The Palio Diet and Billy Paul is Scared of Lions

Recently, I've been putting a solid effort forth to get into shape. I spent a week on the palio diet. It's all stuff that Early Man would have eaten: meat, vegetables, fruits and nuts. Nothing too starchy, and only vegetables that can be eaten in the raw. That meant no dairy, no bread/pasta/rice, and no potatoes. It's the food that hunter-gatherers would hunt or gather. Everybody gave me a hard time, calling me stupid, and pointing out that "cavemen only lived until they were like 30." Even so, I argued that you never see an out-of-shape caveman. They're always ripped, and look really strong. I kinda did a half-assed version of the diet, allowing myself a couple exceptions: beer and Diet Coke. The beer was just for one night, because it was my friend's birthday party, and I had to celebrate. I gave myself a week to experiment with the diet, and I think I did pretty well. My most memorable meals were at Subway and The Eat Street Grill. You can get any sandwich in salad form at Subway, so I got a turkey-bacon-avocado. It was pretty good. At Eat Street Grill (a local Denny's-esque restaurant that compliments all their dishes with Rice Krispies Treats), I had a buffalo burger. That was exciting. I had never eaten buffalo before, and although I most closely associate the animal with the Westward Movement, there was still something very primal about eating it. I had that baby wrapped in lettuce and served with steamed vegetables, and I got two eggs on the side (over easy). I felt really good that day. But, alas, on the 6th night, I ordered a chicken kabob and rice came with it. I caved. LIKE A CAVEMAN!

So now I'm just more selective with my food. I jog though. I'm gearing up for the 4th of July Fun Run. Today, as I approached my house at the end of my run, I got into a conversation with a couple neighbors. I think they live in a halfway house. That's what I've been told at least, and it makes sense. The people who live there always hangout on the porch, and I don't think they're family. One of the guys asked me if I was a student, and introduced himself as "Pork and Beans." He asked me about my major, and told me that he's a still photographer. His companion, "T," asserted that Pork "used to be a photographer." Pork and Beans was clearly much older than T, and wouldn't allow T interrupting, he continued, labeling himself a "Big still photographer." He used the word "big" several times. He used to shoot for Jet magazine, and told me a story about Billy Paul, the guy who sings "Me and Mr. Jones." Apparently, Pork really wanted to use a lion to shoot Billy Paul's album cover, but Billy wouldn't have it. Billy Paul was terrified of working with lions. T said that Pork was a musician too. He said that I would know his music, but Pork wouldn't talk about it. He got very quiet, and hid behind a post (jokingly). I didn't pry, because I promised I'd come back to see them again. I'm really excited. This is a cool mystery. And that's why I think everyone should jog.

The Drinking Game

Some time ago Ryan and I were having a few beers at my house in Washington Heights in preparation for a house party in the neighborhood. Sometimes when the Mooney boys get together they like to make up games to pass the time, because thats what we do, we are generally just fun people to be around. Anyway, on this particular evening as we were drinking cans and cans of Budweiser and watching an old Jamaican flick 'The Rockers' we decided to create a new drinking game. Of course in my mind this game would take on considerable depth as it required the manufacturing of an obstacle course for a toy car. Basically we would set up various items found around, on, or near the coffee table (i.e. cards, glasses, dominoes, books, etc.) and set an objective for our toy car. The course master would describe the planned run the car would make and state where it would finally rest. This game began as simple as making a car run up a ramp into a cup but after a while it got really compicated. Unfortunately we were unable to get any footage of the game but I did find this clip from an a Japanese television show that comes remarkably close to our creations.

Check it out!

Smart Bombs Don’t Come From Smart People

Central Park is a majestic place, especially during the summer months. If you’ve spent any time there, as I have, reveling in the shady space beneath the Cherry and Poplar Trees, you would probably agree. It is arguably the most peaceful and inviting present that New York City has to offer. I could spend incalculable hours roaming its winding paths and offshooting trails. There’s a sense of calm that comes over me every time that I step from the sidewalk to the gravel entryway at any point on the park’s border. I have haplessly tanned on the sun-drenched lawns, climbed a twelve foot statue with nearly calamitous results, and I have happily stood in the rain for a free Summer Stage concert. That is where I found myself on Saturday, June 16th, 2007.

There are times when I gravitate towards a calling and times when a call dictates my destiny. The cell phone can be a valuable invention when it is least expected. Personally, I think that there is a great dependency upon this cellular/cell/mobile phone culture, but there is no doubting its utility. I have the oldest operating model in New York City and I can still vouch for the significance of said technology. People frequently scoff (and by frequent, I mean every time that I use it in public) at my Nokia Cinderblock 5000, though I’m not ashamed. Fortunately, it can and will answer and identify callers just like a BlueBerryTM.

