in the heat of the summer sunshine
Apr. 30th, 2011 12:43 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
levityHello again, temperatures of over 36 degrees Celsius. It isn't quite summer without you.
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I haven't seen the clasico yet. This latest one, I mean. I set my alarm for 2:45 in the morning, but when it went off I was headachy and tired (let me tell you this: the only difference between the MRT at rush hour and hell is that the MRT goes both ways) and couldn't sit up properly and still had slides to label because we had an exam the day after, so I just did not get up. I'm not sure that there was ever a more nervous person checking the football sites at one in the afternoon.
And Dr. Guerrero used my slides for our exam- let me make this clear, Dr. Guerrero used my slides, the ones I spent three hours staring at and sticking labels on, only of course with the labels blanked out, because she wasn't able to find any better pictures- and I'm not sure I've ever been prouder in my life. I think I even passed this one, never mind that I never want to see a frog ovary ever again, no matter how pretty it may be. There's something about Bio30 that makes a passing grade feel like a- well, feel like something very grand and very important, but this was the UEFA Champions League semifinal. This was a UEFA Champions League semifinal between Barcelona and Real Madrid, Spain's bitterest rivalry, preceded by Madrid's Copa del Rey win, Jose Mourinho being Jose Mourinho, and Pep Guardiola finally losing his cool. If the football were Copa-like and not manita-like the atmosphere would have made up for it. We're all drowning in morbo here, but come on, if we follow football it's as much for the drama as it is for the beauty.
I've downloaded the match, and no regrets about whatever, but I wonder if this is called growing up.
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Ladies. Gentlemen. If I cannot not want to be Arsene Wenger because he just does not compromise, I equally cannot not want to be Jose Mourinho, because he doesn't do things by halves.
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My Angkong turned 71 today. I called Amma up to say happy birthday, and as these things go we spent the next ten minutes talking in raised voices and trying to comprehend what the other was saying. Amma said they went out to celebrate, I'm not sure if it was at Dagupena or Star Plaza, and if I wanted crabs or prawns or bangus or anything, and to go back to Dagupan to visit soon. Times like these make me feel rootless.
---
I haven't seen the clasico yet. This latest one, I mean. I set my alarm for 2:45 in the morning, but when it went off I was headachy and tired (let me tell you this: the only difference between the MRT at rush hour and hell is that the MRT goes both ways) and couldn't sit up properly and still had slides to label because we had an exam the day after, so I just did not get up. I'm not sure that there was ever a more nervous person checking the football sites at one in the afternoon.
And Dr. Guerrero used my slides for our exam- let me make this clear, Dr. Guerrero used my slides, the ones I spent three hours staring at and sticking labels on, only of course with the labels blanked out, because she wasn't able to find any better pictures- and I'm not sure I've ever been prouder in my life. I think I even passed this one, never mind that I never want to see a frog ovary ever again, no matter how pretty it may be. There's something about Bio30 that makes a passing grade feel like a- well, feel like something very grand and very important, but this was the UEFA Champions League semifinal. This was a UEFA Champions League semifinal between Barcelona and Real Madrid, Spain's bitterest rivalry, preceded by Madrid's Copa del Rey win, Jose Mourinho being Jose Mourinho, and Pep Guardiola finally losing his cool. If the football were Copa-like and not manita-like the atmosphere would have made up for it. We're all drowning in morbo here, but come on, if we follow football it's as much for the drama as it is for the beauty.
I've downloaded the match, and no regrets about whatever, but I wonder if this is called growing up.
---
Ladies. Gentlemen. If I cannot not want to be Arsene Wenger because he just does not compromise, I equally cannot not want to be Jose Mourinho, because he doesn't do things by halves.
---
My Angkong turned 71 today. I called Amma up to say happy birthday, and as these things go we spent the next ten minutes talking in raised voices and trying to comprehend what the other was saying. Amma said they went out to celebrate, I'm not sure if it was at Dagupena or Star Plaza, and if I wanted crabs or prawns or bangus or anything, and to go back to Dagupan to visit soon. Times like these make me feel rootless.
