Returning from a brief and very unhealthy lunch, I had the misfortune of ending up behind some jeep with not one, but TWO Sarah Palin/John McCain campaign stickers. What? You don't believe that there were/are stickers that basically have her name printed prominently? Moreso than McCain's? Well, feast your eyes on THIS...
Yeah!! That's what I'M talkin' about!! You betcha, doggone it! Wink, goddamn, wink. So, of course, you KNOW I had to pull up beside and see what kind of an effing idiot was so smitten with Wasilla's Very Own to the point of sporting TWO stickers on his jeep. And yes, I was DAMN sure it was a 'he'! Well, I'll let you guess what he looked like. I couldn't even be annoyed to tell you the truth. I just slightly shaked my head and said out loud, 'It fuckin' figures.' (I wonder what he'd say if he knew she was my girlfriend? Even though she's not that fly.)
Now, the guy HAS to be a wanker, innit? I mean, the McPalin campaign was dead in the water from the off and JAYSUS, they got their asses handed to them, didn't they? So why continue to drive around with such GARBAGE on your vehicle? Is this some sort of conservative 'keep the faith' type thing? You know, much like these guys that run around losing their hair on top, yet sport a ponytail, it's only a bit futile at this point. But then again, this is Texas, where dumbasses and mullets always seem to find a home, right? Right!
I'm really tempted to get all weepy and sentimental about the amazing return of Eduardo da Silva to the Arsenal squad after a year out of action on account of an horrific leg break, however, I'll leave that to others. I'll just hail the man's spirit. It was a lovely sight and one that really didn't surprise me all that much. He had shown exquisite quality in the few run outs he had gotten before the injury. His touch and pace were on full display and I, personally, felt that perhaps the most ominous obstacle he would enconter would be in the line of confidence. He appeared entirely unmoved and (here I go with the syrupy shite) it was an assertion of the human spirit. Ok, there, I'm done.
Seriously though, it was great to see him not only playing, but playing extremely well. He and Carlos Vela seemed to have developed a certain understanding and it'll be something to look out for in the remaining matches. The addition of Andrei Arshavin and the imminent return(s) of Cesc Fábregas, Theo Walcott, and Emmanuel Adebayor will mean Arsene Wenger may be spoiled for choice. I have several times resigned myself to the fact that we'll likely go trophyless this season and I HATE fluctuating expectations, especially after a Cup match against the likes of Cardiff City (no disrespect, but c'mon), though I have to say, I think we Gooners are in for some groovy times. And if nothing else, the rest of the season will provide some much-needed entertainment, which we've been sorely short on recently.
Thank fuck it's over with. Those were two unbearable days. And how is it that some people actually stretched this Valentine's horseshit over two days anyway? You know, there were some giving it on Friday, balloons crowding what little room they had left in their cars and such. Flowers and candy being handed out as if they were somehow deserved, and all because some fucking guys (and girls) buckled under the pressure of conforming. Yes, conforming. Cos it'd really be hell to pay if any of them missed it or forgot it. Or worse yet, chose to willfully ignore it.
I'm not bitter or anything, am I? I'm only being realistic. Now I'm a bit of a romantic bastard myself, kind of a sap actually, but some of these activities are well over the fucking top! One I can't bear is men recieving flowers. I would not stand for it. I'd be embarassed to fuck! I mean SERIOUSLY! I'd feel like a right tool walking around with a bouquet of fucking flowers! This apparently flatters some people. Again, I'm not opposed to the romance aspect, I'm not some cranky git that only feels negatively towards the day simply because I got to spend it dead alone! (Technically, I DO have a valentine, in fact, though it's a bit complicated. More on that in a minute) I just can't get my head around this shit sometimes.
So there I was, out at theme pub wanting to have a few pints before pissing off back home and who ALSO happens to be there? Well, the fucking Valentine's Day couples of course! They were mobbed up, weren't they? Really making their prescence felt. See, what happens is theme pub is also a restaurant on the other side of the bar so there was some spill over from the dining area. So I'm trying to sip a pint and chit chat idly as I usually do and all amidst these annoying balloons and cupids and goofy looking bastards who were making a really big deal out of the whole thing. Lucky I wasn't a bouncer cos I'da found ANY excuse to chuck 'em all out. This is a BAR, for fuck's sake!! How about a bit of decorum? Go engage in that shit elsewhere! Like a park or something...
