Tag Archives: Pertinent Information For Leading A Gratifying Existence

Bienvenidos Spring

TEMECULA, 2 May 2011

Well into spring and it’s nearly impossible to tell what time it is. The influx of daylight is morally taxing. When this happens–spring that is–I am absolutely incapable of working until after the sun has set. This was fine when it was winter. Winter’s light carries less clout. Winter nights breed discipline.

In the spring, I sleep more and do less because there are fewer hours to do. In summer, I am so occupied with doing nothing that by the time I set my nose to the proverbial (and Narc Anon condoned) grindstone it’s already the third season of the year. Trees are naked and I’m already wearing a scarf.

In autumn, I repent. I swear to change and by the time the days have whittled down to just a few hours I have changed. I am a new man. Or a renewed one. For three months I live, breathe, and occasionally sleep discipline. Then the days start getting longer and I become cognizant of the fact that I have nine very serious months of fucking-off on the horizon.

– Shago Martin as told to The Neapolitan Mastiff.

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The Neapolitan Mastiff: On Meditation

On the train home from work I came across an article on the benefits of meditation. I decided there, amidst the breastfeeding children, drug-addled transients and Blackberry-consumed businessmen and women, that I too, would practice meditation and reap its rewards.

In the past I’ve dabbled with meditation: once at the demand of a deeply disturbed and sadistic lover (that’s another story) and another time after climbing to the top of Mount Heliotrope with a pharmacologist named Vince who threatened suicide if I didn’t join him. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my experience, it’s that one doesn’t hastily jump into a meditation session. It’s important to prepare. Without a disturbed lover or a suicidal mountain climbing pharmacologist, I figured the best way to prepare myself would be with a steam shower.

While the water came to a boil, I prepared a mix. My goal was to meditate for twenty minutes and I didn’t want to hear the miscreant children of the neighborhood playing “Gangbanger” and pretending to curb kick each other. Or worse, sometimes in the early evening my neighbor, in the apartment above me, has long conversations with her cat, Kitty Perry. “Oh Kitty Perry, what am I to do?!?” I don’t know my neighbor’s name because the cat never responds.

I carefully selected my twenty minutes of music. At first I picked sang-froid and cerebral jams a la Beach House and Beirut, but by the time I was out of the “Bs” I decided something prosaic sounding might be better for zoning in/out. Something like Willow Smith’s “Whip My Hair” or Ke$ha’s “We R Who We R.”

In my steam shower, I inhaled deeply and relaxed as the vapors percolated through my pores. I ran through possible mantras and thought about my wardrobe for the twenty minutes of peace or, which would lead to peace that lay ahead. After I had sufficiently opened my lungs and pores, I picked my wardrobe: breathable spandex shorts that I bought during the time I was training to run the Boston Marathon (never came to fruition, but you can really get a good stretch in those things, it’s almost dangerous), next I tied a bandana around my wet head so as to prevent a wisp of hair or a bead of sweat from distracting me from finding Nirvana, etc. Lastly, I put on the vest of an old suit I purchased for my brother’s high school graduation in 1998. As was the fashion then, it’s a little baggy, very shiny and it hasn’t been worn in over a decade. I’m keeping it because I’m pretty sure baggy, shiny vests will return to vogue before my lifetime ends and this way I’ll be prepared. Plus, I can spare the closet space. Vests aren’t very big, as you know.

Suited up and ready for peace and serenity, I laid a towel on the floor. Next, I carefully lowered myself to my towel-covered, forest green, shag carpeted floor. On my back, I sprawled out, fully extending my limbs. This is going to be glorious, I thought. Just as I was getting ready to sail off into a blissful state of nothingness I heard, “Kitty Perry, why are you the only one in the world who understands me?”

This would not stand. I shot up like an arthritic and beaten boxer to put on some music. Just as I was about to start my “Total mental relaxation and future cognitive dominance 11/3 Mix” I realized that it might not be a bad idea to relieve myself. Meditating, you see, is like going to see a movie. The last thing you want to do is get up in the middle to go to the bathroom.

