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! :)