My Name is Al Harrington and I get BUCKETS

If my dick played for the Boston Celtics, no one would call Paul Pierce The Truth ever again.

What time is it?

Oh yeah, it's P.Boyd bottom-of-the-mosquito-net wetter-than-a-babbling-brook time, o'clock.

aaand scene.

(flip, flip) FLIPADELPHIA

"It was just a rabbit, and his name was Squigley, ok? Why is that so hard for you to accept? For twenty minutes you have been talking to me about this shit and i really don't think anything is gonna change. At least not for the time being. That boulder is right where it should be. Did I want Squigley to die in there? Of course not. Did it need to happen for the cave to stay intact long enough for us to escape? Maybe. We won't know the answer to that for at least another cold week. Listen, can you start building the pile though? Both my arms are numb."

Michael shoved the end of the canister into his smallest backpack pocket and tried to smoke a cigarette, but it was too windy up on the mountain. It was like that time in Philly after all the Chinese places went out of business and the photographers started rebelling against sepia for all the movie posters. But I couldn't smell the mountain grass like I'd hoped. All we had was a dead rabbit and lots and lots of rocks. And lots and lots of lots too, but hey that's just the urban developer in me talking.

I wondered how he'd been able to flic his bic, but I realized he had been using matches, and when you learn how to work those babies, well, let's juste say that numbness is nothing like hard gravel beneath bicycle tires. Maybe not nothing like, but at least marginally different. Of course they both relate to ABBA songs and should be kept far away from one's itsy-bitsy-toesy-woesies, but that's only two weak steps in the logic ladder. Jacobian patterns.

Frisky fracas-fleeing flitoris. Or maybe flitori, I can't remember.

Fervent Herbert Sells Earthen Sherbet!

If my business is pleasure, whatever.

But you ask me whether I’ll mix them together?

Pleasure is now, why not pleasure forever?

Business will boom when I pull the pleasure lever.

The Pope steady rockin while those draws steady droppin.

Cheers.

WET HOT AMERICAN SUMMER?

Copied from my notebook, originally written sometime in April:

I am currently enrolled in a class called Contemporary Italian Politics, which is taught completely in Italian. Every so often, Prof. Mattia Toaldo [a real mensch that one] will throw some basic Q&A at the class to keep us focused [or at least pretending to be]. The questions are often factual queries about the US of A that he uses to illustrate points about Italy through juxtaposition martinpradoxtaposition. If it's a particularly sleepy Lunedi or the class is simply very tuned out, Toaldo will ask the question in English, really praying for some sort of response.

This particular day, he was using the BMI (Big Mac Index) to explain differences in purchasing power between Italians and Americans. So he asked, "Who knows the price of a Big Mac in the USA?"

Silence befell classroom 3A and many heads were lowered in avoidance of professorial eye contact. Maybe they didn't know the answer and were afraid to guess, or perhaps they all knew but were embarrassed to admit it. We sat for about 20 minutes (adjusted for Awkward Standard Time) in silence while Toaldo looked on expectantly.

Finally a voice was raised, that, once it began, continued with unwavering confidence. This was the voice of a singular character, a near-Snooki clone, who had the look of an expert on the subject of the golden arches, and whose entire existence provided justification for mandatory sun-screening (**Tangent after story**). Her declaration left nothing to be questioned about her expertise: "The price of a Big Mac in the USA? Four thirty-seven...ish."



[**Hippopotami**]

Just watched this Nash G-graph spesh on Hippopotami. The long and short of it is hippos are the most dangerous animals in the world, but they excrete a super-sweat that is both a natural sunblock and frighteningly effective antibiotic cream, which our host, Brady Barr must remove from the back of a wild beast. His plan is to invade the Hippo colony in a 200 lb. teflon hippo disguise. Madness ensues. Find this shit and watch it.

