Ponch is Stalking Me.

For real. Well, not real real stalking, but the random cyber-media popping up sort that's just a bit uncanny.

It started last week when I trolled thru a Google image search for pics of Tim Armstrong and/or the band Rancid. Found this one showing the band and some guests at a benefit for Tony Hawk's Ride foundation. Note Erik Estrada on the right.

In a little frenzy of Butthole Surfers mania, I found this video for Pepper.


Guess who, again.


So, in the spirit of keeping the dream alive, I've decided to dedicate Wednesdays to random Erik Estrada sightings. We'll call them the Wednesday Weird until we can think of something more clever.



I don't mind the sun sometimes, the images it shows
I can taste you on my lips and smell you on my clothes
cinnamon and sugary and softly spoken lies
you'll never know just how you look thru other people's eyes...


as always, comments welcomed.

A Boy and His Wheels

Pro: I can resume my own life, since I won't be driving him hither and yon.

Con: He'll be driving. Without me and all my passenger seat expertise.

Pro: A tank of gas might last me longer than 3 days.

Con: I'll be loaning him money to put gas in his.

Pro: He can do some of my carpooling chores.

Con: see above.





World, you've been warned.

When Worlds Collide...

Lars Frederiksen and Branden Steineckert of Rancid, combining two of my favorite things: soccer & awesome hair. Now if they can just grab Tim. And maybe disrobe a little.

Stolen from Branden's facebook.

Fear, Loathing and a Whole Lotta Cat Hair

How do cats do that anyway? Just eject hair at will?

Speck, seen here in the classic meatloaf pose, had to pay a visit to our friendly neighborhood vet after coming down with a smelly ear that somehow morphed into one ginormous abcess behind his ear.

$300 later, he will be fine. Flealess, vaccinated, drained and antibioticated, he will be good as new.

LD to Everton?

SBI sez it's so. But I'd feel a lot better about it if someone besides "source" said it. But, anyway, good for Mr. Donovan, who grows in my estimation just about every single day. Whatever happens, 50% of internet pundits will say he failed. 50% will say he was God-like in his magnificence. None of them will be 100% correct. Let's hope Kickette takes note.

Best of luck, LD. Go kick some Englishter ass.



*Kickette noticed.

Run Run Run, Run Awaaaaayyyyyy

Eddie Johnson's days at Fulham are numbered.


Told ya so. Not braggin', just sayin'.


Not that that's anything to brag about, but I *desperately* need to be right about something today.

Breaking News: Socceristas Swarm Seattle

Ok, it probably should be futbolistas, but it just didn't have the same alliterative flair.

Everybody's going. Juan Pablo Angel and Kevin Goldthwaite from RBNY. Presumably not together. Brendan Steineckert and Lars Friedriksen from Rancid. Most definitely together.

The morning shows were scarfed., but not impressively, because, duuuhhhhhh, everybody is out there in Seattle.


Except me.

(big brave sigh)

One day.

Real Salt Lake Attempts to Sway

my MLS cup loyalty by doing cool shit like making t-shirts with this picture



and having Nick Rimando on hand to hand them out.


Way cool, Mormon Nation.

Just Because

Rancid - "Up To No Good" from Tony Hawk

Goodbye, Columbus.

Short personal anecdote: my oldest child, when he was tiny, 4ish perhaps, saw his dad and myself in our wedding photos. Where am I? he asked. Well, you weren't born yet, we said. His eyes popped in disbelief and gradually his mouth formed an "o" of understanding. And that was an important life lesson for him: the world existed before he was born, and would likely continue after he was gone.

And so it was for the Columbus Crew Thursday. The MLS Cup, and the quest thereof, was there before them and will be there after.

Long after, unfortunately. Watching it, I felt like a lot of goals were gonna get scored. Schelotto's two in the first half were lucky and wonderful, respectively. A third would surely come. Yes, but to the wrong team. And then another. And one more. Real Salt Lake 3, Columbus 2. Tortured segues and all.

The bad part is, I wanted them - nay, counted on them - to reach the final, so it would be Crew-Gals.

The good part is, I can now unashamedly out myself as pro-Gals. With the exception of Beckham, who should stay the heck out of MLS and devote himself entirely to underwear modeling.

The Sun'll Come Up...

Trout Fishing In America

It was a beautiful day. After Steven's graduation, we all adjourned to his apartment for a fiesta. Fajitas, black bean salad, Dos Equis to spare. The sun was shining, the sky was blue - sapphire, in fact. I drove the young ones back to our house and returned to Knoxville to watch the movie making. Trout Fishing In America was being filmed in the downtown area, and onlookers were encouraged to attend. Some years later, I sat in a downtown radio station office watching the finished movie on cable, pointing out which parts were Knoxville to anyone who would listen, remembering that wonderful day.


Memories. They're such warm and lovely things.


Only, this never happened. Well, to be specific, the graduation happened and the fiesta happened, but all the movie-making, movie-watching most definitely did not.

It was all a dream.


And yet so very, very real. These fake memories felt so treasured and worn. The act of remembering felt honest, the feelings evoked felt true.


But still, it was all a dream.


Freaky, man, freaky. Like, I-could-believe-I-have-a-parallel-existence freaky.

Gonna have to go find that book now.

These are a few of my favorite things...

Rancid and soccer. Teh awesome.


thanks to valerie z at rancid fans.

Thoughts at 80 mph on I-40

What's scarier?

An angry confrontation with a major whack job who shalt remain nameless...


or....


the realization that, IF the tire on that 18-wheeler beside me blows, it will cause the van to roll over and not only will I die, but pieces of me will be strewn all over the interstate.


I gave it 54 miles of thought and could not find the answer. Or the difference.


Color me chickenshit.

Morning Glory Redux

they're just so darn pretty.

Art.

I does it.

A self-portrait (dancing, or doing something unmentionable) I added to my work mug to keep the thieves away.

Mornin', Glory!

Found by my parking space yesterday.


