Que pena...

... Mourinho não gostar de futebol. Se Mourinho gostasse de futebol, hoje teria assistido a uma belíssima partida!

Bradley Manning é mais irresponsável que a Haliburton?

Como é possível que haja gente {gente série e insuspeita} a agitar a bandeira do medo, do risco, do perigo, da irresponsabilidade, da segurança, nesta questão das novas fugas de informação?! Haverá maior perigo, maior irresponsabilidade, maior risco, do que aqueles representados por aqueles que nos {e viva a globalização!} representam?! Muitas dúvidas, tenho muitas dúvidas...

Anartea!

Lindo!

NATOrismos

Nem tudo o que luz é NATO.
NATO a NATO enche o ministro a pasta.
Enquanto há NATO há intemperança.
Longe da NATO, longe da acção.
NATO há só uma.
De manhã ouro, à tarde prata, à noite mata.
Da NATO, nem bom vento nem bom trato.
Cá se fazem, cá se NATO.
A NATO não ilude.
A vida é breve, a NATO é longa.
Quem semeia ventos, colhe NATO.
NATO és, NATO serás.
Muita guerra, pouca NATO.
Com 4 letrinhas apenas...

And last but not least...
Se não me agarram, NATO-o.

Atenção, pais com filhos que não participam na alta cimeira...

Hoje, às 15:00, há Nicholas Ray na Cinemateca Júnior. Wind Across the Everglades {1958}, «penúltimo filme de Nicholas Ray em Hollywood, antes da aventura das “produções expatriadas” na Europa, que dariam cabo da sua carreira, WIND ACROSS THE EVERGLADES também é um filme ecologista “avant la lettre”. A acção passa-se nos começos do século XX e mostra a luta de um professor contra os caçadores furtivos que dizimavam certas espécies de aves, cujas penas eram usadas em chapéus de luxo. Fabulosa utilização dos cenários naturais dos pântanos e cursos de água».

Hoje há festa...

... tareia/sauna/agitação/doresvárias/umajolaouduas...







Na ZDB, pelas 22:00.

Terrível lastro, esse de ser do FCP...

«I was sorry (as before) for being in Newgate, but had very few signs of repentance about me. On the contrary, like the waters in the cavities and hollows of mountains, which petrify and turn into stone whatever they are suffered to drop on, so the continual conversing with such a crew of hell-hounds as I was, had the same common operation upon me as upon other people. I degenerated into stone; I turned first stupid and senseless, then brutish and thoughtless, and at last raving mad as any of them were; and, in short, I became as naturally pleased and easy with the place, as if indeed I had been born there.
It is scarce possible to imagine that our natures should be capable of so much degeneracy, as to make that pleasant and agreeable that in itself is the most complete misery. Here was a circumstance that I think it is scarce possible to mention a worse: I was as exquisitely miserable as, speaking of common cases, it was possible for any one to be that had life and health, and money to help them, as I had.
I had weight of guilt upon me enough to sink any creature who had the least power of reflection left, and had any sense upon them of the happiness of this life, of the misery of another; then I had at first remorse indeed, but no repentance; I had now neither remorse nor repentance. I had a crime charged on me, the punishment of which was death by our law; the proof so evident, that there was no room for me so much as to plead not guilty. I had the name of an old offender, so that I had nothing to expect but death in a few weeks' time, neither had I myself any thoughts of escaping; and yet a certain strange lethargy of soul possessed me. I had no trouble, no apprehensions, no sorrow about me, the first surprise was gone; I was, I may well say, I know not how; my senses, my reason, nay, my conscience, were all asleep; my course of life for forty years had been a horrid complication of wickedness, whoredom, adultery, incest, lying, theft; and, in a word, everything but murder and treason had been my practice from the age of eighteen, or thereabouts, to three-score; and now I was engulfed in the misery of punishment, and had an infamous death just at the door, and yet I had no sense of my condition, no thought of heaven or hell at least, that went any farther than a bare flying touch, like the stitch or pain that gives a hint and goes off. I neither had a heart to ask God's mercy, nor indeed to think of it. And in this, I think, I have given a brief description of the completest misery on earth.»
(Moll Flanders, Daniel Defoe, Penguin Books, 1989.)

Estes eram pensamentos que atravessavam a mente de Moll Flanders assim que aterrou na prisão de Newgate. Tão similares devem ser os pensamentos de certos {que os deve haver, imagino, com dificuldade, mas imagino} portistas... A vida não é fácil.

Portogal

Na ressaca da coisa, chego à conclusão de que o que mais me custa não é a derrota, não é a cabazada, não são os 10 pontos, não é mais um campeonato para o FCP... O que mais me incomoda é chegar à triste conclusão de que, embora o SLB seja o clube mais representado em Portugal, é o FCP quem melhor representa Portugal. E acreditem que isto não é um elogio! De todo...

Oh Moll, you sweet wise child...

«There is nothing so absurd, so surfeiting, so ridiculous, as a Man heated by Wine in his Head, and wicked Gust in his Inclination together; he is in the possession of two Devils at once, and can no more govern himself by his Reason than a Mill can Grind without Water; His Vice tramples upon all that was in him that had any good in it, if any such thing there was; nay, his very Sense is blinded by its own Rage, and he acts Absurdities even in his View; such as Drinking more, when he is Drunk already; picking up a common Woman, without regard to what she is, or who she is; whether Sound or rotten, Clean or Unclean; whether Ugly or Handsome, whether Old or Young, and so blinded, as not really to distinguish; such a Man is worse than Lunatick; prompted by his vicious corrupted Head he no more knows what he is doing than this Wretch of mine knew when I pick'd his Pocket of his Watch and his Purse of Gold.»

Moll Flanders, Daniel Defoe, Penguin Books, 1989.

Lovely...

{via}