God damn it, you've got to be kind

And somehow, this is the unkindest cut of all.


Kurt Vonnegut dead at the age of 84.

Sure, he's been wanting off this planet for some time, and sure, he even tried to check out early once.

But, goddammit, I ain't ready for this.


A writer. An artist. A thinker. A 21st century Renaissance man. World's first Bokonist. That rarest of things: a decent human being.

God bless you, Mr. Rosewater. Hi ho. So it goes.

Here's a couple things to remember him by: this essay on fossil fuel addiction and other inconvenient truths, and this little portrait on inspiration.

So, today, in his honor, go out and goof around in Indiana or South Dakota or Tierra del Fuego or wherever the hell you find yourself. Be kind to somebody. Do something decent for your planet. Remember: company's coming! clean up the mess!

April 7, 2007: It's Soccer Time in Tennessee!

It was absolutely delicious. Like cold clear water after 300 miles of desert. Like waking up at 6 a.m. and realizing it's Saturday and you can sleep in. Like manna from Heaven. Like pizza from Pizza Hut...Yes, it was *that* good.

We got our weekly grocery foray over ASAP, or as ASAP as we could due to the large number of turistas landing on Wal-Mart Saturday morning. Life in a tourist town: a picnic, it ain't.

Anyway, first kick was 3:30 Saturday afternoon with an actual pre-game show. On ABC. Like a real sport! Colorado Rapids hosting 2006 Supporter's Shield winners D. C. United. Dick's Sporting Goods Stadium is gorgeous, but unfortunately named. Given that the Rapids frequently get flamed as the "Crapids" (about average on the MLS dis-o-meter) and that they partnered up with Arsenal, who frequently get flamed as...well, you get the picture. And if you don't, you are obviously a better person than I. I had picked D. C. to win, forgetting that they were coming off a defeat in Mexico on Tuesday. I hate being wrong but it's nice for the Rapids to get a win for their home opener in their lovely, lovely soccer-specific stadium, complete with an actual boot room and real grass. Nice human interest piece on Pablo Mastroeni during the half time show. Yes, half time show. Julie Foudy assumed Eric Wynalda's duties temporarily while he pays penance for wanting to kick ass. She said The MLS too many times for me to count and it chafed. I have a thing about proper usage of determiners. It looked cold as hell, but they appeared to have the best turnout of the weekend.

Note to Rapids fans: if you want us to read it, hold it the right way!

We caught some of the Real Salt Lake/FC Dallas game afterwards, in between dinner and that endless mountain of laundry casting a shadow over my entire adult life. Nothing notable for me in that one, but I'm curious about Freddy Adu. I can't help it. It's interesting that it's Josmer Altidore of the New York Red Bulls doing the Impossible is Nothing spot and not little Freddy. Which 17 year old phenom will capture the hearts and minds of the American soccer public next?

And the high point of the evening, the piece de resistance, the complete and total realization of this American fan's soccer experience: Crew v. NYRB.

Yes, I'm saying that with a straight face.

Sure, neither team has an iota of LA's glamour. Sure, neither one did very well last year and sure, that's the understatement of the year. But these are *my* teams. And look!

There's Eddie Gaven with a smile on his face! There's Claudio Reyna ON his feet, apparently uninjured! And that's what I've been waiting for.

It's like a pimple that must be popped...

Quentin Tarantino, originally from Knoxville and therefore almost a neighbor, has a new movie out, Grindhouse. Which made me remember: he was almost Nick Lowe's son-in-law. NL's adopted daughter, Tiffany Anastasia Lowe, dated him for a while. June Carter Cash wrote a song about it.

Just had to get that out of my system.

No Rain, Plenty o' Pain

Houston loses to Pachuca 5-4 on
aggregate.

Where's that away goals rule when you need it?

Big ups to Houston for fighting a good fight (except for giving away two - two!! - penalties). Bigger ups to Dominic Kinnear for whatever he said to this team at the half. I predict they will be beating down the Gals on Sunday.


More predictions: today will be Mostest's breakout day in EPL; DC will pound the Arsenal right out of the Rapids; RSL will take it down to Funky Town; the Fire will blister the Revs; Toronto will beat Chivas, but just barely. I'm completely conflicted about the Crew/Red Bulls game. It will be a glorious agony.


One more day!

I still want an explanation...

But I don't think I'm gonna get one.

Tim Armstrong's solo album will be coming out 5/21, it seems. Not just the two internet tracks, but a cd/dvd package.

The streak is over, dude. I call shenanagins.


But I can't wait to hear it.

Down In Mexico

It rained on de feet and it rained defeat on D.C. United. There's a highlight (yes, that's "a" highlight) here, but you might have to hunt it. MLS is keeping the world safe from cyber-terrorism by refusing to play well with others. It was a sweet goal, a nice little bicycle by Jaime Moreno. I admit, I slept thru a lot of it, but I did see that goal and the pissy little equalizer from that boy with the panties on his head. The 9:30 kickoff (which actually had to be 9:45ish, because I watched all of House and then tuned in to the game in the 20th minute) was a little late for this old soccer mom. My soccer drought is at an end, so my motivation just wasn't there last night. Besides which, it's D.C. United. My conscience is clear and I can go back to hoping they lose often and miserably where ever they may play now.

Houston, the hopes of the American soccer nation go with you. Orange and white, fight fight fight. T for Texas, T for Tennessee. I'm trying to feel enthusiastic, anyway. Another 9:30 game. And my own little Austinator also has a game that day. Like I said, the drought is over. MLS kicks off Saturday at 3:30 on A-freakin'BC. Games all day long and more on Sunday because Direct Kick is free for the opening weekend.

Must-See Match? for me, RBNY taking on the Crew in Columbus. Chance of snow, 10 %. Chance of my heart being twisted, torn and trashed by divided loyalties, 100%.

I'm in Wonderland

because I've got to believe an impossible thing before breakfast. Clint Mathis back to New York? When donkeys fly.

But...

Red Bull gives you wings!


