I Took The Road Less Traveled...

Or at least the one with the least amount of dog poop. SCOOP already, America!

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood so I finally managed to get my fat ass out of the office and on to the walking trail. It felt wonderful. The sun on my face, the sun on the river, the ducks on the river, the possibility of spring at long last. I was driving home just a few days ago thinking, jesus every little thing is gray: the sky, the trees, the cars, the grass, the pavement. Where is the the color? I found some today.

And it was soooo good for me, just walking and thinking idle thoughts. I came up with about 5,000 ideas for this blog. Meet the Fam, which is me describing my kids and the good traits they inherited from me and the bad traits they inherited from their father. Meet The Mom, which is me describing me and my rad mom skillz. Days of Dad, which is me describing life with my husband and his cluelessness. In other words, redundancy rules. It is *my* blog, after all. So, there I was soaking up sunshine, which has to be good for one's serotonin levels. Raising my heart rate above "comatose" for the first time this millennium. My imagination (or self-delusion - you decide) is so great, I feel like an Olympian after a quarter mile. The dormant competitive streak awakens. There's a little old man, possibly a stroke victim - he seems drawn to one side, doing his best Tim Conway. I can take him in three strides. That woman with the gimpy leg? Toast on the backstretch. I only give the right of way to seniors and women with children. If they smile first.

Here's hoping Spring has sprung. Don't want to go back in the closet with the Cheetos and the Jackson Browne album.

My 2007 MLS Wish List

1. For Eddie Gaven to have his breakout year. Or just to start having fun again like this Edward of yore.


2. For the New York Red Bulls to be ... contenders.

3. For the L.A. Galaxy to finish second. Or third. Not because I'm anti-Becks, but because I'm pro-MLS. I'm hoping The Acquisition brings everybody's game up and one dude does not a championship win. Even a 'fuckwit soccer' championship. As a corollary, I want a big year out of Landon. Now is the time for all good men, etc. Well, actually that was last year, but we can build on this year. Yes, we can.


That seems like enough.

For now.

Bradenton Bill Has Sniffed The Sweat Socks

and only six more weeks until the season starts! Major League Soccer, that is. We took some major steps over the winter and not all of them cost $250 million (which isn't really $250 million after all). Toronto F. C., in its debut year, has sold 12,500 season tickets. 12,500 season tickets, which is either Canada embracing the colors in a big bear hug or a nation desperate to distance themselves from the violent spectacle that is modern curling. American Idol: Chivas USA might just quench this nation of its endless thirst for reality programming. At least for the Spanish speaking portion. We'll have come full circle when Landon does Dancing With The Stars. And the trades! Alecko to Toronto, Krispy Kreme Kevin to Kansas City, little Freddie exiled to Real Salt Lake? The Return of the King starring Claudio Reyna? And then there's the Rumor That Refused To Die. Remember, it took two years for the Gals to reel in their big fish. It could happen. As long as Red Bull continues to be the beverage of choice amongst 18-24 year old trendsetters everywhere.

And that's the great thing about the preseason. An-ti-ci-pAAAAAAAAAAAA-a-tion. Anything is possible.

In the preseason.

You done too much

much too young.


And it speaks volumes about the depths of my own pettiness that I find this so amusing. If only it were happening to my arch-nemesis Paris. Yes, I should be concerned for her health and well-being, but that's not nearly as fun as watching the train wreck.

Personally, I'm hoping it's a trend.

No, not just celebrity implosions. The shaved head thing. I am a hairstyle half-wit. I rode the short bus to beauty school. The last time I used a curling iron, I burned my ear. Becoming a skinhead would not only simplify my morning routine, but finally get the stench of burned flesh out of my bathroom.

It's a thought. And maybe that's Britney's excuse: like the Julia Roberts character in Steel Magnolias, she felt the need to simplify her life. To really simplify her life.

Or she maybe she's just nucking futz.



Top Five Reasons Brit Shaved Her Head

5. Can't tell north from south.
4. Felt a growing kinship with Dustin Hoffman's character in Papillon.
3. Clippers #0 is Cajun for shampoo and set.
2. Was actually looking for a buzz after a tough 24 hour rehab.
1. Desperate to make the weight cut for Celebrity Boxing.


thank you, thank you, thank you. I'll be here all week.

Top 5 Guitar Solos

Never let a lack of knowledge or qualification stand in your way.

