Abe Vigoda
Skeleton

Years and years of mental conditioning, of sly subliminal messages, on billboards, on the box called TV, on buses in the metro, everywhere. The equation summer = vacation is now imprinted in our DNA. The impulse is now instinctive, we ask ourselves: What will we do? Where will we go? Will we have sex? If so, with whom? How many times? Will the damned condom break? Help! My mother will kill me!

Those who cannot go feel as if they have been punished by society, by God perhaps, they feel excluded from the main purpose of their life: the coveted vacation, a tropical island, an orgy of emotions and sensations bathed by salty waters and dried by a scorching sun. I must have been born crooked, I must have cursed the name of God as soon as I left my mother's womb, into the hands of that butcher who pulled me out (damn him!), I must have offended some mafioso coming to see the newborn son of his eldest daughter while I was still in the cradle. It's a fact that since I've been in this world, I've never taken summer vacations, at least not in the way considered "normal" by the entire world. Vacations for me are solitude (left by all the [assholes seen with the eyes of envy] friends, vacationers, with the cash to afford girls, coke, and booze) reading and music. To hell with advertisements, the news, and all the little pricks who boast about having Charm on the agenda for this year.

I don't even have the money to get myself a ticket for one of those more exotic trips, the ones sold in campers at raves by pushers, well-stocked. Should I rely on imagination? Nah, ruined by too many Ninja Turtles fed to me as a child. Have you ever tried having sexual fantasies about a male turtle!? So, in this continuous flow of bullshit thoughts, you happen to read about a group in your grandfather's Rolling Stone. They define them as "tropical punk", "Frank Zappa was right" I think "but above all my brother, who always reminds me of it...", however, the light bulb goes on, the Equation pulses like a neon sign in front of my eyes. Tropical, vacation, tropical, vacation, tropical, vacation. A consumeristic chemical hunger takes hold of me, the voice tells me "Get the Abe Vigoda, get the Abe Vigoda!". No sooner said than done!

What is that stuff? It's like putting a blender with a drunk Mexican armed with electric, bass, and synthesizer directing the Pixies (without Kim) into the speakers of my computer. A Rumba Noise? Who cares. Exotic stuff. A Californian beach, a couple of drunk (punk?) Mexicans, you high as a kite. What your twisted mind longed for. Happyness...

Enjoy yourself! Average man or not.