Good news: dirt cheap. fan favorite or man you love to hate (either of which tends to pique interest, and RBNY need somebody somewhere - even middleaged fanmoms - to show some interest). has not punched a heckler in a coon's age.

Bad news: since his 2005 return to MLS has tallied twice as many cards as goals (but hey, he's not punching hecklers!).

Things that make you go hmmm: 30 years old and not a big fitness freak. Prefers coke to gatorade. He did score the Goal of the Decade, but that was 2001. Nice rocket in the playoffs last year. Incited a riot after.

One more week until the madness begins.

Here's that goal of the decade, just to keep us hopeful.

Remember the Alamo!

USA 0, Guatemala 0 in Frisco, Texas. The grass was pretty. The game wasn't.

The Guatemalan strategy was Defense Defense Defense: nine dudes bunkered sending the occasional ball up to Carlos Ruiz, who showed us just why they call him El Pescadito, flopping like a carp on grass at every possible opportunity. He's up for an Oscar, I've heard. The US of A had about 99% of possession, a figure I invented because ESPNsoccernet is currently showing stats from some other USA/Guatemala game. Miraculously, Bobby Convey was available for substitution in spite of that season-ending knee problem! Jay DeMerit, Michael Bradley, Benny Feilhaber and Frank Simek are all apparently in the Witness Protection Program, because they aren't even listed as substitutes. I expect better, ESPN. *



Some random observations: Clint Dempsey (a/k/a the Mostest from Nacogdoches) had several shining moments and got a full 90 for the first time since October 2006. Donovan had to be the most frustrated newlywed in Frisco. In Texas. Hell, in the northern hemisphere. We were missing Bocanegra's head, but nice to meet you Frank Simek (25) and Jay DeMerit (23) - is it just me, or do those two look an awful lot alike? I like the white shorts, so, ipso facto, the jerseys are elevated to OK. Kasey Keller reminds me of Dana Carvey in The Master of Disguise I won't swear to it, but I'm almost positive I saw Bob Bradley's facial expression change. Bruce Arena, I missed your analysis but I'm glad you were *there* for The Team of Destiny (a/k/a New York Red Bulls). Too bad we lost.

So, has Guatemala got our number ahead of the Gold Cup? I'm counting on Bob to furrow that brow and come up with a solution. June 2 in the City of Angels.


*and goshdarnit, they fixed it. but it was there! I swear!

On a Sunny Afternoon

USA 3, Ecuador 1.

Excellent game for Landon Donovan. You can't argue with a hat trick. Mostest from Nacogdoches had a few moments, but I was hoping for more from him. Our defense shook like a bowl full of jello and, at times, moved about that fast. Still, Ecuador's lone goal was more luck than skill. They are very very fast, but they looked clumsy (which was a blessing, with Gooch, Jimmy and Timmy doing a mighty fine Keystone Kops routine). Feilhaber looks good. And he can play, too. Did he get the "per ardua ad astra" from Jimmy Conrad or do our national team players routinely look pensive and spout Latin? Cool tattoo regardless. Other random thoughts: Cherundolo is small, but feisty; no one rocks a nose plug like Brian Ching; nepotism ain't all bad but football fields *are*; the new jerseys are ugly as hell; I like the Bruce Arena/Eric Wynalda dichotomy, but doesn't one of them (BRUCE) have a team (NYRB) to coach?

Next up: Guatemala, 9 PM Wednesday, good ol' ESPN2.

Happy Birthday to the Jesus

of Cool! Nick Lowe is 58 today (or tomorrow) and still the Sexiest Man Alive. I'm going to be camping on Yep Roc's cyber doorstep until that new album drops. Thanks for 30 years of wonderful.

My Back Four are Better (looking) than Your Back Four

ain't they cute?


and numerologically auspicious: 4 + 16 + 2 + 60 = 82. 8 + 2 = 10. 1 + 0 = 1, which is of course the numerical symbol of unity.


Sixteen more days. 16. Dunivant! Looks a little like Rosicky when he plays. Hope that's a trend.


p.s. I stole these from MetroFanatic.

Countdown to First Kick: T minus 17 days

April 7 is still a long time away. My MLS jones has progressed from sand-in-the-eyeballs irritation to hand-in-the-toaster torment. How to pass the time?

1. The Riches, Eddie Izzard's series for F/X. Gypsies are the hot new alternative social group as a recent House episode and this show attest. Only to be technically correct, these are Travellers, not Gypsies. Assumed identities, drug problems, and cross dressing (not Eddie!) ensue as the family that scams together stays together. Yes, it's an F/X series. Minnie Driver gets a B+ for a mostly cringe-free southern accent.

2. The whole Shopaholic series. Yes, it is Chick Lit. The shame! the shame! I'm reading Cheever, too, just to balance the karma.

3. Band Madness. Music's answer to March hoops hysteria. And Austin's got me watching (or rather, listening) to hoops as well. Go, Vols! Ladies AND gentlemen.

4. Vicarious living on various soccer message boards. Which is where I found this -

in which a random fan (in profile) invades the Galaxy bench during a Gals/Crew exhibition and asks Landon to scooch. I don't know who you are, dude, but massive big ups.

5. Kicking ass and taking names on Austin's Challenge English Premier League fantasy footy. Sure, I'm #3 of 6, but these guys are good. Personal best: 79 points. The EPL needs to get with the program. I'd love to be drinking beer and yelling at my TV at 11 on a Saturday morning, but somebody has to go to the grocery store. MLS is much more fan-friendly in that regard. Tivo. I wish I had it.

6. Producing pithy yet pointless posts to ponder in perpetuity. Alliteration R us.

CONCACAF Semis, Leg One

Luciano Emilio is Da Man, the shizznit, El Jefe, etc. I expected DC to do better than a 1-1 tie (or 'draw' for you purist euro-snobs). After the fat lady sang, they were lucky to get it. It was a weird game. Dominance teeter-tottered between teams. Club Deportivo Guadalajara, more familiarly known as Chivas (which means 'goats' fwiw) had the form, the speed and the skills but couldn't get into the offensive third. DC played with schizophrenic flair and determination. I'd watch and think, they can win this. Five minutes later I'd think, they're gonna lose. Bad. To a team with "Bimbo" on their shirts.

