Monday, July 10, 2006
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
il Holy crap
What a stupendous game. Wow, Wow, and my leg hurts. On a tactical note, Italy was content to hold their defensive shape and let Germany run itself ragged pressing during regulation. They were thusly able to create a lot more opportunities, and win it (deservedly) very late. At which point the Circo Massimo, where I was watching it on a superb Jumbo-screen and speaker setup, erupted. There were by my guess 7000 people total, 600 of which had flags and 6000 of which had beer. I'm pretty sure all the people that had flags also had beer. Vigorous waving encourages thirst. The italian manner of celebration seems to be getting into/onto your vehicle, and driving around honking. Variations include walking around while making honking noises, and hitting friends & passersby on the head with flags, an activity that could well be referred to as bonking.
The taxi-drivers are striking because after recent legislation to encourage a liberal economy, ANYBODY can get a license. This is only important because it has placed a strain on the public transportation system, which went completely haywire after the game. Busses were deviating from their routes, acquiring beffuddled passangers, and dropping them off in devlish locations. I joyously (and somewhat suspiciously) sauntered onto a 105 bus (my normal one) that had somehow drifted near Circo Massimo. My semi-suspicion was justified when I was finally grunted off by the driver, after watching in horror as the bus went due north, made a stop near the Pantheon, and proceeded to cross the river and expunge its remaining passengers at St. Peter's dome. This is the equivalent of getting on a flight to Miami in Boston, having a layover in Ohio, and finally de-planing in Newfoundland. On the long walk home I inherited pizza. Both parties in the transaction completely forgot about the buyer's responsibility to pay. So not only was I treated to pizza, but also the most effusive revelry I will ever witness. Conclusion: Italy rules.
What a stupendous game. Wow, Wow, and my leg hurts. On a tactical note, Italy was content to hold their defensive shape and let Germany run itself ragged pressing during regulation. They were thusly able to create a lot more opportunities, and win it (deservedly) very late. At which point the Circo Massimo, where I was watching it on a superb Jumbo-screen and speaker setup, erupted. There were by my guess 7000 people total, 600 of which had flags and 6000 of which had beer. I'm pretty sure all the people that had flags also had beer. Vigorous waving encourages thirst. The italian manner of celebration seems to be getting into/onto your vehicle, and driving around honking. Variations include walking around while making honking noises, and hitting friends & passersby on the head with flags, an activity that could well be referred to as bonking.
The taxi-drivers are striking because after recent legislation to encourage a liberal economy, ANYBODY can get a license. This is only important because it has placed a strain on the public transportation system, which went completely haywire after the game. Busses were deviating from their routes, acquiring beffuddled passangers, and dropping them off in devlish locations. I joyously (and somewhat suspiciously) sauntered onto a 105 bus (my normal one) that had somehow drifted near Circo Massimo. My semi-suspicion was justified when I was finally grunted off by the driver, after watching in horror as the bus went due north, made a stop near the Pantheon, and proceeded to cross the river and expunge its remaining passengers at St. Peter's dome. This is the equivalent of getting on a flight to Miami in Boston, having a layover in Ohio, and finally de-planing in Newfoundland. On the long walk home I inherited pizza. Both parties in the transaction completely forgot about the buyer's responsibility to pay. So not only was I treated to pizza, but also the most effusive revelry I will ever witness. Conclusion: Italy rules.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Monday, July 03, 2006
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Locations in Rome
Where I run: Inside Circus Maximum, in wooded area across from Baths of Caracalla (that is grossly overstated on most maps - I counted 19 trees today, 4 of which appeared to be in the illest of health.
Where all roads lead to (once inside city): Piazza Venezia, home to the monument to Vittorio Emmanuele il Secondo. For some reason it's referred to as "the typewriter monument." Look, I've seen typewriters, and that - my friends - is no typewriter.
Where I live: Near Porta Maggiore on Via Casilina. More or less here
Where I ball: nowhere, as yet.
Where a good place to get an economical and tasty panino is: the place on Via Genova, off Via Nazionale
Where I work: 2 places. One is on Via Palestra, very close to the main train Station. The other is inside of Trajan's Markets, a monument built in 110 CE. I'm going there tomorrow to hopefully get my obtain autocad data on.
Where I sweat: usually on the 105 bus, where temperatures can climb to the absurd height of 110. That may be in Celsius.
Place where I buy the ticket that lets me ride the metro instead of the mobile inferno: Hopefully next to my apartment. Hopefully now.
Where I run: Inside Circus Maximum, in wooded area across from Baths of Caracalla (that is grossly overstated on most maps - I counted 19 trees today, 4 of which appeared to be in the illest of health.
Where all roads lead to (once inside city): Piazza Venezia, home to the monument to Vittorio Emmanuele il Secondo. For some reason it's referred to as "the typewriter monument." Look, I've seen typewriters, and that - my friends - is no typewriter.
Where I live: Near Porta Maggiore on Via Casilina. More or less here
Where I ball: nowhere, as yet.
Where a good place to get an economical and tasty panino is: the place on Via Genova, off Via Nazionale
Where I work: 2 places. One is on Via Palestra, very close to the main train Station. The other is inside of Trajan's Markets, a monument built in 110 CE. I'm going there tomorrow to hopefully get my obtain autocad data on.
Where I sweat: usually on the 105 bus, where temperatures can climb to the absurd height of 110. That may be in Celsius.
Place where I buy the ticket that lets me ride the metro instead of the mobile inferno: Hopefully next to my apartment. Hopefully now.
Locations in Rome
Where I run: Inside Circus Maximum, in wooded area across from Baths of Caracalla (that is grossly overstated on most maps - I counted 19 trees today, 4 of which appeared to be in the illest of health.
Where all roads lead to (once inside city): Piazza Venezia, home to the monument to Vittorio Emmanuele il Secondo. For some reason it's referred to as "the typewriter monument." Look, I've seen typewriters, and that - my friends - is no typewriter.
Where I live: Near Porta Maggiore on Via Casilina. More or less here
Where I ball: nowhere, as yet.
Where a good place to get an economical and tasty panino is: the place on Via Genova, off Via Nazionale
Where I work: 2 places. One is on Via Palestra, very close to the main train Station. The other is inside of Trajan's Markets, a monument built in 110 CE. I'm going there tomorrow to hopefully get my obtain autocad data on.
Where I sweat: usually on the 105 bus, where temperatures can climb to the absurd height of 110. That may be in Celsius.
Place where I buy the ticket that lets me ride the metro instead of the mobile inferno: Hopefully next to my apartment. Hopefully now.