So, I do have a 'valentine', though luckily for me, there is an enormous distance between us. In fact, she's in another country (even though the border with said country is about 12 miles from where I write, it's just that saying 'she's in another country' REALLY sounds dramatic, innit?). And I say 'luckily', cos if we were closer, I'd have damn sure been one of those sad, pathetic C's making way too big a deal about the whole matter! Yeah, I'm cynical to a point, ain't I? Vaguely hypocritical on the issue as well, but I'm only being honest!
How many times have those words been uttered in reference to what would become a life-altering experience? It's easy to see how the cliché could apply again, though the truth is that I truly don't remember how it went down. I had taken two weeks off in order to enjoy the 2002 edition of the FIFA World Cup live and direct from various cities in Japan and the Republic of Korea. It meant matches were on starting from 1am and ending around 6am. It was quite torturous to say the least. And then... I don't even remember how it happened.
I don't know if it was the video or the CD, but her art grabbed me in a way I had never been held onto before or since. It was Lauryn Hill's somewhat unfancied release, 'MTV Unplugged 2.0'. My life was changed with it, truly changed. altered beyond anything I'd imagined. It was the second track, 'Adam Lives in Theory' which woke me up to something, showed me something... There was an expression within that reached into me delicately, though with enough force to make me look at myself for the first time and face facts, face who I was.. As Lauryn said in the opening of the track, 'Fantasy is what people want, but reality is what they need.', as she announced her retirement from the fantasy part. So I was left to ponder.
Every song so full of art and expression. I was overwhelmed. Amidst the twirling streams of incense and slow drags on cannabis pleasantly stronger than I had initially assumed, I sat mesmerized and emotionally moved. Every song with melody that sent waves of sentiment through me... and I felt things slowly falling apart, crumbling even. This veneer was melting away in the middle of the night. One of aggression and stubbornness, of trying to appear as something I was not, at every juncture... it fell apart, exploded, blown to bits by the expression shared by a young sister armed solely with a guitar.
Who was I? I wasn't sure. Still ain't, if I'm being honest. I knew then, though, that I wasn't what I was acting as. My true self, whatever the hell that is, began to emerge. It wouldn't be until five years later that I would feel completely comfortable with it, but it did finally manifest itself during those darkened nights, lit only by the light of the small television on the floor and the orangeish light peeking in from the parking lot through the sliding doors.
'Freedom Time'. She said it was time to 'Get free, be who you're supposed to be'. I took it as a personal challenge and let nature takes it's course. Hair stopped being cut, only to grow curly, mad locked, and as a statement of some sort of growth. Tears came flowing freely and seeds were planted that would later bear fruit. Those tears were washing away every rusted and rotted bit of self-repression that I had held in me, they were cleansing me from within. They came in a torrent with various feelings that I had held inside; it was elation, sadness, bittersweet memories, and the daunting prospect of what was to come. And it was a solitary act of course. Nobody was able to spend those late nights watching football and/or sipping cans whilst having Lauryn do her thing, which was shaking false foundations I had set up for myself.
Loneliness was indeed a factor. I felt alone during that spell, even when surrounded by friends. Her words became company. Her voice was comforting. What she was speaking of went straight to my consciousness like nothing before. I was sincerely moved. She asked, 'Why don't you rebel?'. I had no answer. None. I felt empty, yet fulfilled. She said that 'a crew doesn't validate you.', and it hit me. Hard. I decided I could walk alone and be me. Be who I am, who I'm supposed to be. Free.
Then we found peace of mind in nine minutes of emotion.
A soaring love song about someone insecure and immature, sounding like someone I knew well. As I write this now, it remains as moving to me as when I first heard it. It still applies. I was never quite sure who she was singing of, whether it was a man she loved or... God.... as the lyrics seem to shift into something frankly incredible halfway through as she beseeches the listener to 'free your mind'. It crashed over me. It was truly a life-altering moment.