I did not get to watch Houston Dynamo and Pachuca because I was standing in the rain watching my own little austinator and his team whup up on our county rivals 3-0. But way out west, the sun shone and the soccer gods smiled on Houston. 2-0 thanks to Mssrs. Ching and Wondolowski.

Here's some idle suggestions before the Mexico road trip next month:

1. Train in Denver. I'm sure the Rapids wouldn't mind swapping places for a couple of weeks. And take Lance Armstrong with you. He knows a few things about lung capacity.

2. Take a quick Berlitz course in Español. At least memorize a few helpful phrases like 'your mama's so nasty, she has to creep up on bathwater' or 'take me to the nearest hospital, please.' Depending.

3. Preparation is everything. Not just life insurance, living wills and powers of attorney. A man with a plan is a man who can. And as my mother used to say, cain't never could do nuthin'. Or was it, the sun don't shine on the same dog's butt all the time?

Go, teams! The hope of the nation goes with you.

What a Girl Wants

This looks interesting.

Here's hoping they do an Orbit-inspired commercial




thanks, Monica. You are a very bad influence on me. Please keep it up.

Hope Springs Eternal at the Lamar Hunt Pioneer Cup

There was some joy in Mudville Sunday night, at least if you were a Crew fan. And really, aren't we all somewhere deep down inside? Well, maybe 'fan' is too strong a word, but I think every MLS fan will wish them health this year. The first half was rather dull, but three goals in the second kept me awake. Dallas looked jet-lagged, especially in the second half. The Crew looked ... sharp is the word that springs to mind. Pretty darn sharp for the preseason. I have tried in vain to find photos, especially post game Eddie Gaven's smiling at last. It was nice to see. Sorry, that's a soccer mom thing to say, but what can I say? I gotta be me.

It's Not Just a Job...

or is it?

I've been working for this same company for going on 21 years. That's like eons. I had a temper tantrum at my old job doing room service/waiting tables and walked out. Determined to get a desk clerking job (which looked really glamorous from the breakfast shift of a hotel dining room), I hit the mean streets of Gatlinburg. Nobody would hire an ex-waitress to man the desk, so I moved down to the next town and was hired by the now defunct Carlstown Inn. It was fun for a while, learning new stuff. I can say without bragging that I cleared the best board in town. That's motelspeak for making sure the check-outs are out and in the check-ins are in the correct rooms on the board and on the property. Dealing with the public gets old. Quite quickly. The guy who hired me told me to let him know when I finished college. And, foolishly, I did. The next thing I know, I'm demonstrating to an evil woman named Kathy that yes, indeed, I do know how to operate an adding machine. Heck, I can even balance books and set up 3-D Excel spreadsheets!

So, that's how I became a payroll clerk. Or Payroll Queen, as I once signed an IRS return. It wasn't really anything I planned, it just happened. I think that's 98% of my life right there: unplanned, just happening.

I always believed that it would be more.

More interesting, more absorbing, more fulfilling, more something. More.

Growing up I alternated between wanting to be an archaeologist and wanting to be a writer, and I've pulled off a perfect double fault: I'm not either one! I don't even write letters anymore. And I'm sooooooo bored. I want to be engrossed in what I do, not watching the clock and thinking 'when I get off, I'm going to...' and never really doing anything with the possible exception of bitching, which, of course, I'm really really good at. Is that too much to ask? To get something out of eight-plus hours a day besides a vague headache and a paycheck?

I don't know. All I know is that my youngest child will graduate high school in the year 2016. Assuming, of course, that she doesn't end up in reform school. And I'll work in Mickey D's if I have to, but I'm not going to spend one more minute wishing I were somewhere else.

Like Lucinda Williams said, is it too much to demand I want a full house and a rock and roll band? Pens that won't run out of ink, and cool quiet and time to think? Shouldn't I have this?Shouldn't I have this? Shouldn't I have all of this and passionate kisses ... ?

The cool quiet and time to think part sounds like heaven.

Red Bull Fans, While You're Waiting for the Season to Begin...

Check out the trailer for The Goal, a documentary on Claudio Reyna, a/k/a Captain America.



Hopefully, Claudio's dominance in MLS this season will give this project the boost it needs to find a distributor.

A Rose By Any Other Name

This word has been popping up in a lot of my varied reading lately: class. He's a "class act" (which means that he's good for a couple), that's a "classy" thing to do (which means he just bought you a couple), he just oozes class - I'm not sure what that means, but I think 'ick' sums it up nicely. Here's Dimitar Berbatov allegedly doing just that.

The thing is "class" has lost its meaning. Which brings me to my point. This is the best online find ever. Just type in "class" up there in that big white box and watch the riches pour down. 157 entries worth. Plus antonyms! My definition of "class" in this usage is synonymous with admirable, which in turn is synonymous of cool AND copacetic. Adcoolpacetic(TM), if you will.

CONCACAF Champions Cup, the Quarterfinals*

Well, heck. These second leg games were pretty darn good. D.C. United had it in the bag, being up 4-1. They played sloppy on a slip-n-slide field in the first half, but morphed into the Unstoppable (wish it was) Ugly we all know so well in the second. Luciano Emilio looks like the signing of the season, with all due respect to The Acquisition. And he was so reserved in his goal celebrations - this was his former team! Good manners or fear for his family? You decide.

Houston had it a little tougher. Costa Rica's Puntarenas had them down a goal and a man in the first leg. Eddie Robinson's red card kept him out of the second and Brian Ching's fitness kept him out of the first match and all but the final 20 of the second. His fitness. I thought (and I swear I read it somewhere on the trash-strewn information highway) he was injured, so I was ok with that. Then I learn that he was given an extra long off season due to the World Cup. The World freaking Cup. He didn't even play. Riding the bus is so exhausting? But anyway, I digress. They played on Texas A&M's soccer field, which was beautiful. Not much in the way of "stadiumness", but the grass was gorgeous. Probably a disadvantage to Puntarenas, who play in a dried up cow pasture. To be honest, Houston looked fat and slow, all man-tits and potbellies. Dalglish's goal in the first half turned them into sharks. Fat slow sharks with man-tits, but sharks nonetheless. And Puntarenas reciprocated by strapping on their SCUBA gear and diving with gusto. Yellow cards were given for lip, but none for fouls. Kelly Gray poked in a rebound (off a Ching header - guess he'll be *resting* the next leg) and the fat slow man-titted sharks held on to win 2-1 on aggregate. Stunningly, there seem to be no synonyms for "aggregate." More stunningly, two, count-'em-two, MLS teams are in the semifinals.

