Oh David! Feeling a tad saucy on this most recent op-ed piece about "Ward 3" folk. It seems he has crawled inside an intellectual nutshell and declared himself king of infinite space. Where the fuck was this kind of commentary for the last 4 years buddy?
A brief letter to David Brooks; Copy and paste this with your own thoughts, if you feel encouraged to do so as I am going to today.
Dear Mr. Brooks,
I am an avid reader of the NYT op-ed section and have been following yourself as well as several of your colleagues on a daily basis. I truly appreciate the service that you elite journalists provide on issues that people aren't necessarily talking about, or attempting to play Devil's Advocate against public sentiment/ignorance. For your more left-leaning counterparts, the last 8 years have been a painful deluge of plainly obvious American hubris and arrogance; it is chilling to contemplate how inert so many citizens felt, while watching a politics of fear spread throughout the land. In 2004 at Oberlin College, some, including myself, waited in line for 4+ hours just to vote, because they cared enough to respect the process. Now that Obama and the liberal grandeur that comes with this honeymoon 100 day period is upon us, I respect your wishes to play the gadfly, in fact, I'm thrilled that you have taken it upon yourself to try and see through the new smoke-screens and shining lights that the current administration attempt to draw our attention to while they try to get down to the real issues facing the administration. A culture of change is ESSENTIAL, with the implicit knowledge that history has a funny way of repeating itself; there will always be an elite "class" (in a world where we are being told class capitalism is the manner by which society is maintained, then we shall refer to ourselves on this basis), some distinction, some cleavage of society, that separates those in power and those who are having more "power" exerted on to them. SO PLEASE, do not take this opportunity to bely those in power for who they "really are", cut through the crap man, speak from the heart! There lies tremendous potential for those on the losing end of the 2008 election to see how much more we can get accomplished when dissention has a positive goal in mind. At least present the facts in a manner that don't have liberal readers closing the window three paragraphs in. Let's face it, after the election, even during, you seemed to phone in half of those articles, now more than ever you have to work harder at making a case for what you really think is at stake; amongst the elite, amongst the masses and perhaps, if time allows, a perspective on why you write in the first place.
Thank you for taking the time to read this, and perhaps respond.
Sincerely,
Alex Sugiura
2009/02/03
2009/02/02
Brown Sauce
In not so many words, partisan douchebaggery is, unsurprisingly, at an all-time high.
In other news, The WMG (Warner Music Group) is accomplishing a similar feat of dickheadedness by pulling any youtube video that falls under their copyright protection.
Here's their official website
Fuck it.
In other news, The WMG (Warner Music Group) is accomplishing a similar feat of dickheadedness by pulling any youtube video that falls under their copyright protection.
Here's their official website
Fuck it.
2009/01/30
Sleep experiments
I have a big, big day ahead of me, and I'm really stoned. It's just high time to celebrate and get organized, perhaps a mixture of the two. Grand. Oh. Grand.
So, Gerald Wallace got hurt again, I thought about shedding a tear or two; he goes like the Dodo it seems, another victim of expectations that he never asked for.
better when read with your own music on.
So, Gerald Wallace got hurt again, I thought about shedding a tear or two; he goes like the Dodo it seems, another victim of expectations that he never asked for.
better when read with your own music on.
2009/01/28
Making a case for Imus
Don Imus makes up a rap about 'nappy headed-hos' and everybody goes crazy; somewhat rightfully so. John Corzine got so worked up, that he crashed his whip on the highway; then fixed the budget, sort of. Anyhoo, this most recent daily show has a great segment where Larry King sounds like, well, Larry King; heinously outdated. This is followed by one of the funniest Daily Show graphics I've ever seen, and I've been watching since Kilborn unveiled the, "It's Thursday and I just wanna DANCE, DANCE, DANCE!" bit, from which I've never stopped laughing.
Watch Here 4 free (but you knew that)
Watch Here 4 free (but you knew that)
Making a case for Mccartney
I finally finished Trickster Makes This World today; my god, anyone who cares about mythology, the process of life (some might call this artistic one, but I lack the authority to do so), buffoonery (the importance of Fyodor Pavlovtich), Negative Space, or the Neil Young classic "Pocahontas" should acquire this tome IMMEDIATELY!
