da vinci

spurs

milan

be fun

HOW TO BE SOMEONE INTERESTING


1. Smile. No, this doesn’t come as a shock, but studies do show that smiling a lot  during a conversation has a direct impact on how friendly you’re perceived to be.

2. Be easily impressed, entertained, and interested. Most people get more pleasure from wowing you with their humor and insight than from being wowed by your humor and insight.

3. Have a friendly, open, engaged demeanor. Lean toward people, nod, say “Uh-huh,” and turn your body to face the other person’s body. Don’t turn your body away, cross your arms, answer in monosyllables, or scan the room (or look at your Blackberry or iPhone! I’ve seen this happen!) as the other person talks.

4. Remember trait transfer. In trait transfer, whatever you say about other people influences how people see you. If you describe a coworker as brilliant and charismatic, your acquaintance will tend to associate you with those qualities. Conversely, if you describe a coworker as arrogant and obnoxious, those traits will stick to you. So watch what you say.

5. Laugh. Showing vulnerability and a sense of humor make you more likable and approachable. However, don’t push this self-deprecation too far—keep it light. You’ll make others uncomfortable if you run yourself down too much.

6. Radiate energy and good humor. Because of the phenomenon of “emotional contagion,” people catch the emotions of other people, and they prefer to catch an upbeat, energetic mood. Even if you pride yourself on your cynicism, biting humor, or general edginess, these qualities can be conveyed with warmth.