These are the best:


1. DJ DJ - Transplants. I picture weaving when I hear this. And the straight back wooden chairs in my grandmother's kitchen: the work of an artisan. This song is so minimalist it just barely qualifies as music. But that's almost beside the point. It sounds fat, it sounds tough, it's got muscle and it makes me smile. Every damn time.

2. The intro to Who Would've Thought - Rancid. 38 seconds of the most tenderly articulated musical love letter I've ever heard. Too bad it's not written for me. And no, I'm not THAT much of a fan girl. It's a sonic caress, and I'd love it even if, god forbid, Billy Joel had written it. Not that he could. So, technically it's not really a "solo." Get over it.

3. The intro to I Got The Love - Nick Lowe. A rare lead appearance from Brentford's Best Loved Bee. Heck, the whole dang song is an essay in understated swagger. I spent my commute trying to figure out how to separate the guitar from the bass. The bassman is doing a little bum-bu-bum into Nick's dowd-de-dow, and they become one funky animal.


4. Who Do You Love - George Thorogood and the Delaware Destroyers. Nothing understated about it. And, again, not exactly a solo. The gravelly growl + the Guitar That Eats Babies = roadhouse heaven. Lonesome George made the electric guitar interesting to me in the Age of the Disciples of Onan. If guitar players were automobiles, George would be that '66 Thunderbird Thelma and Louise drove into ... the sunset, and this song would be that desperate highway.


5. Taylor - Jack Johnson. I'm in two minds about whether this should be #5 or an honorable mention. I don't like the song that much - the lyrics are inane (Peter Patrick pitterpatters on the freaking window?), but I adore the beginning. Blues meets Jazz for a laid-back clambake on Sunset Beach: the quintessential Jack J sound.





Honorable Mention to Elvis Costello, for guitar coloratura on ...Dust

2007 Grammy Awards

Random observations:

Contrived mosh pits are stupid.

Justin Timberlake is a talented singer and a nice looking boy, but why go all YouTube on us? We don't worship celebrities because they're just like us, after all.

Natalie Cole or random drag queen?

I genuinely thought Shakira was wearing paint. Really, really sturdy paint.

Leann Rimes is Gwen Stefani's country cousin. No tits, and proud. Good for both of them! But if they can talk Dreamgirl Jennifer Hudson into balancing out her girls, I predict they can both start shopping Victoria's Secret. And speaking of tits, Samuel L. Jackson appears to be entering puberty. Again. But I'm not telling him.

And, finally, Flea.

Are you making a statement of solidarity with the L.A. Galaxy? Did you wake up, think 'banana' and plan your show duds accordingly? From the gap in your smile to the knobby knees, you're my favorite 40-something 11 year old boy. Note to AK: time to start working out, dude.

Top Five Englishters Living in America*

In response to a statement I heard on the radio. To wit, that with the Beckham Acquisition, Simon Cowell would no longer be the most popular Englishter in America.

Was he ever?

My list, in reverse order:


5. Richard Dawson. He brought sexy back to Nazi prison camp comedies. He undid most of that with his 20 year British Bob Barker imitation, but remember Running Man? He was smarm personified.

4. Malcolm Merriweather, ex-Coldstream Guard and sometime valet to Andy Griffith.

3. Keith Richards. Would he not be the coolest next door neighbor ever?

2. The Geico Gecko. Even if he bends 'em (his vowels) like Beckham.

and, naturally,

1. Elvis Costello. I'm sure he'd rather be called something else other than English. Anything else, probably.

Honorable Mention: Hugh Laurie, who can speak American like a real American. And he's cute, too.



*thanks, James Brown.

Promises, Promises: All (well, ok, some of what) I Want 2007

I am a person who lives for anticipation. Christmas Eve is waaaaaaaaaaay better than Christmas Day. The vacation is always the most fun right before you leave, because once you're on your way then you're already heading home, if you know what I mean. If I don't have something on the horizon to think about, to anticipate, I get depressed. I find myself in a dark closet, with a Jackson Browne album and a bag of Cheetos. And I listen to Fountain of Sorrow over and over while slowly devouring the Cheetos. One Cheeto at a time, in three measured bites. So, that's a place I don't wanna go. Here's my list of what I wanna see in the next 11.9 months. Excuse my inability to decimalize the calendar year.


1. A new Kings of Leon album. First one was good, second one was great. Could the third one be the difference between big in Japan and total world domination? But not before they return to the Tennessee Theatre. Sorry, but I'm not moving up to arenas with you, boys.

