don rodriguez

The biggest boss that you've seen thus far.

2008-10-30T01:29:00.003-04:00

Parade.

2008-06-11T11:31:00.021-04:00

Very sturdy rogues.

Several have exploited your worlds.

With no needs, and in no hurry to make use of their brilliant faculties and their knowledge of your consciences.

What ripe men!

Eyes listless like the summer night, reddened and blackish, tricolored, steel studded with gold stars;

Features twisted, leaden, bloodless, gutted.

Burlesque hoarsenesses! The merciless posturings of tinsel!

Some are young--what would they think of Cherubino?--with bloodcurdling voices and some dangerous equipment.

They are sent to town, tricked out with nauseating luxury.

O the most violent Paradise of the furious grimace!

Not to be compared with your Fakirs and other theatrical buffooneries.

In costumes improvised with the taste of bad dreams, they enact sad songs and tragedies of thieves and demigods more uplifting than history or religion has ever managed to be!

Chinese, Hottentots, gypsies, nitwits, hyenas, Molochs, old lunacies, sinister demons, they mix much-loved old-time maternal ditties with bestial winks and caresses.

They would interpret new plays, "romantic" songs.

Master jugglers, they can transform both the scene and the characters: they use magnetic tricks.

Eyes glisten, blood sings, bones swell, tears and little red trickles flow.

Their horseplay or their panic terror may last a minute or whole months.

I alone have the key to this savage side show.

Uno, Dos, Tres.

2008-06-10T23:41:00.027-04:00

Anatomische.

2008-06-09T20:44:00.015-04:00

because I do not hope

2008-06-09T17:27:00.024-04:00

Your sister was there. And your mother too.

We watched together, the whole family.

It was hot in the poor places.

Houdini, murdered by suicide.

Unrepentant.

And just desserts. Or, "If I had any idea of what justice is, it would be more than I deserve," mumbles Oldham.

And so. The champions reign. The old blue lady. The cobbler's wife. Son of a television repair man. An orphan raised in the seclusion of the mountain retreat. Champions.

All of them. And yet. The rest of us. Our fists white, bloodless. In solidarity.

Don't Step.

And again, so. That inscrutable joy returning when we rebuild his transgression under a flag of defiance,

into a gift we don't unwrap, nor desire to - maybe accepting, some of us, of Eliot:

"because i do not hope to turn again
because i do not hope
because i do not hope to turn"

And finally, then, so. Two unrepentant times around the sun. We begin again. What's left of his legacy coalesces across the continent and goes on. the. attack. our telekinetic vision, repaired, guides the ball away from the line on which we stand, the one we've drawn ourselves. then we just start running, screaming, certain of the Totality of this movement. we know of another, outside of the their sights, doing as we are doing. so we give the moment over to him. but there is no him. it is us. the moment is passed again. and by now, we know

not to hope

to turn again.

Thus Far.

2008-06-09T13:29:00.008-04:00

On this, the day the European tournament wipes the cold out its eyes and opens them wide, it's important to remember why we watch.

The opening of an international tournament excites partly because we're allowed to look upon what has been a familiar world with fresh vision. The same names with different shirts. Hundreds, thousands of years of history; different, perhaps unlikely faces fronting for those centuries. Old alliances (Austria!), older enemies (France! Germany! Holland!) and new allegiances (Brazilians?). Colonialism's colonials standing with their former empires. Club teams broken apart and reformed again under flags and colors. And what colors! Oranje!

Incredible names. Ruud. Giovanni Van Bronckhorst. Ruben de la Red. Manuel Enrique Mejuto Gonzalez (and he is a referee). Incredulously styled hair (by nearly everyone). Derek Rae and Andy Gray's magisterial voices and generous charm as applied to international football. The weight of the past offset by the lightness of Deco's touch. The spirit of nations and the individual brilliance of Ronaldo. How G Patrice Evra is. French North Africans. Basques. The fact that a man named Zlatan Ibrahimovic plays for Sweden and another named Mario Gomez does for Germany. People's faces. Ruud. The endlessly fascinating Franck Ribery. Finding one's way to love and hate, tolerance and idolatry (This generally involves Germans and/or Italians).

But we're still on that icebreaker tip right now. Buying drinks. Talking gamely about "what we do." Smiling a lot. Complimenting one another. "Oh, that's so interesting." Catching profile glimpses in mirrors and glasses while imagining futures. Keep an open mind. Don't talk about politics. The poetry and pathos comes in the final third of the group stage and of course in the succeeding rounds. There's always time for tears later. Right now, just be easy and allow yourself to be seduced. The passion will come. If we're lucky, at 2:45 today.

Now I'm out in Europe.

2008-06-07T09:45:00.002-04:00

Spending Euros.

Like most decadent things, you have a Frenchman to thank for today.

Henri Delaunay (1883-1955) was first a player, then referee, club president, high-ranking bureaucrat, higher-ranking bureaucrat, and finally, as you know him, silver trophy. Here is something you probably did not know: Upon retiring from his Paris club team Etoile des Deux Lacs and taking up zebra stripes, Delaunay was struck flush in the face by the ball, broke two teeth and swallowed his whistle. The match he was refereeing, unfortunately for him but fortunately for the endurance of irony, was between AF Garenne-Doves and ES Benevolence.

Delaunay sat on FIFA's board and kept good company: Jules Rimet, another man with a (slightly more famous) trophy named after him (it's what you get when you win the World Cup). He first proposed the creation of the European Championships in 1927, though because Europe had other things to do in the intervening years, the first tournament wasn't played until 1960.

So, raise a glass of Cote du Rhone to your boy Henri as Switzerland take on the Czech Republic today. Portugal and Turkey to follow...

Anything Can Be An Instrument

2007-12-05T15:27:00.000-05:00

"Some things we wait for all our lives without knowing it."

"Then it happens and we recognize at once who we are and how we are meant to proceed."

"This is the idea I've always wanted."

"I know what scientists mean when they talk about elegant solutions."

The Architect; the Terrorist; the President; the Assassin. If individuals are crushed by the forces of history then an individual's purpose, as posited by Don DeLillo in Libra, is to merge with that history. That's what Oswald does. He becomes one of those people that shape the very forces that shape everything else; that shape the world.

For the purposes of today's sermon, this is the world:

And this is how Roman shapes it:

Juan Roman Riquelme is going back to Boca Juniors. His return--reversing the usual Argentina-keeps-on-making-it-Spain-keeps-on-taking-it--is a nice respite from the usual playin'-in-the-asshole-of-a-camel-in-Dubai-just-for-the-gold-bricks trend (if that kinda shit keeps you up at night....). It's also further proof of the same kind of divine benevolence that gave us DeLillo and football.

Marcela Mora y Araujo has all the news that's fit to print, including some no-shit-I-really-should-read-more-books stuff about the midfielder-as-poet.
We'll get to poetry in a minute. But first let's talk about where and how amazing happens.

I caught a critical case of the football bug when I found out there were people like Steven Gerrard out there...

When you need someone to stand up and be counted

People who understood the theater of heroism. That's my shit. Forget group therapy, forget new age corpo-sublimation (yo, if you are still saying

in 2007, you should get an Oxycontin habit going because you're gonna need to address that shit somewhere down the line, and since you'll lack the minerals and vitamins, you might as well get your Berlin-era Lou Reed on).

I'm talking about something inside that rages against the sign and signifier. Something inside you that says, I am allafuckinglone. And I will do whatever it takes to feel otherwise.

And there is a breed of athlete and creative artist (one in the same if you've ever tried both) who gets that, whether consciously or not. That their role, ultimately, is to be a bridge between us and the dreams of the way we'd like things to be and how we'd like to feel.

So, I like shots from the motherfucking cannon of catharsis and leave talk of 10 behind the ball and playing to the flanks for guys who understand that shit.

And even so, as an expert on such moments, even so...

I have never...

seen

anything

like Boca's Copa Libertadores run in my entire life. One of the top 10 players in the world when he feels like it (my favorite kind), in the midst of a creepy spat with his father figure at Villareal, somehow talks the suits into letting him go back to Buenos Aries (I do believe he'd enough), and sets up one of the great Prodigal Son gets returned-to-sender storylines of the last few years.

And then Roman destroyed storylines. Retarded ski-jumpers, gymnasts who miss their moms', Peyton vs. Eli vs. Brady vs. the Devil vs. Daniel Webster vs. an old lady who knit scarves for Ray Lewis while he was in the bing. Those are storylines; that's some Bob Costas shit.

Storylines can't support what happened in La Bombonera.

The reach ain't long enough, dunny.

Riquelme at Boca was definitely some Liberty Valance shit for me. I watched it on Fox's Spanish language channel, knowing none of the language and only a few of the actors and plotlines. And that naivety was only increased by the sets.

I mean, did that Cucuta match really fucking happen? I know it was just a bunch of guys playing football inside of a fucked up Monet painting...happens every day.

Like a dream, right?

Ray Hudson has said "a goal is a dream with a deadline" (he's also said that Riquelme has a "walkie talkie to heaven").

For dreams to become reality you need someone to be the engine for that happening. You need someone who can see the possible and render it real.

Roman isn't known for pace (he's actually knocked for his lack of physical assertion, though regardless of what the speedometer readshe is rarely caught). He is a playmaker known for his vision. His precision is effortless; like a savant who doesn't need to study. He doesn't pass to the man, or to where the man should be. He passes to where he WILL be. That isn't just awareness of a physical field. That's an awareness of need; of what has to happen. This pass to Milito

Venezuela 0-2 Argentina (0-1 Milito)
"The big, beautiful, strolling zombie; I call him 'Riquelme'"

...is something like that. These two aren't playing a game they are telling a story from back to front; they're playing in a dimension where timing becomes something like poetry: an articulation of something you always felt but couldn't say. Does it sound like I just smoked weed for the first time? Who fucking caress!? Everybody knows Aztecs invented television, right!?

Sure, this is not an entirely unique trait. When Jordan methodically knee capped the Ehlo's of the universe,

...we all watched in slack jawed wonder. But that dude was fucking insane! Mike tended to do shit like fabricate a subliminal insult from some beshitted CBA call up on the opposing squad to motivate himself. He wasn't playing for the Southside or some shit. And that's cool, nobody needs a fucking planet full of Woody Guthrie's!

But when Riquelme applied this vision to something as inherently epic as the first leg of the Libertadores final, in Buenos Aries, up against Gremio, in what was to be his last match at La Bombonera, he turned a free kick into poetry; a song; a national anthem. He turned an individual act into a gift for thousands of people. Right here...

Boca Juniors 3-0 Gremio (2-0 Riquelme)
"he's from the stars"

...he does something you can take and remember and share.

That you can rip from history and make your own. Like a home movie about a murder that becomes a documentary for a nation.

There is preparation.

Something is triggered; set in motion.

He becomes an instrument of history

He comes running towards us. Screaming.

This engine is powered by belief.

He is saying, I am listening.

I am with my brothers.

Tonight we are family.

No more masters, no more pupils.

Only us.

Banners and streamers and fire and smoke and blue and yellow and Argentina; a choir singing ecstatically.

The pandemonium and the harmony. In this moment, there is only Boca, only La Bombonera. It's something you can't talk about, a dream that will leave us tired and sleepless.

This dream's deadline has come.

It is accomplished.

The moment ends...

Love is forever.

God's Son across the belly.

2007-11-27T12:59:00.000-05:00

Berlusconi might say otherwise.

"...flick the towel of the Lord..." - Phil Ball on locker room evangelicals, or those who prefer Christ as their centreback.

UPDATE: Ricardo Izecson dos Santos Leite, he of the Jesus tee, wants to become a minister as soon as he's done winning Golden Balls.

Whatever your opinion of evangelicals, Kaka might not be half-bad; or, at the very least he sounds like he has a keener understanding than most:

"It's not so easy to apply to today's society things that were written thousands of years ago. But that's exactly the job of a minister - to make the teaching of the Bible relevant."

Other continents.

2007-11-14T10:40:00.001-05:00

Let that bitch breathe.

Eat a star.

2007-09-20T00:00:00.000-04:00

So high.

Maybe you haven't noticed (the tiny picture over yonder right that graces this blog), but we're endlessly fascinated with this one. For those similarly taken, World Cup Blog has an entire documentary, called Comme dans un rêve (Like a Dream), broken up into ten YouTube clips of varying lengths (about 10 mins apiece, give or take, I think). Enjoy.

Best Rapper Alive.

2007-09-19T22:26:00.000-04:00

Bye.

Totally, totally going to miss this guy.

Because he could be absolutely cutting.

And when he did want to answer a journalist's idiotic question, it was always with inimitable style.

And never more so when talking about himself -- here, foreshadowing:

So I know all about the ups and downs of football, I know that one day I will be sacked.

But you have to feel he was prepared for it, and of course he was:

I was nine or 10 years old and my father was sacked on Christmas Day. He was a manager, the results had not been good, he lost a game on December 22 or 23. On Christmas Day, the telephone rang and he was sacked in the middle of our lunch.

The man was a pre- and post-game genius (We can argue about his in-game tactics later). He turned what are without fail dour, idiotic, and desperately pedestrian interviews into an art form, and he knew it.

When I face the media, maybe I don't feel it now, here with you, because it's a different sort of interview, but when I face the media before or after the game, I feel it as part of the game.

When I go to the press conference before the game, in my mind the game has already started.

A veritable font of hilarity he was:

We have top players and, sorry if I'm arrogant, we have a top manager.

I'm not a defender of old or new football managers. I believe in good ones and bad ones, those that achieve success and those that don't. Please don't call me arrogant, but I'm European champion and I think I'm a special one.

If I wanted to have an easy job...I would have stayed at Porto - beautiful blue chair, the Uefa Champions League trophy, God, and after God, me.

[You really ought to just watch this one] This is nothing against Sir Alex whatsoever. After the game on Wednesday we were together in my office and we spoke and drank wine. Unfortunately it was a very bad bottle of wine and he was complaining, so when we go to Old Trafford for the second leg, on my birthday, I will take a beautiful bottle of Portuguese wine.

Of course there was the time he slapped Carlos Puyol. So sneaky. Look at Puyol's face: what could he do? Just fantastic.

But this is my all-time favorite interview. It's Mourinho, a day before Chelsea took on Barcelona in the Champions League (for the first time, I believe), naming his side, Barca's side, and even the referee, the now-retired Swede (largely because of that game) Anders Frisk.

A good finish indeed.

Saude, Jose!

I'm a winner, man.

2007-07-30T23:09:00.000-04:00

When the last time you heard it like this?

How we keep Wu Tang money all up in the family.

2007-07-18T18:22:00.001-04:00

My seeds grow with his seeds, marry his seeds.

Soak my soul.

2007-07-15T23:31:00.000-04:00

Uhh!

"...no te deja, no te deja de alentar."

"We're totally ruined," Esteban Cambiasso said. "Losing like this penetrates your soul."

The livest one.

2007-07-13T20:41:00.001-04:00

Representing BK to the fullest.

Hard to be more on point than dude here. [Props for the Marlo header shot too!] But to not attempt even a half-hearted post on this occasion would be failure of the highest order.

Image has always been everything with Becks, whether it's the endless permutations of follicular placement or his iconic, inimitable, impossibly-balanced shape upon striking the ball. Wow. Bet you though this was about to get real squishy. Let those with distinguished Scottish accents get away with the waxy poetics. I'd prefer to be as reductionist as possible.

Call it CHANGING FACES:

+ Inscrutable: Watching this will hopefully underscore how pointless, or at least unnatural, a highlight reel feels re: Beckham. He's most effective (most famously) from dead ball situations, with inch-perfect crosses and lofted balls, or without the ball completely, doing his decapitated chicken bit in the midfield. Watching him score goals in the run of play feels ridiculous; I wonder what it'll look like in the (weird!) MLS.

+ Cherubic : Still the young Essex boy, still apple of Sir Alex's eye.

+ Galactic: Generally a disaster in practice, the whole Galactico era at Madrid sometimes bore some really pretty, rather fascinating fruit.

+ Petulant: More so than that wonder goal @ Wimbledon, what first put Beckham's name atop the so-called red-tops in England, for all the wrong reasons.

+ Caught Offside: Most remarkable for SBC's comic agility & quickness and for a somewhat-respectable performance by Posh. And a common misconception (ha!) about Brooklyn dispelled.

+ Chagrined: Really tho?

+ Capitalist: Get ready for the deluge; as far as these go, this passes for classic. Shouts to Mean Joe Green.

+ Humbled: The worst of times.

+ Superlative: The best of times.

+ Triumphant: Out on top.

People are making monumentally stupid comparisons to other "transcendent" sports figures (NASL-era Pele, Gretzky etc.), but the easiest and truest equation to American celebrity -- if you absolutely need one -- is right in front of our fat expectant faces: Tom Cruise.

Much like my boy Unemployment I fucking love Tom Cruise. I love Mission Impossible Tom Cruise; I love Eyes Wide Shut Tom Cruise -- incidentally the most flawless portrayal of "Tom Cruise" in cinema history (His character's incessant ID-pulling -- "Bill Hartford, Doctor" -- might as well have read "Tom Cruise, Actor"). Tom Cruise does "Tom Cruise" and all its attendant "Tom Cruise Shit" better than anyone. He does one thing better than the rest of the world: the "Tom Cruise Ingratiating, Beaming, Beatific Tooth-Face™." As a producer you don't hire an actor for, say, Valkyrie; you hire "Fucking Tom Cruise." Same with Beckham (it's no wonder they're friends). On the right days, Beckham strikes the ball with his right foot truer than anyone on the planet; that's what he does well. That, and sell things. That's pretty much it, and generally while wearing expensive shit. So that's what MLS is getting: the Tom Cruise of world football. Which is not bad in my book.

UPDATE: He has a blog.

Quarter-mil should be enough to drop the charges.

2007-07-13T12:32:00.000-04:00

Never mind that. Lemme oil up your arm.

Nothing to see here, ladies and gentlemen. Merely warrants issued by a Brazilian judge for a few major shareholders of Corinthians football club. Move along, please. Just your normal exiled Russian billionaire and British-Iranian sports agent accused of money laundering and forming a criminal enterprise. All is well.

San Diego Charge

2007-07-10T21:59:00.000-04:00

We can have a me-narge. (That's three!)

Props to proud S.D. resident J.M. for pointing the Don in this direction.

San Diego Soccers [website, aborted]
Sockers [Wiki]

Oh Finster, baby...

2007-07-09T14:25:00.000-04:00

A babalu, ooh, a babalu, boogety-boo.

"Beef! Yes! Chest! Feet!, Tag! Bag! Blood! Sheets! Yikes! Yeeks! Great! Scott! Storch! Can I borrow your yacht?" - Weezy F. Baby

Please say the baby.

You may not be a model.

2007-07-05T13:02:00.001-04:00

But I can front page ya.

Excuse my behavior, ladies and gentlemen, but a forced sabbatical from all things Copa America has kept me away from the keyboard as of late -- and don't fret, Sr. R. will be back with the quickness as well -- but in the meantime, this nugget: Carlos Tevez may soon suit up next to Wayne Rooney, Cristiano Ronaldo, Paul Scholes, Ryan Giggs...hmm...who else? Oh right: Owen Hargreaves, Michael Carrick, Nemanja Vidic, Rio Ferdinand, Patrice Evra, and..who was it again? Quite so, I believe it was two young, linguistically-linked fellows, the Portuguese Nani and the Brazilian Anderson.

