Sportlounge/Sportlive, 23./24. November 2009

Gestern fragten wir uns, ob ausser uns wenigen noch jemand anderes sich des Ausdrucks bedient: «Im falschen Film sein». (Wir bezweifelten es augenblicklich und einigten uns, es hiesse heute: «Hey, nimmsch Coci?»). Bloss: Wir waren im falschen Film. Gleichsam eine filmische Zeitreise. Hauptdarsteller im schlechten Film war Beni Turnheer. Noch schlechter sind nur Benis Hintermänner, die davon keine Kenntnis nehmen wollen (wir vermuten, weil sie schlicht nichts bemerken).

Champions League. Camp Nou. Barcelona gegen Inter. Schon hundert Mal gesehen. Völlig ausgelutscht und entsprechend langweilig. Immer die gleichen Rituale. Auch in der Kommentatorenkabine. Weshalb entsendet man diesen Turnheer überhaupt noch nach Barçelona, wenn Dani Langwyler doch ein für allemal bewiesen hat, dass man auch aus dem Fernsehstudio Leutschenbach emotional (oder was man dafür hält) kommentieren kann (für einen Flug Zürich-Barcelona und wieder zurück (C-Class) muss man auch heute noch geschätze zwölfhundert hinblättern. Das entspricht rund zweihundert Tageskarten der VBZ (mit Halbtax, versteht sich). Was soll’s, Turnheer war dort. Und leider auch Massimo Stinkefinger, vormals Busacca. Doch es war nicht Busaccas schuld. Denn Beni T. leierte und leierte über Massimo, unseren Massimo, und er las und las und las aus der Statistik, bis keiner mehr hinhörte, und erklärte und zählte wie viele Mal er, Massimo, schon in der Champions League gepfiffen hatte, und nie, nie, nie habe er einen Fehler gemacht. Stop it, Beni!

Zu den Zeiten, als Henne Hermann noch für die Nati die Bälle verteilte, Erich Burgener den Kasten reinzuhalten versuchte und Claudio Sulser England im Alleingang abschoss, nahm die Schweiz, neutral und traditionell, nie an internationalen Anlässen wie einer WM teil. Wer aber immer teil nahm, waren Schweizer Schiedsrichter: Dubach, Daina, Galler, Röthlisberger (der mutmassliche Betrüger), Meier (Urshole) und jetzt Massimo. Was konnte da der Boulevard tanzen, wenn unsere Schweizer einen Viertelfinal pfeifen durfte (und wenn dann die rosa Gazzetta auch noch über die Leistung unseres Schiris sibyllinisch schwieg, konnte dies nur das allerbeste bedeuten). Und der Boulevard tanzte. Wir sind zwar nicht dabei, aber trotzdem mittendrin. Fast so, wie beim heurigen Wettskandal.

Wie kann man ein Fussballspiel kommentieren und während der ersten zehn Minuten über den Schiri – und nur den Schiri – reden? Braucht es umso mehr Helden, je weiter man selber vom Auge des Taifuns entfernt ist? Wir dachten lange, diese Zeit sei nun auch in der Schweiz überwunden. Weit gefehlt.

Am Montag, dem Tag nach dem Auffliegen des grossen Wettskandals, an dem man ohne Probleme Erich Vogel, Kurt Röthlisberger, Maurizio Gaudino und irgend einen Funktionärsfuzzi à la Sloczetcetera in die Sportlounge hätte bitten können (Profifussball: Grenzen der Verführung), feiert das SF mit der sehr schönen Steffi Buchli eine fröhliche Erinnerungsrunde: «Vancouver vor 21 Jahren: Calgary». Man müsste die gesamte Führung des Schweizer Fernsehens in die Weiterbildung nach Nordkorea entsenden.

Auch wenn er es nicht gerne hört: Immer auf Teufel komm raus!

Hyppolit Kempf ist ein langweiliger Funktionär. Bei Ekkehard Fasser fragte die Alte Frau auf der Strasse (in der sogenannten Sportbox) zu Recht: «Isch da en Tütsche?». Vrene Schneider begeisterte uns zwar durch Ehrgeiz, Siegeswillen und Medaillen, ist aber insgesamt einfach nichts weiter als eine huere langweilige Babe. Aber da sass noch der König der Steilhänge in der Runde. Früher, als Büeb isch dr Berge, war er der Medienwelt noch nicht ganz gewachsen («Aids ist eine Strafe Gottes»). Aber als er so da sass und in seinem uralten Zermatter Dialekt nochmals den alten Siegeswillen, die Unbedingtheit und den Willen zum Triumph demonstrierte, lief es uns kalt den Rücken herunter. Fragt Steffi Buchli: «Was hätt Ihne de Schisport braacht?» Zurbriggen versteht die Frage nicht. Steffi wiederholt. Zurbriggen: «Ah, wos er gebrunge het!». True heroes never die! (L.T.)