Things that blew my simple mind:
-Hermaphrodite: Hermes + Aphrodite.
-The overlap in the mythology of so many disparate and unique cultures.
-The social parallels that accompany such mythology.
-Elk liver as fake labia.
-Eshu
-Bognesh (Admittedly not in the book, but I've been listening to a lot of Ween recently)
-Loki turning in to a mare, then giving birth to an 8-legged horse.
So, it seems that in the same way James Defronzo describes many notable revolutions of history (that revolution paves the way for reform, and along the way creates a stronger state), so too functions the role of the trickster in society. To quote someone's facebook status I recently saw; Iggy Pop is selling auto insurance, Johnny Rotten's selling butter, what the fuck? The gadfly doesn't want to burn the mother down, because in reality it knows it can do little more than give a jolt of life and awareness to the sedentary cow and will probably get swatted for doing so.
To me this book can be extrapolated in to the realm of Pop music, in particular the epitome of Pop, The Beatles. It is noted by many critics, allmusic.com being my primary source, that Paul Mccartney penned many send-ups through his tenure with the group; the most explicit examples being "Back in The USSR"'s Brian Wilson inspired harmonies/satirical lyrics towards those early days Beach Boys hits and "Got To Get You Into My Life" featuring a very Stax record like horn section/some indulgent lead vocal work on the part of the previously mentioned. Basically the dude is a huge goofball with serious chops.
Many people look at Paul's immediate post-Beatles solo work as the weakest contribution of the three songwriters in the group. Perhaps, then, it's no coincidence that he produced his own album while Lennon and Harrison opted for 'Let it Be' producer Phil Spector/his 'wrecking crew' to handle production duties. Subsequent interviews concerning the Let it Be sessions have Paul speak in disappointed tones as to how "The Long and Winding Road" lost all of its meaning and power when presented in "Wall of Sound" fashion; it's abundantly clear that Paul would get 'his' way with the releases of the sprawling 'anthology' compilation and the somewhat bizarre, somewhat beautiful remixing 'Let it Be Naked'; the latter being a rather blatant send up to the over the top production employed by the king of Mono.
(Quick Aside: You learn something new everyday, check out Yoko's take on Paul's contributions, followed by this great cut off of 'Imagine')
(Just turn up your sound and read this shit instead of watching this youtube montage)
It's abundantly clear Paul, just like John and George, let his egomania manifest in an occasionally brusque manner; it's just that, unlike the other two, he elected to use his songs as a vehicle for expressing this. This has led to numerous conversations, as early as high school, where people have expressed distaste for the bass-playing pretty boy; every music fan I've ever talked to has at least one 'what if' concerning the fab 4 (a real misnomer when you consider Sir George Martin's contributions, let alone those of the late, great Billy Preston).
This relates to Lewis Hyde's excellent book on several potential levels, but here I think it is best to express the notion of shame or, perhaps better, embarrassment. By making such blatant send-ups; by stealing the 'fire' of a stax horn stab or rearranging the opening lead guitar part of Bob Dylan's '4th Time Around' on 'She's Leaving Home', he's, on some level, reenacting Prometheus' journey to the lair of the gods.
Making bajillions of dollars and doing whatever you want with your life isn't quite the same outcomes as having a freshly grown liver violently plucked out by an Eagle everyday while you lay paralyzed (this is what I'm talking about with the DeFronzo corrolary; Paul made bank of being a bastard, and helped usher in a new status quo), but I digress; these pastiches serve to remind us that brilliant pop music does not arrive out of thin air. They also add transparency to the artistic process itself, and as they say, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.
In the case of Phil Spector, Mccartney's blatant distaste and disagreements over how to convey a message do nothing but increase the chances that someone who hadn't heard a Phil Spector produced song, an impossibility, will then seek one out. By attempting to bring shame to his name, he is, in a way, helping to raise Spector's work on other projects by comparison. Paul's clownish façade serves as an intriguing foil to the emotional, personal opuses that Spector had a filthy hand or two in creating.