This is patently absurd. Though, even absurd-er-er: the Premiership season renews itself once again in August. It's now July 5.

"My name is Ferdinand!"

2007-07-02T21:19:00.000-04:00

"Pierrot!"

More Kobe Bryant of an artist.

2007-06-28T07:00:00.000-04:00

Won rings with my performance.

Goals of The Tournament Numbers One, Two, and Three -- order depending on what skill-sets you prize -- happened in the first 20 minutes of Ecuador-Chile.

That statement was true for about 30 minutes last night, 21 minutes into Brazil-Mexico to be precise. Nery Castillo's (WHAT!) and Ramon Morales's efforts quickly shunted those 3 down the ladder of sublimity, though they deserve mention in what was a pretty all-around amazing day of futbol. Just later. Now, regarding the above clip...

AB-SURD! AIN'T EVEN TOUCH THE GROUND BEFORE IT WAS IN THE NET! DO WE EVEN KNOW WHO GOT CLOWNED?! (JUAN.) ARTISTRY WORTHY OF -- YEP -- A BRAZILIAN. And Morales' 30-yard STUNNA was no slouch either. All credit to Mexican keeper Guillermo Ochoa as well for some out-of-his-skin saves in keeping Brazil scoreless. Scoreless.

Reigning blueandcream (¡respeito a los arquitectos!) Young Playa of the 2006 World Cup Luis "Michael-Thriller-Era-Jackson" Valencia (a.k.a. "Best All-Around Boytoy", as voted on by House Arbiter of Male Pulchritude, Miss Emcee M.C.) scored the first of the match, a pearl of a chip that curled into the upper left corner of the Chilean net after an equally lovely lofted ball over the defense (after a goal kick, even!). This all took about 7 seconds.

Then, maybe 9 minutes later, Humberto Suazo (nicknamed "El Chupete," literally one of these) let loose with what some Englishmen would call a Ripsnorter, tearing venomously past the Ecuadorian 'keeper. Before I could even 'skine that bit of info, Ecuador had gone ahead again, taking advantage of some slack Chilean defending. Easily the most exciting 45 minutes so far. Suazo tied it yet again, and Hector Villanueva won it with a gorgeous free kick.

All props to Gosfais for 1) predicting a somewhat less-than-brilliant Brazilian effort and 2) eagle-eyeing the Chilean Valdivia many months ago. He looked a live wire, though Suazo took all the plaudits.

Two losers on the day, but both teams played well enough to win. It only gets better, one would hope.

My mind is older.

2007-06-28T05:00:00.000-04:00

When things get for real.

Joyeux anniversaire to dude, dude, & other dudes with French surnames.

Run for the border.

2007-06-27T21:05:00.000-04:00

Go get a taco.

Alright, The Don has kept you on the line long enough. Time for Part Two of Daniel Corry's post (Read Part One!). And, appropriately, for Brazil-Mexico. Nossa!

If you thought to yourself, “Why does he need taco shells mailed to him if he is in Brazil?” The answer to that question is: go to Taco Bell and ask Aaron or Jose to stick the sour cream gun in your least favorite orifice until you achieve enlightenment. No one eats tacos in Chile, Argentina, Brazil and probably a lot of other countries in the south of South America. Mexico is far away and is thought of as a totally foreign place to people way down here. In fact, the only way to find taco shells down here is to go the richest supermarket chain and buy OLD EL PASO taco shells for like R$16. Or you can go to a Mexican restaurant, mimicking the experience of a Chinese immigrant paying R$12 for a box of chop suey at the restaurant down my street -- expensive and bad to those who know better.

So when Mexico plays Brazil this Copa, don’t think of them as brother countries any more than you would when the US plays, say, Denmark. In fact, when I asked Silvio if he is going to watch the Copa he said ‘no’ for two reasons. 1: the team sucks right now (0-0 with Turkey; Kaka and Ronaldinho on vacation) and two (after I told him the groupings): “Brazil doesn’t have luck against Mexico. You know this? Brazil doesn’t have luck in South America tournament. Brazil have luck in world tournament.”

The same sentiment was mentioned in terms of the recently expired Copa Libertadores (Argentine Boca whooped Brazilian Gremio in the finals). In fact, the name of that last-mentioned cup, which harkens back to Simon Bolivar & Co., liberators of South America from Spain, doesn’t have anything to do with Brazilian history. So in both these cups Brazil never quite feels at home among the people they themselves call ‘latinos,’ and so don’t expect them to vanquish in that group of death.

I mean, jeez, when the pope draws a line, it means something.

Concrete Peruvian

2007-06-27T15:12:00.000-04:00

So go and sue me then.

Peru-Venezuela should be interesting, and not merely because of the insight that Emily Parker's great WSJ interview with Peruvian author, and former presidential candidate, Mario Varga Llosa provides.

Mr. Vargas Llosa's bold ideas and expressive language may make him one of Latin America's finest writers--"Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter," "The Time of the Hero" and "Conversation in the Cathedral" are just a few of his classic works--but those same traits didn't necessarily serve him well at the polls.

Parker explains:

During the 1990 presidential campaign Mr. Varga Llosa emphasized the need for a market economy, privatization, free trade, and above all, the dissemination of private property. He didn't exactly receive a welcome reception. "It was a very different era, because to speak of private property, private enterprise, the market--it was sacrilegious," he says. "I was fairly vulnerable in that campaign," he continues, "because I didn't lie. I said exactly what we were going to do. It was a question of principle and also . . . I thought it would be impossible to do liberal, radical reforms without having the mandate to do them."

And befitting MVL's characterization of himself, he is more than forthcoming about Latin America and one of the hemisphere's most polarizing figures:

He is relatively upbeat about Latin America today: "I'm not as pessimistic as others who believe that Latin America has returned to the time of populism, leftism." The region has its problems, to be sure, one major one coming from Caracas in the form of Venezuelan President Hugo Chávez. But according to Mr. Vargas Llosa, perhaps what is most remarkable is what Mr. Chávez has not been able to do. "We have a big problem with Chávez," Mr. Vargas Llosa admits. "He's a demagogue and a 19th century socialist. He is a destabilizing force for democracy in Latin America, but what he thought would be so easy hasn't been so easy. There has been a lot of resistance."

One of Mr. Chávez's major errors was his refusal last month to renew the license of popular Radio Caracas Television, or RCTV. "International hostility was enormous," Mr. Vargas Llosa notes. "For me, most important was that the protests in Venezuela were very strong, in particular the sectors that were once very sympathetic to him, for example the students in the Central University of Venezuela, not only the students in the private universities."

It is such infringements of free speech that highlight why in places like Latin America, reading a good novel can be much more than just a pleasant way to spend an afternoon. "I think in countries where basic problems are still unresolved, where a society remains so traumatized by deep conflicts--as in Latin America or in Third World countries in general--the novel is not only a form of entertainment, but it substitutes for something that these societies are not accustomed to seeing--information, for example," Mr. Vargas Llosa says. "If you live in a country where there is nothing comparable to free information, often literature becomes the only way to be more or less informed about what's going on."

UPDATE: For those that want to focus their anti-imperialist fury inward, check out this NYTimes piece from Sunday's Magazine, where the stones @ Machu Picchu play a significant role.

By any means I'm a eat.

2007-06-27T09:28:00.000-04:00

Cigarettes.

Don Rodriguez is always happy to welcome the words of his irmão de outro, Daniel Corry, who is currently at work on a novel about Brazil, the moon, and the evolution of man, necessarily in that order. I once dreamt it was titled "True Love Waits".It is not, as far as I know. This is Part One of a continuing series. Stay tuned for more, and for more guest contributors. Oh, and Brazil plays Mexico tonight; should be a cracker.

You may be surprised to hear that Murphy’s Law exists in the social universe of Brazil, but you simply need to say Lei de Murf to draw a wry smile out of anyone. But Murf here has a scarier, fully Brazilian counterpart -- Lei de Gérson. I found a wiki on Gerson’s Law in Portuguese, then its brutally translated English version. (I use brute as an adverb in honor of Brutalism, and in honor of the New York Times Book Reviews mailed to me in air envelopes (also often containing soft taco shells) by my mother in which, perhaps due to the semi-recent translation issue, all works reviewed that have been translated into English need to have the following clause- The book, ________ly translated by__________).

My friend Silvio, know by the Don, told me about the Law when he was explaining how the construction company which built his house had screwed everybody in the housing unit by installing water pipes with much less than the necessary diameter, causing water shortages and necessitating the smashing of all the sidewalks and reinstallation of said pipes. Besides that, I can’t say nothing that wiki can’t, so I’ll let it do its work. You just watch out for it.

Gérson's Law | Gérson

It feel hot at night and shit.

2007-06-27T00:44:00.000-04:00

It's the wind.

WATCH: Peru's Second Goal (2-0, Mariño)
WATCH: Peru's Third Goal (3-0, Guerrero)

So Uruguay's slick forward men tried to get their swerve on tonight against the Peruvians. Surprisingly, and rather ironically, those who rep Machu Picchu 'til they die -- well, quite simply their G was just too futuristic for the boys in light blue.
Three goals and some listless defending on the Uruguayans part is what you were left with if you donated your time to this opener. Good sign for he rest of the games though.

In the night's featured matchup, the Sulfur King of Caracas, Hugo Chavez, faced off against Evo "So High I Can Eat A Star" Morales, or rather, the national teams of their respective nations did. The game finished 2-2, which may or may not help in the host nation's push to progess to the second round for the first time ever. We shall see...

Also, it's finally dead-ass summer in NYC. The Don's exact words.

Much, much more to come...

Whose World Is This?

2007-06-26T18:11:00.000-04:00

It's mine, it's mine, it's mine.

Though he'd rather not say for which nation it beats hardest, the heart of Don Rodriguez is Latin, through and through. Which is why, for the next few weeks, we implore you, reader, to spend your free minutes and hours with us -- screaming, shouting, meditating, opining, and smiling -- as we spend our time glued to Telefutura, watching the 2007 Copa America. For those that don't know...

This is the 42nd edition of the South American football tournament (a.k.a., for all you pro-/proto-imperialist bastards, the "European Tournament of South America"). For the first time in its history, the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela will host the cup, which runs from June 26 - July 15. Fans of petroleum and Beelzebub will know that nation, and its president, Hugo Chávez Frias, quite well.

Don Rodriguez would love to tell you about its many wonders. Sadly, all he learned about Venezuela he learned over many whiskeys on an all-night flight to Europe from a balloon-breasted half-Italian, half-Venezuelan that wouldn't let him fall asleep. The information is not necessarily reliable, shall we say, though the Don maintains, "That one, she was a real sweetheart, that one."

But back to the tournament. Uruguay and Peru get us started tonight (as we speak, in fact!), as do the hosts against Bolivia. European soccer gets more than enough burn, more than enough ink. Support the New World. Show your mates that you know a little more about L'Amerique Sud than the conquering Frenchmen that drew the map above in 1514. Join the Don on his new mission to show as much love as possible to our Socialist brothers from the South, and to wish only the best for Juan Roman Riquelme.

And do yourself a favor. Please, please, please watch it in Spanish. [And don't be afraid to root for Diego Forlan. Mama Don "has a crush." We'll leave it at that.]

COPA AMERICA SCHEDULE (check local listings, ha)

Group A: Venezuela, Bolivia, Uruguay, Peru
6/26 Uruguay vs. Peru
6/26 Venezuela vs. Bolivia
6/30 Bolivia vs. Uruguay
6/30 Venezuela vs. Peru
7/3 Peru vs. Bolivia
7/3 Venezuela vs. Uruguay

Group B: Brazil, Mexico, Chile, Ecuador
6/27 Ecuador vs. Chile
6/27 Brazil vs. Mexico
7/1 Brazil vs. Chile
7/1 Mexico vs. Ecuador
7/4 Mexico vs. Chile
7/4 Brazil vs. Ecuador

Group C: Argentina, Paraguay, United States, Colombia
6/28 Paraguay vs. Colombia
6/28 Argentina vs. U.S.
7/2 U.S. vs. Paraguay
7/2 Argentina vs. Colombia
7/5 Colombia vs. U.S.
7/5 Argentina vs. Paraguay

7/7 Quarter final match: Teams TBA

7/7 Quarter final match: Teams TBA

7/8 Quarter final match: Teams TBA

7/8 Quarter final match: Teams TBA

7/10 Semi final match: Teams TBA

7/11 Semi final match: Teams TBA

7/14 3rd place match

7/15Final match: Teams TBA

The Boomin' System.

2007-06-25T10:18:00.001-04:00

Cars ride by.

"C to the O to the O to the L to the I to the N
To the F to the R to the O to the N to the T to the I to the N
That means I'm chillin."

The only book on Thierry's summer reading list [etexts linked @ bottom of page].

Buy U A Drank

2007-06-24T08:49:00.001-04:00

I'ma take you home with me.

TOM: "Let's talk money."
DAVID: "I talk that."

Walk Like a Champion

2007-06-17T23:24:00.000-04:00

Rom-pa-pa-pom-pom

Buju Banton - Champion

Exactly what Becks & Co. are listening to at this late hour, we're sure of it.

Let's set the scene: We're at Arena. It's late, and getting early. And from where we're standing, just over van Nistelrooy's bobbing head we can see Roberto Carlos, standing atop the bar, wearing one of those tiny sombreros and his game shorts, inviting patrons to admire the definition of -- and perhaps stroke -- his thighs. There is a sizeable line. The rest of the Brazilians are dancing furiously, Emerson throwing 'bows so as to give Robinho and Cicinho ample space to move. A generous soul, he is. Guti, having promised the team he'd shave his head if they won the league, has been fantastically successful convincing girls on the dance floor that he is indeed David Beckham. Iker Casillas is doing his level best to cock-block, as per usual. Guti hates this. Raul is having problems convincing people that he is Raul. Cannavaro never made it inside the club -- still outside posing for paparazzi. Antonio Cassano, who hasn't yet picked up Spanish (he considers it an inferior dialect of Italian, fit for children, maybe) and spends all his time with his fellow countryman, is sulking next to the bouncer, halfway through a pack of Ducados, which he'd be the first to admit are terrible cigarettes.

Our boy Becks? I think you know just as well as we do who he's with and what he's doing. Yeah.

But for, um, real, normalmente no soporto los merengues, but Don & Co. are genuinely happy for D.B. When this guy is on you side, you can't go wrong, can you?

UPDATE: Watch...Highlights of Madrid-Mallorca + ensuing celebrations

Or put some money on your head.

2007-04-27T21:41:00.000-04:00

If you can't pay the fee, shout out my n***a fee.

Poor Dida. Despite from birth having to overcome the borne-by-the-world preconception that "Brazilian goalkeeper" is a contradiction in terms, and later the ignominy (not to mention fright/health concerns) of being struck in the head by a criminally overzealous Internazionale fan's flare (see above) during a match a few years ago, AC Milan's sad-faced shot "stopper" isn't even worth a Benjamin on eBay [Cheers, Soccernet].

An angry AC Milan fan put Brazil goalkeeper Dida up for sale on the internet ahead of next week's Champions League semi-final return with Manchester United.

The 33-year-old, who joined Milan in 2000, was a hero after the shootout win over Juventus in the 2003 Champions League final but his popularity has slumped after a series of errors.

He was criticised following last week's 3-2 first-leg defeat to United at Old Trafford, when he flapped a Cristiano Ronaldo header into his own net and then left his near post exposed for Wayne Rooney to blast home a stoppage-time winner.

Dida failed to attract great interest on eBay. The price, before the Brazilian international was removed from the auction site on Friday, had reached 71 euros ($96.66) after 25 bids.

The old baby-on-the-corner trick.

2007-04-20T18:30:00.000-04:00

Not gonna fall for that sh*t.

Don Rodriguez is quite fond of the mixtape, but c'mon.

As someone smarter than the Don quipped, if you say real talk, I probably won't trust you.

Please say the baby, I guess:

Lil' Wayne - "Crazy"

Yeah, that shit I hated.
Like early '90s, late '80s,
I was hustlin' as a baby,
you can ask Evil Street [?]
about me, I'm a G.

Back in the studio and do the REMIX!

2007-04-20T06:00:00.000-04:00

Every time they shoot a shot, it's like, swizz.

Don Rodriguez and myself only wish that either player, Maradona or Messi, after an ecstatic, orgasmic goal like that, allowed their respective egos to run slightly wild in celebration, beating their chests, you know, sort of like they were King Kong.

[We haven't been able to make a tripartite joke work yet. But we're always looking for the opportunity.]

"They drink Haterade."

2007-04-19T06:00:00.000-04:00

Or something to that effect.

Either Don Rodriguez is doing his part to prepare America for the already ridiculous level of scrutiny with which David Beckham is already looked at in places that do not solely associate the man with movies where he supposedly bends things, or he's cashing his fat, pound sterling check from David's publicist.

But anyway, dunny got a new tattoo.

Seemingly derived (OK, maybe only in the Don's free-associative mind) from the Dungeon Family School of forearm ("sleeve") tats, it appears that his new arm art consists of a mixture of scenery and text. We're sure the pictures are pretty, but we're more concerned with the words here, as is the classics editor of the Times Literary Supplement, since the message is a Latin slogan rendered in English on Becks. To wit:

The original reads in Latin: “Oderint dum metuant” (a nice example for you Latinists of the use of “dum as proviso, plus the subjunctive”). According to the Daily Mail, Becks first of all wanted the real Latin, but it was the word dum (“provided that/as long as”) that caused the problem. Could it be taken as a reflection of the mental agility of Mr Beckham? Better perhaps to play safe by avoiding it entirely?

In fact as any classicist must know, the word ‘dum’ is only part of the reason why having “oderint dum metuant” or its English equivalent might be an own goal.

Now, this is apparently not the first time Beckham has run afoul of spelling, grammar (or here, accidentally advocating tyranny) in terms of inscribing something on his person that can't easily be removed. Supposedly the tattoo on the inside of his left arm -- "Victoria" in Hindi -- actually spells out "Vihctoria." Which is tragic and hilarious. But anyone who's watched Miami Ink even once -- and I've watched it twice goddamit -- knows that for some reason, people find it nigh-cancerous to actually go and check on the spelling and/or grammatical/syntactical correctness of a phrase that they are having, painfully, applied to their body. Go figure. Or don't, then have someone tattoo it on your face.

Next thing to prepare America for re: Becks: his voice. Think Mike Tyson.

UPDATE: An eagle-eyed reader pointed out that I neglected to give those reluctant to click on the TLS link the English translation of D.B.'s tattoo. It reads: "Let them hate (me) as long as they fear (me)."

One man band man.

2007-04-18T11:00:00.000-04:00

Bad man. Bad man.

Okay. Maybe the best player in the world is, once again, small and Argentine.

Ronaldo, Sr. Rodriguez is waiting for an answer.

Can you tell me how good my French is?

2007-04-17T06:00:00.000-04:00

Bon jour, money. And au revoir, b*tches.

Not really sure why these Canal+ producers felt "Karma Police" set the appropriate mood for a father-son, side-by-side comparison, but strictly on elegance and symmetry of movement alone, this clip is pretty effective.

Now it is of course ridiculous to start obsessing about 12 year-old Enzo, but for anyone who's watched his pops do, well, just about anything that requires moving a body part, there is a certain recognizable and peerless grace to the way ZZ touches and runs with the ball. And it's remarkable how similar both these, and the particular angles Enzo strikes are to dear old papa. Je dis seulement.

