USA 1, Small Island Nation 1
Fabio Capello, pictured left, shows us the tracks his tears took after Robert Green revealed his American sympathies by suspiciously letting a shot through—a shot so weak that it could have come from my old mother.
I’m not saying I know anything, but Capello—who was beautifully dressed in a perfectly cut three-piece suit, incidentally—ought to check Green’s locker for small bags stuffed with Franklins. If found, they could explain a lot. I guess England will now have to reconsider the importance of the now-ubiquitous phrase, “Going Green.”
Tomorrow, I start my two-week class at Cornell. Because of this and other commitments, I will not have a lot of free time. So I might turn the blog over to a journal of the class, or at least a record of the lessons.
Trying to cram all of probability and statistics plus require all students complete a project in two weeks is impossible. Finding the shortcuts and compressions to make it work is what makes it interesting. Call it probability as poetry. Tomorrow 9am: logic and knowledge.
Movie Lines I Long to Use
“Hey big guy. Circus in town?” Spoken by Johnny Twennies (Gibson Frazier) to a giant, lumbering oaf in Man of the Century. This charming favorite features the redoubtable nightclub singer (now deceased) Bobby Short.
Frazier wrote and directed the movie, which tells the story of a man who resides in modern-day Manhattan but who lives as if it’s the 1920s. The oaf is a bodyguard to Roman Navarro (Frank Gorshin; yes, the Riddler) who is “auditioning” young hopeful Virginia Clemens (Cara Buono). Johnny escorts Virginia to Navarro, oblivious of his ill intent, but eventually comes to the lady’s rescue, after first dispensing with the oaf.
“Beauty is but a curse to our women.” This is one of the howlers from The Ten Commandments which I treasure. It is always there, at the back of my mind, looking for an opportunity to come out when the circumstance is just right. So far, no joy.
Global Warming is Good For You
Reader Nate Winchester sends us over to Cracked magazine, which is where we now have to go to read fair and balanced journalism on global warming.
They tell us the obvious: warmer temperatures could mean greater crop production and fewer deaths from the complications of cold weather (such as freezing).
Relying on Cracked is sort of like how we had to wait for the National Enquirer to report the sordid story of ambulance chaser and Vice President wanna-be John Edwards.
It’s not all bad for traditional journalism: the main-stream press does do a solid job of reprinting SEIU press releases.
Only $375 A Bottle
The New York Post has another hard-hitting article on how difficult it is to gain entry to the city’s nightclubs. One of these pieces appears roughly every six months.
They sent six models dressed variously as geeks, guidos, and Jersey girls to see if they could slide past the gorillas pawing the velvet ropes (“Hey big guy. Circus in town?”). Depending on the hipness-factor of the club, they either had little trouble or were absolutely denied.
The geeky girl didn’t pass on looks, but the models with stick-thin bodies favored by the predominately homosexual men and ex-young ladies who run the fashion industry slid through the cracks, no questions asked.
In some instances, doormen were lenient to Post crew, but required pledges of hundreds of dollars to “reserve” a table, or they demanded credit cards on which the club would charge $375-dollar bottles of booze.
The desire to enter one of these establishments is a pathetic thing to see. Entrants must know they are going to be gouged; they must realize that they are about to be surrounded by a zombie-like crowd of vapid, shallow, emaciated people whose idea of a good time is to be surrounded by a zombie-like crowd of…well, you get the idea. Looks are everything. Beauty is but a curse to these women?
Perhaps this is why the music at these places is turned up to punishing levels. The sounds called “music” at ordinary volume would meet the old Geneva-convention definition of torture, but the decibels reached at the club level are beyond cruel. The music is so loud that it is almost liquid.
Yet people pay to enter. It is—and I do not exaggerate—my idea of hell.