L.A. Lakers vs. Boston Celtics 2008

Aaaah, 2008, and we have the first Boston Celtics vs. Los Angeles Lakers matchup in the NBA Finals in twenty-one years. Why am I not excited?

How many fouls are going to be called in this series? There is a momentum, a rush, and an excitement built when an NBA playoff game gets going; and I mean truly going only to be shutdown, crushed by a modern day foul, which ususally is the equivalent to that of a love tap in the past. Maybe I'm old school, maybe I'm not willing to adjust to the new no-touch-no-tap rules of the modern day NBA.

Playing basketball means you will bust somebody in the chest if they try to drive through the paint; you will damn near headbutt somebody if they try to dunk or layup on you. The game of basketball is much more physical than the modern NBA would care to admit.

And I feel for Rasheed Wallace. The NBA does not need to fine Rasheed Wallace $25 g's for his verbal tirade the other night. The NBA needs more Rasheed Wallaces because ALL major league sports; the NBA, NFL, MLB, and soon MLS (mostly because of desperation to attract a North American audience) rely on entertainment. It's no longer about the sport itself, it's about entertainment. And they think people don't watch wrestling. North American wrestling has sports entertainment nailed down, which is why it is an abomination.

There is one other reason why I cannot get excited for this new age rivalry.

Kobe.

I wish he would just admit that this NBA championship run is all about him. He is a wonderful politician. When someone asks him a question about his contribution to the game he pulls out the "we" card, but in his eyes, and please, look into his eyes; it is all about Kobe.

I would have no problems with it if he would only admit it; it's all about Kobe. Who wanted the trade one year ago, Kobe? Who wanted out of Los Angeles one year ago? And who's boss went and got what a certain player wanted one year ago, Kobe?

I am, despite it all, picking the Lakers over the Celtics.

Oh, and I hope Emperor Stern allows them to actually play the fucking game. My largest concern is that there will be a foul called on every other damn play; let them play the fricking game the way it was meant to be played - - - - - - IF these new age, no-hit-taking, sad-face-making, every-time-an-elbow-waves-them "athletes" can handle it.

Buried Lake

There is a tree in window's view of our business. That tree is an island unto itself, surrounded by a lake. If you were to walk to it, though, you wouldn't see the lake, and looking through the window all anyone can see anyway is a full dried brush field and the tree. One would have to dig through thousands of years of Earth's intangibles; chemical and physical reactions that would slowly muddy and eventually blanket the countryside oasis.

Now, where that lake once was, a shadow looms. A shadow of the tree and its extended branches coated with green and some dry dead weight. The heat, magnified immensley by severe humidity, bores its synging power down upon the open area, but the tree; the tree stands alone. Beneath the tree and above the buried lake is the shade, forever keeping the buried lake cool and ready, should it ever rise once again.

Stardust (Movie)

Watched Stardust for the first time this past weekend. I was a bit weary; I've read the novel and graphic novel several times, and Neil Gaiman does not translate so easily to film. Mirrormask is a prime example. His words are the main stars, forcing one to pay close attention to the script, yet, the visuals he inspire are so spectacular it almost makes watching one of his films a two-brain job; almost like reading invisible subtitles.

Stardust was a pleasure. Claire Danes did not make me want to purposely shit myself to find an excuse to leave the viewing room. That's a first.

I was surprised how faithful the film was to the novel, and then the third act hit, and the bold magic that Gaiman's worlds often provide was nearly the film's own demise, but that's one of the deterred issues when translating prose or graphic novel work to live-action. What's in the original pages are stimulating to the brain, but when shown on screen; it could easily lull a casual observer to sleep.

The decision makers in the Stardust movie decided to step up the action near the end, and it felt out of place, but did not deflate any of the charm and wonder that the whole product sparked. I thought it was well done.

It's On

I don't really like to look back on things unless I'm willing to learn from them, which is quite typical. I get what I need, ususally from a mistake; why I made it, what I did to make it....and so on.

I'd like to think I haven't made any critical mistakes these past few months. It doesn't feel like I have. I know I don't like opening up to people, let alone a second-life tech world where as much of your life is on display for any and all that wish to read or watch it.

Life has not slumped, it's just ceased to be interesting, and I'm sure it's my fault, for the most part.