Where I run: Inside Circus Maximum, in wooded area across from Baths of Caracalla (that is grossly overstated on most maps - I counted 19 trees today, 4 of which appeared to be in the illest of health.
Where all roads lead to (once inside city): Piazza Venezia, home to the monument to Vittorio Emmanuele il Secondo. For some reason it's referred to as "the typewriter monument." Look, I've seen typewriters, and that - my friends - is no typewriter.
Where I live: Near Porta Maggiore on Via Casilina. More or less here
Where I ball: nowhere, as yet.
Where a good place to get an economical and tasty panino is: the place on Via Genova, off Via Nazionale
Where I work: 2 places. One is on Via Palestra, very close to the main train Station. The other is inside of Trajan's Markets, a monument built in 110 CE. I'm going there tomorrow to hopefully get my obtain autocad data on.
Where I sweat: usually on the 105 bus, where temperatures can climb to the absurd height of 110. That may be in Celsius.
Place where I buy the ticket that lets me ride the metro instead of the mobile inferno: Hopefully next to my apartment. Hopefully now.
Locations in Rome
Where I run: Inside Circus Maximum, in wooded area across from Baths of Caracalla (that is grossly overstated on most maps - I counted 19 trees today, 4 of which appeared to be in the illest of health.
Where all roads lead to (once inside city): Piazza Venezia, home to the monument to Vittorio Emmanuele il Secondo. For some reason it's referred to as "the typewriter monument." Look, I've seen typewriters, and that - my friends - is no typewriter.
Where I live: Near Porta Maggiore on Via Casilina. More or less here
Where I ball: nowhere, as yet.
Where a good place to get an economical and tasty panino is: the place on Via Genova, off Via Nazionale
Where I work: 2 places. One is on Via Palestra, very close to the main train Station. The other is inside of Trajan's Markets, a monument built in 110 CE. I'm going there tomorrow to hopefully get my obtain autocad data on.
Where I sweat: usually on the 105 bus, where temperatures can climb to the absurd height of 110. That may be in Celsius.
Place where I buy the ticket that lets me ride the metro instead of the mobile inferno: Hopefully next to my apartment. Hopefully now.
Where I run: Inside Circus Maximum, in wooded area across from Baths of Caracalla (that is grossly overstated on most maps - I counted 19 trees today, 4 of which appeared to be in the illest of health.
Where all roads lead to (once inside city): Piazza Venezia, home to the monument to Vittorio Emmanuele il Secondo. For some reason it's referred to as "the typewriter monument." Look, I've seen typewriters, and that - my friends - is no typewriter.
Where I live: Near Porta Maggiore on Via Casilina. More or less here
Where I ball: nowhere, as yet.
Where a good place to get an economical and tasty panino is: the place on Via Genova, off Via Nazionale
Where I work: 2 places. One is on Via Palestra, very close to the main train Station. The other is inside of Trajan's Markets, a monument built in 110 CE. I'm going there tomorrow to hopefully get my obtain autocad data on.
Where I sweat: usually on the 105 bus, where temperatures can climb to the absurd height of 110. That may be in Celsius.
Place where I buy the ticket that lets me ride the metro instead of the mobile inferno: Hopefully next to my apartment. Hopefully now.
Locations in Rome
Where I run: Inside Circus Maximum, in wooded area across from Baths of Caracalla (that is grossly overstated on most maps - I counted 19 trees today, 4 of which appeared to be in the illest of health.
Where all roads lead to (once inside city): Piazza Venezia, home to the monument to Vittorio Emmanuele il Secondo. For some reason it's referred to as "the typewriter monument." Look, I've seen typewriters, and that - my friends - is no typewriter.
Where I live: Near Porta Maggiore on Via Casilina. More or less here
Where I ball: nowhere, as yet.
Where a good place to get an economical and tasty panino is: the place on Via Genova, off Via Nazionale
Where I work: 2 places. One is on Via Palestra, very close to the main train Station. The other is inside of Trajan's Markets, a monument built in 110 CE. I'm going there tomorrow to hopefully get my obtain autocad data on.
Where I sweat: usually on the 105 bus, where temperatures can climb to the absurd height of 110. That may be in Celsius.
Place where I buy the ticket that lets me ride the metro instead of the mobile inferno: Hopefully next to my apartment. Hopefully now.
Where I run: Inside Circus Maximum, in wooded area across from Baths of Caracalla (that is grossly overstated on most maps - I counted 19 trees today, 4 of which appeared to be in the illest of health.
Where all roads lead to (once inside city): Piazza Venezia, home to the monument to Vittorio Emmanuele il Secondo. For some reason it's referred to as "the typewriter monument." Look, I've seen typewriters, and that - my friends - is no typewriter.
Where I live: Near Porta Maggiore on Via Casilina. More or less here
Where I ball: nowhere, as yet.
Where a good place to get an economical and tasty panino is: the place on Via Genova, off Via Nazionale
Where I work: 2 places. One is on Via Palestra, very close to the main train Station. The other is inside of Trajan's Markets, a monument built in 110 CE. I'm going there tomorrow to hopefully get my obtain autocad data on.
Where I sweat: usually on the 105 bus, where temperatures can climb to the absurd height of 110. That may be in Celsius.
Place where I buy the ticket that lets me ride the metro instead of the mobile inferno: Hopefully next to my apartment. Hopefully now.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
A Letter of Apology
Dear Fan (the appliance, not of blog),
I am sorry for fiercely Karate-chopping you like something serious this afternoon. I was mad at my continued inability to withdraw funds, and famished consequently of the same condition. An empty stomache can drive a man to desperate means. The situation has been resolved now, and as a token of my contriteness, please accept this (unique) description of several heretofore undiscovered (read: HOTT) Italian Fashion trends:
1) The Old Man Vest. Over the course of their lives, Italian men are often unable to carry many of their prized trinkets with them, despite (as far as the evidence is concerned) acquiring many. Due mostly to the pursuit of the moda, modef. This all changes at what my calculations define as age 62, when they become eligible for their Old Man Vest. Suddenly, they can carry around all of the keepsakes that lead to twisting and bewildering stories (usually told too fast, but crushingly definitive in a way) and not have to worry about remembering the prompts in their head... as they're now all in pocket 3c or 1f. Who knows... that's what the fumbling's for.
2) The Desperation Du-Rag. Defines article of "clothing" that is slapdashedly pulled over the hair-zone to protect it from scooterhelmet hair. I've seen everything from Bandanas to plastic bags.