George Michael will perform two Australian concerts in February, and the first will be in Perth.                                                          

Rumours had been rife that the Too Funky star was headed down under, and today his Australian trip has been confirmed.

Heading to Australia for the first time since 1988, the Wham! star and solo pop vocalist will perform at Member’s Equity Stadium on February 20.  He will then perform in Sydney at Sydney Football Stadium on February 26.

He will perform tracks from the early days, Wham! and his latest material.

Promoter Paul Dainty said it was thrilling to bring Michael back to the country following his Faith tour in the 80s.

“He is a consummate performer and will deliver a stunning show to his fans who have waited 22 years to see him perform in Australia,” Dainty said.

Michael has performed for more than 2 million fans on this 25 Live arena tour so far. More than 350,000 people flocked to his London performances alone.

Michael has sold more than 100 million pop albums, had six American number one singles and won plenty of awards for tunes including Faith, Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go, Careless Whisper, One More Try, Freedom, Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me and Too Funky.

Tickets will go on sale through TicketMaster on December 8.

Source  :  www.watoday.com.au

Michael Jackson’s - Moonwalker (1988) Havent seen this film already?, it’s probably too late for you to enjoy the magic but you should still see it anyway. Rather than featuring one continuous storyline, the film is a collection of short films about Michael, several of which are long-form music videos from the Bad album. While showing clips from his previous works.

 This film is a massive staple in my childhood and probably one of the earliest memories I have of Mike, I remember this being the first video I had and still have, but I use the DVD now to preserve it lol.

It’s sad when I learned of Mikes passing so much of imagery flicked through my head within a matter of seconds that  was implanted by this film as a child. It felt like my whole childhood was ripped out, no more magic, no more fun, all gone. Shattered

However, loving Michael he has left us all his legacy, and this is definitely one thing everyone should see, lord knows my family must be sick of me pumping this film down there throats every school break.

Well, tomorrow morning, like millions of others here in the U.S., the Texas Gal and I – joined by my mother – will head off for Thanksgiving. In our case, we’ll be going to my sister’s home in the Twin Cities suburb of Maple Grove for turkey dinner with all the trimmings. Our contribution will be a plate of deviled eggs, a dish that’s become a holiday tradition for us since the Texas Gal first brought them along in 2000.

We missed Thanksgiving at my sister’s last year due to some health issues. And the plan to return there got me thinking about the various places I’ve celebrated Thanksgiving over the years.

For years – until I was out of  college, I think – we gathered at my grandparents’ home, first on their farm outside the small town of Lamberton, Minnesota, and then at their home in Lamberton itself. Sometime in the mid-1970s, after Grandma passed on, the Thanksgiving celebration shifted to my parents’ home here in St. Cloud. And after about twenty years there, the annual feast shifted venues again, and my sister and brother-in-law have hosted Thanksgiving since then.

Besides last year’s celebration, I can recall two other Thanksgivings that have found me in different places. In 1980, I think it was, the woman who was then my wife had the idea of hosting Thanksgiving in a restored 1860s cabin owned by friends of hers. We prepared the food in our own home and then moved the entire feast about two miles to the cabin. The food was fine, but the cabin was uncomfortably cold despite the presence of a fireplace. It was an interesting experiment, but I’d rather flip it: I’d be interested in using Nineteenth Century recipes and work from a modern kitchen.

The other Thanksgiving that found me in another place was during the time I spent in Denmark. The Danes don’t celebrate the holiday, of course, but my ladyfriend – another American – and I decided to cook a traditional American Thanksgiving meal for my Danish family and a few other students, both American and Danish.

There was no turkey for sale in Fredericia, so we made do with a couple of chickens. Potatoes were easy enough, as was flour for the gravy. Green beans amandine went well enough after a tussle with the Danish language. Not knowing where the nutcracker was, I looked up the word in my Danish/English dictionary and called my Danish mother at her office. Danish uses some sounds that are, well, foreign to English, so it took some time before she understood that I was trying to say nøddeknækker.

