The Future Awaits

I ride the bike at high speed, to my right the time-line guardian following me like a titan´s shadow. My face masked with dust and sweat forming a dry cobalt crust on the areas not covered by the scarf and goggles. i twist the accelerator causing a sudden forward jump on the anti gravity drive. the atomic size singularity in the heart of the engine screeches and hums as a hive of angry Cassiopeia bees. The plasma rifle on my back jerks me with the inertia of the unseen effort.

The stress of the jump makes the machine underneath glide a short distance over the blue sands on the timeless dessert, and I fly hovering at high speed by the the ruins of a forgotten civilization standing, tall, megalithic , like the dry bones of some unknown cosmic beast marooned on the planetary beach of an ocean of empty vacuum. The countless miles passed by at high speed while dry air, flapping the ends of my keffiyeh and thog in sine waves resembling the double tail of a rogue comet, leaves a methane aftertaste in my drying mouth.

I rise my eyes to Betelgeuse and see the deep space attack armada approaching with a promise of global death, framed against the velvet hue of the dying red giant, the last dragon. The battle cruisers mote the sunset skies, heavy bombers adopting decaying orbits, acquiring targets for stratospheric bombardment. I see the firsts offworld defending ships burst into flames like matches in deep vacuum bubbles. ” A lost cause” I mutter to myself, the Sol empire has passed a death ruling on the rebel colony, I ready my weapons for the predicted post bombing commando invasion. Assault troops genetically engineered for war, bred for timeless battle.

The bike starts shaking due to the constant acceleration, I am driving the device to its limits, the singularity spinning inside threatening to bend space and swallow me whole. Then I see it, ionic blasts from high orbit, iota-beams of maddening energy making impact with the ground, sublimating the sands in wisps of bluegreen vapor. This is it, I think, and suddenly the air cracks with extreme violence around me. The smell of ozone overloads the sense of smell, and the heat of extreme ionization threatens to set the air on fire whilst preludes the imminent burst from the plasma charged beam of deadly light . This is when I scream,
-halt, who goes there?
-death
-approach, friend……. but only when the Real Madrid season ends

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Copa del Rey Final. A Personal View of the Majestic.

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Vectors.

The beauty of football, a gift from the gods, a sport built for angles, some of them of an impossibility of such proportions that forsake the laws of the universe. The poetry of mathematics cast on forged steel alloy on the physical plane. Bone and flesh brought together on planet Earth to define the moment of purity, to unleash emotions, primitive and arcane, to that second of elation that becomes eternally branded on the watcher’s memory. The tesseract.

And in that cosmos of everlasting bliss, one team to rule them all, Real Madrid, where the sages of the ancient art caress the ball with infinite permutations of power, technique, skill and speed bringing dynamism to trigonometry, harmony to the chaos created by random events in time. The logarithmic curve.

And when we were condemned to the role of Sisyphus, rolling along our particular boulder up the slope just to summit, and see it go round and round downhill again. When we embodied the spirit of Tantalus, forever tempted to taste the flavor of ambrosia just out of reach, unable to quench our thirst. When we gasped in anguish for that last breath of suffocating air while crossing the river Styx, we looked Acheron in the face we spat on the wheel of destiny rising a defiant fist to the heavens and summoned the ferry man to wash away our sins. The coins of the dead.

And in the moments of despair, out of the darkness, out of the mist, a white flash, a burst of power and speed in everlasting motion bringing space and time to a standstill. At that moment, a single action encompassing the hardship on a grass battlefield where flowers never grow, magic was made flesh. With an outburst of joy the enemy was conquered, their numbers scattered in the wind like the walls of Jericho at the sound from the angelic trumpets. Tempus fugit.

