A self-satirical train wreck that you can witness word by word...
And for those who doubt my son Armand Bovoso, indeed he is part Black. I'm Black and Italian. Armand is Black, italian, and Ukranian Jewish. Send me an email if you can't accept this.
And for those who doubt my son Armand Bovoso, indeed he is part Black. I'm Black and Italian. Armand is Black, italian, and Ukranian Jewish. Send me an email if you can't accept this.
Wow. OK. What the fuck just happened? I'm sitting home back in LA and most everything is a blur. Or more like it feels like I had one incredibly long day in New York. Within the first 24 hours I had managed to hit the town with a vengeance normally only seen in Kevin Costner movies. I have many events to talk about but no order with which to tell them. Let's start with who is now my favorite cab driver of all time.
Cabs in NYC can take a maximum of 4 passengers at time, unless the cab is a minivan style one. Our luck in East Harlem during a torrential downpour was leaving us very cabless. I manage to hail down a regular sedan style cab and we all (5 of us) pile in. He asks how many of us there are. I tell him and he looks disappointed. I promise him a big tip if he can help us out. He reluctantly agrees and we drive off. Most of our cab drivers to this point had been of Middle Eastern decent. On the radio they usually played great music in Arabic, political discussions on BBC, or engaged in very protracted cell phone conversations. This particular cab driver was a cobalt skinned black man with striking features. On his radio he was playing some great dance hall and raggae. I think not 15 minutes earlier I had take half a double strength (rhymes with "vote for vin"). It started to kick in big time as I caught the groove of what my cab driver was playing. I bounced my head up and down to the hypnotic island music pounding out of this speakers.
I like any man
As long as he's an African
If you are a Jamaican
Then you are an African
If you're from Poland
Then you are an African
I love everyman
As long as they are African
Noticing that I am enjoying myself, Mr. African decides to turn up the music Spinal Tap style all the way to 11. He leans over to me and yells out.
"I want to be fucking rich mon! I can take care of me motha for evah. Just give me a meeleeon dollahs. You know what I mean?"
He tells me he is from Ghana and hopes to bring his family over at some point. He stops his conversation abruptly as Bob Marley's voice begins to croon and reverberate throughout the car. "Get Up/Stand Up! Stand up for your rights." By now I'm high as a kite thanks to my vote for vin. I'm thinking, "Yeah, right on. One love, one people. I'm a black Italian, that makes me and African!" The cab driver must have been having similar thoughts because he points to his CD player and yells out: "Bob Mar-lay! I love dis Nig-Gar! Dis is my Nig-Gar!"
Now if i didn't have my high school reunion to go to I might as well have ended the night right there. It wasn't going to get any better than this. We get out of the cab and I give him his fat tip as promised. As the cab takes off Mr. White Nipples J.B. Himself says to me, "Did you catch his name on his hack license?" It hadn't even occurred to me to look. I tell him "no".
"Ibrahim Gonga." (I shit you not)
Immortal.
Cabs in NYC can take a maximum of 4 passengers at time, unless the cab is a minivan style one. Our luck in East Harlem during a torrential downpour was leaving us very cabless. I manage to hail down a regular sedan style cab and we all (5 of us) pile in. He asks how many of us there are. I tell him and he looks disappointed. I promise him a big tip if he can help us out. He reluctantly agrees and we drive off. Most of our cab drivers to this point had been of Middle Eastern decent. On the radio they usually played great music in Arabic, political discussions on BBC, or engaged in very protracted cell phone conversations. This particular cab driver was a cobalt skinned black man with striking features. On his radio he was playing some great dance hall and raggae. I think not 15 minutes earlier I had take half a double strength (rhymes with "vote for vin"). It started to kick in big time as I caught the groove of what my cab driver was playing. I bounced my head up and down to the hypnotic island music pounding out of this speakers.
I like any man
As long as he's an African
If you are a Jamaican
Then you are an African
If you're from Poland
Then you are an African
I love everyman
As long as they are African
Noticing that I am enjoying myself, Mr. African decides to turn up the music Spinal Tap style all the way to 11. He leans over to me and yells out.
"I want to be fucking rich mon! I can take care of me motha for evah. Just give me a meeleeon dollahs. You know what I mean?"
He tells me he is from Ghana and hopes to bring his family over at some point. He stops his conversation abruptly as Bob Marley's voice begins to croon and reverberate throughout the car. "Get Up/Stand Up! Stand up for your rights." By now I'm high as a kite thanks to my vote for vin. I'm thinking, "Yeah, right on. One love, one people. I'm a black Italian, that makes me and African!" The cab driver must have been having similar thoughts because he points to his CD player and yells out: "Bob Mar-lay! I love dis Nig-Gar! Dis is my Nig-Gar!"
Now if i didn't have my high school reunion to go to I might as well have ended the night right there. It wasn't going to get any better than this. We get out of the cab and I give him his fat tip as promised. As the cab takes off Mr. White Nipples J.B. Himself says to me, "Did you catch his name on his hack license?" It hadn't even occurred to me to look. I tell him "no".
"Ibrahim Gonga." (I shit you not)
Immortal.
fucking classic.