The same goes for the seriousness in which Lennon seemed to regard his artistic contributions, for this reason, when he goofed around it was always funnier than Paul could ever try. Similarly for George Harrison, who took full advantage of his artistic freedom and never seemed to get too mired down in his previous post as the youngest one who could play guitar and sing real nice.
All this said, all the blathering nonsense I could get out before I go shoot around on this lovely January afternoon, it's not surprising that Paul wrote the words to a border-line gothic number like 'Eleanor Rigby'; the complexities of such prolific songwriters cannot be distilled in a single post, rather, I thought this was an interesting way to explore some points brought up in Hyde's book about why Tricksters are so important, and how Mccartney has strong elements of tricksterdom in his works.
Things that blew my simple mind:
-Hermaphrodite: Hermes + Aphrodite.
-The overlap in the mythology of so many disparate and unique cultures.
-The social parallels that accompany such mythology.
-Elk liver as fake labia.
-Eshu
-Bognesh (Admittedly not in the book, but I've been listening to a lot of Ween recently)
-Loki turning in to a mare, then giving birth to an 8-legged horse.
So, it seems that in the same way James Defronzo describes many notable revolutions of history (that revolution paves the way for reform, and along the way creates a stronger state), so too functions the role of the trickster in society. To quote someone's facebook status I recently saw; Iggy Pop is selling auto insurance, Johnny Rotten's selling butter, what the fuck? The gadfly doesn't want to burn the mother down, because in reality it knows it can do little more than give a jolt of life and awareness to the sedentary cow and will probably get swatted for doing so.
To me this book can be extrapolated in to the realm of Pop music, in particular the epitome of Pop, The Beatles. It is noted by many critics, allmusic.com being my primary source, that Paul Mccartney penned many send-ups through his tenure with the group; the most explicit examples being "Back in The USSR"'s Brian Wilson inspired harmonies/satirical lyrics towards those early days Beach Boys hits and "Got To Get You Into My Life" featuring a very Stax record like horn section/some indulgent lead vocal work on the part of the previously mentioned. Basically the dude is a huge goofball with serious chops.
Many people look at Paul's immediate post-Beatles solo work as the weakest contribution of the three songwriters in the group. Perhaps, then, it's no coincidence that he produced his own album while Lennon and Harrison opted for 'Let it Be' producer Phil Spector/his 'wrecking crew' to handle production duties. Subsequent interviews concerning the Let it Be sessions have Paul speak in disappointed tones as to how "The Long and Winding Road" lost all of its meaning and power when presented in "Wall of Sound" fashion; it's abundantly clear that Paul would get 'his' way with the releases of the sprawling 'anthology' compilation and the somewhat bizarre, somewhat beautiful remixing 'Let it Be Naked'; the latter being a rather blatant send up to the over the top production employed by the king of Mono.
(Quick Aside: You learn something new everyday, check out Yoko's take on Paul's contributions, followed by this great cut off of 'Imagine')
(Just turn up your sound and read this shit instead of watching this youtube montage)
It's abundantly clear Paul, just like John and George, let his egomania manifest in an occasionally brusque manner; it's just that, unlike the other two, he elected to use his songs as a vehicle for expressing this. This has led to numerous conversations, as early as high school, where people have expressed distaste for the bass-playing pretty boy; every music fan I've ever talked to has at least one 'what if' concerning the fab 4 (a real misnomer when you consider Sir George Martin's contributions, let alone those of the late, great Billy Preston).
This relates to Lewis Hyde's excellent book on several potential levels, but here I think it is best to express the notion of shame or, perhaps better, embarrassment. By making such blatant send-ups; by stealing the 'fire' of a stax horn stab or rearranging the opening lead guitar part of Bob Dylan's '4th Time Around' on 'She's Leaving Home', he's, on some level, reenacting Prometheus' journey to the lair of the gods.
