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asacove · 4 years ago

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Onya Icha Ndambi from Cameroon

Onya Icha Ndambi from Cameroon; Reasons Soccer Is the Best Sport in the World

Onya Icha Ndambi from Cameroon. He's a professional blogger. Onya Icha Ndambi manages the main websites in Cameroon. Onya Icha Ndambi

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Reasons Soccer Is the Best Sport in the World

The USA and Australia are probably the only countries left in the world where soccer is not one of the top-three most popular sports. As an Australian now living in the U.S., this has proven to be rather vexing over the years. It wouldn't be a stretch to go all John Lennon and say that soccer is more popular than God. But soccer is not just the most popular sport in the world, it is also the best. Like, objectively. Here's why. Onya Icha Ndambi

Simplicity

A few games are so overwhelmingly complex that it can take long periods of patient examination (or patient clarification from a specialist) to get your head

around it. I love NFL, baseball and cricket, however I'll likewise acknowledge that they are somewhat substantial on language, subtlety and profoundly specialized technique that can discourage the easygoing watcher.

Hello even the NFL officials themselves get somewhat befuddled here and there (see appended video).

Soccer, then again, is the sort of game you can get your head around after around two minutes of viewing. When you've made sense of the offside standard, that is about it.

Consistency in the Rules

A game has central issues if specialists need to change some part of the guidelines before each new season. The NFL is a steady offender, as of late wiping out its profoundly disliked fold rule while additionally every now and again adjusting rules overseeing physical contact (presumably to maintain a strategic distance from a claim one day).

Rugby is much more terrible.

Since the time the definition of the "back-pass" rule in 1992, soccer hasn't required any progressions to its standards, notwithstanding what a few numbskulls guarantee.

No Timeouts

Watch the most recent five minutes of any b-ball game and you realize that the break thing has turned crazy. It takes what feels like hours to overcome with the two groups freezing the clock at whatever point they have their hands ready, or deliberately fouling their rivals when they don't.

Onya Icha Ndambi

Notwithstanding dealing with the clock, breaks are additionally over and over again used to end the energy of your rivals, rather than compelling groups to happen of their funk. They're likewise used to give proficient competitors a rest that they truly shouldn't require in any case. Goodness, and they're likewise only a reason for sponsors to interfere with games all the more much of the time. Give me the free-streaming steadiness of soccer quickly

Poor Countries Beat Rich Countries

I despite everything left the Ghana versus USA round of 16 games at the 2010 World Cup and reciting with a portion of the nearby fans "Bye, bye, USA!" It struck me that just in soccer could a geopolitical and financial powerhouse like the USA be overwhelmed by an African country with very nearly 300 million less individuals and around 80 spots beneath it on the GDP list.

It Will Never Have a PED Problem

The Tour de France might be a wonder of physical continuance, however do any of us despite everything trust it any longer? So as well, it's difficult to appreciate a superhuman exhibition in numerous games in the Olympics without that bothering thought in the rear of one's head: "I wonder in the event that they're on something..."

There is no medication for expertise and judgment under tension, the twin precepts of any soccer champion. Maradona and Pele never had an indicator close to their name; rather we can simply kick back and make the most of their ability without stressing whether they were getting an unjustifiable substance advantage (in light of the fact that Maradona just took drugs for no particular reason Onya Icha Ndambi

Internationality

200 and three countries endeavored capability for the 2014 World Cup. There are less nations in the United Nations. Soccer is played completely all over the place; it crosses each national partition.

Is there another group activity wherein in excess of 20 countries are reliably serious? More than 10? Most likely not, which is the reason sports like the Rugby World Cup wind up being somewhat of a joke, as countries like Namibia scratch together a group of 15 individuals to get beat 142-0 by Australi

Magnificence

Soccer possesses a great deal of it. There is the undeniable magnificence of an all around planned bike kick, the jumping header, the 30-yard screamer. However, for the idealists, Spain's "tiki-taka" has been an update that dynamic cooperation can be as delightful as individual trapeze artistry. It genuinely is "the wonderful game."

Absence of Formula or Preordained Structure

While each game beginnings with two groups on either side of a line, starting there on it is a free-streaming meeting of capriciousness. Aside from set pieces, there's almost no predetermined structure.

Indeed, even the development of each group is not entirely clear from mentors, rather than fitting a set format. While NFL mentors must be aware of not handling an "unlawful development," their partners in soccer are allowed to pick a 4-4-2, a 3-5-2, or even a 9-0-1 in the event that they're playing Brazil.

There Is No Physical Size Advantage

The best player on the planet right currently is a weedy Argentinean remaining at 5'7". Aside from goalkeeping (where you'll in any event need to stand 6' to make it to the top), all men are made equivalent with regards to soccer. There are a few games where you'll never make it to the top without inclined hereditary focal points in regards to measure; soccer isn't one of them.

You Can Play Anywhere with Minimal Equipment

Have a go at mounting a vocation in any winter sport without forking out a weighty wad of money only for hardware.

In soccer, all you need is a ball (or any round article will do). In addition to the fact that this gives less fortunate countries all the more a possibility, some would contend it gives them a favorable position, with numerous a lifelong fashioned from the crude play of city ghettos.

Scale

In each nation, a group. What's more, inside those alliances, once in a while a few divisions (the Estonian third division, as should be obvious from the video, is as yet paid attention to very by a few). Furthermore, a huge number of beginner rivalries.

Soccer is played at each expertise level, age and sexual orientation (that's right, them two). In each nation on Earth. That is scale.

Physicality

Proficient soccer players are fit as a fiddle, because of a game which goes on for an hour and a half (and once in a while two hours) with no breaks. But at the same time it's the scope of wellness they need to show: cardiovascular perseverance, solid continuance, quality, adaptability, speed. While wellness needs can change from position to position, reasonably you have to have them all.

It's hard not to wonder about the physicality of a competitor who should have the option to run for two hours, wrestle an adversary at a corner and ace the bike kick week in, week out.

Energy

This is a twofold edged blade, obviously. For each brilliant festival of being a fan or national pride, there is frequently an appalling end product which shows through group viciousness.

Onya Icha Ndambi

Be that as it may, enthusiasm produces energy and shading, as a matter of first importance. Soccer fans care more than aficionados of whatever other game, which delivers brilliantly serious live encounters. In basically some other game, the fans can be exceptional, however nobody's returning home also crushed if their group loses.

Strength

Some physical games definite a silly physical cost for their members, both by the harshness of the play and the way of life of playing through injury.

While a few yippees may contend those games are consequently prevalent, it's a disgrace that we can just appreciate a few competitors at their top for such a brief timeframe before injury dulls their capacities.

Then, some soccer stars don't arrive at their top until their 30s and can keep playing at the top level well past that. Furthermore, at the novice level, you can keep playing the game you love a ways into your sundown years.

Soccer Players Are Better Looking

Shallow, I know, however there's small denying that David Beckham and Alex Morgan wouldn't have made numerous magazine covers in the event that they were proficient fighters, making efforts to their gigantic cheekbones all the time.

Also, soccer players grow more appealing physical make-ups than most different games due to the requirement for balanced wellness, while any semblance of Prince Fielder can stack on the pounds since they don't should be trim to do what they do.

#Soccer Players #Onya Icha Ndambi

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samantha388-blog · 5 years ago

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Onya Icha Ndambi from Cameroon

Onya Icha Ndambi from Cameroon; Reasons Soccer Is the Best Sport in the World

Onya Icha Ndambi from Cameroon. He's a professional blogger. Onya Icha Ndambi manages the main websites in Cameroon. Onya Icha Ndambi

Reasons Soccer Is the Best Sport in the World

Simplicity

A few games are so overwhelmingly complex that it can take long periods of patient examination (or patient clarification from a specialist) to get your head

Hello even the NFL officials themselves get somewhat befuddled here and there (see appended video).

