Saturday, February 27, 2010
we are now regulating 'FUN' at the Olympics...
The Canadian women's hockey team, after winning the GOLD MEDAL after shutting out des Etats Unis 2-0 on the ice in Vancouver; engaged in 'horse-play' by chugging beer (Molson's mais oui certainement) and popping champagne bottles and guzzling the giddy bubbles and yes smoked cygars -- all in celebration of winning!!! BUT AFTER PHOTOS OF THIS IMPROMPTU CELEBRATION SURFACED ON THE NET these Candaienne hockey gals were forced FORCED to admit they never enjoyed smoking and certainly did no enjoy the drinking and oh they were just so sorry SO VERY SORRY!!! 'FUN' is the latest victim of the PC POLICE who will now regulate what you can do to 'celebrate' and DON'T YOU DARE SMOKE or DRINK it is now 'VERBOTTEN'!!! THE OLYMPICS - NO PLACE FOR 'FUN' IF YOU WIN - unless 'we' tell you it is OK!!!
trouble with your taxes - blame it on your aids/office staff...
at least that is what DEMBHOLE REPREHENSIBLE CHARLES RANGEL of NY has done!!! CHARLIE blamed his slew of ethical 'tax problems' on his staff/workers - don't you wish you could do that??? ha! REPREHENSIBLE RANGEL who single-handedly bankrupted the 'Apollo Theatre' in his Harlem district with deals/contracts to his friends/cronies and 'forgot' FORGOT to claim properties and income he benefited from in the Caribbean and Florida, never mind the propeties he got special 'deals' on in rent-controled residences in NYC; RANGEL forgot all these ethical faux-pas for over twenty years!!! RANGEL head of the HOUSE-of-FOOLS-WAYS&MEANS COMMITTEE is what is meant by REPREHENSIBLE NANCY'sphinctur-of-the-House-of-Fools'PELOSI when she refers to 'draining-the-swamp' and 'culture-of-corruption'!!! This DEMBHOLE who is responsible for your tax laws breaks the law and is not held accountable!!! HOW LONG WILL THIS CONTINUE - OR IS THIS OK NOW BECAUSE HE IS BLACK???
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Orlando Zapata Tamayo, dissident, dies in Cuba...
Orlando Zapata Tamayo, age 42, died in Cuba's Hermanos Ameijeras hospital from the affects of his 'hunger-strike' begun last December 3, 2009.
Senor Tamayo was a plumber and a bricklayer and was opposed to the Castro brother's totalitarian regime. He was declared 'a prisoner of conscience' by Amnesty International.
Cuban security forces have rounded-up political activists to prevent protests at Tamayo's funeral. SUCH IS THE STATE OF 'RIGHTS' IN THE PEOPLE'S REPUBIC OF CUBA UNDER THE COMMIE CASTRO'S!!!
Senor Tamayo was a plumber and a bricklayer and was opposed to the Castro brother's totalitarian regime. He was declared 'a prisoner of conscience' by Amnesty International.
Cuban security forces have rounded-up political activists to prevent protests at Tamayo's funeral. SUCH IS THE STATE OF 'RIGHTS' IN THE PEOPLE'S REPUBIC OF CUBA UNDER THE COMMIE CASTRO'S!!!
Because You will always be "The Babe"
Because You will always be "The Babe"
Because you will always be "The Babe"
as we watch in grainy news-clips those faded moments.
Even those who know nothing of sport -
we knew who you were. Your laughing face
before us in newspapers, billboards,
and magazines while smiling children begged
for autographs while you went about your work
bashing baseballs that seemed to never fall down.
Your massive upperbody stuck atop
seemingly tiny legs. Hips twisting
from the force of the swing. Your hands
choking that piece of wood made sacred
by a special tribe that would darken
the sun with driven baseballs launched
when shoulder and bicep-bone and wrist combine
with legs pirouetting as graceful as a dancer's.
And for a moment you stood there
at the end of it all. While we were on our feet.
For every swing, every hit, every miss.
