New Voice at SearchAnyway

Ok kids I hope you have a good pair of shoes because what I'm about to tell you will blow your socks off. SearchAnyway, the Internet's premium PPC search engine has just launched their brand-new blog, soon to be the best resource online for industry news, strategies to improve affiliate marketing and, what I'm partculiarly proud of, our own series of Podcasts. I urge you all to check this out and be part of the hottest new wave to hit Internet search since Google became a verb.

Yes I know this is shameless self-promotion. So what? If you got beef, start your own blog.

Mckibbins West Island Halloween Party - Pimp my costume

This year's Halloween party was a complete success and featured everything one could want; from foreign dead people, to hot Bavarian waitresses, to a guy wearing a garbage can with a beer holder, our macabre celebration at McKibbins was great fun. It started off with Jess, her mother and myself forcibly attending someone's house Halloween party, with Pam clearly the winner of best costume sporting her freaky hybrid Frankenstein / Einstein ensemble, becoming in essence Frank Einstein. The emerald green makeup covering her face and hands gave her definite Frankenstein credentials, while the struck-by-lighting hair, lab coat, glasses and clipboard made every inch the German scientist. And if that wasn’t enough, Pam had fashioned herself a friendly “Frank Einstein” nametag to remove all confusion and induce pearls of laughter.

Jess and I got to McKibbins and were soon joined by all types of freaks, monsters and Hollywood royalty. For some reason Blogger won’t let me upload all the pics on one post, so I’ll be splitting this in two.
















Igal and his wife, Olga, as the perfect couple. The husband is dead so he doesn’t ever have to lift a finger around the house while the wife is sexy witch who turns men into drooling, hapless idiots without ever needing to resort to a spells.


















And the drinking commences. It was $50 open bar – I think Halloween might seriously replace Christmas as the most wonderful time of the year.




















A touch of class amongst pimps and slutty cops, Tania aka Audrey Hepburn finally got to use that cigarette holder she’s been saving.

















Natalie as the devil – who’d of thought it? I still don’t know who’s pimping who in this picture.















Jess was such a perfect slutty cop that I had to truly fight an almost overpowering urge to commit crime. I was ready to tell her that I was smuggling in drugs from Columbia in hopes of a full-body search.




















This will be fun to explain at our wedding. “Well you see, it’s a funny story. I was running hoes and Jess was patrolling the streets. One thing led to another…now she’s employee of the month.”

Joke #3

The Pope had become very ill and was taken to many doctors, none of who could figure out how to cure him. Finally he was brought to an old physician. After about an hour's examination the physician came out and told the cardinals that he had some good news and some bad news.

The bad news was that the pope had a rare disorder of the testicles, which if left untreated, would be fatal. The good news was that all the Pope had to do to be cured, was to have sex.

Well, this was not good news to the cardinals, who argued about it at length. Finally they went to the Pope with the doctor and explained the situation.

After some thought, the Pope stated, "I agree, but under four conditions."

The cardinals were amazed and there arose quite an uproar. Over the noise a single voice asked, "And what are the fourconditions?"

The room stilled. There was a long pause....

The Pope replied, "First the girl must be blind, so that she cannot see with whom she is having sex."

"Second, she must be deaf, so that she cannot hear with whom she is having sex."

"And third, she must be mute so that if somehow she figures out with whom she is having sex, she can tell no one."

After another long pause a voice arose and asked,"

And the fourth condition?"

The Pope replied, "Big tits."

You Can’t Spell Russian without “Us”

If there’s anything better than getting pissed with good friends and having nothing to do the next day, I don’t want to know about it. The Russians invaded the West Island with a fury and brought a little Eastern Euro flair into the mix. We had an accent competition with one guy boasting of his talent to mimic diverse dialects and inflections – they all sounded the same to me, dude. I’m itchin’ to try out my new Russian stock phrases at these Russian club parties I’ve heard of, which sound incredibly exciting. I figure I’ll either get beaten up or go home with a mail-order bride someone left at the post office.