D.C. United vs. Chivas, Houston vs. Pachuca, March 14. Be there for the Tex-Mex Clasico.

I Took The Road Less Traveled...

Or at least the one with the least amount of dog poop. SCOOP already, America!

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood so I finally managed to get my fat ass out of the office and on to the walking trail. It felt wonderful. The sun on my face, the sun on the river, the ducks on the river, the possibility of spring at long last. I was driving home just a few days ago thinking, jesus every little thing is gray: the sky, the trees, the cars, the grass, the pavement. Where is the the color? I found some today.

And it was soooo good for me, just walking and thinking idle thoughts. I came up with about 5,000 ideas for this blog. Meet the Fam, which is me describing my kids and the good traits they inherited from me and the bad traits they inherited from their father. Meet The Mom, which is me describing me and my rad mom skillz. Days of Dad, which is me describing life with my husband and his cluelessness. In other words, redundancy rules. It is *my* blog, after all. So, there I was soaking up sunshine, which has to be good for one's serotonin levels. Raising my heart rate above "comatose" for the first time this millennium. My imagination (or self-delusion - you decide) is so great, I feel like an Olympian after a quarter mile. The dormant competitive streak awakens. There's a little old man, possibly a stroke victim - he seems drawn to one side, doing his best Tim Conway. I can take him in three strides. That woman with the gimpy leg? Toast on the backstretch. I only give the right of way to seniors and women with children. If they smile first.

Here's hoping Spring has sprung. Don't want to go back in the closet with the Cheetos and the Jackson Browne album.

My 2007 MLS Wish List

1. For Eddie Gaven to have his breakout year. Or just to start having fun again like this Edward of yore.


2. For the New York Red Bulls to be ... contenders.

3. For the L.A. Galaxy to finish second. Or third. Not because I'm anti-Becks, but because I'm pro-MLS. I'm hoping The Acquisition brings everybody's game up and one dude does not a championship win. Even a 'fuckwit soccer' championship. As a corollary, I want a big year out of Landon. Now is the time for all good men, etc. Well, actually that was last year, but we can build on this year. Yes, we can.


That seems like enough.

For now.

Bradenton Bill Has Sniffed The Sweat Socks

and only six more weeks until the season starts! Major League Soccer, that is. We took some major steps over the winter and not all of them cost $250 million (which isn't really $250 million after all). Toronto F. C., in its debut year, has sold 12,500 season tickets. 12,500 season tickets, which is either Canada embracing the colors in a big bear hug or a nation desperate to distance themselves from the violent spectacle that is modern curling. American Idol: Chivas USA might just quench this nation of its endless thirst for reality programming. At least for the Spanish speaking portion. We'll have come full circle when Landon does Dancing With The Stars. And the trades! Alecko to Toronto, Krispy Kreme Kevin to Kansas City, little Freddie exiled to Real Salt Lake? The Return of the King starring Claudio Reyna? And then there's the Rumor That Refused To Die. Remember, it took two years for the Gals to reel in their big fish. It could happen. As long as Red Bull continues to be the beverage of choice amongst 18-24 year old trendsetters everywhere.

And that's the great thing about the preseason. An-ti-ci-pAAAAAAAAAAAA-a-tion. Anything is possible.

In the preseason.

You done too much

much too young.


And it speaks volumes about the depths of my own pettiness that I find this so amusing. If only it were happening to my arch-nemesis Paris. Yes, I should be concerned for her health and well-being, but that's not nearly as fun as watching the train wreck.

Personally, I'm hoping it's a trend.

No, not just celebrity implosions. The shaved head thing. I am a hairstyle half-wit. I rode the short bus to beauty school. The last time I used a curling iron, I burned my ear. Becoming a skinhead would not only simplify my morning routine, but finally get the stench of burned flesh out of my bathroom.

It's a thought. And maybe that's Britney's excuse: like the Julia Roberts character in Steel Magnolias, she felt the need to simplify her life. To really simplify her life.

Or she maybe she's just nucking futz.



Top Five Reasons Brit Shaved Her Head

5. Can't tell north from south.
4. Felt a growing kinship with Dustin Hoffman's character in Papillon.
3. Clippers #0 is Cajun for shampoo and set.
2. Was actually looking for a buzz after a tough 24 hour rehab.
1. Desperate to make the weight cut for Celebrity Boxing.


thank you, thank you, thank you. I'll be here all week.

Top 5 Guitar Solos

Never let a lack of knowledge or qualification stand in your way.

These are the best:


1. DJ DJ - Transplants. I picture weaving when I hear this. And the straight back wooden chairs in my grandmother's kitchen: the work of an artisan. This song is so minimalist it just barely qualifies as music. But that's almost beside the point. It sounds fat, it sounds tough, it's got muscle and it makes me smile. Every damn time.

2. The intro to Who Would've Thought - Rancid. 38 seconds of the most tenderly articulated musical love letter I've ever heard. Too bad it's not written for me. And no, I'm not THAT much of a fan girl. It's a sonic caress, and I'd love it even if, god forbid, Billy Joel had written it. Not that he could. So, technically it's not really a "solo." Get over it.

3. The intro to I Got The Love - Nick Lowe. A rare lead appearance from Brentford's Best Loved Bee. Heck, the whole dang song is an essay in understated swagger. I spent my commute trying to figure out how to separate the guitar from the bass. The bassman is doing a little bum-bu-bum into Nick's dowd-de-dow, and they become one funky animal.