Wanting to be part of baseball.
Wanting to be part of you as you began
a journey around basepath markers
of accomplishment. And then somehow
the bat is gently discarded while you begin
your pigeon-toed trot. Which adds
to majestic myth. Because you were baseball
to so many. No matter your multitude of faults.
It was always obvious you loved the game.
You were the big guy with an appetite
for everything. Who would take everything
to excess. Just as we did in those 1920's.
Because you were the epitome of our arrogance
and spontaneity. Embracing an orphan
one moment while bingeing with leggy chorus girls
the next. Pointing to where you would hit
it out and then doing it. We loved you
for your glories and for your faults.
It was as if we were all riding
the swell of the sea, and we could
see you as some colossus on the far shore,
giving us a view of a world which was safe
and true. And we still cry at your rasping voice
bidding us goodbye. And we cheer
in our hearts and smile at numbers
we have memorized. The home-runs,
the virtuoso performances, even the amount
of beer and hot-dogs you consumed
in that Bronx stadium which will forever
be your home and a measure of what #3 created
and what you awakened in us. Like the great
bandleader Souza, his compositions filling
our hearts with moments of pure joy
and triumph. When millions of dreams
and images are fueled by soaring notes
that are sharp as the crack of a batted ball.
And we never see or realize that we are watching
a metaphor of someone larger than expectation.
Never described but one that is always present
in your distant gaze. Like the way we swell
with emotion when we hear and feel the opening
of “The Stars and Stripes Forever”. Like fireworks
that always thrill. Because baseball is
what we wish you to be in our childhood innocence.
Because you are that metaphor. Because you were
born for moments when the sweet arc
from the clout of one that will never come down
soars into the sky blue immensity. Far into cheers and applause. That signify to generations
there is a hopeful universe which waits until
the next season. Or the next at bat. Or for
the rains to stop. Or after your next round-tripper
as you doff your cap as a way to honor those
fans and a game invented for children.
Because with a swing of the bat you will always
be “The Babe”. As long as we gleefully shout, your name
will resurrect all the gone faces on those fields
and among those bleachers and there will be
no such thing as death even for starting pitchers
who never last but an inning.
Because you will always be "The Babe"
as we watch in grainy news-clips those faded moments.
Even those who know nothing of sport -
we knew who you were. Your laughing face
before us in newspapers, billboards,
and magazines while smiling children begged
for autographs while you went about your work
bashing baseballs that seemed to never fall down.
Your massive upperbody stuck atop
seemingly tiny legs. Hips twisting
from the force of the swing. Your hands
choking that piece of wood made sacred
by a special tribe that would darken
the sun with driven baseballs launched
when shoulder and bicep-bone and wrist combine
with legs pirouetting as graceful as a dancer's.
And for a moment you stood there
at the end of it all. While we were on our feet.
For every swing, every hit, every miss.
Wanting to be part of baseball.
Wanting to be part of you as you began
a journey around basepath markers
of accomplishment. And then somehow
the bat is gently discarded while you begin
your pigeon-toed trot. Which adds
to majestic myth. Because you were baseball
to so many. No matter your multitude of faults.
It was always obvious you loved the game.
You were the big guy with an appetite
for everything. Who would take everything
to excess. Just as we did in those 1920's.
Because you were the epitome of our arrogance
and spontaneity. Embracing an orphan
one moment while bingeing with leggy chorus girls
the next. Pointing to where you would hit
it out and then doing it. We loved you
for your glories and for your faults.
It was as if we were all riding
the swell of the sea, and we could
see you as some colossus on the far shore,
giving us a view of a world which was safe
and true. And we still cry at your rasping voice
bidding us goodbye. And we cheer
in our hearts and smile at numbers
we have memorized. The home-runs,
the virtuoso performances, even the amount
of beer and hot-dogs you consumed
in that Bronx stadium which will forever
be your home and a measure of what #3 created
and what you awakened in us. Like the great
bandleader Souza, his compositions filling
our hearts with moments of pure joy
and triumph. When millions of dreams
and images are fueled by soaring notes
that are sharp as the crack of a batted ball.