Making bajillions of dollars and doing whatever you want with your life isn't quite the same outcomes as having a freshly grown liver violently plucked out by an Eagle everyday while you lay paralyzed (this is what I'm talking about with the DeFronzo corrolary; Paul made bank of being a bastard, and helped usher in a new status quo), but I digress; these pastiches serve to remind us that brilliant pop music does not arrive out of thin air. They also add transparency to the artistic process itself, and as they say, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.
In the case of Phil Spector, Mccartney's blatant distaste and disagreements over how to convey a message do nothing but increase the chances that someone who hadn't heard a Phil Spector produced song, an impossibility, will then seek one out. By attempting to bring shame to his name, he is, in a way, helping to raise Spector's work on other projects by comparison. Paul's clownish façade serves as an intriguing foil to the emotional, personal opuses that Spector had a filthy hand or two in creating.
The same goes for the seriousness in which Lennon seemed to regard his artistic contributions, for this reason, when he goofed around it was always funnier than Paul could ever try. Similarly for George Harrison, who took full advantage of his artistic freedom and never seemed to get too mired down in his previous post as the youngest one who could play guitar and sing real nice.
All this said, all the blathering nonsense I could get out before I go shoot around on this lovely January afternoon, it's not surprising that Paul wrote the words to a border-line gothic number like 'Eleanor Rigby'; the complexities of such prolific songwriters cannot be distilled in a single post, rather, I thought this was an interesting way to explore some points brought up in Hyde's book about why Tricksters are so important, and how Mccartney has strong elements of tricksterdom in his works.
2009/01/27
Crazyness
For a second today, I was afraid to write on the blurgomatic here. I think the fear crept up as I read other blogs that seem so full of content and information, whereas I have offered up so precious little to you the expectant reader/viewer. Then I remembered that I never offered up too much in the past, and so since nothing has really changed, that it doesn't matter what I'm ranting and rambling about as long as things stay consistent in some degree.
Sometimes I think this is how Ryan Gomes feels everyday playing for the Minnesota Timberwolves. I remember watching some Big East matchups back in the day where Gomes would simply take over games for the Provdience Fryars; they also loved to doing puff pieces on him whenever he took on Jim Calhoun's UConn Huskies, one such piece on CBS labeled Gomes the most prolific Connecticut native to not play for the in-state power. Superlatives aside, Gomes is a middle of the road, tweener SF/PF with no skills that translate in to visibility and recognition for what he does do well; bring consistent energy and mid-range shooting to every game.
He was one of the many throwaway youngins included in the KG "trade" that also included current wastes of life Sebastian Telfair and Gerald Green (Al Jefferson has improved by leaps and bounds, and people cannot stop lobbying for his inclusion in the All-Star game). Nobody every talks about him, like ever; no puff pieces, no "he's a professional" Hubie Brown kind of kind gestures, nothing.
It's funny to think that we are in an age now where there are definitive blog posts about all 450 players in the Association. Also, that a independent researchers discovered this. I no longer wonder why you girls seem to get so much heavier after "going abroad"; unless you go/went to the third world, where you come for the karma and stay for the organic colonoscopy.
Every time I read articles about problems that professional sports are having on the field/court in Phildelphia, there's always a quick aside that the Phillies won the World Series, and it always brings warmth to my aching heart.
Sometimes I think this is how Ryan Gomes feels everyday playing for the Minnesota Timberwolves. I remember watching some Big East matchups back in the day where Gomes would simply take over games for the Provdience Fryars; they also loved to doing puff pieces on him whenever he took on Jim Calhoun's UConn Huskies, one such piece on CBS labeled Gomes the most prolific Connecticut native to not play for the in-state power. Superlatives aside, Gomes is a middle of the road, tweener SF/PF with no skills that translate in to visibility and recognition for what he does do well; bring consistent energy and mid-range shooting to every game.
He was one of the many throwaway youngins included in the KG "trade" that also included current wastes of life Sebastian Telfair and Gerald Green (Al Jefferson has improved by leaps and bounds, and people cannot stop lobbying for his inclusion in the All-Star game). Nobody every talks about him, like ever; no puff pieces, no "he's a professional" Hubie Brown kind of kind gestures, nothing.