4. Who Do You Love - George Thorogood and the Delaware Destroyers. Nothing understated about it. And, again, not exactly a solo. The gravelly growl + the Guitar That Eats Babies = roadhouse heaven. Lonesome George made the electric guitar interesting to me in the Age of the Disciples of Onan. If guitar players were automobiles, George would be that '66 Thunderbird Thelma and Louise drove into ... the sunset, and this song would be that desperate highway.


5. Taylor - Jack Johnson. I'm in two minds about whether this should be #5 or an honorable mention. I don't like the song that much - the lyrics are inane (Peter Patrick pitterpatters on the freaking window?), but I adore the beginning. Blues meets Jazz for a laid-back clambake on Sunset Beach: the quintessential Jack J sound.





Honorable Mention to Elvis Costello, for guitar coloratura on ...Dust

2007 Grammy Awards

Random observations:

Contrived mosh pits are stupid.

Justin Timberlake is a talented singer and a nice looking boy, but why go all YouTube on us? We don't worship celebrities because they're just like us, after all.

Natalie Cole or random drag queen?

I genuinely thought Shakira was wearing paint. Really, really sturdy paint.

Leann Rimes is Gwen Stefani's country cousin. No tits, and proud. Good for both of them! But if they can talk Dreamgirl Jennifer Hudson into balancing out her girls, I predict they can both start shopping Victoria's Secret. And speaking of tits, Samuel L. Jackson appears to be entering puberty. Again. But I'm not telling him.

And, finally, Flea.

Are you making a statement of solidarity with the L.A. Galaxy? Did you wake up, think 'banana' and plan your show duds accordingly? From the gap in your smile to the knobby knees, you're my favorite 40-something 11 year old boy. Note to AK: time to start working out, dude.

Top Five Englishters Living in America*

In response to a statement I heard on the radio. To wit, that with the Beckham Acquisition, Simon Cowell would no longer be the most popular Englishter in America.

Was he ever?

My list, in reverse order:


5. Richard Dawson. He brought sexy back to Nazi prison camp comedies. He undid most of that with his 20 year British Bob Barker imitation, but remember Running Man? He was smarm personified.

4. Malcolm Merriweather, ex-Coldstream Guard and sometime valet to Andy Griffith.

3. Keith Richards. Would he not be the coolest next door neighbor ever?

2. The Geico Gecko. Even if he bends 'em (his vowels) like Beckham.

and, naturally,

1. Elvis Costello. I'm sure he'd rather be called something else other than English. Anything else, probably.

Honorable Mention: Hugh Laurie, who can speak American like a real American. And he's cute, too.



*thanks, James Brown.

Promises, Promises: All (well, ok, some of what) I Want 2007

I am a person who lives for anticipation. Christmas Eve is waaaaaaaaaaay better than Christmas Day. The vacation is always the most fun right before you leave, because once you're on your way then you're already heading home, if you know what I mean. If I don't have something on the horizon to think about, to anticipate, I get depressed. I find myself in a dark closet, with a Jackson Browne album and a bag of Cheetos. And I listen to Fountain of Sorrow over and over while slowly devouring the Cheetos. One Cheeto at a time, in three measured bites. So, that's a place I don't wanna go. Here's my list of what I wanna see in the next 11.9 months. Excuse my inability to decimalize the calendar year.


1. A new Kings of Leon album. First one was good, second one was great. Could the third one be the difference between big in Japan and total world domination? But not before they return to the Tennessee Theatre. Sorry, but I'm not moving up to arenas with you, boys.

2. David Beckham doing the Galaxy thing. Talk about a freak show. 1,000 season tickets sold on the day The Aquisition was announced. Jerseys flying off the racks. Has a "super-club" been born? Stay tuned. There may be one or two morons who believe MLS measures up to any league in the world, but most fans are wondering just how well this is going to work. As long as he works. Preferably shirtless. I'm petitioning MLS and the Gals management to have them always play 'skins.' Let that be my legacy to the sport. P.S. I predict he'll be here before August.

3. Dear sweet beautiful Nick Lowe will finally, or should I say hopefully?, release a new album. The Convincer came out on 9/11, so he's perhaps understandably (I'm just full of adverbs today!) hesistant to put another one out there (be proud of me: I did not make the 'drop/bomb' reference bad taste and an utter lack of sensitivity were suggesting to me). He's a newish dad now, so I'm predicting some happier stuff, shades of Nick the Knife perhaps.

4. That long-promised, not even half-assedly released-for-free on the internet (two tracks? two? fuhgeddaboudit, Tim) solo album from Tim Armstrong AND a new one from Rancid. Does the delay on the downloads have something to do with the demise of the drummer? Not that he's dead, he just decided to decamp, but the alliteration is definitely delightful, don't you think? You guys tour close enough to me, I might just be there. Pressed to a wall, trying desperately not to catch anything or touch anybody yet still trying to look ... if not cool, how about anonymous?

5. The 3 sick, 2 personal and 10 vacation days I've got coming. And last year's leftovers! I've been dreaming of a day, a day to myself. Where I'm not somebody's mother, wife, neighbor or daughter. I might even forget I have friends (I love you! I do!). Where the only person I have to consider on any given decision is me. What I want to eat! Where I want to go! With the best darn companion in the whole wide world (cue Wreckless Eric)! Alone and content: the real Nirvana.


That'll keep me going, through the long cold trough of despair that is February.

And, oh yeah, there's the Grammys and the Oscars. Yes, sometimes boring, often predictable, but addictive as hell. And I get to make catty remarks!

It's On - The Great Vonnegut Readathon

Ok, so it's a RE-Readathon for me. I had them all. Why, oh why did I give them away? Anyway, Indiana, for all their inability to properly teach driver's ed, has done something right. They've declared 2007 The Year of Vonnegut. For my money, he's the most relevant American author of the modern era. Maybe even ... ever! Forsooth, he saw the future and wrote about it tenderly, compassionately, even when describing absolute devastation and horror. These days and these problems have already been examined by Mr. Vonnegut, who's taken his own little figurative ride on the Billy Pilgrim express. Technology out of control? Player Piano. The futility of war? Slaughterhouse-Five. The absurdity of 21st century existence? Breakfast of Champions. All you aspiring authors put down your pens, throw away your keyboards. He's already thought of it, already written it and waaaaaaaay better than anybody else ever will. God Bless you, Mr. Vonnegut.


