2009/01/18
We are the time that we keep
Hello,
Sometimes, when the howling Huelva winds bow their blustery heads long enough to grant me a moment of acrid peace, I think I'm a lucky boy. The molasses like nature of the day to day here used to drive me wild; the first three months were a slow, painful deluge of bullshit bureaucracy and annoying Andalucían accents (lo que había pasado, tío, ya está) that, come Christmas time, had me seriously doubting my worth in the world at large. Having put those doubts to rest slightly by easing up, Spain has reciprocated the kind gesture; the trickle down effects of my workplace becoming somewhat less boring than before, coupled with a newfound appreciation for being able to play soccer in a t-shirt outdoors in January has me thinking twice about bitching like a little boy-o who didn't get EXACTLY what he wanted.
Number one comment I used to get from people in Oberlin when I explained that I was headed to Spain was, "Oh, you MUST be fluent by now to be doing that." The truth is that the vast majority of the people who hold the same title as me, myself included, do not speak, write nor listen at a wholly advanced level. That's really the nature of things in most jobs I realize; by being somewhat qualified, or in my case knowing a professor who took a shining to my new-school brand of braggadocio/idiocy, you are brought in to, over time, acquire and utilize the skills that you were supposed to have had with you all along. Like what the fuck is a resume? Computer skills? If you can't use a fucking computer and you graduated college in 2008, then you are wholly, unequivocally fucked. There are always people who don't seem to be working as hard as others, but yield a seemingly greater success within the same limits; it isn't easy for anyone, but being mired in the drudgery of doing something you don't actually enjoy, or having no true outlet for your passions, will lead even the most level-headed of people to find themselves jealous of those who are blissfully ignorant or mysteriously knowledgeable.
The Philadelphia Eagles have been eliminated from the playoffs this year; hold up those heads iggles fans, it's been one hell of a storybook Mcnabb-phone calling, Andy Reid Bearded, Asante Samuel picking plum dicking run for the ages.
Sometimes, when the howling Huelva winds bow their blustery heads long enough to grant me a moment of acrid peace, I think I'm a lucky boy. The molasses like nature of the day to day here used to drive me wild; the first three months were a slow, painful deluge of bullshit bureaucracy and annoying Andalucían accents (lo que había pasado, tío, ya está) that, come Christmas time, had me seriously doubting my worth in the world at large. Having put those doubts to rest slightly by easing up, Spain has reciprocated the kind gesture; the trickle down effects of my workplace becoming somewhat less boring than before, coupled with a newfound appreciation for being able to play soccer in a t-shirt outdoors in January has me thinking twice about bitching like a little boy-o who didn't get EXACTLY what he wanted.
Number one comment I used to get from people in Oberlin when I explained that I was headed to Spain was, "Oh, you MUST be fluent by now to be doing that." The truth is that the vast majority of the people who hold the same title as me, myself included, do not speak, write nor listen at a wholly advanced level. That's really the nature of things in most jobs I realize; by being somewhat qualified, or in my case knowing a professor who took a shining to my new-school brand of braggadocio/idiocy, you are brought in to, over time, acquire and utilize the skills that you were supposed to have had with you all along. Like what the fuck is a resume? Computer skills? If you can't use a fucking computer and you graduated college in 2008, then you are wholly, unequivocally fucked. There are always people who don't seem to be working as hard as others, but yield a seemingly greater success within the same limits; it isn't easy for anyone, but being mired in the drudgery of doing something you don't actually enjoy, or having no true outlet for your passions, will lead even the most level-headed of people to find themselves jealous of those who are blissfully ignorant or mysteriously knowledgeable.
The Philadelphia Eagles have been eliminated from the playoffs this year; hold up those heads iggles fans, it's been one hell of a storybook Mcnabb-phone calling, Andy Reid Bearded, Asante Samuel picking plum dicking run for the ages.
This reminds of the Nina Simone interview I posted a little while back
Those chickenheads are fucking yap happy in this clip.
Jesse Chappelle you're on notice
Didn't realize how much Chappelle links together the stand up material, but he does it in such a brilliant way that I had never considered (contrary to popular belief continuity is a sign of a real talent); using both the hey what makes you think I'm chinese, I am korean! AND the we don't get bent out of shape we just call those people police from For What it's Worth:
Drunk Bitch X
Looking for some awesome backup vocals recorded in the early aughts? Look no further than Slick Rick's verse off of "The Sun" on Bulletproof Wallets (oh my my my).
