It's True.

You can find anything on the web.*

I mean, who would have thought that Rancid, those righteous dudes carrying, nay, hurling the nuclear missile that is punk rock into the New Millennium (and beyond...), could be caught posing as Beach Boy Wannabes? Aruba, Jamaica, ooo I wanna take ya...

Help me, Rhonda.

I found it on RancidPunx.net, which is one cool place to find maybe not everything Rancid, but lots of things Rancid. I spent my lunch hour sifting through Getty Images to find that no, they weren't being the Beach Boys, they were being the cheesy wedding band for Tony Hawk's wedding in Fiji.

Cool!



*everything except a pattern to carve a mohawked jack o' lantern!

Say What?

Goals? We don't need no stinking goals.

Well, yes, we do guys. One or two, anyway. This was "our" leg. Our chance to smack New England around. It was me, wasn't it? I could not be there in nationally televised togetherness and you suffered for it.

But that was way that the playoffs went 'round, this opening weekend. Chivas is downed 1-0 by Kansas City. Dallas puts one by Houston for a win. Chicago snuck - well, that was a sneaky rocket, wasn't it? - one by D.C. Only this little scuffle in Estadio Rojo Toro managed to be goal free.

The next games are the do-or-die ones.

I say, bring it on. This is New York's year.

Hitting the Wall...

202 posts in.

Do I have iron-poor blood? A stagnant imagination? The curse of mediocrity? Maybe it's the granola and soy milk I've been breakfasting on for the last month. My mind seems to be made of mush. Mush. As in, I can't get a complete thought thunked. I used to blame this on my kids and their constant interruptions (which is kind of any oxymoron, I suppose - constant interruptions?). Maybe my thoughts are so inured to interruption, that they just automatically reset halfway through. Maybe it's My Age, and That Time in My Life. Could the mood have swung so far that it ain't swinging back? I haven't been doing my crossword puzzles - has my intellect (such as it is) gone fallow? Am I reading too much pulp fiction and not enough literature? Too much Law & Order and not enough Masterpiece Theatre? (Not that there ever was any Masterpiece Theatre). I'm just stuck and I can't seem to jostle my way out of it.

So, apologies in advance. The next few posts (few is a hopeful word here) are likely to be mindless soccer regurgitations, but I will throw in photos of soccer hotties to make them more palatable. The playoffs begin Saturday.

I shall meditate on that.

And this. *I* still think he's cute.

When Life Gives You Lemons

You stomp on Cuauhtemoc Blanco.

I like your attitude, Peter Vagenas.

Ok, so it was a metaphorical stomping, in the most metaphoricalest sense. The Gals could not find a way to win yesterday. And we, the entertainment-starved and Beckham-deprived soccer fans of America, are pretty darn pissed about it. It could have been a perfect Cinderella story, with Dave leading his sorry band of brothers to an improbable - nay, inconceivable! - run at that second best league honor: the MLS Cup.

Well, maybe next year.

I'm just sad. Sad that I won't see another Red Bulls/Gals smackdown this year. Sad that Dave's Inaugural Year was such a bust. Sad that I can't post Tim Armstrong's Oh No video again because I'm in love with Los Angeles. I'm in love with her sooooooooouuuuuuullllll.

Well, who's to say I can't? It's my blog, ain't it?




And I'll add a little something to keep the home fires burning, so to speak -

What Happens in Vegas...

Too bad these guys are in Yverdon-les-Bains, Switzerland. I understand everything about this picture except the tennis ball and the tightness of Cherundolo's swim trunks, which somehow evoke one of Jean-Claude Van Damme's more alternative roles.


I applaud their security in their masculinity.

And I hope they're "skins" when they play Switzerland Wednesday.

The (Soccer) Weekend in Pictures

or, would I be able to express myself without parentheses?

(not that anyone would notice!)

Kevin Hartman makes a desperate attempt to crawl out of Giants Stadium as Juan Pablo Angel makes it 2-1, Red Bulls. JPA was also my fantasy captain, and with 69 points X 2, put me ahead of Austin AND Josie for the first time this year. Go, mom!




I think this photo sums up Saturday's slaughter (which is, of course, a relative term) of New England for the Columbus Crew. Something Faulknerian via Shakespeare - a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing, because in the end, it didn't matter that they'd learned to score, that they'd learned how to come from behind or even that they'd learned how to win on the road. To the Big Show, they don't go. Again. I'm not calling for Sigi's head. Mostly, because I'm afraid he might EAT me. But it is my sincere hope that they can hold on to Schelotto and Gaven this winter.


And finally, let us now sing the praises of the Bright Blue Boot.



These belong to Damarcus Beasley (you can tell by the "Beas" there above the swoosh). All the cool kids are wearing them, from Landon D to the Mostest from Nacogdoches himself, Clint Dempsey.

Fun With Wigs

In the beginning was Juan Toja.


And in his hair, was power and strength and glory. And other things best left unnoticed.

The people saw this and said it is good. And a great craze swept Pizza Hut Park.



Soccer. It's all about the hair.

Between a Rock and a Hard Place

or, How Hard Was It To Cheer For ANYBODY at the Lamar Hunt Open Cup Final?

On the one hand, you've got this twit scampering (yes, scampering!) up and down the field like God's Gift to American Soccer. I know his mama loves him. A lot of people think he's good looking. I just want to backhand him a goodun and wipe that smirk off his face.




On the other hand, how could I not enjoy the suffering of Carlos Ruiz?

I was all twisted in side. I like Toja (note to self: schedule haircut). I hate Ruiz. I like Michael Parkhurst. I despise Jay Heaps.

In the end, it was Viva la Revolution, death to FC D (a/k/a First Class Divers - well, Diver, anyway).

Bring on the playoffs.