Don Pedro et al,
Much should be said in response to JJ's e-mail. But I will restrict myself to the following snipe. The balls must glisten. Shave them and all anxieties will vanish. Just ask the J-bird about this!
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Wedding Bells
Yes, on November 3, 2007, the P-Dog will finally be domesticated to the ever lovely and assertive, Priya Montgomery Chatwani. I've been hearing a lot of buzz about the big day from ATGR readers, including from our biggest fan, and part time contributor, J.J. Hart. J.J. wasn't sure whether he should attend the wedding or the bachelor party; he was only given the option of coming to one event for reasons that should be apparent from the following:
"Peter, First you failed to respond to my first request regarding flight times. Second, it will not be too hard for me to watch you get married -- good riddance. Third, do I have to go to the wedding, or can I just go to the party? Fourth, it's mean to say things like 'women are always horny at weddings' and then follow it up with 'I wouldn't count on it.' Fifth, even if there are horny women at the wedding, they will probably want no part of me after I throw up on my shirt. Sixth, even if there are horny women at the wedding and I manage not to throw up on my shirt, my penis will be nonfunctional after I've finished reacquainting myself with my friend John Daniels. Seventh, even if there are horny women at the wedding, I manage not to throw up on my shirt and I manage to stay functionally sober, I have sexual anxiety. Eighth, should I shave my testes or leave the woolen coating? These are all the statements and questions I have for now."
All good points J.J. Unfortunately, I have no advice regarding whether you should shave your balls.
"Peter, First you failed to respond to my first request regarding flight times. Second, it will not be too hard for me to watch you get married -- good riddance. Third, do I have to go to the wedding, or can I just go to the party? Fourth, it's mean to say things like 'women are always horny at weddings' and then follow it up with 'I wouldn't count on it.' Fifth, even if there are horny women at the wedding, they will probably want no part of me after I throw up on my shirt. Sixth, even if there are horny women at the wedding and I manage not to throw up on my shirt, my penis will be nonfunctional after I've finished reacquainting myself with my friend John Daniels. Seventh, even if there are horny women at the wedding, I manage not to throw up on my shirt and I manage to stay functionally sober, I have sexual anxiety. Eighth, should I shave my testes or leave the woolen coating? These are all the statements and questions I have for now."
All good points J.J. Unfortunately, I have no advice regarding whether you should shave your balls.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Notes on "football"
Before I post on the "The Phoenix Also Rises" and ZJ's new thread, here are some thoughts on seeing Beckham live and in person for a complete 90 minutes plus stopages (or whatever they call it) against Chivas last night:
1. Beckham was clearly the best player on the field . In fact, he and Landon Donovan were the only Galaxy players who seemed to move the ball with any purpose. Beckham also looked more polished and controlled than anyone else on the field; he reminds me very much a soccer version of Jason Kidd in the way that he sees the field and always executes the right play at the right time.
2. Beckham is much scrappier (although more diminutive) than I would have guessed. I sort of invisioned a washed up pretty boy, but he was damn tough out there, not taking any shit from anyone despite being tripped repeatedly and pushed around. He even sparked a fight after getting absolutely taken out from behind. The most surprising thing to me was that Beckham's already the leader of the Galaxy. In fact, I think they've already made him the captain, which sounds crazy considering he's only played a couple games, but not crazy once you watch him play.
3. The rest of the Galaxy suck. The defense gave up two ridiculous goals in the 2nd half, which resulted from bonehead plays. The third goal was basically scored after the game was over. They need to revamp.
4. Beckham looked more frustrated with his teammates than Kobe Bryant playing with a team full of Smush Parkers. He also limped rather severely for most of the 2nd half and basically couldn't run at the end of the game. His ankle is obviously still hurting and I doubt the Galaxy can keep playing him for entire games until he gets better. Of course, they are paying him 3 billion dollars per game, so I can see why they want him out there. Of note, Beckham is very quick when he's not limping.
5. This goes without saying, but Beckham makes women crazy. At least half the crowd was teenage girls. Whenever Beckham touched the ball, a group of girls sitting directly behind us would start screaming at the top of their lungs. It nearly blew out my ear drums. I kept looking back at them hoping they would notice me staring at them with annoyance, only to find a bunch of giggling girls. More disturbingly, Rita, Priya's friend from work, kept saying things like, "Oh my god, Beckham just bent over, I wish we were closer," and "Oh my god, Beckham just adjusted his shorts."
