Fun With Wigs

In the beginning was Juan Toja.


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

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



Soccer. It's all about the hair.

Between a Rock and a Hard Place

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

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




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

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

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

Bring on the playoffs.

meet the fam, v. feline

Meet Speck, the legless wonder.

No, he's not really legless. We call this pose "meatloafing" because, well, he looks like a fluffy white meatloaf. With a couple of burnt spots. Speck is our special needs kitty. He's got that idiot savant thing going. While he's a genius at killing small mammals and presiding lion-like over our yard, his vocalizations need work. His meow is like one of those silent dog whistles, just at the edge of human hearing. And his purr - well, I can purr better than Speck. He also has issues with doors. If he is in, he wants out and if he's out, he wants in. I think he would be driven mad by having a pet door at his disposal, so we don't have one. We call him Speck not because of the specks (otherwise, we'd call him "Specks" now wouldn't we?) but because our first sight of him as a little white speck hopping through the tall weeds next to our yard. He plays bigger than he is.


This is my little black boy Socks. My son always calls me a racist when I call him that. I don't mean to be. I call his brother my little white boy, so I guess I'm being equally racist, which in the confounding algebra of political correctness might reduce down to non-racism. I hope so. It would be difficult to stop calling them 'the white cat' or 'the black cat' at this point in their lives. Socks likes to hang out on the windowsill. His evil white brother only allows him the freedom of the living room and the master bedroom. Everywhere else, he gets attacked just for breathing. By the way, unlike his brother, he *can* purr. Quite nicely, the sound of which is one of the great pleasures of cat companionship. Many evenings we snuggle up together reading and/or watching tv. The only problem is he drools when he's happy.

So, those are our cats. Not great literature, sure. But a post! A post! My kingdom for a post!

Unlike Generalissimo Francisco Franco

I am still alive.

but buried in work. I will get back to slacking shortly. Here's a gratuitous soccer hottie, just cuz.



Mr. Clint Dempsey, show us your ...

...

...

well, whatever you want, sweet pea.

Don't Go Getting the Big Head, Clint

Now that you're Fulham's Player of the Month.

Big ups, Deuce!

Big Soccer Sunday!

USA 2, Brazil 4. Ok, we lost. But Brazil did not score one run-of-play goal. Not one. And we did. So, I give us a solid B and say that was some serious hotness on the field: Kaka, Benny Feilhaber, Clint Dempsey (with a very nice goal, but no dancing, dammit!), Little Michael Bradley, Josh Wolfe, Oguchi Onyewu... Serious heat, peoples.

Out on the left coast, the Red Bulls got pounded by Chivas USA. Yes, you read that right. All I can think right now is 'least said, soonest mended.' Let's hope so.

So, It was my birthday

and this is what Josie gave me. The Nemo she won at the fair, to remind me to 'just keep swimming, just keep swimming - what do we do? we swim swim swim' and this lovely poster that declares her love for me, adds 10 years to my age and calls me Oldelocks to boot.

If she had been born first, she'd be an only child.

That's My Boy

And his Balto.

Took the gang to the Sevier County fair last night.

Josie beat her older sister in the water gun game and won a stuffed Nemo.

Austin took $2 over to the basketball game. He paid and the guy kept giving the ball to this other kid who could not sink a shot and kept handing the guy another $2 to try again. I was just about to go postal on him when he realized he was ignoring Austin, apologized and gave him the ball. Austin moved a step forward. He got into his "shot stance" (I don't know what else to call it, so I apologize - apologies are contagious!). I was trying to say bounce it a couple of times just to get a feel for it and have a little more of a chance at it, but he was already arm back and throwing.

Nothing but net, baby.

Fortunately, we had a pedestrian witness. The guy had gone back to LoserDude and was paying absolutely no attention. In fact, he seemed quite incredulous that it had gone in. Like that never happened at his game...


Anyway, Austin has his Major Prize. I'm glad it's not a leg-shaped lamp.

A Letter From Henry

Henry Rollins on David Beckham, soccer, metrosexuality, etc.

Gotta remember to see if I get IFC.

Scientology...gay!!!

Landon Donovan, I Feel Your Pain

Well, maybe not physically.

But psychically, yep, I'm right there with you, dude.


Yesterday, nothing went right. Not one damn thing. USA loses to Sweden - ok, that's not unexpected. But does Cherundolo have to be pushed around like a nerd between two schoolyard bullies? NY loses to DC. Again, not unexpected, and as Austin said, at least we won it once. But 2-0 in the first eight minutes? 2 to freakin' nothing in EIGHT minutes? I hate Ben Olsen. I hope he has multiple flat tires on the interstate in the rain. I hope he spills his coffee all over his man parts in the drive thru at Mickey D's. I hope he has lots of ugly ungrateful children. I ... well, I should save some of the hate for Jaime Moreno and his 108, but that kind of rhymes so it almost makes it ok. Godfather of Goals, my ass, tho.

