(via The Souther Cross Review)
By Jorge Luis Borges
(translation from Spanish and comments by Gaither Stewart)
He, whose long wall the wand’ring Tartar bounds …
Dunciad, II, 76. (1)
I read, in past days, that the man who ordered the construction of the nearly infinite Wall of China was that First Emperor, Shih Huang Ti, who likewise ordered the burning of all the books before him. That the two gigantic operations—the five or six hundred leagues of stone to oppose the barbarians, the rigorous abolition of history, that is of the past—issued from one person and were in a certain sense his attributes, inexplicably satisfied me and, at the same time, disturbed me. The object of this note is to investigate the reasons for that emotion.
Historically there is no mystery in the two measures. A contemporary of the wars of Hannibal, Shih Huang Ti, King of Ch’in, conquered the Six Kingdoms and eliminated the feudal system; he built the wall because walls were defenses; he burned the books because the opposition invoked them in order to extol former emperors. Burning books and building fortifications is common task to emperors; the only thing singular about Shih Huang Ti was the scale on which he operated. So some Sinologists would have us understand, but I feel that the facts to which I referred are something more than an exaggeration or a hyperbole of trivial inclinations. To enclose an orchard or a garden is common; not to enclose an empire. That the most traditional of races renounced the memory of its past, mythical or true, is no small matter. The Chinese had three thousand years of chronology (in those years, the Yellow Emperor and Chuang Tzu and Confucius and Lao Tzu) when Shih Huang Ti ordered that history began with him.
Shih Huang Ti had banished his mother as a libertine; the orthodox saw only impiety in his severe justice; Shih Huang Ti, perhaps, wanted to erase canonic books because they accused him; Shih Huang Ti, perhaps, wanted to abolish the entire past in order to abolish one memory: the infamy of his mother. (Not unlike another king, in Judea, had all the children killed in order to kill one.) This conjecture is worth considering, but it tells us nothing about the wall, about the second facet of the myth. Shih Huang Ti, according to historians, forbade all mention of the word death and searched for the elixir of immortality and secluded himself in a figurative palace, which had as many rooms as the year has days; the data suggest that the wall in space and the fire in time were magic barriers intended to halt the advance of death. Everything persists in his being, wrote Baruch Spinoza; perhaps the Emperor and his sages believed that immortality was intrinsic and that corruption could not penetrate a closed sphere. Perhaps the Emperor hoped to recreate the beginning of time and called himself The First, in order to be truly the first, and he named himself Huang Ti in order to be in some way Huang Ti, the legendary emperor who invented writing and the compass. The latter, according to the Book of Rites, gave things their true names; equally Shih Huang Ti boasted, in enduring inscriptions, that all things in his empire had the name they merited. He dreamed of founding an immortal dynasty; he ordered that his heirs should be named Second Emperor, Third Emperor, Fourth Emperor, and so on to infinity … I spoke of a magic design; it would also be possible to suppose that constructing a wall and burning the books were not simultaneous acts. This (according to the order we choose) would give us the image of a king who began by destroying and afterwards resigned himself to conserving, or that of a disabused king who destroyed what he defended earlier. Both conjectures are dramatic but lack, as far as I know, in historical basis. Herbert Allen Giles (2) relates that those who concealed books were branded by a red-hot iron and condemned to build the outrageous wall until the day of their death. This information favors or tolerates another interpretation. Perhaps the wall was a metaphor, maybe Shih Huang Ti condemned those who worshipped the past to a work just as vast as the past, as stupid and useless. Perhaps the wall was a challenge and Shih Huang Ti thought: “Men love the past and I can do nothing against this love, nor can my executioners, but some time there will be a man who feels as I do, and he will destroy my wall, as I destroyed the books, and will erase my memory and will be my shadow and my mirror and will not be aware of it. Perhaps Shih Huang Ti walled in the empire because he knew it was fragile and he destroyed the books because he understood they were sacred books, or rather books that taught that which the entire universe teaches or the consciousness of every man. Maybe the burning of the libraries and the construction of the wall are operations that in a secret way cancel each other.
The tenacious wall that in this moment, and in all moments, projects its system of shadows across lands I will not see, is the shadow of a Caesar who ordered that the most reverent of nations burn its past; it is likely that the idea itself touches us by, over and above, the conjectures it allows. (Its virtue can be in the opposition to building and destroying, on an enormous scale.) Generalizing the earlier matter, we could infer that all practices have their virtue in themselves and not in some conjectural “content.” This would be in agreement with the thesis of Benedetto Croce (3); as already Pater (4), in 1877, contended that all the arts aspire to the condition of music, which is nothing but form. Music, state of happiness, mythology, faces shaped by time, certain twilights and certain places, try to tell us something, or they told us something that we should not have lost, or want to tell us something; this imminence of a revelation, which does not happen, is, perhaps, the esthetic act.
1. Dunciad by Alexander Pope in which the poet referred to his many enemies as dunces. This satirical poem of 920 lines, in three books, describes the king of dunces and a nightmare world of universal darkness in Pope’s gigantic lampoon of writers, books and booksellers, attacking those who write for pay. At one point there is a sacrifice bonfire of the books. This sort of literary reference and source is used by Anglophile Borges throughout his work.
2. Herbert Allen Giles (1845-1935), renowned British diplomat and Sinologist.
3. Benedetto Croce (1866-1952), Italian literary historian, critic, philosopher, wrote: “Art is not the addition of form to content, but expression, which does not mean communication but is a spiritual fact, and ethics is conceived as the expression of the universal will, of the spirit.”
4. Walter Pater (1839-94), English writer, essayist, aesthete and art historian, famous precisely because his life is so shrouded in mystery, whom Henry James called “the mask without the face” and the kind of literary source Borges plants in his strange tales. Here Borges quotes Pater that “all art constantly aspires toward the condition of music.” I found on line this anecdote which is revealing of the nature of Pater, and thus of one side of Borges:
In 1894, the last year of his life, Pater was invited to meet Mallarmé, who was then lecturing at Oxford. Mallarmé taught English in a lycée; Pater’s French was excellent; but the two connoisseurs of intimation apparently thought it too vulgar actually to speak. According to one account, they “regarded each other in silence, and were satisfied.”
Translator’s note: This typical Borges interpretative chronicle/ historical reflection (neither short story nor essay!) is included in Antología Personal (Personal Anthology), the version I have translated here, the first edition of which was published by Editorial Sur in 1961 and for which Borges wrote in the Prologue that his “preferences dictated this book.” It appeared again in English in Everything and Nothing, New Directions, 1999. I chose to translate this tale/account because it is shorter and, perhaps, less well-known than others; secondly because it is typical of Borges’ works in which he playfully drops unfamiliar names and references in his veiled recounting of people and place and times, which only at first appear obscure or meaningless; and thirdly because of the writer’s prologue to the volume.
As fate would have it and in Borges style, I saw in a May issue of the best of the “NY Times in Italian,” the article “Walls Raised Against the Enemy, A Long History,” which cites the first such wall as Shih Huang Ti’s Wall of China, an article intended to demonstrate that they never work, not in Berlin nor in Israel nor in Baghdad. Nor will it work on the US-Mexican border, I would add.
Tracing the references and my close reading of the Prologue is to elucidate to a limited degree the Borgesian world. If you try to pursue diligently all Borges’ literary pointers you have to be prepared to enter an infinite labyrinth in which one thing leads to another and then another, inexorably and without end, so that you do need the proverbial ball of string to find your way out. Though with contemporary web search engines this labyrinth is only a few clicks away, while I was clicking and longing to exit I imagined Borges instead in one of his libraries, finding, tracing and investigating such sources of inspiration by following his own instincts, pulling down tome after tome from the labyrinthine spaces filled with semi-illuminated shelves that he must have loved and hated.