Soccer, then again, is the sort of game you can get your head around after around two minutes of viewing. When you've made sense of the offside standard, that is about it.

Consistency in the Rules

Rugby is much more terrible.

Since the time the definition of the "back-pass" rule in 1992, soccer hasn't required any progressions to its standards, notwithstanding what a few numbskulls guarantee.

No Timeouts

Onya Icha Ndambi

Poor Countries Beat Rich Countries

It Will Never Have a PED Problem

Internationality

200 and three countries endeavored capability for the 2014 World Cup. There are less nations in the United Nations. Soccer is played completely all over the place; it crosses each national partition.

Magnificence

Absence of Formula or Preordained Structure

There Is No Physical Size Advantage

You Can Play Anywhere with Minimal Equipment

Have a go at mounting a vocation in any winter sport without forking out a weighty wad of money only for hardware.

Scale

Soccer is played at each expertise level, age and sexual orientation (that's right, them two). In each nation on Earth. That is scale.

Physicality

It's hard not to wonder about the physicality of a competitor who should have the option to run for two hours, wrestle an adversary at a corner and ace the bike kick week in, week out.

Energy

This is a twofold edged blade, obviously. For each brilliant festival of being a fan or national pride, there is frequently an appalling end product which shows through group viciousness.

Onya Icha Ndambi

Strength

Some physical games definite a silly physical cost for their members, both by the harshness of the play and the way of life of playing through injury.

Soccer Players Are Better Looking

#Soccer Players #Onya Icha Ndambi #Onya Icha Ndambi from Cameroon; Reasons Soccer Is the Best Sport in the World

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le-petitmort · 6 years ago

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Ye olde smut time machine II

***Back in the day I wanted to prove I could write any genre of erotica. Of course, I did. Here's a tidbit of my take on a sadistic psycho dominatrix with multiple personality disorder. Enjoy. ***

He had a noticeably Estonian first name, with a surname which made me reminisce of a prodigious, departed stranger from a winter’s night tryst in Bruges. A marbled chest, of which The Louvre was unworthy and that smile. That smile which screamed “rape whistle, where are you!?” Inhibitions to the wayside in the name of conquest and danger.

Yet why worry? As always my trusty girl, the dagger of my dreams was by my side. “Baby Doll I love you.” No silly, it wasn’t this dusky manchild baying his affection in a not very subtle attempt to woo and conquer. It was Karo, La Karolina, adjusting unblemished eyeshadow before sliding my crimson tipped index and middle finger over each faultless framing brow. One soft luxuriant palm dropped to pat the pearl encrusted handle of the trusted dagger at my hip. ‘Baby doll, I love you.” A girl and her poniard should never be underestimated.

I had allowed my suitor to accompany me home. Coy moves along the way ensued. He would twirl me into his arms. A dip low enough for my highlighted tips to nearly touch the filth of the sidewalk below. Natch, you naughty boy. As much pleasure as you seem to take in your own personal grooming, treat the Goddess with respect. It was as if he could read my mind. Chiseled forearms steadied me back atop my stilettos.

Slam, I crushed him against the nearest brick wall. Looking into his filled with shock eyes I bit hard at his collarbone. An abrupt release of my incisors from his salty skin followed.“A love bite, lover.” No sense in being bashful, my mouth attacked his. Voracious, open mouthed seductions between two tongues. He was smitten. I was decisive.

Back at the Palais de Figaro I asked that he make himself comfortable. By comfortable I meant shirtless. I made my way towards the bar. One of those girlish saunters that sent the finest of my assets swaying for his delight. U’luvka vodka was in order. On the rocks. The humorous thing about U’luvka is that in my mother’s native tongue, Polish, it quite literally means legless. My head tipped in a ponderous moment. I wonder what this manly piece of cheesecake would look like legless?

Would it be like the odd little knight in the Monty Python movie. Filled with a false bravado as each limb separated from torso? Or would he succumb to his failure? Sobbing a mournful bale of regrettable sadness at his impending doom. Begging for his last breaths to be taken by the shiny, delicate blade of Baby Doll. Fuckwit.

Slim fingers silently searched into the bartop drawer, identifying an small folded envelope whose contents were emptied in a slight of hand motion into loverboy’s drink. Stir and prepared. I made the same coquettish steps back towards my new man, handing over his tumbler, then dropping to my knees.

I sipped at the glorious clear liquid while my free hand latched to his buckle. Chin lifting I urged, “Drink my lover. Pić oraz moją miłość.” A tender smile cracked before dropping my head to engulf the incessant growth of his virile manhood.

Some say it’s all in the wrist motion. That light twist and grasp as your head bobs ruby lips and porcelain teeth to graze past the coursing with blood veins of his shaft. There is the requisite gasp before beginning. “It’s so large Baby! Can I even fit it in my mouth? Oh my?” That’s right before you go deep, burying your nose into the musky essence of his mons pubis. For effect I will allow him the auditory pleasure of my gagging, as if I were a trashy porngraphic harlot. Yes, big boy. Roll your fingers through my hair, scrunching it, messing it up, ruining it, you indignant fuck.

I pull back, a faux heaving breath as the trail of my spittle dangles precarious like an Amazonian bridge in the wind from my pouted lower lip to bulbous head of his cock. Deft digits pump at the shaft, I go back to work, head jackhammering over his rigid molten shaft until my tresses cascade back like a winged phoenix behind me. Breathe. Assess.

There we go little boy. Those kind eyes are beginning to falter. Lids drooping like the shades of my bedroom window when the perv next door removes his trash, standing at the curb far too long for my liking. I give a shake of his once proud, now diminishing cock. A suitable result, enough to plaster a smirk to my face. I rise, towering between his spread legs as he falls faster towards slumber, arm stretch to swipe away the remains of his drink. Then I spit. Not once but twice. A projectile towards his weak shriveled wanker and one to his cheek. Lotharios are not made to be loved.

Used is their purpose. I watched his jaw draw slack and the first audible snores, throaty and masculine. Good enough for me. With my own drink now in hand I retired to the den, snatching the remote from the mahogany coffee table and tuning in the DVR for a marathon of Young and The Restless. Time was on my side. 1:14 AM.

Three hours of that inglorious bastard Victor Newman later I returned to my sweet prince. If a daily regimen of pilates, crossfit and yoga have done anything for me it’s made this slim, flexible body more than just a fuck toy. It’s made capable of taking care of any situation and more than capable of heaving twice my weight across lean shoulders for the fifty seven steps towards my pleasure room. Stilettos included, because no pain, no gain and balance training is unf.

My heart rate bumped a slight acceleration in what turned out to total fifty nine steps with this lumpy sack of potatoes slung over me. Was it lumpy or was it the cut definition of his rigid abdomen and toned like Adonis pectorals? Clinically speaking as a physician I must err towards the latter.

With a thud I dropped Mister Beef to the safety and comfort of the adjustable examination table. His jeans were thigh high like a lingerie on a Victoria's Secret model, easing my ability to yank them away for the proverbial toss to the corner out of sight. I liked him better this way. As he was brought into this world and how he, time and date dependent upon my mood, would depart from it.

The task of moving him into place went by with ease. I took time to marvel at his feet as I strapped them into the stirrups. Hairless with a crescent curve to the instep leading down to the display of his obvious penchant for pedicures. Pretty nails deserve to be painted. Twisting my head back towards the clock, 4:47 AM. Time enough to pretty up my pretty boy.