Asia's suffering quite a bit right now, the UK is now allowing you and yor pets to squeeze out DNA which scientists will allow to dry hump and fuck one another; America's really becoming a bitch to live in, unless you bleed or shit money.

Life has become interesting again, but right when you are about to start a new one, the spectral physics of it change the rules yet again.

I'm game. Bring it, bitch.

Time For Change

Depression is a son of a bitch. I've been coping with it lately; all day today. I just stepped out of the house maybe thirty minutes ago.

I know where it's coming from, me being my own worst enemy and all, and I know what I need to do to get things back to some semblance of normality.

It's time for a change. A big change. A very big change.

Behind It All

There isn't a wave that importance rides too far away,
So far away that the sun couldn't even reach it. Miniscule bits
Of history and science,
A little bit of blood and code, Both types
Decipherable only be what lives behind the stars
And behind the darkness that is always there;
Was always there;
And will meet us when we are no longer here.

Fight Sleep

Fighting sleep again. The wind is agreeing with me, things are overblown, damaging the soul along the way. Just some bruises. Thicker skin helps and has been a pleasuer to have. It makes things so much easier. There's only one person that can screw up your life that way.

I miss dreams. I miss the walks on the beach that make me want to visit the beach. I miss drowning sometimes because I know one of these nights I will swim.

The revolution is coming. Pieces are in place. Things are going so well, I'm really expecting something to screw me up in these coming months, maybe even weeks.

Congress

Serisouly, get a fucking life, get a fucking clue; get a fucking happy ending from the Korean stretch-goddess, capable of penetrating any slight opening on your person, your body, your physical shell.

But Congress - - FUCK. YOU.

I could care less about what Roger Clemens injected into his ass on what date.

As a fitness enthusiast I know who needs what for what, and I, like the greater nuber of the American public, could care less about what sad piece of metal-drip doesn't get to go inside a person's ass.

It's not your blood dying afar. It's not your livliehood being threatened. You have no idea what the "common" person feels, thinks, or endures every damn day. You don't know what America is anymore - - the REAL America.

I have no sympathy for any of you - in what is going to happen - and what is to become.

You are not survivalists. People like me are. We live to live. We breathe so we know we're still breathing, which let's us know we're still alive. And being alive means having choices.

That's where God and democracy fucked up. You let me have a mind of my own.

Working for A Living

I don't know how to have fun on the internet. Yet, when I feel like I am, people get scared.

Internet is the absolute best place for schizos and other multi-personality type.

People got stabbed in a theater in California. The newest trend has begun, yet, it's so far behind schedule.

Hurricane Gorilla Bitch

Sometimes I'm glad the wind still scares me.

I'm tired of humidity. Tired of banal excuses behiind lackluster progression.

I'm tired of people around me being a decade-plus behind the rest of the world. I do see its benefits, and the way this world is heading; the road the human race is forcing it to take for itself, I am afraid, but I am so excited.

I live in one of the best areas. But I hate it. So I'm just waiting - success or no man's land - whichever comes first.

Personally speaking, I'm rooting for no man's land.

'Bout fucking time.

Need To Move

And again, the questions strike like cards in Vegas. "Why don't you talk; why won't you talk; what aren't you talking?"

I'm the kind of person that likes to mash buttons sometimes, only because I want to see what happens. I like knowing that things are eventually going to be fucked, which is why I a cannot stagnate in economical relationships. I need to keep moving forward, but sometimes, and it's a bitch when it happens - - I go too far ahead; I go forward without understanding the now.

It is the attraction to the why; that is my chosen side-thorn. The whys and whats of the world.

Need to move forward. And it will kill me.

I Have No Idea What This Is

I cried tonight. I know I did. The pillow was wet, the flavor was salty. The cleaning was a bitch.

I knew we'd had a party. Where was the music coming from? I mean, did we havea dj or did Jareb offer up his mix?

And how the fuck would you know? You weren't there.

I Try

I try painting a picture,
But the colors refuse to shine.
Nothing but gray and black,
With some sparkles of white breaking through the plain.

I try composing a song.
The melody is pure,
The rhythm is tired,
But human emotions, so brittle and frail;
There will always be a will to hear it.

I try writing a story.
It always ends up with my own characters
Shooting me in the back of the head.
I never wanted them to hate me,
But I suppose the torment I put through
Would be enough to warrant anyone
Trying to kill their creator.

