Jubilance Reigns for My Old Hometown and My New Hometown

The police were there, but the crowd wasn't giving them much to do.

Last night, two great things happened within hours of each other for my adopted hometown and my place of birth: FC Barcelona, the city's beloved soccer team and standard-bearers for many a Catalan separatist, took down their bitter rivals, Real Madrid, to advance to the finals of the UEFA Champions League.  For the uninitiated (and I do not pretend to know very much about soccer, so I can but skim the surface here), the UEFA Champions League is the top trophy a European soccer club can win.

There was a healthy crowd on hand.

Some climbing was done

The celebrations here began around 10.30pm (22.30, for those of you inclined to 24-hour notation) and the din was so great that I began to wonder if the Blaugrana had in fact won the battle for Armageddon.  After 90 or so minutes of listening to the happy cries of Barca's faithful, I decided that this was a cultural event I would be poorer for missing.  So, I grabbed my camera and began walking the few blocks from our apartment to Plaza Catalunya, the spiritual heart of the city.  Along the way, I was passed by more than a few revelers and more than a few police officers.  For the most part, it was a relatively orderly gigantic celebration of nationalistic pride expressed as a soccer game, although the crowd was thick enough to prevent me from getting all the way up to Plaza Catalunya.

And, of course, the press was covering it all.

The celebration lasted well into the night.  For FC Barcelona to advance by way of defeating Real Madrid sent the city (and quite possibly all of Catalonia) into a frenzied celebration that lasted well into the night.  I should know; I was up until 4.00 in the morning local time watching the Lightning beat one of their biggest rivals, the Washington Capitals.

It's been seven long and mostly inglorious years since the Tampa Bay Lightning hoisted the Stanley Cup for the first (and, so far, only) time in their history.  They went through two ownership changes; Oren Koules and Len Barrie nearly destroyed the team to the extent that now I won't watch movie or television show produced by Oren Koules (of the Saw franchise and also a producer for the Charlie Sheen-torpedoed Two and a Half Men) before Jeff Vinik rode in and rescued the team from a becoming the Florida version of the New York Islanders--a fate worse than death.

In his first season of ownership, Vinik managed the twin coups of hiring Steve Yzerman away from the best organization in North American professional sports, the Detroit Red Wings, and plucking the hottest coaching prospect, Guy Boucher, right out from under the nose of the Montreal Canadiens several years before that organization thought he was ready for the NHL.  Yzerman and Boucher have proven themselves not only ready for the challenge of rebuilding (resurrecting?) a franchise, but turning that franchise into legitimate Stanley Cup contenders overnight.

The 4-3 victory over the Capitals on 3 May gives the Lightning a three games-to-none stranglehold on their Eastern Conference Semifinals that no one thought the Bolts were capable of pulling off, save for, perhaps, the Lightning themselves.  And while the Tampa Bay Lightning have by no means clinched their birth in the Eastern Conference Finals, they look well-positioned to be able to pound in the final nail on the coffin holding the hopes of the Capitals and their Stanley Cup aspirations.  The Bolts will hopefully do so either tonight or Saturday and not let the Capitals hang around long enough to get their confidence back.

It is, of course, impossible to predict where the Lightning's run will end, but if it ends with them hoisting the Stanley Cup, I may be as ebullient as the fans you see in the photos up top.  I'll try not to climb on any lampposts, though.

In a few days here, I'll post my thoughts on bin Laden's being killed that will probably burn a few bridges and lose some Facebook friends at the least.  Maybe by then we'll know the outcome of the Lightning's tussle with the Capitals.

Just Don't Feel Like It

There are about 151,549 different things I could be doing right now that would actually be productive and I don't feel like doing a one of them. I've shirked any semblance of responsibility I might have (which is surprisingly considerable for an "unemployed" expatriate) and dragged myself off the couch solely for water and a peanut butter sandwich and a half. I've downloaded a good deal of music, including most of The Dillinger Escape Plan's catalog. I may have a new favorite metal outfit, although they are a bit of a hard listen.

I'd make excuses for this behavior (at least I was up at 7.10 this morning, it's been a drizzling and partly miserable day, won't SOMEBODY appreciate the sheer volume of music downloaded, Mother Jones had some REALLY interesting sh*t in it) but it really doesn't solve any of the underlying motivational issues. So the bottom line remains the same: I have spent the day stealing your precious air, just sucking in air, nourishing my body with the oxygen it contains and blowing out nothing but carbon dioxide and waste gases that I cannot use effectively. I feel like I should apologize, but I won't. It wouldn't change anything anyway. I'm going to work on my other blog now. Thanks for reading! (No, you may not have the last five minutes of your life back.)