3) The Too-Large-Pants Ostensibly Displaying Underwear. This shocking entry often struggles to stay embraced to the hips of teenage girls. It has at least one pocket, for the cell-phone in theory, that never gets used because they are always SMS'ing or talking on the phone or playing ItalianSnake, which is virtually indistinguishable from Snake. At some point, the wearers realize the error of their ways, and overcompensate by wearing pants so tight that... they look very uncomfortable. yah.
SuddenlyLiquid-PHiL
Dear Fan (the appliance, not of blog),
I am sorry for fiercely Karate-chopping you like something serious this afternoon. I was mad at my continued inability to withdraw funds, and famished consequently of the same condition. An empty stomache can drive a man to desperate means. The situation has been resolved now, and as a token of my contriteness, please accept this (unique) description of several heretofore undiscovered (read: HOTT) Italian Fashion trends:
1) The Old Man Vest. Over the course of their lives, Italian men are often unable to carry many of their prized trinkets with them, despite (as far as the evidence is concerned) acquiring many. Due mostly to the pursuit of the moda, modef. This all changes at what my calculations define as age 62, when they become eligible for their Old Man Vest. Suddenly, they can carry around all of the keepsakes that lead to twisting and bewildering stories (usually told too fast, but crushingly definitive in a way) and not have to worry about remembering the prompts in their head... as they're now all in pocket 3c or 1f. Who knows... that's what the fumbling's for.
2) The Desperation Du-Rag. Defines article of "clothing" that is slapdashedly pulled over the hair-zone to protect it from scooterhelmet hair. I've seen everything from Bandanas to plastic bags.
3) The Too-Large-Pants Ostensibly Displaying Underwear. This shocking entry often struggles to stay embraced to the hips of teenage girls. It has at least one pocket, for the cell-phone in theory, that never gets used because they are always SMS'ing or talking on the phone or playing ItalianSnake, which is virtually indistinguishable from Snake. At some point, the wearers realize the error of their ways, and overcompensate by wearing pants so tight that... they look very uncomfortable. yah.
SuddenlyLiquid-PHiL
Sunday, June 25, 2006
A Sunday Afternoon About Town (extended)
This morning the wakeup dice showed 10. The structure of my room is very effective at keeping out the sun. When it comes to noise, the walls might as well be dangly beed curtains, but that's another (simple) story: I just have to get home after the trash-man comes. At 2355.
I got up and proceeded to read the living daylights out of a text I brought. The window was open. At about 1400 I launched myself in the direction of downtown. I ended up on a tram, sitting very much in front. I don't know about trams yet.
After some leftrightlefting I found myself astride of the Imperial Fora, perhaps my favorite place. On top of the expected ancient granduer, I was offered an additional nectar from the teat of the she-wolf. Sunday is disaster prevention day!!
I started off in the fire-safety area. First, a mobile fire-truck that had transformed into a jumping platform, for the large inflatable landing pad below. Anybody could stroll up, declare themselves impregnant, and climb up tower jump down into the pad. Flips were popular with the marks. I exectued a 360 groin-imperiling spin with suitable aplomb (confession: I was sorely tempted by the Running Man).
The final station was a rock-climbing exhibit. I'm not sure how climbing rocks encourages one to prevent fires, but I did make it to the top. I suppose in Italy, the best way to prevent a fire is to be able to escape from it. Sort of like ignoring somebody makes them stop bothering you. Thus the alert Italian is capable of climbing to a suitable location in their inflamed building (ideally of fake-rock architecture) from which they hurl themselves towards an inflated pad below. For my efforts I received a Fire-Prevention Climber Award (no reward for work as firejumper - too much hotdogging i suspect). It took the form of a card, with the name "Bill" written on it. I doctored the "B" and was on my way.
To the earthquake exhibit, where I received a map of seismically active regions in Italy. It corresponds very closely to the regular map of Italy, though instead of mountains imagine seismic zones. Suddenly without stimulus, I wandered towards the Campo Di Fiori. My stomache, incidentally, was pissed.
At campo I encountered a hispanic "manifestazione" = happening. It was quite the affair, with over 200 people dressed in traditional losetoCortes garb, banging on drums, blowing into Shells, and dancing rythmically. It was fresh. At the apex of the drum acceleration, a parade that may or may not have been planned for commenced. At least 50 strong broke away from the circle of dance and processioned around a corner. Among them was the blowerinto of the shell. Coincidentally, Ecuador was scheduled to play England in the worldcup some 1.5 hours later. Not coincidentally, some Ecuador fans joined the celebration. They came suddenly, preceding the parade and raising the average blood alcohol content by at least 0.02. Once the blowerinto of the shell and the rest of the parade emerged from the Yellow-shirted throngs and reunited themselves with the dancers and the bangers on of the drums, all hell broke lose. DANCING EVERYWHERE. I even dusted off my shoes like Pro-basketball player and started hop-stepping. To my dismay, the eventual sequence of rythmic movements (notice i'm not saying "dancing") resembled very closely the Vanilla Ice. Thankfully, the other rejoicers were going too apeshit at this point in time to mis-interpret my bungled bouncing as insulting... which was good, because it wasn't. Dammit I was really having fun. At one point I was dancing in a sub-circle with a man who had lama-pants on. They were so fuckin hip I wanted to run in circles really fast for a while. Fortunately, my omega (rotational velocity) was constrained by the circle, which at this point was a ragged trapezoid. I looked around for the man with the lama pants. He was gone. No! there he was! He had somehow gotten his hands on a drum... which he had in a head-lock whilst he beat it so hard I thought the Colloseum would collapse. I was going Sir Crazylegs dancing around anonymously.
But working up one hell of an apetite. It was hot, too. I left as things started to peter out, and staggered into a pizzeria. I got 2 pieces of pizza, which actually means 4 but they're combined via a complex folding process wherein they lose their individuality. I mistakenly tried to pay with my Fire-Marshall-Phil certificate. The cashier looked at me with unbridled fury, like she had just argued for 2 hours with 14 other certified fire-climbers about their award NOT constituting legal tender, no matter how hard it was to scale the fake rocks. I didn't care. I grabbed the pizza and ate in 7 animalistic bites, getting carried away and chewing off a small corner of my Seismic Zones in Italy map (which at this point was covered in sweat and lama hairs) in the process.
Next I watched the first half of England v. Ecuador. It was positively abominable, and I felt little guilt that I left the place having only had a bottle of water. I walked back towards a decent bus. On the way, I stopped in a supermarket to buy cereal and pasta. As I calmly glided amidst air-conditioned aisles, I was surprised to hear Metallica's Nothing Else Matters. I was even more surprised to hear a couple complaining about how they always hear that song while (unknown italian verb)ing.
