Deborah Sampson Pitcures

Fried Pride

Really, is not the usual discourse on the world. It 's much more. This is a speech that nobody ever wants to do, in general, about sports and how the human being is paradoxical, since he was born to when he dies.
Observing the World from a foreign land, I am aware that nothing has changed. Therefore, remain the same considerations. Even without the usual mash television for hours, with experts analyzing the pensioners and prostatitis just ended a game in every respect except the most logical - that is what he says "is just a game and (usually) won the best "- but I have not missed at all the fans.
There are different categories of fans, but here I would like to dwell on the occasional one, and then tap into a general discussion, thanks to this generous assists.

The casual fan does ignore it for the whole year, more often, adding her only when necessary.
typical dialogue: Italian

appreciation: "Did you see the last game of the [insert team name at random] yesterday?"
Fan
occasional "No, but who won?"

IM: "Your team, as usual. You pay the referees, it seems logical that win, is not it? "

TO:" And go! Grandiiii! You see we did it again huh? "

The casual fan has only a vague knowledge of what happens to" his "team of transfers, of the various investigations of corruption in the world of football, of how the whole mechanism in other words. He lives quietly, receiving information, said to her, says her, and then off, blissful ignorance.
Sometimes, the fan is professed occasional totally unrelated to football, it seems not to import anything. However, it is only an appearance, because after a series of shrewd questions, or if it bombs with the right information, has undergone a resurgence of pride Fried, who was unable to digest at all, probably heavier than the Chinese the day before. This particular subspecies of the fan occasionally comes out with bullying during the World Cup. First of all foreign, is now completely taken by it: organize your evenings at home of friends who live the Sky, drinks in pubs where monstrous 32-inch sway over the heads of the onlookers, dopopartita-based alcohol and trumpets sound unbearable .
the question "but you did not say that the football do not you could care less?" He says quietly (but gesturing) "But these are the World," as if there was some kind of difference between soccer and the World. Its surprising freshness, what terrifies. The casual fan
lives so therefore, somewhere between ignorance and faith, without ever asking why.
This type of individual is out of the news stories the evening news, the debates on football violence, fanaticism, and that's why no one ever talks about it, leaving him in a dim light that was revealed.

The occasional fan is just one of many paradoxes that, as is often the case, respecting all faiths around.
There are a number of diverse traditions, cults in football, perhaps more than any other sport, show that this pervasive tendency inconsistency. You could almost draw up the rules.

1) The anthropomorphism of the team.
The team is often viewed as an entity, like a person rather than a fairly diverse group of individuals also quite different and almost always different from the last time that team has walked the field, in a previous season or even more in a World Cup year. To say that Italy has a type of game rather than another is not very logical, because Italy is not an individual entity, but a set of players, people. Perhaps there is some way to train players to play and featuring the various nations, but you certainly can not say that that team is the Team. In this, a recent statement by Lippi has thrown an unexpected light on the philosophical question that for more than a century has plagued humanity: "One of the many things he taught me the World Cup is that everything that precedes it does not matter. You can 10 games to beautiful, then you get to the World, with its features, its moods and the validity of the teams, and changes everything. It can also apply the reverse speech. The great team grows and becomes a great team during the World " . This shows that what the team is varied and changeable, and often exists only in the collective imagination.
As a result, is perfectly useless to seek revenge unlikely. France has no reason to take revenge on Italy, as it no longer exists in France in 2006, nor Italy in 2006.

2) Accusing others of what everyone, including their idols.
Make a list of foreign players in a team, comparable to the historical adversaries, and discover that others are full of strangers just because they have one more, is a sign that you are trespassing in that field metaphysical pride Fried. Accusing the other simulation, by which time any person in any team if he can, he knocks down the first painful wretched physical contact, and then get up and throw the crutch on the enemies two seconds later.
is endemic to a certain kind of fanaticism, to avoid the confrontation, one way to create situations in which all the reasons to convey its position. This should give pause.

