After calling for a (decisive) penalty kick for South Africa on a phantom handbabll by Senegal defender Kalidou Koulibaly during last November’s 2018 World Cup qualifier, Ghanaian referee Joseph Odartei Lamptey has been hit with a lifetime ban by FIFA, as Goal.com’s Evans Gyamera-Antwi details :
“The FIFA disciplinary committee has decided to ban the Ghanaian match official Joseph Odartei Lamptey from taking part in any kind of football-related activity (administrative, sports or any other) at national and international level for life,” a statement read.
“The official was found guilty of breaching art. 69 par. 1 (unlawfully influencing match results) of the Fifa disciplinary code during the 2018 FIFA World Cup Russia qualifying match between South Africa and Senegal on 12 November 2016,” the statement added.
However, unlike Lamptey, assistant referee David Lionheart Nii Lartey Laryea, who was running the touchline when Lamptey made the ‘unthinkable call’ has been pardoned after investigations proved him innocent.
In 2011, Lamptey was handed a six-month ban by CAF when he awarded a dubious goal to Esperance de Tunis in a CAF Champions League game against Egyptian giants Al Ahli.
The most dangerous letter in the DIY Greek alphabet, XETAS are greeting 2017 with their sophomore album and spring tour, serious as a heart attack and more fun than the drugs they give you in the hospital after the medics bring you back to life.
Pumping through Austin’s clogged Red River arteries since 2014, the Austin firebrands have temporarily broken their vows of Shaolin silence with ten tracks of unadulterated defibrillation –an electrifying monument to distorted melody and verbal hooks brought to a full boil.
This, after spending most of 2016 dedicating their lives to anonymity and heated discussions as to whether the city’s most indispensable soundperson sleeps in his jacket.
Propelled by a new drummer -O.D.J.- who will one day drum a hole to China solely using jazz brushes, XETAS seemingly are on a collision course with the halls of power, despite the absence of any campaign coordination with the Russian ambassador.
Add in the blitzkrieg guitars, bass and vocals of D and K respectively and you’ve arrived at a collection of tools of the trade turned weaponized instruments the likes of which are sure to provoke many a sleepless night at NATO Headquarters.
Recorded over a 24-hour period in the fall of 2016 with engineer Ian Rundell (Carl Sagan’s Skate Shoes, Spray Paint, Empty Markets), the 37-minute, 10-track album was recorded in less than than 7 minutes –a testimony to the band’s energy and capacity for bending time and space after years of monastic devotion.
The melodies are dirty, distorted and delicious, dishing on the world in a jolting and at times unnerving manner, speaking truth to power, assuring a nation already grappling with insomnia under new federal management that it never sleeps again, in soundman Max’s jacket, or otherwise.- Paul Stinson
One does not simply whelp oneself. For one thing, it’s hard to know exactly what whelping means, because it is both a noun (a pup) and a verb (to produce a pup), and for another I was not even really a pup, as it might be understood relative to a human life-span, when our host GC noticed what an unpleasantly persistent comment section presence I was and offered me a chance to write on the site. I was not quite a whelp, and more a late-gestating dude with a lot of problems who’d found a website he liked; GC did not quite whelp me so much as he gave me a login, which I repeatedly forgot. But it was the start of my life as someone who makes a living by being wrong, strenuously and often at length, about sports. Whatever happened, however it happened, I wound up well and truly whelped. And, at the risk of belaboring the point about how good and cool I am, I never forgot what made me: being wrong as hell about pretty much everything.
It’s not fair to say that the CSTBracket is a tribute to that, although being wrong about our predictions is the one thing that every CSTBracket participant has in common with every other. Mostly it was just a thing I liked doing—being wrong, but also picking a super-shitty NCAA Tournament bracket—and which GC let me do when I asked if he would let me do it, a little over ten years ago. That is a long time to keep doing anything, especially if that thing is Overestimating Purdue Literally Every Single Year For Some Reason. But, as it happens, it is not actually that much work to set up a NCAA Tournament bracket on Yahoo Sports. For instance, I was able to do it myself in just a couple minutes. Click here and you’ll find the group; enter “cstb” as your password, without the quotes, and you will gain entry. None of this is difficult. I already knew this.
