our circle of friends, and he was not very bright. So when the event ended, my friends and I convinced him to be our wrestling dummy. He gladly obliged, and we all proceeded to beat the crud out of him. It was a real shitty thing to do. The guy sincerely just wanted to have friends, and we beat him up. I hit a perfect senton splash on him while he was on the ground and felt pretty proud of myself. My buddy C.J. and I began to scuffle. Being the hardcore guys we were, he motioned me to be thrown into the steel fence surrounding the apartment complex. I figured the long metal bars would bend and not break. As I propelled myself toward the gate, I leapt into the air. But C.J. pushed my body in an opposite direction right as I planted my foot. I literally heard the ligament pop as I flew back first into the gate. Almost immediately, the intense pain in my left knee had me gasping for air like I never had before. My knee began to swell like a melon almost immediately. A friend who was studying to be a trainer claimed I tore my ACL. In a flash, my dream of moving to Mexico after graduation to learn the art of lucha libre was over. I had to drive back to New Braunfels where I was living with a couple who was housing me XXXXXXX. Before I continue on the ACL story and how it brought me to XXXX, let me briefly describe my experience with this family. The Hartwigs were an elderly couple living on the wooded outskirts of New Braunfels, Texas. They came across as the epitome of elderly happiness. Their smiles were charming and their energy felt sincere. I found their offer to rent out their room in the New Braunfels newspaper. XXXXXXXXXXX. But all was not well with the Hartwigs. The wife was an alcoholic who had shot her husband just months before. I discovered this bit of information over coffee one morning on the way to work. A bit of an awkward moment. Mr. Hartwig also liked to shoot his pistol out of the porch in his backyard. He claimed to have a six shooter that once belonged to Pancho Villa. He also liked to say the “N” word a lot, and I don’t mean “nipple”. They were very kind to me and I was sad to hear months later that Mrs. Hartwig had shot and killed her husband before burning down the house and trying to hang herself from a tree in the front yard. XXXXXXXXX. So I spent the next few months in a pain that resided temporarily until the surgery to repair it, in which it returned with a vengeance. Vicatin is very special. Not only does it relieve pain, but you lose lots of weight, too. Graduating from college just short of a year after my father’s death, I was returning to my hometown to rehab my leg I was not sure would be any good afterwards. I felt pretty pathetic, and was having a hard time adjusting. My body ached and I learned the definition of bedsores. I was miserable. As I healed, I spent some much needed time with my mother. Perhaps it was God’s way of sending me back to her. Lord knows she struggled in the months leading to my father’s death. She loved my father so much, she was ready to quit her job just three years short of retirement. My mother was a saint to me and to my father, and we were eternally blessed by her. As I think about the situation now, I really think that was the reason. We needed each other then, as we still do now. Perhaps even more so. And had my leg not gone out on me, I might have continued to forge ahead with my life without thinking and meditating on my loss. Not only that, but realizing how important my family is. Many family members were there for me in my moment of need, and I greatly appreciate them. During this time at home, mother and I traveled to San Juan near the Texas/Mexico border. It is a pilgrim ground for Catholics who want to visit the shrine to the Virgin of San Juan. It was quite a spiritual awakening for me. The statues depicting the stations of the cross were quite moving. I also made an interesting statement that my mother observed and thought was very funny. As I was being spiritually refueled for the future, I told my mother, “I want to bring my first wife here.” “Your first?” she asked. Funny thing was, after the honeymoon on the way home, I took my wife there. And she’s my one and only, because if she leaves me, I will never marry again. It’s the hardest thing I’ve done in my life. Having to work with Chip Queso is a close second. At any rate, I eventually recovered and returned to San Marcos. I went back to work at Jones New York: The Executive Suite, where I had previously spent some time. It was a simple test to see if my leg could hold up to the work. After a few months, I gained more and more confidence in my leg. So what does blowing out my leg have to do with my marriage? Had I not blown out my leg, I would have never met my future wife at my job at the outlet mall while selling suits. I was a good salesman, by the way. I learned all I could about worsted wool and regular wool and how a suit should fit. I was inspired to work there thanks to the influence of professional wrestling legend Ric Flair. In my youth, I