***There's More! Dopalicious tidbit about Pablo Escobars pet Hippos



Guilelessly,

Alexander

Buckets (Stronzino)

There are many traditions upheld by citizens of every city, but these traditions become even more entrenched and gain a mysterious quality when a city has been around for hundreds or even thousands of years. The ghosts of a place never leave and their legacy serves as a placeholder for those who can't see them. The little rock piles that gather all over Istanbul at the hottest time of summer surely aren't the work of wraiths and dead emperors but the tradition of placing these stones is a relic of history. Same with the fish carcasses that are discarded on the outskirts of London when the first flowers of spring bloom, which always face southeast, defiant to the channel and Europe beyond.

Well I discovered perhaps the oddest practice of all. Where else should it be but the Immortal City? Devious popes and magnificent barbarians, shackled fathers of world domination and galloping defenders of home and beauty; they all lived here. And they all drank wine. Lots and lots and lots of wine. The barbarians would drink to a mad rage and battle their bonfires with unseen fury. The fathers cast spells of infatuation and vile cannibalism on their wine and let it course through their shaking bodies.

The alcohol would grip them and change them. And then it subsided. But it wasn't pretty. It made men into demons. It conquered giants. [It killed Alexander of Macedonia] And sometimes it found its escape, forcing the men of old to expel it with force. It happens today--it's called vomit. Usually this means one has drank too much, but in the days of old it was a sign, not of physiological reactions but of the juice's desire to leave the host, whether out of fear or disapproval. The occasion of the vomit was well-observed and marked with gravity.

The places of these occurrences became significant. So a list was made. And if a man was to conquer the demons of the spirits, he had to achieve the vomiting ritual at each of the places in question. The list encompasses dozens of locations around Rome, some that still remain as they were long ago, and some that have been built upon. But even the ones that have changed remain the (un)holy sites of evacuation that must be had as well. I gained access to the list and have embarked on the quest to elevate my soul and eradicate the source of the tragic flaw. Below are the places that I have checked off my list so far. Understand it is just a beginning of a lifelong journey, one that I undertake with every ounce of reverence.

>The Institute of International Affairs

>The United States Consulate

>The corner of Viale Trastevere, in clear view of G.G. Belli and the river

>34 Via dei Genovesi, just behind a 12-century synagogue

>In a basement, several hundred yards west of the Spanish Steps

I have achieved only about 5% of what I set out to do a few months ago. I will draw on the might of the pagan hero, Heracles, in the coming months and drink wine like only a god could.

Join me.

Updates to follow.

Regards,

Starlin Kubarius Castro

"The stars shine without the sun because the night calls to them."

Rome snitches

Lungotevere is the road that runs along the Tiber River in Rome. If you know Italian, everything following the predicate in that first sentence is superfluous. It is a very busy road. There are certain places where I cross it in dire peril. I feel that living here in Italy with all its sensory pleasures has made me appreciate life more, but then again, it might just be the knowledge that I am constantly escaping death-by-smartcar that has given my life that extra golden dusting.

Lungotevere is a busy fucking road. Did I mention that? It is hectic and loud. It is chaos. This is Italy (Africa, Sparta, etc.). Mopeds weave rapidly through red light traffic in order to get up to the light in expectancy of the starter’s gun of red-becoming-green. Traffic laws are suggestions at best. Six, eight, ten cars gun it through yellow and then red lights, ending up stuck in the intersection, sticking their tiny car asses out and blocking the perpendicular flow of traffic.

And then come the horns. The beeps and boops and comically un-intimidating (when compared with their American counterparts) Carabinieri sirens. The deep honk of buses provides a bass line for this symphony of impatience and discord.

And the Italians honk like they damn well mean it. I mean they really let you hear it. The equation for honking is as follows.

(Seconds you made them wait)(minutes since their last cigarette smoked x 2)=HT

where HT=honk time.

That’s about the extent of my math.