Happy Beatles Day, everyone.


Happy birthday to me. How'd I get so freakin' old?


Also, birthday greetings to, in no particular order: Brad Guzan, Hugh Grant, Michael Keaton, Sacha Kljestan, Adam Sandler, and Goran Višnjić.

Answering the question

Prompted by Plinky, I attempt to answer the question, if I could have a tattoo for a week, what would it be?


I'd go acoustic, though.


And I'd have Tim Armstrong draw it on me.

Cue Etta James...

At Last.


RBNY 3, FC Dallas 2. First win in over TWO months. In 16 games!

Good day to be a Metro. Even a former Metro.

Numerology...

FAIL.

Well, ok, math skillz FAIL. When will I learn to add 2 + 2? Or, my age + 1?

It's like this: this year my birthday falls on what sounds like the most auspicious date ever. 09/09/09. And, when I first realized this, I was ecstatic because I did the quick math in my head and came up with my new age - 45, which is 4 + 5, which obviously is 9, and cosmically significant to the nth degree. Surely I would win the lottery, become clairvoyant and/or finish an NYT Sunday crossword unassisted!

But not so fast. 2009-1963= 46. D'oh!




One is the loneliest number...

But here's a cool site to see how your name, via numerology, defines your life.

So.....

What's wrong with this picture?


Well, firstly, there's a lot of things right with it. Stubble, for starters. Hi-def tats. Biceps with promising shadows. A glimpse of red plaid boxer.

The thing I don't understand is why he's wearing his shirt - the one with his band's name on it - inside out. Some kind of old school humility? A frantic rush to the stage after some shirtless b-ball? An ironic fashion statement? No, wait, that's the pants.

I've had two original fashion thoughts in my 40-something years. Both were back in high school. One was using a wound up bandanna as a belt, which was kind of hard to pull off, given my waist. Difficult to pee, as well. Knots. Not made for lower body wear. The other was wearing my generic gray sweatshirt inside out.

And this was waaaaaaay before Flashdance.

Numbers Don't Lie

45 years old.

celebrating my 27th anniversary.

on my day job 23 years.

June 3rd, On Which I Become a Music Critic

The new Rancid record is out. I have it. I love it. That's probably disqualification #1. I'm a big fan of all things Armstrong. Disqualification #2. I don't know enough about music to 'judge' per se - I'm one of those if-I-like-it,it-must-be-good opinionistas. Disqualification #3.

In the punk rock realm, diversity is expected. Anticipated, even. Psychobilly? Punk! Argentine ska? Uber punk! As long as you stay diverse in the same way you were the day punk rock embraced you. Artists who poke holes in the spiky black leather boxes they were put in get labeled sellouts faster than Travis Barker whales on drums.

The most Rancid-esque quote on this record is their manifesto: I heard G. B. H. I made a decision. Punk rock is my religion. Obviously, they meant the Clash and clearly, they’ve soldiered on through the early stages of discipleship in which their fervent punk essence is sworn and declared (e.g. their 1993 debut), to seasoned apostles of, well, if not exactly peace, love & understanding, then unity, equality and brotherhood. It must get very boring trying to stay "punk" and be a human being. The decisions one must make. Is this Big Mac punk? Crest or Colgate? What would Johnny Rotten choose? Rimshot. Can one have some financial security, and still be punk? If an album is produced to the point where the lyrics are mostly decipherable, is it still punk? Rancid, weathering the tides of life just like the rest of us, have put quite a lot of thought into those kinds of questions and come to the conclusion that appearance is nothing. Attitude is everything. Let The Dominoes Fall is the next step in the evolution of punk: the transition from talking about how you don't give a f**k what other people think, a/k/a youthful bravado and/or paranoid chutzpah, to actually genuinely not giving a f**k, because you're secure enough in your vision and talent not to be threatened by the opinions of others. So, all you rigid obsessive-compulsives who are going to say Rancid ain't punk, Rancid sold out, Rancid ain't nothing but corporate shills, shut up already. You're wrong.

Here's why:

1) Boom-shacka-lacka-lacka-lacka-boom. Seriously, who else, outside of Sha Na Na, has the cajones to do this? Matt Freeman's feral growl threatens to annihilate with just one lacka anyone who snickers.

2) Mandolins. All over the freaking place. Banjo on the acoustic disc. Was that a dobro? Risks taken.

3) No leitmotif, no 'concept', no cause. If there is one singular message this album tries to send, it's that this is a place where everyone can belong.

The best parts of this record: the choruses, especially Lulu and New Orleans; the bounce - goshdarnit, you can actually dance to Up to No Good; Brandon Steineckert's talent and the way he's just been absorbed by the band - just, wow. Like an amoeba feeds. Or The Borg assimilate.

The worst parts: pronoun agreements. The English major in me balks at 'to all our friends, on this I swear' - it's a personal problem, yes; and the multitude of choices to purchase. The basic cd. The expanded cd with the acoustic cd and dvd. The super-expanded-deluxe cds/dvd/vinyl/kitchen sink version. Which would not bother me so much if all the tracks were available in one purchase. I don't like the iTunes special tracks. But at least, they didn't go the way of so many artists and release the cd. Then six months later, release the expanded version. And, just in time for Christmas, release the special outtake version. Thanks for that, guys.

Civilian Ways is getting a lot of love, as it should. But for my money, all $32.58 including shipping, the best song Rancid has done to date is New Orleans. The chorus is full of beautiful similes - I particularly love scar on her velvet face one - and the last verse of 'it rained all night in New Orleans' sung with some rough emotion well, that's just killer. The acoustic version brought a tear to my eye.

Hear for yourself.

Brand Spankin' New Rancid Video

Things to note: it's in COLOR; Tim smiles - heck, I think everybody smiles at least a little - and makes non-threatening eye contact; Brendan shouts out MLS. Too bad it's Real Salt Lake. (Joe Cannon is a Rancid fan, but somehow I don't think Brendan is his anonymous season-ticket-holding friend - my money's on Matt. He looks like a goalkeeper's kind of guy.)