The afternoon ended in baffling fashion, with my arriving just as a 105 bus (cauldron of hell etc... see prev) was getting ready to go, with only 6 people on it and a bloody airconditioning system. Fully-operational at that! Alas, I couldn't just sit back and take it all in... an Italian man that was wearing a San Diego Dodgers shirt had to get on. I engaged him politely, asking where he got the shirt - saying I was from San Diego. He talked way too fast... I think he got in Costa Rica (?). Or maybe he said the shirts store. In any case, I tried to explain to him that the shirt was not technically correct (i used that exact phrase) because the Dodgers play in Los Angeles. He thought the team had died and played with Angels. Or maybe he thought I was talking about the Angels, who also play in LA. Undeterred, I told him that the PADRES played in San Diego, but couldn't remember the word for Priest. The subsequent explanation concluded with him thinking a team of Former Popes played in Mexico under the name of Saint David (before I got off he revealed that he didn't know San Diego was a city). Next time I'll just chill.
This morning the wakeup dice showed 10. The structure of my room is very effective at keeping out the sun. When it comes to noise, the walls might as well be dangly beed curtains, but that's another (simple) story: I just have to get home after the trash-man comes. At 2355.
I got up and proceeded to read the living daylights out of a text I brought. The window was open. At about 1400 I launched myself in the direction of downtown. I ended up on a tram, sitting very much in front. I don't know about trams yet.
After some leftrightlefting I found myself astride of the Imperial Fora, perhaps my favorite place. On top of the expected ancient granduer, I was offered an additional nectar from the teat of the she-wolf. Sunday is disaster prevention day!!
I started off in the fire-safety area. First, a mobile fire-truck that had transformed into a jumping platform, for the large inflatable landing pad below. Anybody could stroll up, declare themselves impregnant, and climb up tower jump down into the pad. Flips were popular with the marks. I exectued a 360 groin-imperiling spin with suitable aplomb (confession: I was sorely tempted by the Running Man).
The final station was a rock-climbing exhibit. I'm not sure how climbing rocks encourages one to prevent fires, but I did make it to the top. I suppose in Italy, the best way to prevent a fire is to be able to escape from it. Sort of like ignoring somebody makes them stop bothering you. Thus the alert Italian is capable of climbing to a suitable location in their inflamed building (ideally of fake-rock architecture) from which they hurl themselves towards an inflated pad below. For my efforts I received a Fire-Prevention Climber Award (no reward for work as firejumper - too much hotdogging i suspect). It took the form of a card, with the name "Bill" written on it. I doctored the "B" and was on my way.
To the earthquake exhibit, where I received a map of seismically active regions in Italy. It corresponds very closely to the regular map of Italy, though instead of mountains imagine seismic zones. Suddenly without stimulus, I wandered towards the Campo Di Fiori. My stomache, incidentally, was pissed.
At campo I encountered a hispanic "manifestazione" = happening. It was quite the affair, with over 200 people dressed in traditional losetoCortes garb, banging on drums, blowing into Shells, and dancing rythmically. It was fresh. At the apex of the drum acceleration, a parade that may or may not have been planned for commenced. At least 50 strong broke away from the circle of dance and processioned around a corner. Among them was the blowerinto of the shell. Coincidentally, Ecuador was scheduled to play England in the worldcup some 1.5 hours later. Not coincidentally, some Ecuador fans joined the celebration. They came suddenly, preceding the parade and raising the average blood alcohol content by at least 0.02. Once the blowerinto of the shell and the rest of the parade emerged from the Yellow-shirted throngs and reunited themselves with the dancers and the bangers on of the drums, all hell broke lose. DANCING EVERYWHERE. I even dusted off my shoes like Pro-basketball player and started hop-stepping. To my dismay, the eventual sequence of rythmic movements (notice i'm not saying "dancing") resembled very closely the Vanilla Ice. Thankfully, the other rejoicers were going too apeshit at this point in time to mis-interpret my bungled bouncing as insulting... which was good, because it wasn't. Dammit I was really having fun. At one point I was dancing in a sub-circle with a man who had lama-pants on. They were so fuckin hip I wanted to run in circles really fast for a while. Fortunately, my omega (rotational velocity) was constrained by the circle, which at this point was a ragged trapezoid. I looked around for the man with the lama pants. He was gone. No! there he was! He had somehow gotten his hands on a drum... which he had in a head-lock whilst he beat it so hard I thought the Colloseum would collapse. I was going Sir Crazylegs dancing around anonymously.
But working up one hell of an apetite. It was hot, too. I left as things started to peter out, and staggered into a pizzeria. I got 2 pieces of pizza, which actually means 4 but they're combined via a complex folding process wherein they lose their individuality. I mistakenly tried to pay with my Fire-Marshall-Phil certificate. The cashier looked at me with unbridled fury, like she had just argued for 2 hours with 14 other certified fire-climbers about their award NOT constituting legal tender, no matter how hard it was to scale the fake rocks. I didn't care. I grabbed the pizza and ate in 7 animalistic bites, getting carried away and chewing off a small corner of my Seismic Zones in Italy map (which at this point was covered in sweat and lama hairs) in the process.
Next I watched the first half of England v. Ecuador. It was positively abominable, and I felt little guilt that I left the place having only had a bottle of water. I walked back towards a decent bus. On the way, I stopped in a supermarket to buy cereal and pasta. As I calmly glided amidst air-conditioned aisles, I was surprised to hear Metallica's Nothing Else Matters. I was even more surprised to hear a couple complaining about how they always hear that song while (unknown italian verb)ing.
The afternoon ended in baffling fashion, with my arriving just as a 105 bus (cauldron of hell etc... see prev) was getting ready to go, with only 6 people on it and a bloody airconditioning system. Fully-operational at that! Alas, I couldn't just sit back and take it all in... an Italian man that was wearing a San Diego Dodgers shirt had to get on. I engaged him politely, asking where he got the shirt - saying I was from San Diego. He talked way too fast... I think he got in Costa Rica (?). Or maybe he said the shirts store. In any case, I tried to explain to him that the shirt was not technically correct (i used that exact phrase) because the Dodgers play in Los Angeles. He thought the team had died and played with Angels. Or maybe he thought I was talking about the Angels, who also play in LA. Undeterred, I told him that the PADRES played in San Diego, but couldn't remember the word for Priest. The subsequent explanation concluded with him thinking a team of Former Popes played in Mexico under the name of Saint David (before I got off he revealed that he didn't know San Diego was a city). Next time I'll just chill.