A retour.

2007-04-16T06:00:00.000-04:00

Gimme that.

Oh shit.

Come and talk to me.

2007-04-12T11:00:00.000-04:00

[Forgive me:] Just press play.

Don Rodriguez exists for days like this. So excited is he about this momentous meet & greet that he just can't wait to tell you a few things that you may or may not have known about these two "living legends."

Diddy enjoys recycling his “I had the dopest paper route” story.

Diddy can’t say the word “intern.”

Diddy cannot be called Diddy in the U.K. because someone else there is called Diddy, and won a legal right to the name.

Rio Ferdinand is the world’s biggest Jodeci fan.

Rio Ferdinand is the “most expensive defensive footballer in the whole wide world.”

Rio Ferdinand smells of Diddy’s cologne. He has a bottle in his bathroom. He is peeved that he was made to pay for it.

It's a joke, it's a joke.

2007-04-11T17:41:00.000-04:00

Grant Farred knows this was Ronaldo's very first touch of the match.

Diminutive Manchester United left back Patrice Evra has ideas on how to stop teammate Cristiano Ronaldo.

"Probably the only way to do it is to kill him.

"I have never seen anyone like him before in my life. When he runs at you, you try to grab his shirt or do whatever you can. But he just goes past you, makes fun out of you and leaves you kicking the air.

"I see him every day in training. I watch what he can do and I think 'Cristiano, no. It is a joke'."

Don Rodriguez had a very spirited email conversation the other day with a prominent, American-born Arsenal fan, and being that I was only able to peer over Sr. Rodriguez's shoulders, I will quote selectively. The conversation went as such:

Arse: I hate Ronaldo more than I hate KKKarl Rove. He is the Britney Spears of pro soccer and will eventually be exposed for the fraud he is.
DR: Hating Ronaldo is sort of like hating Brad Pitt. What's the use? Just enjoy it.
Arse: Yeah but I don’t hate Brad Pitt. I think its more like hating Colin Farrell.
DR: Colin Farrell can't do stepovers. Or act. Ronaldo's actually good at both of those things.
Arse: I consistently want to punch both Colin Farrell and Ronaldo in the face. Never Brad Pitt.

In light of Evra's observation, it seems this Arsenal fan was talking team tactics and not merely out of spite, jealousy or ill will. Or not. Perhaps we all should just watch the last three runs on this video and decide for ourselves. [Mixtape fiends will recognize that this highlight reel is set to Kanye West's "Livin' A Movie."]

So much white it'll hurt your eyes.

2007-04-05T04:00:00.000-04:00

"Ha-ha!"

Now that's what I'm talking about.

“For the first time in the rap game history, we finna get us a street team of nothing but pretty white girls to promote this single,” group member Slick Pulla said in a statement. “The blondes, the brunettes, the green eyes, the grey eyes, the red heads, the freckles, all that man.”

Caucasian Ladies (and this is no joke): please email, ahem, whitegirl@corporatethugzent.com if you're "down."

Wow.

Just last week I was out in Italy.

2007-04-03T03:00:00.000-04:00

Yeah, me too.

Neither Don Rodriguez nor myself are lucky enough to be planning a trip to Rome -- for pleasure or otherwise -- anytime soon, and we're certainly not the fortunate sort who have tickets to see the first-ever matchup of Manchester United and AS Roma, two teams of which we are both very fond.

Don Rodriguez played layabout for six weeks one spring, loving -- in no particular order or fondness -- Monteverde, the number 66 bus, not ever paying for the number 66 bus, gelato (early, often, and obviously), and the greater part of the Temple Tyler female art student body, some of whose nicknames actually contained the word "body." Also, tattoos of cellos, which he thought pretty, and Francesco Totti, who many also think pretty, though he is no cello, and certainly no tattoo of a cello. Me, well, I just liked Eric Cantona.

None of this wistfulness has anything to do with the letter Man U posted on its website, addressed to the sizeable contingent of English fans traveling to Rome for Wednesday night's (here, afternoon's) Champions League match. It's both hilarious and profoundly unsettling, written with classic British politesse (or would that be French?) and understatement, though in some of the blunt urging of their fans to avoid certain (HIGHLY SPECIFIC) sections of the city, might a cynic not detect a slightly more untoward sentiment? Because this is long enough, I'll save the Isn't-This-Part-Funny/Great/Weird commentary and just put which parts of which I'm an unqualified fan in itals (ha?). Enjoy.

Dear Supporter,

The following document, whilst quite lengthy, contains some very important information regarding the forthcoming match in Rome. PLEASE will you carefully read all of the information provided.

It is particularly Important that you take advantage of the public transport shuttles leaving at 5pm from the Piazzale delle Canestre. Fans of other English clubs who have made their way independently to the stadium have reported on a number of occasions problems with getting back to the City Centre after the game and there is a real danger of being attacked by the 'Ultra' fans of AS Roma. We realise that fans travelling independently may not wish to give up that independence but we ask you to consider your own safety and welfare as being of paramount importance.

We are told that you must definitely not take the metro trains to the Piazza Faminio or attempt to use the Ponte-nenni bridge as these are habitual routes taken by the 'Ultras' to the stadium.

When we visited the stadium recently we also met with representatives of The British Embassy and received some specific advise to pass on to our fans. Will you please, therefore, note the following:-

In terms of the approach to the stadium we are advised that there will be an outer ticket cordon at which full searches will take place. Please be mindful that perfume, make-up bags and bags of coins are prohibited and will be confiscated and will not be returned later.

It is customary in all areas of the stadium for spot checks to be carried out and proof of identity sought. Acceptable proof of identity documents are a passport or a photo driving licence – photocopies are not acceptable.

Whilst this game is taking place in the Olympic Stadium, fans will find some of the facilities fairly primitive. Toilets, particularly female toilets, do not contain the usual toilet pan. There are refreshment facilities but these are quite limited.

MOST IMPORTANT

PLEASE NOTE THAT THERE WILL BE A HOLD BACK AFTER THE GAME. THIS IS USUALLY FOR A PERIOD OF 90 MINUTES.

We voiced our reservations about this but the police in Rome advised us that it is necessary for the safety of supporters. There is a large video screen in the stadium and we propose to take with us some match action videos to play on the screens, however, the screens will be blank until the stadium is empty of AS Roma supporters.

All tickets are bar coded and there is a sophisticated entry system with full length turnstiles. Supporters with tickets for other sectors will not be permitted to approach those turnstiles and will not be relocated in to our sector. Fans with tickets for AS Roma sectors may be admitted but they do so most certainly at their own risk. The authorities state quite clearly that there will be no alternative.

Important points
Supporters should make sure that they have proper travel tickets (which can be purchased at newspaper stands, tobacconists and machines inside the metro stations) if they intend to use the metro or local buses. Tickets must also be stamped in the relevant machines. There is an immediate 50 euro fine for passengers who do not have a stamped ticket and if this fine is not paid immediately, it increases to 100 euros plus the cost of the ticket.

Places to avoid
Please stay far away from CAMPO DE FIORI which is the meeting point for the AS Roma fans and a place where there has been a lot of trouble in the past with `Ultra` AS Roma fans

Crime
Levels of crime are generally low but there are higher levels of petty crime in the big city centres. Take care on public transport and in crowded areas where pickpockets and bag snatchers may be operating. In Rome, take particular care around the main railway station, Termini, on the number 64 bus, which goes to and from St Peter's Square, and when unloading your baggage from airport/city coaches. Also take care in and around railway stations in other large Italian cities. Be particularly wary of groups of children who may try to distract your attention whilst trying to steal from you. Passports, credit cards, travel tickets and cash should not be carried together in handbags or pockets. Only carry with you what you need for the day. Consider making use of safety deposit facilities in hotels.

Cars, at rest stops and motorway service stations are targets for obbers. You should treat with caution offers of help if you find yourself with a flat tyre, particularly on the motorway from Naples to Salerno, as sometimes the tyre will have been punctured deliberately.

Always lock your vehicle and never leave valuables in the vehicle even if you will only be away for a short time or are nearby. There have been a number of cases of cars containing luggage, or of luggage left in cars being stolen. You should avoid leaving luggage in cars overnight or for any length of time.

Be vigilant when travelling on sleepers/night trains. Thieves sometimes operate on trains in Italy and may take the opportunity, during the night, to rob sleeping travellers. Theft can also take place on trains during the day. Do not leave bags containing valuables unattended.

Police in Europe have issued warnings that counterfeit Euro notes are in circulation on the continent. You should take reasonable precautions to ensure that any notes received from sources other than banks and legitimate Bureau de Change are genuine.

Mindful that this information can create the impression that there are serious concerns for United fans surrounding this match, we wish to make it clear that this isn’t the case. Rome is one of the most beautiful cities in the world and the officials of AS Roma have been courteous and helpful in their dealings with us. We want you to enjoy your visit and enjoy the game.

Finally…We are advised by AS Roma that the law in Italy prohibits the issue of duplicate tickets therefore, lost tickets CANNOT be replaced.

Crit Game Proper

2007-04-02T11:00:00.000-04:00

Physically fine, but his flow's sick.

Much like John Brown beasting on the independent game, Nicolai Ourousoff has lately been beasting on the architecture crit game, where readable, eloquent, and insightful beasts are few and far between. When Don Rodriguez and I sit down to chop it up about, you know, freestyling over other dude's beats, free-kick techniques, and why we've never really liked Richard Meier's style yet credit his Westside steel-and-glass flag-planting with drawing top-shelf architects, their designs, & actual commissions to NYC again, we get excited and usually it's an N.O. piece that kick-starts the convo. The last 2 have dealt with buildings on that soon-to-be-stunning (or heartless?) stretch of West Street from Chelsea down thru the Village. Here they are for your reading pleasure.

N.O. on Jean Nouvel

N.O. on Frank Gehry

Life is Life.

2007-03-29T13:28:00.000-04:00

La la la la la.

As you no doubt may have heard from the one person you know who obsesses over soccer [and heartfelt apologies go out to those for whom that person is me], Diego Maradona was hospitalized recently for ill health, though he is apparently recovering nicely.

"It wasn't an imbalance in his blood circulation or with his heart, but was a product of an incoherent regimen of excessive eating, drinking and smoking," his doctor, Alfredo Cahe, told reporters in the doorway of the Guemes clinic in Buenos Aires.

What, you may ask, constitutes an "incoherent regimen of excessive eating, drinking, and smoking?" Or a better question: what constitutes a coherent regimen of excessive eating, drinking, and smoking. [Insert bad comparative celebrity joke...now.]

Apparently this: "He is smoking three or four Habanos (Cuban cigars) a day. For him, who didn't smoke, it's too much," Maradona's doctor said [emphasis added].

M had supposedly decamped to Switzerland to chill back in a no-doubt sleekly-designed, though still rather heartless (sort of like the Swiss themselves) teak sweat-lodge, or some other form of intense weight-loss clinic to drop some of the pounds he'd gained back after the gastric bypass surgery that had helped him slim down a few years ago. Perhaps the Swiss treated him as the Germans did at last year's World Cup.

Ether way, he seems stable, and suitably feisty again. Some more updates from his Doctor:

"He woke up at 0230 and he insulted me, he didn't want to be there. They sedated him again and he fell asleep," Dr Cahe told a local radio station.

Perhaps we should all want the kind of relationship Diego has with a Doctor like Dr. Cahe, as perhaps HST had with an Attorney like, erm, "Dr." Gonzo.

And just as you suspected, this post is nowt but a poorly disguised excuse to post some admittedly pretty awesome YouTube clips of Numero 10, the first of which, for some reason is scored, rather appropriately, to an instrumental of that Mos Def, Pharaohe Monch & Nate Dogg tune "Oh No" off the last Lyricist Lounge album. This cut came more or less at the apex of Nate Dogg's glorious (?), ubiquitous hook-dropping stage, the veritable Akon of his era. Anyway, Maradona:

The thing to take from these clips (incl. the one up top) is how much fun it is to watch footballers warm up. The tricks and routines seen here are often more impressive than the ones actually employed during the game. Former England striker Gary Lineker thinks so, especially after watching one particular Manchester United winger recently. More on that later, perhaps.

The Double R.

2007-03-29T12:00:00.000-04:00

Get your pipes.

Last time Don Rodriguez was lost in a rainy Paris for seven hours waiting for the TGV to take him to Milan (only then to, according to him, smoke other people's smoke in a non-smoking cabin on an Inter-city "express" to Rome Termini) he visited the Centre Pompidou. He remembers liking it, and more than he thought he would. Having assumed it would be one of those buildings that seem theoretically cool when your arch. prof. runs through the, um, theory behind its structure (it's "inside out!" "form follows function!" "service becomes externalized!" "look at the pretty colors!") it's actually quite pleasing to be inside, especially the tube-scalators. And you might not think it, but if you approach it from the right (i.e. wrong) angle, it can sneak up on you, though that might be due to Don's dampened memory of the (un-)airiness of Paris streets.

That's not even Don Rodriguez's best story about architecture, or even about architecture in France. On a more-than-random day-trip to Bordeaux that ended back on a beach in Biarritz, with newly purchased bottles of wine and the openers to open them and the ingredients of some never-written Hemingway short story you remember liking as a teenager then feel really embarrassed about liking when you come back to it with years behind you all-too-obviously present, Don and Friend "found" the law courts. They were deserted -- just completed, actually -- and thanks to the laissez-faire (ha!) attitude of French gendarmes there was not a guard in sight. So Don and Friend proceeded to walk in and out of these pods-that-were-courtrooms, sit on the judge's bench, voir dire the witnesses, and object strenuously to that line of questioning. And this was all before the wine, apparently.

This is Don Rodriguez's roundabout way of big-upping Richard Rogers on winning a Pritzker. Rogers deserves Pritzker props not merely because he's made it to his early 70s and found much success along the way without having found it necessary to resort to wearing a pair of Corbus for 'tect respect. For instance, there's rarely been a bad -- or maybe I should just say uninteresting -- photo taken of his Lloyds Building in London, where one of the more iconic, futuristic exterior staircases on the planet hangs as fodder for flash photogs everywhere. But it's more his consistency, and consistently intriguing designs that prove his worth as this year's laureate.

The 2007 Pritzker Laureate Photo Kit is really worth taking a look at, if just to see something called his "Shanghai Masterplan" and "London as it could be, 1986." There will be some Rogers coming NYC way "soon" too.

You ain't even in mi clase

2007-03-27T13:00:00.000-04:00

But it does look like a class picture, non?

ZZ = Famous Cancerian

Why do you want to sign Zidane when we have Tim Sherwood?

Mogwai, "I Do Have Weapons," found in a clip from Zidane, un portrait du 21e siècle [a 90-minute film detailed fantastically well here.]

DOME PIECE!!!

2007-03-27T11:00:00.000-04:00

Not Jerome's niece.

Honestly, what more can I say to you?

I was a hiphop shorty-wop.

2007-03-26T07:00:00.000-04:00

Known for rockin' microphones & twistin' off 40 tops.

It may surprise no one that there are pictures -- just like the above left -- of a lil' Don Rodriguez still floating around his moms' crib which may or may not involve an afro, an Ocean Pacific hat, and a can of Dos Equis. The operative word is, "Word."

Ghostwriter, No. 1, Part II

2007-03-24T13:00:00.000-04:00

If only this was the picture you got Google Earthing Chile-Brazil. [It's Chile.]

Welcome to what will hopefully become a semi-regular offering by Don Rodriguez -- that is, if friends and colleagues are as generous with their time and their words as is today's guest. We are lucky to have an actual Ghost, or Gosfais, a.k.a. Daniel Corry, as Ghostwriter today. Being that Brazil plays Chile in a friendly match this Saturday, Don asked his good friend, who lived in Chile in 2000-2001 and now lives in Brazil, to share some of his thoughts on the matter. Enjoy!

Why Chile could win (more old information)

Also during the year I was in Chile, the Olympics were in Australia, and Chile there made an extraordinary run to the semifinals or finals. The games were broadcast at 4 in the morning and I remember my drinking train ran right through their win over Nigeria -- I actually couldn’t see the TV and later vomited on a wall -- it was Jota, red wine and Coca Cola. If I am the first person to name Jota as perhaps the metaphor for Chilean geopolitics, you can just mail me the diploma.

An Olympic squad is an under-23 team with only two golden oldies allowed, so that showing should bode well for the current Chilean squad, though they of course didn’t qualify for the last World Cup. That bronze medal team had old Zamorano, who around then began the standard Latin American retirement procedure by moving from Milan to Mexico, and whose place in the high-middle of world soccer strikers no Chilean has assumed since. I think that Chile might have some 17 year-old who was bought by an AC Milan or something and who is probably on their youth team still, maybe he will play. Who knows?

Why Brazil could lose

Their coach was ‘disappeared’ after the cup. I read the paper the day the new one was hired and several prominent and agéd members of Brazil’s football pantheon expressed supreme befuddlement at the choice of Dunga, a player to be seen in ’94 highlights and whose ears gave him his ‘nick,’ as Snow White’s Dopey [= Dunga (dubbed)]. Worse, recently Brazil lost to Portugal which is annoying and incestuous thanks to the fact that the best coach in the world is a different Brazilian, Filipão, maestro behind the 2002 win and several Brazilian club dream seasons and who has permanently lifted Portugal up above their own level.

After Filipão beat the Brazilians he was asked about Dunga, and said, ‘Dunga is doing what he has to, trying out new players and giving everyone a chance.’ I assume this is the truth. More importantly, imagine being the new coach and losing to a guy who is so made, who carries his steak-belly like a trophy, who was offered your job but declined, and then reading in the paper his evaluation of your coaching. I am sure nobody asked Dunga what he thought of the job Filipão is doing with Portugal -- why would they? That seems to sum up where Brazil is right now -- a low point in the cycle of empire, overshadowed by the feats the past.

A player:

Maybe this guy Sobis will play forward. He made his fame just as I arrived here, scoring twice to win the Copa Libertadores finals and subsequently moving to Betis in Spain. He is a little wiry blonde guy with a Latin mullet never to be mistaken for the prancing gel-job of a Swede, and I have the feeling that he is the medieval type of player who is playing on the Selecão right now but will be lucky to be on the renaissanced bench of the next World Cup.

In his scrubby way he reminds me of a Chilean. Right now in Brazil a gente não ta nem ae. Not even caring. We will let the team get better on its own and come back to us when it’s presentable.

Ghostwriter, No. 1

2007-03-23T06:00:00.000-04:00

Chili? C'mon!

Welcome to what will hopefully become a semi-regular offering by Don Rodriguez -- that is, if friends and colleagues are as generous with their time and their words as is today's guest. We are lucky to have an actual Ghost, or Gosfais, a.k.a. Daniel Corry, as Ghostwriter today. Being that Brazil plays Chile in a friendly match this Saturday, Don asked his good friend, who lived in Chile in 2000-2001 and now lives in Brazil, to share some of his thoughts on the matter. Enjoy!

Part II, coming soon!

