Tuesday, October 31, 2006

I'm an Insurrectionist

and you can be one too!

Here's how:

1. Realize that your vote will never count. Not in a million kazillion years, unless you just want to vote for the winning team. And they don't care about *you*.
2. Vote anyway. Vote crazy, vote passion, vote in spite of the pointlessness. Think of it as performance art, a chance at jury duty, just don't be assimilated! The Borg will tell you resistance is futile, but remember - Picard did, and you can too.

3. And speaking of art, grab all the Crackheads for Congress signs you can and do something Christo-ish in a public place. Would this be a felony or a misdemeanor? Somebody let me know ASAP. I have ideas.

This message brought to you by Citizen United against Norms Today.

Monday, October 30, 2006

Matt Reis finds Taylor's Purse!

And the whole team celebrates!

If you weren't watching the MLS playoffs this past weekend, I have one question for you: WTF is wrong with you? There was the thrill of victory, the agony of de feet. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. The Revs won one for the Gipper, the Rapids remembered the Titans. Houston had a miracle on grass and New York...well, the Red Bulls did what they do best: playing excellent* soccer and losing to DC. Plus ├ža change, etc. There were good calls and bad calls, red cards and yellow cards, man hugs and man tears, mangy-looking playoff beards and attempted mohawks, insults and gestures, teenage unknowns showing up teenage phenoms, prodigal players showing some shine (I'm alliterating to YOU, Clint Mathis!), there was drama all over my tv.

Even fisticuffs!


Cheer on the Revs at DC this Sunday (11-5) 4 PM on ESPN2. Support the Dynamo against the evil Rapids, same day, 7 PM on FSC.

*excellent meaning "not sucking" in this instance.

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

Hark! The End of the World is Nigh...

Seriously. This is not good. This is tragic. This is indicative of everything that's wrong with the world today: The Transplants' Diamonds & Guns is being used.

To sell shampoo.

Ok, so it's been out there since '02 and I just found out about it, but that's because I have my own little superpower: a nifty ability to tune out commercials, and television in general, which comes from watching waaaaaaaaay too much tv as a child. Yes, you can sit too close to the tv. Tuesday night was that rare exception, when House went to commercial and I didn't refresh my beverage or go to the bathroom. And I heard this vaguely familiar piano riff. I'm staring at the ceiling, saying to myself 'I can name that tune in 5 notes,' and there it is on my tv. Garnier Fructis and Diamonds & Guns.

I bought this product, but not because of this commercial or any other, thank you very much Madison Avenue. It smells all candy-fruity. And what kind of name is Fructis? Not one I can associate with beautiful hair. Hairballs, maybe. I guess it's the old with-a-name-like-Smucker's caveat. But seriously, do these guys look like they'd use it? Or date girls who do? Perhaps those giant containers behind them are full of seized Fructis product and the Transplants are here to free the hair spray. Maybe they want to make some sort of point about the plight of unemployed hairdressers. Maybe they're taking stylin' a bit too far.

Maybe they did it for the money.

And I can forgive that. People gotta eat and Tim does give back. You can hear Diamonds & Guns here, but you'll have to look for it. I can't do all the work.

Thursday, October 12, 2006

It's a Conspiracy, I tells ya!

I practice safe computing. All the time. I may have a lot of email addresses, but I am faithful to two: one for people I like, and one for whenever I have to give out an email address to people or organizations that are likely to send me lots of stuff I don't want to read - what I like to call my spam dump.

Lately, everything at the dump is pushing Viagra and/or Ambien. Apparently. I never, never, never, never, never open them. They just scream "unclean!" In spite of my best efforts - or perhaps because of those efforts - I am now getting whammed and spammed by Old Navy Maternity. Do I have to spell it out? They know how old I am. They are puzzled by my (jo's) gender, but covering all bases. They assume I'll be under the spell of their not so cheap and tawdry chemicals long enough to get knocked up or knock someone up, at which point, knowing my retail preferences, I'll be shopping Old Navy.

The government's not watching you, but Sam Walton is. Be warned, America.

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

He Wants to Ride His Bicycle

Austin has learned to bicycle. Not ride a bicyle, but DO a bicycle. Like these guys -

Well, not quite, but he's new to it. He came home from practice Sunday, all sweaty and eager to tell me. He insisted I watch, so out the front door I go, in my sweat pants and flannel shirt, looking like a sporty redneck. He juggles the ball a little and flicks it up, throws himself backwards, kicks the ball and collapses in a heap on the ground. With a thud. "I just have to work on my aim now!" he says.

I try not to be overprotective. I try to be reasonable. But this is looking less like a swift soccer move and more like an excellent way to break bones. I remember when his older brother learned to drown. I mean, swim. I was like 400 months pregnant with his sister and we went to the pool. Steven ran to the pool, screaming, "Watch what I can do, Mom!" as I, the leviathan, waddled slowly forth. He jumped in to the deep end and thrashed. It was like a shark attack, only without the shark. Eventually he made it to the edge of the pool, and looked up brightly. "See? I can swim!"

But, back to Austin. This is a child with an extreme sensitivity to pain. He screams when I trim his toenails. When he had his first shots, at the tender age of 6 weeks, he inhaled for a good 60 seconds before he started wailing. And once he started, he didn't stop until we were 10 miles down the interstate. He shows me every tiny bruise as if it were potentially life-threatening, details each ache and every drop of blood lost. Every tiny drop. And here he is, in front of God and the neighborhood, launching himself backwards after a soccer ball.

Kids. I just raise 'em. I don't explain 'em.

Monday, October 02, 2006

I came, I saw, I tried to make small talk

and I didn't even get a lousy T-shirt.

Yes, friends and neighbors, I made it to my high school reunion. The Apocalypse must surely be upon us, because I lived through the event. I took a peek at my senior yearbook and thought, these people don't look so dangerous. It's the burden of expectation that put me off - the old 'so, how did you turn out?' thing. Are you fat? Are you rich? Did you live up to the dreams you told us about in the yearbook? I got behind a nice protective wall of not giving a shit and went. Dare I say it had its "fun"* moments? It had its hellish moments as well.

1. Seeing old friends, most -heck, who am I kidding? ALL- of whom I lost touch with soon after high school. I'm a lousy correspondent. I blame it all on the ADD I haven't been diagnosed with.
2. ...gee, seeing old friends is all I can come up with.

1. Not recognizing ANYBODY except those old friends.
2. Small talk. I do NOT know how to make it. Especially with strangers I'm supposed to know!
3. That Back-in-high-school-everybody-clique-up vibe. Man, I thought we'd all be past that.

Twenty five years after I got over him, my high school crush deigned to speak to me. For the first time ever. It was a Crush From Afar. I asked him what he did and when he said he worked for the city, I think I can be forgiven for immediately thinking 'garbageman.' He got my vote for Most Changed. Not that I voted. And not that anybody had really changed. The sweet ones were still sweet, the not-so-sweet ones were still not so sweet. That's comforting, and depressing. Somebody told me I looked just like my mother, which is predictable and depressing. The more things change, etc. But it was good to see folks.

And I'll enjoy seeing them again in another 25 years.

*fun being a relative concept and a term applied loosely in this instance.