timeout, philadelphia

Josep Guardiola turned 38 yesterday.

Today Janis Joplin would have been 66, Edgar Allen Poe would be celebrating a bicentennial, and I myself am now able to discard Thomas Neer's ID from my wallet and use my own to indulge in the sauce . Today is also two moons past FC Barcelona's total liquidation of Deportivo and extension of current La Liga dictatorship to 18 games unbeaten, 7 untied. If I had a point I guess it'd be that 38 seems brutally young for that kind of run. His side has been bested just thrice this season, the last of which was a trivial reserve-laden CL tie vs. Shakhtar with but a fifth of the Camp Nou vacant in early December. Best-team-ever discussions are scarce in football, the reason lying somewhere between senile classicism and that it would impede on beloved individual masturbations (personally, I h7te him). But Barca have stormed 08/09's median on pace to attaining a laughable three-digit point total, leaving but seven on the table and not a one to any club within the league's top nine.

In a year where England has seen two-thirds of their premier clubs grasping at relegation's straws (highlighted by the anemic quintet currently sitting rock-bottom) and the other third wallowing in consistent inconsistency, Spain's campaign is lighting a post-coital Marlboro, thanking Pep Guardiola and informing him his money is on the dresser. The current squad is dogmatically so far removed from last year's comedy of errors that Real Madrid's coinciding turbulence is downright esoteric, and it seems the about-face can be solely attributed to appointing somebody the same age as most of Wu-Tang as proprietor.

Further, more exhaustive meditations pending, Pep and his squad's synthesis appears built on rather modest constructs--the summer camp counselor still green from recent participation. The rapport and conviction eternally sought and seldom realized by all incoming coaches was already present; Pep either coached or captained a solid portion of the squad, bought players lacking in notoriety and thus pomposity and extradited those well-versed in such. The remaining two malcontents, Samuel Eto'o and Thierry Henry, were deemed requirements rather than surpluses to and have rewarded with inspired seasons. Take Saturday, as the final four goals following the unconscious Messi's opener were a pair of braces each--a poached rebound and penalty for Eto'o, a diplomatic header and an opportune finish to another Iniesta-Xavi written masterpiece for Henry. The penalty was especially indicative of the football Barca's playing, captain Carles Ramone, of all people, bustling forward to invite an already four-times beaten keeper to charge directly into a red card.

You'd assume that England's aforementioned clusterfuck can only lead to less emphasis being placed on the Champions league, and this weekend exposed ginormous cracks in the S.S. Mourinho, and thus Barcelona's path to a Roman May seems rather clearcut, beginning with Lyon next month. Plus, they have two legs of el derbi barcelones in the Copa this week and next, after which if they're victorious treble whispers will ascend to a mild roar. Spain's footballing climate and recent successes within seem kinda strangely on par with the Election, equal parts youthful rehabilitation and vintage iconoclasm, only if McCain hadn't lost the plot in August and Luis Aragones wasn't a racist. If Obama is able to mimic even a moderate amount of Pep's initial progress, America will collectively shit their pants in ecstasy.

*Also, a sidenote. Where on patriotism's scale does hating Cardinals v. Steelers and debating whether to actually tune in put me? It's one of the extremes, just can't decide which.

and pour one each for both MLK and Giles Heron.