Another Saturday Night

and I ain't go no trophy.

Or even a chance to get a trophy. Not this year anyway.


If it could have happened any other way, I could live with it. Team Red Bull played hard. A consistent solid effort up and down the field. Even after Àngel went down, they hung in there. But they just couldn't overcome the wind, the rain and the ugly yellow boots of New England's Most Hated (and, blessedly, not pictured), Taylor freakin' Twellman.

God, I hate that man. Couldn't it have been anybody else? Parkhurst, for instance. And it was such a crap goal. Conway had a hand on it. Vide threw his body at it. Hunter Freeman almost blocked it. The wind. The remnants of a hurricane. Piss on that.

The highlights, such as they are. And they have been through the matrix, because they show the goal first, and then Àngel's injury. I hope he'll be ok. At least he has lots of time to recover.

Unlike Bruce Arena, who either decided to walk or got his walking papers today.

Let the (mind) games begin.

DC Down. And Out!

Let's all give that a big
YEEEEEEEEEEHAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWW!

2-2 last night, 3-2 Chicago on aggregate. Gotta say "on aggregate" because that's this tournament's catch phrase. Or something. I think I complained about this last year - deja bitch!


Apparently, it was an awesome game. I saw the first half and dozed thru the second. I am thrilled with the results, I assure you.

Tonight's wish is for ... damn. I forgot. I believe I want Dallas to win, but really, it doesn't matter.

Come on, Red Bulls!

And because I did not post a gratuitous soccer hottie yesterday (although I thought the cat was pretty cute), I'll add another today.



and one more, just because...

The Fun Begins in

six hours and 50 minutes. As of right now.

What fun, you ask?

Football* Frenzy 2007. 7:30 tonight, ESPN2, the Chicago Fire travel to RFK to open a can of Whup Ass on D.C. United. At least, that is my prediction. So to make it come true, I'm employing the Power of Opposite, and placing $5 on D.C.

And that's just the start.

8:30 Friday, Dallas (Toja, yay! Ruiz! Boo hiss!) mosey down to Houston (De Ro Knows! Ching! is he well yet? and Ricardo Clark, who won't be playing but is everybody's hero).

Saturday. Josie will start things off with her final game of the season. With some luck, we'll win and our parents won't embarrass us. Then, a mad dash to the grocery store to stock up on chips, dip and suds because at 5 PM on FSC, Fulham takes on somebody in the Englishter Pissy League, and Mostest is due. 7:30 will find me at that same bat channel, watching (hopefully, prayerfully) the Red Bulls crucifying any hope New England ever had of a double. Here's hoping it's a good enough game I'm not tempted to check out Kansas City and Chivas at 8:30 on DK - no, wait. My mistake, it's not on until 10:30, so I can certainly watch it without interruption.

If I don't fall asleep first. Damn those West coast games.


Anyway, I'm all atwitter. It's the Blue Moon of MLS. The perfect alignment of the planets. The once a year Weekend That Matters. Win or go home.

Let's go, Red Bulls!




*borrowing the pissy englishter term for alliterative purposes.

Halloween - the aftermath, Part One

Part One, because I failed to get a photo of Josephine in her Elizabeth costume (Eastern version). My camera was dead! And by the time it had a little battery power, she was on a mission to capture as much candy as humanly possible. So, we will Do Over tonight.

These are our pumpkins. Mine is the skull, Josie's the evil looking jack o'lantern. Austin was puny and did not participate. Katie went off with her friends. Next year, we won't have any Halloweeners at our house.

*sob!*

It's True.

You can find anything on the web.*

I mean, who would have thought that Rancid, those righteous dudes carrying, nay, hurling the nuclear missile that is punk rock into the New Millennium (and beyond...), could be caught posing as Beach Boy Wannabes? Aruba, Jamaica, ooo I wanna take ya...

Help me, Rhonda.

I found it on RancidPunx.net, which is one cool place to find maybe not everything Rancid, but lots of things Rancid. I spent my lunch hour sifting through Getty Images to find that no, they weren't being the Beach Boys, they were being the cheesy wedding band for Tony Hawk's wedding in Fiji.

Cool!



*everything except a pattern to carve a mohawked jack o' lantern!

