Saturday, June 6, 2009

A Stroll by Harlem

by Pedro

The descendants of the African slaves who arrived at the USA between centuries XVI and XIX are a unique group. At present, they almost represent a 10% of the population of this diverse country, but its presence in the great cities, like New York, Los Angeles or Chicago, is greater, as much by numbers as by visibility. Harlem, a predominantly black district located in the North end of Manhattan, appears in few tourist routes, but it is a place worthy to visit. By day. Way with two friendly - one Jew, another target like the snow - to double time. The Jew is put the wind up but it tries to disguise it. Both they transmit the fear not confeso that all the white Americans have to the black. For that reason they are changed to the outskirts, fodder. The scent to chicken fried originating of the stores of soul food - the traditional food of the black of the south - floods apples, something deteriorated by the passage of time. We went to the famous field of basketball of Rucker Park, in street 155 with the boulevard of Frederick Douglas. In summer, according to I have read, some stars of the NBA as Kobe Bryant or Paul Pierce comes to play this track. It counts the legend that in these authentic fields played cracks; jugones of the street thrown to lose. Around street 151, to four apples of the fields, the thing is put ugly. A black escupe Jewish friend and calls “white fag to him.” We happen of the uncle and the short cut between the gray blocks of social house and pillaged a bus that takes direct to the tracks. When we arrived is nobody playing, only four lads smoking, supported in the fence. Hopefully it would have brought a ball, fodder, while I imagine the atmosphere in this track a Sunday anyone of summer.

Pastafina Forevah

By Austin Thomas

I am writing this on a Mac and I have no fucking clue how to use a Mac, so this is gonna be quite difficult so please forgive any weird mistakes i make while righting this. And I'm really stoned. Already I am having trouble with this space bar and have had to go back three times for not properly spacing between words and making three word jumbo words. With that said, here goes.

I took me nearly 45 minutes to find the pizza menu from the drawerthat Morgan said was right in the top of the menu drawer. It was not. It was in the bottombehinda dirty t-shirt. Damnass space bar. On top was a menu for a pizza place whose number is no longer in service. Then I found the right pizza menu, but called the fax number by mistake. After I got through, I ordered a large pie - half mushroom and half pineapple and peperroni. That was Nick's suggestions - not mine. Before ordering this pizza, I earned up quite an appetite from a game of NBA Jam.

Brian and I were the Knicks. He was John Starks and I was Patrick Ewing. For some reason, Starks and Ewing look exactly alike in the game. Nick was on the guitar playing along to the game, giving us motivation. Then Nick got tired and stopped playing. And Brian and I started getting our ass kicked. So Nick continued to play, and we came back. I tied it with Ewing on a dunk that broke the backboard, which Nick said has never happened before in the history of the world, and then Brian stole the ball and hit a three-point buzzer beater that won it. I've never been so exhilirated. But then we had to write down the code which was a problem because you can't tell a 5 from an S or a U from V. So you have to write down each possible permutation.

Then the Doctor Teddy Getz got hungry for some pizza crust.

The pizza great. And watching Curb while eating it maybe it even better. The mushrooms look fake but they give you a lot of them. Side note - There is always time to tango in an Arnold Schwerzenegger film. I'm getting tired. Want to get back to Jam. As my faithful readers will remember from my pompous Pizza Box post, i do not do actual ratings. But that is only due to my own ineptitude and laziness. This should not discourage future contributors from doing ratings. Ratings are important and vital to this post's credibility. This is not something we do for fun. This is a responsibility.

So take note. The pizza blog is back, now and forever. Even Pedro's social commentaries on race relations in the U.S. are welcome. I leave you know with a song. Try to imagine the melody in your head:

The Pizza Song

Pizza for breakfast
Pizza for lunch.
Pizza for supper
Pizza for brunch.

Pizza for dinner
Pizza for desert.
I eat Pizza all day long
Until my stomach hurts!

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Un paseo por Harlem

Los descendientes de los esclavos africanos que llegaron a EE UU entre los siglos XVI y XIX son un grupo único. En la actualidad, representan casi un 10% de la población de este diverso país, pero su presencia en las grandes ciudades, como Nueva York, Los Ángeles o Chicago, es mayor, tanto por números como por visibilidad.

Harlem, un barrio predominantemente negro situado en la punta norte de Manhattan, figura en pocos recorridos turísticos, pero es un lugar digno de visitar. De día.

Camino con dos amigos – uno judío, otro blanco como la nieve – a paso ligero. El judío está acojonado pero intenta disimularlo. Los dos me transmiten el miedo no confeso que todos los estadounidenses blancos tienen a los negros. Por eso se mudan a las afueras, pienso. El olor a pollo frito proveniente de las tiendas de soul food – la comida tradicional de los negros del sur – inunda las manzanas, algo deterioradas por el paso del tiempo.

Nos dirigimos a la famosa cancha de baloncesto de Rucker Park, en la calle 155 con el bulevar de Frederick Douglas. En verano, según he leído, algunas estrellas de la NBA como Kobe Bryant o Paul Pierce vienen a jugar a esta pista. Cuenta la leyenda que en estas canchas jugaron auténticos cracks; jugones de la calle echados a perder.

A la altura de la calle 151, a cuatro manzanas de las canchas, la cosa se pone fea. Un negro escupe a mi amigo judío y le llama “maricón blanco.” Pasamos del tío y del atajo entre los bloques grises de vivienda social y pillamos un autobús que nos lleva directos a las pistas.

Cuando llegamos no hay nadie jugando, sólo cuatro chavales fumando, apoyados en la valla. Ojala hubiese traído un balón, pienso, mientras imagino el ambiente en esta pista un domingo cualquiera de verano.