Beyond the linguistic difficulties, the main challenge of the day was the pumpkin pie. We could find neither canned pumpkin nor a fresh pumpkin in Fredericia. Luckily, my ladyfriend had made pumpkin pie from scratch with her mother, and she assured me that an orange winter squash would meet our needs. We cleaned it, cut it up and cooked it with the appropriate seasonings and then baked it in a homemade shell. As dinner came to a close that evening, our Danish guests were a bit puzzled by the pie, but our American guests marveled at how close we’d come to the Thanksgiving dessert they’d all had for years.

That may have been my most memorable Thanksgiving ever. Does that mean it was the best? Well, no. As the fourth Thursday of November comes along year after year, each Thanksgiving somehow seems better than the one before it . . . as long as I share that table with my loved ones, especially the Texas Gal.

A Six-Pack of Thanks
“Now Be Thankful” by Fairport Convention, Island WIP 6089 [1970]
“Thank You” by Led Zeppelin from Led Zeppelin II [1969]
“I Thank You” by Mongo Santamaria from All Strung Out [1969]
“Thank You For The Promises” by Gordon Lightfoot from Shadows [1982]
“Thanks to You” by Jesse Winchester from Humour Me [1988]
“Be Thankful for What You Got (Pt. 1)” by William DeVaughn, Roxbury 0236 [1974]

Of these six, only the Fairport Convention tune really seems to fully address the sentiments of the holiday. The others generally work with only their titles; their content has at best only a glancing connection to the day. But that’s good enough for me.

The Texas Gal and I wish you a joyful Thanksgiving. May you all have many reasons to be thankful.

The lovely and talented Pia Reyes, Miss November 1988, was the first Filipino model to appear in Playboy.

“I am an ethnic jumble,” says Pia Reyes. … “My parents had their Filipino friends — my Mom was always cooking this smelly fish — but I grew up like a white suburban kid. I played lacrosse, basketball and tennis. (“Thrilla from Manila,” Playboy, November 1988)

They called her article, “Thrilla From Manila,” but actually she grew up in Havertown, Pennsylvania. In case you don’t get the title (which makes you absolutely no son of mine), it is a reference to the third and final fight between heavyweight boxers Cassius “Muhammad Ali” Clay and Joe Frazier for the title of Heavyweight Boxing Champion of the World, which took place in the Philippines on October 2, 1975.

The fight finally brought to a conclusion a bitter rivalry that had been going since 1971, that for my money is one of the best stories in the history of sports (where is its movie, Hollywood???). This one’s got it all, guys: draft-dodging, personal jealousies, the backdrop of major historical events, the freaking President getting involved, even. And through it all, two very different but very contentious personalities, Frazier and Ali, duking it out verbally and physically, in the press and in pre-fights. In the Thrilla in Manila, they went fourteen grueling, brutal rounds, both fighting to the point of almost total physical exhaustion before boxing official Eddie Futch declared Ali the victor (he said at the time it was to spare Frazier’s life, although really either could have gone).

Frazier protested stopping the fight, shouting “I want him boss,” and trying to get Futch to change his mind.

Futch simply replied, “It’s all over. No one will forget what you did here today”, and signaled to the referee to end the bout. Ali was therefore declared the victor.

He would later claim that this was the closest to dying he had ever been, and also stated, “Joe Frazier, I’ll tell the world right now, brings out the best in me. I’m gonna tell ya, that’s one helluva man, and God bless him.”

In a brief post-fight interview with one of the commentators, Ali announced, “He is the greatest fighter of all times, next to me.” (the wiki)

Do you even understand how major all of that is? Boxing is not as violent as you think, and it’s not always just big fat guys hugging (I always say, “Get a room or start punching”), not when you have two men in the ring as skilled as Frazier and the Greatest. Though you seldom see it at the heavyweight level, you see it more often with middle and welter (not bantam as much cause they’re so quick it’s like the cockfight from which their category’s name comes), it’s a graceful and carefully plotted series of moves, like a bloody ballet, it’s like … like art. It’s a dance. And you have these two combatants who are so equally matched that they are like hell-soul-mates, made to fight each other. That’s just, it’s just — like… god… oh, man, I honestly get misty just thinking about that event. That is some great motherfucking sports right there. I wish I had been born to see it firsthand, but I’ve watched clips of it on ESPN classic. (Boy, I miss having that) Le sigh.

