A Prologue to History

Greetings, gentle readers.
First off, an apology to the Manic Street Preachers, whose song title I have appropriated for the title of this particular episode, but basically what I offer here is some poetry. Oh well. Small infractions of decorum make the world go round. Or they make baby Jesus cry. One of the two. Incidentally, those of you bored and just surfing the internet because you've got nothing better to do should try looking into the biographies of Kevin Carter and Paul Robeson. One was a Pulitzer-Prize winning and Time-Magazine cover photographer who committed suicide at the age of 33. The other was an African-American who graduated from Rutgers University as valedictorian in 1919 with 15 varsity athletic letters, including track, basketball, and baseball, as well as football - where he was twice an All-American, before graduating from Columbia Law School and thereafter becoming a published author, essayist, opera and broadway singer, renowned actor on stage and screen, civil rights activist, social commentator and thinker. I'll let people find out which is which on their own. But their stories are incredible, and well worth the time and effort of going to google and looking them up. Eventually, I'll post the big links which will tell people all the big secrets and heart-breaking turns of events in their lives, but not now. For now, you may peruse the following poems, which, while I don't think are class, might still pass muster at a high-school poetry competition (plagiarists take note), although the content is very difficult to pass off as high-school age. Anyhoo, here goes.

that necklace

it gilded her neck like a thread of the sun
and she wore it to dinner that night
drifting along the trace of her skin
at once both bemure and polite
a birthday gift from a year since
and this year she wore it on mine
silky thread of love-locked lacework
that paced ice-cold waves down my spine
my modestly made jests made it jerk
and dance with her lips as she smiled
the bow of her shoulders made it curtsey
as she blushed in her violent style
my evenings always seemed to end early
but this one seemed quicker than most
our unsteady thanks rang empty
when she flew in the night like a ghost

a shade in the night floating breathless
her countenance lit by that necklace

- mARKUS

Yes, I know, gentle readers, that's a bit maulin and nostalgic for some of you to stomach comfortably. So here's something to counterbalance such sickly-sweet sentimentality. It's in five parts plus a sub note, so take care.

cantos of a w.c.

1.
sticker
on light switch panel
once demanded
lights be turned off
when unoccupied
now
torn
it just says
unoccupied

2.
surely remote
rarely used
with dead fluourescent
over dull mirrors
as empty as
dostoyevsky's hell

3.
one might
leave the lights off
if blind
or afraid
of finding a way out
again

4.
stark
vacant
at times
i feel
like
that water closet

** "Fathers and teachers I ponder, "What is hell?" I maintain that hell is the inability to love"
- Feodor Dostoyevsky.

-mARKUS

At this point I must protest that the blogsite text-editor-thing won't let me separate anything from the margin when ostensibly left-aligned. I can't tab away from it, nor can I put spaces between anything and that infernal margin. My poetry is generally more spread out, and has more of a feeling across the (virtual) page. So if you ever catch me on the street, I'll print you out a page - the way it's supposed to look. Or you can ask me nicely, and I'll e-mail you an RTF of it. Not that I expect any requests. Few enough people visit this site, and those who do either reel away in waves of nausea, or realize that they've mis-typed the URL. And besides, the poetry is rather rubbish, so it would be better if you read up on Paul Robeson and Kevin Carter. Become more knowledgeable. Aquire more power in the cosmos. There is no knowledge that is not power. There is no negative that is not positive. And other such twaddle. What coke-addled advertising executive comes up with the phrase "there is no knowledge that is not power"? Probably the same intoxicated fiends that came up with "Speed matters. Now more than ever."
Yeah. Piece that one out. Someone didn't have all their neurons firing when they launched their campaign.
Right-o. Coming up soon - the not-long-awaited follow-up of my 3rd June posting. No one has ever requested the full meal deal. Until now. And I'm going to have to burst some bloodvessels in my fingers to get it all posted before the weekend. And then I might have an audience of one. Aside from the article I wrote about why women prefer the ideals of James Dean over Montgomery Clift, Jim Morrison over Peter Gabriel, and Dylan Thomas over Ted Hughes, this is the one piece of critical academism which has dynamized the whole female-male debate. It's also bloody huge. It's 13 pages, double-spaced, so I might have it typed in, say, six or seven hours, depending on the number of ICQ interruptions with which I have to cope.
So, to my entire audience, I say to thee: "Return hence soon, such that ye may receive such bounty as to ye was promised." So hurry back. Both of you. Cheers,

^+Justice for the 96+^

-mARKUS

Rejoice, rejoice, we have no choice.