6. Lastly, I was surprised to find that the Galaxy were giving out staw sombreros to mock the Chivas team, which I guess has a mostly hispanic fan base. I found this to be both tasteless and charming at the same time. You would never see that sort of thing at a mainsteam sporting event. I guess it's not as shocking as fans shooting off fireworks in the stadium after every goal, seemingly without any reaction by the security. I think that would land you in jail if you did that at a baseball game.
All in all, it was a very enjoyable experience. If every MLS game were as heated as that game, I would consider becoming a regular soccer fan. Until then, I'll leave it to Jason Hart and the hispanics.
1. Beckham was clearly the best player on the field . In fact, he and Landon Donovan were the only Galaxy players who seemed to move the ball with any purpose. Beckham also looked more polished and controlled than anyone else on the field; he reminds me very much a soccer version of Jason Kidd in the way that he sees the field and always executes the right play at the right time.
2. Beckham is much scrappier (although more diminutive) than I would have guessed. I sort of invisioned a washed up pretty boy, but he was damn tough out there, not taking any shit from anyone despite being tripped repeatedly and pushed around. He even sparked a fight after getting absolutely taken out from behind. The most surprising thing to me was that Beckham's already the leader of the Galaxy. In fact, I think they've already made him the captain, which sounds crazy considering he's only played a couple games, but not crazy once you watch him play.
3. The rest of the Galaxy suck. The defense gave up two ridiculous goals in the 2nd half, which resulted from bonehead plays. The third goal was basically scored after the game was over. They need to revamp.
4. Beckham looked more frustrated with his teammates than Kobe Bryant playing with a team full of Smush Parkers. He also limped rather severely for most of the 2nd half and basically couldn't run at the end of the game. His ankle is obviously still hurting and I doubt the Galaxy can keep playing him for entire games until he gets better. Of course, they are paying him 3 billion dollars per game, so I can see why they want him out there. Of note, Beckham is very quick when he's not limping.
5. This goes without saying, but Beckham makes women crazy. At least half the crowd was teenage girls. Whenever Beckham touched the ball, a group of girls sitting directly behind us would start screaming at the top of their lungs. It nearly blew out my ear drums. I kept looking back at them hoping they would notice me staring at them with annoyance, only to find a bunch of giggling girls. More disturbingly, Rita, Priya's friend from work, kept saying things like, "Oh my god, Beckham just bent over, I wish we were closer," and "Oh my god, Beckham just adjusted his shorts."
6. Lastly, I was surprised to find that the Galaxy were giving out staw sombreros to mock the Chivas team, which I guess has a mostly hispanic fan base. I found this to be both tasteless and charming at the same time. You would never see that sort of thing at a mainsteam sporting event. I guess it's not as shocking as fans shooting off fireworks in the stadium after every goal, seemingly without any reaction by the security. I think that would land you in jail if you did that at a baseball game.
All in all, it was a very enjoyable experience. If every MLS game were as heated as that game, I would consider becoming a regular soccer fan. Until then, I'll leave it to Jason Hart and the hispanics.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Forgive me for starting something new, and completely ignore it if it's awful. I really haven't a clue...I'm drunk!
I guess I can really only go pee when she sings. Loud vibrant singing. I have her whole damned album on my ipod. In case I am caught out in public. At a wendy’s or starbucks I can blare her “Gentile is the Urchan”, and let out a might fountain at near maximum expedition.
Gary accuses me of mental conditioning. Not just with the bladder thing. Apparently he has been keeping track of seven or eight different things that are supposedly ‘neurotic’ pathological behavior. So what if I like to gargle Kern’s fruit punch in the morning while absorbing Paula Zahn and her news updates. It suits me. I feel more compelled to conquer. Although – and quite admittedly – I am not quite sure what the hell it is just yet.
But don’t you worry my estranged audience member. Your dues will come. Not in the typical form. Rather, you will be perfectly surprised by what happens next. In fact, I can’t imagine that you are anywhere close to figuring out what Gary is going to do after I tell him that they have discontinued his favorite reality show: “the simple life” with Paris Hilton.
