Seriously? SERIOUSLY?! Futbol clip of the WTF

Clearly somewhere Satan is roaming the Earth, because something truly exceptional has happened. Spain 0 - USA 2. What? What?!

Yeah, that's what. Not like it matters. This is the Confederations Cup and frankly who fucking cares. But USA is going into the final with some of the greatest players from Brazil (Kaka, Robinho and little Pato), so I guess this is worth a mention.



I mean really the only thing I can say quite confidently is that Sergio Ramos needs a big fat c*ock in his mouth, because basically all he is pretty face. He played like Jello in this game, confirming the fact that he's better suited for playing splashy-splashy on the beach in a pair of tight shorts, then for playing footie on the pitch. What's happened to you Ramos? You had so much potential.

At any rate, Spain was kind of whatever and The USA took advantage of some lucky opportunities. That pretty much sums it up. However, the San Francisco Chronicle’s (delusional) Alan Black commented that:

“What we saw today was a foreshadowing. At some point in the
future, the USA will be the best soccer team in the world, and win the
World Cup. That will be the day when an extra star could be added to
the flag, the star of the ‘international’ state.”

Hilarious.

Postcards from the Edge

Here are some postcards I wrote to my bff Ali in 2000 whilst she was living in Paris and I was travelling in Holland. Before Holland though, I had stayed a couple of days in Paris with Ali. And it was one of the single best holidays EVER! We were attacked by her roommate, a Tolouzer named Gregoire, who one night while belligerently drunk tried to breakdown the door to our room screaming all the while, "Open the door you fecking American bitches!"

It was so exciting! We even called the police! And when the cops arrived, Gregoire opened the door and casually asked, "Bonsoir, Il y de problem?" What a freak. Turns out he had kind of a drinking problem. Whoops.

At any rate, I always regret not having lived abroad. But I'm super glad Ali did, and that I was able to visit her. She was the greatest host and the best tour guide. Don't leave me!!

Off the beaten track

Every Wednesday I check out Rob Breszny's freewill astrology in hope that it will illuminate the cosmic order of the coming week. And as is most often the case, Breszny's horoscope leaves me more perplexed than enlightened. But its part of my weekly interweb reading habits, and as such, one that I just can't quit.

This week though, Breszny offers Leo's some sage advice, which I believe coincide with the laws of intention that all humans should abide by.

Here he states that Leo's should chant this mantra, a poem written by Andrea Carlisle to spiders, several times a day:

I am now receiving many fine fat flies in my web. My web is strong and masterful. My web is irresistible to all the attractive creatures I like to nibble on. I am amazingly clever and extremely popular. Even now, hundreds of juicy tidbits are headed toward my web.

Staten Island - The Monaco of New York

Summer-break fun kicked off, oddly enough, with a trip to a little isle off the coast of Manhattan, called "Staten Island". Interestingly, I've lived in the city for exactly ten years now and have never visited this place they call Staten Island. But the ferry ride is free and I was told that a majority of the inhabitants of this place are square-toe loafer wearing guidos, my favorite kind. So despite the fact that we were very tired, we were also very merry, and we rode all day and all night on the ferry...actually we only rode the ferry to and from the isles, but if you've already guessed that I'm quoting Edna St. Vincent Millay, you're a nerd and we should get together for coffee someday.

At any rate, the trip was quite fun. Mostly because I went with my very good friend Ali, who happens to be from my hometown, and whom I've had the pleasure of knowing since I was a wee 16 year old. What I particularly like about Ali is that despite both of us being unnecessarily over-educated, when we get together, our collective IQ plummets 100 points. And we spend hours being silly and crude, and offensive. Needless to say, this field trip was Ali's brain-child and it was brilliant.

We met in Brooklyn and walked over the Brooklyn Bridge, then proceeded to stroll through the financial district, and then to the Staten Island ferry where two young Israelis asked us where the tickets for the Statue of Liberty were sold. I felt good about myself when I flippantly directed them over to Battery Park.

