CAPO!

Rafa, I love you.

Well, yeah

recent bout with the flu fucked me up!

Quit cognitive checklist:
-Pathetically broke as fuck? yeah.
-Masturbating excessively in the form of a blog? MMhm.
-Writing songs? Not quite like this one.

pissing in the wind

You can't fight the powers of the mainstream; and hell, who in their right mind would, except for the idiot who wants to hold the reins on that power game. The monkeys who assume the three positions of pious action (see NO evil, hear NO evil, speak NO evil) are decidedly more on point in their negation of such things than I had ever considered until RIGHT NOW.

Update your idols, and you can make it all the way to pitchfork. Kill your idols? Sit and wait for the angry mob to come storm the castle of yer mind. Who wants to piss in the wind? Who wants to sit on the breezy hillside and get someone else's urine in your mouth as you go in to kiss the one you've known you've always loved? Who doesn't love Robert Kelly?


So, there's just no need to keep crying myself to sleep, no matter what I wake up bleary eyed.

HORATIO!

HORATIO!

resonance in grass

Between David Brooks and Karl Rove, what's an independent to do in this decaying political landscape of ours here in the Ol' United States of America? If you spend all day watching cable news networks, the push-pull policy dichotomy has never seemed so strong between Asses and Elephants. Disillusioned youngsters are content to get their news on comedy programs, because, frankly, what news isn't second or even third hand these days? Maybe, then, it's high time to get far away from these current boondoggling cum-farts and contemplate the dilemma of another time, another place, another day...Consider the West End of Chicago in developing times; a major selling point of the city was that watching the prairie grass was like seeing an ocean of greenish hues as the wind swept over it all. A similar notion was alive in the southern neighborhoods of Buenos Aires, Argentina, where the vertiginous rush of the San Telmo marketplace gave way to the Pampas, the grassy plain that was the life giving source for the bustling masses huddled in to such close quarters. In Buenos Aires, every year finds 'La Rural', a national 4H fair, popping off in all its splendor. 5 convention center buildings filled to the brim with booths of every possible facet of agriculture. Ingrained in the products and services offered are relevant tales of the places they come from. Swirling all around are the proud textiles of the Andes, the luxuriant warmth of Patagonian fur, 'Swiss' chocolate from Bariloche, enough Mendozan wine to make Caligula blush...

All the pomp and circumstance of the fair overlooks the harsh reality of rural life in Argentina. On a trip out to the Massalines Particulares factory, just outside the city limits, the end of the urban highway was punctuated (!) by the squalor of the completely rural outlying region; anorexic horses and a beleaguered looking group of individuals who didn't seem much better fed then their equestrian friend. Upon arriving at the factory (where they produce every possible Phillip Morris brand cigarette), my host, Guillermina, escorted me to a room where more than a dozen employees were comfortably seated, snacking on sandwiches and coffee. I asked them, "why do you want to improve your English language skills?" Most believed that it would enable them to rise higher in the company ladder, one assembly-line worker made it clear that he simply wanted to enjoy future vacations more. Fast forward to a cab ride through the microcentro, business district, where I ask a cab driver what he thought of then current-president Kirchner; "aunque está enomarado por mucha gente, si preguntes los del campo iban a decirte el contrario"(yes he is beloved, but those outside of the city have a different tale to tell.) At that moment it became clearer to me that the disconnect between the population who consumed and the population who produced had grown wider amongst these people. 'La Rural' served as a mechanism for the rich to trumpet the glory of their financial superiority; tickets were not cheap. The real workers were busy striking and shutting down highways in Córdoba over an executive decision to halt the exportation of beef. That same disconnect is ever so real here in the US of A. I had a chat with a bilingual worker for the Baltimore Health Department who noted that her Italian family's conservative worldview could be tolerated in the sense that, 'just lived differently from us, they had to make their own food...' upon which point I had to cut her off, invoking Dionysus, to wonder just how she had come to that conclusion.(what does MF DOOM have to say about this?). I questioned her belief that we don't have to work for our food like our grandparents did, as we chewed on three day old baby carrots, chopped and chilling in a plastic container. She smiled, seeing my blatant hypocrisy in action, and shrugged it off, moving on to tell me that it really sucked to not be able to smoke weed with the fear of failing a mandatory drug screening before she could begin working.