And with an endless battle cry the defeat was completed by the ancient energy from Albion, a Rhode colossus standing frozen in time with a primal scream, while a cohort of admirers and acolytes chanted in a gripping chorus his name. Harmonics and the music of the spheres, Euclidean geometry and the world of ideas unchained, the laws of gravity defied and art explained. The closest distance between to points is zero. The continuum has been warped finally, and random sequences have been subjugated by the wisdom of the white guild. The space fold.

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Mysticism: love and hate

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Same emotion, same time, different space. The mysteries of the Universe.

¡¡ Soy Pipero !!

Soy Pipero, and proud of it. I enjoy squatting one of the many Socio season tickets as my father before me. My grandpa was the first socio in the family. He never jeered the team nor booed our players, He liked to get down to the trenches with the wind and grind of the fan base and scream his lungs out. I personally think that behavior is beneath us, madridistas of high standard, and more in line with the low life populace that invades our stadium seats. They bother us with the constant hustle of clapping, singing and cheering. At that point I have to put on my true madridista hat inherited from dad and scorn them.
Who in the hell do they think they are? I don’t like to be disturbed when a boo the players while consuming the precious toasted seed of the sunflower plant, by the bushel, that Van Gogh got it right, a visionary he was. There is nothing i despise more than having a pair of young people cheering on Benzema when he misses a goal, a proper madridista such as me and my fellows from the piperos guild would never do it. I let them know right away that they are too loud, that they are disturbing that fine Cohiba™ I am smoking and also, that I have read in Marca and AS that morning how a crappy player Benzema is, therefore we must dully fulfill the wishes of that pundit, who I don’t know, whose qualifications I am unaware of, but, hey, hey, hey, if he writes for Relaño, that holly man, then he must know something. Hence, I give Benzema a piece of my mind, or I give it to CR7, or to whomsoever Relaño says, because after me, he is the wisest madridista in Spain and I, his faithful proselyte.
I also boo Morata, and make no distinctions between players. Don’t matter to me I been booing Florentino, Mourinho, Ancelotti for a year for not giving playing time to the kid, if he doesn’t score at his first try, I whistle, I insult him, because I know about this more than anybody, regardless the fact that I could not tell a football apart from a dishwasher. I protested and moaned for years to bring more Ejpañoles to the team, did not matter to me they were crap, decent or good, I wanted Spanish passports dressing those immaculate whites. Now that I have them I am not happy with their performance, god forbid Isco missed a pass the other day, this can’t be tolerated.
I also hated Mou, he had no señorio, he complained too much and played counterattack when I want us to play tikitaka. -As an incise, I confess we are attempting to play tikikaka now, and I have observed that I don’t like it, but that is just me and my consistent line of thinking-. We don’t talk about the referees and we like more to cheer Ronaldinho scoring a hat-trick against us than a heel pass from Bale. That is señorio. Of course if we get humped by the ref, I am the first one to complain at the bar, congruency is a subject alien to me.
I could go on with my story and the manual of the good pipero, but I have to go to Ventas to the Bullfights where I will boo all the fighters from my abono seat at the tendido 7. On the way I will stop at church and light a candle so God keeps Relaño and Carpio healthy for years to come.

Remember Madridistas

¡¡HASTA EL FINAL PIPAS CON SAL !!

¡¡ VIVA VALDANOOOOO !!

¡¡ RAÚL SELECCIÓN !!

P.S. I left the stadium 30 minutes before end time as usual , you know, to avoid traffic, and they score 4 goals in that time. Youse can see why I am within my rights to boo them?

Real Madrid Chemistry 101


The biggest culprits y’all, but not the only ones.

Real Madrid is right now the sport’s world portrait of Jon Voight in “Midnight Cowboy“, weak, suicidal, lazy, self destructive and overall stupid. Without direction, style or concept of the wanted and desired, we have become a group charade of an AA meeting on a weekday rainy day. We show up because is required, it is in the program and we need the points. Everything else is just stale coffee, hardened cookies and an overwhelming desire to belong; then, we pack up our belongings and hurry out the door with a self promise of good intentions and an after the fact accurate analysis of the match which go right out the window sill as soon as we step on the next TV station.