That's Not My Name

Is it a crime to hike under an assumed name on federal lands? If so, this post is just a product of my imagination. I don't want Homeland Security putting me on some list of suspicious characters. Color un-coordinated characters, sure. But not *suspicious* characters.

It's not my fault my dad has terrible handwriting. And I'm not blaming the poor woman who attempted to decipher said handwriting and write out our name tags, but Sebbie Jerkins is not my name. Vim Jerkins is not my husband. I am left wondering who Perv Jerkins is, because he is no relation of mine although his name was on the guest list.
It amused the h-e-double toothpicks out of the rest of my family, however, and it worked right in with my plot to remain masked and anonymous at these GSMNP 75th anniversary gatherings.

Beautiful starting point - the Appalachian Highlands Science Learning Center over on the Cataloochee side of the park. Never had been there, never had heard of it. Driving up was like driving to Mt. LeConte or something equally surreal. Isolated isn't quite the word, but close. Serene. Secluded. Tranquil.

2.3 down McKee Branch, 3.2 down Big Fork Ridge, out at Cataloochee for some fabulous food and an elk program. Down was the operative word - my knees! my thighs! the blister that erupted on the back of my left heel hasn't quite healed yet. Yes, I've been a sloth all winter and it shows.

Wet and muddy, but it did not really rain on us. Saw some wildflowers and some salamanders, identified by the lovely and talented Ann Froschauer, the 75th anniversary coordinator (googled you, Ann, to be sure I spelled everything right!) That's a showy orchis there to the left, alongside my sister Mary Ann's hand. Was hoping to get up close and personal with an elk, but he was not cooperative.


And just for the record, that's not my name.

Doing MY part for Earth Day

That little blonde girl?


I brought her into this world eleven years ago today.


That erases ALL my carbon footprint, baby.


J/K.


She is kinda cute, though.


And, yes, I do realize this is kind of a repost.

Giving the people what they want

We do that.


This is the #1 photo visited here at My Mood Swings.


We don't understand it, but we do appreciate all you health conscious types stopping by.

Hope your Easter was a goodun...

Anybody besides me remember when you could go to Walmart and buy a real live chick for Easter?

A big shout out to my special peep CJ, who shares culture wherever she finds it.

This could be big

I mean, really really big.

Knoxville, that scruffy little city, might just be hosting some World Cup action come 2018 or 2022. Yes, I realize that's years - lifetimes, even - away, but hot damn, I hope it works out.

Gloom. Despair. And agony on me...

It's the middle of February.


I haven't posted since 2008.


I seem to have hit the wall.


I've been thinking for some time - hard as that may be to believe - that I need to revamp this blog somehow and make it about something. I've dedicated one or two posts (wink wink) to the lovely and talented Tim Armstrong. A few to the Mostest from Nacogdoches himself, Clint Dempsey. A whole bunch to various soccer matches around the globe. A lot to my family and pets. I've just lost the plot, folks. Don't know what to write about anymore. Now is the winter of our discontent. January sucked and February ain't done nothing to fix up on it. (I believe that is a bad grammar grand slam. Go, me. At least I can still do that). Everything is wrong. And I'm not quite sure how to fix it. The acrid stench of failure engulfs everything I touch lately, so for the next little while I just want to sit in the closet with a bag of Cheetos and a Jacqueline Susann novel and lick my wounds.

Well, actually it will probably be a Rancid album and something cold to drink.

Anyway, feel free to holla if you have any suggests.

Feel free to holla about anything at all.

Watching the Granddog, Day One

This is Davis.


He's 10 months old. He likes to sniff, chew, chase cats and rip stuffed animals to little tiny pieces.

He'll eat anything.

And he's living at my house for the next few weeks, while #1 son does his post-graduation See The World (or at least the western USA) trip, gets started in his new career and finds an apartment where he can keep this little feller, Jefferson Davis Jenkins. Mostly known as Davis.

I assume his name is meant to be ironic.

In a rather blatant attempt to jump on the Marley & Me bandwagon, I'll be posting about our adventures.

As you might've guessed, trying to write a poem a day during this crazy month proved impossible. Couldn't even manage a haiku once we got near graduation. I plan to pick that back up in January, so dear readers, you can look forward to another month of poems!!!


Yeah, try to hold that in a little. Your enthusiasm is dripping.

AFK

for a while, maybe.


Not that this is unusual for me, but I'm taking a sabbatical of sorts trying to kick start my dwindling creative process. In an effort just to get something going again in this old and tired brain, I am attempting to write a poem per day for the next 31 days. You can (if you like to watch train wrecks) find it over here. If you don't wanna, like the Terminator, I'll be baaaaaccccckkkkk.

I Love the Red Hot Chili Peppers

and I will die a happy woman should I ever get to see them live.


I've been caught up in Stadium Arcadium the last few days. Specifically, three songs from the Jupiter side: Dani California, Slow Cheetah and Wet Sand. And of those three, particularly Wet Sand. Two things I have gleaned about RHCP from the web over the last few days: 1) they really know how to write a chorus and 2) this song is perfect to 'die to.' Completely agree with the first and, while I will withhold judgment on the second until I am ready to die, I'm inclined to agree with that sentiment as well. God knows that I really tried - I think that's something we'll all be thinking in those final moments.

Anyway, that kind of got me thinking, as I listened to the song. The lyrics, like a lot of RHCP lyrics, sound really mystical and spiritually profound. I find myself believing in them, running my mental fingers over the complexities and profundities to be explored.


And then I run smack dab into 'you don't form in the wet sand, you don't form at all/you don't form in the wet sand - I do'. And what do I do with that? Wet sand? Form? You?

