posted by Large
Masians, I have news, and no it is not of my feelings on the unexpected defeat of Alfredo Angulo.
I confess I haven’t even seen the Cintron/Angulo mindboggler yet, nor have I seen Berto/Urango, which, if the reports I’m hearing are true, was not a bad one to miss at all.
I missed the fights because on Saturday night, along with a few other Masians of note (Kopper, Morty Bravo), I was at a wedding party for a gentleman friend of mine with whom you may be familiar, the one and only C.I., I-berg, the I-berglar, the Philosopher King of No Mas, Mr. Where the Hell Is My Phone himself, Christopher Isenberg.
Our Chris got married on Friday night to his longtime lady companion, Zoe Sakoutis, at Pete’s Candy Store in Williamsburg, where the two of them first met after a Black Betty softball game all those years ago. At the service, the bride was unspeakably gorgeous, and the Berglar resplendent in an Italian suit so clearly expensive that I was left with no choice but to assume that someone had given it to him.
There were jitters. During the pre-bout lunch at Bamonte’s, a wave of anxiety took the groom outside for some air while the rest of his groomsmen ate their eggplant rolatini in peace and every now and then muttered “stugots” as if we knew what that meant. (To keep this missive on topic, I include to the right a shot from the men’s at Bamonte’s – Willie Pep looks on while you piss at that place – better rest-room decor I have never laid eyes on).
But like the able cornermen that we are, we got our man to the ring on time. And like the battle-tested pro that he is, once the bell rang, our boy gave a very sound account of himself. Ole Morty favored us with some Gregory Corso in between rounds, and stories were told of I-berg’s legendary incompetence in the water, even when wearing floaties.
Afterwards we went for dinner at a local spot and continued the revelry. Big Steve, I-berg’s dad, recited Larkin (always welcome in Large Land), and renowned literary critic and ever-so-slightly less renowned pun-spinner Christoper Ricks, the I’s namesake, kept Morty and I in stitches all night with a never-ending stream of hilarious anecdotes and observations.
Saturday night we partied at the Battery Park Gardens, and later on (much later on) in the glorious penthouse suite of the Maritime where a little Cuban ensemble performed and the New York City skyline went about its shimmery business and at one point I-berg and his bride grinded so slowly and salaciously in front of me that I think there is a very good chance that I am now pregnant.
I saw them off this afternoon on their honeymoon to Barcelona. They were exhausted and disorganized and without question very pleased with themselves. As well they should be. Send them your fondest wishes, and celebrate their happiness, cause I tell you, I seen the two of them up close with my own foggy eyes and I detected serious happiness in my midst. As Apollo whispered to Rocky right after the final bell tolled on Creed/Balboa I, “ain’t gonna be no rematch.” Unlike Apollo and the Rock, however, I’m quite certain this thing is one and done, till death do they part. And to that I say, with all of my heart… Mazel tov.
(Check back tomorrow here at the Mas, because I’ll be introducing a new columnist to these shores, who with his first foray into Masylvania is sure to provoke with his feelings on Lil Floyd the Philanderer.)