Andre, showcasing his trademark generosity, flashed us a provocative one-tenth of his ball (I call it a testy tithe). If you think that was bad, he then wanted to charge us for that freak show. All I have to say is that there was a little too much Cheese and not enough Pork for me to fork over some cash.

The rest of the night gets a bit hazy. I remember singing, and someone breaking my necklace, and doing vodka shots, and then seeing myself on TV. Maybe Andre and I could start our own show, “Peep my Balls”.

Nah. We’d probably only get viewers Back in the USSR.

Dawson Shooting - Take Your World Back

On Wednesday, September 13, one man decided to give us all another reason to fear this world.

He entered Dawson Cegep brandishing a machine gun, shooting some 20 people and killing Anastasia DeSousa. Police came and wounded him in the arm. He then shot himself in the head.

She was 18.

Just think back to when you were 18. Try and remember what you were like. What you were worried about. How you looked at the world. Think about how you dressed, what movies you liked, what jokes made you laugh.

Now, look at yourself today. Big change, non?

Anastasia was 18. She’ll never change again.

I can't help but think about all the things she'll never get to do. Books she'll never read. Places she'll never visit. She might not yet have fallen in love.

A lot of people are focusing on the shooter. There is much examination and conjecture as to his motives, his goals, his childhood, even his drinking habits, and I understand why. If a tragedy can be rationalized, then it’s no longer a tragedy; it’s an anomaly. If extreme violence can be explained, then it can be controlled.

I don’t want to spend too much time discussing the shooter. Frankly, I don’t even want to provide him an acknowledgement by typing his name. To me, he is not a real person.

Every person has the potential to do violence. It’s a biologically, evolutionary and psychologically valid response to appropriate stimuli (fear, survival, etc.). But a civilized person can temper these urges. Through social doctrine or innate morality or sensitized intelligence or religion or whatever you want to call it, there’s a mechanism in each of us that says, “No. That’s too far.” We all make a conscious, deliberate choice to adhere to this, to control ourselves and process the world without succumbing to a base, primordial compulsion.

The shooter did not. Oh, he may have had a rough childhood. He may have had no friends. Girls could’ve rejected him, his football team might have lost and maybe somebody made fun of him because he spoke with a lisp. I don’t care. He has forfeited his claim to humanity. He gave up. He made a choice. He said, “No. That’s not far enough.”

To give up on this world, to consider yourself an outsider or a rebel is both extremely arrogant and extremely cowardly. This world is a good place. There are good people and good things in this world, and the civilized amongst us make every effort to better it by bettering ourselves. Every community, every city, every country is simply a reflection of the people living in it.

And now our community is suffering because of one man.

We are all victims. Our sanctity, our peace has been violated in the most disgusting way. Our world has been taken from us, and in it’s place we have fear and grief. But only if we let him.

Just as every civilized person makes a conscious choice to do evil, every victim can eventually make a choice whether or not to continue to be victimized.

It’s too soon now. There is still much hurt and anger in us and we must properly grieve before we can move on. But we will move on. We will take our sanctity back, we will reclaim our peace and we will never let anyone violate us again. We suffer, but can be comforted. We grieve, but we can take strength.

Anastasia was 18, and she’ll never change again. But this world is a good place, and that will never change either.

A New Laptop is Better Than Sex

Well obviously not, but it's a catchy title. Anyway, the rumours are true boys and girls; Sanjay has bought himself a brand new Toshiba 410 Notebook. It's perfect for staying mobile, updating blogs and making sure the porn industry maintains its high standards online. Actually, I like to think of it as the most expensive pen and paper I'll ever use. I never thought I'd be all into this technology stuff -- cell phones, iPods and now a latop. Next I'll get a flying car and a hot robot maid.