Tonight, it's the Superclasico. I don't really have a dog in that fight, but I gotta hope the Galaxy win. I like their uniforms better. But Sacha Kljestan *is* kind of cute and Jonathan Bornstein, he's not hard to look at either. Here's my prediction: Beckham won't play, but Landon will; Gals will eke out a win; goats all over California will be nervous; I will feel right with God when the jerseys come off.

It should be noted that, just in case none of this happens, it was because of ME. I have the Power. The Power of Opposite, whereby the exact opposite of whatever I think will happen, happens. Capisce?

Àngel + Altidore (with a little Mathis Magic) = Absolute Awesomeness

Everything Jeff Bradley asked for. And more. Nine freakin' goals. Atmosphere out the wazoo. Records broken. This was one of those games. Those games that set benchmarks, that are storied into myth, one of those games that I should've set the VCR for.


There were scuffles.


Becks did the whole 90. On turf.

And he looked really pissed about it. The Geico Gecko was never that ferocious.


My only complaint? Jerseys stayed decidedly ON. Even after the final whistle.



Usually Fox Soccer will replay their one allotted MLS game a gazillion times the following week. Not this time. "Real" soccer has started up out there in the Rest of the World, so time slots are scarce. MSG to the rescue, with replays Tuesday (9 pm, 11 pm and1 am) and Wednesday (noon, 2 pm and 6 pm). The only downside? Trying to watch Revs and Wizards last night - just wasn't worth it.

My Favorite Things

well, thing, actually. This commercial for Mastercard.




It almost makes me want to apply.

I learned something today...

I've been seeing this symbol on rear windows up and down I-40 for a while now. I thought it had something to do with Corona beer.


Turns out it's the official symbol of South Carolina.

Who knew?

This Week in MLS!

We learned the hokey-pokey.

Or is that some variation of the Chicken Dance? I dunno. I do know the Red Bulls looked good, in spite of Joe Vide's Sally Brown hair style, and that Jozy Altidore is Da Kid. In time he'll be Da Man, but at that point he'll probably be playing for some candy-ass YerOPean team.



That second goal was a thing of beauty.

I watched a little of the L. A. Galaxy/New England game and it was a study in contrasts. New York came out looking confident, in charge. It was obvious that it was just a matter of time before they put one in. L. A. (and I called it before the game started - no grass, no Beckham - do I win a prize?) just looked aimless, kind of like Crock's Lost Patrol, doomed to wander the MLS wastelands in search of goals and wins. Or just a common page to be on all together. I feel sorry for this team. It's as if their own management didn't quite believe they'd really scored Becks, and then it's damn! we better find him some talent to play with! so they go down to Trades R Us, shop the discount rack and come up with Carlos Pavon, Edson Buddle, Chris Klein and (just because it's Buy-One-Blond-Get-One-Free week) Abel Xavier. They're not a team, they're a random group of strangers. And in New England yesterday, they looked like they were waiting for a bus.

Beck's Big Day (version MLS)

In which he went from this (and if you look carefully you can still see the bruise. 8 weeks later)...



to this...

I regret that I did not get to see the entire game, but I did manage to see his first steps on the field and the jersey change. The shouts from the crowd - rock star worthy. One of the increasingly annoying ESPN announcers proclaimed it "Beatles-esque."

I won't indulge in any tacky wedding night metaphors. I think, like a lot of folks, I'm just glad to get that over with so we can get back to some semblance of normality. I do take exception to one piece of disinformation I've heard ad nauseum during this whole When Will David Play? saga. To wit, that his ankle has to be back to 100% before he'll play. 100%. Not 99 44/100. 100%.

And how many athletes DO play at 100%? Someone ask Cobi Jones when was the last time he played completely healthy. Or Carlos Mendes. Or Alejandro Moreno. Just don't ask Eddie Johnson because he has to be stretchered off after the game opening handshakes.

p.s. It was the biggest raindrops ever.

If It's Not the Heat, It Must Be...

the company.

There must be one mean little black raincloud following me today because I am literally seconds away from kicking somebody. Anybody. A puppy, even.

Honest to God, I don't think I've ever had a day with sooooo many people getting on my nerves. Is it Piss Off Debbie Day and nobody told me? I hadn't even been at work an hour before it started. One of my co-workers (I call her Old Hateful) addressed the office at large, asking what was the legal corporate name of one of the motels. I told her. So, she asked another girl. I told her again. So she opened the tax cabinet and began to search amongst the myriad files. Did I stutter? Truly, this happens to me so often, I should be laughing. I guess I just don't have a "believable" voice. Assholes.

