Whose Shake Is This!!?

There is too much instant communication and not enough time to contemplate or enjoy it. There are too many things to know and too many things to do and still nobody seems to know anything. There are too many mechanisms and too many gadgets and none of them are the right sort of gadgets that we have any control over anymore. If I had a hammer….a simple real hammer, not a hammer that is glorified staple gun or a working man’s Ouzi, but a real solid Craftsman hammer that I can hold over the head of the ten-penny nail of reason in my little fist of fury, I would drive that nail deep…drive it like a stake into the heart of the vampire world in which we dwell.

Both technology and temperament conspire against us, or, me. The unlimited world in which we live…the wired and wireless universe…is no where near as limitless and boundless as we’d care to believe. Communication which should be more expansive since any fool with a machine can reach a audience unimaginable in the Police Brutality Days of the late 60′s and early 70′s, is actually taughtly controlled by the vehicles we most commonly use to communicate. Twitter limits me to 140 focking characters or less. Not 140 words, 140 characters. Useless as a turd unless you’ve been arrested on visit to Azerbaijan, or have fallen down a crevasse after being chased by a polar bear…then it’s useful I suppose. But too many people ((that’s the REAL problem with the world, there’s just too many people and they’re no damn good)), find a urge to tell the world that they’ve got a boil on their bum. Facebook is even worse. You get to see the pictures. There seems to be some limits to the amount of characters as well. And while Twitter’s fascist chokehold on communication is fairly benign, Facebook seeming knows no bounds. But I’ll save that prize number 12 for another day. Sorry Malcolm Gladwell and those of short attention span with too much of the wrong sense of time on their twitching texting hands, with ME you have to do all 2,500 words, pictures, and the 2-10  minute musical outr0.

There are no shortcuts to actuality. I found this out a long time ago when I attempted to program a computer to write poetry. Unlike some of the computer geek types at the time who took it way too seriously (and still do), I wanted to embrace the machine world and bring a new and terrible poetry to life. So I devised a program in FORTRAN, of course, and banged away at the punch cards as though I were some college boy/man prodigy flogging his way through The Goldberg Variations on a Bosendorfer piano. A world, well…a little world, more like a satellite of Mars than a satellite of Jupiter…of words and phrases and other utopisms filled numerous boxes of cards. And when the punchcards were fed into the IBM 1620 in Green Bay and sednt off to the Univac mainframe in Madison and the machine was set in motion, poetry would emerge as though the machine were a modern day Walt Whitman or William Blake or T.S. Eliot. The conceit was that the machine would have a mind of it’s own. The machine was writing the poetry. The random, mechanized, aggregation of words, verbiage, phrases would have a brave and terrible beauty all their own. The problem, ofcourse, is that the machine DID have mind of it’s own….a mind that wandered into some nested DO loop never to return. When it found it’s way out, the epic realization on my part was that while the machine had a mind of it’s own, it clearly had no soul.

Now it would be nice if I could just look at Facebook and Twitter and say, “That damned machine!!”  But unfortunately, it’s people, not machines. As they say, accordians don’t play “Lady Of Spain”, people do. Now maybe those people know something I don’t know. But unless what they know is the meaning of John Dryden’s poem Absalom and Achitophel, I guess I just don’t want to know. And meanwhile and meanwhile and meanwhile from MY stupid Twitter feed, me and my 12 followers and my 8 followees….some dude wants to fight Shaq, Yoko Ono babbles about changing the course of reality by interception, and Justin Townes Earle wears earplugs when flying to drown out the sound of the low rent suits. I’m with Justin Townes Earle on that one, the low rent suits.

But enough of this shite…let’s get on with the motorsports and the football and the beer…

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Netherlands 0   Spain 1

Nothing can console the sad Dutch fans who saw their lads lose to a more skillful Spanish squad in what was perhaps the ugliest football match of all time….perhaps the ugliest sporting event of all time ((although there are several hockey games that could fall into that category)). Referee Howard Webb appeared as the match commenced to allow the lads to have at it…he didn’t call it close at first…but the game quickly got out of hand. That’s when Webb reigned them in, started calling it tight. That’s the rain of yellow cards began, and pretty soon it was downpour. The Dutch were clearly out finessed by Spain, so they resorted to what they know best….thuggery of the sort that would have given even the Philadelphia Flyers of the 70′s, the nefarious Broad Street Bullies, pause. So the Dutch gooned it up and a record 14yellow cards were handed out, including a red card to John Heitinga for his second yellow card, but no red card was shown to Nigel de Jong for a kick-punch to Xavi Alonso’s ribs worthy of the most brutal and ugly homo-erotic MMA match.