Russell Peters – Brown Clown

This Tuesday I was fortunate enough to catch Russell Peters at Place des Arts, the Indian-Canadian comedian whom I discovered some 5 years ago (though no one believes me). For you losers who don’t know, Russell Peters does a lot of racial-humour that is both insightful and delightful. His famous bits involves catchphrases and situations done in various accents, especially Indian and Chinese. The Asian culture is incredibly pervasive in Canada, though until recently we have lacked any real advocates or social figures to popularize it. Russell Peters’ anecdotal comedy is immediately relatable and familiar to his audience and his popularity stems from his ability to communicate specific cultural stereotypes universally, and, of course,
hilariously.


Some of his best standup material includes:
“Somebody gonna get a hurt real bad!”
“Thirty-four-fifty”
“Be a man”
“!Xobile”
“Paaaint”

Russell Peters’ self-deprecating humour is akin to an Italian comic making fun of the Mafia, or a Black comic ridiculing Gangstas. He is unique, however, in that as an Indian he is politically if not socially allowed to explore all other cultural stereotypes. Whereas most people couldn’t imagine Chris Rock making fun of Jews, Russell Peters’ comedy can be much more fluid. From the Chinese to Africans, from the Greeks to Latinos, Russell Peters uses his ethnicity as a passport to make comedic visits on any other nationality. And not only can he get away with it, he’s funny.

Unfortunately, Tuesday’s show wasn’t a sample of his best material. He did a lot of improv by asking audience members where they were from and developing bits from that, but there were precious few personal stories and anecdotes involving himself. No talking about his trips to South Africa or discipline from his father or negotiating the price of a purse with a Chinese guy. Just some general ethnically-centered comments, a few comments on how Indians are cheap, and some edgy Arab wisecracks. Don’t get me wrong; he’s still the best comic around. But I believe that all Indian parents will agree with me when I say Russell should stick to his roots.

Joke #2

A Swiss guy, looking for directions, pulls up at a bus stop where two Englishmen are waiting.

"Entschuldigung, koennen Sie Deutsch sprechen?" he says.

The two Englishmen just stare at him.

"Excusez-moi, parlez vous Francais?"

The two continue to stare.

"Parlare Italiano?" No response.

"Hablan ustedes Espanol?" Still nothing.

The Swiss guy drives off, extremely disgusted. The first Englishman turns to the second and says, "Y'know, maybe we should learn a foreign language...."

"Why?" says the other, "That bloke knew four languages, and it didn't do him any good."

The Source - James Michener

One of the most ambitious and epic novels I’ve had the pleasure of reading (three times). Just imagine the scope – the entire history of Judaism as experienced through various generations of a family. Irrespective of the usual concerns a novelist faces, Michener had to conduct an immense amount of research, sifting through thousands of years of conflict, mythology, hearsay and speculation to finally distill his novel into a readable format that is both instructive and artistic. From a writer’s point of view, it’s breathtaking.

The major events of Judaism are explored by using a fictitious city as a microcosm. It is a city that is both the victim and instigator of history, a city that suffers the consequences of and initiates changes in Judaism. King David, the Babylonian exile, the Hellenistic influence, Roman rule, the Diaspora, Christian encroachment and eventual domination, Islamic development, the Crusaders, and finally the founding of Israel as a sovereign state are all lived and experienced through the characters. As a guide to Judaism it is almost encyclopedic – as a survey of history, it is heroic.

There are several original devices that Michener employs in this novel. Some undoubtedly were used to further the plot and sustain the reader’s interest while I suspect others are a means to blend fact and fiction together for Michener’s own purpose. The short-story format, the fictitious city, the vagaries in narration and tone, the switch between modern times and the various eras, the genealogical tree that extends throughout the novel – all are tools contrived by the author to condense Judaism as a religion and expound it as a philosophy.

Michener begins the novel with an archaeological dig in 1964 Israel. For anyone familiar with their history, this is significant. It’s a few years (can’t remember exactly) before the 6-day war, a conflict where Israel pre-emptively attacks Egypt and defeats them, along with Syria and Jordan. The 6-day war dramatically changes Israel’s global profile from a bumbling, religious state to a powerful international player. In 1964 the Jews were a downtrodden, sympathetic, beleaguered people at the mercy of larger political actors. After 1967, they were warriors.