Greetings, gentle readers.
So what has happened recently? Oh, loads of interesting and exciting things. Let's begin with Liverpool. Why? Because that is where all the good things begin. Hope is for the hopeless, spring is for the flowers, love is for the lovely, and Liverpool belongs to me. My apologies to Dodgy.
A joyous day of celebration on Merseyside as Liverpool racked up their first Premiership away win of the season at Craven Cottage as they rallied valiantly against a competent Fulham. Dippy, minnow-sized opponents have been brutally victimized by the Reds this season, but when the opposition show the slightest modicum of tactical nous, the Red Machine has tended to throw a cog and grind to a halt. Both trends - crap away form and inability to comprehensively beat anyone with a win in the Premiership - crashed to the ground yesterday in West London.
The story from my perspective was a tad dramatic. I finished my shift at work at 0800h MST (1500h GMT), and by the time I'd finished walking through the snow to the car-car and gotten myself back into the warm confines of my home, and sheltered against the onslaught of the blizzard that was piling precipitation onto all horizontal surfaces with alarming alacrity, the first half was already over. And it wasn't even being televised. Instead, Arsenal was stumbling against Aston Villa in a sad and rather pathetic match-up reminiscent of a fox cub fighting against a disinterested and distracted dragon. Arsenal, erm... arsed about for a while until Thierry Henry suddenly decided that perhaps they should score a few goals, and then they ran away with the game. As they do.
So I ran up to my bedroom and fired up the GameCast of the Liverpool game. The half time news was not good. LFC had three attempts on goal in 45 minutes. None of them on target. They'd also shipped two goals to Fulham through crafty Portuguese striker Luis Boa Morte. So two-nil at the break, and no sign that things were going to improve. I went downstairs, ate some leftovers and waited for the Arsenal game to restart. I was depressed. My least favourite Liverpool midfielder, Salif Diao was starting alongside one of my perennial favourites, Didi Hamann. Problem - they both play the same way. Didi is just better at it. But having two central defensive midfielders, and pushing one out, either forward or to the wing bespeaks a lack of strategic foresight, and is a strong precursor to disaster. Diao, predictably, coughs up a goal with a disastrous giveaway, then body-blocks Carra out of the picture as the Cottagers build up in front of the box and surrenders another goal. The team get steamrollered, with American Brian McBride looking very bright and inventive in front of a tame and passive Liverpool defence. Dark fog clouded the periphery of my vision as I contemplated the possibility of Liverpool not qualifying for Europe next year and languishing in mid-table mediocrity. It would be like dying and waking up as an Everton fan.
So I ate my soup and assorted other comestibles and watched Villa gamely trying to match the pace of Henry, Reyes, Vieira, Pires, etc. and failing miserably. Finally, the game wrapped up as the ref decided to stop the humiliation. I went and scrubbed some dishes before heading back to the GameCast to confirm that the away-form blues had struck again, and tragedy had befallen the beloved club.
But it was not to be. The catastrophic Diao had been yanked at half-time to be replaced by Dr. X, also known as Xabi Alonso. And the team had awoken. They had then proceeded to exact vengeance upon the unrighteous with a fury which left the Cottagers gasping. Milan Baros suddenly rediscovered the form which garnered him the Golden Boot at Euro 2004, and coincidentally, right-back Josemi turned into a snarling psychopath who was promptly sent off for two yellow cards. Thus, with ten men against eleven and after a bit of a freak goal involving Baros banking a shot into the net past Edwin Van der Sar off the rump of hapless Fulham defender Zat Knight, the Reds stepped it up and showed what a world-class side can do.
First, Dr. X sailed a beautiful cross into the middle for Baros to blast the game-tying goal. Then the oddly-monikered conquistador hammered in a positively brilliant free-kick from 25 yards out. Finally, fellow substitute Igor Biscan crashed another stinging bullet past the distraught Van der Sar, who must have felt abandoned by his god, as well as by his shell-shocked defenders.
In the space of 45 minutes, the world had changed. Suddenly, Liverpool became a team that can play away games with inventive, creative, and predatory flair. Against quality opponents. A team that could... win championships? I wonder if the passion and dedication of players like the blood-and-thunder Jamie Carragher are wearing off on the new boys? Because if that's the case and they play every game as though it were that second half, and eventually with their return of their captain and leader, improve upon it, they would be nigh-unstoppable.
"My idea was to build Liverpool intae a bastion of invincibility, you know, like Napoleon and that idea. Conquer the bloody world. My idea was to build Liverpool up and up and up until eventually they would be untouchable. Everybody would have to submit. Give in."
-Bill Shankly
What else is going on? Well, apparently nothing of the magnitude of my footy team's accomplishments, but some interesting stuff regardless.
First, the predictions. Barçalona will win La Liga. They're a lock. If you've got a mortgage you can liquidate, you can put it all on the Catalans hoisting the trophy without a hint of worry or regret. Dropping the mercurial Patrick Kluivert and acquiring the ridiculously prolific Henrik Larsson was a masterstroke. Partnered with African Footballer of the Year Samuel Eto'o, and given excellent service from midfield by European Champions' League standouts Deco and Ludovic Giuly, as well as the World Cup revelation Ronaldinho, their offence has proven irresistible in Spain. No opponent this season has kept a clean sheet against them, and only one team has managed so much as a draw against them. Frank Rijkaard has very quickly matured from a superstar player to a decent manager to a tactical mastermind.
And betting on Germany in friendlies, a previously risky proposition, has now become safe as houses. Jürgen Klinsmann has experimented, dabbled, and blooded young talent with an air of equitable and just open-mindedness that was absent under the reign of Rudi Völler. Völler seemed paralyzed by a fear of public backlash, and thus stuck with a line-up that invariably included keeper Oliver Kahn and strikers Miroslav Klose and Kevin Kuranyi, and excluded Jens Lehmann and Oliver Neuville. Germany's success in getting to the finals of World Cup 2002 appears to have had the same effect on the national team that winning the World Cup in 1990, and Euro '96 did - a complete paranoia of any kind of change. The team gets older and starts losing its form, but no-one has the courage to effect any kind of evolution. Until someone like Klinsmann comes in. Now, and particularly following the draw with Brazil after Klinsmann's appointment, no player is guaranteed selection, and the competition for places has breathed new life into the team. Kuranyi and Klose are now justifiably threatened by young Lukas Podolski and Thomas Brdaric, and Kahn now has to fight for his position against the strong claims put forward by Lehmann and Timo Hildebrandt. Performance is now the basis for selection, not historical precedent. And the German team that slumped to 13th in the FIFA rankings following a winless Euro 2004 are once again a team to fear.