Then it was on to the boat the Captain Spirit of America (Boo-Ba-Da-Boop!). The boat, and yes it is a "boat," since as Sailor Dave once explained, ship's are vessels that carry boats (call me Sailor!), had three floors and possibly a snack bar. Honestly, I didn't really look around the boat since the minute we were bull-penned onto it, Ali and I bee-lined for a seat on the outside deck like proper tourists and were already scouting guidos and trying to identify various landmarks (I the former, she the latter). In light of all of this we saw nary a guido, but did determine that Governor's Island is haunted.

20 minutes after cruising the Hudson, we finally landed on Staten Island, and were surprised at how quaint it was - kind of like the Monaco of New York! Granted we only walked in a radius of ten blocks from the ferry terminal into, what we aptly called Staten Island Village, but what is probably called something else. This is mostly becuase I was scared. But Ali is brave and held my hand and we traversed the four blocks away from the ferry dock. None the less, it felt as if we were on vacation in some New England shore-town. We even had lunch in a restaraunt named Karl's Klipper, which was a total yokel bar.

At the Klipper, which is what I'm sure the local's call it, we were given fun and educational placemats that showed all the US presidents up to George Walker Bush (racists!). Naturally, after we realized that there are presidents we've never even heard of, we commenced a rousing game of "Who would you fuck?" And if I may, James Monroe is one sexy piece.

After lunching we headed back to the ferry. As per usual, I was suffering a bloated belly, and Ali did not feel obligated to indulge me in a little tummy rub. On our way back to the port we were accosted by a bus driver, who surreptitiously snuck behind us and hissed "do you need a ride?" I was startled. But Ali, ever the wayfaring traveller, understood what this man was implying, and politely said, "No thanks."

And after that it was pretty much back onto the boat and back to Manhattan. The trip back was kind of romantic - it started to rain as we passed by Lady Liberty - and had Ali been a guido I would've totally put the moves on her. But despite all the fun we had on Staten Island, we were both subdued with melancholy. See, part of the impetus for this little excursion is due to the fact that Ali will be moving to San Fransisco in August. Which is to say that my circle of friends will be reduced significantly, thus leaving me all alone in this cold-cold world...

At any rate, for your pleasure, just some interesting facts about Staten Island:

The Indian name (that's the term that was used on the site where I pulled this fact, and its staying) for Staten Island is Monacnong, or Enchanted Woods.

The first recorded European contact with the island was in 1524 by Giovanni da Verrazzano (an absolute guido, no less) who sailed through The Narrows.

In 1609, Henry Hudson established Dutch trade in the area and named the island Staaten Eylandt after the Staten-Generaal, the Dutch parliament.

Post-semester Bender

The year has finally come to a close and as is normally the case in academia I'm still working on various projects for the sake of vocational posterity. And not doing a very good job of it, might I add. This is because technically I should be on vacation, frolicking on some distant beach with a young, sun-kissed local. But I'm not - I'm in Brooklyn. Engaging in a never ending circle of writing and researching projects that I already wrote and did research on. It all once seemed so determinate...

However, not one to postpone a celebration due to lack of funds or lack of friends or lack of want, I spent all last week making up for the last four months where I was camped in the Batcave, hunched over books, turning humans into numbers, attempting to predict the mental health of New Yorkers in light of the economic crisis and pecking at the computer until my eyes bled. Which is why, I believe, the little bender I went on this last week was completely merited.

So stay tuned folks!

Here comes the first week of summer vacation in the life of the Salty Academic.


Note: This is the first picture that comes up when one googles "Summer Vacation" - so apropos.

We are the Champions...The Champions!!

A little piece of me dies every time a cup is over. And this year, the Champions League was no exception. Especially since two of my favorite teams, Manchester United and FC Barcelona, arguably two of the best teams in the world, went head to head for the title.

A little recap for those of you who didn't watch: The first ten minutes Man U started out strong and it looked like Barca just couldn't find their footing. But in good ol' Barca style, they came in on a surprise attack and once Eto'o (go to min 2) put in the first goal it was all over for Man U.