So, it’s 1964 and there’s an archaeological dig at a fictitious site thought to be the biblical city of Makor. The archeologists consist of an American, two Israelis and an Arab (the symbolism of using these types is so obvious as to be congenial). They begin to unearth artifacts from various eras, finding agricultural tools, Judeo-Christian and pagan holy relics, coins, weapons and oh, a Crusader castle. During these finds, the divergent and often introspective attitudes of the characters are revealed through dialogue and self-revelation. Topics ranging from philosophy to women’s rights are explored, both within the modern context and stemming from the roots of Judaism.

After 75 pages or so the novel switches to a short-story format. Each chapter opens with a description of a particular artifact discovered at Tel Makor, with the subsequent story centered around this artifact. The first story, for example, begins with an archaeological account of a farming tool first used in 9800 BC – the story then follows the advent of agriculture in and around Makor, leading to the construction of the first human dwellings in the Galilee and the founding of a civilized society.

In this fashion, Michener explores the evolution of Judaism from a primitive farmer’s desire to understand the mind of his God to a final set of principled laws and collected wisdom. Michener’s themes are ever-present in each episode; as he dramatically and painstakingly guides us through the evolution of monotheism, we see parallel development in the principles of community, the individual, law and authority. The Jews have been portrayed in modern times as an eternally struggling people who have finally won their own nation after unparraleled strife. Michener’s protagonists explore the roots of this perception, being first the creators of the establishment and later to be persecuted by it.

As grand as The Source is, it is not without faults. One of the concepts Jews have used to explain their persecution by the Egyptians, Babylonians, Romans, and even the Holocaust is a “punishment” for breaking their covenant with God. Michener touches upon this lightly, but curiously without any depth. Similarly, there is mention of but no examination of Moses and the exodus, the Bible progressing from a collection of wisdom and history to a codified text, the Maccabean revolt, or the evolution of various rituals and traditions. These are all central to the Jewish spirit and to not have them appear in the novel is a loss.

Regardless of this lack, The Source stands as an amazing body of work. The relationship between religion and society and its larger influence on morality and law is examined thoroughly, without restraint or prejudice. This is not an account of men and women caught in experiences larger than themselves – history is revealed as the confluence of events that are both controlled and are being controlled by people.

In this chronicle of the divine, nothing is so sacred as man.

M.B.A. All-Star

Yes kids, the rumours are true. After years of brutal work, unforgiving sacrifice, and sleeping my way to the top, my three-month dream has finally been realized. Concordia’s John Molson School of Business has accepted my application and have offered me a place in their Master’s of Business Management program. Next stop: years of study culminating in a coveted degree, industry-wide recognition, maybe a tattoo or even a timeshare. The horizon is bright and the future is endless (or vice versa) and I am confident of my success.

But, as a very wise Vampire Slayer once pondered:

“Where do we go from here?”

Should I study part-time or full-time? Should I specialize in something, and if yes, then what? Should I remain at the JMSB or perhaps apply to Queen’s, York or McGill university? Perhaps even overseas? What type of grants, fellowships, bursaries and scholarships am I entitled to? Should I move out? How would I pay for it? Am I capable of sustained study of such a heavy curriculum? Am I too inexperienced for this program? Is this really what I want to do with my life?

The last question is my greatest cause for concern. I am pursuing an M.B.A. not as a determining step in a carefully constructed and well-conceived life-plan, nor because of my lust for learning about foreign fiscal policies or corporate governance, and certainly not from a desire to be part of the next generation spearheading marketing initiatives and innovations to dazzle the world while we pick their pockets. Quite simply, I view this education and eventual degree as a means to an end. It will be earned to provide me with that most elusive and sought-after right: choice.