Tired in Deadsville

Haven't felt like posting lately. Not much to talk about. Everything is back in routine, and not a whole lot of progress made on any end other than spouting out new ideas. Well, new to me, probably a rehash or a rip off to others.

I don't have an interesting life and I don't want one. I like mine, though others do consider what I do, the different things; the writing, the training, the art - they find that interesting. I suppose if I would find selling toilest for a living interesting if I never knew anything about it.

The world is still fucked. America is still without a leader, and has been for abour four or five decades. Humanity is a shrill, and hopefully will find itself on the endangered species list one day.

Global warming isn't threatening anything except mankind. The planet, you know, planet Earth, the one that is supposedly in such danger - - it's going to be fine. It's the people that don't stand a chance. Well, a whole lot of people, several billions. Some will be okay, but the majority - deadsville. Suckers.

A Very Rough Blueprint For a Loose Idea

Back in the locker room, the wrestler walks, awaiting his match. He sees many characters in costume, a couple making out in the shadows, doesn’t know if it’s regular or mixed.

Walking, he greets everyone as he goes by. Wrestling is a family, you see these people nearly every day of your life. You have your friends and acquaintances; you have your business partners and inside guys. It is a world in itself. It is a true circus.

You are a successful independent promotion, successful for three years in a row, but have been around for decades, mixing, inheriting from previous promotions and shit.

You walk into the bathroom; you hear a rookie headliner doing blow in the bathroom stall. You ask him…

Wrestler: What are you doing, kid? Sounds like your having a hell of a party in there.

Kid: It’s cool.

Wrestler: I get it, Kid - but I don’t get it. Why would you wanna do that shit before the match? It doesn’t enhance anything except the burning flesh.

Kid: A bump for a bump.

Wrestler chuckles expecting Kid to be gone in a month, maybe less. Outside he sees the man he needs to see; the head of talent Johnny Hill.

JH: Ay, big guy, what’s going on?

W: Not much, man. Ay, Kid’s in there blowing snow, man.

JH: God damnit, Johnny hissed what sounded like both anger and relief simultaneously.
Well, he was losing tonight anyways. This’ll be his last match. He’s doing a pay per appearance anyway. Dumbass.

What else going on?

W: Nothing much, shaking his head. Just waitin. Already stretched out, hit the ropes. Just waitin for muh music.

JH: Alright alright. Good luck, have fun. Good what you told me bout Kid. We got enough problems round here, don’t need more a that shit. Good lookin out W.

W: Likewise.

Now what?

The Future is Fucked

You look at the world and expect someone to save you; expecting the government to postpone your burial amongst the garbage you called your life.

You had a little girl before you even learned how to read, and you were barely learning how to read shortly after you grew your first pubes. That little girl was better off without you. That little girl was better off the day you died.

Planets Still Drifting

Gina stared into this new stranger's eyes. They were familiar, yet now lifeless, but alive. A numb state. A sad one to Gina.

That thing has the power of life and death.

"Among other things," he spoke, telepathically.

Gina, unsuccessful in her own atempt at telepathy, humbly asked, "Like what?

"Things you don't wanna know about."

"And the boy?" Gina knew what used to be her friend Victor read her mind all the way through that, and was well aware that he was well aware that she first hoped he would wipe that "fucking, shit-licking grin off his handsomely retarded face."

"Alive, living and will live. Diamonds with Snow is imminent and inevitable. We thought the universe was pulling itself. Your moon moves half-an-ince away from Earth every year. Instead, Earth is simply on the tail end of an inverted implosion."

"And how is he supposed to stop this?" Gina didn't give a damn about powers now.

"He isn't. But he can."

Retired Teacher Reveals He Was Illiterate Until Age 48

"I can remember when I was 8 years old saying my prayers at night saying, 'please, God, tomorrow when it's my turn to read please let me read.' You just pretend that you are invisible and when the teacher says, 'Johnnie read,' you just wait the teacher out because you know the teacher has to go away at some point," said Corcoran.

The Power of the Pen

COPENHAGEN, Denmark (AP) - Danish authorities on Tuesday arrested three people suspected of plotting a cartoonist's assassination for his depiction of the Prophet Muhammad wearing a bomb-shaped turban that enraged Muslims two years ago.

Checking In

Took a break. Just wanted to chill.

I'd speak, but right now one of my favorite Boondocks episodes is on.

Maybe later.