Why Chile could win

The last time Chile beat Brazil, I suppose, was when I was there, meaning Chile, in 2000. Nobody watched it on TV since it was the first game in the qualifying round of the 2002 World Cup that no one thought they would make, and ultimately didn’t. I have a small memory of the slow motion 1-0 winner and the Chilean announcer screaming that they had beaten the best in the world. But the wild hope that was subsequently sparked and fueled by few good results over lesser countries had already died out when Argentina came to town months later. I watched from the bleachers and the Chileans looked like Cocker Spaniels nipping at the heels of German Shepherds. There was one bald striker in sky blue and white that was almost certainly the spawn of fled war criminals, and he scored to end it 3-0. Of course, there was constant threatening of the fully armored police, this in the form of teenagers shaking and climbing to the top of the fence around the field where on the other side cops waited with machine guns.

Policeman = Carbinero
Cop/pig = Paco, and they are an army designed to beat down the protesters who get together dozens of times a year to commemorate and unwittingly recreate the defeat of the Chilean left.

Why Brazil could lose

Here in Brazil, violence is less ritualized and more, um, violent. The people I know only go to the unimportant games of their favorite teams so to avoid the rampant hooliganism. I imagine a national team game would be calmer, but no one in Brazil is really thinking about the national team right now, a little like no one is thinking about Michael Phelps or whoever that guy was, but more like the way an extremely hungover person who hit the bottle hard after losing his job and catching his wife with the gas-man is now in bed in the morning thinking about how much it will hurt to get up and take a piss. We are absently contemplating the smallest of logistics: the non-happening of the gold shirts again lifting the gold trophy that seems to literally depict them rising out of poverty to take up Nas’ question, “Who’s world is this?”

A player:

I would like to see Valdivia, a number 10 playing for Palmeiras -- a struggling but traditionally strong São Paulo club which happens to be mine by marriage. That guy illustrates the difference between southern cone (wannabe Italian) and Brazilian (café com leite) soccer players in that he alone adjusts a tempestuous mane of he-ness after each desperate run. These [runs] inevitably consist of receiving the ball and immediately lowering himself cartoon-style into a dervish of leg and elbow a meter off the ground and raging until someone hits him thigh to thigh and he tumbles.

Sitting on the ground, adjusting hair = finding the will to go on among the less fabulous.

Look at my Fashionista.

2007-03-22T12:00:00.000-04:00

Got Benjy lookin' all googly-eyed and silly.

It is a poorly disguised internet secret that posting pictures of Cristiano Ronaldo on your blog rockets up hit counts significantly. [A brief shout to all the ladies out there Google-image-checking for "the Boy" as Sir Alex so often calls him: Hello, ladies.] Internet, your spot is blown.

It is also poorly disguised secret amongst fans of Manchester United that their own decrying of the sartorial excesses and fortunate bone-structure of its current and fleet-of-foot Portuguese Number Seven are desperate attempts to deflect attention from the childlike (okay, girlish) pride they feel when dude runs 70 yards past everyone on the other team and then scores. Or does this. Gary Neville, your spot is blown.

B/T/W, "cheers" to C.R., whose English -- while not great enough to avoid the awkwardness of of recently referring to oneself in the third person in a language one is still unfamiliar with -- was good enough for this bit of dry humor [taken from the Vogue article where the pictures above appeared]:

"According to the newspapers I have 20 girlfriends, but I have only met two or three of them."

Even so, its things like this that make people want to do this.

Vai, Baixinho

2007-03-21T19:08:00.000-04:00

We don't give a fruck it's not your birthday.

I'm rushing to write this because Romario might score his 1,000th career goal any minute now.

Or not, depending on who you believe.

Strikers in football keep multiple goal tallies. There's the league total, the goals scored in cup competitions, then the goals scored in all competitions number (Elite forwards in 2007 are expected -- though they might rarely fulfill those wishes -- to score 40-50 goals in all competitions in a season). Then, there is The Romario Number, a.k.a. all goals in all competitions in every competitive endeavor since toddlerhood.

This is the issue: Romario, aged 41, nicknamed "Shorty," is currently on 998 goals for his career. By his count. 70-100 or so of those goals were scored either as a teenager, an amateur player, and some even in scrimmages and unofficial matches, some against weekend-league level competition. (Though I hate the American-writing-about-soccer-tic to equate everything with baseball or whatever, just think whether or not you'd have a problem with Barry Bonds including all the homers he hit for touchdowns in the third period, down 40-love, when he was in Little League and at Sunday Beer League Softball). Here are some facts, almost all of them are funny:

He admitted 71 goals came before he turned pro and that 15 were scored before his 16th birthday.
Nine goals he swore he scored for PSV Eindhoven were in matches the Dutch club insist they didn't play.
Romario says he scored twice against Barcelona in a friendly in 1992 but PSV and the Spaniards insist no such match took place.
He counted two goals scored against Parma in 1993 but the match ended 0-0.
Several goals were racked up in bounce games against amateur sides, many of whom fielded players aged over 50.

Here is the other thing: WHO CARES? Sure, Pele does, since he's the only other Brazilian to have scored more than 1,000 goals (And honestly, he scored 1,281 officially recorded goals in 1,363 matches, scoring his 1,000th goal at the Maracana stadium against Vasco in 1969 at the age of 29, still in his prime -- so he does have a right to at least be a bit peeved). And this guy [Daaaamn!].

But still: just think of how awesome our world would be if everyone kept life tallies of the things we do, or the things we love to do, every day. Obviously Romario's scored more than 1,000 goals in his lifetime. He may be scoring goal number 20,000 for all we know. One-a-day for 41 years, give or take, is a shade under 15,000. I would love to see, for instance, a count of how many exclamation points one of my favorite writers has used since he discovered punctuation. It's the idea that he's been counting, and admittedly the shamelessness in doing so, that's so interesting to me.

I urge you to read the rest of this fine Financial Times profile by Simon Kuper -- and to listen to an even finer (and rather appropriate!) Jorge Ben song -- as I've made part and whole available below. My favorite bit of the FT piece:

Born in a Rio slum, Romario is the supreme Carioca, who expresses his patriotism partly by buying the city's real estate. Outside Rio his oddities are less appreciated. "In Sao Paulo," growls a Paulista, "he is regarded practically as an Argentinian." Romario is that characteristic Rio type, the malandro: a chancer, a fun-lover, a rule-breaker.

At 22 he left home to join PSV Eindhoven. A malandro and the Dutch workplace were not an ideal combination. Here was a man whose hobby was sleeping (14 hours a day); who said his team-mates could not play; who flew home to Rio at will, fixtures or not; who liked nightlife so much he intended "to keep going out until I am 90 years old". In games he rarely moved, yet averaged nearly a goal a game.

He treated his European years as an exile, a strictly money-making exercise: "In Holland I work; I live in Rio." He failed to comprehend the Dutch habit of turning up for appointments or the way they expected great footballers to obey rules, though he did appreciate Dutch girls.

But he always scored, and eventually Barcelona signed him. Even at the giant club he remained blase. Guus Hiddink, once his manager at PSV, remembers visiting Barcelona as coach of Valencia. Romario was about to kick off the match in front of 100,000 spectators when he suddenly told the referee to hang on, jogged to Valencia's bench and kissed Hiddink on both cheeks. To Romario, the match was just decor, with him the only character. In an increasingly corporate sport, his selfishness was almost heroic.

And don't forget, Jorge Ben, "Se Segura, Malandro"

Finally, I suppose I'd be remiss if I didn't put something from YouTube up -- since that seems to be the fallback steez these days.

WATCH: Romario, "O Rei do Gol" [Seriously one of the best-made YouTube highlight reels I've seen, forreals.]

Oh, and right. I couldn't find audio of this to sendspace so you'll have to do with this YouTube clip, but HERE IS A RAP SONG WITH ROMARIO AND HIS FELLOW BRAZILIAN NATIONAL EDMUNDO, RAPPING. IT IS CALLED "SOMOS BAD BOYS." [I WILL NOT TRANSLATE THAT.]

It's super-clumsy while altogether irresistible, and if you put one of them in a dress, it's not ten steps away from Bonde do Role. [Whom, by the way, Brazilians I have spoken to think it's funny and cute that out of all the bands in Brazil, they're making it here.] Enjoy (the fact that I resisted making the "ten stepovers" joke).

Actually, Jack...

2007-03-19T20:59:00.000-04:00

No más.

The NY Times deigns to cover soccer in a half-page or so, buried deep within the Sports section every Tuesday thereabouts; this interview with Barcelona and Cameroon striker Samuel Eto'o was a weekend rarity.

Eto'o is a fantastic player, and one with principles. As the interview mentions, Eto'o was subjected to racist chanting throughout a match in Zaragoza last year, and threatened to -- and almost did -- walk off the pitch before the end of the match (The congenial Ronaldinho helped convince him to finish it out). I'm still rather torn as to whether he should have continued or not. One one hand, I would have liked to have seen the effect the walkout would have had on the match, the league, and the country -- which doesn't have the best reputation for tolerance -- (it's quite poor, actually -- Wikipedia writes the following sentence with a straight face: "Referee Fernando Carmona Mendez did not mention the incidents in his match report, commenting only that the behaviour of the crowd was 'normal'."). Yet, I'm also glad that, in a way, he didn't allow the racists in attendance to have the final say and force him out of the stadium.

You can see Eto'o near the end of this video pointing at the skin of the Zaragoza player Alvaro -- who I believe is Brazilian -- while gesturing at the crowd, seemingly urging them to acknowledge that, "Yes, you have a black man playing for your side as well."

This has always meant little to racist fans. What first fascinated me about this subject was the fact that some teams' fans will throw bananas and the like not merely at the opposing side's black players, but sometimes their own. Which offends in every possible conception.

But back to the interview. I'm all for Jack Bell making minor-to-colossal errors in all future interviews, because that was certainly the most entertaining answer in what was generally a rather dry Q & A. Not hating. Just saying.

Unorthodox.

2007-03-17T13:09:00.000-04:00

"I am the Ooh Child."

There are few people who I'm happier about getting press and success these days than Tracy Morgan.

I hate for this to be one of those "I remember when dude was...[insert self-aggrandizing story about how you recognized current star's genius as a bit player on some short-lived TV show]" posts, but...

I remember grammar school weekends of staying up late to watch Saturday Night Live in its entirety so that I'd still be awake for Uptown Comedy Club, which played right after SNL -- opposite "Showtime at the Apollo" -- on Fox (which I think was still just Channel 5 or WNEW or something in NYC). The Big Thing then was kids who wanted to entertain at the lunch table the next week would competitively memorize as much of the sketches as possible, then when recounting them got beat, just use the funniest bits as code/cool/buzz words to exclude/belittle those who hadn't watched that weekend, and were thus doubly not in on the joke. Real terrible-type kid shit.

So sure, I watched for Hartman, Farley, Myers, Rock, and Sandler (this was early 90's, decadent-crest-before-precipitous-crash era) to pass with all the white kids, etc., etc. Suppose it's hard to hate on "Matt Foley" really.

But me and my boy Lu (who, despite the theme of this post, was not Dominican, but Colombian) would commiserate outside during after-lunch recess, obviously after throwing the ol' foil ball around a bit, and talk "Biscuit."

Biscuit was one of the characters Morgan used to play (allegedly because he was "a biscuit away from 300 pounds") in sketches, and occasionally during the concluding segment, which was a round of the dozens (a.k.a that Wilmer Valderrama show, but funny) featuring some of the cast. This was also when "snapping" was huge; like the writing-about-the-Arcade-Fire of its day.

In character, Tracy Morgan used to wear a beanie with a propeller.

WATCH: Tracy Morgan on Uptown Comedy Club (though he actually loses this battle, which was very rare.)

So Lu and I would snap on each other's mothers pretending that we weren't using the same ish we just heard the weekend previous, and still go buckwild when one of us busted out the A-game lines.

Suffice it to say I was geeked when TM finally made SNL, since it sort of felt like we -- me and Tracy, that is -- made the big time after toiling "together" in the dregs of Saturday late-nite TV. And dude killed it, all the while somehow still on the low.

WATCH: Tracy Morgan, as Brian Fellow, threaten to kill a parrot

Somewhere between SNL and now, Morgan did a few hilarious spots for ESPN video games, the best of which featured Ben Wallace and Jeremy Roenick (which brings me back as well since Roenick-as-gaming-entity was too a huge part of my grammar school youth)

WATCH: Tracy Morgan achieve the iso-motion on Ben Wallace
WATCH: Tracy Morgan melt this ice

And now that he's the livest wire on 30 Rock and blowing up the spot on every late-nite talk show (and some early-morning ones too if you check the link roll to your right), I think the boy deserves his due.

WATCH: Tracy Morgan on Letterman
WATCH: Tracy Morgan in "Blackass" (parodying Jackass for The Jimmy Kimmel Show)

Just to bring the whole self-aggrandizement theme home as well, this clip from the '06 VH1 film Totally Awesome -- which I have not seen, though if Morgan is as good in every scene as he is here, I just may have to -- is hilarious not just for the karate-chop-beatbox-scale (you'll see), or even for the coining of the term "sweatpants money," (!!!) but also b/c TM namechecks the Decepticons, an infamous gang about which anyone who grew up 'round NYC in the 80s would have undoubtedly heard.

[Additionally, there's probably about 30-40 minutes worth of dude's stand-up on YouTube that I'm not about to post. Yet. In the meantime, just looking at the list of people he's impersonated is funny]

P.S. This was undoubtedly my most Tom Breihan post ever. It's all love, T-Bone.

"The Third Rail of German Politics"

2007-03-16T10:10:00.000-04:00

"...its crashes are singularly horrific."

In honor of the impending arrival of one German whom I suspect may brag about how fast he can get from Hamburg to Berlin (in his mutter's Porsche, no less), I direct your attention to this Times piece from today.

Okay, and maybe for this obvious, but obviously irresistible line:

"Car connoisseurs from around the world flock to Pfaffenhausen, a one-horse town where the local company, Ruf Automobile, makes cars with many horses."

Sounds like a variant on a soon-to-be written Juelz Santana lyric.

WATCH: Juelz Santana namecheck Baraka [sic] Obama. Still, it's great he knows who dude is.

Maybe Juelz is just psyched to see Charlie from The West Wing hit on a white girl in The Dutchman. Aren't we all?

Pursed Lips

2007-03-15T22:34:00.000-04:00

Where all the work at.

There is a rather elastic term of which I'm particularly fond that the English use to describe the occasional disagreement, tiff, to-do, row, etc. (Note: While I'm at it, I'm also a fan of "rowing," which sounds like "outing" -- the gerund verb form of "row" often used by The Streets and assorted other louts).

That term is "handbags."

It gets applied rather liberally. For instance, you can describe two gents facing up against one another as "a bit of handbags," you might descibe their punch-feints themselves as "handbags," or, "Oh, and now the ref's got to sort through these handbags." (Okay, maybe that last one's a lie.) Often employed by commentators in those (quite common) instances after a mistimed tackle where the offended player has something extra to say to the forehead of his offender, the term seems particularly well-suited for footballers, who seem to prefer Eskimo-kissing to swinging on each other.

Except for Valencia's David Navarro. But that's another story.

(WATCH: David Navarro break a man's nose, then run like a bitch.)

There might not be a better word than handbags -- unless we consult our French-English Slang Dictionary -- to describe the latest verbal joust in which Arsenal manager Arsene Wenger has chosen to engage himself.

A few days earlier, Wenger had this to say about the injury woes of his and France's star striker, Thierry Henry:

“I feel Thierry has been badly managed by the French national team. The World Cup Final was on the July 9, and I gave him a holiday until August 4. Then he came back and we prepared him. I left him out of the Champions League qualifier against Dinamo Zagreb. They [France] called him up for a game on August 16 - less than 14 days after he came back [from Germany] - and they played him for a whole game against Bosnia. After the World Cup final, why did they need to do that?”

Today, France coach Raymond Domenech (whose Wiki is both interesting and hilarious) responded:

“I’m seriously starting to get tired of Mr. Wenger. [Wenger] does not know everything and is not the only one with the right to exist in football. Even [UEFA president] Michel Platini has noted that his remarks were stupid. [Wenger] is saying that a match in August can explain an injury in March. But it has to be known that every time Henry has played for France, he was playing for Arsenal three days later.”

My interest is piqued not merely because they're French, and when I hear "handbags" I may or may not envision two Enlightenment philosophes wielding handbags, intelligently bruising each other, leaving puffs of wig powder in their wake. Such a situation would surely require each man to slap the other gently, yet firmly about each cheek with an elbow-length velvet glove before the succeeding event could take place. This clearly has not transpired between Wenger and Domenech.

But oh, how we love Domenech's response. Not only did he take pains to establish that Wenger, who has a rather professorial reputation amongst his coaching peers, is not a know-it-all, but Domenech apparently felt the need to go all "Mirror Phase" upside Wenger, in effect affirming our existence -- yours, mine, his, everyone's -- and dooming Arsene to narcissistic toddler-hood.

Sonned by Lacan. Ouch. Yet somehow fitting. We can only await Wenger's almost certainly entertaining response.

After all, this is a man who, when Sir Alex Ferguson claimed his team had the better run of form at one point during a season past -- an assertion not supported by the evidence -- replied, "Everyone thinks they have the prettiest wife at home."

UPDATE: Baby girl, why you don't call me no more?

Good to see you, good to see you, good to see you.

2007-03-14T14:22:00.001-04:00

Don't call it one.

Could it be I've stayed away too long?

I've missed so many things over the past few, but this most especially. Not promising drops on the daily, but certainly with more regularity. Apologies to those who've put up with proto-blog-posts-as-group-emails, which were only occasionally funny, possibly offensive, surely annoying. All football-related obsessiveness has once again found a home, albeit with a new name.

Topics you may encounter here, perhaps with photo accompaniment:

Football, futebol, fútbol, calcio, a little bit of Fußball, maybe some voetbal and le foot, and now that Beckham's gone Hollywood, some soccer, however grudgingly.
Music. Rapping. Rappers. Rap words. Rap deeds. And those of R. Kelly, which defy categorization.
Film. Books. Maybe People Who Build Buildings and the Buildings Themselves.
Language(s), spoken, written, garbled, translated, interpreted.
Espresso. It's fantastic.

Welcome. You will probably learn something about something you don't particularly care about. Enjoy.

The Re-Up

2006-08-03T01:10:00.000-04:00

Scoundrels + last refuge for one

Step To, Step To
Nigh time to remove "Coup de Boule" from your empeethree device, it is. Weltmeisterschafts, Mundials, Copas -- all over. Weeks have past. Legacies have been brutally burnished. Children have been apologized to. Frenchmen have unashamedly reinforced their nation's greatest musical cliches. (Marco Materazzi: Not dead...yet.) Cristiano Ronaldo had sex with the Queen of England, winked at the bitch, then got her sent off. Gary Neville was disappointed with him. Italy got relegated. Jose Mourinho got a haircut (more on that...later).

Most importantly, lovers got married.

But you're right...It's been a long time. We shouldn't have left you.

Without a dope link to Zidane's homepage. Still feelin ya, homie.

On Zidane

2006-07-10T10:14:00.000-04:00

Dear Zizou,

I'll be forever fascinated by this moment. As a matter of fact, I can't stop watching it. The moment, the movement, is breathtaking, and not simply because I feel emptiness in my chest every single time I see it.

You made a choice. You chose tragedy, or something like it, over glory. A conscious, rational, and direct choice -- I believe that. And I have to believe there's a reason for that, and one that you are free to share or keep for yourself. There was venom in that blow, but also conviction; no doubt to your savage motion. Which is why I respect your choice like I respect any other. This does not excuse your action -- nor explain it fully (and, like your reasons for playing your last World Cup, we may never truly know, "Why?") -- but defines it as something freely elected, and not the "moment of madness" that many have deemed it. You may regret the chance to finish your career with your hands wrapped around Jules Rimet's trophy, perhaps also the sorrow of your fellow players at having lost a chance to celebrate as champions, but I suspect that you do not regret what you did.