Some time ago, I was speaking to a friend of mine who had just that day quit his cushy job (coincidentally also in Marketing). He had been working there for four years and been complaining for three and a quarter about his boss, his start time, the dress code, the salary, his colleagues, the location ad nauseam. So he saved up, made arrangements to stay with a friend of his in Vancouver, and gave his two-week notice. The day he walked out of the building for the last time, however, he lamented. “I’m an idiot!” he said. “I can’t believe I left that place! I mean, I would spend half the day reading online magazines and the rest of the time flirt with the girls from H.R. Have I made a huge mistake?” Suddenly, the albatross of salary concerns, starting time etc. had flown away, leaving nothing but a simmering regret. He was missing his friends, the no-pressure environment, the free (stolen) office supplies. There is no course as straight and smooth as the one pursued in mediocrity

“Listen,” I said. “You were miserable at that place. You saw the years ahead of you and they all looked the same. This was never a career place for you and the only reason it’s become enticing is because they demanded so little of you.” I paused, and then offered some Sanjay-worldly-wisdom, the type that upon later reflection, I always wonder where the hell it came from.

“It’s not that you weren’t happy. Nobody’s happy with their job. The trouble with this job is that it’s robbed you of choice. Every man has the right to choose where they would like to be miserable.”

And this is what an M.B.A. affords me – choice. I have my mind set on building a career around my writing. In what manner, I don’t know. Journalism was an obvious option, as is Marketing. Magazine writing, copywriting, communications – I may settle for one of these or I may have an opportunity to pursue something completely unanticipated. The point is, I want to have an
array of alternatives, a plethora of possibilities, a bevy of budding breaks. This degree may not guarantee me a loft in the sky (or with a skylight), but it won’t be a hinderance either.

Of course, the ultimate dream is to be a published author. Let it be known that nothing shall ever take precedence over this, nor shall any other goal usurp the promience of authorship. I’m just hedging my bets.

And maybe one day I’ll have an answer to Buffy’s question.

Joke #1

There's this young single guy on a cruise ship, having the time of his life. On the second day of the cruise, the ship slams into an iceberg and begins to sink.

Passengers around him are screaming, flailing, and drowning but our guy manages to grab on to a piece of driftwood and, using every last ounce of strength, swims a few miles through the shark-infested sea to a remote, deserted island.

Sprawled on the shore nearly passed out from exhaustion, he turns his head and sees a woman lying near him, unconscious, barely breathing. She's also managed to wash up on shore from the sinking ship. He makes his way to her, and with some mouth-to-mouth assistance he manages to get her breathing again. She looks up at him, wide-eyed and grateful, "My God, you saved my life!"

He suddenly realizes the woman is Angelina Jolie!

Days and weeks go by. Angelina and our guy are living on the island together. They've set up a hut, there's fruit on the trees, and they're in heaven. Angelina has fallen madly in love with our man, and they're making passionate love morning, noon and night. Alas, one day she notices he's looking kind of glum. "What's the matter, sweetheart?" she asks, "We have a wonderful life
together, I'm in love with you. Is there something wrong? Is there anything I can do?"

He says, "Actually, Angie, there is. Would you mind, um, putting on my shirt?"

"Uh, sure," she says, "if this will help." He takes off his shirt and she puts it on.

"Now would you put on my pants?" he asks.

"Sure, honey, if it's really going to make you feel better," she says.

"Um, OK, would you put on my hat now, and draw a little mustache on your face?" he asks.

"Whatever you want, honey," she says, and does.

Then he says, "Now, would you start walking around the edge of the island?"

She starts walking around the perimeter of the island. He sets off in the other direction. They meet up halfway around the island a few minutes later. He rushes up to her, grabs her by the
shoulders, and says,

"Dude! You'll never believe who I'm banging!"

If I Sweated Ice Cream, Would You Lick My Face?

My blogger in crime Tina and I hit the town tonight, with her sister Linda and her friend Vanessa in tow. The plan was for Foxy to come to my place, eat, watch F.R.I.E.N.D.S, (of course), laugh ourselves silly and then head off with our groupies (Linda and Vanessa) to watch some fireworks at the Old Port. Now, I can only imagine that the fireworks were in honour of Bastille Day, celebrated here with some antiquated notion of a French Connection. Works for me - no better way to pay hommage to the mother country than with pretty lights and loud noises. Anyway, Tina got here late (of course) with barely enough time for me to force feed her pickles and crackers. She was wearing this gorgeous green dress that suited her perfectly, showing off her tan and svelte physique wonderfully. Satiated in both appetities, we picked up Vanessa and Linda and went off to see these fireworks.