'What a joy it is to be alive. To get another chance. Everyday's another chance to get it right this time.'
My thoughts... I'm not that bad. I'm not like that. I don't need to behave in this manner. I can be who I am and if I have to walk alone, I will. I don't need validation. I don't need acceptance. I don't have to prove myself to anyone. That's who I am. Those who know me will know. Those that don't take the time, well, they won't, and I'm not ever going to be bothered. I have love to share, loads of it in fact. That's who I am. I have my very own thoughts, ideas, and views, and while I know most folks won't understand them or care, it's not going to stop me from being who I am. I am an individual. I am unique. That's who I am. I am holy and profane. I am logical and irrational. I am not a bad person as I look from the outside in. I am a gentle soul. That's all. That's all I've ever been. That is who I am.
And THAT was the very first chain I broke in my own personal endeavor to get free. It's an ongoing process for sure. It's never ending as far as I can see. However, I will ALWAYS acknowledge the profound influence that Lauryn Hill's words, music, and attitude had on me during quiet solitary summer nights drenched in canned lager and spent in deep, honest self-reflection.
So there I go again, right? Standing a pint of the finest stout made in the whole wide world apparently. Only the pint is being pulled in deep south Texas, where memories fade into long-necks of pale piss-water that astoundingly passes for beer. It's a shambles, of course, but I like, no, I LOVE, my Guinness. There's nothing quite as beautiful in this world than the sensation that comes from holding a lovely topped-off pint of properly pulled Guinness. Oh... it IS a moment for me. One I've taken time to appreciate, even whilst being three fucking sheets, leaning shamelessly on a bar in a hotel in Killarney at 2am. It's sooo inspiring.
Right... So I'm at 'theme pub' and I'm not about to mention names, but you can imagine, innit? And I order the shit, cos... well... I LIKE it, even if they DON'T know how to pull a proper pint. No matter. I withstand the practice and don't say a word. Why? Because I'm a classy guy, alright? What the fuck can I DO? Tell him/her, 'Nah, mate, ya not pourin' that roite.' Ain't gonna happen... and why NOT?? Because they won't give a shit. Seriously, they won't. It's ALL beer to them. They don't give a fuck. So I have to take it and be vaguely merry.
I once mentioned, to some sad cow with the big blonde Texas hair that was tending bar one afternoon, that I had recently returned from Eire and would like a drop of the old water from the River Liffey to remind me of the pleasant hours I'd spent well pissed on the Emerald Isle. So, what does she say? Or ASK actually? She's there, 'What were YOU doing there?' Like I didn't belong. And sheepishly, I could only muster the 'Culture and Music' explanation... as if this moron would understand that shit ANYway. Then to add insult to injury, she had no clue as to how to pull a fucking pint! And again, me, being a class act (sometimes to my own detriment), I said fuck all and had to drink that horrid, sloppy bullshit.
The fucking nerve...
And I go through that everytime I step to 'theme pub'. I'm forced to swill shite pints (that aren't proper imperial pints ANYway) and smile. Sometimes I wonder why they can't find this video and learn from it... It's ONLY the two-part pour, ya bastards. The two-part pour!
So we/they/Arsenal signed Andrei Arshavin... FINALLY. Enough of that, FFS. Now I'm anxious to see him play. All along I was sceptical of him, but now since we set a record transfer fee bringing this fucking guy in, I reckon Wenger must have a high opinion of him. And I, like any halfway decent member of any devoted cult worth his or her salt, truly believe that 'Arsene Knows', as the slogan goes. So, so much for that.
Something Else Entirely... 'Music to Get Well Pissed To'
Now, I wanna begin a new feature which I likely will never follow up further than the submission for today. No matter, I just wanted to wax poetic about the Arctic Monkeys and this is just an effing excuse to do so. The feature is called 'Music to Get Well Pissed To'... and the first entry is the, erm, Arctic Monkeys (somewhat redundantly).