After that, Barca had complete dominion over the game, stringing together all kinds of gorgeous plays, thanks in part to Xavi and Iniesta (it should be illegal to have these two playing together). And even though Ferguson finally had the right of mind to start my Carlitos Tevez in the second half, there was nothing that Manchester could do to salvage the game. Especially once the little wonder Leo Messi put in that doozy of a header (see minute 7) - who'd a thunk it, right Van der Saar?

Anyways, it was a great game, and Barca was shoulders above Manchester in every way. Which just goes to show, you can buy all the best forwards in the world Manchester, but you can't cultivate the kind of elegance of an entire squad when it's in top form.

On a side note, I know the clip is long but the quality is so good that it captures every one of Cristiano's pouty disappointments (keep trying little one). Also, honorable mention to Puyol, simply solid all the way.

ps. If i never have to hear Heineken scream "The champions" ever again, that will be too soon.

Ships Ahoy! Salty Academic does Fleet Week

Fleet week always starts out, innocently enough, with a joke about New York City getting filled up with sea men. And then in the wink of an eye (shout out to Sailor Dave) it ends with an inoculation and a broken heart. Its true, fleet week wreaks of Sex and the City desperation. But none the less, good times are had by many a woman who despite their better interests can't deny a man in uniform.

Which is to say that when the six Navel ships carrying some of the US' finest service men and women pulled into New York City harbor, a wave of giddy excitement was felt by every hussy from Brooklyn to the Bronx. And I will admit, I myself was quite tantalized by the prospects of chatting up a hunky piece of southern man-meat.

Which is how I ended up one night at that god awful establishment Coyote Ugly, a bar immortalized in history by its vast array of grody brassieres left behind by over-sexed and inebriated patrons. This picture is is what Coyote Ugly resembles. The circus lighting, the bras on the walls, the guys hovering about, cheap beer in hand, and the ladies hoofing it on the bar reiterating their best Spring-break debacle from ten years ago, when their tits were still perky enough to entice some young stud to drop a rohyptnol into their Malibu bay breeze. However, come back to reality and visit the Coyote Ugly of today and imagine the same scene, except with that arched back of this rowdy twink being attached to a 30-something (more like 41) bride-to-be from New Jersey.

Anywho. For the most part our men in white are not those juicy sailor types you imagine from the movies. Most of them are just normal guys without six-packs. Granted there are a few strapping young men (and I mean young!), as exemplified by this picture of my partner in crime, Marissa, doing her best Patty Hearst impersonation while being looked over by a burly corn-fed marine. But since I’m not particularly discerning when it comes to the male species, I’ll take whatever comes my way. Especially if that whatever is already six beers in and has been at sea for last 7 months.

Initially I came onto the scene to act purely as wingwoman for our ever fun loving Marissa. Which was fine with me. After all, on most social occasions the sociologist in me gets over-zealous and I end all wrapped up in the complete back story of my current drinking companion. Needless to say, I learned a lot of interesting Naval facts, which I will surely pull-out the next time I’m at an office party and have run out of air-quote usage.

So while Marissa chatted up a VERY young (ahem) blond, blue-eyed Midwestern boy, who, if I might add, will be in GQ’s September issue highlighting the hottest US service men (go on girl!), I was conversing with this burly stag from Georgia. Of course my initial attraction to him was based purely on the fact that, basically, I’m cheesy and like guidos. So when I saw this swarthy and muscular little man, I didn’t hesitate to entertain myself with some inane conversation. However, it turned out this this surly creature was quite captivating and a fantastic conversationalist.

In fact, the sailor told me all sorts of really fascinating things. Like about his past, how he was adopted by an Irish family, his house in Virgina, about being at sea and fighting the Somalian pirates. Obviously I was intrigued by this mixed-up little Italian Stallion. And when he told me that he’s being discharged after serving 14 years because of some silly policy regarding rank, my heart fluttered a little.

And that’s where things got interesting. After the sailor told me that I would be well-suited to work on the ship in a more clerical capacity, I asked "But what about blowing things up? Do I still get to do that?" And as he began to tell me about the two different guns I would learn to use, I started to get distracted watching his mouth. And as I slowly sipped my G&T, probably more lasciviously than naught, I was entranced. That's when I went in for the kiss. And in my head I screeched, “I’m kissing a sailor!”


