Saturday, June 19, 2010

Okay, fine.

It’s still a little tough to think about it, and I dunno why I give a fuck anyway because I stopped giving a damn about this game, since like, high school, or probably the time when it really did hurt, the time I accidentally made my left arm a support stick when I tripped which left a bony protrusion in my wrist up to this day, or the fact that I stopped giving a damn about boring PBA games which I religiously followed, or that I haven’t really given a damn about NBA in the first place because I think it should be named Global BA or African-American BA, but damn, that loss hurt. It hurt because they were so close. It’s tough to think because though (from my point of view) the greens were relatively ahead in most of the three quarters, the opponent was just an inch away from them. 83-79. It's a kind of loss that makes me think of these stupid conspiracy theories, eherm, ticket sales, eherm, usual b-ball entertainment. With the last two points from freethrows from someone who hasn’t really been on the floor for like five times throughout the finals, but is reportedly good at freethrows, plus he’s Slovenian. The Celtics really played a good game, it was a good game for them overall. Even though the boorish Lakers fans overpowering the Staples Center (homecourt advantage) refuse to acknowledge. Teamwork was there, and Rondo was smoking, that orchestrator. It was just bad with the fouls, especially during the last quarter. While dominating the first half, I had it in me that sense of doom. It’s like, oh my god, there will be this abrupt decline, the opponent is gonna have their revenge after being pummeled with shots and great defense. And it did happen in 4Q. I’ve always rooted for the underdog, well not really, in this case. The Celtics still hold the most number of championships, but with the Kobe team clinching this one, it’s now 17-16. Maybe because I’ve never really liked the Kobe team, and I feel like I’ve had enough fucking overblown superstar hype with KB. That Magic Johnson relinquishing the greatest player title must have blown Kobe’s liver, I bet. MVP, though given the Game 7’s picture, not at all. They should’ve handed it to Gasol, but no, the overblown superstar will have his fifth. I dunno but its like a play/act, you know. Overblown superstar not really getting into his game in the first half, being walled up by these Celtics guys and all (Scalabrine looks freakishly like Glen Hansard), missing his shots, then suddenly, perhaps the Magic of Johnson, in a crucial jumper he regained his might, rebounding like crazy, clinching his freethrows and there you have it, hero saves the day, and has his moment standing on one side of the court chairs wailing his hands having his James Cameron moment. Oh gosh, there, I think I’ve said my piece and I congratulate the Lakers fans, and Phil Jackson, what a tremendous man. Kobe, someday I'm gonna love you man, but I hate, hate, hate you now. It’s still a little tough, but I’ve moving on to catch the World Cup fever. Go Argentine!

Monday, June 07, 2010

Two Months.

Sometimes we feel the need to take note the absence, the loss. It comes all so sudden, the urgency to fill the gaps, as if it bridges the then and now by the inconsequential details that we pile up feverishly like stones and sand in the shore we know would crumble into unimportance amidst the roiling waves. But we do it anyway. We recall what has been, how it has been, but then realize again that there is nothing but loss – we lost all of it to time. But then, it also reveals ourselves, and we’d like to think we’ve triumphed somehow. But we know there will still be waves to brave, lapses to fill. And time, how pockets are sewn not to accommodate you like coins.

Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family, Choose a f—king big television. Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose a three piece suit on hire purchased in a range of f—king fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the f—k you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing f—king junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, f—ked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose a future. Choose life . . . But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin’ else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you’ve got heroin?

Renton, Trainspotting