Fortunately, a fevered imagination will always overcome dull reality. Obviously, it's not literal. Well, not literal as in form equaling create. I see him (the sometimes handsome Anthony Kiedis, of course) walking on the beach, the sun setting, his feet at the water's edge. And the wet sand is a crystal ball of sorts where he's looking not just at his lovely footprints (that are quickly disappearing back into wet sand), but at his future, and whoever his 'you' is ain't gonna be there with him.

I can be deep, too.


The live version.

Cucumber Gap Loop - the Jenkins' Experience

Family hike #1 for 2008. Ok, most-of-the-family hike #1. Well, HALF-of-the-family hike #1, if you must be literal.

September 21, 2008.


Yes, I look like a man. And that's my favorite (and only) Nick Lowe tee (in a man's size large, coinkydinkly). My hand is on the Cucumber Gap trail sign, and it reads 2.9 miles to the Little River Trail. Our total mileage for the day was approximately 5.5 miles, and those are the last miles I will hike in those ragged out shoes!

I have a hard time letting go of favorite shoes.


So, it was a not-quite-summer, not-yet-fall kind of Sunday. My husband, being the optimist that he is, told me it would take us 'most of the day' to do this hike. And then he mentioned that this was the trail where a woman was mauled to death a few years ago. As if I wasn't already having enough trouble getting the kids in the van. Seriously, that little sign on the bottom there warns that there has been a lot of BEAR ACTIVITY in the area, a phrase more suited to a Great Smokies' bear jam perhaps.


So, we found a whistle, packed some sandwiches and headed out in the great outdoors. I was a little nervous, because this was my first time as a "hike leader" and I had never been on this trail and what if I missed the signs? Nothing to worry about, it turns out. Starting on the Little River Trail, we walked out of what's left of the Elkmont community alongside the Little River (I assume), a very gentle hike along an old road bed. At approximately 2.5 miles, the trail deadended and the Cucumber Gap trail (with great signage!) took off to the right up and over the mountain that shall not be named. I need a better map. This was a quieter hike (no babbly brook alongside), and a little harder walking. Nothing much to see except trees, until you pop out on the trail/road that is the Jakes Creek trail. Down, down, down the hill (so glad I plotted this loop the right way) and back through the upper remains of Elkmont, where they are (at last) doing some restoration work. The only wildlife we saw, with the exception of dead millipedes, were a few tiny snakes, maybe 4 inches long and dark gray with a white ring around their necks. Most were run over, but one was playing possum and we exchanged startlings.


A nice afternoon.


And then I went and walked 2 more miles with the husband!

Good News for Peace Queers!

Todd Snider's new ep, Peace Queer, is available as a free download here.


I've been listening to it quite a bit. It's got a little of everything: a toe tapper, a civil war ballad, some spoken word, an instrumental, a rocker. Best of all, it's full of Mr. Snider's signature good humor and intelligence.

I did not do this to change your mind about anything. I did this to ease my own mind about everything.

At least, go hence and read the Cokie Roberts bio for Peace Queer.


And anybody know how to snag that priceless photo?



is this thing working?


is this thing on?

Sad About Girls Signs

I know I live in a predominantly Republican county, in a predominantly Republican state. I *know* this. But as God is my witness, no matter how tempted I was (remember those "W The President" stickers? they enrage me), I have never resorted to vandalizing political signs. I gave some deep thought to doing something Christo-esque with them all during the last presidential election, but I let restraint be the better part of valor.

So how come all these Republican idjit punks keep messing with my boy Obama's signs? Some brave Democrat soul had put 2 up: one down by the voting machine warehouse where early voting is happening, one on the roadside near the dumpsters on Newport Highway. You'd think the warehouse one would be vandal proof, being almost in the center of town and on a very busy roadway. No. Someone, who obviously wants to prove the Deliverance stereotypes true, cut out the O. And the one down by the dumpsters? First another poster boy for modern dentistry put an "s" over the "b." You know, because he's a Muslim terrorist. That brave Democrat got his own can of spray paint and fixed that. So how does our poster boy react? He cuts out the center of the sign. There's a big gaping hole where Obama/Biden used to be. That kind of vandalism takes time. I'd say the chances of some person driving by and witnessing the deed were 50-50. Did anybody report it? No.

My fellow Sevier Countians, these cowardly acts of vandalism shame us all. I truly thought we could be tolerant of differing political views, at least in public. We don't have to agree with each other, we don't have to hold hands at the polls. But we do have to share the vistas and roadways and the aisles at Walmart. We're all in this together. I'd feel justified (by the Kindergarten Code, of course), in artfully re-decorating a few McCain-Palin signs. McPain, anyone? But I'm holding back. At least for now.

But like I tell the younguns, don't make me stop this car.

Asking the Age-Old Question

What's in it for me?


This blog, I mean.


Why do it?


Idiot that I am, I googled that question. And smarter and much more erudite bloggers answered much more succinctly than I could ever hope too. (And with a whole lot less parenthetical blathering). Smart reasons like '...participating in a world...which nobody owns, anybody can use, and anybody can improve.' Impassioned reasons like 'I want to write about things that make us feel human' or 'I blog because information is energy. I absorb it, maybe add to it and pass it on.' My personal fave: 'Because vanity plates are too restricting and Play Dough is no longer a viable option.'


But yeah, it's an ego thing. Self-expression is as necessary as breathing. I can't pretend to be political or journalistic. I can't even pretend to particularly care about politics or journalism, so take that, pundits! I'm not always sure what this blog is about. When I made those first tentative posts, I asked a handful - a literal handful - of folks I respected (and felt were not too well known for their "constructive" criticism!) to read it. One responded that he didn't like to read 'diary' blogs, and I thought, well, it's not my diary. But I guess it kind of is. My imagined diary, maybe. Like if I lived in a magazine, and all our beds were made. And it's about experiences that I hope sometimes at least touch on a common thread in a non-boring manner. Paraphrasing what one of those real bloggers said, it's the letter home I never have time to write.



Like Bob Marley said, this is my message to you.

One Fine Day

I had one.

Saturday.

August 23rd, to be exact.