\

As an epilogue, this story gets even better, in my opinion, because dig this: In June of 2001, guess who met for a grudge match on the Thrilla in Manila fight? Their freaking daughters. The fight was re-enacted, sort of, in New York by Laila “She Bee Stingin’” Ali and Jackie “Sister Smoke” Frazier-Lyde in what the press called Ali/Frazier IV. Laila, sixteen years younger than Jackie and with a little more training under her belt, took it in eight. But I love that both of them went for it! What a great story.

Finally, dig the Jessica Rabbit cover! God bless ya, Roger Rabbit and all of 1988. And to Pia Reyes, about whom this entry is not even at all remotely concerned, sorry. It’s not your fault that I think boxing is more interesting than whatever your little turn-ons and ambitions were. I feel kind of badly now. How about this? I will try to make it up to you another day, I swar to gar. You will get more attention from me later. Unless I forget.

Another one for the danceflo’addicts. Classic dig!

Can you handle it?

Adele – First Love (Mick Boogie Remix)

Mick Boogie and Terry Urban are probably two of the most consistent, creative and relevant remixers in hip-hop at the moment.  Their releases are the thing of mixtape folklore; mixing Coldplay and Jigga, cutting the Noisettes album with 808’s & Heartbreaks or remixing the 2009 Grammy nominations.

I finally put my ears to a copy of their rework of the Adele album and it is to the regular high standards.  This is my favourite and it is just plain ridiculous.

Enjoy (I have one too many times over the last fortnight).

Soulside Funk

Formatting

Começando a disponibilizar todos clipes oficiais da Kylie Minogue, uma das grandes da música Pop mundial. Não recomendado para internet discada, vídeos na máxima qualidade possível, vale a pena para os fãs e quem ainda não conhece o trabalho dela.

Especially For You	Got To Be Certain
I Should Be So Lucky	It’s No Secret
Je Ne Sais Pas Pourquoi	Made in Heaven
The Loco-Motion	The Loco-Motion (Alternative)

]]> http://lagowski.wordpress.com/2009/11/22/nadir/ Sun, 22 Nov 2009 18:58:00 +0000 lagowski http://lagowski.wordpress.com/2009/11/22/nadir/

Previously only on cassette. Now available, the recordings taken from the original DAT.

Click to enlarge

Band: Melody Ramblers
Home: Chatham Ontario
Year: 1988
Style: Country Music Covers
Sound man: Dan Barette

Above  Photo
(Left to Right)
Dan St.Pierre – Guitar
Eugene Beaulieu – Bass, Vocals
Wendy Jenkins – Vocal
Brad Preston – Guitar, Vocals
Larry St.Pierre – Drums
Rene Brousseau – Pedal Steel

Photo: St. Joachim, Ontario

_____________

Jesse Bering mixes science with humor in this article published at Scientific American’s website on the biomechanics of descended scrotal testicles.

…it’s generally inadvisable for men to wear tight-fitting jeans or especially snug “tighty whities”—under these restrictive conditions the testicles are shoved up against the body and artificially warmed so that the cremasteric muscle cannot do its job properly. Another reason not to wear these things is that it’s no longer 1988.

El otro día revolviendo en el baúl de mis recuerdos, me topé con una imagen que me transformó a la temprana edad de 12 años…

No me ha costado demasiado encontrarla navegando por la red, lo que me ha confirmado que no soy la única persona a la cual esta foto del skater Natas Kaupas le cautivó allá por 1988. Recuerdo, como si fuese ayer, que hojeaba una revista TWS norteamericana en la cocina mientras mi madre le daba de comer a mi hermana pequeña. Y esta imagen del pionero patinador callejero me cautivó hasta extasiarme, de manera similar a esa escena en la película “Arrebato”:

“Dime, ¿cuánto tiempo te podías llegar a pasar mirando este cromo?…¿Te acuerdas?…¿Y éste?…Y ¿esta orla?…¿Y esta página?…¡Años, siglos…Toda una mañana…! Imposible saberlo, estabas en plena fuga… éxtasis…colgado en plena pausa…¡Arrebatado!”.

Contemplando la foto de este pedazo artista se me llenó el cerebro de ilusiones, perspectivas, energias creativas, y una visión del espacio urbano que me ha definido como persona adulta. Esto sin mencionar la camiseta del grupo Public Enemy (enemigo público) y la actitud desafiante (mirando directamente a la cámara) del patinador que claramente refleja una natural simbiosis con el objeto rodante convertido en extensión corporal al más puro estilo “cybog Harawayano”…

Gracias Mr. Kaupas!

Sample

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