Here's a sample!

Let the reading begin.

Tax Time in Tennessee

Well, W-2 time to be precise.

You should see my desk. A little pile of child support correspondence here that I'm going to take care of just as soon as I handle the out of town payroll there that needs to go in the mail as soon as I can get the freaking W-2s in envelopes which I'm going to stuff if I ever finish dotting all my i's and crossing all my t's. Numerically, I mean.

I like numbers. They're so solid, so factual. No debating the meaning of 'is' with a number. And there's the rub, Shakespeare fans. All the little numbers my Epson DFX-8000, staggering and swaying like a old Norge washing machine, cranks out are ultimately my responsibility. And I'm absolutely paranoid about their accuracy, because I will get 10,047 phone calls (approximately) from former employees about how they know they have FIT paid in but their W-2 shows zero. So far, the approximately $100 million* in wages and taxes I have paid and reported have been, as we payroll clerks like to say, absolutely on the money. To. The. Penny. Knock on wood or, alternatively, Bill Gates. My luck will run out eventually, I'm afraid, so I spend hours checking against the quarterly taxes, making sure I've got 9 numbers in that EIN box, and that they're the *right* numbers. That everybody has a first AND last name, because there's always one little software glitch that will screw up every 37th page and diskappear one or the other. And that I'm printing the right freaking year on the right freaking form. And that I put the prior year away when I'm done and don't leave the current year labeled "FIA 2007 Goddammit".

If all that weren't enough to give me a nervous tic and a pressing need for new reading glasses, there's the printer, the previously referenced DFX-8000 that is approximately 80 years old. I sacrificed a kitten and invoked the name of Bes in a glorious pagan ceremony of supplication. Which seemed to help a bit. Most of the W-2s are 4 part forms, but I have two companies that need 6 part forms. The printer has one tractor that still pulls, and it will do a 4 part form if I don't do too many at once. A 6 part form is a no-go, houston-we-have-a-problem. This is where my single greatest payroll/printing skill materializes. Yes, I can stop print in a instant, before the idiosyncratic little jump it tends to take on an 8 1/2 X 11 form can ruin the first W-2. I can shift the printhead left, right, up, and/or down with intuitive grace, in increments so infinitesimal you might think I'm telekinetic. Jazz hands, baby. And without my particular set of skills and level of paranoia, there would be no W-2s for the angry mob we have working for us.

And that's why they pay me the big bucks.



*approximately, I said approximately. ;>


There! Three paragraphs and no mention of soccer, Clint Dempsey, Elvis Costello or Tim Armstrong!

The Mostest from Nacogdoches

got a little game.

Clint Dempsey gets subbed on for the final 13 minutes.

Fulham vs Tottenham Extended Highlights
Uploaded by FootballHeaven

The tackle is typical Demps: so sprawling, so klutzy, so un-joga bonita it looks like a complete accident that he gets up with the ball. And the back heel - who in their right mind does that in their first premiership game? "Cheeky" ? Arrogant? Probably a little of both. And quintessential Dempsey. Big ups, dude. Looking forward to more.

Tim Armstrong, Animal Lover

I thought it was the XM Satellite icon. -->

<--Check out his elbow.

That is some fine definition. Just like the corner of a dollar bill. And if you turn your monitor upside down, there's a Hellcat kitty.

I need some ink.

The Other Becks

Beckerman, that is. Kyle Beckerman. Colorado Rapids' Designated Dread Wearer and USMNT member.

Enough about the other guy, already.

But if, and it's a big if, Ronaldo rides in on a white horse to save the Red Bulls, then the East coast/West coast/New World/Old World rivalry could get interesting.

It's About Effing Time!

With all my Dempsey watching, I almost forgot about this: USMNT back at it, as of January 4th, unless your name is Landon and you're on your honeymoon. So, he's really *not* gay.

First game of 2007 (January 20th on ESPN2, 5:00), a friendly with Denmark. Then a friendly with Mexico (which won't be very friendly, I'm sure) on February 7th at 9, also on ESPN2. These are the guys in camp, except for Dempsey (gone to POE) and Eskandarian, who has disappeared into the Great White North. Spit Red Bull again, headgear boy, and see where you end up then...

Goalkeepers (4) – Joe Cannon (Los Angeles Galaxy), Matt Pickens (Chicago Fire), Troy Perkins (D.C. United), Matt Reis (New England Revolution)

Defenders – Chris Albright (Los Angeles Galaxy), Bobby Boswell (D.C. United), Jonathan Bornstein (Chivas USA), Jimmy Conrad (Kansas City Wizards), Bryan Namoff (D.C. United), Michael Parkhurst (New England Revolution), Heath Pearce (FC Nordsjælland), Dasan Robinson (Chicago Fire) Eddie Robinson (Houston Dynamo), Danny Califf (Aalborg BK, Denmark) and Todd Dunivant (New York Red Bulls)

Midfielders – Kyle Beckerman (Colorado Rapids), Brian Carroll (D.C. United), Ricardo Clark (Houston Dynamo), Clint Dempsey (New England Revolution), Joshua Gros (D.C. United), Sacha Kljestan (Chivas USA), Justin Mapp (Chicago Fire), Pablo Mastroeni (Colorado Rapids), Brian Mullan (Houston Dynamo), Pat Noonan (New England Revolution)

Forwards – Kenny Cooper (FC Dallas), Alecko Eskandarian (D.C. United), Landon Donovan (Los Angeles Galaxy), Nate Jaqua (Los Angeles Galaxy), Chris Rolfe (Chicago Fire), Eddie Johnson (Kansas City Wizards)

Head Coach: Bob Bradley. Not everybody's first choice, but not a bad selection. Germans? We don't need no stinkin' Germans.