Also great to see my heroes Steve McManaman and Robbie Fowler getting a run out for Manchester City in their 1-0 win over Chelski. Good for the universe that the Russian moneybags finally clocked up a defeat, and thus restored balance to the force.

Oh, and Canada have failed to qualify for the fifth straight World Cup. Not entirely a surprise when considering the corrupt nature of the Latin American officials in the CONCACAF group. But with Ipswich Town's Jason DeVos, Fulham's Tomas Radzinski, and other notable Canadian talent playing abroad on the squad, expectations were considerably higher than at any time since 1986. But as a result of the outright unfair referees, the only things that have actually increased is the number of expectorations.

And the Champions' League is back on telly this week, although Liverpool aren't being shown in Canada. But as sad as that may be for me personally, I can still look forward to some very fun games, like Bayern v. Juve and AC Milan v. Barça. Who will win the whole shebang this season? I like my boys, but if I had to put my money where my mouth is, I would go with Barça to do the double, but not the triple, as I think they'll lose out in the Copa del Rey as the fixtures start to pile up. It now appears that the Spanish Primera Liga has become the most powerful league on the continent, as Italian Serie A sides start to falter. When Réal Madrid are being hammered on a weekly basis with their team of galacticos, and Barça looking to do an Arsenal and go on a monster undefeated streak, Valencia and Deportivo La Coruna are looking like world-beaters on a weekly basis - all in all, the whole thing makes the appointment of Rafael Benitez as Liverpool manager look like a wonder-move.
Geez, I've been working on this post for the past two days, and I really want to wrap it up and get on with my life for a while. So the final item on the agenda is Adrian Mutu, who's been busted for dipping his hooter into the Devil's dandruff. The 16.7 million pound man, who apparently already has a bit of a rep as a power-party animal, appears to have thrown away a career worth £60,000 a week. I'll repeat that in North American. This lad pulls down roughly seven and a half million Canadian dollars a year. The last guy to be caught hoovering the pixie dust at Chelsea was Mark Bosnich. And he was canned outright. Contract torn up. Player filling out his UB40 and standing in the queue with the rest of the have-nots. Apparently young Adrian wasn't getting picked in the first team ahead of the other multi-million dollar superstars on the Chelsea side, and missed a training session because he was out on the town. Jose Mourinho angrily ordered a drugs test and bang. Career ruined. We'll see how things go for the precocious superstar, but my prognosis will be a club suspension without pay, and an FA ban of a year. And now, those of you who keep track of such things can add Adrian Mutu of Romania to the list of naughty substance-abusing athletes, along with Chris "Toker" Armstrong (wacky weed) , Tony "Donkey" Adams (drink-driving, assault, cocaine, gambling, nun-slapping... OK I made the last one up), Mark "Heil Hitler" Bosnich (space dust), and Diego "Hand of God" Maradona (cocaine, cheating, amphetamines, cheating, steroids, cheating, tax evasion, cheating, paternity liability, oh, and did I mention his egregious cheating?).
But that's it. I've got to get ready to watch the Динамо Київ - Réal Madrid game. Cheers to you all, and may the force be with you. Back soon with a much more abbreviated, but equally less-football related and hopefully more insightful article.