(A short tangent before this story climaxes all over your face and runs down your sweaty chest/breast: As previously alluded to, crossing streets in Rome is dangerous. A tried and true method is a little skill I like to call “Drafting behind middle-aged women.” Not to get into this too much, but the trick is to cross the street while an at least somewhat-attractive middle-aged Italian woman is also crossing. As it turns out, the horribly obnoxious flirty tendencies of Italian men mean that if a woman actually survives to middle age, it is understood that she has endured so many catcalls and so many demeaning advances that at this point in her life she deserves utmost respect. Thus, when these women cross the street, the cars pause without honking at all, in a show of respect to her, aka putting the Figa on a Pedestal. So I run behind these women to preserve my life and not get honked at. It is a failsafe method that I would recommend to anyone.)

ALLORA

So now that you know that extent of Italian honking, you might be like, “ew that shit’s gross and loud and I’m not tryna hear it.” I feel ya girl. But honestly, you get used to it, just like Jews in the ghetto of Rome got used to wearing yellow hats whenever they were allowed out into the real world. It becomes part of the day-to-day. ALLORA, anyone who has lived in Rome for more than a month is used to this incessant honking and it becomes white noise, the Immortal City’s take on chirping birds or crickets. (Quick sidenote: Living in Rome you see many nuns/priests/professional undercover child molestors/popes dressed in their religious garb walking around. And I feel it’s not a stretch to assume these people aren’t just tourists; they’re probably here for a while).

ALLORA

While walking to school the other day, I encountered quite an amusing scene. I was walking along Lungotevere (remember it?) and saw ahead of me 2 things: 1. A traffic scene similar to what had been described above, with cars that had run the red light but had nowhere to go encroaching on the ability of the other cars to move, and thusly honkyville (not to be confused with Crossroads, Georgia (sorry Mr. Gill)) and 2. A very young northern-European looking priest all priested up. He seemed to be perturbed at the lack of lion/lamb reclining indicated by the honking and yelling (MA DAI!) and was condemning these poor souls with the best of his ability.

As I removed my earbuds and paused No Ceilings for just a few fleeting seconds I heard a line of much hilarity. Now it will be difficult to illustrate for you just how hilarious this was, as you must imagine the voice with which it was intoned. This young (I suspect) German priest had the EXACT voice of none other than our beloved Bruno. I don’t know how to do umlauts on the computer but I wish I did. Like very very very Bruno and very very very fabulous. What he said next will remain with me until the day I forget it.

“Dat is soooooo helpful you guys. Vhen you beep everyone goes fahstar. Totally.”

That’s the punchline. Enjoy.

And now the first in a new series on the academic interpretation of rap songs and validation of their lyrics.

1. SKY PAGER -- A Tribe Called Quest

[real lyrics]
[listen to song]

Q-Tip & Phife Dawg illuminate the importance of sky pagers.

Prompt: Do you know the importance of a sky pager?

Q-Tip:
To the uninformed public (esp. other rappers): You are already below my level because you fail to appreciate how helpful a sky pager can be. I keep mine on all the time; it gets great reception at concert venues. And now, a completely unrelated anecdote to finish out my first point.

If you happen to be enjoying a nice dinner of cacciatore con límon with wine and you only have 30 minutes to meet up with your bitch, you should smoke a joint of marijuana at your house (homies optional).

Occasionally my pager acts up when I am pursuing women, which is irritating. I am a sex fiend so I have no qualms about caressing my erect penis in public (through the pants). It's often awkward when I'm doing this, and my business manager pages me. I actually sent 2000 pages this month so they are cutting the service off this thing. Oh well, I'm a rich rapper!


Phife:
I would agree with my esteemed colleague, but add that I, too, will be smoking marijuana with you. (Non sequitur, Skypager is an acronym, and the S stands for Sex). After smoking, I'll probably receive several sextual advances on my pager from the rotation of bitches I keep available. Sometimes withdrawal from use of my sky pager gives me acute depression, as diagnosed by my psychiatrist, Dr. Ayre Rubenstein. Maybe that's the reason pagers seem so complex to me, when really, it's just a small device that receives numbers.

As a valuer of the importance of a sky pager, I only use the best Duracell batteries, which usually last me up to three weeks, even though I keep the pager on every second of every day. Further, my coverage covers all of North America and even the Caribbean. If you are within 500 miles of me and text the number 69, I will come have sex with you.