On this fortuitous Saturday, I recognized the Philadelphia area code and suddenly remembered that a college friend was visiting for the weekend. In our brief conversation, I pretended not to have forgotten that he was heading east for our seasonal reunification.
He told me that he had been screwed by a vendor on Craigslist and the Yankees tickets that he received a few days earlier were for the wrong day. After two days of calling the seller and never hearing word, he gave up and decided to come anyway. He said that an old friend from California was with him. They were staying at the Hilton in midtown and were at a loss, having scrapped their baseball watching plans. I was already at the park, waiting on another friend who was running late, watching the darkened cloudbursts filtered through my sunglasses and a grove of Elm trees. There was a free show at Rumsey Playfield; apparently Television had reunited. We hung up without actually confirming that we would meet. In fact, I think we just said we’d be in touch, and left it at that.

Five minutes after I talked to Ryan, Katie showed up. She apologized for her tardiness, I told her that it was unacceptable, and that I don’t tolerate insubordination. She smirked and frowned at the same time. I had never seen that expression, and believed it to be humanly impossible. Later, she admitted that she thought it was a funny joke. She joined me on the grassy knoll, the bulbous, knotty roots against our backs. I can’t remember what we talked about. It could have been something about her last days of work as a paralegal, or maybe I was flapping away about my undying love for Wayne Coyne. I can’t recall. I wasn’t listening to anyone but the barking dogs that weekend. I make great company for myself.

We made our way over to the concert venue. Upon passing a carousel I reminisced about a merry-go-round of my childhood in Balboa Park, San Diego. As we went around at what seemed to be a thrilling speed, we could reach for a wooden arm that deposited shiny metal rings. If one was lucky enough to catch the arm when it dropped the long sought after brass ring, they would win a free ride. I never was able to grab the brass ring, though I clearly remember throwing the tarnished silvery ones into a basket as we flew by. Katie wanted to know if it was dangerous, had any kids fallen of the horse. I didn’t have an answer; my mother would have covered my eyes so I could repress the memory. I don’t even know if the carousel is there anymore. I seem to remember it getting condemned. Some kid was probably videotaped screaming, “Get me off this Hell machine!” and that was the end of another glorious piece of Americana. As we ascended the hill that led us away, I recommended that she see Hitchcock’s Strangers on a Train.

There’s no stopping me from equating cinema with real life. Only when there’s some considerable distraction, such as a free concert in the park, can my imagination be contained. People of all ages were pouring in, trying to weave their way through the labyrinthine line that constituted the only entrance. I could say something here about all-ages shows and how they differ from the age-limited type, but I won’t. I’ll save that thought.

They were taking donations and the greeter was shouting hilarious remarks like, “If you don’t contribute a dollar, you have no soul!” Making me laugh would have convinced me if the gatekeepers could have broken a twenty. There was a band clamoring on stage. They were trying to blend punk rock with tribal rhythmns and a droning, heavy metal aesthetic. The sound didn’t seem to have a purpose, though it did have an unfinished quality. I’m never impressed when a budding band’s influences are immediately recognizable as the contemporaneous height of popularity. What’s worse is that I saw their principal influence a year earlier at a free ‘Celebrate Brooklyn’ concert.

Much of the fenced-in crowd was sitting on green miniature golf turf and ignoring the music. We couldn’t find an empty space to park, so we walked the perimeter. By chance, I walked into Ryan, who looked different from the last time I saw him, six months ago. Now we could both openly admit that we were balding. We shook hands and then embraced. His silent partner stood by, waiting for an introduction. Before Ryan could say anything, I tried to make him feel welcome by commenting on our good fortune. He said his name was Mike and left it at that. He was either uncomfortable or sizing me up. He could probably sense my liberal leanings; conservatives are crafty that way.

They each bought a six dollar Corona that had to be poured into a clear plastic cup. We waited for the band to finish, at which point some of the crowd disbanded and we were afforded a spot on the Astroturf. In the interim time between bands, Ryan and I tried not to alienate our acquaintances. I tried to bring Mike into the fold by asking him about his career.