Don't get caught with your pants down singing that Ghostface verse in front of people, they will think you're singing some hymnal bullshit (especially when you have whiteboy ritmo, but, then again, take it away Frank Rich!) So it's Sunday morning coming down, and last night I smoked my brains. The weather outside is once again tremendous; football with the euros is a dangerous prospect for your man in the field.
Here's a question, how hard would it be to learn Welsh this late in the game? I just cannot get enough of the Super Furry Animals "Radiator"; I'm starting to think a Best of list should just include whatever the fuck you've been listening to and not require recentness of the releases.
Chris Duhon leads the league in minutes played (via gchat w/ Avis), this leads me to believe that he is officially the most likable Duke alumni playing starter minutes in the NBA; so, in summary Shane Battier, Elton Brand, Corey Maggette, and co. are losing some of their initial luster. I bet at least one of these athletic, abnormally tall gentlemen read this today and thought, "fuck."
The Knickerbockers also have two DePaul alumni on their roster in Quentin "Q" Richardson and Wilson "Wil" Chandler; apparently if you go to school in Chicago you can still play basketball in the Big East, although in Q's case he played in Conference USA. DePaul exists in my mind only because I once met a dope female coworker who was finishing up her philosophy degree undergrad; subsequent mentioning of her has resulted in regaling of the likability of many of the co-eds in attendance at said University for their love of "fashion" among other things.
So, I've never been to Australia, but the more women I meet from lovely Oceania, the more I think that I've just got to get down there (in every sense o' the word). When I saw Ben Folds and Rufus Wainwright (with special guest Ben Lee) at the Borgata in Atlantic City with Mike Blumenthal, I was intrigued when the diminutive Lee ambled over to the lead guitar player and gave him a fat kiss on the lips; The Red Hot Chili Peppers have been in the onstage kissing game for mad long, and don't even get me started on Mitch and Mickey, but I digress. During an Australian tour featuring Folds, Lee and Ben Kweller, the three got together to record a quick 4 song EP; it got MTV attention, I can't quite recall if it was Kurt Loder or Sway who informed me of its existence. So, without further ado, a quick foray in to three of power pops finest songwriters of the last 15 years or so. All my farts smell like kebab sauce.
TB-TBEP
Don't get caught with your pants down singing that Ghostface verse in front of people, they will think you're singing some hymnal bullshit (especially when you have whiteboy ritmo, but, then again, take it away Frank Rich!) So it's Sunday morning coming down, and last night I smoked my brains. The weather outside is once again tremendous; football with the euros is a dangerous prospect for your man in the field.
Here's a question, how hard would it be to learn Welsh this late in the game? I just cannot get enough of the Super Furry Animals "Radiator"; I'm starting to think a Best of list should just include whatever the fuck you've been listening to and not require recentness of the releases.
Chris Duhon leads the league in minutes played (via gchat w/ Avis), this leads me to believe that he is officially the most likable Duke alumni playing starter minutes in the NBA; so, in summary Shane Battier, Elton Brand, Corey Maggette, and co. are losing some of their initial luster. I bet at least one of these athletic, abnormally tall gentlemen read this today and thought, "fuck."
The Knickerbockers also have two DePaul alumni on their roster in Quentin "Q" Richardson and Wilson "Wil" Chandler; apparently if you go to school in Chicago you can still play basketball in the Big East, although in Q's case he played in Conference USA. DePaul exists in my mind only because I once met a dope female coworker who was finishing up her philosophy degree undergrad; subsequent mentioning of her has resulted in regaling of the likability of many of the co-eds in attendance at said University for their love of "fashion" among other things.
So, I've never been to Australia, but the more women I meet from lovely Oceania, the more I think that I've just got to get down there (in every sense o' the word). When I saw Ben Folds and Rufus Wainwright (with special guest Ben Lee) at the Borgata in Atlantic City with Mike Blumenthal, I was intrigued when the diminutive Lee ambled over to the lead guitar player and gave him a fat kiss on the lips; The Red Hot Chili Peppers have been in the onstage kissing game for mad long, and don't even get me started on Mitch and Mickey, but I digress. During an Australian tour featuring Folds, Lee and Ben Kweller, the three got together to record a quick 4 song EP; it got MTV attention, I can't quite recall if it was Kurt Loder or Sway who informed me of its existence. So, without further ado, a quick foray in to three of power pops finest songwriters of the last 15 years or so. All my farts smell like kebab sauce.
TB-TBEP
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