And then there was a visit (via a phone call to somebody else) from El Jefe, who is in one of those astral phases where he has to make sure that everybody (and I do mean everybody) knows he's the one signing the paychecks. Figuratively speaking, of course. So, let's void all the shit we did yesterday and re-do it, and then void it again because we put the wrong effing date on it and then send it off with Miss Information for further abuse. Jackass.

My husband has gotten in on the action as well. At some point in his sleep Sunday night, he tore his ACL. At least, that's what he'd have you think. He's not going to any damn doctor, so the rest of us have to suffer with him. I'd be a lot more sympathetic if he didn't get a lot worse when I'm in sight. And the groaning! I'm pretty sure that's a legitimate legal alibi right there. I'm sorry, your honor. I couldn't take the groaning anymore.

No worries. I'm going home and downing a quadruple dose of St. John's Wort and I'll sit quietly by the tomato plants until the murderous thoughts subside. It's a good day to pick ticks off the dog, let me tell you.

Etceteras

This is why I love American soccer. Too bad it didn't work out.


Best. T-shirt. Ever.

















And a little funny stolen from Comedy Central.

Christmas was just around the corner, and a father was a bit upset with his son, who would always say "motherfucking."

Especially troubling was his letter to Santa, which read: "I want a motherfucking bike and a motherfucking train set right under the motherfucking tree, motherfucker. Love, Sam."

So the father decided that instead of presents, he would leave piles of dog shit under the tree for the boy. On Christmas morning, the father got up to see his son sitting in the living room.

"What did Santa get you, son?" the father asked, a malicious grin spreading across his face.

"A motherfucking dog, I guess, but I can't motherfucking find it."

It Was That Kind of Game

I hope His Royal Beckness was taking notes last night (while bench-warming [via special permission from MLS - because apparently you just can't have just *anybody* hanging around the sidelines] in a very natty suit) because once his ankle heals, methinks he'll be tasting a lot of Field Turf and grass.



Like his little buddy Landon here, who could not buy a call last night.

The word went out all across the Canadian nation: Wins? We don't need no stinking wins. We just don't want to lose to the (really clever dis alert) Galactically overhyped. As long as they *don't* win, we win. That's Canadian for Take No Prisoners or something. Clearly, there's a language problem. They build a beautiful stadium, sell record numbers of season tickets, build enthusiastic crowd support out of The Great White North, and what do they play on? Turf. Field turf. Why, oh why, Canada?

Anyway, as the time nears (that pesky ankle can't be swollen forever, can it? can it?) to his actual MLS debut, I have one little question. How will he be reffed? Because you can't put yer $25 million Precious on the field and let Dema Kovalenko (or Carl Robinson, as the case may be) go all Dirty Harry on him.

Can you?

Maybe we'll find out Thursday. ESPN2.

I Woke Up in Love This Morning.

Apparently, I'm having a Tiger Beat psychotic break.

Last night, I dreamt about Tim Armstrong. Specifically, hanging out with Tim in some anonymous airport, flirting with him, holding his very lovely hand, and inscribing my cell phone number in blue Flair on the inside of his wrist.

I had a dream I was a vigilante's sidekick...

And it was sweet. In all senses. Very 5th grade, just two steps away from passing the I-Like-You-Do-You-Like-Me? note in history class. I fought very hard to stay in that dream when my alarm clock went off.

I can't believe you're with me after dark, so let it come together in Echo Park...

Now the mists have evaporated and I'm left wondering: did I have a stroke or something? Have I become some love-starved weird old lady destined to prowl yard sales looking for used Harlequin romances? I already have two cats and a pretty serious Hallmark card problem. I don't need another reason for people to stare. And who has hand-holding dreams anyway?

And I dream of this girl - yeah, an angelical ghost I met dancing through my neighborhood...

That could be me.

Sure, it could.

Telefutility, Or Why I Hate Directv

Because this sounds like one h-e-double-toothpicks of a game: L. A. Galaxy 6, F. C. Dallas 5. Gals only need a tie to advance, but Dallas had to win. Gals come out strong, scoring 4 goals in 17 minutes. Then, just to make things interesting, they give up 3. Landon "Beer Run" Donovan added another for the Gals (and pissed off the Dallas faithful something awful) before Carlos Ruiz biked one in for the home side. Another goal each in stoppage time and the Galaxy go home with the win and a place in the semis.


Eleven freaking goals.

And what was I watching last night?

Law & Order SVU reruns.

Again.

I hate Directv.