All that said, the strategy almost worked for the Dutch. Arjen Robben had several breakaway chances. But he couldn’t capitalize on the efforts of his goon squad. In the end, it was Andres Iniesta (yes, THAT Andres Iniesta =P) who cashed in on Spain’s finesse. Spain reminded me more of the Edmonton Oilers…a squad of pure skaters with precision passing. Now Iniesta is no Wayne Gretzky, but he came through when it counted, like Gretzky’s lesser known scoring partner, Jari Kurri, with a superbly crafted goal in the 116th minute.

It was an ugly game. And while Spain deserved to win. It was as ugly and terrible as watching 6-3 Cleveland Browns/Buffalo Bills tilt , game 15, in the horrible December of a brutal NFL season.

The consolation game on Saturday was so much better. And some interesting developments from that match are after the break.

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I’m almost tempted to borrow a technique or two from the late, great Edgar Rice Burroughs that was used to great effect in many of his novels. such as Beyond The Farthest Star where, the words of Tangor were automatically typed before his eyes as if by ghostly hands; or as in Lost On Venus, where the words and experiences of Carson Napier came to him telepathically and Burroughs’ only role was that of a mere scribe. I sort of like that little conceit. It’s charming and ancient and if what I write is not to mine or anyone’s liking, I can blame it all on ghosts.

With the World Cup final approaching, and by the time this is read by some or many or anyone, the carnage of that beautiful game will be in the books, I thought a few ghost stories would be in order. It’s a summer anime tradition—either telling ghost stories around a campfire, or a kimodameshi–or both. It should be another of those laws of anime, but apparently isn’t.

But I’m fully capable of conceit without resorting to one. So what I tell, what little I will tell, will no doubt be more than ghostly or ghostlike….wispy and immaterial….hopefully reveal the soul of something, but more likely the words will wander around like zombies until someone clubs them (or me) in the head. Here we go.

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Germany 4    England 1

They played like dopey wankers. They were old, they were fat, they were slow, they were a bit too full of themselves as individual stars to play together as a team, and in the end, they were sent packing back to England by a younger, quicker German squad. Sure, Lampard got cheated out of a goal that would have equalized the match in the first half. But nothing in England’s play throughout this match and most of the World Cup gave any indication of team that could win, when necessary, at any cost. They had talent, but not the right talent. They had stars, but as well as Rooney, Terry, Lampard, Garrard and the rest play for their Premier League clubs, putting them together on the same team was not going to get the job done. They were star-crossed from the get go….from the John Terry/Wayne Bridge drama ahead of the World Cup to Wayne Rooney’s petulance on the pitch. And even though they showed some heart on occasion, they really honestly played like a bunch of dopey wankers.

England might have been served just as well or better if they’d sent an NPower League 1 team out there….the Milton Keynes Dons, or Dagenham & Redbridge. Heh. They might as well have…at least there would have been more team spirit.

But….it takes more than just team spirit to win…

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The more we know, the more we seem to forget. Even, and especially, if it’s the things we love the most. It seems ironic and counter-intuitive, but the more knowledge and passion we have, the more capacity we have to overlook something, be it minuscule or essential. I’m constantly forgetting the names of the main characters in the anime shows that I love…if you were to ask me right now to rattle off the names of the characters in Arakawa Under The Bridge or Angel Beats or ef-a tale of memories, I know I would miss quite a few of them. It’s the same lapse we have when we forget an essential birthday or anniversary…not that we actually forget it, but we are off by a day or two. So this week I suppose I will try to remember here, (some of) what I have forgotten over the past several weeks.

But before I forget and rush headlong into the tidal wave of more rhetoric, there is THIS:

Mexico 2   France 0

Ha Ha ha!! Take THAT ya cack-suckin’ cheatin’  fackin’ Frenchies!!  HA HA HA!!! All hail Javier Hernandez  whose goal in the 55th minute and Cuauhtemoc Blanco whose penalty kick at the 62 minute mark sent the fackin’ Frenchies packing.

¡¡Jodimos el Frenchies!! ¡¡¡¡HA HA HA!!!!

¡¡Cagomos en la leche de tu puta madre, Frenchies!! ¡¡¡¡HA HA HA!!!!

¡¡Los Africanos le joderán el culo, Frenchies!! ¡¡¡¡HA HA HA!!!!

I certainly didn’t want to forget about THAT!! And I know all of Ireland was cheering along with me. But I know I’m forgetting something….