old wisbech 1850's

charles bokowski on the rolling stones

They opened on the 9th at the Forum and I went to the track the same day. The track is right across from the Forum and I looked over as I drove in and thought, well, that’s where it’s going to be. Last time I had seen them was at the Santa Monica Civic. It was hot at the track and everybody was sweating and losing. I was hungover but got off well. A track is some place to go so you won’t stare at the walls and whack-off, or swallow ant poison. You walk around and bet and wait and look at the people and when you look at the people long enough you begin to realize that it’s bad because they are everywhere, but it’s bearable because you adjust somewhat, feeling more like another piece of meat in the tide than if you had stayed home and read Ezra, or Tom Wolfe or the financial section.
The tracks aren’t what they used to be: full of hollering drunks and cigar smokers, and girls sitting at the side Benches and showing leg all the way up to the panties. I think times are much harder than the government tells us. The government owes their balls to the banks and the banks have over-lent to businessmen who can’t pay it back because the people can’t buy what business sells because an egg costs a dollar and they’ve only got 50 cents.
 The whole thing can go overnight and you’ll find red flags in the smokestacks and Mao t-shirts walking through Disneyland, or maybe Christ will come back wheeling a golden bike, front wheel 12-to-one ratio to rear.
Anyhow, the people are desperate at the track; it has become the job, the survival, the cross…instead of the lucky lark. And unless you know exactly what you’re doing at a racetrack, how to read and play a toteboard, re-evaluate the trackman’s morning line and eliminate the sucker money from the good money, you aren’t going to win, you aren’t going to win but one time in ten trips to the track. People on their last funds, on their last unemployment check, on borrowed money, stolen money, desperate stinking diminishing money are getting dismantled forever out there, whole lifetimes pissed away, but the, state gets an almost 7 percent tax cut on each dollar, so it’s legal.
I am better than most out there because I have put more study into it. The racetrack to me is like the bullfights were to Hemingway – a place to study death and motion and your own character or lack of it. By the 9th race I was $50 ahead, put $40 to win on my horse and walked to the parking lot. Driving in I heard the result of the last race on the radio – my horse had come in 2nd.
I got on in, took a hot bath, had a joint, had 2 joints (bombers), drank some white wine, Blue Nun, had 7 or 8 bottles of Heineken and wondered about the best way to approach a subject that was holy to a lot of people, the still young people anyhow.
 I liked the rock beat; I still liked sex; I liked the raising high roll and roar and reach of rock, yet I got a lot more out of Bee, and Mahler and Ives. What rock lacked was the total layers of melody and chance that just didn’t have to chase itself after it began, like a dog trying to bite his ass off because he’d eaten hot peppers. Well, I’d try. I finished off the Blue Nun, dressed, had another joint and drove back on out. I was going to be late.
S.O. And the parking lot was full. I circled around and found the closest street to park in – at least a half mile away.
I got out and began to walk. Manchester. The street was full of private residents behind iron bars with guards. And funeral homes. Others were walking in. But not too many. It was late. I walked along thinking, shit, it’s too far, I ought to turn back. But I kept walking. About halfway down Manchester (on the south side) I found a golf course that had a bar and I walked in. There were tables. And golfers, satisfied golfers drinking slowly. There was a daylight golf course but these kitties had been shooting for distance on the straight range under the electric lights. Through the glass back of the bar you could still see a few others out there Jerking off golfballs under the moon. I had a girl with me. She ordered a bloody mary and I ordered a screwdriver. When my belly’s going bad vodka soothes me and my belly’s always going bad. The waitress asked the girl for her I.D. She was 24 and it pleased her. The bartender had a cheating, chalky dumb face and poured 2 thin drinks. Still it was cool and gentle in there.
“Look,” I said, “why don’t we just stay in here and get drunk? Fuck the STONES. I mean, I can make up some kind of story: went to see the STONES, got drunk in a golfcourse bar, pewked, broke a table…knitted a palm tree towel, caught cancer. Whatcha think?”
“Sounds all right.”
When women agree with me I always do the other thing. I paid up and we left. It was still quite a walk. Then we were angling across the parking lot. Security cars drove up and down. Kids leaned against cars smoking joints and drinking cheap wine. Beer cans were about. Some whiskey bottles. The younger generation was no longer pro-dope and anti-alcohol – they had caught up with me: they used it all. When 27 nations would soon know how to use the hydrogen bomb it hardly made sense to preserve your health. The girl and I, our tickets were for seats that were separated. I got her pointed in the direction of her seat and then walked over to the bar. Prices were reasonable. I had two fast drinks, got my ticket stub out, put it in my hand and walked toward the noise. A large chap drunk on cheap wine ran toward me telling me that his wallet had been stolen. I lifted my elbow gently into his gut and he bent over and began to vomit.
