2009/01/23
Pendulum Swings
Super Clásico of 2006: River Plate upsets first place Boca Juniors on a myriad of unimpressive goals 3-2.
Cantankerous old men jostle for position in the limited accommodations of the local watering hole. Younger, more virile, locals know that their place is in the street; that as long as there is a view, they can drink, standing, in peace. Then there's the table with the beaming bright faces of four drunk Americans ordering pasta that may or may not have been microwaved minutes before it was brought to them with their liter bottle beers.
Malouva was a stones throw from the dormitory's door, so I knew it wouldn't matter when I rose from my chambers. The clamoring was feverish; almost every passing torso was painted in white with a red strpe or a blueish yellow, quickly it began blurring together and coalesced in to a tornado of Camel blue cigarette smoke and incessant chanting. No, I don't recall the songs they sang, there was no clear way to be prepared for this event.
Each time the ball crossed the goal-line, an eruption on each adjacent corner flowed up to the sky. When one looks at the flags of Uruguay and Argentina, you get to know sky blue; same goes for city living in Buenos Aires, when the dull, greyness of the July wintertime fades, the sky somehow feels closer to the ground. With that blue comes so many other beautiful colors; the jacaranda flowers in Plaza de Mayo, the brilliant ebullience of rose bushes, the savory insides of a fresh empanada, even the projectile vomit of an oversized half-Asian American student has a certain freshness to it.
Like all great man-made inventions, the first division of Argentine professional football was ingrained in to the Sunday of seemingly every citizen. While standing and staring at the screen through the window, I found myself losing ground to the booze hounds who were sniffing around for a better view. Frankly, my disinterest grew as it became revealed to me that there couldn't be less at stake for me other than the overdue work that I had neglected like a tamagochi pet in the corner of the den of filth that I farted and fucked around in a little too much.
There was no time for dialogue amongst these men, women and children; songs were sang, glasses were chimed, but minds eyes' were fixed on one thing alone. Maybe that's why I was happy to walk away with plenty of time for some late game heroics and contemplate how to best enjoy the weather, knowing damn well that Ohio was not going to change it's ways come January's wintry term. As the throng of fanatics again crescendoed their discontentment, a failed opportunity in football is a passing thing it seems, the now growing distance brought a certain warmth back.
Cantankerous old men jostle for position in the limited accommodations of the local watering hole. Younger, more virile, locals know that their place is in the street; that as long as there is a view, they can drink, standing, in peace. Then there's the table with the beaming bright faces of four drunk Americans ordering pasta that may or may not have been microwaved minutes before it was brought to them with their liter bottle beers.
Malouva was a stones throw from the dormitory's door, so I knew it wouldn't matter when I rose from my chambers. The clamoring was feverish; almost every passing torso was painted in white with a red strpe or a blueish yellow, quickly it began blurring together and coalesced in to a tornado of Camel blue cigarette smoke and incessant chanting. No, I don't recall the songs they sang, there was no clear way to be prepared for this event.
Each time the ball crossed the goal-line, an eruption on each adjacent corner flowed up to the sky. When one looks at the flags of Uruguay and Argentina, you get to know sky blue; same goes for city living in Buenos Aires, when the dull, greyness of the July wintertime fades, the sky somehow feels closer to the ground. With that blue comes so many other beautiful colors; the jacaranda flowers in Plaza de Mayo, the brilliant ebullience of rose bushes, the savory insides of a fresh empanada, even the projectile vomit of an oversized half-Asian American student has a certain freshness to it.
Like all great man-made inventions, the first division of Argentine professional football was ingrained in to the Sunday of seemingly every citizen. While standing and staring at the screen through the window, I found myself losing ground to the booze hounds who were sniffing around for a better view. Frankly, my disinterest grew as it became revealed to me that there couldn't be less at stake for me other than the overdue work that I had neglected like a tamagochi pet in the corner of the den of filth that I farted and fucked around in a little too much.
There was no time for dialogue amongst these men, women and children; songs were sang, glasses were chimed, but minds eyes' were fixed on one thing alone. Maybe that's why I was happy to walk away with plenty of time for some late game heroics and contemplate how to best enjoy the weather, knowing damn well that Ohio was not going to change it's ways come January's wintry term. As the throng of fanatics again crescendoed their discontentment, a failed opportunity in football is a passing thing it seems, the now growing distance brought a certain warmth back.
I can't get to you, from your garden gate, 'cause it's always locked by the magistrate
Everyone is either in Granada or Portugal. My poor friend in London got a stomach virus and had to bail on our plans to frolic through the streets of Sevilla this fair weekend. I've got nothing but my thoughts, 1 functioning maraca, my midi controller, a tortilla de patata (con cebolla), a loaf of bread, some fizzy-bubbly, and this macbook pro for the next 72 hours; let's see what happens...
Personally, I'm not a big advocate of the ballyhoo we fans create around NBA all-star weekend. The dunk contest, despite never really losing relevance, gets declared dead every couple of years or so until someone with transcendent athleticism and control comes along to cheer us up. Jason Richardson's explosiveness during his two-year reign as dunk contest champ was so ridiculous, but nobody really cared because nothing he did came close to VC in 2000. There is so much history with the dunk; it's social importance starting at the earliest possible age (teenage boys, and the occasional teenage girl, get a boner just from grabbing the rim without any help from props) coupled with the crushing shame from being tall and unable to perform this task, usually manifesting in the form of, "Man, if I had your length I would be playing D-1 ball."
