Reports are rampant that there is a Fyre. It was out of control but not overcome by flames. It was the new kid on the block, the premier hip hop experience in Europe but instead played pyramid games.
Vestiville was to have ASAP Rocky, Cardi B and Migos. The people instead were greeted with signs lacking libidos. Lack of security was cited as a possible explanation. But the people out of money and weekend are still waiting for citation.
Look who is the symbol of Fyre and also part of this latest scam? Ja Rule was slated to appear and if you believe that, then DAMN! If his name doesn’t tell you to look another direction, are you ready for a sudden and unannounced defection?
What happened to the Woodstocks, the Paloozas instead of the Festivals that are abject losers? Please people, do your homework and prevent more forest Fyres and before becoming buyers.
I remember when we all sashayed. When we didn’t go curbside and always valeted. We walked to get some air and have some alone time. When we didn’t have the urge to always be live.
These were the days that many no longer see. The older are unable and the younger cannot be. Society is encouraged to get everything now. Unable to hit the pause button and escape to the bowels.
Sprinting to the table and eating the naan. Instead of having a drink and beginning a con. Play a little and take a chill pill. Instead of rushing to pay the next bill. And give the table to the next patrons to rush. Let them relax at the bar and sush.
Take in the visual and close the pie holes. Try to hear above the noise of all trolls. Take a stroll and engage in play. Why must everybody choose to valet?
#fridaythoughts #fridaymotivation #weekend
Don’t come up hostile and with a unseemly amount of baggage. I’m here to help you forget what brought you here. Think of your favorite comfort food that you packed in your satchel and tell me what it is and I’ll put it into two slices of bread.
Do you want me to spread it thin or cake it on the surface? Do you want it cold your heated like a furnace? What is your preference as I am here to attest cause you are here for a reason and I want to make it the best.
Was it something at work or did it happen inside your house? Tell me how to best combat your fear or arouse. Is it something that can we worked out by exertion. Or does it gnaw to deeply to leave with a diversion?
You’ll have to deal with it sooner or later so why not try the help of a counter persuader? I likely carry what your body and mind may wish. But your long term health will need more than a sandwich.
When I lean in the pool and water is cold, I move forward as the barrier is not too bold. The water cleanses and invites, it never threatens other than a quick nip (or bite). Moving slowly, grabbing toward the end and ultimate breath, I think of the crawl that I previously met.
Without a purpose other than to live the day and being in a constant fog and getting in my way. Constantly in a flux and laying in wait for something to titillate me before it was too late. This continues to be a state I am in but slowing the process down in the pool I’m in.
Many analysts said that swimming slows aging, of which I believe is factual. But what draws it to me is actually more natural. It soothes the rough edges and it puts me in time out. From all of the wiring and tiring and roundabout. It makes me sharper without having a growl and it puts my body in a state I enthrall.
Especially in South Florida in this ninety degree heat, one should consider this clothing optional act. Get in a pool and move your limbs, after the day or before prelims. I promise prospective that the earth can’t counter. And the confidence you find will grow louder
At one point I swear I was into you but u say the password wasn’t found.
Peering into your soul to long ago but my passion ebbed and no longer abound.
But it comes time again to sign in and strike up the band
And your credentials say to me this is a foreign land.
Messaging the password was not found.
You don’t remember me as my signature vestige. My mind did not enthrall you nor did my visual image. Likely the condescending bark or my nibbling bite. That changed your credentials from allowing me the right.
Do not forbode me the opportunity to revisit the site that a password was requested. I’m certain at one point I liked your content but I went to another to ferment. So when your message says my footprint is not likely, it is really because your tracking is unsightly. So it makes me pause and apt to say, “You really want me to just go away.
So when you email to say visit more, I will treat your message as when I tried to open the door. Password not found.
Evel was the real deal. Evel could do no wrong. Walenda siblings high wire in New York to a million strong. But Evel would do his daredevil acts in the middle of nowhere. And do it for one network without any social fanfare.
There wouldn’t be coverage from the morning shows thereafter. About the move he had done 25 times in front of a mirror. He would put on his superfly suit in American colors and let it rip across a canyon. Or jump 50 semis into a waiting ring of fire. My memory may not recall everything or jumble things together.
His hair would stay in place the a Brill cream solution in tow. His face looked like he smoked 50 cigarettes in a row. The voice didn’t speak volumes but the eyes yelled at me. They said you need to watch because nobody said I could. And even if I fail, I still feel I would.
And then he would move onto the next harrowing act of lunacy. And he disappeared without a trace as my mind remembered loosely. And now its recalled because the Walenda kids are back, on my Monday morning screen, and kind of feels wack.