Fortunately for me, the rest of fleet was rather uneventful. Except for the fact that Marissa and I were subsequently invited to tour the USS Iwo Jima, the ship that our sailors were aboard. And now I can confidently say that was one of the most informative two hours I ever spent on a boat. Equipped with our very own live in sailor as a tour-guide, we trudged through the bowels of the ship stopping in the galley, and the well-deck, and then in some control room. We were even taken to the ship’s gym (I had to really control myself from busting out a set of squats). But best of all, we were taken to the men’s berthing room, which is basically their barracks. And I’ll say, It was a real trip to see (and smell) how these sailors slept. Three bunks high, all jammed together in one room, with just a little curtain for each bunk should a sailor need some privacy. What’s more, when we walked in, our sailor announced, “Female on deck!” which almost sent me into an orgiastic fit. A girl can dream...

That said, I’m honestly glad to have been privy to the hot mess that is Fleet Week. And frankly I’m glad to see that its over. I can only handle so many boys, as I’m not as young as I used to be. But those boys were real gentlemen. Real sweet and real smart. And its nice to think that in the grand tradition, for some, life is at home in the sea.

For your Easter viewing pleasure

Futbol Clip of the Week

While I was out mucking about on the pitch this Sunday, I missed one of the better games of the weekend - Manchester United vs. Aston Villa. However, thanks to the power of technology i.e. cable, I was able to see it re-broadcasted later that night.

I have almost equal adoration for both teams. And if Berbatov would just mosey his way back to that country of which he came and leave my little Carlitos Tevez to take care of business as is meant, I wouldn't have to favor Aston Villa. None the less, AV has been doing great on the tables for the last two years and have really given the top four a run for their money. As witnessed from yesterday's game, AV almost made fools of Man U, equalizing with a sneaky little header and then putting one in right after. But, and I hate to admit it, were it not for Ronaldo all would be lost for The Red Devils.

That said, our delicate Cristiano has some serious competition both in play and in gel usage in the form of a young little thing (17 and NOT legal fyi) named Federico "Kiko" Macheda. Tune into minute 1:45 for Macheda's brilliant goal.

I'm not obsessed

I want to say that the reason I haven't been posting lately is due to the fact that I live an extremely hectic life. But truth be known I haven't been posting because I drink.

At an rate, in my ongoing quest to lead the most superficial existence known to humankind, I've been running myself ragged juggling all sorts of insipid activities. These include, thinking about having sex with cute boys, trying to convince cute boys to have sex with me despite having zero game, partaking in high-brow academic discussions and then drifting off into fantasies about having sex with cute boys, and playing footie. Surely, I shall burn in hell.

I really don't know how I came to this. And frankly I'm not sure if my current existence is some sort of gift from the universe or some kind of reprimand for being so pathetically vain. But as things have been going, I wake up every morning incredibly anxious only to go to bed incredibly tired. A state, I've decided, that can only be rectified by having sex with cute boys. But that merely exacerbates the problem, since, as I've come to realize, I want all the things that I simply can't have. So you see, its a terribly vicious cycle, albeit full of interesting introspection, to which sex is clearly not the answer.

Which is why to my astonishment when we picked up Freud in class the other day, I was mortified to find that I have both oral and anal fixations, am a total neurotic (duh) and engage in cathexis, which broadly put is the act of investing libidinal energy into an object, person or idea, on an alarmingly consistent basis. Mom would be proud.

And yes, I know that I am not original. In fact, Freud would say that every human enters into these psychical processes precisely because they are intrinsic to the human psyche. However, I like to believe that in some way my psychical plight is much more complex and interesting then it really is. Surprise, surprise.

At any rate, I should preempt my rant by stating that I love psycho-analysis and therapy more generally. I love the idea that the mind might perform repeating patterns which serve to (in a very backass kind of way, might I add) subdue the effects emotional traumas developed along the road. And consequently, patterns of which we all have a plethora of, and, act out in our daily lives with or without cognizance.