What is that you say?

Luis Scola, seemingly earthbound power forward for the Houston Rockets, was once a springboard. Por ejemplo:







I used to hate watching his plodding maneuvers on the court for the Argentine National Selection, but I finally realized that he is kind of the shit.

Happiness

If you do the math there were 2,460 games played in the NBA last season by all 30 teams. I bore witness to nay a single live broadcast of any of them. If all life is suffering, for all life is craving, then it seems that I was truly living in the interim period where a lack of broadband internet in the home and no TV led to the situation of reading box scores like a horoscope. The highlight of my basketball viewership while in buttfuck, Andalucía was watching former NBA rotation/Stanford Cardinal Curtis Borchardt flush a few wide open dunks with authority, before leaving with a sprained right wrist. This led to a lot of speculative imagination as to the boyish reverie of watching a game with other fans, as well as trying to figure out the keystone to each team's bench players. Sitting and watching the Cavs shut down Dwight Howard was not particularly riveting, with dinosaurs roaming the Amway Arena lanes, there was not a single highlight play, yet I find myself smiling like a child.

The world is a big, scary place.

WEB CORRESPONDENCE

Get this man his own serial.

Hey!

It would be too easy to say that I want nothing to do with all the assclowns who populated those high school halls, whose memories are fading faster with each and every breath, but come ON, I WAS one of those assclowns.

So, for one thing, John McCarthy makes the movies.

Fancy Video Clip

If

For those who didn't watch the US Open at Flushing Meadows in 2000, Marat Safin might not be the most recognizable name. The tall, sinewy Russian has a power game few can match, and a proclivity for meltdowns on par with the most hilarious Darko Milicic tantrums.

Groucho Remarx

I couldn't help but wonder today if I wasn't the luckiest lazybones in the greater Wicomico county area. Farmwork was rewarded with a gift; An EMU Vintage Keys 61.

Also, some delicious food got made:

Green deliciousness

Steamed Kale, Hon Tsai Tai, Toasted Almonds, Pine Nuts, and balsamic vinegar

Orange deliciousness

Roasted turnips, mashed sweet potatoes, curried cauliflower, sauteed onions with melted 3 cheese blend baked to golden brown

HD Thoreau in hi-def

In his treatise, "On Nature and Man", Henry David Thoreau spells out in clean, radiant language the wonderful opportunity each and every one of us has to get right. Suicide is sad cop out for any sentient being. That said, it is something I recommend for Glenn Beck. Check out this shit; NYT book section

“He’s our Oprah,” said Brad Thor, a writer of political thrillers who has appeared on Mr. Beck’s radio and television programs several times. “God love him, we’re very fortunate.”

The Kack: still breathing.

It's entirely unsurprising that all the great expectations of getting a good job on the basis of going to a good school have been tempered by the reality that mediocrity begets more of the same frustration. Lately, the only way to get anything done has been to be busy, and to think how to stay that way. It seems, I could be wrong, that being a bum is forgivable if one is industrious in his/her hobo lifestyle; if you need money to eat, and you're a bum, work on a farm.

rabies shot

According to a girl I would very much like to sleep with, getting a rabies shot is not fun. After touching her pet dog which had come in contact with a rabid raccoon, the latest and greatest masturbatory fodder of my life was coerced in to multiple doctor's visits. The kicker is that it was the local municipality that came to that conclusion, not herself, nor her family. Now, we have the so fucking stupid it's cute moment where Emanuel "Rahm" Ginobli swats a living being in to oblivion in an NBA arena; looks like he needs them shots too.

Where'd all that information come from!? (Addendum to the fucking article below)

Mustafa Kamal Atatürk

The fact that he was a despot and dictator cannot be denied. It was his cruelty and sadistic treatment of Muslims that makes him stand out as one of the worst enemies of Allah. The above was only what was reported and recorded by mostly Western observers. The extent of what actually went on in the new Turkey by the direct policy of Kamal, was heinous to say the least. He was an enemy of Allah (swt) to the core.