The difficult part, as always, as is not being wrong about too many games. It’s difficult because college basketball is insane, at least when it’s working properly, and because being surprised is the whole point of it. The idea is to be wrong. The idea of the CSTBracket was always to be wrong together. Whichever one of us winds up being least wrong will luck into some prize pack of GC’s choosing—last year it was some good stuff from 12XU and a saucy autographed photo of Marcus Fizer. This year, we might as well presume that there’s a Wally Szczerbiak bathing suit photo involved. Honestly, if you’re thinking about what you might win, you’ve already lost. Getting things right is not what this is about, or has ever been about.
It’s about getting shit wrong, gambling and losing, overthinking it or leaning too hard into what is not in fact a load-bearing hunch. That’s the point. That’s always been the point. Get the people together. Fuck it all up, get it all wrong. Do it again next year. This has always been what it’s about; it’s never really made sense as anything else. It is a privilege to be this wrong. It is an honor, always, to exercise it.
(from 2013 : Lamont Thomas and Elijah Vasquez of Cleveland, OH’s Obnox react to the news they’ll be using microphones once touched by someone who’d met someone who once hung out with Adrenalin O.D.)
There’s no better way to distract yourself from the craven, creepy meat-marketing that is Austin’s annual tech/film/music trade fair than by focusing your attention on Jersey City’s venerable WFMU, and their annual fund raising marathon. Keep in mind, this is the station that ended my own radio career in the most inglorious (if not brutally unfair) way, so I must really really love the fuckers to death to continue shilling for them.
I don’t listen to enough other radio — online or otherwise — to say with authority that WFMU is the nation’s (or the world’s) best broadcaster. But as someone who’s been listening to the station for longer than some of you have been able to scratch yourselves, I will say this much : in an era in which there’s myriad options that all but guarantee you’ll never encounter something you dislike, a genre you’re unfamiliar with or an artist that lacks the backing of a colossal/rigged infrastructure, WFMU has never been more crucial or fun. Even with the disappearance of a certain Tuesday night program two years ago, WFMU’s cavalcade of hosts have the ability to entertain, educate and enrage, sometimes within the confines of the same show/hour/set.
I live in a house surrounded by more interesting records than I’ll ever have time to listen to, yet I still find myself listening to WFMU when I get up, in the middle of the afternoon, driving around town or at the end of the night. At any given moment I might hear an amazing song I’ve not even thought of in years. Or I might hear something (old or new) that I’ve never come across that’s nothing short of mind-blowing.
Is every show the greatest listening experience of all time? Absolutely not (HELLO, DAVE HILL). But the vast majority are programmed by the sort of insane music obsessives that have the sort of wit, zeal, perspective that no algorithm can ever hope to replace. To say this type of broadcasting is not exactly in vogue would be a huge understatement — even so-called public radio is tightly playlisted, genre-specific and fixated on branding in ways you’d have previously associated with commercial radio (or sterilization via pesticide exposure). So give what you can ; they only do the shakedown thing once (ok, sometimes twice) a year and given the amounts people are dropping on cable, netflix, hulu, various music subscription services, Nintendo Switch, washed coffee beans, Zosia Mamet’s kickstarter etc., throwing a few bucks at WFMU isn’t the least you could do (that would be giving them no money at all), but please consider it just the same.
On the bright side, there’s no Randy L. in Queens brandishing scissors to relieve Jacob de Grom or Noah Syndergaard of their long, lustrous hair. On the other hand, considering Matt Harvey is at least as likely to take up full-time food blogging as he is to contend for a Cy Young Award, was it really a great idea for MLB and the Mets to depict him shoveling food into his mouth?
REPORT #1 from the frontlines of America’s Favorite Tech-Film-Music-Trade Fair & Expo :
The food item depicted aboe was purchased earlier today at a local big-box retailer with the proceeds from a kill-fee for an article entitled “Members Of The FreeCreditReport.com Band Have Mixed Feelings About Their SXSW Experiences”.
Receipt from said purchase will be used for a subsequent proposed article about SXSW’s impact on the local economy.