Everything in this story is true:
Last night, I called my roomate, Austen. He was waiting for a table at the Mexican place, "Tortilla Flats" on the corner of Washington and Jane. I was nearby and he invited me to join him and his mother for dinner.
Tortilla Flats, while being the third most common name for a mexican place behind "La Taqueria," and "The something something grill" is a spot well known for its margaritas. Well, tonight those margaritas were going to give me the courage to seize my 15 seconds of fame.
While waiting in line for a table, Austen's mom shows me the latest "Stuff" magazine (March issue). About four pages in, printed almost across two fucking pages is the man himself, Austen, in an Arizona Jeans ad! Holy shit! They printed it! Awhile back, Arizona Jeans hired him for a shoot in (surprise) Arizona. It was his first modeling job ever and he thought he had performed poorly, that the photographer didn't like him, and that they wouldn't use any of his shots. Well, they must have liked one, becuase there he is, dominating the picture. If anyone gets Stuff or Maxim, he's the long haired blond guy wearing a tropical shirt, chilling out in an empty pool with two people behind him.
So that's cool.
But we're waiting a long time for our table. Why? Becuase, I kid you not, it's Ernest Borgnine night. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, once a year, Tortilla Flats celebrates the man, the myth, the legend of big and small screen, ol' Ernie himself. Turns out, Mr. Borgnine used to eat at this place when he lived in New York and the owner decided that while the much-beloved actor may be gone from our city, he can be here in our hearts and party with us in absentia as we get drunk on 'gritas once every twelve months. The bar/restaurant is already a festive place. The walls are bright, and streamers hang down from the fairly low cielings. On this special evening, though, hundreds of pictures of Mr. Borgnine are hanging like Tibetan prayer flags, all printed as black and white line art, colored in by patrons over the last couple of days. It was truly a sight to see.
If the coloring book pictures didn't bring a tear to Mr. Borgnine's eye, I'm sure either the hats reading "I *heart* Ernie" or the numerous flat paper masks mounted on wodden popsicle sticks carried by all the patrons would have.
After the "pin the smile on Ernie" contest ended, we finally got a table. As we sat down, the waiter brought us tequila shots to make up for the inconvenience. We downed them and ordered a pitcher of 'gritas.
While we're waiting for our food, the owner, who has been enthusiastically emceeing the affair, comes by our table, sits down and says:
"Do you wanna be in the Ernest Borgnine imitation contest?"
I begin to say "No thanks," but before I can get it out, Austen says, "Yeah, sure, he'll do it."
I put up a small fight, but am put on the list all the same.
So I formulate a plan.
Ernest Borgnine's major achievement was that he won an Oscar for his supporting role in the Alfred Hitchcock film "Marnie." I thought it would be funny to focus on that, as it was his one big shining moment in a long career.
A few minutes later, I and two other people are called up to the middle of the cramped restuarant.
The owner plays a clip from some Gladiator movie, in which Borgnine speaks the lines "Here, we live by a code as solid as Iron. We live well, we die well! Unchain them!"
The owner had printed these lines on a large cue card. With much fanfare, he held it up before me.
The voice I used was essentially a deeper, rougher version of Debbie, the chain smoking woman who worked at my college cafeteria. That woman sounded like she gargled with gravel. And so did Ernie.
So I say "Here we live by a code as solid as Iron, (much like Sean Connery's jaw with whom I worked when I made Marnie for which I won an Oscar). We live well, (like I did right after winning that Oscar), we die well. Unchain them. (I won an Oscar for Marnie)."
Boy, did few people laugh at those references. Add to the fact that I knew no one at the bar besides Austen and his mom, and you can imagine the volume of cheering I got. Thankfully, everyone was drunk and at least appluaded and gave a few hurrahs.
About 12 people followed behind me, but they all tried to just be funny, instead of imitating the man's voice, save a few exceptions.
Amazingly, I was chosen by the owner to be one of three finalists!
My heart almost beat out of my chest the first time, but now I was really fucking nervous, becuase I am not a performer.