Friday, June 23, 2006
Thursday, June 22, 2006
To give you a taste....
My intentions for this entry will not be met. (Upon some prompting) I had wanted to paint a mildly detailed landscape of forwhat/why I am here. Given the last 45 minutes, i'll be down a tree (happy or otherwise) or two.
Yet again the World Cup beckoned. A housemate was watching the Croatia vs. Australia game, and I happened to wander in several minutes before it careened into utter chaos.
The following events, reminiscent of BLERNSBALL, actually transpired:
- A player was given 3 yellow cards (2 = immediate ejection), tantamount to a DOUBLE EJECTION. How he managed to evade the FOUR referees in charge of such events is beyond even my potent hypothetical foundary. The player in question did have a similar name to a teammate (Simunic vs. Simic), but these guys play by the numbers AND Simic had ALREADY been ejected.
*UPDATE: My housemate says Simunic wasn't officially ejected from the field until AFTER the game was over. If I'm ever called upon to pick an internationalspy team, I will certainly consider this performance among the other thousands of applications i'm sure to surreptitiously receive.
- There were two balls on the field for a period exceeding 25 seconds, with one player changing the direction of his run to pursue the second ball, errantly introduced by an over-enthusiastic ball-person (gender unknown, likely male).
- Australia (who advanced after successfully tying the game) ended the match with 4 forwards, after throwing them on in desperation to score before switching two to defenders and having one (yes) ejected with 5 minutes to go (a total of only 3 subs are allowed per-game)
- the referee disallowed an Australian goal and was duly rewarded for his decision by receiving a hug from the goal-deprived forward
- the last 20 minutes resembled a foosball game where both players keep spinning their shafts (or whatever the specific word is - probably not THAT one)
- Australia now plays italy. if 1/10th of the madness quotient from the game i just watch conclude itself in epileptic fits is transferred to that game, about half of the Italian adult male population will formally enter Berzerker mode (unless of course Italy's winning)
In any case, I'm here doing research. (ok, Call it a forest) More to follow.
I, PHiL, signed my earlier entries like that.
My intentions for this entry will not be met. (Upon some prompting) I had wanted to paint a mildly detailed landscape of forwhat/why I am here. Given the last 45 minutes, i'll be down a tree (happy or otherwise) or two.
Yet again the World Cup beckoned. A housemate was watching the Croatia vs. Australia game, and I happened to wander in several minutes before it careened into utter chaos.
The following events, reminiscent of BLERNSBALL, actually transpired:
- A player was given 3 yellow cards (2 = immediate ejection), tantamount to a DOUBLE EJECTION. How he managed to evade the FOUR referees in charge of such events is beyond even my potent hypothetical foundary. The player in question did have a similar name to a teammate (Simunic vs. Simic), but these guys play by the numbers AND Simic had ALREADY been ejected.
*UPDATE: My housemate says Simunic wasn't officially ejected from the field until AFTER the game was over. If I'm ever called upon to pick an internationalspy team, I will certainly consider this performance among the other thousands of applications i'm sure to surreptitiously receive.
- There were two balls on the field for a period exceeding 25 seconds, with one player changing the direction of his run to pursue the second ball, errantly introduced by an over-enthusiastic ball-person (gender unknown, likely male).
- Australia (who advanced after successfully tying the game) ended the match with 4 forwards, after throwing them on in desperation to score before switching two to defenders and having one (yes) ejected with 5 minutes to go (a total of only 3 subs are allowed per-game)
- the referee disallowed an Australian goal and was duly rewarded for his decision by receiving a hug from the goal-deprived forward
- the last 20 minutes resembled a foosball game where both players keep spinning their shafts (or whatever the specific word is - probably not THAT one)
- Australia now plays italy. if 1/10th of the madness quotient from the game i just watch conclude itself in epileptic fits is transferred to that game, about half of the Italian adult male population will formally enter Berzerker mode (unless of course Italy's winning)
In any case, I'm here doing research. (ok, Call it a forest) More to follow.
I, PHiL, signed my earlier entries like that.
Monday, June 19, 2006
italy 2: PHiL's surefire route to the hidden paradise of Bus Bewilderment and titles that are too long, exacerbated by auto-reflection p.s. if anybody knows how to control the font/style options in BLOGGER please tell me because right now it is the proverbial accelerating foot in my genitalia
1. Choose your Rome environs in such a way as to depend uniquely upon that marvelous provoker of perspiration, the 105 bus. Bonus: ignore the people you live with when they tell you that you're better off paying 10times the busfare to take a cab... or buying the farm.
2. Take the bus. Take it every day. Twice.
3. Enter the bus, which is always waiting for you with the seats fully occupied, and find a place to stand. The wise man stands near a window, so he can dream of one day jumping out of it. Stand wooden, watching in stone-faced horror as the engine starts, signaling 50 more people to frantically trample onto the bus. Flex available muscles to maximize claim to internal volume.... but don't flex too hard - you don't want to be accused of internal volume gouging. All around you the mob churns.
4. Heat. Feel. Pray that you are granted clemency from your fiery tortures - example 5 of clemency, devised way home on 20 June: you are turned into a whale that has washed onto a beach in Mexico where there are no environmentalists to pour water on you and thereby pronlong your agonizing death.
5. Try to count the number of fellow bus occupants that have entered the daily contest to see who can talk the loudest on their cellphone.
6. Crowdsurf off the bus, sparing a passing thought for the 958 people that are still on the bus. You do this because it puzzles you, who gets off at the second-to-the-last-stop, that everybody stays on to the last stop. You feel like you are missing something, but are leery of the stop's translation into "Caves with Bones."
7. Relate your tale on a blog, but be sure to attenuate its raw barbarity.
1. Choose your Rome environs in such a way as to depend uniquely upon that marvelous provoker of perspiration, the 105 bus. Bonus: ignore the people you live with when they tell you that you're better off paying 10times the busfare to take a cab... or buying the farm.
2. Take the bus. Take it every day. Twice.
3. Enter the bus, which is always waiting for you with the seats fully occupied, and find a place to stand. The wise man stands near a window, so he can dream of one day jumping out of it. Stand wooden, watching in stone-faced horror as the engine starts, signaling 50 more people to frantically trample onto the bus. Flex available muscles to maximize claim to internal volume.... but don't flex too hard - you don't want to be accused of internal volume gouging. All around you the mob churns.