Seriously, when I heard these kids a little over a year ago, I truly wondered how in the hell I had ever lived without them. I don't wanna sound like some breathless groupie, but... fuck it, I will. They're only brilliant. Their sound is massive, they're absolute sonic gang-busters. It's the sort of thing that rock n' roll is supposed to be about (and something I've noticed missing from some of these so-called rock bands); a wall of guitar chords and insistent pounding drums. And here's the key: they deftly drop the volume when necessary and THAT'S when the pure quality of the band comes shining through.
Admittedly, I don't know what I've missed lately as far as rock bands go, as I decided a few years back to remain blissfully ignorant after growing weary of square-looking geeks and/or horrorshow rejects posing as 'rock stars'. The former clones looking suspiciously and annoyingly like frat boy bar-room bands and the latter like something I'd honestly be embarassed as fuck to let my mum know I liked, SO, it wouldn't shock me if someone could show me exactly WHO the Monkeys might be aping (no pun intended...really, seriously... that just HAPPENED). I'm sure they've been influenced by someone or another, though I don't reckon they're properly ripping anyone off.
ANYway...
Alex Turner's lyrics are absolutely fantastic. His dry wit and keen observations are like nothing else I've heard in recent years. He actually SAYS something without sounding pretentious. Ah, it's a working class dream, innit? He paints beautiful pictures of being out on the piss, makes the mundane seem glorious, and his rhyme schemes are impeccable, which is something I truly admire and haven't noticed being practiced lately outside of highly skilled emcees. It's seemingly lost on rock bands nowadays.
THEN you have Turner's vocals, which are outstanding. His light sarcasm is balanced by a lack of over-the-top sneering in his delivery, that is, he sounds thoroughly genuine, unlike the suburban whinge mob that dare to call themselves 'punk' that I've had the utter displeasure of listening to. And of course, Turner is true to his home turf, Sheffield, and actually sings in that Yorkshire accent, though I'm sure he has little choice, as he'd likely take a caning from his local loyal fans if he didn't.
Still and all... Arctic Monkeys- Best Band in the World. End of story. And of course, GREAT music to get well pissed to!
So it's on, then it's off, then maybe, then probably not, then it's 'Hell yes', then it's 'I think not'. Seriously, this Andrei Arshavin business has become a practice eerily similiar to my (admittedly rare) experiences of dating women. Yes, I have, in fact, done such a thing, in my youth, don't act shocked. It's tediously ambiguous behaviour shrouded in vague statements, misleading remarks and gross misunderstandings that are then spoken of at loud volume to looks of horror (or at least regret) by one or both parties involved. Fucking mental, it is.
I watched a bit of Sky Sports News earlier and learnt quite descriptively that he, Andrei Arshavin, had grabbed hold of his pair and coughed for the know-it-alls at Arsenal's training facility. All was deemed well enough, so it was that Arshavin was now a Gunner, once and for all. I was pleased though I haven't been a big fan of this daily 'he said, he said, they said' coyness being played out by all sides. I honestly didn't give a shit if he joined or not. However, upon hearing that he basically had, well... I have to admit, I was a bit chuffed.
Well, within minutes the news came through that the deal was suddenly off. Ha! I shoulda known. I should have recognized that move from that one time I wasted money and time with an 'actress' named Dawn. Yeah, it was the same move. Believe me.
There's a certain sticking point... Well, I don't mean to be so descriptive as to seem blatantly obscene, but come fucking on! Get on with it! Enough teasing! Apparently Zenit want money out of Arshavin. What?! Yeah... HE has to pay to get out of his deal or maybe because Arsenal doesn't fancy paying a certain amount or something of that nature. And wouldn't I have loved to have that option with Dawnie?
Well, regardless, I'm gonna have a go at Arshavin just because... well... because I can't find a picture of the Zenit St Petersburg board.
Ok, so I hope one of Andrei's terms isn't the insistence on having the number 10 shirt. Bloody fucking hell... that particular piece of clothing only belongs to William Gallas, doesn't it?!
So it just brings to mind a serious contemplation- I wonder if perhaps borrowing someone else's knickers woulda led that Dawn to perform any better or...
Yeah, as you can tell, I'm having a mare of a day.