And then there’s the tea. I don’t really care what anyone else thinks about this one. It is just proper! If a man wants to have his tea after precisely four minutes and seventeen seconds past the moment he introduced the barely scalding water to the dried leaves, then so be it. According to many Tibetan monks this is within three seconds of the optimal mediation time for attaining moksha. Don’t know where I heard that but I remember thinking that I could trust the girl who told me. And enlightenment does sound nice.
I haven’t been working on that a lot lately though. She (the lady of the 5th thru 11th dimensions according to modern superstring theory) seems to have encumbered me with psychological premonitions. The inornate and nondescript unease that usually chases after you in the mornings after a sequence of unpleasant dreams. I spend most of the day reconfiguring my brain to believe that everything that just happened actually didn’t, and I really shouldn’t be that angry at any of the unfortunate actors. I guess it’s just most disturbing that the most common emotion is anger. Why aren’t these non-sequitur premonitions filled with delight. Just once I would love to have savage romps with the faintly clad austere group of ladies living under paradise’s roof in Malibu.
But at last I must recognize my own torturous demons as they arise. It is not their cross, really nor mine, that must be born. We are just hallowed embryos of an archaic society churning out new recipients for the daily award show. Yes, we spawned this cosmic aberration. Ironically, in attempt to cleanse ourselves of what little we knew about the shitmounds growing around us, we have entrenched ourselves in further disrepair (at least so from the great cosmic eyes previously referred to).
Good Christ I wish I could have as easy recipe for taking a dump as I had when I could here her song for pissing. But no such alchemist has presented themselves….and I struggle. Day after day I spent hours soaking in the birch blond walls, a veritable contingency of overconfident men describing their latest conquests, and by most accounts, the remaining embers of a thriving business practice.
Gary accuses me of mental conditioning. Not just with the bladder thing. Apparently he has been keeping track of seven or eight different things that are supposedly ‘neurotic’ pathological behavior. So what if I like to gargle Kern’s fruit punch in the morning while absorbing Paula Zahn and her news updates. It suits me. I feel more compelled to conquer. Although – and quite admittedly – I am not quite sure what the hell it is just yet.
But don’t you worry my estranged audience member. Your dues will come. Not in the typical form. Rather, you will be perfectly surprised by what happens next. In fact, I can’t imagine that you are anywhere close to figuring out what Gary is going to do after I tell him that they have discontinued his favorite reality show: “the simple life” with Paris Hilton.
And then there’s the tea. I don’t really care what anyone else thinks about this one. It is just proper! If a man wants to have his tea after precisely four minutes and seventeen seconds past the moment he introduced the barely scalding water to the dried leaves, then so be it. According to many Tibetan monks this is within three seconds of the optimal mediation time for attaining moksha. Don’t know where I heard that but I remember thinking that I could trust the girl who told me. And enlightenment does sound nice.
I haven’t been working on that a lot lately though. She (the lady of the 5th thru 11th dimensions according to modern superstring theory) seems to have encumbered me with psychological premonitions. The inornate and nondescript unease that usually chases after you in the mornings after a sequence of unpleasant dreams. I spend most of the day reconfiguring my brain to believe that everything that just happened actually didn’t, and I really shouldn’t be that angry at any of the unfortunate actors. I guess it’s just most disturbing that the most common emotion is anger. Why aren’t these non-sequitur premonitions filled with delight. Just once I would love to have savage romps with the faintly clad austere group of ladies living under paradise’s roof in Malibu.
But at last I must recognize my own torturous demons as they arise. It is not their cross, really nor mine, that must be born. We are just hallowed embryos of an archaic society churning out new recipients for the daily award show. Yes, we spawned this cosmic aberration. Ironically, in attempt to cleanse ourselves of what little we knew about the shitmounds growing around us, we have entrenched ourselves in further disrepair (at least so from the great cosmic eyes previously referred to).
Good Christ I wish I could have as easy recipe for taking a dump as I had when I could here her song for pissing. But no such alchemist has presented themselves….and I struggle. Day after day I spent hours soaking in the birch blond walls, a veritable contingency of overconfident men describing their latest conquests, and by most accounts, the remaining embers of a thriving business practice.
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