Real Madrid is a team of topnotch professionals, god knows they are all internationals, but it still is an oxymoron as a team, as a concept of what a team should be and what are the priorities. Personally I think is a problem of chemistry, mostly of entropy, the character of bonds and the laws of thermodynamics. The team has a tendency to gravitate to lower energy states, the law of the minimal effort, giving it a look of unconnected and barely holding polar bonds, the weakest of chemical unions, where togetherness is maintained with an intermittent electrostatic charge. In this situation we have an outstanding front line and a very weak defense. One resides on a higher energy shell, the latest on the lower, content with Pauli’s exclusion principle and feeling safe on their many years of association of opposing electron spin. One performed at a higher level, the second simply exists to maintain structure and refuses to scape the model to give a chance to other particles. The lower shell is after all, full, complete and accommodated in their inadequacies.

Madrid is an entity fully complying with the laws of thermodynamics, after all energy is never destroyed just changes states. Thus, the oxymoron resurfaces on the effort rate where the energy output must equal the energy input during the duration of the game. We are a team who refuses to defy the laws of physics, we must endorse the ruling of nature to its maximum exponent, so we must always play at maximum potential a few minutes and barely scrap by the rest of the time. The team must pay homage to the three laws, and I am not referring to Asimov.

We are also a Pythagorean universe, a cosmos dominated by the spheres and the never-ending trek to find its harmony. We have our particular Kepler, Mr. Carletto, attempting to fit the model of tetrahedral Platonic solids into a unit ruled by the musical cadence of the seven spheres. A futile endeavor in any regard, since it has been observed that the Sphere of the divine is only comprised by half of the team, whilst the lower sphere is filled with the mundane, the crude, the lazy, the unintelligent, basically the vulgar and unbecoming. This particular situation is the ultimate dichotomy, THE oxymoron quintessential, the source of all evil, the bringer of our doom.

There is only one sphere that should concern Real Madrid, the frigging ergosphere, but that is a subject for the next lesson. Class dismissed.

Carletto doing his thing: In search of harmony

Uefalona Inc. Part 1

 

 

“The Three Little Cules”

Conspiracy theories are a great way to construct the most outrageous hypothesis but at the same time are the means to discredit plausible conclusions derived from a clear, logical and reasonable chain of events. After all, the main way to try to invalidate a quite obvious scheme forged behind curtains is to accuse the exposer of insanity, ill feeling or whichever excuse to try to deny the evidence.

FC Barcelona and UEFA have lived an idyllic and romantic interlude for quite a few years now.This relationship started in the dawn of the millennium, with the arrival of Joan Laporta to the catalan side’s presidency. As soon as he arrived to the club, Laporta started weaving a network of contacts in UEFA and RFEF backed by a policy of betrayal, double dealings and back stabbings which would allow him to place Barça ex-directives and sympathizers in key positions of the governing bodies.

To understand this process one must time travel on the fabric of the space-time continuum to understand the two key points on Laporta´s plan; one, the creation of the G-14 and , two, the then upcoming election to the RFEF presidency. Both events took place during the 2001-2004 year period. The later was the most important part of Barça´s president plans to control the back offices and thus control a part of the other football, the one not played on the pitch, the sport played behind closed doors in official buildings where decisions that could determined the outcome of a game are played. We must admit that Florentino at the time was slow and clumsy to react to this new and clear threat, that ultimately was successful on stonewalling Madrid’s chances for a fair shot at competition. This period also coincided with a time of extreme crisis on Real Madrid’s ranks at the sporting, social and institutional levels. But that is another story and we´ll talk about it in the future.