Slightly discouraged, but still willing to salvage my future meditation, I trotted off to the bathroom. Mid-relief, remarking at what a wonderful job that Filipina woman does every week turning my toilet from something that belongs in a brothel to something belongs in the Vatican Museum, I spotted a brown spider on the top of my toilet.

I took a shallow breath and leaned back. I surveyed both sides of me. There wasn’t a bat in sight; I’d have to settle for a tissue-suffocation murder. I deftly ripped a bit of toilet paper, and then coming from above, careful to not lead with a shadow, I pounced and suffocated that spider to death. Right there on the top of my toilet. I threw his remains in the bowl and was thinking about his slip-n-slide ride to San Bernardino when I spotted another spider, also brown, but this one was larger. He was about twenty-one inches above my head. I looked at my right arm, “It’s just you and me buddy and we might only get one shot at this thing, so you better make it count.” The spider was still there, I couldn’t tell if it was mocking me or blind of the fact that I intended to end its life. I flexed my quadriceps a few times to warm up and then pounced, leading with my right hand.

But I missed! I misjudged! I over-shot my landing and my hand smacked a sticky yet spider-less patch of the wall. I stepped back and quickly assumed the low stance of a sumo wrestler. The impact of my hand had sent the spider falling to the toilet where it scurried down the wall and behind a trashcan. “This is it buddy, moment of truth,” I said to myself. I was just about to attack when I wondered what I sounded like to Kitty Perry’s owner. Was I no better than Kitty Perry’s owner? Is this spider my Kitty Perry? I hoped not because I actually didn’t mind Kitty Perry. She was quiet and here I was screaming like a lunatic, killing God’s creatures and talking to myself. And then its beady little head peeked out. Aha! Had it not, it might have lived, but I was offended by the furry affront.

This time I came down fast and hard on the tile floor and this time I did not miss! I tossed the swine of a spider into my toilet and sent him the best way I knew to El Segundo. “Ha!” I cackled. I washed my hands and walked into my living room. I stared at the meditation towel. Now, I couldn’t very well just sit down and meditate. After all, I had just killed and although I am a murder, I am certainly not a hypocrite. Instead of meditating, I said something in French to myself, which I did not understand and went out for a bloody steak.

-The Neapolitan Mastiff

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November: According To The Neapolitan Mastiff

Shhyeah!!!                        Nah Bruh!!!

The Mayor’s Tongue                                              Dyscalculiac Cab Drivers

Paz de la Huerta                                                         “Only God Can Judge Me”

Indian Summer                                                           Sparrow Tattoos

Movember                                                                    Meg Whitman (2x recipient)

Jonathan Ames (writer)                                         Jonathan Ames (scatologist)

“Heads Up!”                                                                 Iced Coffee

Sacrificial Bunts                                                          Faux Fur Anything

Crystal Castles feat. Robert Smith                   Having An Epiphany

Playoff Beards                                                            Patriotic Tunes

Tryptophan Induced Naps                                    Weather Delays

-The Neapolitan Mastiff

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Recent Praise for Exchanging Pleasantries

“Like a canary sucking up methane in a coal mine, Exchanging Pleasantries keeps humming away while the rest of the world waits at a safe distance… when Exchanging Pleasantries stops humming, the end for all of us is near.”  R.Z. Poalek, Time

“After reading (Exchanging Pleasantries) my first thought was these guys are raging alcoholics. I’m still working on my second thought.” Sonia Chisolm, Seattle Times

“It’s the tres best! It’s totally tres!” Carla Bruni

“I thought only drug-addled, transient accordionists could come up with the kind of macabre thoughts they seem to think up over cereal.” Eugenio Bretani, Huffington Post

“Exchanging Pleasantries is backed by oil giants. TOLDJA!” Nikki Finke, Deadline Hollywood

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Nouvelle Adage Via Mexico D.F.

Pagar cover y no poder chupar es tan de hueva como ir a misa y no rezar.

The Neapolitan Mastiff (courtesy of @Coast2C)

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Nouvelle Adage

In the hood, ‘protect ya neck.’ In the workplace, ‘protect ya tweets.’

The Neapolitan Mastiff

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October: According To The Neapolitan Mastiff

Shhyeah!!!                        Nah Bruh!!!