For the final round, the owner plays a clip from the 80's classic TV show "Airwolf," in which Borgnine played the co-pilot. The clip shows a verbal arguement that ends with Borgnine clocking the show's star, Jan Michael Vincent, aka "Hawke."
I decide to include Austen in this one. We come up with a plan that I was sure would nab me that first place position.
The owner accounces me, and I get some cheers, but nothing special. But, the place is small and people are shoulder to shoulder, so there's no shortage of good-natured noise. So I get the mic and read off the cue card "You think I'm all washed up! Ready for the boneyard! Well, I gotta know if I can hack it-" at this moment, Austen, who has been walking towards me as though trying to get past to the bathroom, comes within arm's length. So I grab him by his shirt and say "EVEN IF IT KILLS ME!" I suddenly find myself unable to throw a punch at Austen as we had planned becuase my one hand is holding his shirt, while the other has the mic. So I rear back my head and deliver a vicious fake head butt. Austen tumbles back, but I hold my steadfast grip, yelling "WHERE'S YOUR TECHNOLOGICALLY ADVANCED HELICOPTER NOW!?"
I catch glimpses of people over Austen's shoulder looking seriously worried as we flail around in the very narrow walkway. Finally, Earl hits the floor. "WHERE'S AIRWOLF NOW!?" I yell triumphantly over his splayed out body
It didn't get the laughs I had hoped, and the first prize instead goes to some old long-haired biker dude, who does, in all fairness, a pretty good imitation. He's got a bunch of drunk friends in attendance, so he wins from audience response.
Even though I didn't take the contest, I still won a $40 gift certificate and a Ernest Borgnine T-Shirt. And for one brief moment, I felt the rush that all Broadway performers must savor for the rest of their lives.
Thank you Ernest Borgnine, wherever you are.
Last night, I called my roomate, Austen. He was waiting for a table at the Mexican place, "Tortilla Flats" on the corner of Washington and Jane. I was nearby and he invited me to join him and his mother for dinner.
Tortilla Flats, while being the third most common name for a mexican place behind "La Taqueria," and "The something something grill" is a spot well known for its margaritas. Well, tonight those margaritas were going to give me the courage to seize my 15 seconds of fame.
While waiting in line for a table, Austen's mom shows me the latest "Stuff" magazine (March issue). About four pages in, printed almost across two fucking pages is the man himself, Austen, in an Arizona Jeans ad! Holy shit! They printed it! Awhile back, Arizona Jeans hired him for a shoot in (surprise) Arizona. It was his first modeling job ever and he thought he had performed poorly, that the photographer didn't like him, and that they wouldn't use any of his shots. Well, they must have liked one, becuase there he is, dominating the picture. If anyone gets Stuff or Maxim, he's the long haired blond guy wearing a tropical shirt, chilling out in an empty pool with two people behind him.
So that's cool.
But we're waiting a long time for our table. Why? Becuase, I kid you not, it's Ernest Borgnine night. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, once a year, Tortilla Flats celebrates the man, the myth, the legend of big and small screen, ol' Ernie himself. Turns out, Mr. Borgnine used to eat at this place when he lived in New York and the owner decided that while the much-beloved actor may be gone from our city, he can be here in our hearts and party with us in absentia as we get drunk on 'gritas once every twelve months. The bar/restaurant is already a festive place. The walls are bright, and streamers hang down from the fairly low cielings. On this special evening, though, hundreds of pictures of Mr. Borgnine are hanging like Tibetan prayer flags, all printed as black and white line art, colored in by patrons over the last couple of days. It was truly a sight to see.
If the coloring book pictures didn't bring a tear to Mr. Borgnine's eye, I'm sure either the hats reading "I *heart* Ernie" or the numerous flat paper masks mounted on wodden popsicle sticks carried by all the patrons would have.
After the "pin the smile on Ernie" contest ended, we finally got a table. As we sat down, the waiter brought us tequila shots to make up for the inconvenience. We downed them and ordered a pitcher of 'gritas.