In all of my lust induced revelry I had failed to notice the one predominant trait of my newfound friend. Tattoos. Yuck. No rhyme or reason to them. Now, as an educated woman I understand we all have the right to choice. Yet, these. These were random with no story to tell other than possibly a bad decision on drunken night. I am an artist of pain. Preference is given to a clean canvas. Tonight I would take the sullied, and revile him further for poor choices. Whether he could hear me or not.

I sucked in a long, tedious breath through the nostrils of my perfect button nose. “Relax Karolina. Oddychać Karo.” My entertainment had yet to begin and already I was becoming a manic mess.

“He wants to enjoy your gift Karolina.” I walked beside my paramour, finger sweeping away errant hairs from his brow. “How serene you look my lover. At peace. Rested in wait for me to give myself to you.” I clutched each thick wrist in a firm hold, a brusk yank over his head to bind them encased in supple brown leather cuffs. “So pretty. So, so pretty my beautiful boy.”

Six o’clock came and went, the golden sun rising in the east as I stripped and adjourned to the sanctity of my poolside patio. Saturday morning meant Ashtanga yoga. Strenuous poses performed rapid fire between exhale and inhale. Vigorous and absolute focus like the steeled eye of a killer. Perspiration beaded upon my golden skin. Sensual drips sliding over me in a cascade as I bent myself into a fevered pitch. “Namaste Karolina. Namaste.”

Namaste is a word which I love because it has a rough English translation of “Bow to you.” I’ve never been known as one to bow but, I have a sincere appreciation for those who do. Bow to me, that is. My benevolent and guiding hand will lead them along their path. Is it towards righteousness? Hardly. I only deal in the sinners. The wanton. The divisive. The scum. “I, Karolina Figaro, born upon this earth of Italian and Polish heritage seek the guidance of our lord and savior in purging the earth of misdeeds until I take my last living breath. Amen.” I am a proponent of spirituality.

Spirituality and grooming. Mi amore would soon begin to awaken, becoming aware that our tryst to his delight would continue through the daylight hours. Lucky man. To have me catering to sexual needs. Bringing him hurtling toward crescendoed skyrockets of orgasmic bliss.

I cracked two eggs on the skillet waiting until they began to congeal and covered them to baste. A girl needs her protein and from dripped taste of my inamorato I needed a little something more. Breakfast complete I climbed the stairs to the bright lights and mirrors of my elegant white dressing room. A pop in the shower cooled my skin as I adjusted the jets, soon adjusting the water temperature higher until steam billowed at my feet, flowing lazy cloud-like circles above me. “Heaven. this must be heaven.” My mind clicked. “The time Karo. Damn it you insolent child. You have a visitor waiting!”

“Get ready girl. Get ready. Now ragazza stupida!” I could hear the stern voice of my childhood governess chiding me. I felt mortal, small, as weak and low as a meaningless insect. “Yes ma’am. I’m sorry ma’am.” I rushed ahead preparing myself and in the tradition of a fine Figaro woman, making myself a stunning display of feminity for my man. My man. I couldn’t even remember his name now. Just those god awful, disgusting gutter trash tattoos. Freak! You freak!

Penciling mascara around my luminous sapphire orbs brought me back on pointe. Babycakes was sure to be up, groggy no doubt but, awaiting me. I did the final preparations, sliding on only a pair of six inch Louboutins and flew towards the stairs. Hey, I needed the shoes. Don’t judge. Extra height, leverage, kinky fuckery. A man appreciates a lady in heels.

As I approached the room I slowed my pace. Stay confident Karolina. He’s going to love you. How can he not!? “You fucking whore bitch!” It was the first words uttered from his foul mouth in hours.

I felt hurt. troubled by his verbal lashing “Baby, is that any way to talk to me after all I’ve done to take care of you.” I rushed forward throwing my arms over his straining physique.

“Let me out of here you fucking cunt.” He screamed. That word. The C word resonating like the chime of a bell tower. It was cause for me to withdraw my earnest goodwill and tidings.

“Cunt? Did you call me a cunt you pathetic excuse for a mammal.” My hand cracked splintered pain across his cheek, a gob of my spit meteoric in travel towards his eye. “You sub-human piece of shit.”

Thankfully, my examination table is well stocked. I threw open a drawer, grabbed a ball gag, which in turn I jammed in his vulgar mouth. “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all darling.”

He truly did look like a Greek Olympian or Roman gladiator. Dark skin and solid muscles struggling against his restraints, fighting as if he were in a colosseum battling to the death. I could imagine him a victor valiant. A Goddess bestowing an olive frond upon his head. Then I remembered that he had called me a cunt in a not so nice tone.

“Time for your examination.” I sing songed the words just as I had when I was a lowly Johns Hopkins resident working with underprivileged pediatric patients. “Don’t you worry now lovely. Everything will be alright. Doctor Figaro is going to take wonderful care of you. Loving care.” Reaching into the still open drawer I slipped on a pair of latex gloves before grabbing a fresh tube of lubricant.

I gave my swain a benevolent smile hoping to subside his pain. “Don’t be embarrassed now. I’ve done this many time before.” The lube squirted onto my fingertip, thick and clear. “Let me warm it slightly.” Rolling it over my finger I felt the substance lighten then dropped my hand between his sinewy thighs.

Index pressing at the tight balloon knot between his bubbled buttocks, I began to circle clockwise. Urging, coaxing him to loosen. To not resist like a burdensome baby. I spoke with stern authority. “Let me slide it in. Do not make me force it.” I could feel his ass cheeks clamp together harder. Frustrating little shit. My free palm rose. Not one crack, not two, nor three. Five solid and crushing slaps to his limp little scrotum had Mister Gorgeous hearing my message loud and clear.

The barked order flew forth. “Push outward. It slides in easier if you push like you’re taking a shit. God! Everyone knows that idiot!” I grasped those reddened balls like low hanging grapes and twisted. “Stop being a little bitch. You want this as much as me.”

There it was. A slip past that first ringed muscle. Twirling my finger I began the process of loosening his insides as he groaned. “Delightful isn’t it?” I queried, accompanied by an eager smile. “There we go.” The digit slid deeper, his flaccid cock beginning to grow. “Mmm, you really do like it you naughty boy.” Loverboy’s hips jutted then instinctively clenched at my words. His bony hips lowering flat as an iron, in a thinly veiled attempt to subdue any further delving inside his virgin back door. It was time to help him find pleasure.

Grasping his excited tumescence, I began with languid strokes. Base to tip, insuring my thumb ran over that bundle of nerves under the head which would set his head spinning in sensual erotic craving. “There we go. Let it go. Let your hips rise to each stroke like you’re fucking my mouth. Close your eyes. Imagine us making sweet love in the ocean. Blissful waves crashing over us. Envision how you want to come inside me. Claim me. Make me yours.” His panting and engorged cock was the clue. He was soon to explode jets of his seed, like a fountain, spraying across that hot heaving six pack. “Stop!’ I quit pleasuring him and discontinued the enraptured loosening of his backside.

Sure that he wasn’t going to waste a drop I restarted on his ass. A withdrawal brought two fingers into play, scissoring his sphincter as he gasped in gratification. “Feels so good, doesn’t it? To get your boy pussy finger fucked? Do you want to be taken? Fucked?” the words were but a murmur from my lips. His consent evident in the higher, responsive thrusts.

I managed to step to the side of the table without missing a beat. Pulling from the drawer a heavy, black eight inch strap-on. I believe I heard an incessant no but, no means yes when you make love to a beautiful woman.

The harness slid up my slender, shapely legs. The same legs which many a man had worshipped and which would forcibly guide us towards a climactic denouement. Another squirt of lube and I tossed my soiled gloves, beginning to oil my own phallus before leaning forward to place it at his randy hole.

“Do you want to fuck baby?”

He shook his head vigorously.

“Do you want to get off?”

The shake continued.