On Friday, I daydreamed. Hallucinated? Perhaps. Anyway, for the first time this summer, I did not have to work on Saturday to get payroll done. And I was filled with a sense of possibility and exaltation. I visualized my Perfect Day. I would sleep a bit late, but not much because I wanted to get in my garden before it got hot. I would pick beans and clean up a bit and prepare for the next plantings. I would go to the library, and find some cool books about vegetables. I would go to Walmart and not overspend. I would fix a nice dinner, something I like (hamburgers) and not something I make because everybody else likes it (shrimp scampi). I would enjoy a few cold beers and a good soccer game. I would go to bed tired and fulfilled.


There's a song I can't remember (intentionally, I think) with a line about 'if I can see it, I can do it'.

I saw it, I did it.


Here's to the little things.

Vacation - all I ever wanted...

Today's Frolickin' Friday (TM pending) theme: vacation songs. I.E., songs you remember from vacations past, songs that make you want to be on vacation, songs that make you feel like you ARE on vacation, etc. See, it's SUMMER. And in the SUMMER, people go on vacation. And, just so it's on the public record, I want a vacation like the French do vacation. All of August, please.

So I wanted to make a suggestion or two (or twelve - the greater the number, the better chance of success) and I put my little thinking cap on for a stroll through the misty mists swirling over Memory Lane.

It's a wonder I'm not scarred for life - or, maybe, perhaps... I am - by the music I recall from summers/vacations. Driving through the beautiful Mississippi State campus (Dad's alma mater), I distinctly recall hearing Summer Breeze, that godawful Seals & Crofts song about the jasmine in one's miiiiiiihiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnd. I think I heard Saturday in the Park (yes, Chicago. the shame!) about a gazillion times the summer we arrived in Washington, D.C. And there was an Eagles tune that dominated the summer of '74 - one of the sappier, sad ones. Probably Best of My Love.

Then I heard the words 'road trip.' And I had my suggestion, my brilliant brilliant suggestion: Truckin', by the Grateful Dead.

No, *they* didn't play it. But I dialed it up on Napster, had a listen and took a good hard look at those 'other members like' recommendations. Time warp! I am 16 years old again, soaking up Neil Young's Harvest, which became the theme to the Summer of 1980, a/k/a the U. K. Invasion. (I'm sure, if I tried just a little harder, I could come up with a skin flick title involving the words 'debbie' and 'does', but we work hard here at My Mood Swings to maintain a certain level of decorum. Really.)


This is the first record I ever stole, the harbinger of all the illegal downloads to come. ;0

(j/k about the downloads, btw, my bffs FCC and RIAA.)

I stole it from my friend and neighbor Mike Moeller, while I was feeding his cat because he was away on ... you guessed it... vacation! And it came to have a lot of resonance for me. Not only because I was leaving the familiar and safe and comfortable for a strange land full of strangers with a strange English, but because there's a lot of lovely words and even lovelier truths within: You gotta tell your story, boy, you know the reason why; or I sing the song because I loved the man, I know that some of you don't understand; or the whole wispy dream that is Words (Between the Lines of Age).

So, thanks Steve and Jay. Even though you ignored my suggestion, even though you trashed my carefully selected personal musical totem, you managed to do me a favor. Ta mucho mucho, my brothers. And mangez la merde et mourez.

Obligatory Neil Young as Icon of Cool photoand I had a pair of boots just! like! those!

Long Time No Post

I guess I've been "on hiatus."

I'm back.

Not much has changed.



But I have.








I have always been environmentally aware, even if I didn't do much about it. I like to think that comes from growing up in national parks, with that protect and preserve mandate. My 8th grade science project was a working wastewater treatment plant. Recycling is important enough to me that I've been schlepping my steel cans and glass containers into Knoxville, because my own county had no recycling available, with the exception of newspaper bins. But I wasn't making a concerted effort really, just trying to keep from taking the trash out so often. It's been years since I brushed my teeth with the water running (probably since *I* started paying for it), but the only other water I conserved was the hot water I needed for showering.

Well, all that recently changed. First, our city fathers put out a magazine recycling bin. Then they took that away and put out a single freight-car style container for aluminum, steel, newspapers, plastics, junk mail and magazines. Wow! It's all supposed to be separated, but tossed into one bin. Yep, it's kind of a mess inside, but here's hoping it will remain. And, perhaps, be improved.

But, wait. There's more. It's like a switch has gone off in my head. I compost my vegetable and fruit scraps - and maggots are not necessarily bad things, just gross! I take Navy showers. I drive slower and as if I had an egg between my foot and the gas pedal. I take my own bags to the grocery store - well, mostly. But I have to have a few to tie up my recycles, right?


It's a new economy, folks.

USA v. England, 5-28-08: The Dream Team

Well, ok, the Dreamy Team.

My preferred starting 11: Timmay Howard in goal; Carlos Bocanegra and Oguchi Onyewu central with Jay Demerit and Johnathan Spector bringing the sexy back to defense; DaMarcus Beasley, Michael Bradley and Ricardo Clark making the midfield marvelous; Clint "Mostest From Nacogdoches" Dempsey, Landon "The Abs, Man" Donovan and Josh Wolff - that's some serious forward thinking, pardon the terrible pun. A completely delectable 4-3-3.



Too bad I don't know how to properly illustrate the lineup! You'll have to settle for this purloined USSF photo of Mostest and Josh Wolff. Would that I were the Towel Girl.

I say we whip those pissy Englishters! 5-0!!

Old Dog, New Trick

I'm attempting to aprender español.

No, really.

