Wednesday, June 30, 2010

War for territory

Acquisition & tactical surrender, usage & manipulation of space.

Since I trotted out the beyond-weathered mélange of sporting, war & religious terminology, am I going to be dour, as usual? Of course not, look out below!

Betcha you don't have your own cult, Dunga.

Se o Brasil has cut her futbol fibre antediluvian --
does she now fight & tackle Dungian
& should we ask a licensed Jungian
or is such a task much too Brobdingnagian?

& while we're at it perhaps we can pester Carl for the reasons why Mr. Terry & Co. refused to attempt a defensive state that wouldn't even pass muster in a grade school intramural. Must be that long, long EPL season, laughed Carlos Tevez all the way to the quarters.

Speaking of the quarters, how 'bout some hot predictioneering? Why not, as I've been *cough* stellar so far -- alright, a youthful, energetic Deutschland upending the Three-Legged Lions wasn't a tectonic result, but as fucking poor as the American D was, at least they ran back:

Uruguay, the greatest footballing nation on earth, over the Rebel Alliance. Why? Read the first sentence, chump. En plus, they have The Other Diego. Oh, how the Dungians versus the Dearly, Nearly Dysfunctional Dutch should be a semifinal at worst. But, a gentleman never switches transport midstream, so the Netherlands it is. Let's hope we get something as thrilling as this artifact.

As for the second bracket, especially with the way these two have mastered the pitch (and the refs), we have another potential stunner in Argentina and Germany, but do you seriously think I'm going to turn away from Atomic Zen Diego and His Merry Band of Dribblers now? Spain ain't so plain, but lest we forget, the Paraguayans have a secret weapon:

Don't get me wrong, as a certified pig, I enjoy the boobies, but I'm also a big sap and the single greatest joy that I've derived so far from this World Cup is something else off the pitch. Thanks to the Blue Samurai, Doodily, my usually sports-averse & Japanese-obsessed oldest, has paid rapt attention to each and every round of 16 tie, a turn as unpredictable as England's crash n' burn was its polar opposite. I may be a simpleton for having a smidgen of faith in those overhyped fucks but this can be rectified: please please please, FA, can Capello, nab Redknapp & watch hilarity ensue. If this shall not come to pass, at least I've finally convinced someone else in my household that the beautiful game is indeed that.

In some wars, everybody wins.

Piston Honda!

Saturday, June 26, 2010

Come on and rock me Honduras

USA wins group blah blah blah* defending champ Italy out pass Cannavaro a walker yawn yawn yawn. What you all should be praising the soccer gods, and their sage acolyte, the inscrutable wizard Diego, for is the lowly Hondurans lulling those anathemas to attacking beauty, the fucking Swiss, out of the tournament. Good riddance.

Did you watch Spain vs. Chile? Of course you did. That's what we want.

Minus the vaguely Anschlussian homage of the final ten minutes and that awful fucking dive I'm looking at you Fernando Torres and that awful fucking yellow & red for (maybe, maybe) the most inadvertent of contact I'm looking at you Julian Rodriguez Santiago. Sheesh.

Though a shot of referee-priced booze for Limey Howard Webb demanding in that gruff Brit schoolmaster way the Slovaks cease and desist with such impudent fakery. Comical.

As for the shining path ahead, don't get cocky. Ghana can't score, but they don't concede either and, assuming we slip past, are we certainly superior to South Korea or, more likely, the Uruguayans? Still, a semifinal appearance is not out of the realm of extreme possibility, and only Bob Bradley on acid would have accepted that crazy fuckery when qualifying started so many moons ago.

*honestly, I let out a rebel yell that scared the hell out of our cats when Donovan scored


TEN FUCKING MINUTES P.S. We'll make Boateng into Cruyff. We have the power. I'm angry Jerry. Angry and tired.

EIGHTEEN FUCKING MINUTES P.S. Dear patrons, each time you come into the library, I have to run away from the television and towards the desk to help you when I don't really want to. You understand, now fuck off.

