Ironically, the most important and rewarding aspect of blogging is the social interaction. Ironic because, on the one hand, I will never see any of my readers or fellow bloggers. Aside from their gravators and bigsoccer profiles, that is. On the other hand, this may be a good thing. The internet allows us to engage on a purely intellectual level, and the sheer depth and breadth of my typographical errors should make clear I am no ivy league graduate. No, I am the blue collar, working man’s blogger, the hardest working blogger this side of Pete Rose. In my world of posts and tweets there is no guaranteed ground out -I will hustle to first even when my coach calls for a hit-and-run. That is why my site averages a post every other day – I am so exhausted from my efforts that 24 hours of rest is necessary.
So, despite my dedication, commitment, and mad social skillz, I can’t help but think of the Dead Hungarian Footballing apparition that got away. I know, I know – I sound like a middle aged fisherman. Hemingway wrote a short story on the folly of free will by focusing on an old man’s valiant efforts vs. the forces of nature. I don’t plan on flailing broken oars at sharks anytime soon, but is it too much to ask an email every few months of a Dead Hungarian Footballing apparition? Every six months?
My relocation to the humid and cartel plagued land of Southern Texas has surely played a part. Kansas, with its moderate climate and ample grassland, is an idle breeding ground for goats, the sustenance of choice for a Dead Hungarian Footballer apparition. Cows can’t even survive a moderate South Texas summer, so I can’t get mad at Pusky for not setting up his residence here. But I can get angry when he logs into Gchat and ignores my friendly messages? Yes.
I could understand this behavior if Pusky had some pimped out smartphone which did stuff on its own. But deep down in our hearts, we know that Pusky has some prepaid Pocket phone that charges 20 cents per minute on top of a preposterous monthly fee. What bothers me is that Ferenc obviously is logging into Gchat at cybercafes to chat with somebody. And that somebody is not me.
This time of the year brings out the worst in me. I wouldn’t snatch the crutches from Tiny Tim, but if he fell and got a face full of snow in front of me, I wouldn’t help him up. This time of year, while carolers sing songs of Christmas and farmers lock their barns to keep lunatics out of mangers, Sepp Blatter uses Pusky’s name in vain. Some executive committee chooses to adorn a goal with the blessing of Pusky without his express prior written permission. Blasphemy!
Not even an email.
So what are we to do, the chosen few? Pusky has touched but a handful with his blessed spirit, selecting us to protect his good name and derange wikipedia long before Artur Borac yelled about corn. As political prosecutions threaten the Australian founder of a website dedicated to transparency, we find inspiration in a kernel of dissent. Eric Cantona’s call to arms fell on deaf ears, yet the cries and coordinated d-n-s attacks of the “anonymous” hackers bring fortune five hundred companies to their knees.
Pusky predicted all of this, of course. Only as a transient apparition that hopped continents to feast on goat’s blood could he understand & embrace the 21st century. Despite resource wars and netflix streaming slowing down server times for entire continents, the open source expression of ideas sends shivers down the dictator’s spine. You want control? You want denial? Smoke a j and go to a feisty showing of the Rocky Horror Picture show, ’cause you won’t find any of that in this neck of the woods. You can take Pusky’s name and slap it on a goal for the greater good of Castrol’s oil ad campaign, but we can smell the tar balls on the Gulft Coast a mile away.
To be continued…