Recording Dish Network Vip222k To Hard Drive

LOST BATTALION - QUEENS

South Beach Miami ? Florida? A broad avenue to ten lanes on the sides of which there are palm trees in bloom? low houses and stores of all kinds, especially Hispanics? Everything seems to be, but nothing is. We are in the midst of a huge urban area of \u200b\u200bnorth -Atlantic Coast, specifically in one of the five boroughs of New York, Queens. The broad avenue above Queens Boulevard is the very long road that starts from the Queensboro Bridge (bridge that connects Manhattan with the district) and which cuts half of all the borough, dying on Main Street, right at the far east of Flushing Meadows Corona Park. The Queens is a neighborhood that gave birth to the NBA champions such as Ernie Grunfeld, Ron Artest, Kenny Anderson, Lamar Odom, but has never been widely recognized as home to the great New York playground. Maybe the (alleged) little charm that the neighborhood basketball, being inhabited by many ethnic groups that basketball does not have a great affinity, like all Asian ethnic groups (especially Japanese, Korean and Vietnamese) and as the immense strain, especially in Hebrew Rego Park area. Then the fact remains that when it comes to the New York street basketball, there are very few times when the Queens emphasis is appointed by and ecstasy. The most famous and renowned playground of Queens Lost Battalion is undoubtedly the Court, on all maps of the geography of street basketball world. So yet another trip from downtown Manhattan, in search of lost playground, this time in the direction of Queens, in a really hot day. Herald Square subway you can take the orange V, and Times Square you can take the yellow line R, both in the direction of Forest Hills (where they carried out until the end of the seventies the U.S. Open tennis before moving to Flushing Meadows) 71st Avenue, down, on both lines, the stop 63 Dr-Rego Park. As I said, coming down out of the subway car, get on Queens Boulevard (Mind you, just at that point, because for example, near the Queensboro Bridge Boulevard is narrow narrow and poorly attended) and seems like we (in a hot sunny day like that) in Florida, is a tutt 'one. Blaspheme to say, I know, but that's the feeling I had on that very wide highway to ten lanes in the hot sun, with nothing to 'horizon if not several small buildings on either side of the avenue. The indications I had were very clear, from the subway station, two blocks west on Queens Boulevard, and had the Lost Battalion. Believing to walk towards the west, I head east unusable. Very bad. Two, three, five, seven, ten blocks, no trace of a playground, and no trace of even a little park with a bit of 'grass and with a bit of' shadow where to put my members hot. I am in a district where 90% of assets are medical, dental offices, clinics, nursing homes, and where 99% of physicians, dentists and therapists are Russians and Jews. Objectively, it does not seem to be in an area characterized by the presence of a well-known playground, and then began to ask around some explanation. Nobody can tell me where can be the Lost Battalion, ask any person who does not even know what I'm talking about. At the same precise moment when I realize that I have started walking on Queens Boulevard to the east and not towards west, I see from 'the other side of the street two guys that are right for me, loose clothing, bandana up to his eyes and swaying walk. Block them and asking them questions, they confirm that I cordially Lost Battalion is about a mile to the west. Already a sweat soaked back on my feet along the boulevard of broken dreams, trying to take advantage of very little shade on the sidewalk. Way, way, way, and finally arriving at the Lost Battalion, which is in the middle runs between 62nd Avenue and 62nd Street, on the right side of Queens Boulevard to the west. Loved the Lost Battalion, well kept green grass, benches without graffiti, playground clean and tidy, a makeshift pitch softball in the middle of the field, truly a green oasis in the neighborhood, beautiful. Too bad there is no trace of a basketball court. Ya Kiddin 'me?!? I ask anyone in the neighborhood, even the mailman who passes by. Nothing, the playground basketball there 'is. C 'is the gym, in the middle of the park (where it also plays a renowned tournament), is open until five, you can play in, but I refuse, absolutely against my ethics to shut myself up in a street baller gym to play, I want to cement. Once before I made the 'mistake of going to play in a gym (Lloyd Hall, Philadelphia) with the mentality of the road, resulting in a kind of alien because of my strength and vehemence, then this experience I do not want anymore. Sitting disconsolately on a bench in the Lost Battalion (at least they are all 'shade of a tree), I see a guy on 62nd Drive on rollerblades with a tank top 4XL Iverson, maybe he can give me an explanation. The block and ask 'Where is the ballers and Homiez be found in the area. Him, not even eighteen years old, his face lights up the season that his father 'son on the bitter things in life, including puts a hand on my shoulder and says: "man Fellaz .... aren' t here ....". With a strong aptitude for drama and with a perfect sense of "drama", this homey tells me where is the best known of the playground area, or a couple of blocks north. I set out, step to the grocery store parking lot behind the Lost Battalion and end up at Junction Boulevard, another main artery of the district, which extends to 'La Guardia National Airport. A couple of blocks north, in the midst of series of well-kept middle-class homes, finally I find a playground, a field in gray asphalt without a net around him, where he is playing an intense game followed by a fifty spectators. Lost Battalion or not, finally started my morning by street baller. Daniele Vecchi, Playground in New York