“Let me pop that cherry and you can return the favor. Maybe. I’ll let you bathe me with that nasty tongue. Call your Daddy. Be your nasty little slut.”

Like that, the imagery of retaking his rightful place as a man overtook all thought process. My faux cock driving further into his milking, constrictive depths. His cock reacted to the prodding. That lightning bolt as the rubber thundered at his prostate. I could sense the tingle flashing throughout his body. That insidious, body enveloping way, much like hitting my own g-spot, which could make him squirt a cascade of his sinful juices. Withdrawal time.

I slipped back and held before pushing forward rhythmical. An insistent rocking motion as I latched to his hips. My pointy nails dug into the epidermis of his skin, ripping coarse gashes of pain that made his howls grow between the cosmic satisfaction of my downstrokes in his fiery little fuck hole. I was making him my decadent squirming bitch and he was all in. Hot.

My own salacious enjoyment could not be denied. Head falling, sweeps of hair a metronomic brush across my back. Feral moans emitted as I cupped my flushed perky tits providing a forceful twist to the coral pebbles. A storm of release was brewing. The sensation of touch like mind addling drugs to the overexcited nerves between my supple thighs.

“Say my name. Say Karolina. Say you want me to own your boy cunt.” I pounded harder.

“Say my name bitch. Say Karolina I adore. I love you Karolina. I am yours Karolina.” Nothing but tedious groans. Those tight nuts were back in hand in a nanosecond. Squeezing and caressing the fertile life out of them.

“No coming.” My eyes pierced through his. Into his cuckolded soul.

“Karolina.” I grunted guttural. “Say, you are my Goddess Karolina.”

And he did. Profusely exclaiming his assent to my commands with wide eyes and mumbled, gargling words. He was into our rite of passion. His body bucking, jerking on the edge of a stars shooting through the sky explosion of desire. Which is when I reached for the tray next to me, grabbed my beloved Baby doll, pressing down hard until his jugular bulged.

“Fuckwit.”

A sudden sound erupted behind me. Steel clanking a loud clatter as I became bathed in the glow of white light. My neck jerked, eyes hazy on the fevered edge of carnal obsession.

“Figaro..time for your lineup.” Those fucking dyke jailers. This dream was too good to be true. Oh, but soon. Soon enough I would be back on the street. Mommy said so. But, only the guilty do sleep in jail.

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abitterlifethroughcinema · 4 years ago

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THE SITGES Film Festival- Happy Samhain 2020 REVIEWS, VOL. II by Lucas Avram Cavazos

For starters, a couple of docs that skirt socio-cultural issues but are right up this critic’s alley…history. The Quiet Revolution: State, Society and the Canadian Horror Film looks at just how social and political tensions of the 60s and 70s within North America differed between the US and Canadian territories, and that aided in the creation of on-fleek horror film traditions from then until the present day in Canada but obviously beyond, as well. Think Montreal in those times and know that it bred a revolution in French-language cinema. Throw in filmmakers like David Cronenberg, whose son won Best Film this year at Sitges 2020, and we start to see that the difference between US horror and Canadian horror has distinctly been shaped by the differences in the state from which they are helmed. Nice touch with bountiful shards of film clip examples to illustrate for dorks like myself. ###-1/2

Be Water tells the story of Bruce Lee but in such an unexpected treasure kind-of-way, as so much unseen and long time not-seen footage of Bruce and his family makes the film rife with historical depictions. I never knew that he was a kid actor star for Asian cinema devotees across the globe AND that he was born in San Francisco. The documentary title is derived from one of Lee’s core philosophical beliefs and it must be clearly stated that water being fluid as it is, smooth and crystalline as it is and yet hard as anything else, capable of breaking down dams, walls and even presidencies. Superb and informative if not definitive. ####

Ahhh Becky…such a lauded name these days with Beyonce fans and the like…Telling the tragic story of lil Becky (young horror film maven Lulu Wilson) who, after losing her mother a year or so before, is doted on by her loving father (US comic actor Joel McHale) who, one day, takes her away for a respite to a) continue the healing process in nature; b) assure her they will keep their country home; and c) let her know that his now girlfriend is about to become her new mommy…with lil brother in tow. Insert a common theme in the US (the world?) right now and white supremacism rears its scary-ass head in the name of some scary, escaped convicts (led by chunky-and-charming King of Queens star Kevin James) and the hit gets real...really quickly. The unexpected force? Tween kween Becky and her boiling pre-teen angst/anger. Chil’! This film gives good thrills! ###-1/2 (now premiering on Movistar+)

There was a moment whilst screening Catalan director Lluis Danes’ interesting La Vampira de Barcelona where I felt a sense of deja vu, a sense that I was back in the 90s watching an intriguing arthouse film documenting a little remembered piece of history. At times it felt like a mix between a low-budget Age of Innocence mixed with a sincere element of Ferrara’s The Addiction. Detailing the story of Enriqeta Marti i Ripollés, known as the Vampire of the Raval or Vampire of Barcelona as the film title suggests, it has nothing to do with blood sucking and much more to do with the fact that she had connections in high places and made deals that provided children for the sexual pleasures of men amongst the rankings of high society. This spanned over years and allegedly claimed the lives of over a dozen pre-adolescent children. Some researchers have disputed this claim and deemed her merely a mental case, but this film takes the necessary steps to analyse the documented case. Winner of the Audience Award for Best Film at this years’s festival, the film opens in local cinemas on the 20/11/20. ###-1/2

Spree was a superb piece of celluloid to screen for this year’s Sitges film festival and is yet another social reflection of how the demented realm of youngsters without scruples but plenty of social media contact make for a bleak AF future. The movie tells the story of Kurt Kunkle (Stranger Thing’s Joe Keery) who is beyond obsessed with social media stardom and concocts a way to attain that by attempting to coerce a kid he used to babysit (and who is now a social media influencer) to aid him grab more live stream viewers. But what ends up happening is a slow, maddening yet funny descent into a psychopathic spree of death or near-deaths that border on all-too-real yet achingly not-real tidbits of modern reality, especially for this under 20! Superb as a thought piece, creepy thrill ride and post-modern drama. The film is now streaming on some international Amazon Prime platforms but should also see an indie cine release by early next year. ####

The Old Man: The Movie was so much fun to screen! It was like going into the millennium-style, sardonic and sarcastic humour that I so gravitate to and spinning it through an Estonian milk to butter churn. Helmed by Estonian filmmakers Mikk Magi and Oskar Lehemaa, this animated (personal fave) film goes off telling the fabled Estonian story of how cows explode and wreak havoc when doing so if they are not milked every day or so! Apparently, this tale is told to kids in Estonia and is brought to life with the story of farmer/milkman, Grandpa, whose three grandkids come to visit for the summer, only to learn a valuable lesson or two when their trusted dairy cow goes missing. What ensues is such a silly laugh riot, and yet it also touches on human emotions and fantasy at the sane time and in such a wonderfully unique way. Though released in its native Estonia late last year, it is still hard to come by and I’m grateful to have screened it this year! ####

While I was screening Polish director Lech Majewski’s latest odd offering called Valley of the Gods, it was hard not to feel an overwhelming feeling of otherworldliness. The feeling of deja vu was too true, with a tinged air of Lynch mixed with the opulent director’s-eye of Sorrentino and a dash of Kubrick-style art-rendered-reality...even that might only start to begin to explain this piece. Telling the story of a man’s breakdown due to love’s labour lost, we follow John Ecas (Josh Hartnett) trying to break free from his sadness by immersing himself into the work of a man who is an old trillionaire (John Malkovich) and documenting his life story. What enraptures the audience (if they’re able to be, that is) is how director Majewski captures the odd reality of the original US-Americans, native American tribesmen like the Navajo here, set against the realities of modern USA. Unexplainable in a way, this film either grows on you or you walk the hell away wondering, ‘WTF!’ the film opens in local cinemas on the 20/11/20. ###-1/2