was scared of Flair and the dastardly Four Horsemen. Composed of the Minnesota Wrecking Crew members, Arn Anderson and Ole Anderson, as well as San Antonio native Tully Blanchard, the Horsemen ran roughshod over the NWA and WCW. As I matured, I finally understood the image Ric Flair was projecting: an aristocratic tough guy who talked the talk and spent his hard earned money engaged in a hedonistic lifestyle. This way of life found him wearing the best clothes and accessories, riding in expensive cars and chartered jets, and seducing the women like some roughneck Valentino. Everything a young twenty-something could appreciate and strive for. Working at Jones gave me a chance to put together an assortment of suits that I wear to this day. Although, despite the bulging waistline. Damn, those haberdashers were right about making the waist a sizes up from the current size. I never thought my waistline would get bigger than 30. Ahhh, marriage. So one Friday night I go on break. Naturally, I head to get food. It would be the first time I was to lay eyes on my future wife. I checked out the various places to eat around the food court of San Marcos Outlet mall. I eventually worked my way to a Mexican themed food place called “Fiesta Mexico”. Working behind the counter was a lovely young maiden XXXXXXX. I asked her if I could make a special order. She replied by saying, “Just tell me and I’ll give you anything you want.” In the immortal words of George Constanza of Seinfeld fame, “It moved”. To this day, she insists she was not flirting with me. But the magic of the moment and the words that I felt in my heart (or wherever you might think I felt those words) that dripped like honey to my ears gave me the inspiration I needed to get to know this girl a little more. Imagine that. She was not wearing her uniform, which was peculiar. She was dressed in a simple cute top and a denim mini-skirt. The legs were reeling me in. She wore black Mary Jane’s with socks and had hints of glitter on her face, arms, and chest. XXXXXXXXXX. XXXXXXXXX....
/ / / / / /
I have to admit, committing myself to marriage at the ripe old age of twenty-eight was daunting. I had not even had any kind of series or long term relationship. My relationships were more or less in my imagination. Like long term mind prisons stunting my emotional growth. XXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXX So I proposed on that bridge over the Riverwalk on the Mexican day of Independence from France. / / / / / /
Putting the wedding together was, naturally, a strain. Renting the venue, buying the clothes, and money for the photographer (that as of this writing has yet to get our pictures to us) cost money. Scrapping together the dough was tough. But fortunately, family was there to help with that. My family, that is. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX We had the rehearsal dinner the night before the wedding and I treated my groomsmen to select alcoholic beverages. It was also the night of some great cage fights, with Randy Coture toppling Chuck Liddell. It was a night of excitement and anticipation. XXXXXXXXX. Maybe I should not have, because the next morning I was hung over with a cruel vengeance. Chris Arnall, one of my groomsmen, shared the tequila I had gifted him. Not a good idea. The next morning, my suegra had menudo for everyone, but I was the only one that showed up. When I returned home, I threw up my breakfast in the parking lot and tried to sleep off the hangover to no avail. Though I was in pain thanks to my tequila induced intoxication, I was still able to muster up enough willpower to be in the ceremony, take wedding pictures at the state capital (that I wish I could see), and make our way to the reception. The mariachi band was already playing and we sat at the table like a king and queen at a royal banquet. I will never forget how happy XXXXXXX was. The mariachi came to our grand table and played a few tunes as the food was presented. I remember wondering when we would be served, as I was still suffering greatly from not eating the entire day. Our next featured performance was from a folklorico group in Austin. As they began, we were finally served. I was so ready to eat. The meal was prepped to the highest standard and smelled so good. As I was prepared to consume the dish, just moments away from satiating my hunger, XXXXXXX pulled me by the arm. “Let’s go watch the dancers.” She wanted to move closer to the dance floor and away from my precious food. It was like putting food in front of a homeless guy, then making him go pick up your laundry. “What about the food?” I asked in hungry desperation. “C’mon. Let’s go,” she insisted. So we strolled down by the dance floor to watch the dances. The first dance set was from Coahuila, then Jalisco, and finally Vera Cruz. The dancers were fantastic, and the Vera Cruz candle dance was moving. The final dance of the night was to include XXXXXX and I. It was the traditional marriage dance to “La Bamba”. The choreography includes and actual