House Parties                                                       Actress/Singer/Model

Haircuts                                                                 Wait For It….

German Tourists                                                  116° F In Hollywood

Crater Lake Vodka                                               Chicks In Lululemon 24/7

Jeff Zucker’s Unemployment                            My Generation Billboards

Mail-Order Brides                                                Gaspar Noe’s Cinema Nausea

Boardwalk Empire                                                Committing Fraud

Ladies Love Placido Domingo                         Cops On Horseback

David Simon: MacArthur Fellow                    Public Displays Of Anxiety

Directed by Ben Affleck                                      Directed by Casey Affleck

-The Neapolitan Mastiff

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Letters To The Neapolitan Mastiff

Dear (The) Neapolitan Mastiff,

Yesterday I went to the salon to get a pedicure. I’m going to Vegas next weekend and I wanted to clean up for the flip-flop scene at the pool. While I was there I observed some females getting their nail done, hair done, every thing done.

I happened to get seated next to a devil in a tight dress and I couldn’t help, but say, ‘Oh you fancy huh,
You you fancy huh.’ She gave me a sort of strange look, but not exactly a discouraging one and then said, ‘huh?’ I thought she was on the same page as me so I naturally I continued with, ‘Well aren’t you a breath of fresh air,
From all these superficial gold digging bitches in here.’ Well, apparently she wasn’t picking up what I was putting down because she spit on the floor and said, ‘What the fuck is your problem?’ I was so taken back, that I didn’t have time to adjust my next thought for her change in mood so I said,  ‘Girl you got it,
Let em know everything big.’

Barefoot, I was escorted out. On my drive home I started to wonder: is there anything to be gained by showering women with compliments instead of champagne and purple Bentleys? What do you give a woman that has everything?

Should I give props to a girl that’s a homeowner when I don’t own home? How do these women that are  spending hours in salons on (their) hairstyles,
in the mall steady racking up the air miles, afford to buy homes, clothes and eat bowls of baked ziti?

Loyal Reader,

Lamar Wilcox

Greetings Lamar,

I’d like to preface this by saying that there’s nothing wrong with being fancy. The Queen of England is fancy, but that’s because her country affords her the luxury. However, there is a difference between being a Queen  and taking out a new credit card so you can temporarily afford to fill your closet with Alexander McQueen. What Drake et al either don’t realize or don’t care to mention, is they don’t know where Tammy’s purple Bentley came from. They know she’s a homeowner, but not how she paid for it. It’s women like Tammy who caused the Subprime Mortgage Crisis. It’s simple; they bought extravagant homes with adjustable-rate mortgages in places like Fresno, Inland Empire and Phoenix at the height of the market. They overpaid and continued to get their nails done, hair done, everything done because their interest-only for five years mortgage was the same amount as renting a one bedroom apartment with a view of a strip mall.

I hate to place blame, but these women, with the encouragement of men like Drake and T.I., are almost entirely responsible for the boom and burst of the housing market. Now, I like a woman that’s I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-T, but the question is, does Drake know what that means? Webbie knew. She had her own house and her own car, but she also had two jobs and that’s why she was a bad broad! Drake’s girls are spending their days in front of mirrors with flat irons and nail files as opposed to working.

Tragically, Drake’s anthem led America into the housing crisis that we are currently in. If Webbie were more influential, our country might be in an entirely different place.

-The Neapolitan Mastiff

All advice is given from a place of understanding comparable to “in a perfect world.” Rather than using that exact phrase, which is absolutely hammered, Exchanging Pleasantries works from a different school of thinking brought about by a Southern and avante-garde rapper, Lil Wayne. We posit all advice from the premise, “What if Lil Wayne actually did fuck every girl in the World?”

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Cowboy Boots, Dresses and the Female Biological Clock: The Neapolitan Mastiff Weighs In

Nothing says I’m looking to copulate like a pair of cowboy boots and a summer dress. Try an A.S.U. red light/green light party sporting green, wear a dress the size of a face cloth in Hollywood on a Friday night, stumble naked through Isla Vista on Halloween and you still won’t elicit half as many suitors. It’s a look that transcends races[1] and regions while remaining very North American[2].