(By the way, have you read A Happy Death? You may know its author.)

And what did you do? Only the most cold-blooded thing I've ever seen, either in football or elsewhere. A head-butt to the chest. Excuse me? On the world's biggest stage, with billions watching, and watching you -- the most famous man on the pitch and the best player this generation has ever seen -- in a World Cup Final that was yours (and your alone) to win. This was no Figo-esque forehead bump. Those are exchanged all the time, with no ill effect. No, you lowered your head and sprang forward with what seemed like incredible force into the chest of another man. The execution was flawless -- as expert as your free kick to Henry against Brazil, your chipped penalty to go up 1-0, even that supernatural Champions League volley against Bayer Leverkusen in 2002 -- could anyone have imagined a headbutt delivered more correctly, with more power, and with more accuracy, than that? I say again, who else, who else could have done that?

And you laughed a little before you did it.

Luis Felipe Scolari said an incredible thing about you. Something to the effect of: "[And I'm paraphrasing wildly... - Ed.] Zidane has a certain capacity to mesmerize all who watch him, fans and players alike. This quality is so unique and so magical that even those opposing players who are beaten by him with the ball still can take a kind of pleasure from it. The ball never cries when it is at is feet [100%, Scolari said that last sentence, no joke - Ed]."

And you can see it here too. Materazzi, whatever he said or did, was trying to provoke a reaction (And whenever we find out, of course it will not be enough to justify it in our minds...maybe). But who could have expected that? Lulled to sleep after slipping in perhaps the first or the tenth of unspeakable slurs, Marco walked right into that one. Pow. Delivered correctly, that kind of blow can kill a man. And I suspect that some part of you just may have been trying to kill Signore Materazzi. (How is he still alive, b/t/w?) Who knows, it may still happen. Sorcery, especially yours, works in mysterious ways. Don't be surprised if M.M. doesn't wake up tomorrow.

What amazes me most of all, however, is that you have managed, even in infamy, to do something so totally unexpected, so otherworldy, so incredible (in every sense of the word) that it makes the mystique that surrounds you even greater. This was absolutely stunning. Bizarrely glamorous in the same way as Cantona's famous Kung-Fu kick, you've somehow made the brutal beautiful. Violence and vengeance are and have always been sexy, but that move --- it's much, much more important than that.

Unless you tell us, one can never be sure exactly what was said, though it would be difficult to believe it had nothing to do with your parents and their nation of origin (No men of any deeper shades that I know think differently). It certainly wasn't the first time you'd heard something similar, and similarly reprehensible. Public figures from "France" have nearly said the same. If so, then was this you striking a blow for all those slurred against? For the Samuel Eto'os and Thierry Henrys of the world? I'd like to believe that, but perhaps I'm a bit overzealous here. You tell me (Please?) Or was it something more personal? Maybe you just didn't want to trade jerseys with anybody after the match. Ensure that your final jersey was yours and no one else's. It's a joke, it's a joke.

But a sacrifice, maybe? A point made with the crown of the head at the expense of a world championship? Is that worth more to you than any Golden Ball? Was that pure emotion, distilled into one unforgettable motion, more satisfying than lifting some weirdly shaped metal objet? Should we prize that instead? Even if it's rage? Who knows? Whatever was waiting for you down in that tunnel, past the Jules Rimet (in the saddest shot ever captured on sport cameras) is yours, and not for me nor anyone to judge.

Here are things that I hope do not happen, but are surely being thought and written in these next days, weeks, and years. That the "mean-streets-of-Marseilles/wrong-side-of-the-tracks" talk will be used as pretext to define you as a lost cause, a failed hero, a tarnished star. That it is in the nature of those who grew up as you did to revert to their upbringing. One can say this any number of ways: 'Once from the projects, always from the projects.' Which is another way to say even more despicable things. These ideas are even more insidious, more dangerous than any headbutt you could ever deliver.

But in a strange way, I think you've won. And I think you know this. What is it that people will remember about this World Cup, about this game? That Italy won? Maybe. Italians will certainly remember that. But the world will remember you. And that Italy won only because you were not there. That's a certain type of genius. Maybe evil, but genius. And the fact that you would never become a Maradona, a Beckenbauer, even a Platini -- an "ambassador for the game" as they are wont to say, only makes your decision, your action, stand further in relief: perhaps the last, forceful statement from the shyest wizard in the world. A retreat into legend and La Castellane. After all, you're 45th generation Carthaginian. Who did those guys play against again?

You have always been the most unknowable of footballers, of people even. You defined elegance and all synonyms thereof, as much as you did the word 'inscrutable'. I started out by saying that you made a choice, and I think I'm right. People, including me, have thought of you as having alien qualities. Here I think I'm wrong. Maybe you just chose to be human. Who could be mad at that?

Sincerely,

PLO

P.S.- This guy is an idiot. A blithering idiot. "Dumb, dumb, dumb." You can tell him I said so, but apparently he's heard it already. But I'm sure he's never heard what you have.

UPDATE: See? "Impeccable."

Das Finale! LIVE-BLOG! WHAT!

2006-07-10T08:45:00.000-04:00

You're with this, right?

So what you've seen people live-blog that great shit they took last night. This is the World Cup Final. You're gonna love it.

After all the Fan Miles, beach clubs, corner cafes, and fifth-row seats, we're gonna do this one like some honest-to-goodness football intellectuals: At home, in front of a warm, crackling television. No distractions but for the MacBook and maintaining regular breathing. Italy v. France. Let's go...

7:30pm - Il Divo and Toni Braxton sing 'the official World Cup song, "The Time of Our Lives."' This is news to me. I can name you three other songs offhand, all slightly terrible, played about 5000 times more frequently than this one, which I've never heard before. Anyway, Il Divo. My mom loves these guys. My mom loves Paolo Maldini too, but I'm not sure if he can sing. Whatever, Maldini's nickname should be "Il Divo." Do you think they form like an operatic Voltron or some shit? And at the very least, Toni kept her six yard box on the low this time.

7:40pm - Wyclef and Shakira perform "Hips Don't Lie." Also news to me. Always thought the eyes were the giveaway when it came to half-truths, but I'm a be staring at pelvises from now on. Oh, and Wyclef rapped these words: "I'm a student of Pele/ Call me Pele Player." That's all. He said that. The Haiti wifey is hot though, we'll give him that. But still, the most physically demanding/impossible move I've seen in this entire World Cup is that breast-popping thing that Shakira does, and with the greatest of ease. I'm concerned for her vertebral alignment.

7:50 - The boy walking out with Zidane just coughed into the hand he's about to hold Zizou's with. Conspiracy? An Arsenal fan? No, they'd root for the French. Italian conspiracy? That's redundant.

7:52 - The players walk out onto the field. Flashes pop. Like a kid, I'm still amazed at what 60,000+ flashbulbs look like. Wonder when that first became a phenomenon?

7:53 - Italian national anthem. Gattuso singing hard, Buffon too. Materazzi's a hack, even while singing. I can still remember his dopey face after fouling a Bulgarian for a penalty in Euro 2004 to put Italy down a goal.

7:55 - French national anthem. Viera's meditating. Zidane is wearing what a neutral might call the most badass face ever. Looks just killed 37 elderly Italian men in Treviso.

7:56 - Also, something I forgot to note during Ukraine v. Italy. Italian fans seem to love "Seven Nation Army." (Can someone out there explain?) I always thought Italy was composed out of fourteen or so separate principalities united sometime in the 1870s, but maybe I'm wrong. I'm wrong.

7:57 - Zidane's all business. He barely shook Cannavaro's hand during the customary exchange of banners.

8:00 - Kick-off. Whaddya expect? The stereotype of German preciseness -- fallacious when it comes to the trains, for real -- is sometimes deserved.

1st minute - Henry goes down. Knocked heads with Cannavaro. Looks really dazed. Spaniards -- including Carlos Puyol --around the world smile, then choke back tears. Karma is a bitch, and so are phantom blows to the face that land a few weeks later.

3.40 - Henry's back. Funny shot of him recoiling from smelling salts.

4.30 - Zambrotta receives yellow card.

5:20 - PENALTY!!! Of course it's Materazzi!!! Hackish tendencies always reveal themselves in big games. I'd been waiting for him to do something dumb and was actually expecting/predicted it to happen against Germany, but I suppose he decided to save it until the grandest stage was set. When you fuck up, do it spectacularly.

12:35 - So the French were set up with a nice early penalty, early goal. One hopes the rest of the match won't settle into the waste that was the portion of the Portugal-France game which didn't include Fabien Barthez playing co-ed beach volleyball with Cristiano Ronaldo's freekick. B/T/W, very little happened these last 7 or so minutes.

18:45 - GOAL! Materrazzi!. The dope makes up for it. The streets are insane. Honestly. I'm looking at them. Firecrackers, um, crack outside. This will be a great game. Materazzi: at least dude makes every game interesting.

23:00 - "Ohhh oh-oh-oh-oh-ohhhh-ohhhh...."

24:22 - I can hear a thousand echoes of the commentary around me, from streets hundreds of meters away. I don't even have to turn my volume up, in fact. The entire city is watching this game. I've heard cheers, gasps, and shouts from my terrace before, but none ever this loud. Even tackles get cheered. It's almost overwhelming how loud it can be, thi sound emanating from everywhere and nowhere. Like some sort or weird inchoate organic being, the city has become a chorus of audible emotion.

26:43 - My feed is a non-digital TV feed, therefore eveyone watching outdoors at a cafe on a rear-projection screen is on about a three-second delay, which makes for amusingly delayed reactions and good guessing games as to where the shouts will come from.

27:15 - Hard header again from Materazzi that beat Barthez but was cleared by Thuram. Doesn't matter. Foul.

28:22 - It's 8:28pm and it's so bright, calm, cool, and blue outside that it could be 4pm on a lazy sunday afternoon in NY. Absolutely perfect weather. Fracesco Totti takes an unsuccessful freekick.

30:20 - Malouda takes a weak shot right at Buffon. Cameras show Beckenbauer, again at a match, as if he would miss the Final. Watched him in his helicopter earlier today during a wrapup show of Germany's progress through the W.C. What does he drink for all that energy? I hope it's Sparks.

32:54 - Zidane and Vieira talk, as animatedly as these two could ever do (which is not very) while Simone Perrotta writhes on the field. That's right guys, sprinkle some water on it. He'll be fine.

34:20 - Zidane just chipped a genius ball up for Henry that the Italians dealt with poorly -- anyway it's out of the zone for a foul.

35:00 - Toni, attacking for Italy, has the ball tackled away from him at the last moment. Corner...

35:15 - Toni hits it off the bar!

36:06 - Down on the other end, Henry has the ball tackled away from him as he ran towards the end line , which allows me to figure something out. Only Italians could cheer so loud for fine defensive play, which you'll get a lot of with Cannavaro.

40:15 - A plane flies by overhead, in descent. Who the hell would be on a flight right now? Where could they be coming from? Playing tennis on the moon, one hopes.

41:25 - I can hear "Allez Les Bleus" drifting in off the strong breeze coming from the south. Poetically, it would be coming all the way from the Fan Mile at Brandenburger Tor, a few miles away. Maybe it's just coming from the French bar 4 blocks down.

43:41 - Someone's piping in an Italian feed as I hear "Grosso, Grosso, calcio da angolo."

44:24 - Totti takes a freekick that's headed hard away from goal. Looks like both teams might be happy to head in locked at 1-1, but of course me saying that means Franck Ribery will score with his fascinating face (not his head) before the whistle blows.

HALFTIME 1-1. "Das Finale! Italien gegen Frankreich." Buffaloans will be glad to know that France is "Frankreich" in German, just like their QB circa -- oh who gives a shit -- Frank Reich. Ribery still amazing to look at. Didn't score though.

One Tenor, singing. Applause.

8:50 - The sun is only just setting here as Gerhard Delling and Gunter Netzer's voices echo throughout Prenzlauer Berg. The sky is pink, blue, and orange.

9:02pm - Players gather in tunnel.

9:04pm - KICKOFF, 2nd half

45:30 - "Eine klassik Henry situation," says the German announcer. Henry sped into the box and got a shot off, but Buffon saved.

49:25 - Henry: balletic. Like a skater on ice, really (Cheers, Martin Tyler). Henry spins off a defender's challenge, steals into the box and crosses...and the cross is cleared, dangerously, near the Italian goal by the Azzurri. Looks like Henry put his Arsenal Underoos on today.

51:35 -Henry gets the ball in the box and waits an age to do something, as if it were 90 mins against Blackburn and he were on the sideline, wasting time.

52:40 - Zidane! For Malouda! He goes down in the box, but the ref is demanding he stand up. No penalty, not this time.

53:45 - Another plane. I mean, really.

54:00 - Malouda along the end line...for Ribery...but it is too much behind him. [Euro-English syntax - Ed.] Berlin sighs.

56:05 - Oh shit. Vieira just came off for Alou Diarra. Injured. The tears must be streaming by now, even for a dude as hard as the Senegalese-born Vieira. Zidane's still playing though.

57:23 - Did the announcer just talk shit for Ribery? He said the German words for "excuse me" when Ribery beat the Italian defender to the line. Just like an And 1 mixtape, for sure.

58:21 - Zidane adjusts his armband. Like my man Dactile says: Can't they find some space age material to keep them suckers up? Nah, it's too much fun to adjust them, being captain and all.

58:29 - German announcer just named the aplayers available from the Italian bench. De rossi can play, his 4 match ban over. And here's De Rossi right now, for Perrotta Also, Totti steps off.. The Minotaur awaits...

65:16 - Toni SCORES from the freekick, but they were clearly offside.

62:45 - "Henry, gegen Cannavaro..." Shoots...saved by Buffon.

63:00 - Toni on the other end...blocked.

64:50 - Zidane just dummied the fuck out of Gattuso.

66:19 - The Blue Hour is just beginning in Berlin. It's much like it sounds, but then again, what good is sound to express the calmed color of the sky right now. "German Dusk," just much better named.

70:00 - Zidane's not going to get a chance to score a textbook World Cup-winning header if he keeps taking these long free kicks. Although that last one to Henry turned out pretty well...

72:55 - Hey, this Teamgeist ball is more golden than the rest! Awesome! But does it like Asians?

75:50 - Yellow card for Diarra. Pirlo to take freekick for Italy.

76:50 - "PIRLO!" Just missed.

79:30 - Did Zidane just make the "make a change motion?" Did he just dislocate his shoulder? Nah, looks like he can move it as he gets up, without the need for a stretcher. He's back on. Berlin cheers.

82:40 - The city awaits the corner, which is cleared.

83:13 - Offsides on Malouda as he tried to steal in on the left side of the Italian defense.

83:50 - Gattuso: Professionally beastly foul from him in central midfield.

84:46 - The French have been having the run of play for the last 10 minutes, but there's a strange feeling in the air, maybe it's all the blue, that makes me think the Italians have another final few minutes of sustained barrage planned as in the Germany match.

85.57 - Del Piero on for Camoranesi. That's the man to perform said surgical strike (if there is to be one), introduced by Lippi.

87:20 - Dive from de Rossi, inconsequential foul called on Diarra.

88:00 - Iaquinta? When did he come on?

89:40 - Heyyyy! Palpable tension! Great!

90:00 - The cheers from the streets are amazing. Volumes are turned up on blast everywhere. Italian, German, French. A chorus of names: Zidane! Ribery! Other awesome ones!

After 1:55 seconds of injury time, the whistle to end regulation blows. Extra time to come.

90:01 - KICKOFF. Okay, so the gold on the ball matches the gold on Zidane's boots. Nice, one, Adidas. So clearly Zidane will win this one, with something mystical. Matter of fact I saw Domenech telling Zidane right before kickoff to "kick that old Champions League 2002 shit. Heads ain't ready for that, *gar*-son." Sorry.

94:25 - Malouda breaks in but is blocked off by Gattuso, who took a knock (?)

97:50 - HENRY...just sprinting past Italians. Only just misses the correct ball out to the wing.

99:00 - RIBERY!!! The prettiest play of the game ends in a shot just wide of the far post from Ribery. And that's gonna be all for Scarface. He's been great. Trzeguet will get his chance to equal his previous feat of scoring in extra time to win a major tournemnt against Italy (see Euro 2000).

101:10 - Zidane calling for the ball in the midfield. Just great. I'm telling you, he wants it.

101:59 - Zidane measures up a cross for Henry, same axis as the Brazil-beating goal. Caught by Buffon.

103:03 - ZIDAAANE!!! Saved with the right hand of Renaissance Buffon. Incredibly strong header, directed right underneath the crossbar. Saved the game, Gianluigi did. Zidane: primal scream. Kind of frightening, actually.

End of first period, still blue, just deeper.
Please, no penalties.
On we go.

105:36 - What do we have here? De Rossi taking an elbow to the head. Poetic justice is sucking itself off.

106:32 - What the Fuck? Henry for WILTORD? France have lost. Zidane really will have to do it all alone. Henry is crushed, and injured, or just wiped. Not to mention the psychic scars of being substituted for Wiltord.

108:15 - Great. Which Italian is writhing about the pitch now?

Ummm, holy fuck. Zidane should be red carded. WTF was that? He just HEADBUTTED Materazzi IN THE CHEST. Did they possibly miss that? If so, this man is a true magician. Nope, he's going to be sent off. The world is falling apart. It's getting too dark to see my keys, and Zidane just tried to knock Marco Materazzi through Heaven's Door. Terrible, yes, but appropriate.

What was he thinking? That was easily the most violent thing I've ever seen done on a football pitch. It's almost the most purely violent thing I've ever seen, period. Some cold-blooded shit. It was kind of beautiful, actually. Despicable, but still radiant in its maliciousness. I'm amazed. Books will be written about this moment. I will probably write them. A fucking heatbutt to the chest? Ice cold. Did he knew somehow that he couldn't play on? Pain? Frustration? Whoever wins this match, that headbutt will be the only thing remembered.

There's this weird, empty feeling inside right now that's echoed in the eerieness of hearing crickets chirp on a night when the world's supposed to be partying. Cheers still ring out, but Earth is still trying to get a grip on what's gone on in front of their eyes. Maybe it's just the shrillness of the broadcast stadium whistles fucking with me. This is the last game Zidane will ever play.

No Zizou, no Henry...10 men...hmm...

Stunned.

What the fuck did Materazzi say? Some unrepeatable racist repugnant shit. Enough was enough, maybe?

And how about Hector Elizondo? Two huge red cards handed out. The balls to give them certainly, and to two superstars no less. It had to have been given in Zidane's case, but dude just effectively ended Zidane's career.

119:13 - Wiltord you suck. Couldn't deliver a nice cross to an open Trezeguet on the break, nor even hit the target with a shot. Right, there's a game going on.

And it's likely going to penalties.

Names to remember, or forget: R. Baggio. D. Baggio.

The only name you have to know: Buffon.

The shot of Zidane walking down into the tunnel, right past the Jules Rimet trophy is just about all the Rimbaudian poeticism you could ever wring from a game of football. Cantona explains the world.

PENALTIES

Buffon v. Barthez.

Pirlo first. Goal. Stright down the center, Barthez guessed to the right.

