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.