Other items on the itinerary in Phoenix this February:
-Skills Competition: I don't see why they can't incorporate more absurd elements in to this to, bare minimum add a little zest to this event. It is so unfair that anyone has to compete against Chris Paul in an on court challenge of speed and coordination (dude is on another fucking level altogether).
-Rookie vs. Sophomore Game: I've been seeing some people pointing and waving their finger at this event as a silly way of making the youngin's feel some sense of entitlement. They, like all sentient beings it seems, take their cue from the older heads running the big show on Sunday and throw concepts like defense completely out the window. Here's my question; if we're gonna get incensed over this, why not the eight bajillion showcase events for high school athletes that are blatantly sponsored by the biggest companies in the country? Why did I know about O.J. Mayo when he was in 8th grade? Why do I know that Mouth-of-Wilson, Virginia is a real place?(Former stomping grounds of Carmelo Anthony, Josh Smith, Michael Beasley, Ron Mercer, Desagna Diop, among many others) Also, when is Ibrahim Jabber gonna get his shine in the NBA? I'm starting the campaign to have the Nets drop Keyon Dooling in favor of the greatest Ivy League guard I've ever had the pleasure of playing against.
-Celebrity Game: Ok, now I will openly admit that my greatest desire in life is to become famous only so I can milk that fame to get to play in celebrity basketball games. This is the only thing that keeps me going everyday when I think about how little I have going for myself.
-There are other events, like that one where they have an NBA player, a WNBA player and a retired great from a team shoot from a bunch of spots on the floor...zzzzzzzz...what huh? oh man what a fucking stupid weekend...
Personally, I'm not a big advocate of the ballyhoo we fans create around NBA all-star weekend. The dunk contest, despite never really losing relevance, gets declared dead every couple of years or so until someone with transcendent athleticism and control comes along to cheer us up. Jason Richardson's explosiveness during his two-year reign as dunk contest champ was so ridiculous, but nobody really cared because nothing he did came close to VC in 2000. There is so much history with the dunk; it's social importance starting at the earliest possible age (teenage boys, and the occasional teenage girl, get a boner just from grabbing the rim without any help from props) coupled with the crushing shame from being tall and unable to perform this task, usually manifesting in the form of, "Man, if I had your length I would be playing D-1 ball."
Other items on the itinerary in Phoenix this February:
-Skills Competition: I don't see why they can't incorporate more absurd elements in to this to, bare minimum add a little zest to this event. It is so unfair that anyone has to compete against Chris Paul in an on court challenge of speed and coordination (dude is on another fucking level altogether).
-Rookie vs. Sophomore Game: I've been seeing some people pointing and waving their finger at this event as a silly way of making the youngin's feel some sense of entitlement. They, like all sentient beings it seems, take their cue from the older heads running the big show on Sunday and throw concepts like defense completely out the window. Here's my question; if we're gonna get incensed over this, why not the eight bajillion showcase events for high school athletes that are blatantly sponsored by the biggest companies in the country? Why did I know about O.J. Mayo when he was in 8th grade? Why do I know that Mouth-of-Wilson, Virginia is a real place?(Former stomping grounds of Carmelo Anthony, Josh Smith, Michael Beasley, Ron Mercer, Desagna Diop, among many others) Also, when is Ibrahim Jabber gonna get his shine in the NBA? I'm starting the campaign to have the Nets drop Keyon Dooling in favor of the greatest Ivy League guard I've ever had the pleasure of playing against.
-Celebrity Game: Ok, now I will openly admit that my greatest desire in life is to become famous only so I can milk that fame to get to play in celebrity basketball games. This is the only thing that keeps me going everyday when I think about how little I have going for myself.
-There are other events, like that one where they have an NBA player, a WNBA player and a retired great from a team shoot from a bunch of spots on the floor...zzzzzzzz...what huh? oh man what a fucking stupid weekend...
Blarg
After much discussion with my older brother, I've finally settled on a title for a new release that should be dropping next week; Pro-Fil-Lactix Gratuite. Basically the idea is that I will be fucking you 6 (or more) ways to Sunday but there's a roughly 83% chance you won't get pregnant (all at no cost to you, the listener, other than sparing a few passing moments of your computer time). So please, stay tuned and entertain yourselves with the following videos:
Fuck Joe Budden's lazy production team on "Pump it Up"
Goonie Goo Goo
Fuck Joe Budden's lazy production team on "Pump it Up"
Goonie Goo Goo
Oh shit there's a bear!
"Worms like Conficker not only ricochet around the Internet at lightning speed, they harness infected computers into unified systems called botnets, which can then accept programming instructions from their clandestine masters. “If you’re looking for a digital Pearl Harbor, we now have the Japanese ships steaming toward us on the horizon,” said Rick Wesson, chief executive of Support Intelligence, a computer security consulting firm based in San Francisco."
Article; here.
This doesn't even make any fucking sense. The world is crazy, go read a book you beautiful babies. If not, at least read this.
Article; here.
This doesn't even make any fucking sense. The world is crazy, go read a book you beautiful babies. If not, at least read this.
Calvin, where art thou?
One of the true gems of the Last Waltz; even if Rick Danko is too coked out to remember the words to this, or any other song; if you have a copy of the deluxe 4 disc rerelease, check out the version "This Wheel's On Fire", Danko totally butchers the 3rd verse and it just doesn't matter.
This video is terrible in the same way Hagar is Horrible (also known as not quite as much as you thought as a child). That said, George Mcrae has got something to say, in a bad way.
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