During the summer in Santa Monica, there’s a 28ish blonde shopping in cowboy boots and a dress in every aisle of Whole Foods. On a sunny Sunday afternoon at Echo Park Lake, right next to the carne asada, you’ll find pallid women struggling to look like pin-ups, showing more tattoo than skin in their own version of the boot and dress combo. Droves of them fill up the continent. Many women, who wouldn’t be caught dead in the look, find themselves subconsciously purchasing it. While some might claim its on trend[3], others stumble upon it. It seems to be inextricably tied to a woman’s biological clock. Something happens between the age of 27 and 35, where for whatever reason, women don this salacious armor and hit beaches, parks, barbeques and farmer’s markets, all in hopes of a little protected or unprotected procreation.

The odd thing is, it doesn’t look good. In fact, it’s an awful look.  Logistically, the boots cover up the slenderest part of the leg and the dress exposes from around the mid-thigh down. What’s essentially left is the largest part of the calf and a couple bulbous knees. You might have legs like Coco Rocha, but they look like Rosie O’Donnell’s when you’re strutting your stuff in that attire.

And yet those cowboy boots and summer dresses demand the interest of all those who are biologically predisposed to women. It’s comparable to flint and steel. Bang them together and you get a hot spark. When a woman puts on a dress and then cowboy boots, pheromones literally spew out of her. No straight man or lesbian[4] is immune. The androgynous hipster, who is in a band with his MacBook Pro, looks up from his mid-afternoon coffee. The junior agent, who is sweating through his off-the-rack suit, quits eating his Cliff Bar breakfast as she breezes by on Avenue Of The Stars. It’s like a peacock fawning its feathers. It’s nature at work. An E.D. riddled man reading yesterday’s paper on a park bench perks up. A six-year-old boy holding his mother’s hand as they walk the promenade lets go when a woman 25 years his senior swaggers by. It’s an inexplicable, unannounced, seismic, sexual awakening.

Just so there isn’t any confusion, this ensemble has nothing to do with the ranchera/vaquera, Mexicana cowgirl thing. It also has nothing to do with those large boned, ‘I grew up on a farm and did 4H in high school’ girls. Those people wear cowboy boots every day and dresses on occasion. This is more an assessment of what drives a woman who doesn’t usually wear cowboy boots to buy a pair and wear it with a dress. The succinct answer: her biological clock. Katy Perry is probably the poster child of this fountain of libido movement. Although dealing strictly with the facts, I can’t say I have ever witnessed her wearing the aforementioned combination. But lets get real for a second, what do you think she’s stomping around Russell Brand’s honey wagon in right now?

I’ll leave you with a bit of advice: If your significant other tries to leave the house wearing the abovementioned, STOP HER… on two counts.

  1. It looks heinous. Strangely seductive, but heinous.
  2. Mark my words sir, if she leaves in that outfit you will be cuckolded[5].

[1] It may or may not transcend race. This article is based largely off of encounters with white girls. Not that Vera Wang, Vida Guerra and Serena Williams don’t dabble, I just haven’t seen it.

[2] Based off a study in 2009, Calgary had more women per capita in summer dresses and cowboy boots than anywhere else on the planet.

[3] It’s not.

[4] This fact hasn’t been confirmed by an actually lesbian, but the Exchanging Pleasantries Office (a gentlemen’s club of sorts, gentlemen in the traditional sense, not in the Spearmint Rhino sense) is still pretty sure it qualifies as a fact.

[5] If your significant other is simply in drag, you’re on your own. We didn’t research that.


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September: According To The Neapolitan Mastiff

Shhyeah!!!                        Nah Bruh!!!

Frosted Mugs                                                        Mineros Atrapados

Ken Kalfus                                                              Heat Waves

On Holiday                                                          Cheese/Kombucha Recalls

Blue Bottle Coffee                                               Commuting

Naming Your Kid Sport                                    Actors

Avi Buffalo                                                           Glenn Beck’s Open Mouth

L. Lohan’s Scram Bracelet                             Checking Bags

Taxi Magic                                                           The Best Of Intentions

I Am Love                                                             Patina Restaurant Group

Liquid Lunch                                                       Rereleasing Avatar

-The Neapolitan Mastiff

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