It's something I've been thinking about for a long time. Formal classes don't fit into my schedule yet and the total immersion trip to Spain just wasn't happening, so I did what I always do when confronted by the impossible: I shopped Amazon! Behind the Wheel got the best ratings for the $, and, bonus!, free 2-day shipping to boot. Monday through Friday, from the time I drop the younguns off at school until I park at the office, I am habla'ing to the best of my ability. Los días de la semana? Know 'em. Los meses del año? Know them too. Can I ask politely for a glass of water? Not yet. But such is the level of my dedication that I am trying to surround myself with the language, to disappear into it, to melt the ridges of my mind down until understanding is possible. Sounds very psychedelic, no? French happened for me that way. Of course, I don't remember much of *that* now. I've been consuming great quantities of tacos and fajitas, and I've surrounded myself with musica latina. Today it's the best in Argentine ska. Tomorrow, back to this continent and Ozomatli. Here's a sample - La Gallina, which means The Rooster, and reading between the lines, I think it basically says something like ''lift yourself up, quit dicking around, anything is possible (with Ozo)". Enjoy - it's quite the toe tapper.

What I do for fun on my lunch breaks

walk to the post office!


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America, Heck Yeah!!

Well, that's the PG rated version. Wish I could photo shop Danny Murphy in for Eddie Johnson, but then the Team America thing would lose some of its mojo. Big ups, Fulham. Although I am curious as to how these guys would have been dispersed, or if indeed they would have been dispersed, after the fall. Maybe I'll find out next year.

Big ups also to them Toros Rojas, smacking down the Gals in L. A.! Juan Pablo Angel gets his first goal of the season, David Beckham gets his first yellow. Methinks we got under his very lovely skin just a little. Bigger ups to Columbus for keeping the streak alive. I was mainly watching RB/Gals, but I would wander over to Crew/Quakes now and then. First peek, Quakes are winning 1-0. Next peek, Crew is up 2-1. Final score Crew 3, Quakes 2. I think I missed a great game.

A couple of suggestions: Left coast games should be played in the afternoon, so that they are not the Late Late Late show at my house. It was all I could do to stay awake. Also, could the Galaxy always play "skins"? 'Preciate it, MLS.

No Elvis Tonight, Or,

Wishes, meet cash flow.


Elvis Costello and the Imposters in Knox Angeles tonight at the Tennessee Theatre, my personal Jesus of area venues. I won't be there.


...



...


(big brave sigh)


Focus on the sunny hours, girl.


So, just in case Elvis needs to know, here's where the money went:

Some fancy duds for the Notorious K T J's prom. (Technically this was more than $100, but I won't hold that against Elvis). $35 on an updo. Did not have to shell out for shoes or jewelry, woo hoo!




Drugs. See? I'm still cool.

Only these aren't fun drugs, in the traditional sense. Enalapril for me and something for him I want to call Detrol, but not, because that's for bladder control. Letrol, maybe. Toprol for me and the mister. Because the couple that medicates together stays together.




Two tanks of gas. That's most of a month - at least 20 days, anyway. Do the bio-diesel thing, Elv. I've read green is your favorite color.




And groceries - I have grown ridiculously fond of eating over the years. And it shows.



So tonight I'll be home on the couch, most likely watching yet another re-run of Law & Order. Will it be Criminal Intent? Special Victim's Unit? Confession: I just spent 30 minutes trying to spell "victim." And I had to look it up in the end. I'll help Austin with his spelling. No, really. I'll herd Josephine into the bathtub and insist she wash her hair. I might do some laundry, I might pay some bills. This is NOT the adulthood I signed up for. It would be ten thousand times worse if I didn't know, deep down in my heart of hearts, that he'll be back.

This too shall pass.


Don't cry for me, Greater Knoxville.

Random Soccer Observations, MLS Week Six

1. Middle America gets no respect. Columbus is on top of the table, with 5 wins, one loss and zero ties. Are there photos on any of the major soccer news sites of their win Saturday night against Kansas City? Heck, no. *Some* of us would really like to see Adam Moffat shirtless.

2. The End of Rice-Eccles can't come soon enough. Dave, here, seems rather excited about playing on the Worst Turf in MLS, but viewing that match was painful. Glad I didn't stay up for the second half.

3. I do not understand the black outs. I couldn't watch the Red Bulls last Sunday which was on Telefutility (which I don't get) and blacked out on MSG and MSG2. However, I could "enjoy" Colorado/D.C. yesterday via Altitude. Just an esplanation, por favor. I'm feeling discriminated against.


End of bitching.


Happy Cinco de Mayo, y'all!

A Moment of Silence, Please

To mourn the loss of my Omron pedometer, Model HJ112. Alas, poor Omron, I knew him, Horatio, a pedometer of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. I hath born him on my waist a thousand steps and now how abhorr'd in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it...

Well, maybe my gorge doesn't rise, but my waistband is certainly expanding.

We had just recently rediscovered each other. I invested $4.29 (think of it as just a little over one gallon of gas) in a new battery. We were walking the dog, walking to the post office, wearing out Walmart on Saturdays. In fact, that's probably where I lost it. I was so excited last Saturday afternoon to check my total. I was dog-tired - we had soccered all over BFE, been to 4 different grocery stores AND walked the dog. But I'll never know how many steps we took that fateful day.

Because only one of us made it home.

Yes, I can go buy another one exactly like it, but it won't be the one I lost 6 pounds with. It won't be the one who was with me when we saw the possum. Or the box turtle. Or the one that made me feel brave the first time I walked to the post office (people stare when you walk around here). It just won't be the same.

Farewell, good and faithful Omron.

The Soccer Weekend: Rainbows and Lollipops, Sunshine and Roses

It was good for me, too, Landon.

The soccer, people. The soccer.

Three goals for LD in a rout over Chivas, which makes me Fantasy Queen for this week. Red Bulls win 1-0 over the resurrected Earthquakes! Columbus beats Houston 1-0. Houston - remember them? MLS champs last year, and the year before that. Now, they seem to be stuck in a moment they can't get out of. A bigger person would feel their pain. Not I.