Say What?

Goals? We don't need no stinking goals.

Well, yes, we do guys. One or two, anyway. This was "our" leg. Our chance to smack New England around. It was me, wasn't it? I could not be there in nationally televised togetherness and you suffered for it.

But that was way that the playoffs went 'round, this opening weekend. Chivas is downed 1-0 by Kansas City. Dallas puts one by Houston for a win. Chicago snuck - well, that was a sneaky rocket, wasn't it? - one by D.C. Only this little scuffle in Estadio Rojo Toro managed to be goal free.

The next games are the do-or-die ones.

I say, bring it on. This is New York's year.

Hitting the Wall...

202 posts in.

Do I have iron-poor blood? A stagnant imagination? The curse of mediocrity? Maybe it's the granola and soy milk I've been breakfasting on for the last month. My mind seems to be made of mush. Mush. As in, I can't get a complete thought thunked. I used to blame this on my kids and their constant interruptions (which is kind of any oxymoron, I suppose - constant interruptions?). Maybe my thoughts are so inured to interruption, that they just automatically reset halfway through. Maybe it's My Age, and That Time in My Life. Could the mood have swung so far that it ain't swinging back? I haven't been doing my crossword puzzles - has my intellect (such as it is) gone fallow? Am I reading too much pulp fiction and not enough literature? Too much Law & Order and not enough Masterpiece Theatre? (Not that there ever was any Masterpiece Theatre). I'm just stuck and I can't seem to jostle my way out of it.

So, apologies in advance. The next few posts (few is a hopeful word here) are likely to be mindless soccer regurgitations, but I will throw in photos of soccer hotties to make them more palatable. The playoffs begin Saturday.

I shall meditate on that.

And this. *I* still think he's cute.

When Life Gives You Lemons

You stomp on Cuauhtemoc Blanco.

I like your attitude, Peter Vagenas.

Ok, so it was a metaphorical stomping, in the most metaphoricalest sense. The Gals could not find a way to win yesterday. And we, the entertainment-starved and Beckham-deprived soccer fans of America, are pretty darn pissed about it. It could have been a perfect Cinderella story, with Dave leading his sorry band of brothers to an improbable - nay, inconceivable! - run at that second best league honor: the MLS Cup.

Well, maybe next year.

I'm just sad. Sad that I won't see another Red Bulls/Gals smackdown this year. Sad that Dave's Inaugural Year was such a bust. Sad that I can't post Tim Armstrong's Oh No video again because I'm in love with Los Angeles. I'm in love with her sooooooooouuuuuuullllll.

Well, who's to say I can't? It's my blog, ain't it?




And I'll add a little something to keep the home fires burning, so to speak -

What Happens in Vegas...

Too bad these guys are in Yverdon-les-Bains, Switzerland. I understand everything about this picture except the tennis ball and the tightness of Cherundolo's swim trunks, which somehow evoke one of Jean-Claude Van Damme's more alternative roles.


I applaud their security in their masculinity.

And I hope they're "skins" when they play Switzerland Wednesday.

The (Soccer) Weekend in Pictures

or, would I be able to express myself without parentheses?

(not that anyone would notice!)

Kevin Hartman makes a desperate attempt to crawl out of Giants Stadium as Juan Pablo Angel makes it 2-1, Red Bulls. JPA was also my fantasy captain, and with 69 points X 2, put me ahead of Austin AND Josie for the first time this year. Go, mom!




I think this photo sums up Saturday's slaughter (which is, of course, a relative term) of New England for the Columbus Crew. Something Faulknerian via Shakespeare - a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing, because in the end, it didn't matter that they'd learned to score, that they'd learned how to come from behind or even that they'd learned how to win on the road. To the Big Show, they don't go. Again. I'm not calling for Sigi's head. Mostly, because I'm afraid he might EAT me. But it is my sincere hope that they can hold on to Schelotto and Gaven this winter.


And finally, let us now sing the praises of the Bright Blue Boot.



These belong to Damarcus Beasley (you can tell by the "Beas" there above the swoosh). All the cool kids are wearing them, from Landon D to the Mostest from Nacogdoches himself, Clint Dempsey.