THIRTY FUCKING MINUTES P.S. Auf wiedersehen Clark, may you be deafened by vuvuzelas for all eternity.

FUCKING HALFTIME P.S. Ugly as a really ugly thing. If someone would've told me we'd play that disorganized yet only be down a goal, I'd shake his hand and stroll off 'a smilin'.

FORTY-NINE FUCKING MINUTES P.S. Playing with urgency in the second half after lack of lustrous everything, didn't see that coming.

SIXTY FUCKING MINUTES P.S. Sure wish we had the ref from Spain-Chile. Yellow cards aplenty!

SIXTY-THREE FUCKING MINUTES P.S. In the immortal words of Flava Flav, yeeeaaaah boyyyyy. 1-1.

EIGHTY FUCKING MINUTES P.S. Editor's note: elbowing is now permitted.

FUCKING FULLTIME P.S. One bourbon, one scotch and one beer.


HALFTIME OF FUCKING ET P.S. So, when do we tie it up, 119th, 120th or stoppage time?

108th FUCKING MINUTE P.S. Ghana, stop it. Hope you're happy with this bush league shit, Sepp.

110th FUCKING MINUTE P.S. "Yes, very happy, now I shall rub my hands together most Blofeldian."


120th FUCKING MINUTE P.S. Blah. Yes, I'm wasting time.


Tuesday, June 22, 2010

The Tony Stanza Flashdance Extravaganza

I'm happy to see you too, ladies.

Between shifting radio friendly units and FIFA®-sponsored® avoidance® of® ambush® marketing®, I bypassed last week's indecent exposure. Not this time, dammit, though given the quality of the instant oatmeal below, perhaps I should have made it two for two -- oh, put down your two by fours, you can't reach me from over there.

exult! exult!

subatomic death cult
count & paste & rearrange
with our consent.

exult? exult?

cut tongue sculpture.
result, consult:

exult! exult!

mystery meat culture.
consume, consult:

exult! exult!

occult pocket insults:
so cohesive we.

exult. exult.

Saturday, June 19, 2010

I would blog 500 miles

His job is more fun than my job.

And you would blog 500 more. 502, to be exact. Despite the monumental task lain before me upon this island gig, utter detachment from everything save footie was, and is, completely worth it. Blogging, even in the low-heat, haphazard slapdash style performed by yours truly, is hard work. I might even rather shift boxes of books. Fuck, that was tiring, almost as exhausting as blogging.

Anyway, a few of the things I've learned this past week away from you dapper flappers: I picked Mexico and Uruguay to emerge from Group A, the who-cares-not-us frogs crashing and burning and so far, so good. I am so S-M-R-T.

Greece was to be my drunken, off-the-wall "sleeper," a term used quite loosely as they would be fodder for either of the above teams, and so far, almost good. I remain so S-M-R-T, at least until the Greeks get bombed in the last match.

The Yanks have courage and pluck and truckload of first-half Clerks slack while the Limeys have permanently codified their position as the poster boys of the sum of the parts is greater than the whole. The next time Frank Lampard passes, he'll likely break out in a nasty rash. Awful, fucking awful eye burn, though not as fucking awful a disgrace as ♪ we all live in a yellow card machine ♫ or worse, Stevie Wonder. Since FIFA prizes nothing more than transparency, I'm sure we'll get an answer.

The second of the seven apocalyptic signs is here:

Germany missed a penalty shot.

No one had more touches in the opponent's box in their first group game than Spain's whopping 49, promptly losing 1-0 to the fucking Swiss. A shot of civil servant-priced booze to the internets soccer Nostradamus.

Know who didn't lose to an inferior opponent? Crazy Diego and His Merry Band of Dribblers. Fuck off, Spaniards, I'm rooting for a team that can finish. Manos, Hand of God!

Now, cut back on the posting this upcoming week or you're getting one of these.

Saturday, June 12, 2010

Bend It Like Bender

Thanks to my love, nay, calling, of helping to shape the hearts and minds of today's young people into aerodynamic objects worthy of being dropped off a cliff, I've got oodles of congés payés that I never use.