I tried to find my section and my aisle. It was dark and light and blaring. The usher screamed something about where my seat was but I couldn’t hear and waved him off. I sat down on the steps and lit a cigarette. Mick was down there in some kind of pajamas with little strings tied around his ankles. Ron Wood was the rhythm guitarist replacing Mick Taylor; Billy Preston was really shooting-off at the keyboard; Keith Richards was on lead guitar and he and Ron were doing some sub-glancing lilting highs against each other’s edges but Keith held a firmer more natural ground, albeit an easy one which allowed Ron to come in and play back against shots and lobs at his will. Charlie Watts on tempo seemed to have joy but his center was off to the left and falling down. Bill Wyman on bass was the total professional holding it all together over the bloody Thames-Forum.
The piece ended and the usher told me that I was over on the other side, on the other side of row N. Another number began. I walked up and around. Every seat was taken. I sat down next to row N and watched the Mick work. I sensed a gentility and grace and desperateness in him, and still some of the power: I shall lead you children the shit out of here.
Then a female with big legs came down and brushed her hip against my head. An usher. Grotch, grotch, double luck. I showed her my stub. She moved out the kid on the end seat. I felt guilty and sat down on it. A huge balloon cock rose from the center of the stage, it must have been 70 feet high. The rock rocked, the cock rocked.
This generation loves cocks. The next generation we’re going to see huge pussies, guys jumping into them like swimming pools and coming out all red and blue and white and gold and gleaming about 6 miles north of Redondo Beach.
Anyhow, Mick grabbed this cock at the bottom (and the screams really upped) and then Mick began to bend that big cock toward the stage, and then he crawled along it (living that time) and he kept moving toward the head, and then he kept getting nearer and then he grabbed the head.
The response was symphonic and beyond.
The next bit began. The guy next to me started again. This guy rocked and bobbed and rocked and rolled and flickered and rotor-rooted and boggled no matter what was or wasn’t. He knew and loved his music. An insect of the inner-beat. Each hit with him was the big hit. Selectivity was Non-comp with him. I always drew one of these.
I went to the bar for another drink and after getting this kid out of my $12.50 seat again, there was Mick, he’d put his foot in a stirrup and now he was holding to a rope and he was way out and swinging back and forth over the heads of his audience, and he didn’t look too steady up there waving back and forth, I didn’t know what he was on, but for the sake of his bi-sexual ass and the heads he was going to fall upon I was glad when they reeled him back in.
Mick wore down after that, decided to change pajamas and sent out Billy Preston who tried to cheese and steal the game from the Jag and almost did, he was fresh and full of armpit and job and jog, he wanted to bury and replace the hero, he was nice, he did an Irish jig painted over in black, I even liked him, but you knew he didn’t have the final send-off, and you must have guessed that Mick knew it too as he buried wet ice under his armpits and ass and mind backstage. Mick came out and finished with Preston. They almost kissed, wiggling assholes. Somebody threw a brace of firecrackers into the crowd. They exploded just properly. One guy was blinded for life; one girl would have a cataract over the left eye forever; one guy would never hear out of one ear. 0.K., that’s circus, it’s cleaner than Vietnam.
Bouquets fly. One hits Mick in the face. Mick tries to stamp out a big ball balloon that lands on stage. He can’t push his foot through it. One saddens. Mick runs over, jumps up, kicks one of his fiddlers in the ass. The fiddler smokes a smile back, gently, full of knowledge: like, the pay is good.
The stage weighs 40 elephants and is shaped like a star. Mick gets out on the edge of the star; he gets each bit of audience alone, that section alone, and then he takes the mike away from his face and he forms his lips into the silent sound: FUCK YOU. They respond.
The edge of the star rises, Mick loses his balance, rolls down to stage center, losing his mike.
There’s more. I get the taste for the ending. Will it be “Sympathy for the Devil”? Will it be like at the Santa Monica Civic? Bodies pressing down the aisles and the young football players beating the shit out of the rock-tasters? To keep the sanctuary and the body and the soul of the Mick intact? I got trapped down there among ankles and cunt hairs and milk bodies and cotton-candy minds. I didn’t want more of that. I got out. I got out when all the lights went on and the holy scene was about to begin and we were to love each other and the music and the Jag and the rock and the knowledge.
I left early. Outside they seemed bored. There were any number of titless blonde young girls in t-shirts and jeans. Their men were nowhere. They sat upon the ends of bumpers, most of the bumpers attached to campers. The titless young blonde things in t-shirts and jeans. They were listless, stoned, unexcited but not vicious. Little tight-butted girls with pussies and loves and flows.
So I walked on down to the car. The girl was in the back seat asleep. I got in and drove off. She awakened. I was going to have to send her back to New York City. We weren’t making it. She sat up.
“I left early. That shit is finally deadening,” she said.
“Well, the tickets were free.”
“You going to write about it?”
“I don’t know. I can’t get any reaction, I can’t get any reaction at all.”
“Let’s get something to eat,” she said.
“Yeah, well, we can do that.”
I drove north on Crenshaw looking for a nice place where you could get a drink and where there wasn’t any music of any kind. It was 0.K. if the waitress was crazy as long as she didn’t whistle.
Charles Bukowski