Toward the end of this exercise, once the translation was finished and the names pinpointed, I returned to his Prologue to the book in which he refers to Benedetto Croce as he does in “The Wall and the Books.” Borges: “Croce opined that art is expression; from this exigency, or from the deformation of this exigency, derives the worst literature of our times…. I at times have also searched for expression; now I know that my gods no longer concede me anything but allusion or account.”
Creative writers can well understand him. On a similar tack Umberto Eco (The Name of the Rose) says that, “every work of art is a game played out at the worktable. Nothing is more harmful to creativity than the passion of inspiration. It’s the fable of bad romantics that fascinates bad poets and bad narrators. Art is a serious matter. Manzoni and Flaubert, Balzac and Stendhal wrote at the worktable. That means to construct, like an architect plans a building. Yet we prefer to believe that a novelist invents because he has a genius whispering into his ear.”
2009/02/05
La Muralla y los libros
Leí, días pasados, que el hombre que ordenó la edificación de la casi infinita muralla china fue aquel primer emperador, Shih Huang Ti, que asimismo dispuso que se quemaran todos los libros anteriores a él. Que las dos vastas operaciones –las quinientas a seiscientas leguas de piedra opuestas a los bárbaros, la rigurosa abolición de la historia, es decir del pasado– procedieran de una persona y fueran de algún modo sus atributos, inexplicablemente me satisfizo y, a la vez, me inquietó.
Indagar las razones de esa emoción es el fin de esta nota. Históricamente, no hay misterio en las dos medidas. Contemporáneo de las guerras de Aníbal, Shih Huang Ti, rey de Tsin, redujo a su poder los Seis Reinos y borró el sistema feudal: erigió la muralla, porque las murallas eran defensas; quemó los libros, porque la oposición los invocaba para alabar a los antiguos emperadores.
Quemar libros y erigir fortificaciones es tarea común de los príncipes; lo único singular en Shih Huang Ti fue la escala en que obró. Así lo dejan entender algunos sinólogos, pero yo siento que los hechos que he referido son algo más que una exageración o una hipérbole de disposiciones triviales.
Cercar un huerto o un jardín es común; no, cercar un imperio.
Tampoco es baladí pretender que la más tradicional de las razas renuncie a la memoria de su pasado, mítico o verdadero. Tres mil años de cronología tenían los chinos (y en esos años, el Emperador Amarillo y Chuang Tzu y Confucio y Lao Tzu), cuando Shih Huang Ti ordenó que la historia comenzara con él.
Shih Huang Ti había desterrado a su madre por libertina; en su dura justicia, los ortodoxos no vieron otra cosa que una impiedad; Shih Huang Ti, tal vez, quiso borrar los libros canónigos porque éstos lo acusaban; Shih Huang Ti, tal vez, quiso abolir todo el pasado para abolir un solo recuerdo; la infamia de su madre. (No de otra suerte un rey, en Judea, hizo matar a todos los niños para matar a uno.)
Esta conjetura es atendible, pero nada nos dice de la muralla, de la segunda cara del mito. Shih Huang Ti, según los historiadores, prohibió que se mencionara la muerte y buscó el elixir de la inmortalidad y se recluyó en un palacio figurativo, que constaba de tantas habitaciones como hay días en el año; estos datos sugieren que la muralla en el espacio y el incendio en el tiempo fueron barreras mágicas destinadas a detener la muerte.
* * *
Todas las cosas quieren persistir en su ser, ha escrito Baruch Spinoza; quizá el Emperador y sus magos creyeron que la inmortalidad es intrínseca y que la corrupción no puede entrar en un orbe cerrado.
Quizá el Emperador quiso recrear el principio del tiempo y se llamó Primero, para ser realmente primero, y se llamó Huang Ti, para ser de algún modo Huang Ti, el legendario emperador que inventó la escritura y la brújula.
Este, según el Libro de los ritos, dio su nombre verdadero a las cosas; parejamente Shih Huang Ti se jactó, en inscripciones que perduran, de que todas las cosas, bajo su imperio, tuvieran el nombre que les conviene.
Soñó fundar una dinastía inmortal; ordenó que sus herederos se llamaran Segundo Emperador, Tercer Emperador, Cuarto Emperador, y así hasta lo infinito...
He hablado de un propósito mágico; también cabría suponer que erigir la muralla y quemar los libros no fueron actos simultáneos.
Esto (según el orden que eligiéramos) nos daría la imagen de un rey que empezó por destruir y luego se resignó a conservar, o la de un rey desengañado que destruyó lo que antes defendía.
Ambas conjeturas son dramáticas, pero carecen, que yo sepa, de base histórica. Herbert Allen Giles cuenta que quienes ocultaron libros fueron marcados con un hierro candente y condenados a construir, hasta el día de su muerte, la desaforada muralla.
Esta noticia favorece o tolera otra interpretación. Acaso la muralla fue una metáfora, acaso Shih Huang Ti condenó a quienes adoraban el pasado a una obra tan vasta como el pasado, tan torpe y tan inútil.
* * *
Acaso la muralla fue un desafío y Shih Huang Ti pensó: “Los hombres aman el pasado y contra ese amor nada puedo, ni pueden mis verdugos, pero alguna vez habrá un hombre que sienta como yo, y ése destruirá mi muralla, como yo he destruido los libros, y ése borrará mi memoria y será mi sombra y mi espejo y no lo sabrá”.
Acaso Shih Huang Ti amuralló el imperio porque sabía que éste era deleznable y destruyó los libros por entender que eran libros sagrados, o sea libros que enseñan lo que enseña el universo entero o la conciencia de cada hombre.
Acaso el incendio de las bibliotecas y la edificación de la muralla son operaciones que de un modo secreto se anulan.
La muralla tenaz que en este momento, y en todos, proyecta sobre tierras que no veré su sistema de sombras es la sombra de un César que ordenó que la más reverente de las naciones quemara su pasado; es verosímil que la idea nos toque de por sí, fuera de las conjeturas que permite. (Su virtud puede estar en la oposición de construir y destruir, en enorme escala.)
Generalizando el caso anterior, podríamos inferir que todas las formas tienen su virtud en sí mismas y no en un “contenido” conjetural.
Eso concordaría con la tesis de Benedetto Croce; ya Pater, en 1877, afirmó que todas las artes aspiran a la condición de la música, que no es otra cosa que forma.
La música, los estados de la felicidad, la mitología, las caras trabajadas por el tiempo, ciertos crepúsculos y ciertos lugares, quieren decirnos algo, o algo dijeron que no hubiéramos debido perder, o están por decir algo; esta inminencia de una revelación, que no se produce, es, quizá, el hecho estético.
Por Jorge Luis Borges
Indagar las razones de esa emoción es el fin de esta nota. Históricamente, no hay misterio en las dos medidas. Contemporáneo de las guerras de Aníbal, Shih Huang Ti, rey de Tsin, redujo a su poder los Seis Reinos y borró el sistema feudal: erigió la muralla, porque las murallas eran defensas; quemó los libros, porque la oposición los invocaba para alabar a los antiguos emperadores.
Quemar libros y erigir fortificaciones es tarea común de los príncipes; lo único singular en Shih Huang Ti fue la escala en que obró. Así lo dejan entender algunos sinólogos, pero yo siento que los hechos que he referido son algo más que una exageración o una hipérbole de disposiciones triviales.
Cercar un huerto o un jardín es común; no, cercar un imperio.
Tampoco es baladí pretender que la más tradicional de las razas renuncie a la memoria de su pasado, mítico o verdadero. Tres mil años de cronología tenían los chinos (y en esos años, el Emperador Amarillo y Chuang Tzu y Confucio y Lao Tzu), cuando Shih Huang Ti ordenó que la historia comenzara con él.
Shih Huang Ti había desterrado a su madre por libertina; en su dura justicia, los ortodoxos no vieron otra cosa que una impiedad; Shih Huang Ti, tal vez, quiso borrar los libros canónigos porque éstos lo acusaban; Shih Huang Ti, tal vez, quiso abolir todo el pasado para abolir un solo recuerdo; la infamia de su madre. (No de otra suerte un rey, en Judea, hizo matar a todos los niños para matar a uno.)