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.

Nobody Likes Me, Everybody Hates Me

Think I'll eat some worms...


Me and Nick "You Can't Call Me Butterfingers If I Don't Actually Touch The Ball" Rimando. Bless his heart.

Maybe it's the weather, which is gloomy and depressing. Maybe it's the time of the year - the stultifying dog days and that point in the soccer season when good games get scarce. Maybe it's because all my younguns (except one) are having fun in the Florida sun. Maybe it's just me.

Gloom, despair and agony on me
Deep dark depression, excessive misery
If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all
Gloom, despair and agony on me.


My new philosophy: when things are bad, think Hee Haw.

The East Coast Beckham

I think we need to play up (and ... uh ... invent) this rivalry.



and we could start with a Zoolander-style walk off.












See? He looks excited about it.


Smokin' hot to Dumb and Dumberer in .005 seconds.


But welcome to the team, to MLS, to the freakin' United States of America, Juan Pablo Angel.

I Didn't Quite Believe It

So, I was trolling the internet for Tim Armstrong pictures the other day and this one popped up. Ostensibly, this is a high school graduation photo of Mr. Armstrong. In a bow tie, no less!


But look how happy he looks. So California-kid-next-door. I think that's what made me doubt. That and the bat-like ears. In the biography I invented for him, Tim never graduated from high school - I mean, how NOT punk rock is it to stay in school? He was homeless and drug addled - how could he possibly look so clean cut, so Beach Boy-ish? But the eyebrows and the eyes - who else could they belong to?





His face, to me, is incredibly fascinating. And this is one of my favorite pictures. There's a wary intelligence, a little physical menace, some non-cocky self-assuredness and a genuine individuality (which is tough to accomplish in a punk milieu).


He's cute, too.


In both photos.


And it's a slow news day. ;)

Been a while

since I waxed rhapsodic over Tim Armstrong. I was listening to this on the way home the other day and experienced an epiphany: Tim's Oh No as the new David Beckham/L. A. Galaxy theme music. Listen and imagine the free kicks, the abs, the hair, the abs, the right foot, the abs...

Honestly, I think it's genius. That beat is soccer driven, and it does ... um, ...bend. I put this magnificent idea to one soccer buddy who could not be bothered to reply. I put it to another, who was delighted with the 'oh no' aspect (him being all pissy Englishter, and stuff). I even emailed it to the Galaxy who have yet to acknowledge (possibly to avoid future legal problems). So, send the Gal's an email: customerservice@lagalaxy.com. Let 'em know you're in love with Los Angeles, you're in love with her sooouuuulllll. Or at least in love with My Idea.

Thank you for your support.

No Soccer Today

Meet my trend-setting daughter, Josephine.

This was her ensemble for a recent after-work/after-summer camp stop at the grocery store.


I guess that's my thumb on the left.


What I love about this is that she's not at all worried about looking dorky or stupid. She wants to go in and get some candy, this is what she has on, this is what she wears.

Of course, being 9 and ridiculously cute, she can get away with outfits like this. People might stare, but they're smiling when they're staring. If I were to wear this, well, I'm not sure what would happen but visions of police and psych holds come to mind.

Here's hoping we all find our inner 9 year old and rock some Tater Tot Style. Big ups to being who you are, no matter where, no matter what.

I Wasn't Gonna Do It

Talk about soccer today, that is.



But, unfortunately, the onus is upon me and I can't think of anything else to write about except work, and if there's anything more boring than me going on and on about soccer, it's me going on and on about my job.



It's the lesser of two evils. Really!



Today's subject: Unsung Heroes of the Columbus Crew. Specifically, Alejandro Moreno who came to the Crew via a trade with Houston for Joseph Ngwenya (who had that sweet goal last week). Alejandro, the Venezuelan Curious George, has the distinction of being the most fouled player two years running. In 17 games for the Crew this year, he's scored 3 goals and been credited with 5 assists, but his most profound contribution to the team may just be that he is a real "team" kind of guy. He knows how to Take One For the Team. Like a Timex watch, he takes a licking and keeps on ticking. Like a good neighbor, Moreno is there. Like Avis, he tries harder. He will sell no wine before it's time because somebody put a tiger in his tank. Alejandro Moreno, this Bud's for you!