st.neots town winning a cup on west ham stadium not the hammers one

The team above win a cup on the West Ham a stadium ground that has been demololished in the 70's, it held 103,000.This group of good looking blokes are much better than the baldies who play for St.Neots now. But hey!!!!
The Club was formed in 1879 and was then known as St Neots, the first recorded formal honour was the Hunts Senior Cup, which was won during the Cups inaugural season of 1888/89.
The Club then went on to lift the trophy a further four times before the turn of the century. In the 1901/02 season the Club recorded its first known double when it collected the Hunts Senior Cup (for the sixth time) nd the Fellowes Cup.
Around 1924/25, the Club was renamed St Neots and District and promptly celebrated by winning the Hunts Senior Cup once again. The local Scott Gatty Cup was then won on three consecutive occasions between 1927-29 and within the following twenty years the Club went on to win the Senior Cup a further four times.
In 1949/50 the Club were founder members of the Metropolitan League and recorded the League and Cup Double, deciding not to defend their titles they resigned from the league and joined the Central Alliance League.
 However they then rejoined the Metropolitan League the following season and finished runners up in both the League and the Cup, playing against the reserve sides of Spurs, Arsenal and West Ham. During the 1950's the Club was renamed once more to its present name and was of a size where it could afford to employ a full time Manager/Secretary and 20 contract players.
In 1961/62 they were again runners up in the Metropolitan League Professional Cup - a trophy eventually won in 1965 when Gillingham were beaten. In 1966/67 they joined the United Counties League and also drew Walsall away in the First Round of the F.A. Cup, who were at that time second in the Third Division with an unbeaten home record. The Saints lost 2-0 with both goals coming in the last nine minutes.
The next season the Club did the UCL double and then lifted the cup once more the following season.The Town set a national record for a Senior Football Trophy, winning the Hunts Senior Cup 12 consecutive seasons from 1957 to1969 bringing the total to 33 wins. royal oak pub
However the Club was forced to disband in 1987 after the landlords of "Shortsands" sold the ground for housing. Without a home the Town reformed in 1989 and played local junior football in the Huntingdonshire and District Football League, rewriting the record books again. Winning it four seasons in succession, a record for the League and securing promotion back into the ranks of Senior football, rejoining the United Counties League.
 At the same time the reserves weighed in with three league titles in their respective seasons and the Club won the Hunts Junior Cup three times and were runners up on the other occasion. In addition the Hunts Benevolent Cup was secured twice and the League Cup once.
During April 1992 a 40 year lease was signed on a 4.5 acre site to the east of the town and with tireless fund raising by the new committee, the new ground development Rowley Park commenced. With a new pitch laid and the erection of a Clubhouse facility boasting a player's lounge, function suite and large changing accommodation the Club was back on the local football scene. In that first and memorable season the Club lifted the Division One league title at the first attempt and won promotion back to the Premier Division after a very competitive season. Re admission to the F.A Cup and F.A Vase followed with the erection of a 150 seater stand and floodlighting make the Rowley Park facilities the envy of many UCL Clubs.
The Saints have now firmly established themselves one of the leading Clubs at their level and season 2001/2002 has seen the Club reach the last sixteen of the FA Vase for the first time in their history, finally bowing out 2-1 at Durham City. The new 200 plus seater 'Cambridge Road' stand was offically opened by the town crier, when St. Neots Town played Leicester City on October 22nd, in season 2002/03.
In April 2008 the club moved into brand new facilities. The original Rowley Park ground is being redeveloped as part of the major Love's Farm development, which will include 1200 houses and a primary school. This according to some has changed the pleasant face of St.Neots forever and makes one think that football teams should get out of the business of ground redevelopment.
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AZZURDISTAN 2 dual tasking

the minister for education can pick her nose and laugh at the same time and hey if you are absurd you need to live in the tax paradise of azzurdistan

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ASSURDIZTAN 1

ASSURDIZTAN
 In Assurdiztan the minister for education has children going to schools in someones appartment who have rented  it out for lessons.Many of these apartments are falling apart as well, its like you go to someones flat for a lesson, like ten kids crammed inside a room for a lesson, this is school in assurdiztan.
 Azzurdiztan's minister for education saysall the school books are written by commie fucks . The minister for education in Azzurdistan proves that there is very little difference in intelligence as regards men and women.The minister for education supports the Pres who may have had sex with minors but hey......

gillingham

THE KILLING. a must see film

cl

Johnny Clay (Sterling Hayden), an ex-convict, organizes a $2 million racecourse hold-up. His accomplices are race track cashier George Peatty (Elisha Cook, Jr.); the barman Mike OReilly (Joe Sawyer), crooked policeman Randy Kenna (Ted de Corsia), and former alcoholic Marvin Unger (Jay C. Filppen) who finances the operation. Johnny's fiancee, Fay (Colleen Gray), worries that he may go back to prison for this but he tells her that the risks are worth taking.