2. David Beckham doing the Galaxy thing. Talk about a freak show. 1,000 season tickets sold on the day The Aquisition was announced. Jerseys flying off the racks. Has a "super-club" been born? Stay tuned. There may be one or two morons who believe MLS measures up to any league in the world, but most fans are wondering just how well this is going to work. As long as he works. Preferably shirtless. I'm petitioning MLS and the Gals management to have them always play 'skins.' Let that be my legacy to the sport. P.S. I predict he'll be here before August.

3. Dear sweet beautiful Nick Lowe will finally, or should I say hopefully?, release a new album. The Convincer came out on 9/11, so he's perhaps understandably (I'm just full of adverbs today!) hesistant to put another one out there (be proud of me: I did not make the 'drop/bomb' reference bad taste and an utter lack of sensitivity were suggesting to me). He's a newish dad now, so I'm predicting some happier stuff, shades of Nick the Knife perhaps.

4. That long-promised, not even half-assedly released-for-free on the internet (two tracks? two? fuhgeddaboudit, Tim) solo album from Tim Armstrong AND a new one from Rancid. Does the delay on the downloads have something to do with the demise of the drummer? Not that he's dead, he just decided to decamp, but the alliteration is definitely delightful, don't you think? You guys tour close enough to me, I might just be there. Pressed to a wall, trying desperately not to catch anything or touch anybody yet still trying to look ... if not cool, how about anonymous?

5. The 3 sick, 2 personal and 10 vacation days I've got coming. And last year's leftovers! I've been dreaming of a day, a day to myself. Where I'm not somebody's mother, wife, neighbor or daughter. I might even forget I have friends (I love you! I do!). Where the only person I have to consider on any given decision is me. What I want to eat! Where I want to go! With the best darn companion in the whole wide world (cue Wreckless Eric)! Alone and content: the real Nirvana.


That'll keep me going, through the long cold trough of despair that is February.

And, oh yeah, there's the Grammys and the Oscars. Yes, sometimes boring, often predictable, but addictive as hell. And I get to make catty remarks!

It's On - The Great Vonnegut Readathon

Ok, so it's a RE-Readathon for me. I had them all. Why, oh why did I give them away? Anyway, Indiana, for all their inability to properly teach driver's ed, has done something right. They've declared 2007 The Year of Vonnegut. For my money, he's the most relevant American author of the modern era. Maybe even ... ever! Forsooth, he saw the future and wrote about it tenderly, compassionately, even when describing absolute devastation and horror. These days and these problems have already been examined by Mr. Vonnegut, who's taken his own little figurative ride on the Billy Pilgrim express. Technology out of control? Player Piano. The futility of war? Slaughterhouse-Five. The absurdity of 21st century existence? Breakfast of Champions. All you aspiring authors put down your pens, throw away your keyboards. He's already thought of it, already written it and waaaaaaaay better than anybody else ever will. God Bless you, Mr. Vonnegut.


Here's a sample!

Let the reading begin.

Tax Time in Tennessee

Well, W-2 time to be precise.

You should see my desk. A little pile of child support correspondence here that I'm going to take care of just as soon as I handle the out of town payroll there that needs to go in the mail as soon as I can get the freaking W-2s in envelopes which I'm going to stuff if I ever finish dotting all my i's and crossing all my t's. Numerically, I mean.

I like numbers. They're so solid, so factual. No debating the meaning of 'is' with a number. And there's the rub, Shakespeare fans. All the little numbers my Epson DFX-8000, staggering and swaying like a old Norge washing machine, cranks out are ultimately my responsibility. And I'm absolutely paranoid about their accuracy, because I will get 10,047 phone calls (approximately) from former employees about how they know they have FIT paid in but their W-2 shows zero. So far, the approximately $100 million* in wages and taxes I have paid and reported have been, as we payroll clerks like to say, absolutely on the money. To. The. Penny. Knock on wood or, alternatively, Bill Gates. My luck will run out eventually, I'm afraid, so I spend hours checking against the quarterly taxes, making sure I've got 9 numbers in that EIN box, and that they're the *right* numbers. That everybody has a first AND last name, because there's always one little software glitch that will screw up every 37th page and diskappear one or the other. And that I'm printing the right freaking year on the right freaking form. And that I put the prior year away when I'm done and don't leave the current year labeled "FIA 2007 Goddammit".