When a fantastical-horror film piece is also doubling as a social-environmental thought piece that can make you laugh, you’re probably onto something interesting. That is what I kept feeling was going to occur and lo and behold, it did as I watched the new film Slaxx. Helmed by experimental Montreal film director Elza Kephart, we get the truth behind the realities of fast fashion by large corp clothiers, like Zara/H&M and yes, even YOU Bennetton…your ads are a smokescreen for the clothes maker you used to be…and I no longer can buy in the outlets, although I do find it harder than heck from time to tie not to break down and load up on canvas shoes…yet I digress. In this film, when go-getter Libby gets a post working for a fast fashion retailer, she is pumped and ready to learn, burn and chuuuuurn out sales, mostly as the ‘new season’ jeans’ are about to go on sale, but there just happens to be a twist. These ‘slacks’ are out for blood…why, you ask? Assuredly, this over the top concept come straight to us with a complete tongue-in-cheek manner but highlighting the fact that the slacks’ design came courtesy of/at the expense of a wee cotton-picking lass in the depths of India who was accidentally killed during a horrid machine snafu, says a lot. A personal favourite of mine this year. ###-1/2

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junker-town · 6 years ago

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6 perfectly fine NFL players who failed to live up to their amazing combine workouts

Mike Mamula, Tavon Austin, and one Estonian shot putter all make the list.

The NFL Scouting Combine is a place where stars can be made. Each year, 300 of college football’s top draft-eligible prospects descend on Indianapolis in a week-long effort to prove their worth to executives and coaches across the league.

But an array of football-adjacent drills and too-serious job interviews don’t always capture a player’s future potential. For some, a bad set of drills can be the tipping point that temporarily derails their NFL hopes. For others, it’s the jumping-off point for outstanding careers, some of which end in the Hall of Fame.

Then there are those who set the bar of expectations too high with a strong 40 time or record-setting vertical leap. These are the players who inflate a few minutes of work in March into the monolith that overshadows their entire NFL careers. That doesn’t mean they weren’t still useful players — it just means they weren’t able to follow up on the promise delivered at the combine.

Here are six players who boosted their draft stock to unsustainable heights, then landed somewhere between “bust” and “star” over the course of careers best remembered for their workout prowess.

Mike Mamula, DE, Philadelphia Eagles (No. 7 pick of the 1995 draft)

Mamula’s incredible combine performance has turned into the example of what the mastery of the event’s basic drills can do for a prospect. The undersized pass rusher slayed his workouts in Indianapolis, going from a likely second- or third-round pick all the way up to the seventh selection in 1995 after lighting up the combine with one extremely obvious strategy: getting really good at all the drills.

“I went into the combine having done every test hundreds of times,” Mamula told ESPN in 2008. “Some other guys had never done some of the specific drills.”

Mamula had a decent NFL career for a third-round pick, recording 31.5 sacks in five seasons with the Eagles. This, however, was not what Philadelphia signed up for after trading the No. 12 pick and two second-rounders for the opportunity to select the Boston College star. If the Eagles had stood pat at No. 12, they could have selected Warren Sapp, who wound up snapped up by the Buccaneers at the spot Philly vacated.

Matt Jones, WR, Jacksonville Jaguars (No. 21 pick of the 2005 draft)

Jones’ impressive combine convinced Jacksonville the former Arkansas quarterback had Pro Bowl potential. The 6’6 signal caller ran a 4.37-second 40 to establish himself as a potential red zone threat, even if he’d only caught four passes in his college career.

The Jaguars were kinda right! Jones was a useful target who caught 166 passes and 15 touchdowns, starting 15 games for a team that made two postseason appearances over the course of four years. He could have done even more if not for the substance abuse suspension and arrests that ended his tenure in Jacksonville. He’d miss the Bengals’ 53-man roster in 2010 and retire rather than try out with Washington a couple months later.

Jones was fine, but if the Jags needed a receiver they could have picked Roddy White. The four-time Pro Bowler went to the Falcons six picks later.

Darrius Heyward-Bey, WR, Oakland Raiders (No. 7 pick of the 2009 draft)

Heyward-Bey’s best season at Maryland saw him catch 51 passes for 786 yards — not exactly No. 1 WR numbers. So why did the Raiders spend a top-10 pick on a player who failed to consistently produce in three seasons as a Terrapin? Because Al Davis has never loved anything more than speed, and Heyward-Bey was 2009’s fastest man.

The 6’2, 210-pound wideout remains the largest prospect to ever run 4.3 seconds or less in the 40, and that’s all it took for Davis to overlook concerns about his hands and route tree. He went from middling wideout prospect to the seventh pick — then caught only 35 passes in his first two seasons as a pro.

Business picked up in years three and four with 1,581 receiving yards and a healthy 15.1 yards per catch, but that would be the high-water mark of Heyward-Bey’s career. He’s managed to stick around as a useful (if little-used) deep threat and pad his NFL run out to a full decade.

Davis’ insatiable thirst for speed prevented Oakland from drafting fellow wideouts Michael Crabtree and Jeremy Maclin, either of whom would have made a more threatening target than Heyward-Bey.

Barkevious Mingo, DE/OLB, Cleveland Browns (No. 6 pick of the 2013 draft)

Mingo was a first-team all-name selection throughout his collegiate career, but an underwhelming junior season threatened to tank his draft stock. Any questions about his potential were answered with a stellar showing in Indianapolis, where he ranked among the top two defensive linemen in 40 time, vertical jump, and the three-cone drill.

He would be drafted as part of a shaman’s curse in Cleveland, where he started 16 games ... in three seasons. His status as a failed high-profile draft pick pushed the Patriots into trading a fifth-round pick for his services in 2016. He won a Super Bowl ring as part of the greatest comeback in NFL history — though he only made four regular season tackles and was relegated mostly to special teams duty.

That was enough rehabilitation to convince other teams to roll the dice on the athletic linebacker. He made a handful of starts for the Colts in 2017 before sliding into a full-time role with the playoff-bound Seahawks in 2018. Mingo’s been a perfectly fine replacement-level player who can play a role on good teams — but that’s not what the Browns had in mind when they made him the No. 6 pick in 2013.

So who could Cleveland have drafted instead? 2013 turned out to be a pretty underwhelming draft — see the following two entries on this list — but Sheldon Richardson would have added a little extra pass-rushing punch for the Browns, albeit at a different position.

Tavon Austin, WR/RB/KR/whatever, St. Louis Rams (No. 8 pick of the 2013 draft)

If Austin were a Day 3 pick, he’d be an overlooked Swiss Army Knife capable of filling gaps as a runner, receiver, and returner — a lower-cost Cordarrelle Patterson. Instead, his electric combine showing helped push him into the top 10 of the 2013 draft and create the great expectations he’s failed to fill throughout a six-year career. Austin lit up the speed events in Indianapolis, running a 4.34-second 40 and recording 2013’s second-best 20-yard shuttle time to tantalize scouts in need of a dynamic offensive threat.

The former West Virginia star has 202 career receptions and 190 carries as a jet-sweeping, gadget-play burner, averaging a solid eight yards per touch in that span. He’s also been a dynamic special teams contributor, leading the league in returns in 2016, returning three punts for touchdowns in his first three seasons as a pro, and generally giving opposing kickers something to think about before booting the ball downfield. That was all Jeff Fisher needed to offer him a four-year, $42 million contract extension that didn’t make much sense in 2016 and looked downright silly after he finished 2017 with 13 receptions.