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I’m not sure if this brief interlude between posts meant that I needed the time to absorb some vital or essential knowledge about motorsports, football, poetry, music which I hate, science fiction which I also hate, or whether this interlude simply resulted from laziness or a lack of courage. Perhaps all of the above. Or none of it. The NASCAR Hall of Fame inducted it’s inuagural class, a pantheon of spectacular brilliance: Bill France Sr, Bill France Jr, Richard Petty, Dale Earnhardt, and Junior Johnson, and I watched every moment of it. The All Star race came and went and vanished into memory with a tumultuous finish. Kurt Busch grabbed the glory and the Million Dollar Check. I went and grabbed (the next day at The Firehouse) a tall glass of ice and a bottle of Miller Lite for the quintessential Polish Victory Lap that is my custom when Kurt Busch wins a race. And Kurt’s younger brother Kyle, whose hopes of winning the aforementioned race were dashed during the final moments while racing his teammate Denny Hamlin for the win, when Hamlin squeezed him up into the wall, and a few laps later Kyle blew a tire and that was the end of it. Or would have had Kyle not threatened to KILL his team-mate Hamlin. (More on THAT in a moment)

So all of the above, and all the stars in the sky. All of that and the REAL Super Bowl…the UEFA Champions League Final. Last Saturday in Madrid. Barcelona 2  Bayern München 0. Yes…the glory and grace of the game, and the glory and grace of Venessa Redgrave in the movie Letters To Juliet. Nothing and everything to think about. I watched the countless stars as they vanished, like the words I’m writing now.

I toss these words off into the darkness like little stones skipping across the moonlit water.  Hoping against hope that they might rise up into the sky and shine there for at least one or two descending series of moments before dropping into the murky depth. After all, not many people take the time to dive into the deep water, to plumb the darkness for the sparkling treasure hidden there.

But lets go see what’s down there.

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NASCAR has spoken! Brian France and Mike Helton give The Carl a slap on the wrist.

The word has come down from on high and once again, the utter hypocrisy of NASCAR has reared it’s two-faced head and the bigger man, the better man, has lost the battle and the war.  The Carl gets a 3 race probation. Not suspension, PROBATION, for nearly killing Brad Kesolowski at 195 mph over a petty grievance that could have been better and more elegant solved with fisticuffs. The Carl was 150 freaking laps down when he sent Kesolowski airborne. It doesn’t matter if you feel some self-entitled need to wreak payback, you just don’t do it at Atlanta. The Carl should have been suspended for 3 races for his deliberate stupid behavior….not given some candy-ass worthless probation. Last year, Carl Long got  a 12 race suspension and his NASCAR career (such as it was) essentially ruined for having an engine that was 0.17 of an inch larger than allowed.  Wow!!  0.17 of an inch…. now that’s dangerous, yes?  12 race suspension for that. And yet His Royal Highness,  Carl Edwards got a pissant 3 race probation, a mere slap on the wrist for THIS:

His Royal Highness, The Carl, was 150 freakin’ laps down when he decided to exact some revenge for a petty slight on lap 5. And he had all race to think about how he was going to do it. And THIS is how he chose to do it. Stupid, classless, characterless, ignorant, and it could have been potentially deadly, not just to Kesolowski, but to fans in the stands. This can’t POSSIBLY be what NASCAR meant when they said, “have at it boys.” And if it is, then SHAME of them. All of the them. SHAME on Brian France, Mike Helton, and most especially, The Carl. We all thought, well…most of us, thought The Carl was a better man, a bigger man, than that. But we were wrong. Clearly, like, for example, Tiger Woods, he is not the bigger and better man he portrays himself to be.  He is clearly all image and zero integrity. And NASCAR just slaps him on the wrist.

If I were Carl Long I’d want my career back ((not that it was much of a career, but such as it was, I’d want it back)) If I were Kevin Harvick, for example I’d want my money and points back for all my petty penalties over the years ((and he does, by the way)). And Chad Knaus, for all his evil mechanations, never put a fellow driver or crew chief in harm’s way by his pushing the envelope of rule Section 12-4-A actions detrimental to stock car racing, yet he had to sit out 4 races as recently as last year. If I were Roger Penske I’d send Jack Roush an invoice for the uncalled for damages to Brad Kesolowski’s #12 MOPAR FloTV Dodge.

But we’re talking about bigger men here. So Long and Harvick and Chad and Roger Penske will do none of the the above.

So who is the bigger man?

Carl Edwards? Or Brad Kesolowski?  I think that one’s fairly obvious.Yes?

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Why I have not shot myself in the head because Jimmie Johnson won his 2nd focking race in a row at Las Vegas last Sunday, is an utter and total mystery to me at moment, especially in light of the fact that none other than Jeff Gordon (yes THAT homo Jeff Gordon) pretty much said that Jimmie Johnson’s utter dominance of NASCAR is boring as focking hell. Not in those exact words mind you, but you can pretty much read between the lines. When even Jeff Gordon thinks his protege is boring as piss, what I’ve been saying about Jimmie Johnson all along has strayed from merely being my humble opinion to plain focking truth.

