Apathetic Heart of Gold

Ireland and USA aside, this World Cup has been a truly heart breaking experience. FIFA, its despicable president, Sepp Blatter, and the abhorrent, and quite frankly terrifying, officiating—referee, line judges, and fourth official all included—have all contributed to an appalling, and miserable World Cup for all of those who have been involved in any form. I truly feel as though these aforementioned factors are ruining the sport that I have come to know and love as soccer, football, and “the beautiful game”.

I feel so strongly for the countries that have been cheated so far by the unbelievable officiating. These referees are supposed to be the best referees in the fucking world, and from what I have seen over that past few days I’m just not convinced. I have seen some of the worst calls ever in the history of the sport (Ireland, USA, England, Mexico) and they are getting worse and worse by the day. What makes it worse is that FIFA is literally doing NOTHING to fix this miserable officiating.

Not only are these terrible calls affecting the teams that they steal the goals, wins, and qualifications from, but they are affecting all those who watch the game; veterans who know the game in and out and are as disgusted as I am by the lack of professionalism; impressionable youths who look up to these players and this sport; and those individuals, old and young, who are just getting into the greatest sport on earth. It is simply despicable and I cannot stand to watch another game.

This horrible excuse for a World Cup has brought me to the brink of giving up on the sport altogether, if nobody is willing to make the necessary changes to see that the sport remains wholesome and respectable then it is just going to the fucking dogs.

I am legitimately gutted, heart broken, and sickened by what I have seen over the past month and if something does not change I fear the worst.

To bottle the economic blues, one brothel in Berlin, Germany’s red-light district is going green. The house, run by Regina and Thomas Goetz, now offers a five-euro discount—about $7—to any client who arrives via bike or public transport and can prove it with a helmet, lock, or valid ticket. The move was both eco- and financially driven, an attempt to boost business in an industry hit hard by a faltering world economy.

-Michele Wilson; Audubon Magazine

I’ve been up early enough to see the sunrise a bunch of times in my life, and I’ve got to say; it doesn’t look quite as beautiful though sore, swollen eyes.

Working this late at night isn’t quite what I expected. The halls of the assisted living home are the same ones I have known for almost a year now, yet they are somehow different. Working 11pm to 7am is really something else. I’ve worked from 3pm to 11pm before but that isn’t very late at all. During this shift you are completely alone, and even the last of the residents—the night owls who stroll to the kitchen for a cup of tea of a light snack—have retreated to their beds and their television sets.

I walk the halls and though I don’t see the residents I recognize the warm scents that radiate from beyond their doors. That’s the thing about older people, they have distinct scents. That’s not to say that those scents are bad, it’s just interesting how I associate them with certain smells. Eugene has a piney scent, as if he had just walked out of the wooded hills of Europe. James has a warm, nutty scent, very distinct to my nose. I enjoy walking passed his room, it’s a comforting smell. Much like his persona, he’s warm and caring.

Though the halls are familiar and filled with familiar scents, there is still a sense of paranoia lurking in these halls. That’s not to say that this place is haunted or anything, it is just that sense of paranoia that anyone gets from being all alone, “after hours”. My heavy eyes fight with me and though my stomach is sick from lack of sleep, it grumbles as if to say “fill me with anything but your boredom”. Loneliness is a desolate feeling altogether, not to say that this version of loneliness is “desolate” but it has its worrying qualities. My head whips around at the slightest squeak or creak in this old building and I can’t help but wish there was at least someone familiar to keep me company while I work until sunrise.

Alas, I still have 4 hours to go until I head home, and even then sleep is not promised. Some of you followers may know that soccer is my life, and tomorrow morning’s world cup games will be no exception. Germany will be playing at 7:30—basically as soon as I will be walking into my house. And the good ol’ USA will be playing at 10:00: A game I wouldn’t miss for the world. So I’ll sleep in due time, but for now, duty calls.

• New Blog Title (Taken from Philip Larkin’s poem “Talking In Bed”)
• New Theme
• -Cleaner
• -More Presentable
• New Posts
• -Latest (New) Poem
• -World Cup Obsession

All that’s left is to find new followers!!!

I thirst for you,
But not the way that I thirst
For an iced green tea:
Such a light refreshing taste.
I thirst in ways that I roll my eyes to
Come the morning time,
When my bed is cold and slightly damp,
Like the grass outside.

Sweat rolls down the glass
Of green tea that I left by my bedside.
A sip cools my throat.
I can feel it glide down my pipes,
Like I’m some old house
Whose plumbing is calloused and rusted
With remorse,
From the years of misuse and neglect. 

I thirst for you the way I thirst for the others.
Never a refreshing sip,
I take a mean gulp
And further rust my pipes.

It may not be retribution for the Irish, but oh how good it feels!

Viva Mexico!

Erin Go Bragh!!!

Kick up the fire, and let the flames break loose
To drive the shadows back;
Prolong the talk on this or that excuse,
Till the night comes to rest
While some high bell is beating two o’clock.
Yet when the guest
Has stepped into the windy street, and gone,
Who can confront
The instantaneous grief of being alone?
Or watch the sad increase
Across the mind of this prolific plant,
Dumb idleness?

Philip Larkin

I too wish you a miserable tournament Mr. Henry. I wish a tournament full of turmoil, heartbreak, and woe, for you and your cheating band of scoundrels—also referred to as the French National team. It has been 8 months since the French cheated an illustrious Irish out of a World Cup Qualifying spot and I am still gutted, enraged, and full of contempt for Thierry Henry and his disgraceful countrymen. The 18th of November 2009 is truly a day that will live in infamy for me and my fellow Irishmen. We are now left with nothing but the constant ringing of the thoughts “what could have been”.

~Erin Go Bragh~

~Ireland Forever~