The problem is no team has figured out how to make him an every-down player. He’s not a running back and he isn’t a consistent enough route runner to be a legit receiving threat. A depleted Dallas receiving corps traded for him in hopes of unlocking his potential (and giving Dak Prescott someone to throw to), but Austin still managed only eight receptions in seven games. Austin’s high draft status means he’s made more than $185,000 per catch as a pro — a rate that would have made Julio Jones $20.9 million last fall. He won’t get nearly as favorable a deal as a free agent this spring.

If the Rams were willing to make a bit of a reach, they could have had DeAndre Hopkins — drafted 27th in 2013 — instead.

Margus Hunt, DL, Cincinnati Bengals (No. 53 pick of the 2013 draft)

The Estonian shot putter was one of 2013’s rawest prospects. He originally came to America to train with SMU’s track and field team, but when the university scrapped its program he found a way to stay in Dallas by taking his talents to the gridiron. He developed into an All-Conference USA talent, but his limited resume and advanced age (25 years old on draft day) didn’t exactly scream “Day 2 pick” to interested teams.

His absurd combine measurables — a 4.6-second 40 time at 6’8 and 277 pounds, 38 reps on the bench press — did. That convinced the Bengals to snap him up in the second round. For their investment, the club recouped zero starts and 1.5 sacks over four seasons on what looked like a wasted pick.

But Hunt wasn’t just taking up space in Cincinnati; he was learning a game he didn’t pick up until he was 22 years old. The big European moved 90 minutes west to Indianapolis as a low-risk signing for general manager Chris Ballard and slowly developed into a starter after moving from defensive end to nose tackle. In 2018 he recorded 30 tackles and five sacks — more than he had in his four seasons as a Bengal combined.

Hunt’s selection in the second round wasn’t as big a risk as the other players on this list, but other defensive linemen still on the board when he was selected included Bennie Logan, Brandon Williams, and Alex Okafor.

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capitankoke · 8 years ago

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I'm in an Eurovision period at the moment and I'm a little curious.. Who were some of your faves throughout the past years?

I love this kind of asks :’) A few of my fews from 2010 to now. (Adding a cut so my non-eurovision followers don’t get mad at me)

2010:- Turkey: MaNga - We could be the same. One of my fave Eurovision songs EVER. For me it should have won that year.- France: Jessy Matador - Allez Olla Ole. The kind of ridiculous songs I adore in Eurovision, you’ll find a few of those in this list.- Romania: Paula Seling and Ovi - Playing with fire. An Eurovision classic. Flawless, amazing. Much better than their other entry.Of this year I also have Lena’s ‘Satellite’ and Juliana Pasha’s ‘It’s all about you’ on my iPod.

2011: - Ireland: Jedward - Lipstick. Nobody cared about the backing singers singing half of the song because they’re all Eurovision should be :’) Shame their song the next year wasn’t a 10% that good. They still got to qualify so Ireland, maybe you should think about a third time lucky?- Sweden: Eric Saade - Popular. At first I thought it wasn’t that special, but it’s so damn catchy.- Armenia: Emmy - Boom Boom. The staging is ridic but it’s a fun song.I can’t believe this year didn’t have a winner.

2012:- Cyprus: Ivi Adamou - La La Love. This one was a hit that summer, loved it.- Moldova: Pasha Parfeny - Lautar. Soooo catchy.- Turkey: Can Bonomo - Love me back. What not to love in a song about pirates? ‘hop onto my ship baby I’ll make you fly’The Swiss Sinplus, Norwegian Tooji, and ofc Euphoria are also among my faves.

2013:- Greece: Koza Mostra ft. Agathonas - Alcohol is free. THIS. IS. EUROVISION. Four years later I’m still singing to this and I don’t even know greek!- Belarus: Alyona - Solayoh. Very catchy, the lyrics are lame but who cares?- Malta: Gianluca Bezzina - Tomorrow. THIS GUY IS A DOCTOR. And he’s super smiley and cute. And got a brilliant result for smol malta!- Norway: Margaret Berger - I feed you my love. Modern and amazing.- Montenegro: Who See and Nina Zizic - Igranka. THEY WERE SO ROBBED OMG.

2014:- Austria: Conchita Wurst - Rise like a phoenix. This one doesn’t even need a presentation.- France: Twin twin - Moustache. What did I say about silly songs that give me life?- Iceland: Pollaponk - No prejudice. The icelandic teletubbies! Seriously, they were so fun!- The Netherlands: The common linnets - Calm after the storm. This is like Chanel n.5 but for the ears.- Switzerland: Sebalter - Hunter of stars. The lyrics are silly but he can do everything!- Ukraine: Mariya Yaremchuk - Tick Tock. The hamster man was cute, but Mariya is a queen herself and I need that dress.

2015: (one of my fave years ever, beware!)- Belgium: Loic Nottet - Rhythm Inside. My winner tbh.- Australia: Guy Sebastian - Tonight again. Australia learnt really soon what was what Europe needed.- Norway: Morland and Debrah - A monster like me. Obscure and beautiful.- Estonia: Elina and Stig - Goodbye to yesterday. My fave estonian entry ever.- Slovenia: Maraaya - Here for you. What a great duets’ year.- Israel: Nadav Guedj - Golden Boy. CAN YOU BELIEVE HE WAS 16 HERE?- Georgia: Nina Sublatti - Warrior. Queen of emo.And shoutout to the fantastic top 3 that year (Sweden’s Heroes, Italy’s Grande Amore and Russia’s A million Voices)

2016:- Bulgaria: Poli Genova - If Love was a crime. - Belgium: Laura Tesoro - What’s the pressure. She was so happy and bouncy and all things good - Spain: Barei - Say yay. The only Spanish song I’ve liked in the recent story, was badly sandwiched in the final between Russian and Ukraine and that was a bummer.- Russia: Sergey Lazarev - You’re the only one. The “thunder and lightning it’s getting exciting” part is already one of my fave out-of-context lyrics ever.- Croatia: Nina Kraljic - Lighthouse. The staging was horrible, her live singing was questionable but the song is wonderful in its studio version.- France: Amir - J’ai cherche. I loved it so much, well done France!I love a lot more from 2016 but I don’t want to make this extra long.

2017:- Italy: Francesco Gabbani - Occidentali’s Karma. It’s a shame it had to be cut for Eurovision bc the whole song is just wonderful.- Latvia: Triana Park - Line. I can’t believe they ended second to last. The song gives me life.- Belarus: Navi Band - Story of my life. I love that they sing in their language, I love that they’re so painfully cute.- France: Alma - Requiem. Eeeeeembrace moiiiii… ♥- Norway: JOWST - Grab the moment. I can’t help but singing along to this all the time.

Believe it or not this is just a small representation of my faves over the years hahaha. Hope you enjoy it!

#Anonymous #eurovision

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borisbubbles · 8 years ago

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Eurovision 2017: Pre-Show

3. Estonia: Koit Toome & Laura - “Verona” Semifinal 2 - #17

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Fave lip-synching song of the year incoming. ^__^

Estonia is one of my favourite, if not my absolute FAVE Eurovision Nation out there. Their selection, Eesti Laul, is the most indie, quirky selection of all (and easily the best one out there, imo) and as a Eurovision nation they are lovable underperforming underdogs. (How are Latvia and Lithuania more successful overall? wat.)

This year, they treat us with “Verona”, a Sven Lõhmus composition pur sang. The song itself is meh in studio version, but who cares about that, amirite? I floved it the second I saw the live performance during Eesti Laul and am ranking it this high based on that potential alone!!

Yes, I feel like “Verona” is going to vastly improve in comparison to their NF performance, which I already think is pretty damn’ laffos by itself.

Exhibit A: MISHEARD LYRICS TIME, courtesy of Laura Põldvere:

SWEEPING ALL ALONE, YOU WAKE UP WITH A PART OF YOUR HENS

BREAKFAST I’M IN LOVE BREAKFAST I’M IN LOVE

WE ARE LOST!!