3) The loss of fair play, sporting pride.
Riallanciandoci the speech referred to above, in recent years has been introduced for the fault simulation. Probably in no other sport in the world there is a similar attitude to frustrate every good criminal intention to sell the sports business interests or reputation. I think the simulation is an unworthy, useless, appalling. Putting aside the immorality itself the situation, are immediately clear two things: that the simulation is resisted if made by opponents applauded but if performed by their team, a big man, full of muscles and manly, full of money, and coupled with a tissue in case when it falls to the ground held by the shirt and begins to whine to be given a punishment is something ridiculous. When I was a child in elementary school or kindergarten, you knew who was crying was a so-called "sissy", and as such was mocked. It is true that as adults we forget many things.

4) The bell tower (often Italian and foreign).
abberrazione This is translated directly Football from our indigenous traditions, the medieval legacy Risorgimento not only failed to eliminate, but instead amplified them, unfortunately. Survived to this day, this way of expressing the Italian spirit is one with the sport of football, and it is a plague that we can not eradicate, the matrix of nearly all the violence and fertile soil in which today's neo-fascism has taken root . I often say that there are violent sports such as rugby and boxing, that would be a disgrace to the moral level. But I never saw the result of the Six Nations build hooligans, or that of a clash of heavyweights for the title, create fans and celebrating violence against opponents. Nor are there any the "enemies" in boxing ...
It is shocking how rugby will bring the children safely, and in the stands is an air of fun, entertainment, sport short, while stadiums in Italy are now armored. All this reminds me of an incident a few years ago that led me to reflect here
I have not changed my mind since then, and I think I never will at this juncture.

To sum up, I can say I told my football, or rather the human being behind the football, and I cordially invite everyone to dialogue, to try to change my mind or even counter to one of my rant. Being sure that, because of the aforementioned fried manifest pride, there will never defend anyone who so heartfelt calcium may enter into a civil dialogue, I feel quite alone in these thoughts. Nobody ever will debate, or respond in kind, if not with transhumance of hormones and oozing of fanaticism. It's the same basic truth of the Principle of Zidane's head. This principle is that you get a material advantage on the opponent out unlawfully and meanness, just as insulting and provoking Zidane said Materazzi during the final Italy-France 2006, until his land by a head, as a logical consequence. The winner is the one who can take advantage of the situation after all, emerge spotless in the eyes of the people. After all ... in war and in love everything is permitted. But I do not ever say anything about the sport.

Yet, in spite of everything, including this World Cup will end, and flags will be hung on a nail or slide back in mothballs in the closet, where they remained for four years and where it will be withdrawn out among so many four years.

That said, I also have one of those strange people who still believes that the best time in Italian football is already looking past that. As in any historical period, Italy has already reached that climax, and is unlikely to happen again. So as there was only one Roman Empire, One Renaissance, one Risorgimento, Italy closed its season with the miracle that happened under the eyes of Pertini, in a different era, when people had different and there was something more like a nation and the future seemed different from our present.
Lost innocence like virginity, you can not find it. It remains only a banner under mothballs ... and the smell of fried pride, of course.

Doctor For Ingrown Hair

[...] They Had A child named Trór, Whom we call Thor

Thus saith ' Edda.