Lots of youngsters, mostly MLS. Sadly, no Eddie Gaven. Protein. The word is protein, Eds. The Danish will eat us like um....danishes. But we gotta start somewhere.




















And now we know what we gotta play with.

Dempsey Watch, Day 59

Yep, the pissy Englishters win.



Permit approved, already chillin' in the UK and available to play January 20.

And no Fulham games are on FSC the entire month of January, forcing me to consider shelling out for yet another sports channel. Can you say cable company conspiracy? Of course, he might not play for a while, having to adapt his game to English football, which ain't so different from its American cousin, being all about kicking the absolute hell out of the ball and tackling with intent to harm. And then there's the Jesus-H-Christ-does-it-EVER-quit-raining adjustment period, so it might be best not to see. But, I'll want to anyway. If you listen very closely, you'll hear the agonized moan as my Mastercard maxes out. It's been like Christmas, this transfer window. All the wondering, the serpentine speculation, extracted laboriously from algorithms of hot air and molecular pieces of knowledge. I hate to see it end.

But then, there's Gooch...

Todd Snider

My new hero. John Prine's heir-apparent. This is Talkin' Seattle Grunge Rock Blues, from his first album, Songs for the Daily Planet released way back in 1994. Turn it up loud and listen more than once. The lyrics are razor-sharp, earnestly sung, perversely funny. In short, everything that tickles my twisted tiny funny bone in a tidy 3 minute and 20 second package.

What American accent do you have? Your Result: The Midland "You have a Midland accent" is just another way of saying "you don't have an accent." You probably are from the Midland (Pennsylvania, southern Ohio, southern Indiana, southern Illinois, and Missouri) but then for all we know you could be from Florida or Charleston or one of those big southern cities like Atlanta or Dallas. You have a good voice for TV and radio.
The South
The West
The Inland North
Philadelphia
The Northeast
Boston
North Central
What American accent do you have? Quiz Created on GoToQuiz

Accent-free? Moi?

Sadly, and to my lifelong disappointment, true. Maybe not as true as it once was, having spent the last 30 years here in Sevier County, where nary a day passes that I don't hear someone's druthers, their fixin' to's and their painfully expressed relationships (I got a friend of mine, e.g.) But in my formative years, I was embarrassingly free of the accent that defined home - at least for my Mississippian parents. And it was all their fault, dragging me willy-nilly across the U S of A. I was born in North Carolina, moved to Virginia the first time when I was a toddler, then west to California for 7 years. Fourth grade was spent back in Virginia, in a suburb of D.C. While Nixon's presidency was unraveling I became obsessed with The Man Without A Country. Yes, the flair for drama became apparent early on. Then off to Missouri, where the people say "you'ins". Really. Finally, a move to the land of red clay mud and abandoned tires. That's right, T for Tennessee. Big ups to me for not speaking some mutant east coast/west coast slang. Um, well, mostly not, yo! And the more I think about it, the more I believe my parents should have gone to jail for child abuse/neglect. Yard darts! We had 'em! Bugs Bunny cartoons! The Three Stooges! On every afternoon right after school and could poorer role models be found? Bear attacks! Earthquakes! Proximity to Nixon! What kind of parents let their children spend entire summers in swimming holes or swimming pools? Or amuse themselves driving the family sedan solo around and around the grandparents' pastures? At the age of 10? Or play outside all day with vague directions to be home before dark?

It was a simpler time. It was a simpler place. Er, places. Were. Whatever.

Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Dad.

A New Year's Resolution

To make the world a better place.



One photo at a time.

Dempsey Watch, Day 46. WWDG?

Wisdom teeth extracted, affianced and, apparently (against my sage advice), going to Pissy Olde England.

But which team? I mean, club? Where Will Dempsey Go? And will Gooch go with? THAT would be cool.

Tune in after January 1st, same Bat time, same Bat channel.

It's Official

The Christmas Shoes is the worst Christmas song ever.


Popwatch agrees, and got a Sunday School lesson for their trouble. Scott-o-rama knew it last year and knew why: because it's so manipulative. It came on while I was shopping for cowboy boots and I could NOT escape. I want to run screaming fa!la!la!la!la! from the store with my fingers in my ears, but I am on a mission. A mission from hell because as usual I have put off the shopping thing until the last possible moment, because deep down in my heart I believe Santa's little elves are going to do it for me. Damn the short people!

Anyway, I had a kleenex (well, ok, it was a Wendy's napkin, slightly used), and I managed to get the boots (score!) and not waste more than a tear or two. That's my problem with the song: the blatant manipulation that Scott-o-rama noted. It personifies everything that's wrong with Christmas. It's mean spirited and calculating and maudlin. And lots of other bad things!

In the spirit of love and fellowship enjoyed by so many during this holiday season, I am refraining from you-tubing that puppy.

You're welcome, and Merry Christmas to you as well.

But to give you something to um, enjoy the holiday season with, listen to what happens when some idiot says 'I dare you.'

It's not me, it's the bacteria!

More good news this holiday season.

"Infectobesity"


I know this will make a lot of folks feel vindicated. Personally, it makes me believe we're that much closer to a Magic Weight Loss Pill. And being a sloth who likes to eat (a lot), that's very welcome news indeed.

I need answers, dammit!

Slate wants to know: which question should they answer?

I've got a gang, and no idea how to run it in a non-"little bitch gang joke" sort of way. Help!

I think we can consider the rat poison question moot now.

But what about forced masturbation?

everybody needs a little Setzer...

Ho, ho, ho, peeps!

More on the Best of 2006

Best Soccer Moment (Professional):
Psychotic and fierce - that's how I like my soccer players. The dance - well, it must be a Texas thing.


Best Soccer Moment (En Famille): The Notorious K T J scoring on a free kick at GPHS just as I walked up. Talk about timing. On both our parts.

Best New Adjective: Man-, as in man-purse or man-hug.

Best List of Lists: Alter Net's The Ten Best Top Ten Lists. Research, baby. I'm all about the research. The grocery lists were particularly fun. You can tell by the coke on my keyboard.


The Mack Daddy of Lists, Fimoculous.com.

