Even if you didn't necessarily need it, it's definitely nice to be reminded of why exactly you chose to devote unscrupulous time, love, thought, and effort towards something so supplementary and perhaps even pointless, depending on your worldview. I'm afforded these moments almost daily on a wide-scale level with sports (see above picture), but as my mania is dominated around the (traditionally) white ball with a dozen black pentagons (and the brown grooved ball with black trim - probably more so), Chelsea-Inter at the Rose Bowl a turn of the moon ago was about as good a reminder as could possibly be received stateside.
Pictures (and a recap, I'd presume) are forthcoming, though their quality can be aptly-titled "cell-phone", as my fully charged camera decided to, for lack of a better term, take a big ol' shit about 10 minutes in. But what I'd like to hit on now is this; if but one negative thought crept into my dome after the game, it was the echo of Max Breto's voice in my head, raping and pillaging a similarly-regal billing between two heavyweights during a Champions League game on FSC this next campaign. I don't know who'll see this, but if somebody, anybody can hear me, please, PLEASE do not let FSC roll out the same dog-and-pony shtick for, say, Liverpool-Chelsea (surest bet) that they do for a beach soccer game in July. And I swear, if I hear somebody "released the Kraken" during an important fixture, I'll drive over to headquarters on Sepulveda and use the one arson conviction one gets in life that I was gonna save for Al Davis' house (a once-proud Raiders fan who now can't even watch the NFL thanks to him speaking) and burn that mother to the ground. Just kidding. I think.
Also, nary an opinion from these fronts on The Beckham Experiment (cover-to-cover on Monday, a day well-spent as far as I'm concerned), other than I hope Becks ventured further into LA's vast fast (or relatively-abbreviated or not-exactly-what-you-would-call-a-sit-down-restaurant-even-though-you're-sitting-down) food establishment vortex than god damn In'n'Out. Or was he too busy picketing pharmacies with Tom Cruise to assimilate himself properly?
Oh, and if this is what it takes to get soccer a damn Hollywood Square on ESPN, I'd rather it stay a fucking niche sport.
And finally, just for good measure, fuck Brett Favre.
3 comments:
I feel like the nostalgia surrounding In'n out really trumps taste considerations. I was in the bay area recently for work and a co-worker insisted we go to the wharf to experience the in'n out.
Distasteful? Campy? No. But also not up to par. And now that im done talking about Beckham, in'n out also is not as good as initially held
its just so unoriginal, coming to the west coast and raving about In'n'Out. sure, newcomers and virgins should try it, if only to say so, but to settle on the first step of the 12 step program here is just absurd. nobody had the decency to direct the Davillac Becksalade to a Roscoe's, even?
And what about whattaburger? I feel she's the abused Cinderella, scrubbing floors for the evil Inn and out Queen.
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