George needs the money to give to his nagging and narcissistic wife Sherry (Marie Windsor), who is having an affair with Val Cannon (Vince Edwards), whom is trying to persuade Sherry to let him kill George so they can run off with his money. Mike needs the money to care for his constantly sick wife. Randy is revealed to need the money to pay off some local bookies for bad gambling debts.

During their meeting, George catches Sherry spying on them and subdues her. He sends the others, including George, home to talk with her. Johnny knows that Sherry is a grifter only out for money, and he tells her that he will give her a generous share of their loot when it gets pulled off. But Sherry, being who she is, tells Val who agrees to steal the money afterwards so they can have it all for themselves.

Johnny hires Nikki Arane (Timothy Carey), a gunman-for-hire and Maurice Oboukhoff (Kola Kwarain), a former ex-con and Russian wrestler, to create diversions at the start of the 7th race when the hold-up will begin.

Here is how the heist is executed in detail from different points of view tie is house of fraser

At the start of the 7th race, Maurice starts a brawl at Mike's bar. The racetrack guards subdue him. While they are occupied, George opens the door to the payroll office and Johnny slips through. Johnny gets out a rapid-firing shotgun that Mike planted earlier in his locker, puts on a mask and holds up the four clerks at the payroll office. Johnny stuffs $2 million in cash into a large bag and throws it out the window. Randy, waiting below, takes the bag, drives to a motel, and leaves it in a room that Johnny is renting. Johnny then escapes from the racetrack in the confusion and panic caused when Nikki shoots the racehorse, Red Lighting, with a high-powered rifle from a distant parking lot. But Nikki is killed by a black policeman (James Edwards), whom he had earlier insulted by calling him a "nigger", shoots him down as he attempts to flee.

Edwards was born Vincent Edward Zoino III in Brooklyn, New York, the son of Julia and Vincento Zoino, a bricklayer, immigrants from Italy. He had a twin brother and was the youngest of seven children. He was a standout on his high school swim team and went on to study at Ohio State University on an athletic scholarship. There, he was part of the university's swim team that won the United States National Championships.

Zoino studied acting at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts and in 1950, he was signed to a contract by Paramount Pictures, making his film debut as "Vince Edwards" in 1951's Mr. Universe then played the lead next year in Hiawatha.loakes
 Although he had major or lead roles in several films, including the film noirs Murder by Contract (1958) and The Scavengers (1959), it was not until he was featured in the title character on the highly successful Ben Casey television series that he achieved a level of stardom. The medical drama show, which he occasionally directed, ran from 1961 to 1966 and, as a result of the show's and his own popularity, Edwards also released several music albums. Vince was represented by one of Hollywood's first "Super Agents", Abbey Greshler of Diamond Artists in Hollywood.

When the television series ended, Edwards returned to acting in motion pictures with a major role in the 1968 war drama, The Devil's Brigade. He continued to act in film as well as in guest spots on television plus. He directed a number of episodes in a variety of television series including the original Battlestar Galactica. some twenty-two years after the series ended, Edwards returned to television as Dr. Ben Casey in 1988. Edwards made his last film in 1995, The Fear, after the filming of which he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.

He died in Los Angeles, California the following year and was buried in the Holy Cross Cemetery in Culver City, California.

Afterward, George, Mike, Randy and Marvin wait at Johnny's apartment for him to show up with the loot when they are surprised by Val Cannon and an accomplice of his demanding to know where the loot is. A gunfight ensues and everyone is killed, except George who, though mortally wounded, drags himself home and kills Sherry who admits that she betrayed him, before expiring himself.

When Johnny learns that his partners are in trouble, he stuffs the racetrack loot in an old suitcase and goes to the airport and meets with Fay so they can leave town. They both purchase tickets to Boston, but the airport officials refuse to let Johnny carry the large suitcase on the plane, and he reluctantly checks the suitcase in for luggage.

On the airport runway, the suitcase containing the money falls off a luggage truck which swerves to avoid hitting a snobbish, rich woman's pet dog. The suitcase breaks open, and the money is scattered in all directions. Johnny and Fay attempt to escape from the airport, but they cannot hail a taxi. "What's the difference?", Johnny says as the police close in on them. all hats mellicarri of monza by the lion bridge

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