Evil mechanations of Chad Knaus.? Check! At Vegas, on the final pit stops, Knaus called for a 4 tire stop. Gordon’s crew chief Steve Latarte called for 2 tires to maintain track position.

Damned ability of Jimmie Johnson? Check! Johnson was able to cruise through the field and with 4 fresh tires, blasted by Gordon for the boring and tedious win.

It’s hard to hate Jimmie Johnson. It really is. He’s good guy. He’s honest, hard-working, straightforward, and exceedingly pleasant. He’s handsome, but not a pretty boy. He came up the ranks the hard way…paid his dues on 50 cc motorcycles, off-road racing, the local tracks, and ASA.  He’s the best focking driver in NASCAR. But….but…he bores the crap out of me. And not just me….even his fans are not as crazily enthused with him, as, for example, Junior’s fans are (obviously). Hell…Jeff Gordon’s fans are more passionate. Even Matt Kenseth sparks up more enthusiasm among his fan base.

So why have I not shot myself in the head yet?  Or hammered a wooden stake through my heart? As Jeff Gordon says, “I just think it depends on the rivalries and the stories…What we need is Kyle Busch and [Tony] Stewart to be butting heads, banging one another and talking trash. That would be good television.”

Wait. What?? Did I just actually quote Jeff Gordon?? Bring me that wooden stake and a ball-peen hammer….

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Last Sunday, at Auto Club Speedway in Fontana CA, the real 2010 NASCAR season began. The Daytona 500, after all, is a spectacle, an aberration, a crap-shoot, and where one finishes there is a no indication of future performance. ((Yes, I’m talking to YOU Derrike Cope)). The Auto Club 500 last Sunday was a more accurate race for soothsayers and pundits to begin with in the their various divinations of how the season will unfold.

Jamie McMary continued his Daytona momentum by grabbing the pole, but the air rushed out of that balloon as he finished a more expected 17th. Now don’t get me wrong, the move back to Gannasi is a good thing for McMary, and he will have some good finishes as the season rolls on. But now the real season will begin to sort itself out. LasVegas will be the next puzzle piece to be fit into place.

At Califormia, the Roushketeers, with the exception of Dave Ragan ((23rd)), did well. Matt, with new crew chief Todd Parrott, finished 7th. Biff was 10th. The Carl ((who just had his first kid this week, a little 8 lb 4 oz canned ham named Anne—congrats to Carl and his wife)) finished 13th. My new favourite lout Kevin Harvick is getting himself in stride and finished 2nd (more on that after the bump). And the Jeff Burton (3rd) bandwagon is starting to get fired up. Monsieur Bowyer finished 8th. Nice to see all the Childress boys in the top 10, at least for one descending series of moments. Kurt Bsch had a solid car….Tony Stewart finished strong, as did Joey Logano ((who rebounded nicely from Saturday’s little spin through the weed)),  and Mark Martin, and all were top 10.

But as is well known, there are machinations, and the there are evil machinations. There is ability, and then there is damned ability. But none of those count for much more than what they would ordinarily count for when you also have luck.

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One of my ongoing frustrations I’ve had over the years has been the general dearth of coverage by the  NASCAR press both mainstream and otherwise, of the inner workings of Roush Fenway racing in general and of Matt Kenseth in particular. A lot of times, it’s more a matter of trying to read tea-leaves, or read between the lines, or extrapolate from what is NOT said rather than what IS said to gain some insight and understanding worthy of analysis.

So it is somewhat refreshing and surprising to read in the wake of the Daytona 500, not one, but TWO  articles on Matt Kenseth and Roush Racing on NASCAR.com.  The first one announced the replacement Matt’s crew chief, Drew Blickensderfer with Todd Parrot. The second article went into the reasoning behind the switch taking us behind the scenes at Rousch Racing.  As I watched Sunday’s race I could tell that Matt was struggling with the #17 Crown Royal Ford. He really couldn’t get any traction in the race. Something was clearly off with the setup and nothing much seemed to be done during the race to change or adjust it. And how he snuck into the top 10 at the end to finish 8th, I honestly don’t know. And neither does Matt, to be honest.  He made the top 10 in spite of everything.

I think the crew-chief change was long over due. Since Robbie Reiser left the war wagon, Matt has struggled with 2 crew-chiefs who technically were very competent and bright, but didn’t and don’t have the forceful personality and leadership skills that Robbie Reiser had. Chip Bolen was over his skis as a leader. Blick got Matt off to a great start last year but couldn’t sustain it.

Todd Parrott will be a great asset to Matt and his team. His forceful personality will galvanize a team that has under-performed.  Today’s Auto Club 500 at Fontana will have BOTH Parrott and Reiser atop the #17 war wagon. All hands on deck, indeed.

Meanwhile, speaking of last Sunday’s Daytona 500…

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