No godly man, Dictator Kemal considers that there is no reason why Turks should not call Allah by his Turkish name Tanri. There is no reason except centuries of tradition, no reason except that Turkish imams (priests) all know the Koran by heart in Arabic while few if any have memorized it in Turkish. Strict to the point of cruelty last week was Dictator Kemal's decree that muezzins, calling the faithful to prayer from the top of Turkey's minarets, must shout not the hallowed "Allah Akbar!" (Arabic for "God is Great!") but the unfamiliar words "Tanri Uludur!" which mean the same thing in Turkish.

Here is a quotation from Joachim Prinz's "The Secret Jews", page 122:

" ...
The revolt of the Young Turks in 1908 against the authoritarian regime of Sultan Abdul Hamid began among the intellectuals of Salonika. It was from there that the demand for a constitutional regime originated. Among the leaders of the revolution which resulted in a more modern government in Turkey were Djavid Bey and Mustafa Kemal. Both were ardent "doenmehs". Djavid Bey became minister of finance; Mustafa Kemal became the leader of the new regime and he adopted the name of "Ataturk". His opponents tried to use his "doenmeh" background to unseat him, but without success. Too many of the Young Turks in the newly formed revolutionary Cabinet prayed to Allah, but had as their real prophet Shabtai Zvi, the Messiah of Smyrna."

KEEPING TRACK: The Burning Bush memory exercise pt. I

So, don't worry. So I didn't.

Let's play a new game.

George W. Bush in Spanglish-variant twisting words could be strained and reduced in to Jorge Árbusto, in the sense that he's a Texas good 'ol boy in exile up North amongst the worst of the upper-crust filth, he'd be something more coked-out like J.R., frankly he's a junior, he knows it, so, yeah, anyway, J.R. Bustos flows the best in my head. So, perhaps he might say something slightly off-putting about the history of our presence in the middle east, and, the implications for the development of the vague, impersonal doctrine of a free-market, deregulated Democracy in this region: "le doy a nuestra historia para decidir lo que había pasado," in response to the question, "¿Qué piensas, tú, hombre fuera de los 'insiders' en teoría, sobre la legacia tuya sobre las guerras de Afghanistan y Iraq, también la situación de la región sobre el desarrollo de el vago concepto griego (¿Clásico?), Democracía?"

It is clear to me now, that there is a distinct connection between an epic poem and and epithet; each distinct entities offers something to lose, something to gain, rarely, if ever, equally; what are we afraid of, you must ask, to whom do you call a higher power? What is it that's bringing you down, my good friend, amiguito? Is it the fact that nobody can actually make money during the work week anymore? Is that not insane, or at least leading one to believe that there must be a way to stop clinging to the easy habits? Praising god and passing the ammunition, if that's the legacy, one of fire and brimstone for the sinners who pray before and after dinner, maybe we're pushing the wrong kind of separation in our legislative offices. What is the purpose of public policy, when you are trying to cover up your privates?! If we've left the garden, so prove it under the trees covered in leaves in mid-atlantic autumn. If not, then, what's wrong?
1) Snakes, fucking, everywhere.

2) Pirates; namely land-based.

3) Lazy, useless lists.

4) Corporate consumption.

5) Norm Coleman's campaign trying to cockblock Al Franken at the Sadie Hawkin's dance that we call the Senate.

6) Repressive Tolerance in the form of hyperlinking.

7) Worms (Ancient German city-state) is, like, a lot like any number of historical atrocities, the scale of the holocaust moves
the burden of genocide on anyone with a brain or a heart.

8) Learning through trial and error is usurped by the (john) stark(s) fear of dealing with consequences.

9) The flashing lights on screens that are usually being leased, for the express purpose of simulating a form of enjoyment that many refer to as 'the good fucking' or samizdat.

10) Flashing lights in the streets regulating on a seemingly two-dimensional basis, preventive medicine for invisible diseases.