Wiltord. Will this name live in infamy?...NO. Goal. A good penalty too.

Materazzi. Uh oh. Which stop on the rollercoaster do we get off on here? The highs. Great penalty. Barthez guessed correctly, but the shot was just too strong.

Trezeguet. Crossbar! NO GOAL!

De Rossi...hits the shot Trezeguet tried to hit. Perfect.

Italy's never won a W.C. penalty shootout. Just thought I'd pont that out before Del Piero shoots. And he scores.

Sagnol...scores. Man, he has big ears.

Grosso. If there's any justice in the world, he'll miss.

And there isn't. Italy are Champions.

POSTGAME

Did they just cut off Camoranesi's hair? Yep. Maybe he's off my shit list.

What is Zidane thinking right now? What does Henry think about Zidane at this moment? The rest of the team?

Why does Gattuso have no pants on? Someone please explain. He just bent over and barked I think.

From where I'm standing on this rooftop terrace, I can see the fireworks from Berlin's Olympiastadion, miles away while that freaking Amadou & Mariam song ("Zeit, Das Sich Vas Dreht") plays through the TV. I've heard it about a thousand times, but never with thoudsands of dollars worth of fireworks as a bassline. Now, "Finniculi, Finnicula."

Can never be mad at Buffon. And tomorrow we find out whether four of Italy's top teams will be relegated to Serie C. Including Buffon's Juve.

It's been fun...actually, it's been one of the strangest nights of my life. I'm, again, hurt, stunned, astounded, amazed, and dazed. I'll be trying to figure this one out for a good long minute. Goodnight.

HIGHLIGHTS

Fit But You Knew This Would Be A Headline

2006-07-09T06:29:00.000-04:00

Better Than Yours

I know it was so wrong, but what was it called?

Lest B'n'C be accused of ignoring all you fine ladies out there, and for those who want to know what's really going on in the streets, you know, the ones populated with girls painted in multiple shades of national colors, in various states of undress and inebriation, affiliate and reputed Crown Princess Emcee MC [Not a rapper - Ed.] has been out and about, up down and around the world and the West Coast, canvassing, polling, reporting -- whatever it is one calls it when you talk in peoples faces and ask them things about things. Anyway, she's great at that and has compiled a rigorously scientific scale of male pulchritude, refined after many an hour perched in front of the telly, [insert offensive, sport-related, gerundal/adjectival double entendre here, then laugh - Ed.].

The Eusebios: Acknowledging World Cup's Finest Looking Men*

Where's Posh?: The "I'm Starting To Look Like Becks" Award**
Winner: Andriy Shevchenko. He's even starting to run like him.

Go Grease Lightnin': Best Sleaze on the Pitch Award.
Winner: Francesco Totti, per todo. Hard to pick from all potential Azzurri. But anyone who can compare the size of a football with his...["his Schweinsteiger?" "his Pekerman?" "his Vennegor of Hesselink?" - merely Ed.'s suggestions; also, here the prose trails off into some sort of dirty, meticulously detailed sex dream, which can be posted upon request]

Don't listen to Busta: The "Why'd You Cut Your Locks?" Award
Winner: Asamoah Gyan. Please, please man, bring back the fro. You were hotter with it.

Old man take a look at my life: The Real Golden Shoe
Winner: Tie, Cafu and Zinedine Zidane. Widow's Peak balding patterns? Whatever. Wrinkles? Shortsightedness? Sure. Still hot.

Weisswurst: The Hometown Hero Award
Winner: Jurgen Klinsmann. Klose comes clos-e [I'll let you get away with that one, don't know why - Ed.] and Ballack is perfecting his Will Hunting-pout, but sorry Boys, your blonde wonderboy coach is still hotter, especially when wearing his tight baby blue Lacostes and crisp white button-downs (rolled-up sleeves, of course).

Even Michael Owen is Older Than Me: The "Best All-Around Boytoy" Award
Winner: Luis Valencia (Cristiano comes a close second - but anyone named after Ronnie Reagan doesn't make the cut)

Little Red Corvette: The "You Look So Much Like Prince It Frightens Me" Award
Winner: Ronaldinho. He's already got just one name - now give me eyeliner and Purple Rain.

True Hotness: The Golden Eusebio
Winner: Fabio Cannavaro. Who knew? Defenders can be hot.

*These awards do not include any players from the USA. When asked about potential Americans, most women shuddered in way I haven't seen since a group of freshman girls did when they saw Captain Ma***ra running suicides in pre-season, circa 1998.

**For obvious reasons, we couldn't include Hotness himself, just not fair. [Neither is dude's voice - Ed's note]

Diary of a Time-Traveling Gangster

2006-07-05T12:07:00.000-04:00

Just Got Back From The Intergalactic Rapping Championships

So I'm lamping a bit

People always ask me things. They say, "Stijls, was Theodor Adorno right when he said that, 'Enlightenment's program was the disenchantment of the world?' " Or: "Yo son, can you explain me Baudrillard's conception of seduction? Can you break that shit down for me?" Or more common, "Is Dipset in this bitch?" I generally answer "Yes" to all of these. But the question I've been fielding most of all lately is, "Why have the French progressed so far in this 2006 World Cup? Their players are so old?" The answer is quite simple:

Djibril Cisse is a time-traveling gangster.*

Ask yourself these questions: Why is his hair so consistently awesome? [Alien barbers.] Why has he severely, gruesomely broken both of this legs in successive seasons? [Because of the skeletal fragility hastened by long periods of space travel.] Why can't he score goals for Liverpool? [Cos' they play in Liverpool.]

It seems quite obvious to me that the Zinedine Zidane that's playing out of his skull on pitches all across Germany is not the Zinedine Zidane of today, but that of 1999-2000. Claude Makelele? Nope: Makelele 2002. Lilian Thuram, currently of (relegated???) Juve? Uh-uh. Thuram 1998.

Hard to believe? Come on. We've all seen Bill & Ted. That shit works. (How else do you think Ribery's face got like that. Mangled in the machine, dude.) You're telling me that Cisse's supposed to be sitting on the sidelines, sadly watching his team make a run to the World Cup semi-finals as he heals from injury? Puh-leeze. Dude's chilling in intersidereal space, waiting for opportune moments to snatch up the stars of the past and replace the stars of the present with them. That is, when he's not blowing up the spot, a/k/a 'the supernova' with Dre 3000 and Delton 3030, co-pilot and navigator on the Spaceship Mother Earth.

Don't be surprised if you see "Thierry Henry: The Monaco Years" (that should be a TV show) out there tonight. Just saying. You'll have this guy to thank.

*Props to Ming Black.

Hell Hath No Fury...

2006-07-05T06:05:00.000-04:00

...Just Italians

Okay, like a nation scorned. This is Bruegel, b/t/w.

In the middle of our life's journey, it sometimes becomes necessary to damn those who destroy a host country's hopes to hell. So take a trip with me, D. Alighieri, and our boy Virg-who's-nice-with-the-words, through the Italian National Team locker room.

The Opportunists/Outcasts: Massimo Oddo, Simone Barone, Andrea Barzagli, Cristian Zaccardo. Residing on the shores of the Acheron, a/k/a the substitutes bench, these are people who did nothing in life for good or evil, and are doomed to eternally pursue a banner and be pursued by wasps and hornets while maggots and other insects drink their blood and tears.

First Circle (Limbo): Fabio Cannavaro, Gianluca Zambrotta, Gianluigi Buffon, Luca Toni. Virtuous pagans call Limbo home; not necessarily sinful, but guilty by association. Anyway, they're in good company: Homer, Horace, Ovid, and Lucan can tell them bedtime stories each night. Buffon's a Renaissance man anyway.

Second Circle: Francesco Totti. For the lustful. Punishment includes being blown about by a violent storm without hope of rest, fine for a midfielder who flits about the field in various modes of concentration.

Third Circle: Filippo Inzaghi. Guarded by Cerberus, the Third Circle of Hell is for gluttons of any stripe, especially those who generally score gluts of terrible, ill-deserved goals.

Fourth Circle: Alessandro Nesta. Those of a miserly nature reside here, regardless of whether this quality respresents care with money or an unwillingness to allow opposing forwards opportunities to score.

Fifth Circle: Gennaro Gattuso, Marco Materazzi. The wrathful (which describes the former) are doomed to fight each other here on the surface, while the slothful (the latter) lie gurgling beneath the water.

Sixth Circle: Simone Perrotta. For heretics. Simone, your heretical claim is that you deserve national team selection.

Seventh Circle: Daniele De Rossi. Clearly, this circle houses the violent. Have fun elbowing the Minotaur in the face, buddy. It'll be the Inner 7th Circle for you: Violence against God, Nature, and Art get you afterlife in a flaming desert with fiery flakes raining from the sky.

Eighth Circle: Vincenzo Iaquinta, Fabio Grosso. Those guilty of deliberate, knowing evil, a/k/a/ the fraudulent reside here. Falsifiers that you two are, you shall be afflicted with various diseases, perhaps one that keeps you rigidly upright forever.

Ninth Circle: Mauro German Camoranesi. The ninth circle is for traitors, like those born of Argentine parentage, but who choose instead to play for Italy. And of course for those who choose to wear their hair like a samurai.

Days-Old Brot

2006-07-04T06:22:00.000-04:00

The Sad Face Invasion

Not coming through, coming through

Watch: Argentina Lose on Penalties to Germany
Watch: Argentina Fight Germany
Watch: Argentina and Germany Actually Score Goals in Normal Time

1nce again, the Schopenhegelian Germanic hordes defeated Argentina's Borges Boyz, not surprisingly in a penalty shootout. Baboons from here to the pampas have described this match as "tense," and have zeroed in on Argentine coach Jose Pekerman's early substitution of Riquelme and forced substitution of 'keeper Abbondanzieri (which limited any later additions of either Lionel Messi or Javier Saviola) as turning points of the match, and they're absolutely right -- but that's not the essential, interesting bit of it all.

What remains remarkable to me is how easy it is to tell who's going to miss their chance in a penalty shootout, simply by looking at the shooter's face as they line up at the top of the 18-yard box. It's a skill I picked up, most likely by hanging out way too much with my Southern Hemisphered homie Gosfais, a former wraithlike goalkeeper with a philosophical capacity (I'm sure) equal to that of his spiritual & positional predecessor Al B. Camus. Seemingly obvious, but foolproof nonetheless. For instance: Riquelme, given the chance to tie the Champions League semifinal second leg, wore an impossibly even sadder-than-normal face before shooting. Result: Jens Lehmann, the German hero of this W.C. quarterfinal, saved his shot with relative ease. Sure, this after-the-factness looks terrible, but we're gonna proceed anyway.

Roberto Ayala: Perennially haunted by the spectre of Dennis Bergkamp turning him out like Bobby did Whitney back in France '98, Ayala's eyes were hollower than Paolo Maldini's cheeks at an Armani photo shoot. [No photo necessary - Ed.]

Esteban Cambiasso: The only balding player on whom you can bet the farm animals when it comes to penalties is, of course, Zinedine Zidane (Had Pekerman substituted differently, this could have been Pablo Aimar shooting instead). [B/T/W, the "Shit But You Don't Know It" jack was completeley unintentional - Ed.]

And though it may seem like Brit-bashing at this point,

Frank Lampard: Prissy T-Rex arms only get you so far in this world, and having all the blood drain from your already too-pale face, only to settle, leaden, in your boots does you no favors when you're the first (technically best) penalty taker.

Steven Gerrard: I think it was an ESPN writer who noted that Gerrard was most visibly affected by Lampard's opening miss for England. That empty feeling carried over into his walk up to the spot and the timid stare he gave Portuguese 'keeper Ricardo right before shooting (Ricardo himself has claimed to have been able to see where the England player were going to shoot "in their eyes" which is a lofty one for sure, but from first to last these guys were about as transparent as my spookfaced friend).

Jamie Carragher: Once his first shot was called back for taking it too early, there was simply no chance he'd score on the second. Even he knew that; hence, the unsurprised look on his face as he walked back to the center circle to watch Ronaldo put them out of their misery.

* * * * * * *

ITALY v. UKRAINE [3-0]

Luca Toni, Not Sleeping With Fishes

When you sit less than 5 rows away from Francesco Totti, it becomes immediately apparent that he is only the rarest of times in touch with this plane of existence. This is not a compliment. Sure, he wanders about the midfield, occasionally nudging on a brilliant ball, but for the most part he's dreaming -- of what I don't know. His wife, Roman gelato, the dude sitting next to me smoking hash, twenty Nespresso machines lined up in rows, a Rick Ross remix of Carla Bruni's Quelqu'un M'a dit -- who can say for sure?

What is certain is that Andriy Shevchenko has the worst pouty-face in international football. It's almost sickening to watch: Middling Ukrainian midfielder spots Sheva calling for a pass, pass is delivered 4 yards off target, Italian defender clears, Sheva throws tantrum fit for a 3-year old. Yes, it's clear that no one on the Ukranian side has the quality or epidermal oleaginousness of Andrea Pirlo, but that's no reason to broadcast that thought to the world with your screwface mug every time you don't get the service you're used to on your multimillion dollar club team. But Sheva did kind of make up for that petty insolence after the match, trotting over to the rabid Italian fans and giving them a hand for their support during his years at AC Milan (despite the fact that they booed him lustily every time he touched the ball, now that he's Chelsea-bound).

And as much as I love to hate them, the sentiment expressed for their fallen comrade Gianluca Pessotto was genuine, and lovely to see:

But then you hear about this and all those warm-fuzzies crust up like the cold in your eyes come morning. Either way, it all makes for an interesting match this evening. I wonder how the Italians will spin this one, given it's the Germans suffering after scandal...

"Suspended Frings Poisons Pre-Game Penne!" -- advance headline from tomorrow's Gazzetta dello Sport, translated, of course.

In Defense of Cristiano Ronaldo

2006-07-03T11:10:00.000-04:00

Hate Me Now

But he won't stop now

Watch: Wayne Rooney Sent Off Against Portugal

You knew this was coming. [Full disclosure: Okay, so I am actually making out with Ronaldo as I type. Happens.] There are certain things which I'm willing to concede in this argument: 1) Ronaldo dives, early and often, and this is indeed annoying. 2) He dribbles when he should pass, stands still and feints when he should dribble, and, for having a near-woeful capacity for finishing chances, overestimates the greatness of his shot. 3) The amount of product festering in Ronaldo's hair seems to be at alarmingly toxic levels, even at mid-match (I'm concerned), and this might be having a deleterious effect on the boy's thinking. 4) Hopping on the penalty spot is no way to make friends (but a fantastic way to make Paul Robinson dookie his shorts). 5) Winking towards your bench after an opposing player -- who happens to be your club teammate -- has been sent off is not exactly a stirring example of your innocence in any incident. And, of course, this.

Which is not to say that Wayne Rooney is not a complete fucking idiot. A thick-necked, barrel-chested footballing genius for sure, but still, breathtakingly stupid. Thing is, Rooney's acted in this manner since his first game in the Premiership. Everybody -- the footballing world and probably beyond -- knows this, and Ronaldo more than most since he plays alongside him for 70+ odd games a year, not to mention all the hours spent training, traveling, and partying together. Not only does everybody know this but Everybody -- especially the English -- are aware that it is a tactic of opposing players to purposely try and wind Rooney up precisely because he has trouble keeping his temper down. A result like this is always at least possible whenever Rooney steps on the pitch.

Now Rooney's cleats were firmly planted on Carvalho's Ricardo, but how much of that was intentional I don't know. He was being hounded by two defenders and heroically, impossibly holding both of them off the ball -- typical Rooney stuff. That his foot ended up in another man's crotch is unfortunate, for one man more than the other certainly, but his response was also typical Rooney. I don't think I've ever seen him apologize to any player he's ever fouled, and he certainly didn't here. Instead he let off with the by-now-requisite stream of profanities (In a previous Premiership match, he's reputed to have said 'fuck off' directly to referee Graham Poll in excess of 25 times in some absurdly short amount of time). And here's where Ronaldo comes in.

Running over to the referee and gesturing down at Carvalho, Ronaldo -- as many game reports have put it -- "seemed to encourage [referee Horacio Elizondo] to punish Rooney for a stamp on Ricardo Carvalho." That every player, when fouled, looks up expectantly at the referee -- and those fouled particularly hard couple those incredulous eyes with the international gesture for "card" -- still does not make it right, only normal.

I ask: What kind of referee needs, or takes, encouragement from players to give cards? What kind of referee allows that to happen? Technically, he's only supposed to listen to two players (or rather, those players are the only ones allowed to talk to the ref): the captains of each team. (That's why you see so many of those curt, 'shhht' gestures from good referees whenever he's being trailed by a bunch of protesting, non-arm-banded players, usually Italian.) And unless Elizondo's sweet on Li'l Crissy, I think Ronaldo would have probably been the player least respected on the field, for any number of reasons, probably starting with his style of running.

So what does Rooney do, while staring at the ref who is staring back, but push Ronaldo. And you're ['You' being the legions of English reading this at the moment] surprised that he was red-carded? Unjust? Please. Ronaldo participating in the post-stomp conversation may not have been the height of sportsmanship, but it was far from dirty play. Had Ronaldo been sent off at the "prompting" (for the sake of example I'm willing to go with the idea that prompting the ref even works, though I don't believe it) of Rooney I would love to see the reaction from the British press. He'd have been hailed as not merely a football genius but a cunning gamesman as well. Unfortunately, Rooney's just not that smart, or just not in that way.

Now we get into ideas of "morality" -- not only whose morality is superior but also whose stereotypical "values" are professed louder. The English, of course, would *never* do such a thing. Maybe that's right, I don't know (I don't think so). But maybe that's why they lose. Whatever. But if you listen to the BBC pundits (and I'm sure it's Alan Shearer who says it) talk about Ronaldo heading over to the ref, he very clearly says something to the effect of "Look at that. WE never do that." Really Alan? But apparently WE are fine with punching, kicking and elbowing whenever the ref isn't looking, eh? I find it hard to believe you'd be the player you are now revered to have been without all those 'extras' that you got away with in your career.

But the reaction from all corners of England is the truly reprehensible bit of it all. Let's start with Young Wayne, who's promised to "split him in two and smack him in the head." Fine. I'd expect nothing less, or nothing more, from him. But Gerrard and Lampard are a different story:

"I saw what Ronaldo did," said Steven Gerrard, according to English reports. "I saw him going over to the referee and giving him the card and I think he was bang out of order. If he were one of my teammates I would be absolutely disgusted with him. After Wayne was sent off he (Ronaldo) winked at his bench and his teammates and that just about sums him up as a person. If I were playing against a teammate from Liverpool and they were involved in a situation like that I would never try to get them sent off."

I tend to believe Gerrard, if only because he seems like a stand-up guy (no pun intended), but I have to also believe that if England were playing Spain and he had the chance to get little alice-band-wearing Luis Garcia sent off, he just might not let deed follow word. But wait, did Ronaldo actually present the red card to Rooney? If so, then hold up -- wait a minute! Stop all the blogging! Let the FIFA investigation commence! Who knew dude was packing Prell and spare red cards in his pants all game? Did no one notice? Was it the +Teamgeist again? And Lampard:

"He's supposed to be a teammate of Wayne's at Manchester United and he does something like that. It's not nice, is it? A lot has been made of trying to promote fair play in this tournament and that was certainly not fair play. Unfortunately that's the way it is with some players. We were told that anyone who tried to get someone else a yellow or red card would get a yellow but it just hasn't happened."