While we're waiting for our food, the owner, who has been enthusiastically emceeing the affair, comes by our table, sits down and says:
"Do you wanna be in the Ernest Borgnine imitation contest?"
I begin to say "No thanks," but before I can get it out, Austen says, "Yeah, sure, he'll do it."
I put up a small fight, but am put on the list all the same.
So I formulate a plan.
Ernest Borgnine's major achievement was that he won an Oscar for his supporting role in the Alfred Hitchcock film "Marnie." I thought it would be funny to focus on that, as it was his one big shining moment in a long career.
A few minutes later, I and two other people are called up to the middle of the cramped restuarant.
The owner plays a clip from some Gladiator movie, in which Borgnine speaks the lines "Here, we live by a code as solid as Iron. We live well, we die well! Unchain them!"
The owner had printed these lines on a large cue card. With much fanfare, he held it up before me.
The voice I used was essentially a deeper, rougher version of Debbie, the chain smoking woman who worked at my college cafeteria. That woman sounded like she gargled with gravel. And so did Ernie.
So I say "Here we live by a code as solid as Iron, (much like Sean Connery's jaw with whom I worked when I made Marnie for which I won an Oscar). We live well, (like I did right after winning that Oscar), we die well. Unchain them. (I won an Oscar for Marnie)."
Boy, did few people laugh at those references. Add to the fact that I knew no one at the bar besides Austen and his mom, and you can imagine the volume of cheering I got. Thankfully, everyone was drunk and at least appluaded and gave a few hurrahs.
About 12 people followed behind me, but they all tried to just be funny, instead of imitating the man's voice, save a few exceptions.
Amazingly, I was chosen by the owner to be one of three finalists!
My heart almost beat out of my chest the first time, but now I was really fucking nervous, becuase I am not a performer.
For the final round, the owner plays a clip from the 80's classic TV show "Airwolf," in which Borgnine played the co-pilot. The clip shows a verbal arguement that ends with Borgnine clocking the show's star, Jan Michael Vincent, aka "Hawke."
I decide to include Austen in this one. We come up with a plan that I was sure would nab me that first place position.
The owner accounces me, and I get some cheers, but nothing special. But, the place is small and people are shoulder to shoulder, so there's no shortage of good-natured noise. So I get the mic and read off the cue card "You think I'm all washed up! Ready for the boneyard! Well, I gotta know if I can hack it-" at this moment, Austen, who has been walking towards me as though trying to get past to the bathroom, comes within arm's length. So I grab him by his shirt and say "EVEN IF IT KILLS ME!" I suddenly find myself unable to throw a punch at Austen as we had planned becuase my one hand is holding his shirt, while the other has the mic. So I rear back my head and deliver a vicious fake head butt. Austen tumbles back, but I hold my steadfast grip, yelling "WHERE'S YOUR TECHNOLOGICALLY ADVANCED HELICOPTER NOW!?"
I catch glimpses of people over Austen's shoulder looking seriously worried as we flail around in the very narrow walkway. Finally, Earl hits the floor. "WHERE'S AIRWOLF NOW!?" I yell triumphantly over his splayed out body
It didn't get the laughs I had hoped, and the first prize instead goes to some old long-haired biker dude, who does, in all fairness, a pretty good imitation. He's got a bunch of drunk friends in attendance, so he wins from audience response.
Even though I didn't take the contest, I still won a $40 gift certificate and a Ernest Borgnine T-Shirt. And for one brief moment, I felt the rush that all Broadway performers must savor for the rest of their lives.
Thank you Ernest Borgnine, wherever you are.
VIEW 7 of 7 COMMENTS
Friday night was pretty good, fairly small and it was a mixed SG/non-SG crowd, which I think helped to keep things on the tamer side. I didn't stay very late on Saturday, I had told some other friends I would hang out with them instead, which turned out to be a big mistake since their party sucked, and I heard the SGNY party was fun.
And I dig the "underground intellectuals" idea, I'm all for it.