So, here's the first installment of the wise words of one JR Bustos:
J.R. 'Walker' Bustos (Jorge Caminero Árbusto)

Looking back on things, historically speaking of course, you brute, we are a confederation of some sort; I let you fuck me for free cause you fucked my mom and my dad right in front of me you sick fuck, the smell is of death here and sex, fear that maybe the babies won’t live forever in harmony, so there’s no time for discourse on discord on disk to keep something occupied to the point that the grey matter pops like the pimple of some institution’s hairy ass. The consortia, stuffing in the turkey, ‘Atta Türk of Democracy, spread out, available in Tahini-freestyle, in to the sand, just like the wild, thorny bushes of a Texas Ranch: Caldo y Muy Pico. The species, kindmen, knew so little as a whole, often times it seems things don’t translate so well, when dividing all it sees in to a ballot box of a single language, regardless if it is the language of that individual who wishes to express an opinion; the stuffing or is it the shell that one finds most satisfying, do I have to choose? Let history decide if I derided my own kind for being a good old boy. Hmm, is impeaching él, el presidente, is based on prescience or precedence? Dad was a bomber too, I had to defuse all I could before there was another explosion! The boner-killer, mother-lover, divine worshipper, looks like something familiar, something similar to the olde tyme, where there was a sense of personality in the fatal blow struck.


FORTUNE: Barry Gibb is glib this Saddat Tay, we must kill z drumloops, hate hate hate, rest in peace.

HOUSTON?

You can look at the pile of rubble that was a once promising career and throw your hands up to the cruel maker(s) and cry defeat. The hopes, née expectations, of the most populous country in the world need to be tempered; Yao Ming is not Ghengis Khan. Who the hell is Clement Wood? He wrote a fascinating book called "The Outline of Man's Knowledge" in the Roman Calendar year 1927. Yao will be back, those are a paraphrase of his own Associated Press-translated words. The hype on the Rockets was a tandem superstar bicycle of high-post scoring and slashing; leg injuries are gonna make Yao even more plodding (ugh), while somehow making his feathery jumper even more airy methinks (dude is tall and strong enough to just flick that fucker straight in the basket).Brother Ali is rocking to beats that don't blow me away, but do sound like Tom Scott blowing it out. Tracy Mcgrady is on ESPNCHICAGO (the Bristol-based media conglomerate finds a way to corporatize entire cities on the basis of fandom, no surprise!) talking about time with Tim Grover and staff (I have a feeling that learning about the actual staff that Grover employs would be far more interesting than the man himself, who looks a lot like Tim Legler, or maybe not). After 2 minutes of listening, it seems that Ali wants to crossover like AI, but only Jadakiss can do that!

Yao would probably like the song "Stuck inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again"; he could make up a fun mental list of all the fascinating references and find relevance in his own action.

Vulva, the scent is the best thing that ever got blogged on deadspin.

Umm, Detroit is a mess. Charlie Villanueva is a fine Blair academy alum. Jason Maxiell is still awesome.

Whose THE LAST GUY ON the End of Your Bench?: Phoenix Suns

Yes, it's prisoner christmas for our good friend Jason Richardson, the forgotten former slam-dunk champ Sun who everyone thinks is in his supposed NBA prime (the right combination of physical maturation, explosiveness and metaphysical understanding of the 94 foot NBA game).

Everyone's fucking afraid of this watered down NBA disappointing us all; Steve Nash is old as fuck. Grant Hill drinks sprite?

Oh, shit.

Whose holding it down with Alvin Gentry?

The ever so mysterious John Shumate. No, not Tiger Shulman.
PIC VIA CHECKOUTMYCARDS.COM




Dude played 5 NBA seasons, coached in the WNBA recently and is alumni of South Bend's most famous institution of higher learning.

Rejoice.

WHOSE THE LAST GUY ON the End of Your Bench?: Orlando Magic

Runner ups are a funny part of the championship. Many players, in post-playing days, talk of opportunities lost by the tiniest of errors. Quoth Karl Malone, "I just think we want to stay healthy, and I don't think we think about a sense of urgency. We realize how old we are, we realize we've been playing this game for a long time, but you know what? We're not done yet. Everyone else might talk about, "we're done," but we don't believe that. We're just stubborn enough to think that we can continue to play this game at a high level, and that's what we try to do." 10cc recorded this song:

Nothing quite like a boring montage of photos to help you stew in your thoughts.