Tyranny in Blue and Yellow

There's something vaguely sinister about Ikea. I have a hard time defining it, which leads to chuckles from my friends and family when I first tell them, "I think there's something vaguely sinister about Ikea." But I think it has to do with the uniformity with which their stores are laid out and the fact that every last little piece of everything is for sale. You can buy it all, even the fake computers and TVs, I suspect. And there are those little arrows telling you where you should be going. Not where you MUST go, mind you; no, that would lay bare their hidden agenda of world domination for all to see.

The store is far too clever to give up its intentions so readily. Instead, Ikea entices all with its promise of fashionable, cozy modernism for any budget. Are you well compensated? We have a luxurious sofa for you for $600. On the lower end of the pay scale? Here's a futon for $150, a light fixture for $5. And it's all so tidy and kempt. They've even arranged the furnishings for you: they have "apartments" as small as 55 square feet laid out in their stores, fully bedecked in their wide variety of coffee tables, bunk beds and kitchen ranges.

Interestingly, like the ersatz apartments built within the stores, there are almost no windows in the stores themselves, at least on their sales floors. They mimic casinos in that way, further embedding the notion that one isn't in a furniture store so much as an alternate reality, an Ikea world where things are peaceful, harmonious and tastefully decorated. One could easily lose track of time (there is a distinct dearth of clocks in Ikeas as well) and find him- or herself spending an entire afternoon in its cozy confines.

The icing on this conspiratorial cake is Ikea's ability to put a warm, human face on all of this. So insidiously ingenious is their plan that one cannot help but to ignore all of the aforementioned subtle clues to the store's true intentions and embrace the fluffy consumerism promoted inside.

I suspect that there are others out there who, like me, have begun to divine the plot for world domination buried deeply within the smartly-appointed store but who are just as unable as I am to discern enough of the details to rip the mask off this institution and expose its nefarious plan. So, in the interests of all of humanity, I shall continue to make the occasional foray into this Swedish heart of darkness, brave its enticements of moderately-priced modernism, purchase an item or two for closer inspection at home and report, dear readers, on my findings. Wish me good fortune.

Lamentations of a Weather Nerd

One of the great frustrations I have had while living in Spain has been the attempt to get good, accurate, up-to-date weather reports in this country. You know, like those they have in America. My efforts have undoubtedly been hindered by the fact that I haven't lived in an apartment that has a TV since 1 November of last year, but still, one would expect to find something online that resembled what the United States has at its disposal. But alas, all of the weather sites that I know are US-based and a bit dicey in regards to their international forecasts, or at least that's how it appears to me.

Let's take Accuweather's site as an example. Here is what the forecast for Tampa looks like. Here is what the forecast for Barcelona looks like. Can you spot the difference? I thought so. Stevie Wonder could spot that difference. It's pretty big. I went to the BBC's website to try and get a video forecast and found one--that was posted yesterday at 2.30 in the morning. Way to phone-in the weather forecast, Beeb. And Spain's national meteorological site has few of the bells and whistles of its American counterpart.

To be fair, Weather.com and Weather Underground seem to put forth as much effort in dressing up their international forecasts as they do their domestic forecasts, but that really doesn't support this screed. Besides, they ARE based in the United States, so I would expect that their international forecasts, while less of an afterthought than those of Accuweather, are still not where they concentrate the majority of their efforts. And that leaves me a bit suspicious of the forecasts issued by these otherwise-venerable institutions. And so the search continues.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

This is, without a doubt, my favorite sports time of the year. The NCAA Tournament is big fun, especially in its first and final weekends, the Super Bowl is indeed a spectacle and the World Series is often worth watching (for the most part). But the best tournament, at least for my money, is the NHL Stanley Cup Playoffs.

In the Playoffs, what is normally a fast, hard-hitting sport becomes even more intense than one would otherwise think possible. Defenders (and forwards) fall in front of a piece of vulcanized rubber traveling at times in excess of a hundred miles an hour just to keep it from finding the back of the net. I'd hate to see what some of those welts look like. Men skate with spaghetti for legs into third, fourth, even fifth overtime periods as fans sit transfixed into the wee hours of the morning waiting for someone, anyone to tuck the puck behind the goalie and put an end to the evening. Grievous injuries are ignored, coaches are told by other coaches to shut their yaps, razor companies across Canada and the northern U.S. anxiously await the end of the various series so that another town's men might once again groom their beards and the Gillettes of the world may once again turn profits.

Of course, the festivities are that much better when one has a rooting interest in the tournament. This year, my Tampa Bay Lightning are back in the playoffs for the first time since 2007 and I cannot wait to watch the action. Even if I have to wait until the next evening to do so. Or stay up until 4am. Doesn't matter. What passes for a beard on my face is slowly, inexorably growing toward its ultimate destiny as the Bolts tangle first with the Pittsburgh Penguins. I'm almost giddy and face-off's still 40 minutes away. Tick-tock, tick-tock.