tying of the knot made from a long red cloth. The real stunning part is that the knot is tied with the feet and not the hands of the couple. XXXXXX and I had practiced sporadically during the weeks leading up to the wedding and thought we had it under control. I was coordinated but lacked the technical chutzpah and grace of the dance members. As a former folklorico dancer, XXXXXX was moving in perfect form to the rhythm. XXXXX is always so extremely sexy when she dances, and she was magnificent on this night. Things were moving along just fine until we reached a literal snag. The small nails on the front of XXXXX boots were sticking to the cloth. Having bought traditional boots, XXXXXX had neglected to make sure the nails were set in the tip of the boots properly. Suddenly, we were losing time. The song was finite, and the knot needed to be tied before the end of the song or we would look ridiculous. It would signal a cruel portent for our married future. Within moments, the professional dancers were already done with their knots and dancing around us. Time was running out. The final verse was starting and the song would be over in seconds. We were very close to finishing. I did not think we were going to make it. With a pair of simultaneous tugs, we finished as the final notes were sung. As the last note hit, XXXXXX and I revealed our knot to the audience. It was a small moment of true triumph, and an example of what a marriage should be. Two people who love each other enough to devote their lives to each other. Under great pressure, a couple can achieve anything they set their minds to. The dance was a victory, but there was one more personal message I needed to communicate. Later that evening, I paid tribute to my father. I wished he was there physically, but knew he was there in spirit. To the audience, I proclaimed that I wish I had the courage to be half the husband and father he was to me.
In the end, it was the greatest wedding ever.
+++++
More to Come...
What follows is a very old, very unauthorized, and very unedited version of the document I produced describing my experiences during the genesis of flat track derby. It would be some of the last moments of my past life.
Enjoy.
LOUDMOUTH: Confessions of a Flat Track Derby Announcer
By
Bowie V. Ibarra
Copyright 2007 Bowie V. Ibarra
“Well, they’re going to the chapel and they’re going to get married.” - The Dixie Cups, “Chapel of Love”
Chapter VI: The Wedding The wedding of my wife and I was the greatest wedding ever, bar none. Though I was severely hung over, I had one of the greatest times of my life with family and friends. Let me tell you how I met my eternal beloved…..
XXXXXXXX My friends had converged once again on my friend, C.J. Odam’s apartment (later to be Texas independent pro-wrestler and Shawn Micheal’s protégé, Jeromy Sage) for an ECW pay-per-view. I remember choosing Grolsh as my beverage of choice for the evening, and drinking every bottle. A neighbor had arrived outside of our circle of friends, and he was not very bright. So when the event ended, my friends and I convinced him to be our wrestling dummy. He gladly obliged, and we all proceeded to beat the crud out of him. It was a real shitty thing to do. The guy sincerely just wanted to have friends, and we beat him up. I hit a perfect senton splash on him while he was on the ground and felt pretty proud of myself. My buddy C.J. and I began to scuffle. Being the hardcore guys we were, he motioned me to be thrown into the steel fence surrounding the apartment complex. I figured the long metal bars would bend and not break. As I propelled myself toward the gate, I leapt into the air. But C.J. pushed my body in an opposite direction right as I planted my foot. I literally heard the ligament pop as I flew back first into the gate. Almost immediately, the intense pain in my left knee had me gasping for air like I never had before. My knee began to swell like a melon almost immediately. A friend who was studying to be a trainer claimed I tore my ACL. In a flash, my dream of moving to Mexico after graduation to learn the art of lucha libre was over. I had to drive back to New Braunfels where I was living with a couple who was housing me XXXXXXX. Before I continue on the ACL story and how it brought me to XXXX, let me briefly describe my experience with this family. The Hartwigs were an elderly couple living on the wooded outskirts of New Braunfels, Texas. They came across as the epitome of elderly happiness. Their smiles were charming and their energy felt sincere. I found their offer to rent out their room in the New Braunfels newspaper. XXXXXXXXXXX. But all was not well with the Hartwigs. The wife was an alcoholic who had shot her husband just months before. I discovered this bit of information over coffee one morning on the way to work. A bit of an awkward moment. Mr. Hartwig also liked to shoot his pistol out of the porch in his backyard. He claimed to have a six shooter that once belonged to Pancho Villa. He also liked to say the “N” word a lot, and