And we never see or realize that we are watching
a metaphor of someone larger than expectation.
Never described but one that is always present
in your distant gaze. Like the way we swell
with emotion when we hear and feel the opening
of “The Stars and Stripes Forever”. Like fireworks
that always thrill. Because baseball is
what we wish you to be in our childhood innocence.
Because you are that metaphor. Because you were
born for moments when the sweet arc
from the clout of one that will never come down
soars into the sky blue immensity. Far into cheers and applause. That signify to generations
there is a hopeful universe which waits until
the next season. Or the next at bat. Or for
the rains to stop. Or after your next round-tripper
as you doff your cap as a way to honor those
fans and a game invented for children.
Because with a swing of the bat you will always
be “The Babe”. As long as we gleefully shout, your name
will resurrect all the gone faces on those fields
and among those bleachers and there will be
no such thing as death even for starting pitchers
who never last but an inning.
In Cuba - they play the same game
In Cuba - they play the same game
At sun drenched Junco beisbol stadium
amid a backdrop of palm trees
in this repeatedly self-proclaimed people's government
free of imperialismos,
the Cienfuegos Henequeneros battle
on the field against
the home town Havana Sugar Kings.
Cigar smoking fans, factory workers
and field hands mostly, sit under
straw hats while eyeing pretty muchachas
whose skin sweats from excitement.
These young women simmer
almost to the boiling point
waiting for an appearance
by the league's pitching star.
The Kings el premiero lanzadore de besbol,
Rudolpho Vascancellos. Rudi. ..Rudi ...Rudi
they stand and shout at Rudi...Rudi...Rudi
hoping he will acknowledge their passion
and pent-up desires. Rudi is a Cuban version
of Randy Johnson, or Roger Clemens, or Pedro Martinez.
When Rudi takes the mound, listening to shouts
of Poncholo-Poncholo-Poncholo echo from fans
demanding strike-outs, strike-outs, and more strike-outs.
Showing his superiority and machismo.
Handsome, light-skinned, his arms and legs whipping
with lean fluid motion as he fires pelotas past
stunned batters who with lesser throwers
rap out honrons or glide into second
with easy doubles. But with Rudi -
these les hombres hits merely swing
and miss. Swing and miss. And then sit
as if like everything else, toilet paper
or butter or free speech - hits were rationed.
Awed schoolboys, 'Young Pioneers' taught
and outfitted in political blue monochrome,
have stood in lines waiting for tickets
to stand in other lines waiting for seats,
holding beaten leather mitts waiting for
autographs from Rudi...Rudi...Rudi...
But first up, the visiting Henequeneros bateadors.
Hitting lead-off, a short very dark young man
whose family origins on this isle began shortly after
Columbus from the hold of a slave ship.
The hitter taps his cleats professional style
and steps into the batter's box.
Rudi delivers a fast ball shoe-top high.
The umpire who traces his pure blood
from the 15th century conqueror Diaz
smiles as he yells the strike.
The batter turns and glares.
In Cuba - they play the same game.
At sun drenched Junco beisbol stadium
amid a backdrop of palm trees
in this repeatedly self-proclaimed people's government
free of imperialismos,
the Cienfuegos Henequeneros battle
on the field against
the home town Havana Sugar Kings.
Cigar smoking fans, factory workers
and field hands mostly, sit under
straw hats while eyeing pretty muchachas
whose skin sweats from excitement.
These young women simmer
almost to the boiling point
waiting for an appearance
by the league's pitching star.
The Kings el premiero lanzadore de besbol,
Rudolpho Vascancellos. Rudi. ..Rudi ...Rudi
they stand and shout at Rudi...Rudi...Rudi
hoping he will acknowledge their passion
and pent-up desires. Rudi is a Cuban version
of Randy Johnson, or Roger Clemens, or Pedro Martinez.