Becks Big Day

For starters, don't call it his MLS debut. This Chelsea/Gals "world series" game was not an MLS game; ergo,it cannot be his MLS debut. But there can be no doubt now that the circus is in town. We had the DB one hour bio previous. We had half an hour of DB chatter and celebrity sightings before the game started. We had a swarm of photographers following him on to the field.


Really, truly, unabashedly surreal. Nobody has ever pandered to me as a soccer fan before.

Cool!

Random observation #1: Pete Vagenas doesn't look all that comfortable with his new teammate. He practically sat in Chris Albright's lap to avoid physical contact with DB. Could it be having to give up #23? The massive pay differential? Perhaps he doesn't care for Dave's aftershave. This picture doesn't really capture the chill, but it was there. I saw it with my own two eyes. Pete's the one with his legs crossed. His whole body language was "don't touch me!"

Random observation #2: who knew Katie Holmes was such a soccer fan? Or is she a Posh fan? She brought the Stepford Baby, which no doubt gave her something to do in those boring stretches without Becks. She uses Playtex bottles. Less air in Suri's tummy.


Random observation #3: I'm way past ready for all this hoopla to die down. If one has been playing DB drinking games the last few days, one is in serious danger of alcohol poisoning. Let's just play the game, ok? *Not* the drinking game.

Sad fact #1: I didn't actually see him step on the field. I fell asleep. But, somehow, I just don't think I missed much.




Back to some semblance of normalcy, please.

Watch This Space

The goal is 30 days of continuous posting.

Yes, I have been challenged, nay called, as from a higher power, to do my part, to commit my random acts of prose in the name of freedom of speech (or freedom to be a jackass, depending on how you look at it). Global warming just ain't happening fast enough. I want my house ocean front now. So, I'm dedicating the next 30 days to gasbagging, blowing wind and piling up the bullhockey. It will be an arduous task - it may look easy from that side of the keyboard, it may appear simple and free-flowing, but it's not. I work at this, searching for words, thumbing Roget's so I'm not redundant, constantly hitting that 'view next blog' button for inspiration. It rarely works - naked women just don't do much for me - but it sometimes makes me think, 'hey, I'm not the worst blog on the internet. and I mostly spell right. and I don't use an ugly background making what I do write indecipherable.'

Anyways, that's the challenge.


And the first post! :)

The MLS All-Star Game v. 2007

What? You don't believe in All-Star games? Hater.

I love the idea of them - the best choosing the best of their own. I kind of wish they were post-season, but who would care then?

So, MLS looked good last night. Celtic are pre-season, sure, but they looked a whole lot better than Chelsea who looked lazy, sloppy and fat at last year's. I'd give the boys in the green and white stripedy shirts a B- for effort. I mean, look at that dude's face. He looks pissed. And not in a fun way.

Juan Pablo Angel with goal #1, Juan Tojas with goal #2. Bad pun alert! Juan plus Juan equals two. Tojas, don't ever cut your hair. I think it gives you special powers, special protection. Now if we can just perform some Santeria ritual and have Dallas (and the rest of the league) forget you're signed to them, and have Bruce bring you over to the Red Side... mmmwaaahaaahaaahaaahaaa!

Is there anything more inspiring than a big sweaty man hug? I think not.

Big ups, all you all stars.

So, it wasn't our best showing

But it could have been worse.

Ok, I'm just saying that.

What the hell am I talking about? Copa América. And our 0-3 record. Losing to Argentina was expected. Losing to Colombia was not. It was an invaluable learning experience. It will pay off big time during WC qualifying. We will be stronger for the effort.

Etc.

Really, that's how it seems to me. Given the timing (right after the Gold Cup - our regional championship where we won that ugly gold ... uh, cup, mid-MLS season and smack dab in the middle of the U-20 World Cup) and the ambition (to whip this national program into shape before the next World Cup), this was the way to handle it, so big ups Bob Bradley for having the cajones to do it.

I guess I've just swallowed the Official USSF policy hook, line and sinker.

Anyway, here's a poolful of gratuitous hotties to help us all forget...

I am the water. I am the water. I am the water...