Esta conjetura es atendible, pero nada nos dice de la muralla, de la segunda cara del mito. Shih Huang Ti, según los historiadores, prohibió que se mencionara la muerte y buscó el elixir de la inmortalidad y se recluyó en un palacio figurativo, que constaba de tantas habitaciones como hay días en el año; estos datos sugieren que la muralla en el espacio y el incendio en el tiempo fueron barreras mágicas destinadas a detener la muerte.
* * *
Todas las cosas quieren persistir en su ser, ha escrito Baruch Spinoza; quizá el Emperador y sus magos creyeron que la inmortalidad es intrínseca y que la corrupción no puede entrar en un orbe cerrado.
Quizá el Emperador quiso recrear el principio del tiempo y se llamó Primero, para ser realmente primero, y se llamó Huang Ti, para ser de algún modo Huang Ti, el legendario emperador que inventó la escritura y la brújula.
Este, según el Libro de los ritos, dio su nombre verdadero a las cosas; parejamente Shih Huang Ti se jactó, en inscripciones que perduran, de que todas las cosas, bajo su imperio, tuvieran el nombre que les conviene.
Soñó fundar una dinastía inmortal; ordenó que sus herederos se llamaran Segundo Emperador, Tercer Emperador, Cuarto Emperador, y así hasta lo infinito...
He hablado de un propósito mágico; también cabría suponer que erigir la muralla y quemar los libros no fueron actos simultáneos.
Esto (según el orden que eligiéramos) nos daría la imagen de un rey que empezó por destruir y luego se resignó a conservar, o la de un rey desengañado que destruyó lo que antes defendía.
Ambas conjeturas son dramáticas, pero carecen, que yo sepa, de base histórica. Herbert Allen Giles cuenta que quienes ocultaron libros fueron marcados con un hierro candente y condenados a construir, hasta el día de su muerte, la desaforada muralla.
Esta noticia favorece o tolera otra interpretación. Acaso la muralla fue una metáfora, acaso Shih Huang Ti condenó a quienes adoraban el pasado a una obra tan vasta como el pasado, tan torpe y tan inútil.
* * *
Acaso la muralla fue un desafío y Shih Huang Ti pensó: “Los hombres aman el pasado y contra ese amor nada puedo, ni pueden mis verdugos, pero alguna vez habrá un hombre que sienta como yo, y ése destruirá mi muralla, como yo he destruido los libros, y ése borrará mi memoria y será mi sombra y mi espejo y no lo sabrá”.
Acaso Shih Huang Ti amuralló el imperio porque sabía que éste era deleznable y destruyó los libros por entender que eran libros sagrados, o sea libros que enseñan lo que enseña el universo entero o la conciencia de cada hombre.
Acaso el incendio de las bibliotecas y la edificación de la muralla son operaciones que de un modo secreto se anulan.
La muralla tenaz que en este momento, y en todos, proyecta sobre tierras que no veré su sistema de sombras es la sombra de un César que ordenó que la más reverente de las naciones quemara su pasado; es verosímil que la idea nos toque de por sí, fuera de las conjeturas que permite. (Su virtud puede estar en la oposición de construir y destruir, en enorme escala.)
Generalizando el caso anterior, podríamos inferir que todas las formas tienen su virtud en sí mismas y no en un “contenido” conjetural.
Eso concordaría con la tesis de Benedetto Croce; ya Pater, en 1877, afirmó que todas las artes aspiran a la condición de la música, que no es otra cosa que forma.
La música, los estados de la felicidad, la mitología, las caras trabajadas por el tiempo, ciertos crepúsculos y ciertos lugares, quieren decirnos algo, o algo dijeron que no hubiéramos debido perder, o están por decir algo; esta inminencia de una revelación, que no se produce, es, quizá, el hecho estético.
Por Jorge Luis Borges
2009/02/04
An amusing charlatan
Brilliant non-fiction is difficult to get in sustainable doses; this might be why I feed at the river bed of the op-ed sections every morning. Brilliant fiction still has its moments from time to time; J.K. Rowling dealt with her book deal almost as brilliantly as Charles Dickens seems to by releasing the story chapter by chapter. The brightness of the light that shines from these kinds of pieces can often be so blinding, in the case of the potter books, that some find it harsh and, frankly, unbearable; read one choose your own adventure, you should probably have gotten the point (I must own dozens...).
The light that flickers between off and on in the bathroom where I'm forced to blog could be interpreted as a sign that no amount of petty, lazy thievery goes unpunished.
Continuity, a continuación, is a rare commodity in this day and age. You can't blame so many people for voting for 'Change' as their rallying cry; a tad more gallant than, "we're just not ready for a Black President." Hesitance is an intriguing part of the human condition, as intriguing as any other part, at least.
Does anyone else feel like we're all just sort of sitting and waiting to evolve?
The light that flickers between off and on in the bathroom where I'm forced to blog could be interpreted as a sign that no amount of petty, lazy thievery goes unpunished.
Continuity, a continuación, is a rare commodity in this day and age. You can't blame so many people for voting for 'Change' as their rallying cry; a tad more gallant than, "we're just not ready for a Black President." Hesitance is an intriguing part of the human condition, as intriguing as any other part, at least.
Does anyone else feel like we're all just sort of sitting and waiting to evolve?
Yowza
After some marathon work, I got the tracks for the highly-illegal, and highly awesome "Free Condoms" finished. I'm happy to report that I make a lot of non-traditional appearances on vocals, play a bunch of backwards guitar, sample the fuck out of my library, and just try to provide a good time for the kids.
PG-AR
Quick Diversion
For all those interested in the super-deluxe Ryan Welsh addition, drop me a line at alex.sugiura@gmail.com
Extra special thanks to Newhouse, Taka, Vladmir Nabokov, Fyodor Pavolovitch, Lewis Hyde, The Folks, Maximillian, Stepsel, Rosa, The Country of Italy, Finnish-American Ex-Pats, Virginia and the Sevilla crew, El Treviso, The World At Large.
In Other News, "Ryan Anderson and Brook Lopez were the first rookie tandem for the Nets to lead the team in scoring in the same game since Brian Scalabrine and Jason Collins scored 16 apiece at Toronto on April 14, 2002."-ESPN.go.com
If that can happen, then anything is truly possible.
PG-AR
Quick Diversion
For all those interested in the super-deluxe Ryan Welsh addition, drop me a line at alex.sugiura@gmail.com
Extra special thanks to Newhouse, Taka, Vladmir Nabokov, Fyodor Pavolovitch, Lewis Hyde, The Folks, Maximillian, Stepsel, Rosa, The Country of Italy, Finnish-American Ex-Pats, Virginia and the Sevilla crew, El Treviso, The World At Large.
In Other News, "Ryan Anderson and Brook Lopez were the first rookie tandem for the Nets to lead the team in scoring in the same game since Brian Scalabrine and Jason Collins scored 16 apiece at Toronto on April 14, 2002."-ESPN.go.com
If that can happen, then anything is truly possible.
2009/02/03
Rabbit Season! Duck Season!
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
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
2009/02/02
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
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.
2009/01/22
That's Some Shit
Pretty much everyone who writes on the interweb has commented on the absurdity of Rick Reilly's ridiculously fat paycheck from the Worldwide Leader; $17 million to do sportswriting over any period of time is pretty unfucking believable. His output since signing the deal hasn't exactly justified the price tag; I read somewhere that his per word average salary is even higher than how much Jerome James earns per minute played this season (FYI, JJ, who is playing out the final year of a $21 million dollar deal, played 10 minutes before shutting it down with season ending surgeery). I usually abhorr puff pieces or special interest stories, but this piece about the super bowl really tugged at my heart strings, read ithere, maybe, because i have a soft spot for Larry Fitzgerald in general (favorite non-Eagle/Pitt alum fittingly had to be the guy who absolutely torched the iggles in the NFC championship), maybe we can forgive the "beer pong" exposé that is only about 7 years too late; what fucking parent hasn't heard of that shit by now? Deadspin.com had a beer pong table sponsor years ago, and they've only been around since Reilly was only making $1 millie a year!