~Lost in the crown of the Swede~

“WE ARE LOST!!!!”

~Like two silly boats in the sea~

EXHIBIT B: the ACTUAL lyrics are perhaps even more ridiculous? What. On. Earth. is a “western type of woman, western type of man” (I thought I had misheard that too, only to find out it’s an actual, official lyric <3). Speaking of the lyrics, this is a Sven Lõhmus composition, so I’m hardly surprised. (the man who gave us ”ONE TWO SEVEN THREE DOWN THE ROCKAFELLER STREET” and many others). I do floooove the lyrics though. I’ve mentioned before that I’m an English teacher and while the lyrics are ridic, they’re also grammatically correct. The way Sven uses pronouns (”before the romance turned to drama” <3) and Shakespearean refs (”Like Romeo and Juliet once before, we have lost our Verona”) is oddly satisfying, but hey, maybe that’s just me?

Koit, of course carries this performance largely, with 1) impressive vocals 2) hilarious, OTT facial expressions:

Caption: “wtf am I doing here; i hope this is over before my face melts off”

while Laura is off to her usual desperation spiel of camera hogging/mispronouncing the outrageous Lõhmus lyrics (despite being fluent in English). The combination of the two + the song just works really well.

Like I had touched upon earlier in the write-up, I don’t think “Verona” has even reached its full potential yet. I like the current arrangement, but it feels a bit... old-fashioned? Not that I’m complaining because its datedness is exactly why it’s hilarious, but still. Koit & Laura are now backed up by a Swedish Production Team in their staging, so i’m sure they’ll transform this mess into a Linnets-esque masterpiece, YOU’VE READ IT HERE FIRST!!!

PREVIOUS APPEARANCES:

aka the section in which I use up all my video quota, because between them, Laura and Koit have about seven previous attempts lol. And both have repped Estonia before as well, lol. Koit in 1998 with the song “Mere Lapsed”:

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and Laura in 2005 as part of Suntribe (have a guess who composed their entry) (hint: the same man who wrote “ONE TWO SEVEN THREE DOWN THE ROCKEFELLER STREET)

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so embarrassing <3 the disney tops <3 they look like the ran straight out of a lowbudget Bratz commercial <3 But obviously, this wasn’t enough for Laura & Lõhmus, so the duo continued to terrorize Estonian National selections, such as last year’s Eesti Laul, which they almost won :o.

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Anti-depression songs <3 (again, note the hilar/ridic lyrics. “WE SHOULD BE WRITING WRITING WRITING WRITING OUT POETRY - DIVING DIVING DIVE INTO DEEP BLUE SEA”) I suppose it really is her DESTINY to finish second

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so I can’t wait until these two grab the silver medal come May :)

ALTERNATIVE OPTIONS:

I already blew my video credit on Laura Scrumpness, but honestly, I can’t come up with JUST four songs I loved from this year’s Eesti Laul. I loved about a dozen of them, including all ten songs in the finale, whoops. So, if you fancy an afternoon of good, fun music, feel free to listen to this playlist I found of the Eesti Laul FUNale and treat yourself to an hour of gloriousness. Do make sure to check out Kerli at least, who is otherworldly (and sadly effed up vocally, so she didn’t win. OH WELL.)

QUALIFICATION ODDS: Favourable

“Verona” is an amazing song and they’re on second last AND, perhaps more importantly, it’s very a televote-friendly entry. Juries won’t care much about it, (perhaps they will after the staging is revamped, but who knows at this point) but this can very become a Michal-like unexpected Televoting Behemoth with the right draw. If LauraKoit draw second half of the finale, they can actually creep into the top 10 and beyond :o

I do believe they have that potential and I’m all in for random Estonia domination after “Goodbye To Yesterday” was relegated by a lowly 7th place because of shitty jury decisions :-/ (Guy Sebastian top 5? Really? REALLY??? ugh.)

Projected Placement: 2nd-16th

#Eurovision #Eurovision Song Contest #Preshow Ranking #Estonia

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harrison-abbott · 6 years ago

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ODE FOR THOMAS PYNCHON

There is an episode in Season 6 of The Simpsons called Hommie the Clown. The story begins when Homer is driving down a motorway, and, seeing lines of billboards in front of him, exclaims, “It must be the first day of the month! New billboard day!” He drives closer and stops in front of the first billboard, an advert for English muffins, which perks his interest, and then onto the next, an advert for BBQ sauce, which makes him chuckle. He then spots a billboard with the bold letters ‘KRUSTY’S CLOWN COLLEGE’ with four dancing Krustys under it. Homer scoffs and remarks, “Clown College … You can’t eat that!” and drives off. Despite declaring himself uninterested in the Krusty billboard, it keeps popping into Homer’s mind. He begins to hallucinate at work, his colleagues turning into clowns, accompanied by jangly circus music. At the family dinner table that evening, he makes a circus tent with his pile of mashed potatoes. Marge, Bart, Lisa and Maggie turn into dancing clowns, prompting Homer to explode, “That’s it! You people have stood in my way long enough! I’m going to clown college!”

This is an analogy for a discovery I made as a younger man in my University days. But, before going on, allow a brief introduction to the personal context within which that discovery was made.

I was 22 and had just completed the 3rd Year of my Psychology undergraduate degree. It was summer, and I’d just moved in to a new flat. I’d also just been dumped by a girl – ha – which made me rather blue. The said girl had been inviting me out on dates for around two months. The first month went pretty well, or so I thought back then. The second month the girl began to repeatedly talk about her ex-boyfriend, who had been a half-friend of mine before and who I hadn’t known was her ex. Her talking of the ex grew more repetitive on our dates, until it became one of the main things she talked about. On the last date I had with the girl, she invited me out on a picnic, and talked about how impressed she was with the ex for getting a 1st in his Degree. He was graduating that same day, and she was sending him a surprise bottle of wine for his afterparty. We finished the picnic, which she had prepared, and she made to leave. I motioned to kiss her bye on the lips; she snatched her head away to the side and allowed me to kiss her on the cheek. I made some jokey remark, like, “Oh I was actually aiming for the lips …?” She laughed, turned, and walked away. A few hours later she called me up to break it off, insinuating that there was another man in her life. And kept asking me to guess who this other man was.

But, blah blah, this story is so absurd I now just find it funny. The relevant thing was that it led me onto a horrific alcoholic binge after it ended. I got fucked out my brain on whisky, wine, beer for weeks on end – drank as much as I could, just to hurt myself. I became obsessed with Kurt Cobain, like some 14-year-old, and kept self-harming with Bic razor blades, determined to convince myself that I had Bi-Polar Disorder. Haha, it was pathetic. I drank a half bottle of cheap whisky before every shift at work: I don’t know how I didn’t get fired.

My flatmate whom I’d just moved in with went off on a long summer holiday to Europe, meaning I had the space to myself for three months. My binge came to a moment of clarity, one lucky day, and I decided to halt the boozing for a night. I cleared all the bottles/cans out to the bins, and I went down to the University Library that evening.

The Sir Duncan Rice Library at Aberdeen was terrific – probably the place which has most nurtured me intellectually. Whilst I studied a scientific degree, which was dependent on reading electronic science journals, I was far more interested in the physical literature section in the Library, which was huge. So I would raid the novels and poetry collections alongside doing Psychology, a healthy mix of art and science. The Library also had this little music room in an isolated corner of the building, with a keyboard and recording equipment. I’d go in there and make weird recordings, many of which became part of the Violent Birth of the Moon repertoire. The Library was thus an enchanting place where I could learn and be creative.