It's funny to think that we are in an age now where there are definitive blog posts about all 450 players in the Association. Also, that a independent researchers discovered this. I no longer wonder why you girls seem to get so much heavier after "going abroad"; unless you go/went to the third world, where you come for the karma and stay for the organic colonoscopy.
Every time I read articles about problems that professional sports are having on the field/court in Phildelphia, there's always a quick aside that the Phillies won the World Series, and it always brings warmth to my aching heart.
2009/01/26
John Stewart makes a face
That one will not soon forget.
I think I'm gonna bleach my hair when it gets to shoulder length and learn to dance like Axl Rose.
Manic Depressive Sword Crossing Apoplectic Simulacrum Blues
I was trying to manage
my expectations
erstwhile some sage
sent invitations
for a masquerade
Cool hands, lukewarm
giblet gravy boat
gelatinous form
forms a quick coat
on my dinner plate
You fucking turkeys
you fucking swine
God Bless
the dressed
to impress
To hell with
the divine
my expectations
erstwhile some sage
sent invitations
for a masquerade
Cool hands, lukewarm
giblet gravy boat
gelatinous form
forms a quick coat
on my dinner plate
You fucking turkeys
you fucking swine
God Bless
the dressed
to impress
To hell with
the divine
Phucket
Andy Williams sure could belt out a tune, but Audrey Hepburn was FABULOUS.
Who doesn't like the shit that Henry Mancini (and his orchestra) put together over the years? What buttfucking snot nosed band kid didn't play some mediocre rendition of "Theme from the Pink Panther"? (This one sure as hell did)
Today, when explaining Princeton, New Jersey to a classroom of fifth graders, the first question to get the ball rolling was, "Do you worry often about shark attacks?" Incredible.
The big plan to get "free condoms" distributed by tomorrow has fallen flat on its fat face. So, bear with me while I figure out if anything I've been working on will ever in fact be released.
What a moron fuck drunk weekend it was, thanks for being my friend y'alls.
Who doesn't like the shit that Henry Mancini (and his orchestra) put together over the years? What buttfucking snot nosed band kid didn't play some mediocre rendition of "Theme from the Pink Panther"? (This one sure as hell did)
Today, when explaining Princeton, New Jersey to a classroom of fifth graders, the first question to get the ball rolling was, "Do you worry often about shark attacks?" Incredible.
The big plan to get "free condoms" distributed by tomorrow has fallen flat on its fat face. So, bear with me while I figure out if anything I've been working on will ever in fact be released.
What a moron fuck drunk weekend it was, thanks for being my friend y'alls.
2009/01/25
Album Of The Year
Tim Kasher and co. circa 2005 on what appears to be a German morning talk show. A decidedly different take on the vocals and rhythm guitar from the LP version, this song just continues to speak straight to the heart. Somehow, despite some lines teetering on groaner status "She said she'd never seen someone so lost/I said I never felt so found" it all just feels so fucking honest; drunk men do think like this ladies, so pay attention and enjoy!
2009/01/24
RIP Kay Yow
If you were to ask me which sport I gave the least of a fuck about that gets significant funding to prosper and grow, I'd probably say women's basketball; it just feels like such an exercise in futility to me. Yes I said it, but that said, when someone gives a damn about their job and what they do does more good than harm, and when the harm is essentially harmless because it manifests from skewed perspectives like my own, they deserve recognition.
In the curious case of Kay Yow, a long, impressive career came to a close as she was taken by a notably long-winded battle with breast cancer. My heart goes out to all those personally affected by this. ESPN pays people to do this so, you might want to officially read about her accomplishments before I start ranting about my own grandmother.
Bea Borenstein was a caring and loving woman who I only really know through black and white pictures inside dusty frames. I can remember the texture, but not the taste of the matzoh ball soup that she so kindly stewed for me at the age of 4. I remember her sympathetic hands and face. Her personal struggle with breast cancer was not the stuff of myth; she was just a human being living, dying, day by day with a disease that hadn't the mind to consider that there were to sides to the battle.