So, in summary, the entire Fitzgerald family has my utmost respect for their true professionalism and their loyalty to themselves.
Also, does anyone who read this notice how many grammatical errors I make? It's somewhat horrifying...
So, in summary, the entire Fitzgerald family has my utmost respect for their true professionalism and their loyalty to themselves.
Also, does anyone who read this notice how many grammatical errors I make? It's somewhat horrifying...
2009/01/21
Hunting like a fox!
Chuck Klosterman did a podcast with Bill Simmons recently; of course I listened to it in its entirety. I got turned on to Klosterman somewhat recently, thanks to my good friend John Bennum; at first I thought CK’s style of prose was a tad too personal, he didn’t seem to be speaking to me as the reader as much as he was enjoying how the light bulb was going off above his head. As I’ve read more and more and more of his stuff, I’ve somewhat fallen for the same things that at first had me wincing.
As someone whose personal cultural memory is one of my few sources of entertainment, I really love it when CK sounds off on the world of sports; he had Rodney Rogers near and dear to his heart long before the recent tragedy befell my favorite former Net besides Aaron Williams.
Simmons, at the 31 minute mark (roughly), asks about a movie called Bigger, Stronger, Faster, which is not about Daft Punk/Kanye/Edwin Birdsong. He also refers to Sean Merriman as ‘Sean Marion’, that, or his Beantown accent has thrown me off, or worse, my perception of the English language is getting swallowed up as I become slightly more acclimated to the Spanish language.
They don’t discuss music very much, despite references to Nirvana’s “Nevermind”, Peter Frampton’s “Frampton…Comes Alive” and Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run”.
They DO talk about Carmelo Anthony dropping serious buckets on the Minnesota Timberwolves and how it is a Herculean feat. Then they start talking about Kobe’s 81, CK says 80 cause he’s allowed to make silly slip-ups. Simmons says, “Nobody liked Kareem:” begins reminiscing about how Wilt “The Stilt”, fan favorite if there ever was one (groupie love!), was not so thrilled that Kareem took his scoring title away from him. I don’t agree that 33 points in a quarter is the equivalent of a perfect game, but I am not sold; think about the time it takes to accomplish the perfect game, and consider the hot streak that people can go on in 12 minutes (obviously it’s still impressive and on par with some of the best basketball that has ever been played).
Then they start rambling about Obama and College Football Playoff system; borefest 2009. I can’t listen to Simmons talk about Obama, I say that, but I am listening; Obama is a great politician. CK says, “he’s in a good position, because it seems like his most rapid follower will believe anything he does,” but same went for Dubya, so try again their Chuckie, any successful politician must secure a base. Then Simmons makes an NBA analogy to the Elton Brand offseason signing; I don’t buy that, Brand completely through the Clips for a loop, and was unable to get acclimated to his new teammates successfully in the first run pre-injury. If we’re gonna do some kind of NBA analogue, I gotta give it up for Bill Bradley, perhaps too obvious a choice, but I am now happy to say that cross-racial comparisons are kosher.
The mood then shifts to great sports bust, with Webber’s love for Obama serving as a segue in to Webber’s ‘failed’ career. They talk about Kenny Anderson and say he is a serious bust; they don’t start talking about a certain other Georgia Tech alum. Then CK hits up the Ron Dayne reference; more yards than anyone, Heisman winner, but a huge NFL bust with those unreal expectations. Simmons starts to shred C Webb, then CK comes along and kind of shits all over Simmons. Then, while backtracking, he maintains his disgust of the distance between C Webb’s announcer persona and his style of play. CK makes a great point; not all analysis has to be based on personal experience, in fact some level of objectivity is required. That said, C Webb is the all time worst rapping finesse forwards ever. If anyone can unearth the Kurupt/C Webb track “Gangsta Gangsta” you will have free tapas for life.
Finally the music reference comes out; Motley Crue’s “Dr. Feelgood” vis-à-vis GnR’s “Appetite for Destruction” compared with Patrick Ewing vs. Hakeem Olajuwon. Simmons, who is a basketball genius and hopefully will release his NBA book soon, makes a great point about Pitino’s full-court press affecting the career arc of a guy with knees as sensitive as Ewing’s. Then they start talking about Jordan and Drexler; basically, a well-worn point, that Jordan being the ultimate competitor to a fault, is always revered. Simmons refers to him as “Almost homicidal” and “Pathologically competitive”; then he says he doesn’t know if, “Lebron has that gene”. I don’t think it’s genetic; I think Jordan was the right guy at the right time. Also, consider how ridiculous the supposedly self-imposed retirement for 2 years led to him coming back and absolutely destroying the league for three more titles. CK thinks Lebron can be better than Jordan because he’s bigger and a better passer; I think Adande put this shit to bed when he wrote his Lebron vs. Kobe piece and said there is a lot more Magic/Bird going on than heir to his airness. They have a quick caveat about the “incestuous” nature of the NBA fraternity and the lack of “hate” among professional athletes, as in there will never be another Bill Laimbeer beating the fuck out of anyone else on the other team. They say that hate can only manifest in this day and age from unpaid debts and adulterous actions; they must not watch the way Matt Barnes carries himself, or Darko Milicic who could start a metal band and I would officially be a fan.
CK asks all the tough questions to Simmons and I fucking love it; how much do you bet on. Gambling on sports is always going to be controversial; Klosterman says that, according to “The Last Boyscout”, that the purpose of injury reports is for the purposes of gambling.
Some self-deprecating humor, and a quick plug for Klosterman’s most recent book “Downtown Owl”. Then Klosterman plugs a new book of essays coming out next year; pure pop culture writing, and it’s all new. Also, CK is getting married, and Simmons almost sounds condescending in his congratulations. Klosterman and Simmons talk about solitary confinement, writing and the nature of people who spend their time writing; they both claim to enjoy being alone for extended periods of time. Then, right at the end, Klosterman talks about how he has some kind of amnesia about his novel; something that he obsessed over for such a long period of time, he now has moved past it in a way that somewhat disturbs him.
I guess you didn’t need me to write a synopsis, but I don’t know how many of you have the time like I do to listen to a 79 minute podcast featuring two extremely regional accents that slowly turn to nails on a chalkboard played backwards on a feedback loop. So, sorry if reading this was a huge waste of your time, but I know only those who actually cared would have read this all the way through.
As someone whose personal cultural memory is one of my few sources of entertainment, I really love it when CK sounds off on the world of sports; he had Rodney Rogers near and dear to his heart long before the recent tragedy befell my favorite former Net besides Aaron Williams.
Simmons, at the 31 minute mark (roughly), asks about a movie called Bigger, Stronger, Faster, which is not about Daft Punk/Kanye/Edwin Birdsong. He also refers to Sean Merriman as ‘Sean Marion’, that, or his Beantown accent has thrown me off, or worse, my perception of the English language is getting swallowed up as I become slightly more acclimated to the Spanish language.
They don’t discuss music very much, despite references to Nirvana’s “Nevermind”, Peter Frampton’s “Frampton…Comes Alive” and Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run”.
They DO talk about Carmelo Anthony dropping serious buckets on the Minnesota Timberwolves and how it is a Herculean feat. Then they start talking about Kobe’s 81, CK says 80 cause he’s allowed to make silly slip-ups. Simmons says, “Nobody liked Kareem:” begins reminiscing about how Wilt “The Stilt”, fan favorite if there ever was one (groupie love!), was not so thrilled that Kareem took his scoring title away from him. I don’t agree that 33 points in a quarter is the equivalent of a perfect game, but I am not sold; think about the time it takes to accomplish the perfect game, and consider the hot streak that people can go on in 12 minutes (obviously it’s still impressive and on par with some of the best basketball that has ever been played).