If all that weren't enough to give me a nervous tic and a pressing need for new reading glasses, there's the printer, the previously referenced DFX-8000 that is approximately 80 years old. I sacrificed a kitten and invoked the name of Bes in a glorious pagan ceremony of supplication. Which seemed to help a bit. Most of the W-2s are 4 part forms, but I have two companies that need 6 part forms. The printer has one tractor that still pulls, and it will do a 4 part form if I don't do too many at once. A 6 part form is a no-go, houston-we-have-a-problem. This is where my single greatest payroll/printing skill materializes. Yes, I can stop print in a instant, before the idiosyncratic little jump it tends to take on an 8 1/2 X 11 form can ruin the first W-2. I can shift the printhead left, right, up, and/or down with intuitive grace, in increments so infinitesimal you might think I'm telekinetic. Jazz hands, baby. And without my particular set of skills and level of paranoia, there would be no W-2s for the angry mob we have working for us.

And that's why they pay me the big bucks.



*approximately, I said approximately. ;>


There! Three paragraphs and no mention of soccer, Clint Dempsey, Elvis Costello or Tim Armstrong!

The Mostest from Nacogdoches

got a little game.

Clint Dempsey gets subbed on for the final 13 minutes.

Fulham vs Tottenham Extended Highlights
Uploaded by FootballHeaven

The tackle is typical Demps: so sprawling, so klutzy, so un-joga bonita it looks like a complete accident that he gets up with the ball. And the back heel - who in their right mind does that in their first premiership game? "Cheeky" ? Arrogant? Probably a little of both. And quintessential Dempsey. Big ups, dude. Looking forward to more.

Tim Armstrong, Animal Lover

I thought it was the XM Satellite icon. -->

<--Check out his elbow.

That is some fine definition. Just like the corner of a dollar bill. And if you turn your monitor upside down, there's a Hellcat kitty.

I need some ink.

The Other Becks

Beckerman, that is. Kyle Beckerman. Colorado Rapids' Designated Dread Wearer and USMNT member.

Enough about the other guy, already.

But if, and it's a big if, Ronaldo rides in on a white horse to save the Red Bulls, then the East coast/West coast/New World/Old World rivalry could get interesting.

It's About Effing Time!

With all my Dempsey watching, I almost forgot about this: USMNT back at it, as of January 4th, unless your name is Landon and you're on your honeymoon. So, he's really *not* gay.

First game of 2007 (January 20th on ESPN2, 5:00), a friendly with Denmark. Then a friendly with Mexico (which won't be very friendly, I'm sure) on February 7th at 9, also on ESPN2. These are the guys in camp, except for Dempsey (gone to POE) and Eskandarian, who has disappeared into the Great White North. Spit Red Bull again, headgear boy, and see where you end up then...

Goalkeepers (4) – Joe Cannon (Los Angeles Galaxy), Matt Pickens (Chicago Fire), Troy Perkins (D.C. United), Matt Reis (New England Revolution)

Defenders – Chris Albright (Los Angeles Galaxy), Bobby Boswell (D.C. United), Jonathan Bornstein (Chivas USA), Jimmy Conrad (Kansas City Wizards), Bryan Namoff (D.C. United), Michael Parkhurst (New England Revolution), Heath Pearce (FC Nordsjælland), Dasan Robinson (Chicago Fire) Eddie Robinson (Houston Dynamo), Danny Califf (Aalborg BK, Denmark) and Todd Dunivant (New York Red Bulls)

Midfielders – Kyle Beckerman (Colorado Rapids), Brian Carroll (D.C. United), Ricardo Clark (Houston Dynamo), Clint Dempsey (New England Revolution), Joshua Gros (D.C. United), Sacha Kljestan (Chivas USA), Justin Mapp (Chicago Fire), Pablo Mastroeni (Colorado Rapids), Brian Mullan (Houston Dynamo), Pat Noonan (New England Revolution)

Forwards – Kenny Cooper (FC Dallas), Alecko Eskandarian (D.C. United), Landon Donovan (Los Angeles Galaxy), Nate Jaqua (Los Angeles Galaxy), Chris Rolfe (Chicago Fire), Eddie Johnson (Kansas City Wizards)

Head Coach: Bob Bradley. Not everybody's first choice, but not a bad selection. Germans? We don't need no stinkin' Germans.


Lots of youngsters, mostly MLS. Sadly, no Eddie Gaven. Protein. The word is protein, Eds. The Danish will eat us like um....danishes. But we gotta start somewhere.




















And now we know what we gotta play with.

Dempsey Watch, Day 59

Yep, the pissy Englishters win.



Permit approved, already chillin' in the UK and available to play January 20.