Foxy is a born performer (of course) and took very easily to a car game of mine. You listen to a song very loudly, something you know the words and melody to. You sing along, in time with the song, and someone then turns off the volume. You continue singing for 30 seconds or so and when the volume comes back on, we see if you're still in time. Sounds riveting here, I know, but it's much more fun live.

Anyway, we got to the Old Port and saw the fireworks had already started. Oohs and Aaahs permeated the crowd for about five minutes, which is Sanjay's maximum firework tolerance before ennui sets in. After that, we got some ice cream (of course), saw various performers and the girls got some free hugs by a very enterprising (and not at all creepy) man. The Chinese acrobats did a two-man dragon (wonder what's Chinese for "rim job"?) and there were fire dancers, 2 men and a woman with a pretty mouth.

The highlight of the evening was Foxy and Linda getting their henna tattoos. Linda got a star on her wrist, which though she is dissatisfied, I find it very cute. Ok fine, it's slightly crooked. So what?? It's a bloody henna tattoo!! It's not like she's bought a lame puppy or a condo with a brick wall view or X-ray specs that only work at night - it's a star that'll wash off in a week. Be happy with it, revel in it, enjoy the moment, offer it to the real stars as proof of your bond with the heavens. Why worry about something you can't avoid or change?

Foxy got a Superman tattoo (guess who puts the "S" in Tina?) on her back, the beauty of which I cannot praise enough. The lines are the paragon of elegance, the design the essence of sophistication, the emblem the epitome of grace.

Oh, and the tattoo is pretty good too (of course).

England: A World Cup Retrospective

"If it wasn't for the English, we'd be Krauts"


Well, if it wasn't for certain ill-performing Englishmen and one mad Swede, we'd have made it at least to the semi-finals. What's that line in that poem? The world shall end not in a bang, but in a whimper? Sounds like a candidate to replace "Rule Britania". Here's my list of the key players in the spectacle that was England.

Wayne Rooney: Good man, a bit hot-tempered, but it's that passion and ferocity that make him such a great player. He's quick when necessary, skillful with his feet, and he intimidates the hell out of opposing players thanks to the wonderful English PR machine. Also, he's a huge boost to the England squad, and players perform noticeably better when Rooney's on the pitch. Yes, I saw him step on that Portuguese guy's balls too. It was an accident people!! How many of you can deliberately step on something as small as human testicles by taking 3 steps backwards? He got the Red Card for pushing Ronaldo, but let's take a few things into consideration.

1 - Ronaldo and Rooney are teammates, and have gotten along fairly well previously
2 - Ronaldo is a known diver, faker, cry-baby and male-diva
3 - Ronaldo got involved between Rooney and the official, having no right or business to do so
4 - No English Footballer would ever take a dive. Ever.

Not only do their coaches abhor it, the fans would never allow them to. Decide for yourself - watch a replay of the incident here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ylMqeyMgsxs&search=roo%20vs%20ron

Clearly, clearly, Ronaldo is just being an asshole. Ok, yes, Rooney shouldn't have pushed him but anyone who claims Rooney is the bigger agressor is as blind as an Argentian ref.

To prove it's not just us England fans who hate Ronaldo, visit this site devoted exclusively to telling the world of Ronaldo's iniquities
http://www.ihateronaldo.com/


Frank Lampard: 31 goal attempts. 0 goals. Frankie, you can make all the grimaces you like. You can wring your hair, stomp the ground, blame the field and the German lawn-mowers. You can even say it's the fault of Posh and the other WAGs (wives and girlfriends) but at one point, your fans aren't just going to buy it anymore. Be a man, stand up and say, "Mea Culpa". You're an Englishman, take your lumps.