There was a time when thunder and lightning were worshiped by men, admired in their infinite power because feared and revered. And loved the rain as the bearer of life.
Today we are a nation of meteorosensitivity, accustomed to the dictatorship of the sun more than we can imagine.
Living abroad, I've often heard words nostalgic about the Italian climate, even if you do not know what it is actually the Italian climate - it is also prey to the whims of climate far beyond our ability control. There is a wide
infection, which affects almost all, without pity or no logic, which infects the mind, and the league in a symbiosis impossible for the earth's climate. As in most sci-fi theories on Gaia, or holism wildest, I see people that fades when the sky is gray, and comes alive when a faint ray of sun makes its appearance.
This phenomenon aroused my curiosity, while creating a sense of revulsion in me that I have had immunity, I do not know why. It will be the romantic love of painting, where the elements are in turmoil maximum expression of the power of nature, the emotional force that can create the visual impact, it will be because I like to think that rain is a common phenomenon as wonderfully magic (think of water that falls from the sky!) is that I like to think of those Vikings, who heard the thunder shattered the heavens, imagined while Thor is angry that between the clouds, wielding Mjollnir against its enemies .
Because these small, perhaps insignificant things get in the eyes of those who can see beauty only if harassed by sunlight?
Unfortunate is the man who has to tie his fate to the whims of nature, and now that man has almost freed from the constraints to which it forced him, through the joke of the cycle of the seasons for farmers, for the winters war, drought for the hungry ... he found himself, ironically, another way to be fooled by the climate. Like the man
bind by itself deliberately heavy yokes, which exist only in his mind, and are almost impossible to put down. And the crack of the whip can not convince him.
I wonder what they can not see up there in the clouds when you collect, what they can not feel, while the elemental forces of nature gather showing the infinite power of our planet.
What have they lost? Why not capture the poetry of it all? With the consent of
Heimdall, I will try to show them that poem.

For the harvest comes in the afternoon slowly, like an omen, but assume it to be. The last ray disappears, drained by the voluminous folds immense clouds, whose gray-scale merges and mingles in their own folds inscrutable. Because the eye is lost in them, at a point where it becomes too dark to continue to watch without feeling cold fear, for what it conceals, for the dark gods could live in that darkness, full of anger, waiting for the their time.
When the shadow extends over the hills and the wind is blowing strong from the corn, shaking the ground like a wild mane, it seems clear that time is no longer the realm of man, but that of nature, which often descends from heaven to reclaim his land.
A murmur runs through the piles dark, as the water flows between the roundness of the source rocks, and the growing murmur, irregular - reverberates everywhere, omnipresent, impossible to locate, because his is the kingdom of heaven, which has no boundaries.
The murmur becomes a long mumbling vibrate like a giant awakening, powerful, salt, increasingly, to resonate with everything.
So that vibrates the fatal shot, which destroys everything in the air, which punishes those who hear with pain that comes from the stomach, vibrant, to the soul. It is the hammer of the gods, the voice of thunder, who falls helpless humanity, and all other life.
The voice of the infinite sky vibrates everywhere, while the drops fall, an emanation of his power, faithful handmaids of the storm. One by one, then thousands, return water to the earth, generous and donated it to the sky as a pledge of love.
And the wind is blowing, breathes, and grows the water vortex, which kind it was, now is a wall of transparent crystal reflections - millions of glow in the waterfall from which are the colors of the bridge and to reach the land of the gods.
everything on the power of the storm strikes, strikes that shook the heavens and the earth, something lights up, the folds of dark clouds, a sparkling white light without form, which responds to latest recall of all items.
The light runs through the clouds, like crazy, looking for a way out. Charging the lightning focus and structure in his immense power as a tree branch in white flames, which hits the ground, leaving a terrible ash and ash.
And so the tempest of life fills the world, and its light rain caress the world.
In houses, silent men who know his strength to expect. Glimmers of hope from the window of not being there, in the midst of it, and pray for those who can not live there. Other dreams to become covered with the cold rain from the sky, which comes from the world of the gods, water that has been touched by their hands. As can be beautiful in the rain, washing everything, and always returns to the sky, always!
Men expect so, while the beat becomes furious gentle blows, and then diffuse but faint ticking. Metallic clink, dull hammering on wood. From a distance you hear a dog bark, scattered on the prairie.
The magic is over, and the clouds seem to thin out. The sun makes its appearance, pale and timid, inspiring the rainbow bridge to become stronger.
So men look at it and think its Finally, in the sky, between the houses of God, and how it would be if they could follow it.

Far above the clouds, above the world, Heimdall was born while watching his bridge. He, a son of nine mothers, who can hear the sound of grass as it grows, said Bifröst , the rainbow bridge, and he knows for certain that the world of men took place another spell, which created a nice them another reason to be proud of the gift of life once again.
Quiet and pensive, Heimdall sits at the end of the rainbow, and men envy.

Stacey Fields Fartfantasy