4. Heat. Feel. Pray that you are granted clemency from your fiery tortures - example 5 of clemency, devised way home on 20 June: you are turned into a whale that has washed onto a beach in Mexico where there are no environmentalists to pour water on you and thereby pronlong your agonizing death.
5. Try to count the number of fellow bus occupants that have entered the daily contest to see who can talk the loudest on their cellphone.
6. Crowdsurf off the bus, sparing a passing thought for the 958 people that are still on the bus. You do this because it puzzles you, who gets off at the second-to-the-last-stop, that everybody stays on to the last stop. You feel like you are missing something, but are leery of the stop's translation into "Caves with Bones."
7. Relate your tale on a blog, but be sure to attenuate its raw barbarity.
Italy - a guide
In the spirit of other works. Possible title: "Under the Tuscan Elephants" (hmmm... vaguely witty. Editor sought)
Part I. How to get asked for directions by marauding spanish teenagers with mullets/ihavenoideas:
1. Buy paper written in local language. This the flame to the mosca of the hispanoteen (boca cerrada? non li importa)
2. Deliberately mess up hair to resemble that of a derelict, find comfortable slab of stone in vicinity of an already-prostrate "tired" man (with or without dog). Read intently (bluntly assault language barrier)
3. Wait. They will find you. And all ask you at once how to get to Piazza di Noncomprende by helicopter, as though you paratroop there to get to work every other day.
4. Respond politely. Avoid going aggro when they stop listening to you after becoming far more interested in pinching each others body parts.
5. Bring paper home. Place in pile atop previous (largely uncrinkled) papers. Sigh (optional).
Stay tuned for Part II: How to be a male making his residence in Italy (includes graphic depictions)
Che meraviglia!
In the spirit of other works. Possible title: "Under the Tuscan Elephants" (hmmm... vaguely witty. Editor sought)
Part I. How to get asked for directions by marauding spanish teenagers with mullets/ihavenoideas:
1. Buy paper written in local language. This the flame to the mosca of the hispanoteen (boca cerrada? non li importa)
2. Deliberately mess up hair to resemble that of a derelict, find comfortable slab of stone in vicinity of an already-prostrate "tired" man (with or without dog). Read intently (bluntly assault language barrier)
3. Wait. They will find you. And all ask you at once how to get to Piazza di Noncomprende by helicopter, as though you paratroop there to get to work every other day.
4. Respond politely. Avoid going aggro when they stop listening to you after becoming far more interested in pinching each others body parts.
5. Bring paper home. Place in pile atop previous (largely uncrinkled) papers. Sigh (optional).
Stay tuned for Part II: How to be a male making his residence in Italy (includes graphic depictions)
Che meraviglia!
Saturday, June 10, 2006
World Cup Opening Barrage (ammo shortage)
I wish I had it in me at this moment to do a better job summarizing the opening day of the worldcup, which I have been lusting over anticipatorily for several weeks/months. Unfortunately I have to go to bed - wedding departure = 07. This spliced text from an email will have to suffice.
It was a fairly dour game... Neither team is very good. Ecuador got lucky and Poland didn't. Reports that Ecuador enjoyed any sort of superiority are rubbish. Their defense was well-organized, while Poland's was occasionally a shambles. In general, 85 minutes of crap, 30 seconds of Ecuadorian luck, 5 minutes of polish franticism. The whitered eagles played as though they knew they were better and eventually would puncture the onion bag , perhaps via some sort of Kantian imperative. This delayed their acquisition of urgency of purpose until after Ecuador scored their second goal. Bodes well for Costa Rica, not to mention Germany. Though Germany did not do nearly as well as their final score might suggest. Two of their goals came from moments of individual skill, rather than team quality/precision, and individual skill can be quite a fleeting quantity.
This will be a regular topic. The worldcup, and the elusiveness of focused ability.
I wish I had it in me at this moment to do a better job summarizing the opening day of the worldcup, which I have been lusting over anticipatorily for several weeks/months. Unfortunately I have to go to bed - wedding departure = 07. This spliced text from an email will have to suffice.
It was a fairly dour game... Neither team is very good. Ecuador got lucky and Poland didn't. Reports that Ecuador enjoyed any sort of superiority are rubbish. Their defense was well-organized, while Poland's was occasionally a shambles. In general, 85 minutes of crap, 30 seconds of Ecuadorian luck, 5 minutes of polish franticism. The whitered eagles played as though they knew they were better and eventually would puncture the onion bag , perhaps via some sort of Kantian imperative. This delayed their acquisition of urgency of purpose until after Ecuador scored their second goal. Bodes well for Costa Rica, not to mention Germany. Though Germany did not do nearly as well as their final score might suggest. Two of their goals came from moments of individual skill, rather than team quality/precision, and individual skill can be quite a fleeting quantity.
This will be a regular topic. The worldcup, and the elusiveness of focused ability.
Hipsters
There exists a scarcely-interconnected world. That of the hipster. Actually, better accuracy would require definition of many such worlds, each apparently corresponding to the individual hipster him/herself. While I profess a depth of experience with this class of individual that is akin to that of their strained rapport with the mainstream, the early returns are startling. I appear to despise hipsters.
I can't pursue this any further: I have to go to a wedding. Hopefully there will be hipsters present that I can directly engage. Will a hipster run from a fight? What motivates the hipster? These questions will almost certainly go unposed, as the groom is possibly mutton-head. I could wander the earth with an entire LARGE UNIT of mutton strapped to my headpiece for 6 months and still not be within shouting distance. What is a mutton-head? No, really, he's a nice guy.
There exists a scarcely-interconnected world. That of the hipster. Actually, better accuracy would require definition of many such worlds, each apparently corresponding to the individual hipster him/herself. While I profess a depth of experience with this class of individual that is akin to that of their strained rapport with the mainstream, the early returns are startling. I appear to despise hipsters.
I can't pursue this any further: I have to go to a wedding. Hopefully there will be hipsters present that I can directly engage. Will a hipster run from a fight? What motivates the hipster? These questions will almost certainly go unposed, as the groom is possibly mutton-head. I could wander the earth with an entire LARGE UNIT of mutton strapped to my headpiece for 6 months and still not be within shouting distance. What is a mutton-head? No, really, he's a nice guy.
Monday, May 29, 2006
The Aftermath
I appear to have passed my qualifiers. Now, I could make a self-effacing joke along the lines of indentity mixups or telemarketing survey responses, but the exam was probably the most difficult intellectual event I've confronted thus far, and I do not want to cheapen its status as such.