Lo, verily HR speaketh & demandeth I must useth it or loseth it.

Thus, after today's swanky footsie, internets invisibility for the majority of the next couple of weeks as I plop my posterior on my semi-comfortable couch in order to watch the beautiful game while participating in the ugly one, i.e., boxing up our crap for the Great Migration of 2010.

Be well, all. Except you, Brazil.

Halftime P.S. I miss the first 20 or so minutes on the way to work, and of course the Koreans don't want no freaks, up 1-0, making my Greek "sleeper" more of eleven shambling somnambulists.

Fulltime P.S. Defensive breakdown, it's always the same. I'm havin' a nervous breakdown, drive Athens insane.

Halftime P.P.S. What we learned: Argentina ain't too shabby (should be up 2-0, 3-0), Nigeria is game (nice dive before half, dude) and Maradona owns/is renting a suit that makes him look like a shaggy Paulie from the Rocky flicks.

Fulltime P.P.S. Hey ESPN, if I wanted impressionism, I'd head to Giverny, dig up Monet's bones and reanimate them. Speaking of reanimation, Diego might want to try the local muti on his team's feet. Finish!

Halftime P.P.P.S. We can't pass (sometimes), we can't defend (sometimes), but it's 1-1. Go on, blame the ball, you fucks! HAHAHAHAHA!

Fulltime P.P.P.S. Concerning Mr. Tim Fucking Howard, Robbie, you are no doubt Green with envy. Groan all you want, we'll take the point. We'd also like a creative midfield type, send your CV to the USMNT c/o the U.S. Soccer Federation, Chicago, Illinois 60616.

Friday, June 11, 2010

Oh, shit.

DC United won a road game (via a hat trick, no less).

If we throttle the limeys tomorrow, I'm stocking up on canned goods, duct tape and Triscuits and heading to the Lake Erie islands to ride out the apocalypse.

Halftime P.S. Hey Mexico, how about finishing? Hey ESPN, how about making the game feed as crystal clear as the fucking commercials?

Fulltime P.S. Hey South Africa, good job making a game of it. Hey ESPN, how about making the game feed as crystal clear as the fucking commercials?

Don't make me do work instead.

Halftime P.P.S. Don't look askance, France had more than once chance. HEY ESPN, HOW ABOUT MAKING THE GAME FEED AS CRYSTAL CLEAR AS THE FUCKING COMMERCIALS?

Fulltime P.P.S. Gauls wasted a late man-advantage in this grinder. Hope you kept an eye on the surprisingly sprightly frogs, Holland, a little teammate hate ain't so bad. HEY ESPN, GO CHENEY YOURSELF.

Thursday, June 10, 2010

All roads lead to our lost songs.

The cancellation of "all operations and tours" for 2010 is unwelcome news -- not that they'd ever tour the states, cheap bastards -- but with Nos Chants Perdus, their fifth full-length in five years, Rome has certainly earned a cache of goodwill from at least one listener. Setting aside such dour news, let's perk up our spirits with a hop, skip and jump through this dour, thus comforting, rewarding, album.

A whistle caught in a panoply of sound, tumbling water, trembling thunder, the splash of rain upon the old stone road, L'Homme Révolté walks. Les Deracines bring a horizon of apocalyptic folk closer, lush with sadness and that whistle, yet the vocal at 1:40 pitches up, a fleeting glimpse at contentment. A repeating trope, aided by parallel measures, the internal tug-of-war with which we all must deal, and find lying out of range of our fingernails.

Le Chatiment du Traitre, listen.

Next, the slow, sparse sound of passing people and pediments, the sacred and the profane of which we all are complicit, enunciated in the violin hiding behind the curtain. Each of us is L'Assassin. Let's go find a balm, however temporary. The circular chords of Le Vertige du Vide indeed dizzy, dazzle until the respite of Les Exigences de la Foi's keyboard & spoken word intermezzo.