Then they start rambling about Obama and College Football Playoff system; borefest 2009. I can’t listen to Simmons talk about Obama, I say that, but I am listening; Obama is a great politician. CK says, “he’s in a good position, because it seems like his most rapid follower will believe anything he does,” but same went for Dubya, so try again their Chuckie, any successful politician must secure a base. Then Simmons makes an NBA analogy to the Elton Brand offseason signing; I don’t buy that, Brand completely through the Clips for a loop, and was unable to get acclimated to his new teammates successfully in the first run pre-injury. If we’re gonna do some kind of NBA analogue, I gotta give it up for Bill Bradley, perhaps too obvious a choice, but I am now happy to say that cross-racial comparisons are kosher.
The mood then shifts to great sports bust, with Webber’s love for Obama serving as a segue in to Webber’s ‘failed’ career. They talk about Kenny Anderson and say he is a serious bust; they don’t start talking about a certain other Georgia Tech alum. Then CK hits up the Ron Dayne reference; more yards than anyone, Heisman winner, but a huge NFL bust with those unreal expectations. Simmons starts to shred C Webb, then CK comes along and kind of shits all over Simmons. Then, while backtracking, he maintains his disgust of the distance between C Webb’s announcer persona and his style of play. CK makes a great point; not all analysis has to be based on personal experience, in fact some level of objectivity is required. That said, C Webb is the all time worst rapping finesse forwards ever. If anyone can unearth the Kurupt/C Webb track “Gangsta Gangsta” you will have free tapas for life.
Finally the music reference comes out; Motley Crue’s “Dr. Feelgood” vis-à-vis GnR’s “Appetite for Destruction” compared with Patrick Ewing vs. Hakeem Olajuwon. Simmons, who is a basketball genius and hopefully will release his NBA book soon, makes a great point about Pitino’s full-court press affecting the career arc of a guy with knees as sensitive as Ewing’s. Then they start talking about Jordan and Drexler; basically, a well-worn point, that Jordan being the ultimate competitor to a fault, is always revered. Simmons refers to him as “Almost homicidal” and “Pathologically competitive”; then he says he doesn’t know if, “Lebron has that gene”. I don’t think it’s genetic; I think Jordan was the right guy at the right time. Also, consider how ridiculous the supposedly self-imposed retirement for 2 years led to him coming back and absolutely destroying the league for three more titles. CK thinks Lebron can be better than Jordan because he’s bigger and a better passer; I think Adande put this shit to bed when he wrote his Lebron vs. Kobe piece and said there is a lot more Magic/Bird going on than heir to his airness. They have a quick caveat about the “incestuous” nature of the NBA fraternity and the lack of “hate” among professional athletes, as in there will never be another Bill Laimbeer beating the fuck out of anyone else on the other team. They say that hate can only manifest in this day and age from unpaid debts and adulterous actions; they must not watch the way Matt Barnes carries himself, or Darko Milicic who could start a metal band and I would officially be a fan.
CK asks all the tough questions to Simmons and I fucking love it; how much do you bet on. Gambling on sports is always going to be controversial; Klosterman says that, according to “The Last Boyscout”, that the purpose of injury reports is for the purposes of gambling.
Some self-deprecating humor, and a quick plug for Klosterman’s most recent book “Downtown Owl”. Then Klosterman plugs a new book of essays coming out next year; pure pop culture writing, and it’s all new. Also, CK is getting married, and Simmons almost sounds condescending in his congratulations. Klosterman and Simmons talk about solitary confinement, writing and the nature of people who spend their time writing; they both claim to enjoy being alone for extended periods of time. Then, right at the end, Klosterman talks about how he has some kind of amnesia about his novel; something that he obsessed over for such a long period of time, he now has moved past it in a way that somewhat disturbs him.
I guess you didn’t need me to write a synopsis, but I don’t know how many of you have the time like I do to listen to a 79 minute podcast featuring two extremely regional accents that slowly turn to nails on a chalkboard played backwards on a feedback loop. So, sorry if reading this was a huge waste of your time, but I know only those who actually cared would have read this all the way through.
Bebop (DA smokes pop)
(Photo Courtesy of Google Image Search/Realityrant.blogspot.com)
I can't pinpoint the exact moment top 40 radio's spell faded for me. Maybe it was when Martin started giving me mix cd's, maybe it was freshman year before basketball practice when Phil would enlighten me with Elephant 6 recordings, perhaps Sophomore year of college when one couldn't help but be knee deep in WOBC's at first overwhelming vaults (I wasn't an official member till way late in the game anyways). In contrast, I can't seem to pinpoint what makes top 40 stuff so popular these days; when your musical preferences are the social equivalent of living in a van down by the river, it should come as no surprise.
As far as casting music in to genres there are several other categories that confuse me to no end:
-Jazz: I've always been taught, whether from a musical or historical standpoint, that the essential element of Jazz is improvisation. What springs forth from "standards" is the virtuosic capacity to approach the same sheet music in an idiosyncratic manner that allows the listener to say, "Oh, this is a Wes Montgomery take on Green Dolphin Street," without sounding as clownish as I JUST DID! As an occasional bass player whose minimal musical literacy/Jew rhythmic skills has faded faster than David Arquette as a leading man, who was cast to utter perfection in Hamlet II, I have never felt a particular inclination towards playing Jazz, mainly because those who do tend to be rather passionate about it. There is an essence to Jazz that once obeyed the old color line of American race relations; there's a reason the old white lady, who plays Happy Gilmore's grandma, says in the O'Dweeds commerical, "I used to smoke this while listening to the Negro Jazz Music." That said, Benny Goodman was making the big band swing just as hard as any of his contemporaries; the clarinet is such a Jewish instrument it ought to come with a coupon for a free bottle of Gefilte fish.
-Folk: Most kids I know, who grew up in the US of A, learned to sing songs like "Oh Susannah" and "She'll be Coming 'round the Mountain" in school as youngin's. I am not exactly sure what the point was, other than being simple melodies and progressions by which to slowly develop the voices of disinterested, snot-nose brats who generally yelp them out with no regard for technique or form. I suppose that's exactly the point of folk music; it's all about the simplicity in delivering the message. That said, the Acoustic guitar does not connote folk music, yet time and time again I am seeing people call themselves some derivative of the folk genre; folk-rocker, indie-folk (huh?), etc. It's not like it really matters, but you can't be an American in the age of access and legitimately claim to play folk music (unless you're Bob Dylan, and no you are not Bob Dylan, yes I'm talking to you Cate Blanchett!).
-Tribute: The ABSOLUTE worst thing that happened to Darfur is the reckless carnage that has ensued, somewhat uninterrupted, for what feels like an eternity. In a close second place is that compilation of John Lennon covers that they tried to hawk to "raise money for Darfur"; first of all, what the fuck does that even mean? No apologies to anyone here, fuck Green Day, fuck U2, fuck everybody who claims to care, but doesn't do anything. Also, band-specific cover bands are such a travesty that I have to stop typing in fear that I will destroy my lovely computer.
It's really too bad they couldn't get the clearance to blatantly rip-off stairway, but as the old saying on Wayne's World went:
Why is Tia Carrere going gaga over three single coil pickups and a whammy bar; she's the frontwoman/bassist for an up and coming joan jett/asia carrera throwback band and she's excited about features that come standard on basically every strat ever? At least Mike makes a nice showing with the Pre-CBS banter...
2009/01/20
Oh Damn!
Wikipedia has this brilliant new concept where it tells you as many of the samples used in famous hip-hop tracks as the users can figure out. Here's a great track that got used for 2Pac's "I Ain't Mad Atcha" and maybe also the track "American Dream" which I posted earlier this month when I, as Kate Mooney said (somewhat auto-referentially somehow), in "parody" of myself.