"It's not nice, is it?" No, what was "not nice" was your penalty, nor your play during any of England's matches. Cry fair play all you want to after the match, Frank, but while you still had a chance to win the match, you failed and failed miserably. I have the same problem with Americans crying that they were jobbed by referee Markus Merk with a phantom penalty in the Ghana match when the team had a full 45 minutes to right that wrong. And the English "press:"

The Sun has joined the anti-Ronaldo bandwagon, printing a mock dartboard with a picture of Ronaldo winking.
"Here's every England fan's chance to get revenge on the world's biggest winker," the paper said.

Right. Again, I'm not surprised, but I'm no less angered at this scapegoating. Rooney, while dumb, is not the villain, but neither should Ronaldo be claimed the same. It's a shame that he'll most likely no longer be able to play for Manchester United now that he's burned bridges with another one of their star players [Full disclosure: Sir Alex Ferguson has now entered the room and is watching me make out with Ronaldo. I think he likes it.] Hello, Real Madrid, friendly home to all primadonna ex-United #7's.

So in the end, this is less of a defense of Ronaldo than it is an attack on the English mindset at large -- that of the press, the players, and the people -- that is more than willing to vilify foreigners that play in England (who, at large, are blamed for offenses as diverse as bringing diving, defensive football, great food, and superb technical skill into the country) while claiming the moral high ground for themselves. It could only have been Ronaldo to eliminate England once penalties were certain, and given the petulance with which they've reacted to losing -- as petulant as Rooney's push -- they deserved nothing more than Ronaldo's kiss before their collective dying.

[Let's not forget that the English could still have WON THE EFFING GAME both in regulation and on penalties. (Well, maybe not the latter. But still, there's always the chance that history will eat its own ass and let England win on penalties. The Red Sox won the World Series, after all)]

Dear Australia,

2006-06-30T06:35:00.000-04:00

I'd post something about Ukraine, but this was too good to pass up. Courtesy of of the Sydney Morning Herald letters section, via Football365.com:

Just wanted to drop you all a note of condolence on your World Cup exit. Although you were never really good enough to be there in the first place, as one of our foreign outposts we think you did quite well and, most importantly, represented your Queen admirably. So, well done, little colony.

'On the upside though, now at least your long-haired, scruffy, unclean teenage masses can all return to London to resume their minimum wage jobs, serving us thirsty English boys warm beer, just in time for the games on Friday and Saturday. Good timing, really, because as everyone agrees, the real tournament starts now that only the real footballing teams are left.

'Well, chin up, anyway, pickpockets, and I suppose it's back to stealing your mothers' ironing boards and heading to the sea to try to dodge those hungry sharks. How sweet. Best regards and God save the Queen.

'Paul Kaynes West Sussex (England)'

And because England's such a hit with the B'n'C faithful, we present Young Wayne meets Diddy for your viewing pleasure.

Someone Has To Answer For This

2006-06-30T06:26:00.000-04:00

Forget De Rossi's elbow, Grosso's dive, Totti's celebration, and Gattuso's face (please). This is inexcusable. Let an Italian come at me with that "we ain't greasy" yang again. I'm talking to you, Pirlo.

People Get Ready Pt. II

2006-06-30T06:17:00.000-04:00

Got Your City On Lock

Big faces, big places.

People Get Ready

2006-06-30T06:13:00.000-04:00

Lambo, Hear Them Fans Blow

Whoever said Germans were humorless? This is hilarious.

SPAIN v. FRANCE [1-3]

2006-06-29T16:10:00.000-04:00

Who's Got Crabs?

HIGHLIGHTS

Don't hate: Lazy YouTubers tarried this post. [Don't You (TM) guys not have anything better to do than upload highlights that I can then jack?]

Things to look for: a) France coach Raymond Domenech's great reaction to the awarding of a penalty to Spain, b) Thierry Henry smartly signaling to the linesman his absent-from-influencing-play status (after being caught offsides around 7 times previous) c) Vieira's nifty Cruyff turn with the right foot and quick dish with the left d) Willy Sagnol throw Zidane out of the way to get closer to the bottom of the winning-goal-pile.

People are talking about Henry's Lee Strasberg routine and whether he's a cheat or not, but you won't find any of that chat here. B'n'C's all about the real stories of this Weltmeisterschaft. Like: Are Cancers destined to dominate in the last half of 2006?. (Know your history) West Coast correspondent Mingus Dynasty, a/k/a Ming Black, checks in with this report:

Apparently, Raymond Domenech relies on astrology, and so must be well aware of the Cancerian partnership of Zidane and Vieira in midfield. Given that Vieira scored on his birthday and the game after; that Zidane scored after his; fellow Cancer Raul scored on his birthday; and with Lionel Messi also celebrating his 19th with usual domination, it's only logical that the celestial order has ordained this World Cup to be the Most Cancerian World Cup of the Modern Age. Indeed, this is confirmed by the positions of the Sun, Jupiter and Uranus, but that's another story.

B/T/W, we're totally obsessed with Zidane's chart right now: "TIP: Master an art form such as poetry, music, photography or dance. You can do it Zinedine Zidane." Or more dire: "TIP: Zinedine Zidane, learn when enough is enough."

Also: they told dude to, ahem, start a Zine.

Bianconeri Blue

2006-06-28T06:52:00.000-04:00

As you may have heard, former Juventus and Italy defender, and current Juve sporting director Gianluca Pessotto apparently attempted suicide (unsuccessfully) recently. He was found, as all the articles are sure to detail, "clutching rosary beads" in the street outside Juventus headquarters, apparently having jumped from a window 15 meters up. Pessotto is and was not charged in the match-fixing scandal that threatens to relegate (yes, relegate) Juve and strip them of last season's Scudetto (The tribunal formed to look into the allegations against former Juve general manager Luciano Moggi started today, b/t/w). A few of the Italy players have flown back to visit their former teammate in hospital.

Strange, but stranger still are how these three articles (and even the Guardian piece) progress from worrying about Pessotto's condition into speculating on what effect this will have on the Italy team, to what their chances are in the next match. Off-putting to say the least, but sadly it's what you get when you're the press at the precipice of the World Cup quarterfinals.

[Secretly, watch for the Italian press to somehow spin this story into some sort of contributing scandal should the Azzuri get bounced by the Ukranians in Hamburg on Friday night.]

BRAZIL v. GHANA [3-0]

2006-06-28T05:26:00.000-04:00

Chicken Gristle Eatin'...Slim-Fast Blendin'

HIGHLIGHTS

Always knew "fat" dudes could move like that. And that skinny dudes are always the greedy ones: Adriano, Cafu, Roberto Carlos (we'll stretch that definition a litttle for the latter). But who knew that "ginga" meant "selfish"?

And far be it from sour grapes, but the red card doled out to Ghana's Asamoah Gyan was karmic justice for the revolting display of Ghanaian rolling about on the pitch during the last 25 minutes of the U.S. v. Ghana match (They deserved to win that match simply because the U.S. showed no desire to score.)

Watch: Brazil beat Ghana, again. Or maybe it's just Portuguese beating English...

"SOOPA-Pass," went the German announcer, re: Kaka's visionary dish which was just about all you could say. It came so early, I was still trying to check for the field level sign telling me what city the game was being played in; luckily the space opened up in the section of the screen I was scanning, so I didn't miss a thing. Which reminds me...

Gerhard, You Ignorant Slut

To step away from the game for a minute: here in Germany, it's customary for games to be called by a single announcer for the entire game, in opposition to the American way of play-by-play + color man. This has its pluses and minuses. There is a certain calming linearity to the match: no snide interruptions, coy insiderism, or egotistical grandstanding, but at the same time, a boring game is absolutely unbearable without a Walton to interject a "Throw! It Down! K-Mart! Throw it down!" Germans prefer to save their commentarial interplay for pre-, during, and post-match, where former footballing superstar Günter Netzer and Gerhard Delling trade personal quips as sharp and ridiculous as "Point/Counterpoint" with Aykroyd and Curtain on vintage SNL. And without the laugh track that is Terry Bradshaw or any of those Fox dopes. The barb is exchanged, gruffly, with nary a smile, and the commentary goes on. It could be Python, but I'm not sure if even those guys could deliver these lines as well.

I Woke Up Early On My Born Day

2006-06-27T18:47:00.000-04:00

Young City Bandit, Hold Myself Down Singlehanded...
But for real...Word to Moms & Pops.

UPDATE - Other people born today include: Peter Paul Rubens (1577), Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712), Luigi Pirandello (1867), Mel Brooks (1926), Noriyuki "Pat" Morita (1932), John Elway (1960), and of course, Fabien Barthez (1971).

Shooter

2006-06-27T13:30:00.000-04:00

Bear ~~Shits~~ Shot In Woods

The biggest story in Germany; that is, between articles about Klinsmann clipping his toenails.

I Try Harder Every Day It's All Work And No Play

2006-06-26T17:59:00.000-04:00

Between temporarily relocating the B'n'C bivouac to an undisclosed rooftop in Berlin, the attendant champagne-filled-jacuzzi afternoons (Thx, Hov!), long evenings sampling on ripened strawberries fed paw-to-mouth by white tigers being jacked off by rhesus moneys, and the proto-cannibalistic mornings thereafter, spent breakfasting on freshly slaughtered white tiger meat, who has time to write about football?

Luckily I keep a notebook handy, despite the monkeys' disapproving looks. This World Cup Thing only gets better by getting worse: What kinds of fantastic buffet spreads are being supplied backstage to have so many players desire being sent off? Surely it's no comparison to fresh Bengali, but its got to be amazing. And tasty enough for the refs to want a piece of that pie. Anyway, there's plenty to catch up on, so let's get right into it. A monster post, so tuck right in...

ITALY v. AUSTRALIA [1-0]

Them Crackers Weren't Playing Fair

Scumbag thieves. Did I say that out loud?

SWITZERLAND v. UKRAINE [0-0] (0-3 penalties)

Slept On
How do you not score once in a penalty shootout?

PORTUGAL v. NETHERLANDS [1-0]

Hurt Stunned Astounded Amazed and Dazed

Germans on point.

If you watched only the first 40 minutes of this one, then you saw the best game of the World Cup. If you watched the whole thing, then you saw the most entertaining match of the tournament, but whatever the two teams were playing by then wasn't soccer, certainly wasn't "football," and was too "professional" (read: pu-ssay) to even be compared to Aussie rules or rugby. It was a tragedy worth tears, but when the two teams weren't trying to carve notches out of each other's flesh, it was a pleasure to watch, especially after the mind-numbing match earlier in the day featuring...

ENGLAND v. ECUADOR [1-0]

Leaving Your Empire In Ruin

Once again I'll leave you in the capable talons of birthday boy TerrorDaktile:

Kill me now.

Are you serious that these people invented the game? They play like they have crumpets in the shorts. They play like they have Lyme Disease, no offense to those who actually do. They throw up on the field; I throw up on the TV when I watch them play. So boring, so conservative, so predictable -- in short, so...English. Three Lions my arse. No, seriously, my one donkay could trample these house cats. Have you really made me a die hard fan of the Tri Colores, England? For 90 minutes ive never loved anything more than Ecuadorian football. I'm painting the tri colors on my face, I'm rocking the Jheri-curl mullet, I live and die on every yellow-footed touch of Valencia. He is my savior, and you, england, are forcing me to this end. Perhaps your coach is to blame, perhaps the 4-5-1, perhaps Joe Cole's pants are
too high, England. Lower Joe Cole's pants. You're moving on to the quarterfinals by boring people to death. Is it me or is Frank Lampard terrible in front of net? Where was this lamentable play between August and May? Here is a typical England World Cup game: a) find the weakest team in the field. b) play them. c) complain about the stifling German heat. d) wear short sleeves in the first half, long sleeves in the second. e) don't score. don't ever score. f) who cares?

England: You're not going to be champions, and these so-called victories which are really terribly predictable foreshadowings are simply lengthening the depressive bender the entire country will slide into during the days following the loss. Please lose. I can't continue loving others in order to have less pity for you.

MEXICO v. ARGENTINA [1-2]

Straight From Jorge

A shame that the World Cup's Latin-inflection had to be reduced by a factor of one with the outcome of this one, but at least the game produced one of the most compelling encounters --and fantastic goals, again by Argentina -- that we've seen. Apparently, you can't be too good.

Which sets up this way-too-early match between the Argentines...

And, the GERMANS

Self-Assembly Required

How do you celebrate the German team's first knockout-phase match appropriately? You watch the match with 1.2 million other Germans in their capital city. Berlin's Fan Mile, which yawns from the western side of the Brandenburger Tor down the Unter den Linden, allows you to experience what it's like to smell a million plus people piss in two adjoining parks.

But fandom, while often smelling this terrible, is often cleverer than you'd expect: Swedish fans were treated to a song that, loosely translated, means "You're naught but furniture-makers."

And between this destruction of all things Swede and the GERMANY v. ECUADOR match, Miroslav Klose kind of looks like the most complete forward at this World Cup.

°°°°°°°°°°
And because you'll get this kind of in-depth cultural reporting on no other blogshore, a recap of one of the more exciting encounters of one of the more memorable group stage games:

Watch: SWEDEN v. ENGLAND [2-2]

Swedes have terrible bladder control. Twice before the match had even begun, I was propositioned (if that's the word) to be pissed over. You see, I was seated at the top corner of a crowded bleacher section, too far from a bathroom, but apparently too close to what was an inviting edge for this Swede. "I would like to *piss*. Do you mind if I *piss*?" The three Germans seated next to me and I all answered in the affirmative. "Yes, we do in fact mind if you piss over our shoulders."

The average life expectancy in Sweden is exceeded only by that of Japan and the country has been rated the second most liveable in the world, after Norway. There are no discoverable figures for most incontinent, however. Which is frustrating. Are Swedes allowed to just piss willy-nilly wherever they damn well please? Does "liveable" take into account the fact that dining rooms, stairwells, and foyers could very well be treated as just finely appointed Porto-Sans to this fair-haired nation?

Anyway, our refusal meant little. By the time England had blown their first lead, our entire blue and yellow section was treated to the unmistakable sound of a furious stream of pee hitting pavement from 50 feet. Sven-Urine Eriksson had merely turned backwards with neighbors to the right, left, above and below, kneeled on his bench-seat, opened his fly and let loose.

Sweden is also the second most environmentally responsible country in the world after New Zealand. Always a bridesmaid, never a bride, Sweden. But does "envioronmentally responsible" just mean that you can just shit everywhere and call it fertilization?

°°°°°°°°°°
Paid No Never Mind

And for those still pining for the U.S., two post-mortems, one from this dude, and one from Drago -- you know, the guy from Rocky.

The Good:
Dempsey--Goodbye MLS, hello Europe...Why have you not been playing earlier and why are you the only player that can rap and beat someone on
thedribble?
Convey--You can tell that this guy is an asshole but also really good...he's the free kick man from here on out
McBride--If only Dempsey and Convey were playing together more often you may have gotten some service.
Onjewu--a good defender, especially if there was a fast player to pair you with (oh well).
The Bad:
Reyna--U-R the man, but the gold watch was ready years ago.
Beasley--Quickly developing "Poor Man's Michael Owen Syndrome;" a player that looks great on the highlight reel until you watch the game and realize he's NONEXISTANT for 88 minutes.
The Ugly:
Donovan--I hate you...you're fired, you suck, you'll never rise to the occasion. Watching you play in this World Cup reminded me of watching the movie MUST LOVE DOGS on my last cross country flight. Needless to say, it was the last time I ever actually felt like puking in total sobriety.
Eddie Pope--next time a lumbering 6ft 7inch Czech comes thundering into the box you should guard him. Oh yeah, and next time you try an offsides trap make sure you aren't the only one trying it. Italians take advantageof that shit.
Cherundolo--you're about as big as Roy Keane...too bad you're not a highly skilled, raging madman. On a good day you look like you might make the cutin the Swiss 2nd division
Bocanegra--I do actually like you, but you always have that stupid look onyour face like you meant to go to football practice and somehow wound up at soccer practice and never really grasped any better understanding of thegame since then.
Eddie Johnson--next time just tell Arena to fuck off and sub yourself in for Donovan or whoever...it's a travesty you didn't play more.

Two Can Play The Game

2006-06-24T07:06:00.000-04:00

Arthur's Legacy?

Three lessons in the German language:

"Train" is masculine.
"Cat" is feminine (even dude cats).
"Girl" is neuter.

Get A Real Job

2006-06-23T14:10:00.000-04:00

Seriously. You call that work?

SPAIN v. TUNISIA [3-1]

2006-06-19T19:33:00.000-04:00

That's A Hawaiian Silky

HIGHLIGHTS

Ali Bouminjel = "Ali, Bomaye!" ???

"Sounds like" for sure, but both have a penchant for punching things as well, perhaps way too much. But even Ali II knows betten than to challenge on a ball outside of the box unless you're sure your're going to get it or are willing to foul the shit out of the advancing striker. He effectively lost the game for the Tunisians. And Fabregas effectively won it for the Spanish.

Lastly, Fernando Torres: worst penalty, worst hair.

SAUDI ARABIA v. UKRAINE [0-4]

2006-06-19T19:32:00.000-04:00

What A Co-inky-dink

HIGHLIGHTS

B&C management was heartbroken at the 4-0 loss the Ukranians took against the Spanish, so it was exciting to see them improve their chances of qualification with a 4-0 drubbing of the Saudis, who showed none of the talent or resolve they displayed against the Tunisians in their previous game. More than anything though, I'm really psyched to see a team wearing yellow go as far as possible.

TOGO v. SWITZERLAND [0-2]

2006-06-19T19:31:00.001-04:00

Calm Down, Youngster

HIGHLIGHTS

Tranquillo Barnetta --> Top 5 Sweet Names of Tourney. I could ask how the chillest cat at the Cup is at all Swiss, but then again I'd have to do the same for "Trini" Christopher Birchall. Togo had their chances, and a legit claim for a penalty when Mingus Dynasty's boy Adebayor went down, but it wasnät to be for the Togolese, who had their own problems to worry about.

FRANCE v. SOUTH KOREA [1-1]

2006-06-19T19:31:00.000-04:00

I Can Go To France For Free

HIGHLIGHTS

Moratorium on Brits who say "Terry HENN-RY." That's just gross.
And I'm guessing Camus would have made that save, unlike Barthez.
The French need dynamic wingers who can get the ball to Henry in dangerous, difficult places. I suggest these guys.

JAPAN v. CROATIA [0-0]

2006-06-19T19:30:00.000-04:00

So Much Blight It'll Hurt Your Eyes

HIGHLIGHTS

Nil-Nil, as they say. Nil by mouth, nil to chat about. Lots of chances, none of them taken. Ill nil.