Steven Gerrard: My personal favourite player for many years now, best player on the squad and certain to be the next Captain of England. Great player, great motivator, great attitude, great talent. Probably the best mid-fielder in the world (now that Zidane has retired and if we don't count Ronaldinho), this man can do anything. Doesn't seek the limelight, doesn't go pissing money away and sleeping with the soccer hoes -- he just plays like he's a 10 yr old kid on the street. Has been playing with Liverpool (my team) for years and is their star player, even when Michael Owen was there. Watch him and enjoy.


David Beckham: I really don't know what it's like to be a superstar whom a an entire country depends, focuses and demands so much from. The pressure must be phemenmenal, and Beckham himself must have felt very lonely and isolated as the figurative representative of a Footballing nation's dream. That being said, I don't know what it's like to make almost €100 million a year either, and then sleep with Posh Spice. One tends to lose much of one's sympathy when considering that fact.

The thing is, Becks didn't do too poorly. He was directly involved completely integral in 3 or 4 of England's goals. Ok, so he got tired. Ok, so he gave the media some shit excuses. Ok, he practically vomited on the field. He's David Beckham, not God. If you want the divine, forget sports and watch the rap stars thank Jesus at the Grammys. The reason why Becks is under so much heat (besides Posh), is that he really blew it in previous World and Euro cups. He missed two penalties in Portugal. He didn't inspire in South Korea. He got sent off in France. Plus, a lot of people are upset because he's set sail from Manchester and hangs his boots in Madrid these days. He's got a lot to prove and more to overcome. He's supposed to be a leader, a talisman, a superstar. In reality, he's just a guy. He's got cool hair and a wicked bend, but superstar? Remember, "lookin' pretty good, feelin' pretty good...but what's that weird smell?".

Peter Crouch: A lanky bean pole that, if born in any other country, would be either playing basketball, doing fetish porn, or working in construction. I've been laughing at Crouch for a full year now, as he plays for my league team (Liverpool) and he is simply too embarrassingly bad to take seriously. He can't hold the ball for more than 5 seconds, he doesn't get open, he doesn't create chances, and for someone who can smell the stratosphere, he's terrible in the air. Sometimes, I wonder if the Argentines or the French didn't bribe Erikson to include him on the squad...

Overall, England wasn't so much dispointing as boring. Their defense was either phenomenal or panicky. Their midfield was either fluid or disorganized. And their forwards might as well have been non-existant. Of all the England goals, only one was scored by a forward. And it was the Beckham cross that made it happen. England needs to tighten their defense, show their midfield how to play as a cohesive unit, and scout some new forwards ASAP. Someone who can play off Rooney's speed and strength. A cockney Thierry Henry would do quite nicely. But things are looking well. England's new manager will probably stick to the tried and tested 4-4-2 formation. We got a new captain. And Rooney's foot should be hopping mad to get into play.

In fact, the only downside is that the WAGs have to stay home...

Virgin Post

I met a traveller from an antique land who said:

"whenever a person creates a blog, somewhere in the world an Editor cries."

Since I haven't much love for editors anyway, I call this blog my public service to all writers.

Aside from that small act of altruism however, this will be a purely selfish and self-serving site devoted to things that interest me interlaced with my own particular commentary. The Internet is the great equalizer which tends to translate anybody's opinions into publishable material, potentially available for the world to read. It's a crime against prose to allow this trend to go unchecked, so I've decided to either enter the ranks of the inspired poseurs or as a standard-bearer of the the written world here in cyberland . Whichever title I wear depends the outcome of my endemic fight against apathy and inertia.

I have big ideas - periodic quotes and jokes I come across will be posted here. Photos and pictures, important news, cool websites, ideas (or schemes, if you will) and your basic trash-talk will all be here. Expect some messy layouts at first, gently and subtly evolving into rough features and finally into a sporadic genius.

Oh, the joy of publishing editorials without the untalented hand of an Editor!