Because I am savoring the thrill of victory, basking in the glow of sweet success, tasting the intoxicating flavor of winning. Yes, friends and neighbors, I, too, am a soccer winner this week. On the Real Field, not just the pretend one. The Sevierville U-10 Hokies posted their first victory under my stewardship. It was a well-fought game and, to be fair, it could have gone the other way. But we showed grit and determination, fought the good fight and won. I'd like to think it was my deft touch in substitutions, but since Coach Tammy already had them all figured out, I'll cling to my belief in my own special skillz as a placeholder. I was the orange traffic cone around which the team revolved; it was my pugnacious stolidity the team needed, and my earnest direction. Big kicks! Big kicks!

Words to live by.

It is my most fervent desire to retire undefeated.

And, immediately.

Jozy Jozy Jozy!

He had one heckuva goal Saturday night.





vote for him here

Earth Day 2008

Well, I've done my part, bringing this little bevy* of beauty to the circus on this day ten years ago - (insert photo of Josephine here when blogger decides to cooperate)

And that's not all. I bought a reusable grocery bag. I can't remember to take it shopping, and maybe I need to get 12, but that's really a whole 'nother issue. When my mighty mighty Maytag bit the dust, I replaced it with a water-conservative front loader. I've been walking the half mile to the post office and I've been replacing light bulbs all over the house with the CFL ones as the standard ones burn out. In the bathroom, in the kitchen, in the bedrooms, etc.

How about you?

Confession: I don't care for the light that the CFL bulbs cast. It's cold and sterile and has the ambiance of a gynecological exam. I succumbed to the Dark Side in Walmart a few weeks ago. I bought an incandescent 3-way bulb for my reading lamp.

And I find myself worshipping that glorious warm golden light.

Years from now, when Antartica has melted, when the corn fields of the midwest are a barren dust bowl, when the only kind of tomato you can buy has been grown hydroponically, incandescent light bulbs will be outlawed. And only outlaws will have incandescent bulbs.








*shoutout to Elvis, not calling my youngest schizophrenic at all.

You Inspire Me...

It's Good Friday and we should be inspired. And music always does that for me.

Ok, full disclosure: I appropriated ('stole' is such an ugly word) this idea just before I went vacationing. I gave it some thought as we descended into L. A. - that's Lower Alabama for you travel freaks - I even managed to make a note or two on the back of our License Plate Game list, but I failed to follow up after 6 days of sun and fun.

My bad.

What does inspiration mean anyway? Merriam-Webster kind of wusses out, saying it 'moves the intellect or emotions.' Litter bugs move my emotions, but I'm not sure I'd say I'm inspired by them. So, I want to add a little asterisk to that: *in a good way. Which is to say, the music of Billy Joel moves me to madness, but I can certainly, unequivocally, forever and ever, live without it. (And with a bit of luck, I will!)

So, these are three songs that inspire me.

1. Bob Marley (or Joe Strummer) - Redemption Song. Yes, I know that's soooo condescending of me - what do I have in common with oppressed Rastafarians, I hear you ask. Well, not a lot. I am of the female working persuasion, so I know a tiny bit about The Man. But what I draw from this song is a transcendent hope, that justice will eventually be served, especially if we work together.

2. Rancid - Radio. I've been dull and boring about this song before, so I'll try to keep this brief. Never fell in love til I fell in love with you; never knew what a good time was til I had a good time with you. It's about finding community, finding connections, finding kin in a hostile world.

and finally....

3. John Prine - Sweet Revenge. Because a girl has to be true to herself above all things. I'll keep looking for the youtube.

Soccer Saturday: Heartburn! Nausea! Indigestion!

But at least I didn't have my head up Saragosa's ass.

Or did I?

I had MY evening planned out one week in advance. San Ho and Chicag-o at 4:30 as a little snack. The Columbus/Chivas clash at 7:30 to get me hungry for the main course: Red Bulls at Dallas.

At least that's how it was supposed to work. Best laid plans, etc., etc. We had a friend in town. Who wanted to take us out to dinner (hence all these menu metaphors). It was a mighty conflict. On the one hand, soccer. On the other, dinner out. I get asked out to dinner twice a year, on my birthday and Mother's Day (and I generally say no to that one, because the kids - who are after all the reason I am a mother - are not invited). But of course, it was just assumed that I would be happy to go, and drive, to boot! This is where the indigestion comes in. I internalized the debate, rather than stand my indecisive ground - which is handy. You don't have to commit, so you can bitch about it either way. We were to meet at 8, smack dab in the middle of prime soccer, and they were late. At 8:15 I called Austin and asked him to record the Red Bulls. AT 8:45, when our host began calling the waiter 'bubbe', I gave up on live soccer.

Because sometimes life just throws you under the Experience Train, whether you wanna go or not. And this was an experience, fer sure.

I have never been in a more schizophrenic restaurant. I won't name names, because I actually feel pity for them. They're trying their best, after all, in their own peculiar way. I'm no decorator. I won't pretend to have Michelin credentials. But I'm not naming names, so that forgives a lot of mockery.

Three Points to Ponder:

1. Wait staff in black and white - good. Candles and cloth napkins but no table cloths? - bad. Very bad. Silk flowers instead of genuine? Worse. A pianist playing a Billy Joel medley? Hein-ous.

2. There's a difference between a vaulted ceiling and an indoor basketball court. Also, lights should flatter, not terrify!

3. Steak tips with peppers and onions are meant to be served ON a bed of rice, not beside it. And medium should have a bit of pink.

Two Strikes Against:

1. It took 20 minutes to get a beer. And a) there were about 7 people in this entire restaurant (including staff) and b) we were staring at the bartender as she dawdled and loafed. Our waiter, bless his heart, stood by the table and 'tried to get her attention', which I guess is the polite way to say 'tried to get her to move her ass.'

2. The 3 Points to Ponder above mean you ain't gonna charge me $18.99 for steak tips and a companion bowl of rice twice. In this case, not even once. Thanks, M!


The Straw That Broke This Camel's Back

They had a tv. But it was on freakin' HOCKEY. Hockey! That's just cold, man. Cold.

Feeling Wild and ...

speculative!