BRAZIL v. AUSTRALIA [2-0]

2006-06-19T19:29:00.000-04:00

Ginga Tu Madre

HIGHLIGHTS

GHOSTWRITE THE WHIP, pt. II -- Brazeeow Edition
B&C's all about confluence & coincidence. So when B&C Brazillian affilliate Gosfais got at me and told me he wanted to get in on this blog thang-thang I couldn't resist, seeing as dude is 97% translucent anyhow. Proud to present, Ghost by Gos:

If the appliance store in Jacarei S.P. were open today -- game day -- the staff would be dressed as the Seleção, as they are every other day this month. If you decided to go to the gay pride parade in São Paulo instead of watch the U.S. out-ball the Italians you would find the boys in top form and blue and yellow speedos atop the international standard issue gay pride parade bus, and if you wanted to compare gingas you'd only need to look behind the bus to the fifty foot fotos of Ronald's both fat and snaggle-toothed feinting left or right in support, in this particular case, of Team Banco Santander, a Spanish club I think. Really you'd be suprised to see just how many different brands of times (teams in the Portuguese soccer vocab that had no problemo absorbing the words that the English saliors gave for what happens when a shute goes past a golquiper) Ronaldinho is playing for down here in between representing all of football to groups such as, say, readers of the New York Times.

But if such larger than life depictions aren't big enough to convince you that the nation of Brazil is effectively equaled by the media representation of its football team, you need only look to the mall-sized sign (provided by Coca-Cola) visible from the highway and announcing that "This mall is rooting for Brazil." And if you reallly need it given to you literally, watch TV for ten minutes until your futebol inspired advertising is interrupted to track the movements of the team bus whose slogan correctly translates to "This bus is monitored by 180 million Brasilian hearts."

But the point is that you know all this because are not on the street on gameday, not in the appliance store which is certainly not open, not at the gay parade that was rescheduled so as not to conflict with the game. You and your heart are in front of the TV, where you saw... what? What is happening here? What is wrong with Ronaldo? What, it's half time? Oh a goal? Ronaldo didn't fuck up? Oh, another one? Who is Fred? Brazil are qualified? Yes, Brazil are qualified. But 180 million hearts depending on eleven may constitute an actual heart attack, the signs of which may be manifesting, literally, as Bussunda, the well-known comedian who played both Ronaldo and Lula attested to by succumbing to one while working the Bob Hope beat in Germany. Or it could be that the plan of the Brasilian coach to hit full stride at the end of the tournament rather than the beginning may be unfolding and that these easy victories are just the first steps of a juggernaut, bitch.

If it matters, the team they played against was Australia. Ugly dark blue uniforms were somehow un-football. Maybe because Australians (like Americans who also look and play bad in their navy) are not football players, but soccer players. They don't say football for the same reason that if you were right now transported into an Australian rules football game you would literally die. So it seems that Aussie soccer players got their muscles and 'tude for the same reason that the fellas grinding trannies on top of the Madonna-blasting platform bus did. They were tired of getting thier asses kicked by toothless goons. And believe me, you would never call one of those kleets-up bastards a Socceroo to thier face. When they take their shits off after the game you cry out, my god, give those men some cattle to slaughter, give them huge knives to wield and an unlit cigar to stick into those jaws! Pelamordedeus!

CZECH REPUBLIC v. GHANA [0-2]

2006-06-19T19:28:00.001-04:00

Please, Stop Punning on Czech-Check

HIGHLIGHTS

Who knew that losing one extremely tall dude could mean so much? Czech coach Karel Bruckner had underlined Jan Koller as a key to their entire offense, and it certainly seemed so as they were run ragged by Ghana. The Ghanaians didn't deserve the 0-2 loss to the Italians, and certainly proved that here, though such a thorough smacking was unexpected. But who really cares about "kickball" anymore? Here in Germantown, Germany, the real story is xenotropia. Everyone loves the Africans, fetishizes drum beats, headdresses, rhythmic chanting, and Razak Pimpong. Which is fine. Watching the Ghanaian fans celebrate a full hour after the match at the local fan fest was extremely fun -- in fact, it made me enjoy fun again. It's the difference that makes the difference, and that's part of the difference between football and, say, jai-alai. That and those funny sticks.

ITALY v. UNITED STATES [1-1]

2006-06-19T19:28:00.000-04:00

Italian Heartthrobs Could Not Get Rid Of Me

HIGHLIGHTS

Americans will be glad to know that it's become a little less easy to hate them, not merely because of Daniele De Rossi's disgusting display, but also because the U.S. finally showed up to play, albeit after they'd already lost 2 men to red cards. They deserved more than a draw, and for the first 25 minutes of the second half, with 9 against 10, were clearly the better team, putting the Italians firmly on the back foot. True to form, the Azzurri were content to sit four defenders back, even with a man advantage and all the space in the world, at least until the last 10 minutes when they finally decided to press. It was a match the U.S. could have (should have?) won, were it not for Brian McBride being caught offsides.

But whatever. I watched the match in a theater rented out by a bunch of young Germans, and to a man (save the half Italian girl I could hear sigh even from across the room) the U.S. earned at least 50 new fans that night.

But the biggest non-surprise was the Italian red card. Okay, so it wasn't Totti sent off, but perceptive minds have been saying for months that certain Italian players, when given the opportunity, will fail spectacularly. Both American cards were stupid -- on the part of both Mastroeni and Pope -- but Pope looked terrible and was at fault for the only Italian goal, so perhaps the U.S. is better off without him.

PORTUGAL v. IRAN [2-0]

2006-06-19T19:27:00.000-04:00

There is the Perfect Riposte

HIGHLIGHTS

"...and after all his problems, and his lack of form, and the criticism that's come his way..."

Hate to belabor this point, but people are yapping 'bout it anyway. Whatever people's thoughts are towards "the boy," as Alex Ferguson likes to refer to him (and anyone else under the age of 25), it was a smart and generous move on the part of Luis Felipe Scolari (and certainly Figo, Pauleta, and other senior members of the team) to allow him to take that penalty. I don't think I've seen a player more subject to the whims of his emotions than he so often is. In what's been a tough, tough year, the kid needs all the confidence he can muster (Of course, as some saw, when dude scores goals in successive games, he thinks he's Cantona. Still nope.)

Either way, Deco's shot was still the best thing going in this game.

MEXICO v. ANGOLA [0-0]

2006-06-19T18:39:00.000-04:00

Jogo de Joao

HIGHLIGHTS

Joao Ricardo.

This one's for all you 'keepers out there: Albert, you most especially. Wonder if he could get a run out in either one of these sides. Surely the French could field a similarly strong team, no? Hmm, let's "speculate:"

1 CAMUS, Albert, GK
2 LEVI-STRAUSS, Claude - halfback
3 DURKHEIM, Emile - centreback
4 DESCARTES, Rene (captain) - centreback
5 PASCAL, Blaise - halfback
6 VOLTAIRE - midfield
7 ROUSSEAU, Jean-Jacques - midfield
8 LACAN, Jacques - midfield
9 HENRI-LEVY, Bernard - striker
10 SARTRE, Jean-Paul - midfield
11 FOUCAULT, Michel - striker

SUBS:

DEBORD, Guy - striker
BARTHES, Roland - defender
BAUDRILLARD, Jean - midfield

I think the midfield pairing of contemporaries Voltaire and Rousseau is a strong one (never mind offering the sexiness of having a single-named player in the Brazilian style), and with Sartre in the Riquelme role, Henri-Levy and Foucault should both benefit from the eagle-eyed marksman's ball-distribution. Though, if they should fail to work an understanding, Debord is always at the ready on the bench to come on and really fuck shit up. With Descartes leadership, this team goes far -- the Marcel Desailly of his day.

+Teamgeist = Racist?

2006-06-19T12:18:00.000-04:00

Is This the Face of Evil Incarnate?
1nce again, B&C brings you that fire, um, reporting, hitting you what everybody else is scared to say:

Forget the Spanish, the Italians, the Serbs, the Croats, the Greeks, the Argentines, the French, the English before John Barnes, the Dutch until they discovered the secret of ganja brownies (which are "chocolate"), the South Africans before it was cool to do "the Mandela voice," and Oprah.

And pay no mind to all that jive about the ball being TOO round. Think that little Raimundo the 'keeper, playing all day on a dirt pitch in Sao Paulo with a plastic bag filled with more plastic bags for a ball complains about that ish being TOO spherical?

Nah, son. I call bullshit. Smoke & mirrors. A coverup to mask the real Grand Wizard of International Football. And it's not even Paolo Di Canio.

Why is nobody but Blue & Cream asking the question, "Could the real filthy bigot here be adidas' +Teamgeist ball?"

Evidence: Until Bakari Kone's banger, no black player -- despite an overabundance of attempts -- had scored with a long-range shot, what the Brits like to refer to as a "cracker," a/k/a a "Stephen Merritt." Yet, scrawny Czech dudes are rifling in 30-yard bombs with the greatest of ease. I'm just saying. You be the judge. If we're really going to kick racism out of football, let's start by kicking that fucking troglodyte ball to the fucking curb.

One.

(For reals, no joking here: The fact that I was able to link all those countries up there should let you know that something's rotten in the European Union.)

NETHERLANDS v. COTE D'IVOIRE [2-1]

2006-06-19T11:58:00.000-04:00

My Oranje Boxcutter Make the World Go 'Round

HIGHLIGHTS

The real best game of the tournament -- the neutral's choice. Or so says Papa Stijls, whom we trust implicitly. (A belated Happy Father's Day to all baby fathers out there. If you ain't call your pops yesterday, shame on you.) For excitement, it lacked nothing. The kind of game you watch wishing you didn't bite your nails all the time cos you really want to chew on that fat thumbnail that's now floating away down some sewer underneath the Alster.

A good match if you like orange, though the Dutch were always going to be the ones to wear it in this tie. Can't stand that Horseface Killah struck the winner, and from more than 6 yards, no less. Can't believe I hate Van Nistelrooy this much after riding for him for years. A pity the Ivoirians are out of the tournament, the favorites of politically-minded, large-hearted liberals the world over. Check the signifiers: 1) They're African. 2) Their country is torn by civil war. 3) Dope uni's. 4.) Didier Drogba, lalalalala. (Okay, then there's this, but hey, that's for Chelsea) 5.) They're called The Elephants. Plus, they're actually incredible footballers, almost every last one of them. That goal by Bakari Kone? What???

We'll keep them in our hearts & heads, and hope they thrash the Serbs, if only for a little bit of satisfaction.

ARGENTINA v. SERBIA [6-0]

2006-06-19T10:32:00.000-04:00

Say The Baby

HIGHLIGHTS

Best game of the tournament, not just because I was there. 'Kay, maybe so. That's right: the boy Stijls sold five alien babies -- cash! -- on the black market for his ticket. Suffered through a 5.40am train ride to Gelsenkirchen with already drunk (!) Germans who boarded the train in Bremen, ran the gauntlet of Serbian fans and their semi-Fascist dual-arm thrust salute down the pedestrian concourse, and waited 45 minutes for the Arena auf Schalke to open 3 hours early to pee furiously in order to see Young Lionel Messi, all of 18 yrs. old (Get your Spanish game up). Don't say "precocious" or I'll smack you. It was well worth it all.

Messi, who only played the last 15 minutes, was easily the most exciting player to step on the field. He started running at the Serbs the minute he touched the ball, assisting the 4th goal and scoring the 6th. Mr. Sad Face Juan Roman Riquelme was the best player on the field, but no one will ever associate him with excitement. And I'm sure he'd prefer it that way. Impossible to leave the stadium without this running through your head.

PLEASE: If you love football, or just listen to "mixtapes" all day, you would do well to watch this goal on repeat. Listen to the Latin announcers count off each pass -- 25 in all -- that led to the goal, the 24th being a backheel (!) from Hernan Crespo to Ernesto Cambiasso who scored. It's everything you'd want to teach a child about the game, and -- no joke -- I still get chills after Cambiasso slides to the corner. Even the Serbian fans who'd been in great spirits before this goal, only the second of six, had to give it up. Their team got wifed, big time. The Argentinians had the ball for so long that it was impossible for anybody in the stadium not to notice that the Serbs hadn't a sniff of the ball for almost 2 minutes. And to score after that? It's goals like this that allow everybody to be a pretentious schmuck about football, and hey, that's great.

So suddenly everybody's on the Argentine boat. "New favorites" and all. But B&C's not buying into it just yet. Before we go too far and anoint these guys the football equivalent of the Arrested Development writing team, can we ask the question, "Argentina: Too good?" You know the saying, "Too many cooks make the kitchen smell of cabbage." Just saying. Don't come crying to me when these artistes get bounced for overscoring glorious goals.

UPDATE: Mateja Kezman, still terrible.

SWEDEN v. PARAGUAY [1-0]

2006-06-19T10:17:00.000-04:00

Becky Ljungberg, Winning In Perpetuity

HIGHLIGHTS

Erm, this dude scored.

You really proud of that, Sweden? On the reals? I don't even think Arsenal fans like dude. Whatever. Let's take this opportunity to give props to the man who makes this team at all likeable. Henrik Larsson. Say the name. Or just listen to the Swedish announcers go nuts.

B/T/W, there's no truth to the rumor that Christian Wilhelmsson was found in the locker room post-game, having hanged himself by his own rattail. Swedes love life. I love this website.

ENGLAND v. TRINIDAD & TOBAGO [2-0]

2006-06-19T09:08:00.000-04:00

Pull My Hair Out

HIGHLIGHTS

Conference-calling literary assassin TerrorDactile during the match couldn't even help pull this one out for the Trinis (B/T/W, hope no one missed the '06 version of this in EnnWhy on Saturday). But who knew such awesome dancers could resort to such vile chicanery. That's why a player quit rugby, so one ain't have to truck with fools like this.

England still look to be un gran mentiroso at this tournament (besides the Brazilians, of course -- more on that later) as dainty-armed Frank Lampard couldn't score with Gary Neville's dick (oh, wait--I've got that wrong somehow) on this day. Steven Gerrard can do whatever it is he wants though. A few B&C Associates were lucky enough to attend the University of Westminster with Mr. Gerrard, where he studied under the pseudonym of John Ashland.

Little known fact.

ECUADOR v. COSTA RICA [2-0]

2006-06-17T18:00:00.000-04:00

The Upgrade Was More Blue

HIGHLIGHTS

Had a better view of this one, and as the B&C factcheckers have pointed out, and as was apparent to mine eyes, the Ecuadorians are in fact in possession of all three primary colors, thereby making them a sartorial juggernaut the likes of which the Costa Ricans are powerless to oppose, despite the painterly blue & red (No relation -- Ed.) brushtrokes on their jerseys. Word to Croatia: Ya best to watch your front.

Those of you who believe anything that Darwin has to say knows dude spent some time licking poisonous frogs for kicks off the coast of Ecuador on a group of islands later named after an "art space" in Williamsburg that I've, of course, never been to. Those of you who don't know jack, go learn yourselves. The Ecuadorians advance...

Mo' Problems

2006-06-15T11:33:00.000-04:00

Unkay...so I'm officially obsessed with watching Rio Ferdinand play at playing Kutcher while watching his England teammates embarrass themselves. From the slightly dated (but on point, I suppose, for Rio) rap selections to Rio's cornrows, it's essential viewing.

Two more for you, mere minutes before England take on T&T's Soca Warriors:

Peter Crouch (of Robot fame)

Gary Neville (of moustache fame)

Neckface!!!

2006-06-15T11:27:00.000-04:00

Punk'd!!!

Well Droopy Swingers

2006-06-15T09:56:00.000-04:00

The Middle Passage

West Coast correspondent Skywalker sends this tip, that the Trinidadian players have been promised barrels of rum should they defeat their opponents this afternoon. Their opponents are, of course, the English British Knights -- a match that every news organization on the planet has termed the C.L.R. James Memorial Cup. The news that Dwight Yorke will be out 'til 4am, drunk and partying with globe-breasted blondes is no news at all -- the rum can only help. But this report conflicts with, erm, conflicting reports that the "winner" of the match (colonizer or colonized) will be presented with an autographed copy of A House for Mr. Biswas, by its author V.S. Naipaul. You know, for those who haven't gotten around to reading it yet.

Oi, BECKHAM, I'm talking to you.

GERMANY v. POLAND [1-0]

2006-06-15T05:38:00.000-04:00

HIGHLIGHTS

David Odonkor is my new favorite German!

Which is not to say the Poland keeper Artur Boruc wasn't totally hard done by to watch the winner fly past him after having valiantly denied the Germans for so long. Which is not to say that Klose and Podolski and Klose and Ballack and Klose and Klose didn't spurn chance after chance. Which is not to say the woodwork wasn't working overtime.

Which is to say, after providing the assist for the winning goal in injury time in front of his home Borussia Dortmund fans Odonkor ran, not to the goalscorer Neuville as did Klose and Ballack, but directly to coach Jurgen Klinsmann, whom he embraced. Klinsmann had put him on as a substitute in the 64th minute.

TUNISIA v. SAUDI ARABIA [2-2]

2006-06-15T05:04:00.000-04:00

(You try finding) HIGHLIGHTS

Update: HIGHLIGHTS (really)

A bounty of great goals in the most entertaining of dour-on-paper matches. The first, scored by Zied Jaziri, created by William S. Burroughs and almost out of nothing, is a candidate for goal of the tournament so far (Bet on it, cos they always like to sneak one in the Top 10 from some game you definitely avoided). And we here at B&C couldn't be happier for Bolton man Radhi Jaidi, heading home the equalizer in classic Wanderers style. Fat Sam, we're sure, dropped a tear, and his chicken tikka sandwich.

Peep the Saudi team's homepage, the Brazilians of the Orient.

SPAIN v. UKRAINE [4-0]

2006-06-15T04:45:00.000-04:00

We Got Taras Shevchenko Place Going Nutz

HIGHLIGHTS

Can't say that Spain are my favorite team in this tournament, for obvious reasons. Just looking at coach Luis Aragones makes me ill. Which is not to say that the players are of the same mindset, but we all need our reasons to root, for or against, yes?

And despite Andriy Shevchenko being Chelsea-bound, I've got to say I'm riding for the Ukranians. Remember, this is a country that suffered for decades under Stalin (forced famine in the 1930s, forced the Russian language on its people and, though Stalin was long gone by then, forced omission from the '94 World Cup when Russia decided they'd represent the C.I.S. themselves) only to see a presidential candidate poisoned in 2004. And, erm, Chernobyl. Karma -- which should be coming around -- one hopes is a better crosser of the ball than the Ukranian wingers. And for the bookish looking for a reason to lean, "Sheva" shares his surname with the Ukraine's most famous poet/personality/person, Taras Shevchenko, now 150 or so years passed.

But it may be all for naught after a 4-0 sacking (3-0 for purists who know that penalty, the first of the World Cup, was B.S.) A shocking red card. Sure Fernando Torres' goal was one of the best scored so far, but only because it came after Carlos Puyol's dogged, skillful run.

Francesc Fabregas Soler = "Cesc." Awesome.

Little victories: At least there's a team that took a worse beating than the U.S.

BRAZIL v CROATIA [1-0]

2006-06-15T04:19:00.000-04:00

HIGHLIGHTS

The most professionally taken goal yet. Leave it to the elegant
Brazilian midfielder whose name signifies dookie-bubbles to babies in a multiplicity of languages.

What else is there to say about Brazil? Ronaldo's fat? We knew that.
Check out their president. That Roberto Carlos has always been and still remains the best, most consistent player on the pitch, regardless of any other -inhos lurking with intent? My boy Von knew that too. That it's Gilliam's best? Surely.

See, you're an open book, Brazil. But we know there are things you're terrible at that don't involve lingerie models who excel in the defensive center-mid role. For instance: They lack a common border with Chile and Ecuador, yet abut every other country in South America. What, too cool for the Chileans, Brazil? An abundance of natural resources, huh? What could you possibly do with all that jojoba? Get into distribution. See dude.