This past weekend I squandered my new-earned freedom by immersing myself, once again, in the depraved act of moving. I shouldn't say depraved - because at this point I am sufficiently ashamed of the bulk of my material possessions to (i believe) not deserve a sneer from the non-materialists; Still, I remain loyal to what can only be described as far too much stuff. The only reason I am comfortable identifying at this point is superstition. I've been on a good run, hot hand... my shambolic collection of too many clothes and too few inspirational artifacts has been playing like a loose slot - and I don't want anybody else to get a pull. Every day is a (one-armed) bandit day.
I also attended a wedding ceremony, and subsequently the reception. The ceremony was Russian Orthodox, and completely unremarkable otherwise. !Insert_name + #Column2 = $$BaldManHymning. The only mildly engaging portion was when two crowns were teasingly held over the betrotheds' heads by a rotating squad of sore-shouldered bridesmaids and groomsmen for what seemed like a 18.4 minutes. Were I more susceptible to the odd perversion, I may've described it as vaguely arousing. I was the only one in a short-sleeved, non-accompanied by a tie shirt. Everybody was happy. I felt traitorous.
I appear to have passed my qualifiers. Now, I could make a self-effacing joke along the lines of indentity mixups or telemarketing survey responses, but the exam was probably the most difficult intellectual event I've confronted thus far, and I do not want to cheapen its status as such.
This past weekend I squandered my new-earned freedom by immersing myself, once again, in the depraved act of moving. I shouldn't say depraved - because at this point I am sufficiently ashamed of the bulk of my material possessions to (i believe) not deserve a sneer from the non-materialists; Still, I remain loyal to what can only be described as far too much stuff. The only reason I am comfortable identifying at this point is superstition. I've been on a good run, hot hand... my shambolic collection of too many clothes and too few inspirational artifacts has been playing like a loose slot - and I don't want anybody else to get a pull. Every day is a (one-armed) bandit day.
I also attended a wedding ceremony, and subsequently the reception. The ceremony was Russian Orthodox, and completely unremarkable otherwise. !Insert_name + #Column2 = $$BaldManHymning. The only mildly engaging portion was when two crowns were teasingly held over the betrotheds' heads by a rotating squad of sore-shouldered bridesmaids and groomsmen for what seemed like a 18.4 minutes. Were I more susceptible to the odd perversion, I may've described it as vaguely arousing. I was the only one in a short-sleeved, non-accompanied by a tie shirt. Everybody was happy. I felt traitorous.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Tatoo
What you see below is a tattoo that I probably administered myself last night. It is a statement, potent, that is: "Big Art Man: Death Be Not Proud," as you can unclearly not see below:
I included my keys in the photograph as a validator that the well-muscled, poorly-tattouxed arm in the photo does indeed belong to me (Phil). If you don't believe me that the keys pictured open the doors of MY life, then you can ask me which lock any of them corresponds to and I could tell you. The bench in the pictures is made from real wood. There is only one pictures.
Having verified the tatooh's uniqueness to my body, I can now set out to explain why it amuses me so:
1) I am not an art man, per se, and even if I was I am not especially big (though well-muscled is another category entirely. So too is suave)
2) This is my second not-real tattoo*
2a) The tattoo is not real
3) The text is so small as to be illegible, yet proclaims me as BIG art man.
4) I am not dead, most likely
5) The black ink smeared all over the place almost instantly, indicating a death of the legibility of the tattoo. Yet, contrary to the second clause of the message, the tattoo stands proud.
6) Today is my first day at school with the tattoo. I am covering it with a long-sleeved shirt. So nobody will get a chance to see the already illegible message, which totally invalidates everything
I, PHiL am not a fan of permanent body art. The message has to change, or you're not thinking.
* I sort of almost got a tattoo in Toronto. I will not say what it was, but you can ask.
What you see below is a tattoo that I probably administered myself last night. It is a statement, potent, that is: "Big Art Man: Death Be Not Proud," as you can unclearly not see below:
I included my keys in the photograph as a validator that the well-muscled, poorly-tattouxed arm in the photo does indeed belong to me (Phil). If you don't believe me that the keys pictured open the doors of MY life, then you can ask me which lock any of them corresponds to and I could tell you. The bench in the pictures is made from real wood. There is only one pictures.
Having verified the tatooh's uniqueness to my body, I can now set out to explain why it amuses me so:
1) I am not an art man, per se, and even if I was I am not especially big (though well-muscled is another category entirely. So too is suave)
2) This is my second not-real tattoo*
2a) The tattoo is not real
3) The text is so small as to be illegible, yet proclaims me as BIG art man.
4) I am not dead, most likely
5) The black ink smeared all over the place almost instantly, indicating a death of the legibility of the tattoo. Yet, contrary to the second clause of the message, the tattoo stands proud.
6) Today is my first day at school with the tattoo. I am covering it with a long-sleeved shirt. So nobody will get a chance to see the already illegible message, which totally invalidates everything
I, PHiL am not a fan of permanent body art. The message has to change, or you're not thinking.
* I sort of almost got a tattoo in Toronto. I will not say what it was, but you can ask.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Salesmanship
This is actually an addendum to the previous post, but is essential enough to merit its own confines. Chinese President Hu Jintao was just in America for 4 days. That his elbows were rubbed much more with business leaders than with the President should surprise nobody. China's relationship - right now - with the US consists strictly of economic opportunism exploiting a dependence: Drug addicts are not able to negotiate with dealers. In this construct, President Bush isn't even an addict - he'd have to be cast in the role of a parent of an addict trying to persuade the drug-dealer to forgo his/her life of easy luxury in favor of a more "noble" means of vocation.... just so he (Bush/parent) could be let off the hook raising his child in such a way as to enable the addiction to occur.
You might not agree with that extended metaphor.
But you should agree with its ultimate resultant: we (Americans) have nothing in the way of leverage with China. Which isn't necessarily disastrous at the negotiating table (not that it helps). Especially if you can make the other party perceive you as having something to offer, be it now or in times future. In either case, something needs to be CREATED. Whether it is an illusion or an awareness of potential, for one to persuade they have to be able to fashion it. Bush is simply not able enough to do so (exception: an institution even more dim-witted than he: the American public and/or senate).