It also stayed open into the a.m. hours each night, so that a handful of us insomniac-Travis-Bickle types could go there whenever we pleased. But that day when I sobered up was the most important day of my University era.

I first saw it – the book – whilst roaming the American literature section. ‘Gravity’s Rainbow …’ I thought, ‘That’s a ballsy title …’ I picked it up – a huge, blue, hardbacked, clumpy thing, without any jacket or front cover image. Just those words and an author I’d never encountered before. I skimmed through it and the text was smaller and denser than any of the other books I had in my current haul. I’d come on it by chance, and why hadn’t I heard of it? And why was there no blurb, or author bio – nothing to explain it? Annoyed with curiosity, I hesitated, but then put it back on the shelve. And I went back home with the other books, and sat in my silent flat, trying to read them. I managed to avoid buying booze from the shop before 10 p.m., and I dosed off to sleep, unsatisfied with the books I’d tried. I had a dream about the enormous blue book I’d left behind in the Library. I woke up whilst it was still dark, got dressed, and cycled back to the campus and took Gravity’s Rainbow out.

I stopped drinking, ended the absurd binge, forgot about the silly girl-incident, and became completely obsessed with this new book.

These are the two sentences which complete the first paragraph of Thomas Pynchon’s 760 page novel Gravity’s Rainbow:

“A screaming comes across the sky. It has happened before, but there is nothing to compare it to now.”

After and during my obsession for the book, I kept telling other people about it. I kept trying to explain the answer when they asked “what’s it about?” I couldn’t do it, at least not very well. Wikipedia cites the basic setting and plot of the novel as thus:

“Lengthy, complex, and featuring a large cast of characters, the narrative is set primarily in Europe at the end of World War II, and centres on the design, production and dispatch of V-2 rockets by the German military. In particular, it features the quest undertaken by several characters to uncover the secret of a mysterious device named the "Schwarzgerät" ("black device"), slated to be installed in a rocket with the serial number "00000".”

Except, the above is not a revealing explanation. Not that I could do any better, but I’ll try.

The main plot-premise involves the central character Slothrop and his adventures during the closing chapters of WWII. Slothrop travels across Europe a great deal and has sex with a great deal of women. Every time Slothrop has sex, a V-2 rocket strikes the exact same spot in which the sexual incident occurred, a few days later. All kinds of military craftsmen and rocket scientists begin to believe that Slothrop has some mystic ability to thus predict the powers of the V-2 rockets, which is in someway connected to this coveted secret called the Schwarzgerät with the special number 00000. These military craftsmen and scientists seek to capture Slothrop in order to understand a mystical element of warfare for self-benefit. Slothrop’s sexual exploits take him from London, to the French Riviera, Northern Germany … yet nowhere is specific, and Europe becomes a roaming magical place of setting. Alongside his women he meets MI5 agents, SS officers, sex slaves, Pavlovian psychologists, a militarily-engineered octopus with which he has a physical fight, Schwarzkommando cadres, a witch, a porn star … Slothrop slowly begins to lose his mind, and channels a variety of alter-egos, as a war reporter, a German actress, a Russian troop … It is too hard to explain, really.

Because it is unlike any thing I have ever encountered artistically. Not even solely in a literary sense. There is no book like Gravity’s Rainbow, but no film, or symphony or spectacular work of art either. I love GR for its ability to blend the obscure, the offbeat and the irregular into something that can be read with a type of astonished relish. The book is narrated almost entirely in present-tense, which gives it a rollicking pace. Words and sentences constantly explode in chaotic directions, yet all seem to be linked together in perfect imperfection. Pynchon bends his syntax, elongates language, punches and drags the reader through wacky scenarios. There are rape scenes, murder scenes, which should be too horrific to read – and they are horrific, but are described so exquisitely that one’s eyes lap them up. A lot of the book is very funny, often crass, crude. And yet most importantly Pynchon clearly has morality behind his multivariate approach. For instance, here’s an example, taken from a single paragraph (from my edition pages 549-551):

“The nationalities are on the move. It is a great frontierless streaming out here … Poles fleeing the Lublin regime, others going back home, the eyes of both parties, when they do meet, hooded behind cheekbones, eyes much older than what’s forced them into moving … Estonians, Letts, and Lithuanians trekking north again, all in their wintry wool in dark bundles, shoes in tatters, songs too hard to sing, talk pointless … white wrists and ankles incredibly wasted poking from their striped prison camp pajamas, footsteps light as waterfowl’s in this inland dust … bobbing, drifting, at a certain hour of the dusk, like candleflames in religious procession – supposed to be heading today for Hannover, supposed to pick potatoes along the way … non-existent potato fields plundered by the SS, ja, every fucking potato field, and what for? Alcohol. No, not to drink, alcohol for the rockets. … Women in army trousers split at the knees … looted chickens alive and dead … harmoniums, grandfather clocks … paintings of pink daughters in white frocks, of saints bleeding, of salmon and purple sunsets over the sea, dolls smiling out of violently red lips … So the populations move, across the open meadow, limping, marching, shuffling, carried, hauling along the detritus of an order, a European and bourgeois order they don’t know yet is destroyed forever.”

What can we see here? Aside from wonderful wordplay and beautiful language we see how clever Pynchon is. He has a wide knowledge of the war, and a compassion for the masses of people it affected. The sense of setting is profound; the enormity of the war is emphasised. This is only a fragment of the quoted paragraph …

Pynchon is thus a historian as well as a writer of fiction. As well as a mathematician, scientist, music fanatic, film buff; all seen in a glorious collection of references, stats, diagrams, quotes, you name it. I’m clearly a nerd of this book. And perhaps not everybody would feel the same about it. Indeed, the book received much negative backlash by the critics upon initial reception in 1973. Although nominated for the Pulitzer Fiction Award in 1974, it was described as ‘unreadable’ and ‘overwritten’ by the jury board. And directly rejected because of a sex scene involving coprophagia – the consumption of faeces, in this case for sexual gratification. This particular scene is only one of many erratic moments in the book, and definitely not the most ‘immoral’, if that is the correct word. This is a common example of how stupid the critics can be. And another example of how great works of art do not receive the attention they deserve by the critics of their time.

Anyway. Thomas Pynchon is a writer who has influenced me vastly, in a way differently from other influences. I’m not saying he is the ‘best’ or ‘most important’ to me, his work simply has a unique power over me. That particular summer, when I cleared up and read GR was among the most exhilarating periods in my life. It set me new ambitions, not necessarily to emulate Pynchon’s work (because this is impossible) but to be confident that there are always new things to be expressed in literature, and art. How an artist can be playful, universal with his craft, not afraid to seep up all his influences and hurl them wherever he wishes. I’ve read Pynchon’s other works too, and love them as well. I’ll admit I have a personal attachment in Gravity’s Rainbow because it singlehandedly pulled me out of that deranged period of alcohol, yet more importantly extended my love for literature to even greater levels, which I would never have thought possible. It’s an obsession which I still have, lingering.

I found a rare copy of Gravity’s Rainbow which I’d been looking for for ages. In a second hand bookstore – a neat, antique copy, for only £3. Thrilled, I took it into the woods by my home neighbourhood to read again. And I still can’t quite believe it, but I went and lost it somewhere in the woods. I was playing football with my dog at the same time, and somehow I must have left it on one of the park benches perhaps. Somebody found it, picked it up – and took it home? Or they threw it into the bushes? Either way, it feels like there’s a copy of it, waiting, hidden somewhere in the woods for me to find one day in the future. And hidden in my childhood play-arena, as it were, gives it a further sense of mysticism. When works of art can obsess a person so, they must have something special. As a developing writer myself, I hope I can make something that will affect people in such a way, one day. But I’ll need to put a lot of effort in before I can get anywhere near Gravity’s Rainbow.

15/05/19

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