And no Fulham games are on FSC the entire month of January, forcing me to consider shelling out for yet another sports channel. Can you say cable company conspiracy? Of course, he might not play for a while, having to adapt his game to English football, which ain't so different from its American cousin, being all about kicking the absolute hell out of the ball and tackling with intent to harm. And then there's the Jesus-H-Christ-does-it-EVER-quit-raining adjustment period, so it might be best not to see. But, I'll want to anyway. If you listen very closely, you'll hear the agonized moan as my Mastercard maxes out. It's been like Christmas, this transfer window. All the wondering, the serpentine speculation, extracted laboriously from algorithms of hot air and molecular pieces of knowledge. I hate to see it end.

But then, there's Gooch...

Todd Snider

My new hero. John Prine's heir-apparent. This is Talkin' Seattle Grunge Rock Blues, from his first album, Songs for the Daily Planet released way back in 1994. Turn it up loud and listen more than once. The lyrics are razor-sharp, earnestly sung, perversely funny. In short, everything that tickles my twisted tiny funny bone in a tidy 3 minute and 20 second package.

What American accent do you have? Your Result: The Midland "You have a Midland accent" is just another way of saying "you don't have an accent." You probably are from the Midland (Pennsylvania, southern Ohio, southern Indiana, southern Illinois, and Missouri) but then for all we know you could be from Florida or Charleston or one of those big southern cities like Atlanta or Dallas. You have a good voice for TV and radio.
The South
The West
The Inland North
Philadelphia
The Northeast
Boston
North Central
What American accent do you have? Quiz Created on GoToQuiz

Accent-free? Moi?

Sadly, and to my lifelong disappointment, true. Maybe not as true as it once was, having spent the last 30 years here in Sevier County, where nary a day passes that I don't hear someone's druthers, their fixin' to's and their painfully expressed relationships (I got a friend of mine, e.g.) But in my formative years, I was embarrassingly free of the accent that defined home - at least for my Mississippian parents. And it was all their fault, dragging me willy-nilly across the U S of A. I was born in North Carolina, moved to Virginia the first time when I was a toddler, then west to California for 7 years. Fourth grade was spent back in Virginia, in a suburb of D.C. While Nixon's presidency was unraveling I became obsessed with The Man Without A Country. Yes, the flair for drama became apparent early on. Then off to Missouri, where the people say "you'ins". Really. Finally, a move to the land of red clay mud and abandoned tires. That's right, T for Tennessee. Big ups to me for not speaking some mutant east coast/west coast slang. Um, well, mostly not, yo! And the more I think about it, the more I believe my parents should have gone to jail for child abuse/neglect. Yard darts! We had 'em! Bugs Bunny cartoons! The Three Stooges! On every afternoon right after school and could poorer role models be found? Bear attacks! Earthquakes! Proximity to Nixon! What kind of parents let their children spend entire summers in swimming holes or swimming pools? Or amuse themselves driving the family sedan solo around and around the grandparents' pastures? At the age of 10? Or play outside all day with vague directions to be home before dark?

It was a simpler time. It was a simpler place. Er, places. Were. Whatever.

Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Dad.

A New Year's Resolution

To make the world a better place.



One photo at a time.

Dempsey Watch, Day 46. WWDG?

Wisdom teeth extracted, affianced and, apparently (against my sage advice), going to Pissy Olde England.

But which team? I mean, club? Where Will Dempsey Go? And will Gooch go with? THAT would be cool.

Tune in after January 1st, same Bat time, same Bat channel.

It's Official

The Christmas Shoes is the worst Christmas song ever.


Popwatch agrees, and got a Sunday School lesson for their trouble. Scott-o-rama knew it last year and knew why: because it's so manipulative. It came on while I was shopping for cowboy boots and I could NOT escape. I want to run screaming fa!la!la!la!la! from the store with my fingers in my ears, but I am on a mission. A mission from hell because as usual I have put off the shopping thing until the last possible moment, because deep down in my heart I believe Santa's little elves are going to do it for me. Damn the short people!

Anyway, I had a kleenex (well, ok, it was a Wendy's napkin, slightly used), and I managed to get the boots (score!) and not waste more than a tear or two. That's my problem with the song: the blatant manipulation that Scott-o-rama noted. It personifies everything that's wrong with Christmas. It's mean spirited and calculating and maudlin. And lots of other bad things!

In the spirit of love and fellowship enjoyed by so many during this holiday season, I am refraining from you-tubing that puppy.

You're welcome, and Merry Christmas to you as well.

But to give you something to um, enjoy the holiday season with, listen to what happens when some idiot says 'I dare you.'