Category Archives: Nonsense and Nonesuch

Mas Que Nada

The Tournoi de France of 1997 lies forlorn and forgotten by many, the VHS tapes of which lie gathering dust beneath an old TV at my parents’ house. Perhaps best remembered for Roberto Carlos’ epic free kick, the banana blast heard round the world, Le Tournoi was like a precursor to the Confederations Cup: a friendly tournament held in the host nation as a sort of dry-run to the cup. Brazil, France, England, and Italy all vying for little piece of nothing or just maybe some confidence in the real tourney.

Sad it is that Le Tournoi has been forgotten, for the football was epic. The hi-jinks of Romario, of Barthez, of the young and still-talented David Beckham, and of Del Piero and Company promised a tournament that would erase the memory of 94’s flaccid penalty kick final. Brazilian football neared its zenith, sporting a menagerie of magicians and jesters channeling the spirit of ’82. Alas, it was not meant to be. Romario was left off the squad and France beet the Selecao in the final to take home the cup. More 1990 than 1970 and the world wonders what 2014 will bring.

Italy vs. Brazil 3-3 and one of the best games of the 20 years. Coincidentally, Le Tournoi de France was the last time England won anything. They have not come close since. Every game can be found on youtube and they are all worth watching.

And let us not forget…

Cantona!

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Is fútbol dead?


…these days it certainly seems so, and a trip in the youtube timemachine is completely necessary as we count down to this summer’s penultimate tourney.

77 days remaining.

Ecuador vs. Les Bleus June 25th, 2014.

…stay tuned

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Merry Valentine’s Day America

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Haha

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Silvery Screams

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Silverboy says, “When life gives you lemons: Split them in twain and press them into a stranger’s eyes.”

Kiki Smith – Annunciation @ BK Museum (open late on Thurs)

 

 

 

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A Boy Grows in Brooklyn: Tales from the Brooklyn Museum

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Life and blogs can’t all just be wistful dreaming of Patagonia as the TL1000s superbike cools beneath one’s window  in Flatbush…ticking softly. We’ve been meaning to check out the Brooklyn Museum for some time now, situated as it is betwixt our worktime haunts  and the crumbling Victorian manse in which our rented room and bed is kept (but not made! (ha!)). A great attractiveness of the Brooklyn Museum lies in the fact that it’s stuffed with art and that it’s free, well, suggested donation which means it is basically free. The MET is like this still and it’s one of the reasons why we love it so. Seriously, the Guggenheim, MoMA, and the fucking Whitney are like $18  just to enter. Looking at art should be free and the Guggenheim should be paying me half the time to look at their shitty installments. Rumors swirl, as Josh at work says that the Museum of Natural History X is no longer pay-what-you-can. Bullshit methinks with its fiberglass whale and shitty, scabies ridden dioramas (Fuck you Ben Stiller…atorrante!). Well…regardless the Brooklyn Museum is alright, empty and quiet on a late Thursday afternoon. Incidentally, this is the only time this place is open late, a good thing for working boys and girls.

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Yea, so the museum is housed in a pretty nice building, a tasteful mix of new and old. Elegant. Airy. There’s a small sculpture garden near the entrance, full of nude busts of Balzac if that’s your thing and a nice point-counterpoint to the crappy modern art (hunks of multicolored plastic and shit) that’s strewn throughout the building. Yea, so it’s like a little MET. Cool. There’s even some mummies on display and a pretty substantial collection of Egyptian artistry. Add to that some Babylonian friezes and the BK Museum is golden.

FxCam_1369351071673Why not check out the collections of retro silverware and art deco alarm clocks and the like in the living storage area upstairs. But, before you do make sure to say hello to Bicycle Boy, crown jewel of the Brooklyn Museum, reigning supreme on the top floor like a level-boss. This creepy little mascot of Louis Simon’s turn of the century Greenpoint motorcycle and bicycle shop was built to lure customers within like an angler fish. Back in his glory daze his legs would move and pedal the bicycle and a lightbulb glowed within his wooden skull, illuminating the hollow and and brightening his glass eyes with a dull red life. Legend has it the Bicycle Boy comes alive at night, roaming the halls of Brooklyn’s own MET and sometimes out the doors and into the night, eyes ablaze!