Rashard Lewis is a PED maven. Stan Van Gundy's Wario comparisons won't end. Marcin Gortat is PAID. JJ Reddick.

The man who does some task relegated from Top on down? Bob Beyer.



Bob Beyer was named assistant coach of the Magic on June 27, 2007. He joins the Magic after spending the past two seasons as an assistant coach at the University of Dayton.
Beyer served an assistant coach with the Toronto Raptors in 2003-04 and was an advance scout during the 2004-05 campaign.

A native of LeRoy, NY, Beyer spent two seasons (2001-03) as an assistant coach at Texas Tech under Bob Knight. Prior to joining the Red Raiders, he was an assistant at Northwestern for three seasons (1997-2000). From 1994-97, Beyer was the head coach at Siena College. He also served as an assistant coach at Wisconsin (1993-94), Siena (1989-93) and Albany (1985-89).

Born on December 10, 1961, Beyer earned his bachelor of arts in history from Alfred State College in 1984. He also carried minors in coaching, writing and secondary education. While coaching at the University at Albany, he received a master's degree in curriculum planning and development.

whoSE THE LAST GUY ON the End of Your Bench?: San Antonio Spurs

RC Buford is a mysterious figure.

I have always felt that it was really horrible what happened when the worst of people led the U.S. Govt. to violently support the annexation of northeastern Mexico known then and now as Texas. We openly laud the heroics of Davy Crockett and his ilk down at the Alamo for giving their life for 'country' and all that good stuff, yet I can't help but think another bunch of men died in vain to advance to the cause of those who were pulling their strings all along. This paranoia could easily result in some kind of long-winded conclusion about the diluted and vapid nature of our existence in this day and age, and how similar this is to just about any other time in history (pre-history too for that matter); Pynchon appears to have taken this question to heights previously unseen, vertiginous in their distance in his magnum opus "Gravity's Rainbow". What white settler would have named a town, "San Antonio"? Saint Anthony: Anthony of Padua has been called the most celebrated of the followers of Saint Francis of Assisi. He is the patron saint of Padua and of Portugal, and is especially invoked for the recovery of lost things. For all the fire of the Baptists, Evangelicals and other mega-church groups west of the panhandle, they seem like a pretty godless bunch in comparison to St. Antonio. Just like in Spain, where ancient civilizations tried and tried to leave their mark, only to be preserved somewhere like compounded slush in the Chicago winter; The Vandal's "Vandalusia" has, over time, come to be known as "Andalucía", for example. This is how we have places like "Amarillo" (pronounced Am-uh-rill-Oh) Texas (aka Yellow) and Versailles, Ohio in this chicken pluckin' ridiculous howlin-fantod of a country we got here. Saint Anthony was too sickly in appearance to be accepted in to many of the early monasteries he encountered on his pilgrimage from Portugal to Padua; of course Saint Francis was beneficent and kind enough to take him in. I still support a Mexican annexation of all SouthWest US territories; even if NAFTA isn't exactly a piñata that Rob Schneider wacks with his wiffle ball bat.





Whispering Pines info

Chad Forcier, not a half-asian:

Joined the Spurs in the summer of 2007 … a 1995 graduate of Seattle Pacific University … started his coaching career while in college, joining the Seattle SuperSonics as an intern in 1992 … spent five seasons with the Sonics, working for head coach George Karl … from 1994–97 served as an assistant coach at Lake Washington High School in Kirkland, Washington … in 1997 was named an assistant coach at Oregon State University … spent three seasons at OSU before moving to the University of Portland for the 2000–01 season … in the summer of 2001 joined Rick Carlisle’s staff with the Detroit Pistons … after two seasons with the Pistons joined the Indiana Pacers in the summer of 2003 … spent four seasons as an assistant coach with the Pacers … his brother, Todd, is the strength and conditioning coach for the University of Kentucky men’s basketball team and his sister, Jade Hayes, is the girl’s basketball coach at Bellevue Christian High School in Bellevue, Washington.