Justice for the 96

-mARKUS

*TWEET* Everybody into the 'Pool!!!

Greetings, gentle readers.
And so it's October, and that means time for naughtiness with pumpkins, the beginning of the onslaught of the Canadian winter, my impending 31st birthday, and the first report of the season for the greatest club side ever in football. The greatest assembled TEAM ever would obviously be Brazil 1970, and that's not even a question. No, we speak of Liverpool - who have won the most top-division honours, the most league cups, and the most European Champions' Cups of any English side. And England created the beautiful game, so it stands to reason that is the club with the most unassailable pedigree. Set the Wayback Machine to 1892, Sherman.
I'll quit preening now.
St. Michael is gone. And in his absence, Djibril and Milan are asked to perform similar things - win games by scoring hatfuls of goals. Somehow, at Anfield, both feel comfortable with assuming responsibility for this, as the fans on the Kop lose their bottle and start naming first-born children after blokes who are scoring braces against West Brom.
The worst imaginable has happened, as talismanic (I'm going to use that word until it becomes completely cliché) Skipper and leader Stevie G is out for another six weeks with a broken foot. Xabi Alonso and Luis Garcia, two of the Spanish Armada to make it past the scrutiny of immigration officials and stupid training-ground injuries, have suddenly made a defensive 4-4-1-1 formation able to switch into a 2-6-2 that swamps teams when they have the ball.
But at this point of the game, here's how things look. Team Captain: injured. Debilitating, but not fatal. Lead Scorer: Owen: Transferred, but he's gone to Réal Madrid where they use him as a water boy. Might do an Ian Rush and return because he has to fight past Raul, Morientes and Ronaldo for a spot on the team. Réal are obviously total swine for cup-tying Morientes for the Owen deal. Liverpool did not play Owen in Europe, because they wanted to deal. Réal, dishonorable monkeys that they are, promptly played Morientes in their next game to ensure that he could not play for another team in the same competition. Bastardos.
In short, the managerial staff of Réal have revealed themselves to be contemptible faggots because they deliberately scuppered a striker-for-striker-plus money deal for a deal that Liverpool would be forced to accept, like a makeweight player - i.e. Nunez, who immediately showed his mettle by getting injured in his first training session.
Chelski and Arsenal both have unbeaten starts to the season, although Liverpool has a perfect record in all competitions thus far this year at home, which is something. The away record is a bit dodgy, but we'll see how the team does with that.
So the news, as we approach the eve of the conflict at Stamford Bridge, is as follows:
Alonso and Garcia have so far proven to be the real deal versus crap opponents, but have been invisible against strong teams. They're potential Kop heroes, but only when they, and the team around them, begin to play with more consistency. Kewell and Finnan haven't proved that they're the real deal on the flanks yet, and Cisse and Baros have got to get their offside trap-springing sorted. The defence is not a crisis, with the Hyppie and Carra covered by Semi on the right and Riise on the left. Except during set plays. The Rafael Benitez "zonal marking system" on corners has thus far proven disastrous. Both goals scored on the Dude at Old Trafford came from corners. And they were scored by Mikael Silvestre. That says something right there. When a rubbish full-back puts two corners past an international keeper with two headers, the team is not dealing appropriately with the situation. The most reliable, consistent performer in the team thus far, exempting the always superb Stevie G, is Didi Hamann. Playing almost as a sweeper just in front of the back four, Didi tackles, blocks, takes possession, creates link play, and distributes the ball with precision. I'll be looking for him to be the defensive key to stopping Arsenal when we play them, and to stopping the high midfield players at Chelski like Robben and Cole from getting the ball up to Kezman and Drogba.
The team is coming together, and the potential for some fantastic results in the not-too distant future is definitely there. But we'll need to see how we fare in London on Sunday before we can start to draw some significant conclusions about the development of the Rafa-lution.
Back soon,

-mARKUS

Justice for the 96.