Mom and Dad used to tell me how much time and effort both my mother's parents had put in to help raising us. How much they must have given before I was old enough to realize what was what. I kind of feel the same way about Otis Redding; we're constantly left thinking what could have come if that flight had made it through Wisconsin.
My father told me a story once, that at his grandmother's funeral (or in the case of the Japanese a cremation) his family showed him the ashes and bones that were left and told him, "when you die, this is it, nothing more,"; besides probably scaring the bejesus out of him at the time, it served an interesting lesson. I've never met a man who had more love to give to his family and friends in such a faithful manner than the man whose balls I once resided in.
So, I've got time today to reflect on how lucky I am, even if superficial things like being broke and having no friends around are trying to drag me down. Free Condoms!
In the curious case of Kay Yow, a long, impressive career came to a close as she was taken by a notably long-winded battle with breast cancer. My heart goes out to all those personally affected by this. ESPN pays people to do this so, you might want to officially read about her accomplishments before I start ranting about my own grandmother.
Bea Borenstein was a caring and loving woman who I only really know through black and white pictures inside dusty frames. I can remember the texture, but not the taste of the matzoh ball soup that she so kindly stewed for me at the age of 4. I remember her sympathetic hands and face. Her personal struggle with breast cancer was not the stuff of myth; she was just a human being living, dying, day by day with a disease that hadn't the mind to consider that there were to sides to the battle.
Mom and Dad used to tell me how much time and effort both my mother's parents had put in to help raising us. How much they must have given before I was old enough to realize what was what. I kind of feel the same way about Otis Redding; we're constantly left thinking what could have come if that flight had made it through Wisconsin.
My father told me a story once, that at his grandmother's funeral (or in the case of the Japanese a cremation) his family showed him the ashes and bones that were left and told him, "when you die, this is it, nothing more,"; besides probably scaring the bejesus out of him at the time, it served an interesting lesson. I've never met a man who had more love to give to his family and friends in such a faithful manner than the man whose balls I once resided in.
So, I've got time today to reflect on how lucky I am, even if superficial things like being broke and having no friends around are trying to drag me down. Free Condoms!
LBJ
Corey Maggette has been making this face since he bounced from the comfy confines of the Cameron Crazies.
Goofballs
Hello Malaysian Mogwai fans!
I'm up at 9:30 in the morning here on a Saturday, thanks in large part to a 2 am bedtime coupled with a freezing apartment that does not allow me to sleep for long.
We're almost 2 months in to the no shave game on my face and the results are somewhat horrifying.
That makes two Michael J. Fox references in one month!
I hope everyone is getting as excited as I am about "Pro-Fi-Lactix Gratuite".
Bad Credit? No Credit? Come on down to Big Al Sugiero's used car lot!
The cryptic link titles on the blog should not stop any of you from clicking through! So, check this, this andthis man.
I've been reading up on the band Faith No More and their two different lead singers, Chuck Moseley/Mike Patton so you don't have to. Kind of interesting stuff for a kid who bought Limp Bizkit CD's from Sam Goody with a gift certificate at the brilliant decision making age of 13; I would literally go straight to the best seller aisle and grab what was in the top ten that didn't totally suck (haha! I got jokes too...).
Ok, everybody have a great day!
I'm up at 9:30 in the morning here on a Saturday, thanks in large part to a 2 am bedtime coupled with a freezing apartment that does not allow me to sleep for long.
We're almost 2 months in to the no shave game on my face and the results are somewhat horrifying.
That makes two Michael J. Fox references in one month!
I hope everyone is getting as excited as I am about "Pro-Fi-Lactix Gratuite".
Bad Credit? No Credit? Come on down to Big Al Sugiero's used car lot!
The cryptic link titles on the blog should not stop any of you from clicking through! So, check this, this andthis man.
I've been reading up on the band Faith No More and their two different lead singers, Chuck Moseley/Mike Patton so you don't have to. Kind of interesting stuff for a kid who bought Limp Bizkit CD's from Sam Goody with a gift certificate at the brilliant decision making age of 13; I would literally go straight to the best seller aisle and grab what was in the top ten that didn't totally suck (haha! I got jokes too...).
Ok, everybody have a great day!
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
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