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Brooklyn Museum: Trade Sign (Boy Riding Bicycle)

Bonus:  Book reviews for Gentleboys: A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

Possibly the most wistful book I’ve ever deigned to read. nevertheless A Tree Grows in Brooklyn has earned its place in American literary history and wears its classification as a modern classic without apology. A bit pulpy, dainty, and ladylike Tree reads well and quick; a fun read really with scenes of olden-tyme Brooklyn as seen through the eyes of a little girl making for a nice counterpoint-point to the usual shit I read. We could all have one of these books about growing up in whatever place it was that we did. A Stump Grows in Levittown Under a Mailbox? A coming of age tale set in America’s first suburb? Bah, screw it! You know that shit doesn’t end well. We’ll pitch it as a collection of prose and poems  about growing up playing soccer and nintendo in the godless suburbs, and then all the way up to the present day and sleepless night spent wandering down Flatbush Ave naked and alone, a loaded revolver in one hand and an ice cold St. Ides in the other…

R2D2 ridin’ on the BQ
like to see a girl in her underwear see through
A train plain Jane giving me a migraine
move from the front now to the back brain!
Bike bike we like rails on the penny
On the Belt now doing 120!

The Great Ratsby: Douche Ex Machina²

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For what it’s worth, I thought Marlo’s comment regarding the last Douche Ex Machina post was quite clever, brilliant. Anyone who’s anyone and anyone who’s a fan of this site knows that it’s all tongue in cheek type stuff and that taken at surface level, a lot of this shit doesn’t really make much sense. It does really, as long as you’ve been following along and using your manboy decoder ring while all the while soaking in the essence of what this all actually is, what the great ride actually was, and what being a part of the manchild experience is all about; equal parts gumption, sticktoitiveness, and a healthy disregard for all things milquetoast. These things mixed in the proper amounts and ratios will propel a body and its 1975 Honda motorbike to the ends of the earth.

Understand that and understand the inherent distrust of all things douche because one knows in their heart of hearts that one’s pink shirt would be covered in dirt and grease and shit, especially if you don’t have a front fender and especially if you’re oiling your chain always and often like you should. It is a known fact that all olden-tyme motorbikes are filthy and covered in grease and tar. They fling chain grease all over the rear wheel and the back of one’s pant leg and leak oil on one’s boots. We know this because we rode one to Argentina. C’mon dog, how are you going to change a tire while wearing that tiny children’s blazer?

“ha! i guess you noticed. But the show is about this marketing agent who is riding his bike at the speed limit or just below everywhere. From one hip party to another. It just so happens that one fine day two young kids put a stump out into the middle of wantagh ave as he’s headed to another awesome party at Steve Reinti’s brothers house. He flies over the handlebars and scrapes off his entire face. The doctors can’t perform plastic surgery cause for that he would have to become sober (he’s an alcoholic) and so on. The rest of the season he tries to be cool, but everyone disowns him and he becomes this loner outcast eating rat shit and shit, sucking on rat dicks for more rat shit rations and so on. it’s a good show. give it a chance. Great American riches to rags story.” says Marlo.

Brilliant right? Well, yes of course, but a lot of the quote’s brilliance relies on one obscure reference. To get it, you’d have to go back in time to one’s salad days in Levittown, back to the days when one was cutting his teeth as a young middleschoolian punk. Some Saturday or something, summer vacation or after school Marlo and I grew tired of lighting shit on fire in his backyard and wandered aimlessly around Levittown. Under the mailbox on the corner of Wantagh Ave and Rope Lane was this tree stump, about the size say of a motorcycle helmet but heavy. Solid. It’s probably still there. Somehow, through a chance kick perhaps, it was discerned that said stump was not really rooted to anything, but just a wooden stump sliced even on the top and bottom, weirdly resting under that mailbox. We did what anyone would do and threw it into the street so that a car would hit it. Every car, like they should have, drove around this big heavy lump of wood lying in the middle of the street and then, to our delight, a huge box  trunk ran directly over it, first front wheels then back, gaining noticeable air BAM! BAM! and next squirting it into the path of a speeding motorcycle which missed hitting the stump, and likely a terrible accident, disfigurement or death, and dire consequences for two young boys, by inches. We say inches but likely centimeters WHOOSh!

That’s all well and good but remember that these are things that come to mind when rememberances are dreampt of a misspent youth growing up in America’s first suburb. And remember still that there is a way to succeed and a way to suck rat dicks.

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Gentleboys, start your engines.