The sound of La Commune reflects the word's rich, historical meaning through dark French chanson à la Jacques Brel, a street song strong with a bass backbone, tendons & sinews, and we all swing around, and we all sing about/my detachment, my banishment, my vagrancy, while Sous la Dague melds the last album's transcendent We Who Fell In Love With the Sea with Vittorio Vandelli-esque fretwork, topped with a wisp of Zeppelin's No Quarter.

Percussion slaps swell around Les Iles Noires waltzy, hypnotic shamble that, in time, turns down an alley of electric echoes crawling through the spaces between black and white keys, Un Adieu à la Folie. In gathering the previous four tracks, for example, one hears the overarching theme tying all twelve together, yet always through natural changes in posture, in timbre, in overt and implied hooks, a brittle dignity. The tack moves again with La Rose et La Hache, the voice declaring I never wanted you that much in a verse flush with weeping and thefts and jail, quickly becoming I never wanted you so much then back again and once more, carried away on a sweeping accordion flourish.

The quiet contentment of album closer Chansons de Geste is striking. Consider the source of the song's title: tales of dashing knights the calibre of Roland and, later in the Crusade Cycle, First Crusade hero Godfrey de Bouillon. Establishment icons, as it were. Weighty stuff, but is not each of us on our own road, however small -- certainly vast to us -- sans horse, bridle and sword, bien sûr: hide yourself in mourning, in countries far/among the snake-mouthed mothers of snow/hide yourself in mourning, on oceans wide/14 blades, 400 blows. In our own individual way, we all try to raise hell, whistling as we (pretend to) rebel, whistling while we work at locating that contentment amidst the omnipresent spectacle. Most of us fail.

Shifting further and further away from their martial roots, Jerome Reuter and Patrick Damiani have presented their darkest, most acoustic work to date, a work beyond forced strokes of matte black. The spirit of a strangely welcoming existentialism, alongside the shared sonic aesthetic of a Tom Waits, a Nick Cave, a Sonne Hagal, a Léo Ferré, runs through this Luxembourgeois duo who gift another wonderfully lugubrious album.

Another day, on a quiet road, on a safer shore
Serve no one, blame no one, awaiting the fall
This sign means you, this sign means all

Sounds nice. Good luck.

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

If you want blood, you've got it

Sort of.

Inside, Gardner will be strapped into a winged, black metal chair with a mesh seat that was built for Taylor's execution. A metal tray beneath the chair is designed to collect any blood that runs from the executed prisoner's body.
That's not how you fucking do it.

We want slumping corpses and spattered walls, you pansies.

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Solar flash

Forgive the brevity of this flareup, but it's hot in here.

"So much for plan B."

"What about C?"


"There's always D."


"Thinking about cup sizes again, Jack?"


"Thinking about menopause again, Jill?"

beep beep beep

"Funny. How they made you mission commander, I'll never know."


"Being a man, I always pay atten --"

Congressional beancounters were relieved that the coronal mass ejection disintegrated the entire ship. Why waste money on a lengthy investigation in lieu of installing gold-plated faucets in Capitol Hill lavatories?

Saturday, June 5, 2010

The Galaxy's Most Mediocre World Cup Preview

Yes, I wrote it, and like poor Rob's shot, the prose hits the post. Relax, I included a scantily-clad lady to distract you from the overflowing flaws.

Thursday, June 3, 2010

Speed kings

"I wasn't speeding, officer."

"Don't sass me, boy. I visually guesstimated."

Speaking of speed, let's hastily shove Jim Joyce off via a Gaza-bound tramp freighter. Quickly, someone call the Israelis collect, an activist is --


"Technology is not everything," the American goalkeeper said Thursday. "Scientists came up with the atom bomb, doesn't mean we should have invented it." Good job, Benedict Arnold, now the jihadists won't stick to suitcases.

Don't come crying to me when your World Cup chances go up in a mushroom cloud, Quisling.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

A post that doesn't suck (no, really)

Told you.