Well, I'm tickled pink that someone took the time to remix Johnny Cash songs, and the asshole's name isn't even Rick Rubin!
Best January of the aughts so far, by far.
Ranting, Raving Histrionics!
The pretentiousness in this article is spellbinding; for one, if you're gonna shit on Jack Johnson for even attempting to catapult himself in to the same league of musicianship as the late, great Nick Drake, then you gotta do it with some substance! Heath Ledger's agent is laughing all the way to the grave; same goes for the assholes who profited of Drake's untimely demise. That said, it's equally disappointing that Dave Grohl will be making an appearance, as he has yet to provide me with an inkling of justification for writing/performing quiet, introspective music. Eddie Vedder is toeing a thin line here...
Rudy Fernandez was somehow voted in by fans ahead of Russel Westbrook and Joe Alexander to the 2009 dunk contest; Bullshit!
After watching this video, and doing some serious soul searching, I'm proud of Rudy for speaking English in such a remedial manner. Until I found this clip:
Embarrassing in new and original ways; Chris Andersen redux?
Well, I suppose he's got a long way to go til he does this:
The NBA where Reggie Miller dawns a wig and calls himself Cheryl...
Rudy Fernandez was somehow voted in by fans ahead of Russel Westbrook and Joe Alexander to the 2009 dunk contest; Bullshit!
After watching this video, and doing some serious soul searching, I'm proud of Rudy for speaking English in such a remedial manner. Until I found this clip:
Embarrassing in new and original ways; Chris Andersen redux?
Well, I suppose he's got a long way to go til he does this:
The NBA where Reggie Miller dawns a wig and calls himself Cheryl...
Soccer Update...Psych!
Illest fashion news to come out of Milan since Beckham's transfer went through officially.
Today, a short essay on hazing with intermittent Tenacious D songs.
I never played on a girl's varsity sport team, so there was never any utilization of the pysch on game day; sure sometimes we used to wear ties and nice shirts, but that was mainly so we could look slightly respectable. I can recall every level of interscholastic sports, from the earliest middle school soccer clubs to Oberlin College Women's Lacrosse, finding some sort of inspiration through like-minded gift giving/banner making. In reality, I find this act of kindness from teammate to teammate rather endearing and, in general, good form.
Men's sports teams often engage in what is known as "hazing"; though generally harmless in nature, these rites of passage foment a culture of shame. Websites such as bad jocks, have been a source of entertainment and occasional outrage for many web denizens. To put it plainly, men of approximately the same age molest and harass each other to create a hierarchy and, often times, to amuse those with that inkling of power. There is an glint of cultural transmission, the recent unveiling of some particularly bad hazing incidents is not all that shocking in its historical context, that leads me to believe that Obama being in the white house doesn't do shit for youth sports; even if everyone with an outlet is writing lists and essays as to just what BH "Overdrive" Obama will do about how fucking fat a nation we are. Let me also say, that women's sports teams are often culpable of ridiculous initiation rituals; this isn't a gender issue per se.
In Fyodor Dostoevesky's last great novel, The Brothers Karamazov, the, perhaps, bastard child of noted buffoon Fyodor Pavlovich, Smyerdakov enumerates reasons why god as his opposers see it, cannot exist. Smyerdakov is the product of both a society and, concordantly, a family that has no use for him; his awareness of his seemingly expendable nature seeps over in to his ideas on theology, among other things. He is weak and powerless, but he is given a context by which to express great power; the power to hurt others, something that all human beings have. I believe many athletes have a certain "Smyerdakov" take on the nature of hazing; that it is an outlet for frustrations, both personal and professional(in the case of the student-athlete, often times their profession is more the latter than the former).
If we take a Hobbesian standpoint towards the act of hazing, that it is our nature to be horrible, selfish beasts, then perhaps it's better for us horrified moralist observers to let it be. Is it natural to coerce another human being in to drinking till he/she vomits while a group of individuals exercise some bizarre bukkake variant? I'm gonna say, unless you're Japanese, or had to put up with a Freshmen class as annoying as the Oberlin College Men's Baseball team of 2004-2005, the answer is most definitely no. I don't know where the pictures went of a much fatter me d-boing a tiki torch, but let me just say that our hazing was actually hilarious and so well deserved that I am a better man for it. So tell Thomas Hobbes we got another failed attempt, and remember that if you're gonna abuse somebody for no apparent reason, you might as well get paid to do it (Hello US Marine Corps!).
Now, time to casually masturbate to this.
Today, a short essay on hazing with intermittent Tenacious D songs.
I never played on a girl's varsity sport team, so there was never any utilization of the pysch on game day; sure sometimes we used to wear ties and nice shirts, but that was mainly so we could look slightly respectable. I can recall every level of interscholastic sports, from the earliest middle school soccer clubs to Oberlin College Women's Lacrosse, finding some sort of inspiration through like-minded gift giving/banner making. In reality, I find this act of kindness from teammate to teammate rather endearing and, in general, good form.
Men's sports teams often engage in what is known as "hazing"; though generally harmless in nature, these rites of passage foment a culture of shame. Websites such as bad jocks, have been a source of entertainment and occasional outrage for many web denizens. To put it plainly, men of approximately the same age molest and harass each other to create a hierarchy and, often times, to amuse those with that inkling of power. There is an glint of cultural transmission, the recent unveiling of some particularly bad hazing incidents is not all that shocking in its historical context, that leads me to believe that Obama being in the white house doesn't do shit for youth sports; even if everyone with an outlet is writing lists and essays as to just what BH "Overdrive" Obama will do about how fucking fat a nation we are. Let me also say, that women's sports teams are often culpable of ridiculous initiation rituals; this isn't a gender issue per se.
In Fyodor Dostoevesky's last great novel, The Brothers Karamazov, the, perhaps, bastard child of noted buffoon Fyodor Pavlovich, Smyerdakov enumerates reasons why god as his opposers see it, cannot exist. Smyerdakov is the product of both a society and, concordantly, a family that has no use for him; his awareness of his seemingly expendable nature seeps over in to his ideas on theology, among other things. He is weak and powerless, but he is given a context by which to express great power; the power to hurt others, something that all human beings have. I believe many athletes have a certain "Smyerdakov" take on the nature of hazing; that it is an outlet for frustrations, both personal and professional(in the case of the student-athlete, often times their profession is more the latter than the former).
If we take a Hobbesian standpoint towards the act of hazing, that it is our nature to be horrible, selfish beasts, then perhaps it's better for us horrified moralist observers to let it be. Is it natural to coerce another human being in to drinking till he/she vomits while a group of individuals exercise some bizarre bukkake variant? I'm gonna say, unless you're Japanese, or had to put up with a Freshmen class as annoying as the Oberlin College Men's Baseball team of 2004-2005, the answer is most definitely no. I don't know where the pictures went of a much fatter me d-boing a tiki torch, but let me just say that our hazing was actually hilarious and so well deserved that I am a better man for it. So tell Thomas Hobbes we got another failed attempt, and remember that if you're gonna abuse somebody for no apparent reason, you might as well get paid to do it (Hello US Marine Corps!).
Now, time to casually masturbate to this.
i'm writing a paper
And not even for school, just for me motherfuckers...
The pillow situation in Spain has reached it's boiling point for yours truly. I'm not quite sure why Spanish beds are categorized only by width (ridiculous) or why pillows are designed to spread across that entire width (as opposed to offering a pillow half that size that would serve an individual's head as proper cushioning and support only can), but I cannot take it anymore! My drunk-misanthropic landlord can also go fuck himself for never fixing half the fuckups in the apartment; our shutters don't work, there's several broken tables and chairs, the water pressure is abysmal, but fuckin eh' this experience is too fun to let someone who "prospered under Franco"(his words) to fuck shit up.