Taking the Bull by the Horns

Well, the consulate may have thwarted my efforts at contacting them (at least for today), but I finally--FINALLY--managed to do something productive that DIDN'T involve sending documents to the Spanish consulate: I RAN!

I am in the middle of a challenge against my wife whereby the person who works out the most while I'm stuck in the United States waiting desperately for a visa from the Spanish kingdom wins a t-shirt from Kukuxumusu. Kukuxumusu is a really sweet company that prints t-shirts with odd, sometimes off-color designs on them. The word itself means "kiss of the flea" in the Basque language; I'll let you do the research on where that all came from.

I have quite a lot of ground to make up--at the moment, I am 11 kilometers down in the challenge. But, I also have quite a bit more time on my hands than my wife thanks to the diligence of the consulate workers. And now that the various visits have been all but completed, I am going to settle down to work on figuring out what I want to be when I grow up. And, more importantly, how to make money at it.

Why It Sometimes Sucks To Be A Sports Fan

I love sports. Hockey and football (American-style) first and foremost, but I root for my Rays as well. I'll even dig a soccer game or two (FC Barca in particular). I grew up in the Tampa Bay area, so my first allegiance is to any team from my hometown and long did I suffer through awful football, hockey and baseball seasons before seeing each of my three teams rise through the ranks to claim championships of some sort in each of their respective sports. The Super Bowl and Stanley Cup victories of the Buccaneers and Lightning respectively were two of my favorite moments in life, while watching the Rays clinch the American League pennant over the Boston Red Sox was particularly gratifying in as much as it denied the Red Sox (also known as the Diet Yankees) a spot in the World Series that they would eventually lose to the Phillies.

Since my family is from Pittsburgh, I have the added bonus of being able to root for the Penguins and Steelers should my hometown heroes get bounced from post-season competition early. This has more often than not served me well; the Pens and Steelers have both won championships while my Bolts and Bucs have largely floundered over the past few seasons. And so it was this year that the Steelers made yet another Super Bowl and I was yet again cheering for them. Almost all of them, anyway.

If you follow the NFL, you are probably familiar with the case of Ben Roethlisberger. A few years back, he was accused by a young woman in Lake Tahoe of sexual assault. Take this as an indictment of my character if you like, but my initial thought was that the girl was probably looking to extort some cash out of the guy. Roethlisberger had never to my knowledge been accused of anything like this before, he is famous, he is rich and accusations such as these do from time to time get hurled at rich, famous people in an effort by the accuser to get rich him- or herself. Since he was my favorite quarterback playing for my second-favorite team and had no history of sexual assault allegations, I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

Then came the allegations of the woman in Georgia. Things looked rather similar in this case: young woman, famous quarterback, accusations of rape. This time, though, the quarterback's accuser filed a criminal complaint. The details of the incident in Georgia that came out over the following weeks painted a quite damning portrait of my favorite quarterback. And while district attorney Fred Bright found he could not "prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt", he made it abundantly clear that if he had just a bit more physical evidence and the victim in this case was more ardent in pressing forward, "Big Ben" would have at least been in criminal court to answer these charges.

The second allegation against Roethlisberger makes the incident in Tahoe sound less like naked opportunism and more like modus operandi and as the old saying goes, "Where there's smoke, there's fire". Maybe he really did nothing to either of those women but I somehow doubt it. The stories are too similar and taken with an incident of stupidity on a motorcycle that nearly cost him his life, it begins to look an awful lot like "Big Ben" has a bad habit of making stupid choices off the football field. Choices that come from a sense of entitlement that is all too often bred into the minds of star athletes who have been led to believe that the world truly is their oyster, who rarely hear the word "no" and who react very badly when the do hear it.

Roethlisberger disappointed me and thousands of other Steelers fans, many of whom openly called for him to be traded away from a proud, working-class NFL franchise in a proud, working-class city. I was one of those who hoped the Steelers would have nothing to do with him. Sadly, the Steelers, like any other NFL franchise, felt the exigent concern was winning football games and to that end they retained him. So, I gritted my teeth from afar and cheered on my second-favorite team despite what their starting quarterback had been (at least) accused of. And when the Super Bowl arrived, I cheered on the men in black and gold once again. Almost of them, anyway.

Deep in my heart, as I stayed up watching the game until 4:00am Central European Time, I hoped the Steelers would win their seventh Vince Lombardi trophy in spite of a lackluster performance by number 7. I was hoping "Big Ben" would have a bad game but that the squad from the confluence of the three rivers would pull it out with a strong running attack and a defensive touchdown (or two). I got half my wish; Roethlisberger finished the game with two interceptions, one returned for a touchdown, and a sub-par quarterback rating of 77.4, but the Steelers couldn't pull the game out. And, with a tinge of sadness, a little part of me smiled.