Best Boobs In Boolywood

Voices issue I had described the areas of Washington Heights and Inwood, the tip of Manhattan, to 'extreme north of the' island. Some metropolitan sapientone told me it was a sort of urban hell, that all crime in South Harlem, eradicated by police management called "Zero Tolerance" on the part of 'ex-mayor Rudolph Giuliani, had moved further north, above North Harlem or Washington Heights and Inwood, and now those neighborhoods were dangerous, especially for a controversial white like me (of course). Other sources epic and a little less agitated, instead I had described these areas as relatively peaceful, surrounded by greenery, and populated by a fauna made up of humans and industrious busybody, no particular criminal ambitions. No way out, the 'only way to understand the true nature of these areas unknown to me is to spend some time to visit and live on my skin the ability of this strip of land manhattaniana, a small peninsula north of' island, to the west 's Hudson River which separates it from the Palisides Jersey, and east and north of the' Harlem River, which divides it from Fordham, respectively, and Riverdale, the Bronx called bad neighborhoods on the mainland. The peninsula is divided into two, Washington Heights extends from 165th Street, the virtual end of Harlem, to 190th Street. Here begins Inwood, which extends north to the 220th Street, physically 'last road in Manhattan. The subway lines that go deep in northern Manhattan are four A and C blue, coming from the distant East and Brooklyn that have their last stop on 207th Street to 168th Street in Inwood and Washington Heights, and 1 and 9 the red, which come from South Ferry in Lower Manhattan and end their run in the Bronx, in Van Cortlandt Park. I go with a red, I get to Penn Station in the direction of deep-north Manhattan. Get off at 181st Street, on the highway are just a few hundred meters to the west becomes the George Washington Bridge, the bridge connecting the northern part of Manhattan to northern New Jersey. L 'intersection is with St. Nicholas Avenue, and part 's high traffic area that distinguishes this particular nerve center, the neighborhood does not seem so degraded. Continue on 181st Street in the direction of the bridge, crossing Broadway and Fort Washington Avenue, and are practically in Riverside Park, huge park which stretches from the Upper West Side (where does the 'Hudson River Park, which in turn reaches south in Battery Park in Lower Manhattan) Inwood to the top of the Hudson River. I set out to 'internal Riverside Park to the north, I let the image of the Washington Bridge to the shoulders and back slightly to the east. The neighborhood is not bad, the population is predominantly Hispanic and Latin America, although the quality of life seems to be much higher to that of the Barrio in East Side. Way, the houses are low and well maintained, plenty of space and green and vibrant young people who hangs out everywhere, but to date I have not seen any concrete basketball court. I enter in another park, well kept, bordering on the maniacal, beautiful flowers in special greenhouses, and an exorbitant number of tourists to see and photograph all that good of God I take some information, and I'm served. I'm in Fort Tryon Park, a place of worship for the fanatics of plants and flowers of high heritage, strong point of all maps of tourism flowers. Because of my littleness of mind, that makes me appreciate these beautiful expressions of nature, I am terribly bored, and I try to leave as soon as possible from that 'hell. I can, and I find myself on 192nd Street to look around like a Boeotian, sounding the 'last of the losers who have the wrong road and in contravention of the basic rule that I invented and almost never renounced, to appear more casual and confident even when you do not have the faintest idea of \u200b\u200bwhere you are. I recomposed, fortunately no argument for me as the quiet streets of Inwood, and then return to walk with the false security that distinguishes me. Within another in a huge park (no doubt the New York area greener than I've ever seen), this time I'm on the west side, I enter in 'Highbridge Park, overlooking large park in the face of the' Harlem River and which takes its name from the district the Bronx from 'the other side of the river, High Bridge in fact. Return south on 10th Avenue, along the 'immense green space. Here, the human landscape of game is slightly different, for there is a higher percentage of people apparently shady and potentially dangerous, again always in the majority Latino. Pure infrastructure speaking the 'ecosystem is a little more dirty and messy in the west, although the average level is certainly higher than the vast majority of the other New York boroughs. Laughing and joking, but this time I have done my fair share of miles on foot, and began to tire, even without having seen the 'shadow of a playground. After nearly twenty blocks Highbridge Park on 10th Avenue (or Amsterdam Avenue, not ever understand when you call in one way or 'more), finally arriving at' the corner of 173rd Street, and here's a pitch for basketball, in the midst of a giant shopping Sports which includes three baseball fields, packed by the children and men of every age and race. The playground basketball is pretty nice, well kept a hard court, on which partiton is playing an all-out, followed by hundreds of spectators. I would add to the bystanders, the game is not tournament, against the red jackets yellow jackets, high intensity, fast transitions and sconquassanti crushed in the open field, highlighted by sound "yeah!" the public, including myself. After a long trek to the viewer is relaxing.
Daniele Vecchi, Playground in New York