Tortilla de Patata (Tortilla Española) is cheaper than flour tortillas; this runs so counterintuitive in logic that I have been deprived of a true burrito for 4 straight months. I suppose the mistake is mine for having visited Ana's Taquería in Brookline, Massachusetes during an August road trip; pressed cheese, my god pressed cheese in the tortilla...Speaking of which, Dave Sokoll created an elaborate high stakes bet to eat 7 super burritos in one day, he ate one and I forgive him; although 7 super burritos would make for superb drug mule training, something that i might consider to save up some money (hello DEA/Guardia Civil!)
The pillow situation in Spain has reached it's boiling point for yours truly. I'm not quite sure why Spanish beds are categorized only by width (ridiculous) or why pillows are designed to spread across that entire width (as opposed to offering a pillow half that size that would serve an individual's head as proper cushioning and support only can), but I cannot take it anymore! My drunk-misanthropic landlord can also go fuck himself for never fixing half the fuckups in the apartment; our shutters don't work, there's several broken tables and chairs, the water pressure is abysmal, but fuckin eh' this experience is too fun to let someone who "prospered under Franco"(his words) to fuck shit up.
Tortilla de Patata (Tortilla Española) is cheaper than flour tortillas; this runs so counterintuitive in logic that I have been deprived of a true burrito for 4 straight months. I suppose the mistake is mine for having visited Ana's Taquería in Brookline, Massachusetes during an August road trip; pressed cheese, my god pressed cheese in the tortilla...Speaking of which, Dave Sokoll created an elaborate high stakes bet to eat 7 super burritos in one day, he ate one and I forgive him; although 7 super burritos would make for superb drug mule training, something that i might consider to save up some money (hello DEA/Guardia Civil!)
Arroyo=Brook (Vocabulary lessons)
David Brooks says of Obama on inauguration day, "To an almost eerie extent, he exemplifies discipline, equipoise and self-control. Under his leadership, as Peter Beinart noted in Time, Democrats came to seem like the party of order while Republicans were associated with disorder."
What the fuck is eerie about being organized, other than a writer projecting his own insecurities about an accomplished, dedicated example of the American dream that has the courage to solicit the aid of the other party's top man? I can't shrug off the notion that these conservative op-edders are viewed the same way right now by their identifying constituency as I read Bob Herbert, who seems pretty centrist and level-headed, at least, in his opinions, or any other number of people who attacked Bush's policies based on some form of rational thinking; the problem is, David, that the Republican Party is STILL the party of "values", they project an image of some kind of moral superiority. Basically, it's gonna be a long 4 years for people who are still banging Bush's drum; Karl Rove will awake in the middle of the night doing some half assed "who's line is it anyway" rap and realize he's sleeping next to Ryan Stiles, Diedrich Bader, Drew Carey and Mimi, and that he lives in Cleveland.
What the fuck is eerie about being organized, other than a writer projecting his own insecurities about an accomplished, dedicated example of the American dream that has the courage to solicit the aid of the other party's top man? I can't shrug off the notion that these conservative op-edders are viewed the same way right now by their identifying constituency as I read Bob Herbert, who seems pretty centrist and level-headed, at least, in his opinions, or any other number of people who attacked Bush's policies based on some form of rational thinking; the problem is, David, that the Republican Party is STILL the party of "values", they project an image of some kind of moral superiority. Basically, it's gonna be a long 4 years for people who are still banging Bush's drum; Karl Rove will awake in the middle of the night doing some half assed "who's line is it anyway" rap and realize he's sleeping next to Ryan Stiles, Diedrich Bader, Drew Carey and Mimi, and that he lives in Cleveland.
2009/01/19
Sophomore
Sophomore year of college was a great time for sophomoric humor. Thanks to two completely different people I learned two complimentary terms that occupy the better part of my mental space:
1)The booty-do (courtesy of Elyria high's 3rd most popular alumni in the history of the world, Joe Reisz), when a woman's gut sticks out further than her booty do.
2)The booby-do (courtesy of Highland Park beauty queen and identifier of psycho hose beasts 'round the world, Emma Kessler), when a woman's gut sticks out further than her boobies do.
I never thought I'd reach an age when I saw a combination of the two; like some kind of antithetical Apollonian perfection, it was a mere dream in the twitter feed of my twisted mind. Then, I went to Moe's bar here in Huelva. The bar maiden smiled as she handed me the 5 beers I ordered (1 euro beers, you gotta go big, plus pictures of homer everywhere make you want to drink); I could not reciprocate the pleasant exchange for long. Out of the corner of my eye were two beautiful Spanish lesbians showing their affection for each other; as I commented at a party on Friday, the phenomenon of hot women everywhere leaves men in a perpetual "semi-hard" state, and therefore nullifies much of the flesh arrow sporting that ought to arise from such sultry seductresses (and they say men are pigs...). So, I got way off topic, point is that Nico and I skipped out so he could roll a ciggie, but frigid temperatures were not so inviting. We sought shelter at the Super 8 bar next door. With somewhat mod lighting fixtures and the remains of cheap guitar jutting out of the wall, I figured this wouldn't be a bad place to do it. As Bloc Party's "Banquet" played on tinny speakers Nico and I airdrummed to our little hearts' content; we also made note of how influential the Cure's drummer is on bands like Bloc Party (if you don't know the song plastic passion then you can't understand why bands would say they cite the cure as such a big influence). I look up at the random denizens there at the bar and what do I see? Rotund perfection; a carpenter's acid trip; the head liaison of the itty-bitty titty committee had swallowed a balloon; the holy grail of the body-do. I was transfixed, mainly out of disgust, but luckily the music quickly went back to Spanish pop and I was able to snap out of it long enough to get outside and get a breath of biting fresh air.
Then I find out drunk bitch x is the girl of my dreams, but only through sleep.
1)The booty-do (courtesy of Elyria high's 3rd most popular alumni in the history of the world, Joe Reisz), when a woman's gut sticks out further than her booty do.
2)The booby-do (courtesy of Highland Park beauty queen and identifier of psycho hose beasts 'round the world, Emma Kessler), when a woman's gut sticks out further than her boobies do.
I never thought I'd reach an age when I saw a combination of the two; like some kind of antithetical Apollonian perfection, it was a mere dream in the twitter feed of my twisted mind. Then, I went to Moe's bar here in Huelva. The bar maiden smiled as she handed me the 5 beers I ordered (1 euro beers, you gotta go big, plus pictures of homer everywhere make you want to drink); I could not reciprocate the pleasant exchange for long. Out of the corner of my eye were two beautiful Spanish lesbians showing their affection for each other; as I commented at a party on Friday, the phenomenon of hot women everywhere leaves men in a perpetual "semi-hard" state, and therefore nullifies much of the flesh arrow sporting that ought to arise from such sultry seductresses (and they say men are pigs...). So, I got way off topic, point is that Nico and I skipped out so he could roll a ciggie, but frigid temperatures were not so inviting. We sought shelter at the Super 8 bar next door. With somewhat mod lighting fixtures and the remains of cheap guitar jutting out of the wall, I figured this wouldn't be a bad place to do it. As Bloc Party's "Banquet" played on tinny speakers Nico and I airdrummed to our little hearts' content; we also made note of how influential the Cure's drummer is on bands like Bloc Party (if you don't know the song plastic passion then you can't understand why bands would say they cite the cure as such a big influence). I look up at the random denizens there at the bar and what do I see? Rotund perfection; a carpenter's acid trip; the head liaison of the itty-bitty titty committee had swallowed a balloon; the holy grail of the body-do. I was transfixed, mainly out of disgust, but luckily the music quickly went back to Spanish pop and I was able to snap out of it long enough to get outside and get a breath of biting fresh air.
Then I find out drunk bitch x is the girl of my dreams, but only through sleep.
MLK Jr. Day
Martin Luther King, rest in peace, they're appropriating your image for many of the wrong reasons, and for that I am sorry.