In the year 2004, the RFEF holds Presidential elections, where the then incumbent president of 16 years glued to the power chair is on the verge of passing on the throne to another candidate after an active Press campaign that has uncovered his mismanagement of a Federation stained by embezzlement, several of its members accused and later convicted of personal gain and shady dealings, waste of resources and a lean trophy cabinet. In other words the RFEF stands accused of being ruled by an incompetent kleptocracy. All the clubs have made a before hand agreement to oust Villar from his post and replace him with Gerardo Gonzalez, a neutral man. On the very last minute, Joan Laporta, without previous warning and thus breaching the voting disciplined agreed upon, changes his vote backing Villar who then wins the election and as a good usual suspect proceeds to get omertà on those who wanted him gone, especially Florentino Perez. Many said that Laporta changed his vote forced by Joan Gaspart, prior president of Uefalona FC, and financial backer of Villar’s campaigns, but one might consider this incise trivial, since the end result is the same.

In payment for services rendered, Villar proceeds to name Gaspart as the Vice President of International and Institutional affairs, in other words, Gaspart becomes the top man in subjects such as referring, discipline and International competition. Gaspart is also corrosive and toxically antimadridista. Together with Gaspart, Villar names Juan Padrón, another known antimadridista, as the Vice president of Economical Affairs. Padrón is connected to Jesús Semper, a cule sympathizer industrialist who holds a sword over Villar’s head due to financial backing given to the RFEF president to wash out the debt created by years of mismanagement. In this way the spider web of corruption, repayment of personal favors, nepotism and the equivalent of insider trading is concocted, and Uefalona FC begins a firm foothold controlling the decisions of the RFEF. After this unholly alliance is created, number of outrageous decisions start to favor FC Barcelona on the most farcical fashion.

Thus, incidents like the aggression to Figo o Roberto Carlos at Camp Nou go punished with a single game played behind closed doors without public, decision which is never carried out and commuted to payment of a 4,000€ fine three years later, a shameful case never seen before or after in any League. Or likewise FC Barcelona isn’t sanctioned by the RFEF for refusing to partake in a Copa match , when this offense is usually punished with banning from said competition for a number of years, or FC Barcelona appearing 45 minutes past the hour from game start time and not forfeiting the game as the rule book dictates. All of these stand as painful examples of privileged treatment which is vast and ongoing in time and space.

This policy of bestowing graces and Papal indulgences, shamefully continues with Rosell. After Real Madrid wins the record Liga trophy, Rosell quickly moves his pieces to place his Barça Vice President and Director of communications Joan Freixa, as a key directive on the RFEF to oversee the competition department, in other words refereeing. This event took place shortly after Rosell and Villar were spotted secretly meeting in a Madrid Hotel, and where a TV crew covering another event witnessed a heated discussion between the two, that Villar ended with the words “How much else do you want me to give you Sandro?”, incriminating words directed at Rosell.

Given this network of nepotism, political and institutional favors thrown into the mix together with suspect moral characters, Rosell and Laporta are indicted in several judicial cases involving corruption and embezzlement, the primordial soup is formed where estrange referee decisions clearly favoring one club thrive and succeed; therefore, achieving the ultimate goal of providing an end result: Titles and Trophies. Now, I don’t claim that the RFEF, Villar or his underlings come out and tell a referee directly who should win a match. Any elaborated scheme at the institutional level would shun such a coarse approach. Instead they create the clientelistic background and mentality which will set the foundation where the double standard flourishes, and where the sly referee will know very well what of his on pitch decisions would satisfy more those above him in the chain of command. Those who are either indebted to Cules or are directly Cules themselves. There are many pluses to be gained from this serf like attitude in the shape of international assignments, delivering summer workshops on refereeing, or being assigned to major competition of summertime events, all of them procuring succulent dividends. After all, a referee’s salary more than triples if he partakes on these juicy perks and prebendaries.

It must be pointed out that over 43 % of Barcelona’s Silverware has been attained during Villar’s reign, a very significant statistical figure.

Coming Soon: Uefalona, Part 2 ……. UEFA