I am well acquainted with my mental boo-boos. Which is why I am constantly needing to tell myself to "get it together". Mine typically revolve around my family, specifically my absentee father and years upon years of emotional blackmail. It enacts itself by serving me up a plate of disctractions, whilst simultaneously provoking me to loathe males in a way that goes beyond a simple eye-roll. And yet lately, I've all but had to invoke the power of jesus to disentangle a web boys that I may or may not have been terrorizing via text message. And one of which, god love him, is the object of my cathexis. Morbid fantasies included.

Again, I get it, this is normal. And thankfully so.

Sexy times is good times

Horrorbabecentral.com is an incredible site. I'm honestly not sure what kind of demographic it caters to, but if you've ever fantasized about having sex with satan (you totally did, admit it), then this site is for you. In fact, if you've ever fantasized about rimming the puckered hole of an alien while giving him a hand job, then this site is also for you. Vampire Milfs? For you. Invisible sex maniac? Yup, for You. They even have a three part story called Creature Busters, developed by none other than the site creator himself, James LeMay. The story follows a delicious and curvey dark-haired minx named Bunny Mallone and her boy toy/associate Hyde Wallace. Together they hunt for monsters and get off.



I love this Bunny Malone, she's so fucking sexy. I'd let her suck my blood any day. That's right my friend, she could wrap her strong arms around me, pull me in close, and I'd be sovereign to her every wish. I'd give her anything. And yes, I'm totally into this vampire thing. I love the idea of simultaneously experiencing pleasure and pain, and that whole bit about walking a tenuous line between life and death. Or undeath, as it were. Its a sensual overload I'm sure.

At any rate, what I'm trying to say is that there's a lot of interesting things on this site. Things that I didn't know I might be interested in. Like super heroine porn, for instance.

Frankly, I'm a bit of a fitness buff, so you can imagine why I might like this. Just look at all those muscles! I mean, these women are strong. Strong enough to take on extraterrestrial villains - freeing themselves from their tentacular death grips via sheer strength alone!

And while our heroines may end up with a tentacle in every orifice at the end of it all, and despite our heroine essentially being raped by (literally) a one eyed monster only to end up falling in love with her perp, it's still an altogether awesome, fem-centered pornographic experience. Especially if you consider all the ladies out there who have rape fantasies that they can never be act out, either because its taboo, or they have trust issues (and rightfully so), or because you need balls and/or money to hire someone to do it. Why not imagine an hyper-aggressive romp with a creature that doesn't exist in objective reality? Couldn’t be smarter or safer, really.

I know what you’re thinking. “But Salty Academic, these pornos are just a reiteration of the normative sexual objectification of women.” And indeed, you’re right. I mean, its true, tits like those exist only in the minds of men. And yes, the fact that our heroine falls in love with her captor basically supports the notion that women need a good rough-up every now and then to keep them in line. A reprimand that they will be grateful for no doubt.

But frankly, that’s not where I take issue. My problem is really with the fact that this porn, and most porn really, is nothing more than (yet another) subconscious attempt return to mommy. Or rather, to turn you into mommy. You see, those giant tits, ladies, are not sexy to men because they weren’t breastfed, or breastfed too long, or whatever Freudian mumbo-jumbo you want to name it. The depiction of a bounty of booby is a symbol older than sin! It presupposes the showiness of modern pornography, by being just a different kind of showy pornography. Its only difference being an unabashedly conscious attempt to propagate procreation by idealizing fertility. A gentle reminder, if you will, that females are the bastions of generations to come.

And if that’s the case, then that means that these big tittied women are just another iteration of pre-historic porn. A mere reminder of the necessity for reproduction. Which is not to say that purchasing a big, ol' pair of fake titties likens you to a baby-making machine. But it probably does. More so, at least, then the pre-op tranny-esque, flat-chested body of an athletic female. Which is fine by me. And which is also why, come the apocalypse, I probably won't be given the title of Queen Bee - a position aptly suited for spawning. No, with my face and figure, I'd probably be put on late night guard duty.