“I work in ethics.” He said.
“Wow. That’s really interesting. I didn’t know there was still work in such a discipline. What does an ethicist do, other than pontificate about moral corruption?”
“Well, you know, there’s a lot of unethical things going on in corporate America.”
“I’m sure. I actually work for a nonprofit, but I’ve seen documentaries.” I was trying not to sound like too much of an asshole, while freely expressing myself.
“It’s a small operation. Just me and two others. Mostly, we research unscrupulous financial proceedings.”
He sounded incredibly vague. Sometimes I wonder if there is even any profitable service provided. I probed further.
“You live in LA, right? Who do you work for?”
“Northrop Grumman. It’s a technology and information systems company.” He referred to it like it was a small, unknown business venture.
“I know Northrop Grumman. They’re a defense contractor. They build weapons of mass destruction. That’s amazing!” I laughed ironically.
“They don’t build the weapons, they provide products and technological information to the military, who builds the missiles.”
“I’m in awe,” I refrained from an easy pun. “I can’t believe you work in ethics for a company that makes weapons that kill thousands of innocent people.”
“That’s a common misperception. The guidance systems in Smart Bombs are exceptionally precise. There’s hardly any collateral damage. Of course, it’s war, so there are going to be some casualties. For the most part, though, they’re blowing up buildings.”

Have you ever noticed how republicans state their argument as fact? I turned to Katie and smiled. I decided not to take the conversation any further. The Apples in Stereo would be coming on in a minute to extinguish any tension that may have arisen. I asked her if she had ever heard of Systems Justification Theory. She had not, though I thought she could have, seeing as how she attended NYU and the theory was developed by a professor there. I simplified it by stating that it was a social-psychological model, which asserted that we will unconsciously try to justify our personal, political and social systems. She is a smart young woman. I think she got the gist of it.

The music took me away once again. The looming clouds arrived and it started to rain. I was dancing, quite content. There was reason to smile. It was summertime, we were in Central Park. Smart bombs and free concerts. Only made in America.

Pradoxlan

Sometime in the summer of 2003, I decided to produce an instrumental hip hop album with my buddy Robert. He had recently gotten access to an MPC, bought some jazz records, and had an inexpensive keyboard; so he started making beats. I had been producing mostly sample-based stuff on the Korg Triton for several months, and had gotten pretty tight with the machine. Naturally, we decided to record our stuff. This was at the height of the Jaylib buzz, so we were going to call the project Pradox. He was Prafit, and I was Moondox. Pradox.

I think Robert was living in Temecula, so we went up with my Triton to record beats in his garage. Our other friend Brandon drove, who also had just started making beats, so we added him to the lineup. He went by Azlan, so we became Pradoxlan. We thought it was a good name I guess.

We all recorded our beats onto Robert's 8 track, and made a CD. Robert scrawled Pradoxlan on it. I made four contributions, one of which is the "Up on Upper" track. The other three are some of the last recordings from the Triton, which was lost in a fire in October of 2003.

This one interpolates Pachelbel's Canon!YESSSSSS

This one's kinda funkyCooool

Piano!NICE

A Letter to the Editor of ‘TIME’ Magazine

I had something to say to the author and editor of a recent 'TIME' article. Read, reflect and review.

Dear Editor,

After reading your cover story on amnesty and immigration in the June 18th issue, I am left with the feeling that your writers don’t fully grasp the appropriate current rhetoric of the field. Throughout the majority of the article the author, Mr. Nathan Thornburgh, refers to the affected individuals with the outdated and appalling terms, “illegals” and “illegal immigrants.” This slander contradicts the position that the author claims to support. For several years in educational and pro-social circles, we have used the more acceptable and upright phrases, ‘undocumented resident’ and ‘undocumented worker.’ I noticed two citations of the ‘undocumented worker’ referent, but never one pertaining to those and reside yet do not work in the United States.

By referring to this population with the inhumane denomination, ‘illegals’, you are automatically criminalizing and demonizing any person who may not be fortunate enough to gain citizenship. This includes those who were born outside of the United States and relocated with parents at a young age. Are those who did not have a choice in relocating, yet were educated entirely in American public schools still ‘illegals?’ At what point does one become an American? Is it not when they placed their right hand over their heart and pledged their allegiance, as they did throughout elementary school?

This is a plea to recognize the importance and valence of semantics. I am not a politician, merely a social servant who recognizes that we should be fair and just in our discussion of people who deserve equal human rights. We can begin this dialogue by ousting the outmoded terminology and replacing it with something befitting civility and respect. In slowly overthrowing the norm that has been unfairly established, we can make deliberate progress in the march towards equality.


Respectfully,


Ryan Mooney

First Mooney Post - SUPERTED

Hey I get to be the first Mooney brother to post. So I thought this could be a place where we can put all the fun videos that we like to share. This one was the first one that came to mind. I remember this video rental store next to the McDonalds in Mira Mesa where we used to rent this classic Aussie cartoon show. There was another cartoon too about a beaver or something. Maybe Ryan or Kyle can resurface that one.

SuperTed