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.