I, PHiL
Things looked at during the writing of this post:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Archimedean_solid
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/12418382/
This is actually an addendum to the previous post, but is essential enough to merit its own confines. Chinese President Hu Jintao was just in America for 4 days. That his elbows were rubbed much more with business leaders than with the President should surprise nobody. China's relationship - right now - with the US consists strictly of economic opportunism exploiting a dependence: Drug addicts are not able to negotiate with dealers. In this construct, President Bush isn't even an addict - he'd have to be cast in the role of a parent of an addict trying to persuade the drug-dealer to forgo his/her life of easy luxury in favor of a more "noble" means of vocation.... just so he (Bush/parent) could be let off the hook raising his child in such a way as to enable the addiction to occur.
You might not agree with that extended metaphor.
But you should agree with its ultimate resultant: we (Americans) have nothing in the way of leverage with China. Which isn't necessarily disastrous at the negotiating table (not that it helps). Especially if you can make the other party perceive you as having something to offer, be it now or in times future. In either case, something needs to be CREATED. Whether it is an illusion or an awareness of potential, for one to persuade they have to be able to fashion it. Bush is simply not able enough to do so (exception: an institution even more dim-witted than he: the American public and/or senate).
I, PHiL
Things looked at during the writing of this post:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Archimedean_solid
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/12418382/
Gas Prices
This is my first post. Anche funziona come una pira funeraria. You see, I hav'd an Italian blog for quite some time. The few souls who stumbled upon it writhing amidst the Myriad of properly phrased Italian opinions must have felt as though they had chanced a glance at a grammatical sacrifice. Possessing the knowledge, I'd've added rythmic beating of drums and fires that burn(ed) animatedly as gifs. It might well have worked. Because:
What one is currently viewing often supplants what they just viewed. The finiteness of the human brain makes exposure to new stimuli a necessarily destructive event. The mitigating factor is one's attention span, which assigns added significance to recent data that might otherwise be nondescript and as such tossed upon the heap of useless input (h.u.i. - heard, understood, ignored). Due to a gradual but longstanding attenuation of the average American's attention span, all kinds of illness can occur without consequences being properly assigned. The latest example, is this.
If you don't have enough time to read this, here is the crux of the matter. If succeed in having the time but fail in having the attention span, then piss off, you're causing tremendous problems with how our government functions.
"The American people have got to understand what happens elsewhere in the world affects the price of gasoline you pay here."
First of all "have got to" is just plain disgraceful. If Bush is speaking this way intentionally as a manner of making himself for intelligible (hah) to the average American, then it is a lame attempt at pandering. Go into Harlem and speak your Bushbonics... it would be the same damn thing only less insidious. On the other hand, if it is an honest mistake, then I'm sick of honesty* ... give me some grammatical competence. (I am eligible to mount my steep steed here (after Italian blog fiasco) because my Italian blog was not responsible for delivering messages from the leader of the country to its citizens). Now then, the recent rise gas prices is a direct consequence of the recent rise in oil prices, which themselves are direct consequences of concerns about IRAN's unwillingness to keep enabling the militaries (among MANY other things) of countries that might seek to invade them by selling oil. And just why might Iran have any sort of reason to be concerned about being invaded? Yah, somebody needs to tell the President that what happens elsewhere in the world is conversely affected by what happens in America. For better or whatnot.
2 things, quickly:
1) No I DO NOT think Iran should have nuclear weapons, under any circumstances. Pardon my wording if it suggests otherwise.
2) You can only play a good hand once, and a lot of the times it takes a while to get dealt one. We wasted our good hand on Iraq.
2a) 9/11 does not represent "a good hand" in this scenario
In summary: Americans have become increasingly concerned about how much things cost. Capitalism, yes, but all things in moderation. At least here. Or, more aptly, if you want to pay the cheapest price for something, you DAM WELL better know what other COSTS are attached to that price. If (my fellow) Americans, who only seem to pay attention when something costs more, do not associate the vacuous cavity in their walletts with its equivalent inside their president's head, then we are worse off than I thought.
I, PHiL
* This is one of an exiguous number of situations in which I will ever be sick of honesty
This is my first post. Anche funziona come una pira funeraria. You see, I hav'd an Italian blog for quite some time. The few souls who stumbled upon it writhing amidst the Myriad of properly phrased Italian opinions must have felt as though they had chanced a glance at a grammatical sacrifice. Possessing the knowledge, I'd've added rythmic beating of drums and fires that burn(ed) animatedly as gifs. It might well have worked. Because:
What one is currently viewing often supplants what they just viewed. The finiteness of the human brain makes exposure to new stimuli a necessarily destructive event. The mitigating factor is one's attention span, which assigns added significance to recent data that might otherwise be nondescript and as such tossed upon the heap of useless input (h.u.i. - heard, understood, ignored). Due to a gradual but longstanding attenuation of the average American's attention span, all kinds of illness can occur without consequences being properly assigned. The latest example, is this.
If you don't have enough time to read this, here is the crux of the matter. If succeed in having the time but fail in having the attention span, then piss off, you're causing tremendous problems with how our government functions.
"The American people have got to understand what happens elsewhere in the world affects the price of gasoline you pay here."
First of all "have got to" is just plain disgraceful. If Bush is speaking this way intentionally as a manner of making himself for intelligible (hah) to the average American, then it is a lame attempt at pandering. Go into Harlem and speak your Bushbonics... it would be the same damn thing only less insidious. On the other hand, if it is an honest mistake, then I'm sick of honesty* ... give me some grammatical competence. (I am eligible to mount my steep steed here (after Italian blog fiasco) because my Italian blog was not responsible for delivering messages from the leader of the country to its citizens). Now then, the recent rise gas prices is a direct consequence of the recent rise in oil prices, which themselves are direct consequences of concerns about IRAN's unwillingness to keep enabling the militaries (among MANY other things) of countries that might seek to invade them by selling oil. And just why might Iran have any sort of reason to be concerned about being invaded? Yah, somebody needs to tell the President that what happens elsewhere in the world is conversely affected by what happens in America. For better or whatnot.
2 things, quickly:
1) No I DO NOT think Iran should have nuclear weapons, under any circumstances. Pardon my wording if it suggests otherwise.
2) You can only play a good hand once, and a lot of the times it takes a while to get dealt one. We wasted our good hand on Iraq.
2a) 9/11 does not represent "a good hand" in this scenario
In summary: Americans have become increasingly concerned about how much things cost. Capitalism, yes, but all things in moderation. At least here. Or, more aptly, if you want to pay the cheapest price for something, you DAM WELL better know what other COSTS are attached to that price. If (my fellow) Americans, who only seem to pay attention when something costs more, do not associate the vacuous cavity in their walletts with its equivalent inside their president's head, then we are worse off than I thought.
I, PHiL
* This is one of an exiguous number of situations in which I will ever be sick of honesty
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