I don’t mean “nipple”. They were very kind to me and I was sad to hear months later that Mrs. Hartwig had shot and killed her husband before burning down the house and trying to hang herself from a tree in the front yard. XXXXXXXXX. So I spent the next few months in a pain that resided temporarily until the surgery to repair it, in which it returned with a vengeance. Vicatin is very special. Not only does it relieve pain, but you lose lots of weight, too. Graduating from college just short of a year after my father’s death, I was returning to my hometown to rehab my leg I was not sure would be any good afterwards. I felt pretty pathetic, and was having a hard time adjusting. My body ached and I learned the definition of bedsores. I was miserable. As I healed, I spent some much needed time with my mother. Perhaps it was God’s way of sending me back to her. Lord knows she struggled in the months leading to my father’s death. She loved my father so much, she was ready to quit her job just three years short of retirement. My mother was a saint to me and to my father, and we were eternally blessed by her. As I think about the situation now, I really think that was the reason. We needed each other then, as we still do now. Perhaps even more so. And had my leg not gone out on me, I might have continued to forge ahead with my life without thinking and meditating on my loss. Not only that, but realizing how important my family is. Many family members were there for me in my moment of need, and I greatly appreciate them. During this time at home, mother and I traveled to San Juan near the Texas/Mexico border. It is a pilgrim ground for Catholics who want to visit the shrine to the Virgin of San Juan. It was quite a spiritual awakening for me. The statues depicting the stations of the cross were quite moving. I also made an interesting statement that my mother observed and thought was very funny. As I was being spiritually refueled for the future, I told my mother, “I want to bring my first wife here.” “Your first?” she asked. Funny thing was, after the honeymoon on the way home, I took my wife there. And she’s my one and only, because if she leaves me, I will never marry again. It’s the hardest thing I’ve done in my life. Having to work with Chip Queso is a close second. At any rate, I eventually recovered and returned to San Marcos. I went back to work at Jones New York: The Executive Suite, where I had previously spent some time. It was a simple test to see if my leg could hold up to the work. After a few months, I gained more and more confidence in my leg. So what does blowing out my leg have to do with my marriage? Had I not blown out my leg, I would have never met my future wife at my job at the outlet mall while selling suits. I was a good salesman, by the way. I learned all I could about worsted wool and regular wool and how a suit should fit. I was inspired to work there thanks to the influence of professional wrestling legend Ric Flair. In my youth, I was scared of Flair and the dastardly Four Horsemen. Composed of the Minnesota Wrecking Crew members, Arn Anderson and Ole Anderson, as well as San Antonio native Tully Blanchard, the Horsemen ran roughshod over the NWA and WCW. As I matured, I finally understood the image Ric Flair was projecting: an aristocratic tough guy who talked the talk and spent his hard earned money engaged in a hedonistic lifestyle. This way of life found him wearing the best clothes and accessories, riding in expensive cars and chartered jets, and seducing the women like some roughneck Valentino. Everything a young twenty-something could appreciate and strive for. Working at Jones gave me a chance to put together an assortment of suits that I wear to this day. Although, despite the bulging waistline. Damn, those haberdashers were right about making the waist a sizes up from the current size. I never thought my waistline would get bigger than 30. Ahhh, marriage. So one Friday night I go on break. Naturally, I head to get food. It would be the first time I was to lay eyes on my future wife. I checked out the various places to eat around the food court of San Marcos Outlet mall. I eventually worked my way to a Mexican themed food place called “Fiesta Mexico”. Working behind the counter was a lovely young maiden XXXXXXX. I asked her if I could make a special order. She replied by saying, “Just tell me and I’ll give you anything you want.” In the immortal words of George Constanza of Seinfeld fame, “It moved”. To this day, she insists she was not flirting with me. But the magic of the moment and the words that I felt in my heart (or wherever you might think I felt those words) that dripped like honey to my ears gave me the inspiration I needed to get to know this girl a little more. Imagine that. She was not wearing her uniform, which was peculiar. She was dressed in a simple cute top and a denim mini-skirt. The legs were reeling me in. She wore black Mary Jane’s with socks and had hints of glitter on her face, arms, and chest. XXXXXXXXXX. XXXXXXXXX....