It's the Breck "I told one friend and she told one friend and so on and so on" award: The Lost Remote.


To continue or not to continue? That is the question.

Meh. I think I'm done.

It's beginning to look a lot like....

The End. Of the year, anyway. All the Best Of lists coming out, etc. So, I thought I'd jump on the bandwagon and do my own little Best of 2006. And by 2006, I mean that I found it in 2006, not that it necessarily first appeared in 2006. Truthiness is important.


Best Use of a Registered Trademark in a Celebrity Dis: FedEx. Kevin, we hardly knew ye. Not that we really wanted to.

Best Internet Discovery: Youtube. Yep, Time's on to it as well, the copy cats.

Best Commercial: Cingular's Stop the Catbox.

The sheep don't like it!

Best Musical Discovery: You can guess this one - Tim Armstrong. But dude, go finish already. Two songs do not a freaking album make.

Best TV show: House. Thanks, Elvis! I never would have watched if not for you. No more endless L&O reruns!

Best Book: The Poisonwood Bible, Barbara Kingsolver. She is also my Best Literary Discovery. And she needs to go write a new book. Thanks, Monica!

Best Concert/Musical Event: hands down, this goes to John Prine at the Tennessee Theatre. Probably the Musical Event of my life. Unless Elvis wants to bring Nick Lowe to my living room. Thanks to my friend Anonymous Ticket Master, who discovered the presale! Your identity is safe with me.

Song of the Year, Category of Narcissism: the Transplants' DJ DJ, because it kicks ass and takes names. And look, my initials are in it, too!

And speaking of DJ DJ, let me also give Curse of the Year to this song for "fuck the motherfucking backstabbing cunts." Priceless. Couldn't get more offensive without going racial.



To be continued...

words fail

White Christmas

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Cheese. Weird imitation cheese.

And where did his eyebrows go?

Add This To The List...

of things I just don't get:

Families who go en masse to the emergency room when one member is ill/mentally disturbed/hyperventilating over the WWE Smackdown/maimed/whatever. I was hanging out there last night, when an apparent grandma and grandpa walked out with their angelic little granddaughter whose finger was all bandaged up. Immediately, they were surrounded by a clamoring horde. I counted five other adults and two young children. It was going on 9. Why didn't at least one of these adults take those young children home? Another family had Mom, Stepdad, Grandma and teenage sister acting out scenes from Dysfunctional Family Dynamics 101. Grandma telling the receptionist in a loud stage whisper 'she (the sick one) won't see her mother - she wants me.' It's like a love contest - if you love the child, you come. The longer you sit in a plastic seat being barraged by what constitutes news (Fox - need I say more?), the more you love. The more people you bring with you to share the barrage and the plastic seats, the greater that love. The more you scowl and snarl and harass the staff, the more you demonstrate that love.

It's beyond my understanding.

But I feel much better for sharing.

On My Way To Work

I saw this on the back of a truck -


Bumper to bumper
Butt to butt
Get off my ass
You crazy nut!

No photo available.

Dempsey Watch - Day 22

Where in the world is the Dempster going to go? It's a veritable vortex of gossip, lies and innuendo at this point, in an understated soccer-in-the-USA way. A tiny horde of fans is all atwitter. America at large with no clue.

I was leaning toward Charlton, myself. Mostly because of Dempster's 'I want to make a difference' statement and the fact that he fired his agent, making the move egotistically likely and stunningly stupid. I like the sound of Charlton. Sounds like cigarettes. But the hot money is now on Fulham. Long shots West Ham and Atletico Madrid have also been bandied about with impunity.

Reason I want Demps in EPL: Fox Soccer Channel. I might get to see him once in a while. They do show a little of La Liga, I think. Or maybe I'm thinking of Serie A.

Reason Demps should go to EPL: to kick some pissy Englishter ass.

Reasons Demps should not go to EPL: It gets dark at 4. The weather is nasty and the rap is worse. He could get nicknamed McDemps. Or McDumps, depending on how those pissy Englishters take to him.

Reason Demps should go to La Liga: The climate. Gooch. Food.

T Shirt Philosophizin' Part Deux

Does that scare you? Do you feel threatened by the color contrast? Do you think this is why kindergartners must be taught to color inside the lines?


I got this shirt as part of a "deluxe" edition of Rancid's Indestrucible album, all the way from Denmark via eBay. I didn't really want the shirt, but it didn't cost any extra, so. It's not the kind of thing I normally wear (I just don't like black tees) but I washed it and added it to my weekend pile anyway. One Saturday, it won the top-of-the-heap lottery and I wore it on my weekly expedition to Walmart. And I never thought a thing about it, until I got in the check out line.

The dude in front of me freaked out. Not the throw-your-hands-up-run-screaming kind of freakout, but more the Masterpiece Theater bug-eyed double takes and leper alert cringing. I was concentrating on unloading my buggy the way I want to re-load it (heavy stuff on the bottom, bread and eggs and bananas must float to the top), but I gradually became aware that my presence was making this dude very uncomfortable. He was approximately my age, that is to say *not* somebody's grandpa (yet), but he must've been raised in *very* sheltered environment. Like a monastery. Or Van Buren, Missouri. I am the least threatening looking mom in the entire 3rd grade. Well, ok, that's not 100% true. I'm neither blonde nor bubble-headed, but I am in no way, shape or form frightening. When I have my makeup on, anyway. And I did. Have my makeup on. Anyway, to stop this meandering, dude left at a very brisk pace, heart racing, his eyes bugged out and an extra touch of gray in his hair thanks to the graphical bit of anarchy pictured above.

I couldn't figure out why until today. Pure hypothesis, of course, but perhaps, just maybe, he had a little reality check and found out that things he assumed just might not be true. Not all punks are multi-pierced multi-tatted unemployed delinquents snorting heroin on street corners and begging for change. And if that's possible, then, gee, all sorts of things could be possible: Democrats in Sevier County! Cats and dogs in trans-species fellowship! Peanut butter AND chocolate!

Well, maybe that's a little ridiculous.


But I can't wait to wear it again.