I did NOT get the day off from work here in Spain. As many of you damn well know, the last person who'd probably ever get recognized for his important contributions to civil rights is Martin Luther King Jr. I had the great fortune of attending an assembly as a youngin' in my elementary school where Jackie Robinson's widow came and talked about the man, his teammates and the game of baseball. I was so proud to be American back then, nowadays, even with Obama partying like it's 1999 (we all wish it was) and Roger Cohen rewriting Billy Joel "classics" (which I'm personally all for), it's a lot harder to maintain the wonder that I held for a hero like Jackie Robinson. For all those not in the know, he put up with a WHOLE lot of shit from the US Army, and became a commissioned officer only after the great heavyweight Joe Louis pulled some strings (with his beautiful hands...), he had his own mini-Rosa Parks like episode in which he was charged with a litany of crimes that he clearly had not committed. His baseball career started at 28, which is not all that late when you consider Ryan Howard's rookie campaign was at 27 (thanks Jim Thome...).
So, yes the President plays basketball; I like his form on the jumper. He also is an avid reader and, get this, writer. So we have mad shit to be proud of, but none if means anything if the most diabolical bank in the world is still fucking us over (Citibank has its hands in Target, Verizon, Yum Foods [KFC, Taco Bell, Pizza Hut] and a plethora of other highly visible institutions)
I don't know if it means much of anything, but check out this website.
I did NOT get the day off from work here in Spain. As many of you damn well know, the last person who'd probably ever get recognized for his important contributions to civil rights is Martin Luther King Jr. I had the great fortune of attending an assembly as a youngin' in my elementary school where Jackie Robinson's widow came and talked about the man, his teammates and the game of baseball. I was so proud to be American back then, nowadays, even with Obama partying like it's 1999 (we all wish it was) and Roger Cohen rewriting Billy Joel "classics" (which I'm personally all for), it's a lot harder to maintain the wonder that I held for a hero like Jackie Robinson. For all those not in the know, he put up with a WHOLE lot of shit from the US Army, and became a commissioned officer only after the great heavyweight Joe Louis pulled some strings (with his beautiful hands...), he had his own mini-Rosa Parks like episode in which he was charged with a litany of crimes that he clearly had not committed. His baseball career started at 28, which is not all that late when you consider Ryan Howard's rookie campaign was at 27 (thanks Jim Thome...).
So, yes the President plays basketball; I like his form on the jumper. He also is an avid reader and, get this, writer. So we have mad shit to be proud of, but none if means anything if the most diabolical bank in the world is still fucking us over (Citibank has its hands in Target, Verizon, Yum Foods [KFC, Taco Bell, Pizza Hut] and a plethora of other highly visible institutions)
I don't know if it means much of anything, but check out this website.
Forgive me father for I have sinned
Some shit that I have never owned up to and ought to if I'm going to ever move on:
-Andrew Cossard, I spilled beer on your precious rug the night I carved my face open with the steak knife while trying to open that fucking Carlsberg.
-PDS men's basketball team of 2003-2004 after our heartbreaking buzzer-beater loss to WWP-South, I spilled the chocolate chip cookies on the floor of the bus, picked them up and grinned with great satisfaction as you all commented on their deliciousness.
-Jeff Pence, I didn't read the shipping news and will hold steady in that regard.
-Sophia Yang, damn that was rough stuff...
-John Butts, I yelled a single racial slur at you after several full seasons of you being a total dick and saying incredibly hurtful things.
-Hot Indian hipster girl at Oberlin, I black out drunkenly screamed at you because I was scared. Or because Truan Savage brings out the worst in me, I'm not entirely sure which one.
-Sylvia Morse, I do a convincing jewish woman accent.
-Everyone from the 4 years of intramural bball; I never played well in the championship games, sorry.
-Rod Blagojevich, spelling your name wrong.
-Stuart Abram, you got that inbounds play wrong and Mosley pulled me from the game (I was finally getting rotation minutes), you fucking asshole. Just kidding!
-Drunk bitches, 2 years younger than I, that went to The Hun School, sorry for taking that case of Corona and 40 dollars in cash from the table, if it makes you feel better I was too hungover to run in to the endzone the next day when I had noone even remotely close to me for 20 yards.
-Pretty much every girl I ever fucked (over), sorry bout that but it's a two way street, ya know?
-And finally, the Junta de Andalucía, you keep writing checks and I'll keep doing my thing.
-Andrew Cossard, I spilled beer on your precious rug the night I carved my face open with the steak knife while trying to open that fucking Carlsberg.
-PDS men's basketball team of 2003-2004 after our heartbreaking buzzer-beater loss to WWP-South, I spilled the chocolate chip cookies on the floor of the bus, picked them up and grinned with great satisfaction as you all commented on their deliciousness.
-Jeff Pence, I didn't read the shipping news and will hold steady in that regard.
-Sophia Yang, damn that was rough stuff...
-John Butts, I yelled a single racial slur at you after several full seasons of you being a total dick and saying incredibly hurtful things.
-Hot Indian hipster girl at Oberlin, I black out drunkenly screamed at you because I was scared. Or because Truan Savage brings out the worst in me, I'm not entirely sure which one.
-Sylvia Morse, I do a convincing jewish woman accent.
-Everyone from the 4 years of intramural bball; I never played well in the championship games, sorry.
-Rod Blagojevich, spelling your name wrong.
-Stuart Abram, you got that inbounds play wrong and Mosley pulled me from the game (I was finally getting rotation minutes), you fucking asshole. Just kidding!
-Drunk bitches, 2 years younger than I, that went to The Hun School, sorry for taking that case of Corona and 40 dollars in cash from the table, if it makes you feel better I was too hungover to run in to the endzone the next day when I had noone even remotely close to me for 20 yards.
-Pretty much every girl I ever fucked (over), sorry bout that but it's a two way street, ya know?
-And finally, the Junta de Andalucía, you keep writing checks and I'll keep doing my thing.
Three Hundo
All right, three hundred posts.
Before I get to rambling, read this interesting article about the inauguration; here.
I did not know William Kristol, NYT op-ed conservative (as he calls himself), was such a Jew. Not that these things matter, but how can you write that Bush's greatest triumph in 8 years was "winning" the Iraq war; this is reminiscent of the coddling given to the lone American trying to keep up with Europeans in a friendly game of Urban football (i can only speak from experience). How many synagogues say a prayer for the US and for Israel? (Answer: I don't do that shit, so I personally haven't a clue.) So Bush, despite the expendable aspects of his allegiance, gave so very much to Israel in times of crisis (there's that buttfucking word again). I think Tom Friedman wrote a little piece last week about how Israel's strategy is not surprising; he made it seem almost as if there was a pedagogical element to the strikes on the Gaza strip, that there was no longer room to be doveish with the political climate as such. The politicization of other people's facebook "status" in conjunction with the lack of organized dissent amongst the "Joshua" generation leads me to believe that we could have the first true armchair mormon quarterback win the BCS for BYU in 2014.
Number one concern for the immediate future? Making the most delicious lunch that 5 euro can make.
Before I get to rambling, read this interesting article about the inauguration; here.
I did not know William Kristol, NYT op-ed conservative (as he calls himself), was such a Jew. Not that these things matter, but how can you write that Bush's greatest triumph in 8 years was "winning" the Iraq war; this is reminiscent of the coddling given to the lone American trying to keep up with Europeans in a friendly game of Urban football (i can only speak from experience). How many synagogues say a prayer for the US and for Israel? (Answer: I don't do that shit, so I personally haven't a clue.) So Bush, despite the expendable aspects of his allegiance, gave so very much to Israel in times of crisis (there's that buttfucking word again). I think Tom Friedman wrote a little piece last week about how Israel's strategy is not surprising; he made it seem almost as if there was a pedagogical element to the strikes on the Gaza strip, that there was no longer room to be doveish with the political climate as such. The politicization of other people's facebook "status" in conjunction with the lack of organized dissent amongst the "Joshua" generation leads me to believe that we could have the first true armchair mormon quarterback win the BCS for BYU in 2014.
Number one concern for the immediate future? Making the most delicious lunch that 5 euro can make.
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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