Let's play Foretell the Futbol.*



This Year's Brad Guzan, being all underpaid and over-acheiving: Will Hesmer. 2 games, 2 stopped penalties. Color me impressed, Ricky Bobby.




This Year's David Beckham, the Guy I Most Wanna See on a Wheaties Box: Duilio Davino. Watch this and see if you don't want to head right on over to Dick's and stalk the fitting rooms.




The Clint Mathis All That and a Bag of Chips Award, for the player most likely to succeed in spite of himself: Santino Quaranta. I'm not the only one who thinks so, proving once again that great minds think alike. Or that idiots run in herds. You decide.




Giddy Guesses and Indiscriminate Prognostications: Golden Boot - Christian Gomez. Who says he's not worth a 2 year extension? Supporters Shield will go to ... Kansas City! Houston will have a problem, and will not Threepeat. The Red Bulls, and I'm sober as I write this, will take home some hardware, either Open Cup or MLS Cup. Maybe both!

Stay tuned.






*version español.

Hitchcock|Lowe|Costello @ Grand Ballroom

Hitchcock|Lowe|Costello @ Grand Ballroom
Originally uploaded by sketchguy

Color me sick. Color me green. Color me having little pangs that feel a little like regret for living in The Sticks.

Nick Lowe, Elvis Costello and Robyn Hitchcock. On one stage. Ok, don't know RH enough to be thrilled at him, but jeez louise - Elvis AND Nick? My heart might not be able to take it, but I'd sure like to try.

Yeeeeeee Haaaaaaawwwwwwwww!!!

Red Bulls 2, Columbus Crew 0. Osorio becomes the first coach in team history to open with a win. I don't want to get crazy confident (because after all, this is *still* the team formerly known as the Metrostars), but maybe the spell is broken.

Anyway, it was a long cool drink of water - nay! a case of really nice beer - maybe some of that Sam Adams October brew - after an arid desert of soccer that was RBNY-less. (In case you're wondering - and maybe you aren't - I'm trying to set a personal best in dashes today). There's the ole turf still there, hopefully for the last season. There's the TV people and Giants stadium people doing something like cooperating by putting ALL the fans together, more or less, instead of allowing them to randomly dot the seats in the stadium. Good crowd, good crowd noise. FSC had Christopher Sullivan (yay!) and Max Bretos (boo!) - but I'll give Bretos a half a thumbs up just for the game show host enthusiasm he brings to every game. Please consult the game guides provided by the league, Max. They include pronunciation guides!

But honestly, I can't complain. It was Old Home Week, or something virtual-ly like it. Damn, I'm glad it's back.

I Am Here to Live Out Loud

Emile Zola had the right idea. Easier said than done however. My life sometimes feels like the Talking Heads song Once In A Lifetime, in the 'my god, what have I done?' and 'same as it ever was' refrains. But today is better than yesterday, Rock Bottom has a population of 4 now - the more the merrier, I suppose. But to keep us (the Rock Bottomites) on the straight and narrow, let's take to heart the immortal words of Rockpile and never be a fool too long again.

Check out how Nick doesn't play that acoustic.

It's Robbie Fulks Day!

I am having one of those days. You know the kind, where you're just one step behind everybody else, where you're just not quite in sync with The Real World. There I was thinking I was being witty, charming and sociable, and apparently I was being boring, obnoxious and loud. Only not loud enough, because no one seemed to hear me. It was like waking up naked in your backyard with an empty bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand, a strange pair of boxers in the other and a meter reader peering over the neighbor's fence. Ok, maybe not that bad, but certainly one of those god-what-was-I-thinking moments, only without the excuse of alcohol. Friends, never let your ego tell you what to do.

Anyway, here I am in Rock Bottom, population 1. Well, 2 if you count Robbie. Spent a few minutes (hours) on youtube hunting up good stuff for you.




Don't forget that I'm Countrier Than Thou...



Holla if you out there, people!

Did You Miss Me?

What?

You didn't notice I was AWOL?


That's cold.


Anyway, I am back from vacation with a few thoughts. Thoughts may be too strong a word. Nebulous, fuzzy impressions maybe?

First off, USA 3, Poland 0. RESULT! Ok, it's just a friendly. Ok, Poland had a lot of youth and inexperience on their side. But, woo! hoo! Big ups, handsome fellers!


I am liking the red and grayish black.

Next thing of note: MLS is back, baby!

What, you hadn't noticed it missing either? Cold, man. Cold.

Some interesting results, the most surprising (or embarrassing?) was Colorado Rapids 4, L.A. Galaxy zilch. It was the altitude. Altitude! Not the defense. Because L.A. didn't actually *play* any defense. Kansas City 2, D.C. 0. I thought this was being played in D.C. in the Nationals'-vacated and reconfigured RFK - the field looked tiny. I wuz wrong. Played in KC at something called Community America Ballpark. Someone might want to get them to point the cameras toward the crowd next time, not to the vacant lot opposite. New England 3, reigning MLS champions the Houston Dynamo, a very pathetically played 0. My favorite result (because the Red Bulls were not playing), Columbus Crew 2, FC Toronto 0. I really wanted to see this one, but traveling kept me from it. Looked like a fabulous atmosphere. How 'bout those Canucks? They get around. There they were in Charleston with us a few weeks ago ( a smaller contingent, yes) and, presto chango! there they are by the hundreds(?) in Columbus. Homeland Security might want to be checking them out.

Non-soccer related observations: I love love love writing with Flairs. It's been a long time since I wrote much more than a grocery list with a pen, and during our highly competitive game of License Plates, I was just amazed watching my pen move across the page making blue letters out of thin air - it was like *I* was the cursor or something. Magic!

Also noted: this was the first vacation I can ever remember that kind of went by slo-mo. NOT because it was spent with A LOT of family members, and not slo-mo in an unpleasant way. It was relaxed with shape - enough structure to keep everybody happy, plenty of room for Plan B.

Wish I was back on it.

But, I'm back and back at it. And this is the proof. ;)