I am resigned to say good for them, they lived to recount how they triumphed. To a GMA exclusive while a President contemplates war. It harkens back to a simpler time when lying was also en vogue. And love was the answer and the question was would Evel live to consummate the deal?
Read to me the written cherished word.
Illustrate to me what my mind may not afford.
Draw a picture and make it neon.
Take me to a time when I be young.
Push my barriers to a border of torrent.
Quench my thirst to what I deserve and warrant.
Place me in a setting that I may fear.
Read to me when far or near.
The new freshman class of the NBA has been introduced to great fanfare from the New York cartel and the fanatics who know the sport. But who are these people? It’s not surprising that they don’t know the difference between an OutKast and a outcast. It is surprising if any general fan knows the heartbeats of this lottery beyond the #3 pick, RJ Barrett.
They starve for a year and stay a year. College athletes use to be able to live meekly for three or four years for one team (er, college) and survive through the interviews without any pretension of starvation, labor relation issues, strife about pay, etc. The argument was always that they get paid by getting a degree. My, how that has changed.
A four year degree now is the minimum standard now to make a decent living. It’s Masters or bust. The athletes have always paid the college more with their drawing power and the promotion of the program with the promise of getting a degree if willing to work a double shift without being able to pay for food. And now the degree isn’t worth the can of beans the bizarro hired help eats.
And the money has grown in the next stanza of their professional lives. The chosen ones who have the talent, the guile, the work ethic to move on to professional sports have more money domestically, and both more money and opportunity internationally. It behooves them to move faster through the experience of working for free except for an almost worthless degree.
So the general fan doesn’t know a Bol Bol from a Tyler Herro. Are they the heroes from a children’s fable or are they future basketball stars? And who did they play for? And does anybody care? Does anybody care that they don’t know who OutKast?
People know their favorite bands because they run it back a few times creatively to the satisfaction of the fanbase. People identify the story as it changes from creative spurt to creative spurt, until it dissolves or becomes the Rolling Stones. College players don’t ever run it back; it’s one year of growth then it’s on to making a album professionally.
The outcasts are the people who continue to shout that the living wage is a college degree. And what seems like an innocent question of knowing a nineties superstar group is really the reality of a loss of innocence.
His Father was Manute Bol. He was primarily a “player” for the Golden State Warriors supporting the players of RUN TMC. He probably played soccer better than basketball, even at his 7’7″ height. The attraction was the wing span and not the girth, and certainly not the mobility. But not being a basketball also meant not having the trappings of being a basketball player.
He allowed his Head Coach to change his navigation to the homebase of the key to the barren desert of the three point line. He was not a basketball mostly because he could not shoot, from 3 feet, much less from 30. But there were strategic purposes of allowing a Tim Hardaway more room to apply his craft in the hole. And there were entertainment purposes of allowing the fans to cheer for this humble athlete, over and over again. And there was the huge ego of their coach with his thirst to test conventional basketball wisdom to reshape the game.
And now his son is in the NBA. People should not focus on where Bol Bol was drafted in 2019. They should focus on where he came from, who sired him and his Father’s history, and the enormous skills he has. He has been given the gift of less pressure, much like his Father had. He even went one of the few places where, like Hawaii, his Dad’s head coach could visit and enjoy a smoke without impunity. He has the ability to treasure how unlikely a journey his Father made to be an athlete in arguably the best sport going.
And he will only be known for being a second in one respect, moving forward.
It takes me back to when investors wanted to relocate the San Francisco Giants a third time to Florida back in the 90s. The reason baseball had to create the then Tampa Bay Devil Rays was because the misguided Giants owner at the time, Bob Lurie, was done and so were the fans with him.
Luckily Magowan, Shorenstein and countless investors saved the team, enthused the fanbase with Barry Bonds until Pac Bell park was built, with championships to follow. They are the survivors. The renamed Rays, the Expos, and the Marlins are not.
The Marlins don’t draw. The now Rays don’t draw. And the Expos didn’t draw. And now the Rays are exploring sharing games with Montreal, where the Marlins team was conceived by a fraud owner? And if they tried and it doesn’t work, does one city the bag like Seattle holds the memories of the Supersonics”
How does this conjecture even serve a purpose? It drums up the mistakes of the past, not celebrating the possibilities of the future. There are plenty of poorly run franchises that are not helped by the slow death of baseball. Like climate change. It’s coming and the leaders don’t want to recognize it or get in front of it.
The alternative is just to move a franchise, like the Expos to South Florida. But it was proven that the city was not the symptom but the majority owner and the business. The rich are as few as the fanbases that follow them. There are too many games, too many minutes in the games, and too little reason to watch the games. And that is in the case in either Tampa Bay or Montreal.
Soccer use to be the sport that couldn’t hold the attention but they have slowly taken that same attention from baseball in the United States. Baseball is broken and running away never fixes problems.