When Rudi takes the mound, listening to shouts
of Poncholo-Poncholo-Poncholo echo from fans
demanding strike-outs, strike-outs, and more strike-outs.
Showing his superiority and machismo.
Handsome, light-skinned, his arms and legs whipping
with lean fluid motion as he fires pelotas past
stunned batters who with lesser throwers
rap out honrons or glide into second
with easy doubles. But with Rudi -
these les hombres hits merely swing
and miss. Swing and miss. And then sit
as if like everything else, toilet paper
or butter or free speech - hits were rationed.
Awed schoolboys, 'Young Pioneers' taught
and outfitted in political blue monochrome,
have stood in lines waiting for tickets
to stand in other lines waiting for seats,
holding beaten leather mitts waiting for
autographs from Rudi...Rudi...Rudi...
But first up, the visiting Henequeneros bateadors.
Hitting lead-off, a short very dark young man
whose family origins on this isle began shortly after
Columbus from the hold of a slave ship.
The hitter taps his cleats professional style
and steps into the batter's box.
Rudi delivers a fast ball shoe-top high.
The umpire who traces his pure blood
from the 15th century conqueror Diaz
smiles as he yells the strike.
The batter turns and glares.
In Cuba - they play the same game.
JAPANESE can play the AMERICAN GAME
JAPANESE can play the AMERICAN GAME
(after the ALL-STAR GAME 7/10/2007)
no genuflecting
no polite bowing for this
ICHIRO athlete
just speed speed and more speed
a baseball player banzai!
(after the ALL-STAR GAME 7/10/2007)
no genuflecting
no polite bowing for this
ICHIRO athlete
just speed speed and more speed
a baseball player banzai!
I’m in love with baseball's Boston Red Sox
I’m in love with baseball's Boston Red Sox
[in honour of the RED SOX recent World Series triumphs and for a great year in 2010!]
October 3, 1978 was the last time
I allowed a man to think he used me.
He took me to “green—monstered” Fenway where
God—fearing—ascetic Brahmin bankers
smiled sleazily at my body. Imitating
British accents as they supposedly cheered
for my home team. But the lawless Bronx warlords,
the Yankees, won that one—game play off.
And I remember how forlorn the Bosox looked-
as If they knew the imminence of death while
he laid me on his bed in that BackBay apartment.
Regarding me as some ordinary sexual contest
overcome by my desire for bat and ball and box seat.
A blonde primitive little Amish doll, to do certain chores,
his reward. Payment for a ticket impossible to attain.
Never realizing that I replayed the game,
over and over in my mind. Every pitch, every hit.
Mouthing words of encouragement for players
doomed like I was when one—day or one—night stands
turn into seasons of major headaches. Sighing
In disbelief as Dent took Torres deep. Swearing
shockingly when Yaz popped out to end my ordeal.
Never allowing fulfillment. Afterwards, saying to fans
lusting for triumph everywhere, “I wish it was longer.”
[in honour of the RED SOX recent World Series triumphs and for a great year in 2010!]
October 3, 1978 was the last time
I allowed a man to think he used me.
He took me to “green—monstered” Fenway where
God—fearing—ascetic Brahmin bankers
smiled sleazily at my body. Imitating
British accents as they supposedly cheered
for my home team. But the lawless Bronx warlords,
the Yankees, won that one—game play off.
And I remember how forlorn the Bosox looked-
as If they knew the imminence of death while
he laid me on his bed in that BackBay apartment.
Regarding me as some ordinary sexual contest
overcome by my desire for bat and ball and box seat.
A blonde primitive little Amish doll, to do certain chores,
his reward. Payment for a ticket impossible to attain.
Never realizing that I replayed the game,
over and over in my mind. Every pitch, every hit.
Mouthing words of encouragement for players
doomed like I was when one—day or one—night stands
turn into seasons of major headaches. Sighing
In disbelief as Dent took Torres deep. Swearing
shockingly when Yaz popped out to end my ordeal.
Never allowing fulfillment. Afterwards, saying to fans
lusting for triumph everywhere, “I wish it was longer.”
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