/ / / / / /
I have to admit, committing myself to marriage at the ripe old age of twenty-eight was daunting. I had not even had any kind of series or long term relationship. My relationships were more or less in my imagination. Like long term mind prisons stunting my emotional growth. XXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXX So I proposed on that bridge over the Riverwalk on the Mexican day of Independence from France. / / / / / /
Putting the wedding together was, naturally, a strain. Renting the venue, buying the clothes, and money for the photographer (that as of this writing has yet to get our pictures to us) cost money. Scrapping together the dough was tough. But fortunately, family was there to help with that. My family, that is. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX We had the rehearsal dinner the night before the wedding and I treated my groomsmen to select alcoholic beverages. It was also the night of some great cage fights, with Randy Coture toppling Chuck Liddell. It was a night of excitement and anticipation. XXXXXXXXX. Maybe I should not have, because the next morning I was hung over with a cruel vengeance. Chris Arnall, one of my groomsmen, shared the tequila I had gifted him. Not a good idea. The next morning, my suegra had menudo for everyone, but I was the only one that showed up. When I returned home, I threw up my breakfast in the parking lot and tried to sleep off the hangover to no avail. Though I was in pain thanks to my tequila induced intoxication, I was still able to muster up enough willpower to be in the ceremony, take wedding pictures at the state capital (that I wish I could see), and make our way to the reception. The mariachi band was already playing and we sat at the table like a king and queen at a royal banquet. I will never forget how happy XXXXXXX was. The mariachi came to our grand table and played a few tunes as the food was presented. I remember wondering when we would be served, as I was still suffering greatly from not eating the entire day. Our next featured performance was from a folklorico group in Austin. As they began, we were finally served. I was so ready to eat. The meal was prepped to the highest standard and smelled so good. As I was prepared to consume the dish, just moments away from satiating my hunger, XXXXXXX pulled me by the arm. “Let’s go watch the dancers.” She wanted to move closer to the dance floor and away from my precious food. It was like putting food in front of a homeless guy, then making him go pick up your laundry. “What about the food?” I asked in hungry desperation. “C’mon. Let’s go,” she insisted. So we strolled down by the dance floor to watch the dances. The first dance set was from Coahuila, then Jalisco, and finally Vera Cruz. The dancers were fantastic, and the Vera Cruz candle dance was moving. The final dance of the night was to include XXXXXX and I. It was the traditional marriage dance to “La Bamba”. The choreography includes and actual tying of the knot made from a long red cloth. The real stunning part is that the knot is tied with the feet and not the hands of the couple. XXXXXX and I had practiced sporadically during the weeks leading up to the wedding and thought we had it under control. I was coordinated but lacked the technical chutzpah and grace of the dance members. As a former folklorico dancer, XXXXXX was moving in perfect form to the rhythm. XXXXX is always so extremely sexy when she dances, and she was magnificent on this night. Things were moving along just fine until we reached a literal snag. The small nails on the front of XXXXX boots were sticking to the cloth. Having bought traditional boots, XXXXXX had neglected to make sure the nails were set in the tip of the boots properly. Suddenly, we were losing time. The song was finite, and the knot needed to be tied before the end of the song or we would look ridiculous. It would signal a cruel portent for our married future. Within moments, the professional dancers were already done with their knots and dancing around us. Time was running out. The final verse was starting and the song would be over in seconds. We were very close to finishing. I did not think we were going to make it. With a pair of simultaneous tugs, we finished as the final notes were sung. As the last note hit, XXXXXX and I revealed our knot to the audience. It was a small moment of true triumph, and an example of what a marriage should be. Two people who love each other enough to devote their lives to each other. Under great pressure, a couple can achieve anything they set their minds to. The dance was a victory, but there was one more personal message I needed to communicate. Later that evening, I paid tribute to my father. I wished he was there physically, but knew he was there in spirit. To the audience, I proclaimed that I wish I had the courage to be half the husband and father he was to me.
In the end, it was the greatest wedding ever.
+++++
More to Come...