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PALISIDE AVENUE - JERSEY CITY WASHINGTON HEIGHTS

New Jersey is, by name and by definition, the Garden State. Probably all other places in Jersey where I was not there are lots of flower gardens and immense and endless grasslands of immaculate lawns, but in the stretch from Newark to Bergen County, I saw only a messy and dilapidated collection of houses of all type, along with endless stretches of barren land and dry, those that when a few drops of rain become a vast swamp. Urban area adjacent to Manhattan I lived there last summer, and if I have to tell the truth, I do not feel totally missed. Heading north from Newark, Hudson County, Jersey City, Union City until you come to Bergen County, you are twenty-five miles and you seem to be in the same spot, all homes are equal, all Chicanos on the street or sitting on the steps of the house are the same, the JF Kennedy Boulevard is always equal to the Meadowlands. I decide to come back: a nice sunny afternoon I decided to do a reunion in the Garden State. You can get from Manhattan to Jersey City in three ways. By bus, leaving from Port Authority on 8th Avenue at Times Square, take bus 404 from platform 99 / s, making a trip of about half an hour. By subway, the subway special called Path, which runs from 33rd Street in Herald Square, which makes a handful of stops until you reach the terminus of Journal Square in Jersey. Or you can get there by ferry, with NY Waterway, starting dall'apposito marina in Battery Park in Lower Manhattan, across the Hudson River and arriving at Hoboken, Garden State, lively area full of nightclubs and pubs. After a summer spent on the Path or Port Authority to make the pendulum-like New York, this time I live in Manhattan I opt for the means of transport more attractive and relaxing, or ferry. The crossing is short, about twenty minutes and there are. From the port of Hoboken can be easily reached on foot (by a narrow dark slightly uphill and at night you should never take) on Paliside Avenue, one of the main streets of Jersey City, a parallel to the JF Kennedy Boulevard, which cuts across the lengthwise city, if so we call it. From the top of the hill we are about the same latitude as New York's Union Square, from there the view of the skyline of Manhattan is really impressive, the horizon is free, you see everything from Lower Manhattan to Central Park. The playground is right at the end of the uphill path that leads to the port of Hoboken Paliside Avenue intersection with Bowers Street, in the midst of a little park that looks nice and innocent, but at night it went really badly. When it gets dark because of the green rectangle on the edge of Paliside Avenue is filled with shady characters, stars of numerous fights and car accessories trades. The pitch looks as good as I remembered him, a concrete some shooting without nets and attended by Latinos very unfriendly. Luckily I am not entirely a newcomer, having played there throughout the summer always thinking, in fact when I come to play anyone remembers me. There is also a friend, my ex-neighbor, Mooch, an Iranian boy forced to flee the United States as a child with his family because persecuted by Khomeini's Islamic regime (his father was an adviser to the deposed Shah of Persia ). Anyway, it begins, now is the time when you play. After the soggy experience in Staten Island I had to restore with blazing afternoon in Battery Park and Harlem, where I managed to find the intensity and the desire to win that I was not able to find on the island happy. The Jersey Staten Island does not have anything, let alone the lack of intensity basketball that despite the poor technical and physical level, has nothing to envy to the most intense playground in Manhattan. An excessive amount, the tiger's eyes and nerves on edge throughout the first game, a four against four people slightly, despite my good performance in shooting, and characterized by continual skirmishes between Ritchie, slender African-American very similar to 1.85 to Dontrelle Willis (Florida Marlins pitcher), and one of our Puerto Rican opponent, big, really big and ugly, in all senses (with the retina in the head, Los Angeles-style). Ritchie is not afraid, after a couple of contacts prohibited throwing the feet of the opponent, and begins with the characteristic gesture in moving his arms and head inclination, to invite the opponent to fight with the classic "c 'mooon meeeee, call immediately collected by the Puerto Rican, barely restrained by his companions. Usually in these situations I'm not intruding NEVER to share, because what divides is always the champion of justice, the one with the most good intentions, that has nothing to do anything, as well as what he regularly takes to the first and most strong, then I'm away nicely, though the situation seems seems to have calmed down. But as I imagined, in the first action of the second game of the inevitable happens, or that the first part of the Puerto Rican contact with the cardboard Ritchie, beak full left ear, just inches from me, making him stagger. My companion responds promptly fell on his opponent, much bigger and more tattooed than he. The two are left bathrobe for fifteen seconds, until they fall to the ground clutching. At that moment the other involved a split in true hockey-style, declaring virtually ended the game, partly because some of the spirit is not the same.
Daniele Vecchi, Playground in New York