At any rate, on an up note, I’ll gander that 75% of porn is watched during solo-sexual experiences, and thus, the jiz never completes. Phew! A self-regulating form of eugenics - how very Durkheim.

P.s. Do you think some little neanderthal teen jerked off to the Venus of Willendorf?! Like the workout tape your mom used to have...

Futbol (Fan) clip of the week a.k.a this is why nobody likes you

I don't know much about Spain's Athletic Bilbao fan demographic, but this guy looks like he could of just stepped out of an episode of The Hills. Which is why I'm not surprised that given enough Malibu Bay Breezes I might either; let him rub up against me or punch him in the nuts.



A little back story on this nuisance of a man - Athletic Bilbao advanced to the the Spanish final cup after beating Seville 3-0.

And now I feel dirty...

Yes I am.

This video has been around for a while. But when something is so awesomely creepy while being simultaneously cute (hold me mommy), it just can't be gotten rid of.

A foray into ethnography

In the last of my little vignettes, I make like an ethnographer and ask the age old question: Who are these savages?

Al telephono espere que llames tu...

I love Raffella Carra almost as much as I love Mina Mazzini. Italy has a way to turn out some of these most amazing women. But Raffaella Carra looks as if she's been unlucky in love a few too many times, and since I'm feeling somewhat nostalgic, I think it might be a good idea to have a listen to one of my favorite songs; Fiesta.

There are so many versions of this song on YouTube, and they span at least a decade, so it was hard to decide which one to show you today. At last, I went with this one (for obvious reasons). As you'll see, the video is almost as good as the song. It's a bit campy, but I dig its gay vibe. I just want to yell, "Hey! How come you get all those round, pert little hairy bottoms!" Sigh. Anyways.

Some choice lyrics:
Desde esta noche cambiara mi vida
(desde esta noche, desde esta noche)
no quiero ser la abandonada,
(no quiero serlo, no quiero serlo)
cuando lagrimas he derramado
cuantos besos he desperdiciado
el deci­a que era culpa mi­a
que añoraba ya su libertad



On a side note, Raffaella Carra has a song called 6868357, which has been translated in over three languages! AND she herself has sung them in all of those languages. So you see, you can be prolific and jilted, and/or prolifically jilted. And yes, that is her phone number that she keeps repeating - just waiting for her crush to call...

Marx and Engels

In this cartoon I have conversation with the ghosts of Marx and Engels, who confirm my suspicion that I'm quite dumb.

Good luck parsing the writing. But I hope the general feeling of anxiety which permeates much of my life is conveyed.

Monkey Talks - On Bananas

Our dear friend Bård Edlund has made magic with his new series Monkey Talks.

Episode 2 is brilliant. Enjoy!

Jigga What? Jigga Who?

Wow! Yes, its been so long since I posted that I'm referencing a Jay-Z song from 1999. A year that will eternally be burned in my mind as the year I unsuccessfully tried to get tag-teamed by two little frenchies I met while working at a shoe store on Broadway aptly called Rubber Sole. I was desperate. It was retail. Nuff said.

Actually, it wasn't so bad. Mostly due to the influx of tourists that work the whole Broadway area, you know, doing touristy stuff. And as you also may know, I love tourists of all flavors. Plus my coworkers were a motley crew of Jamaicans, Egyptians and Haitians of dubious character - so actually it was a great job for me. It was the first time I heard that someone actually sweeped their floors, I lead a sheltered existence.

That said, now, after having been laid off from one of the best jobs I'd ever had the pleasure to work and the tenacity to keep, I find myself a) gainfully unemployed b)aspiring to be a pro-futbol player c) back in school working on the PhD.

So for your viewing pleasure, here is a sketch I drew during a semester of Sociology of Knowledge, whilst completing my Masters.



The caption says: This is our state of the art people making machine. You just put the clay in here...you pull down the God lever...select your color...and bam! One humanoid devoid of reason, logic and compassion!

There's more to come.

Note: Yes, I have the penmanship of a serial killer. No, I wouldn't trust me either.