Friday, May 29, 2009
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.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
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.
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.
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