Don't Worry, I'm Not the Only Source for Interweb Goodness

At the doctor's office yesterday, she diagnosed strep throat and told me to stay home from work and out of the general public until I had been on the antibiotic for two days. I asked for a note to take to work, since it looks awfully suspicious to call in the Friday before Labor Day with a magic case of sore throat. She wrote the note, saying that it was her recommendation that i stay home Friday and Tuesday.

"Why Tuesday?" I asked.

"It's a holiday weekend." She replied breezily.

Who knew contagions got weekends off? Maybe they get health insurance and other benefits too, which is why they're becoming so much stronger. Or maybe they're just commies. Who knows?

Anyhoo, I realize it's been a shitty blogging week and I haven't brought you much of the Great Insight About the World that I usually do. If it makes you feel better, for the first time since I was 17, i will be staying in town for Labor Day weekend. I'm very curious to see if the city turns blue or something; it's a whole new world for me. And as an even better consolation prize, I offer you The Best Page in the Universe, chock full of hilarity to get you through the Longest Friday of the Year.


Shout out to the Capital Insider for the tip, even though I'm mad, cuz he has our Super Mario Kart kartridge and I'm stuck doing boring things like reading and watching Judge Judy in my convalescence, and also his fiancee has my awesome wine key. Neither of them probably realize this, though.

You Snot Nosed Little Punks!

So school started this week for the li'l DC rugrats, and last night the little white dots harvested in the back of my throat. Strep throat, YAY! Seriously, one week of school and the germs are already migrating to the office? That's efficient.

Sigh. I'm going back to bed.

The Sweetness Sickness Continues...

Sigh, an (unsolicited) addendum to the previous post follows.

In the interest of fairness, I should point out the following:

• Other than the occasional MLS game that I also watch, The Object rarely watches ESPN, and when he does, he endures the intense mockery that ensues with the quiet dignity of a prisoner of war.
• I (and the cat) have my own ways of being messy, and they're much more insidious, since they're harder to pinpoint than a big old pile of clothes, so that the Object is reduced to a Potter Stewart-style argument in pointing it out to me. "How do cat hairs get in the freezer?!"
• It is the Object, not me, who makes the bed every morning with hospital corners, and takes time to arrange my plethora of pillows in an aesthetically pleasing pattern.
• The Object makes funny jokes that I then later think are my own, and must be corrected. For example, my friend gave me some Bruce Springsteen songs on my iPod, but she had spelled the Boss' name Bruce Springstein. The Object's immediate reaction? "Who the hell is Bruce Springstein? Does he sing with the Yeesh Street Band?" I'm not that funny.
  

My Froat Is On Fiah

You know that heinous pre-cold feeling? Where your throat is so sore that it hurts to even think about swallowing; in an effort to quell the pain, you've sucked on so many atomic fireballs that you have a hole in your tongue; you're running a low-grade fever that can't stand up to a few Tylenol, and you're kinda achy in a nebulous way where you feel more leaden than anything?

I hate that feeling, if only because the only thing I can anticipate at this point is a Labor Day weekend spent hacking and wheezing.

Here's the thing: due to some sort of bizarro circumstances, this feeling makes me incredibly sweet and caring towards other people and myself, and much more than in normal circumstances. I got home around 7:30 last night, and flopped down on the couch with a thermometer. When it flashed out the verdict, a 101.2 degree fever, I sentenced myself to a quiet, relaxing evening. I put on my softest and comfiest p.j.s, gulped down two glasses of Brita water (no DC tap shit for my ailing body!), washed my face with a gentleness I generally reserve for infants, gave my weary feet a massage with the expensive lotion I save for special occasions (read: never use, because it's trop cher to replace), flossed(seriously, who flosses when they're sick?), and curled up on the couch with the cat, both of us done for the night. It's almost as if Iwas trying to prove to the world that I'm not actually sick, and I will dote on every last inch of humanity if I have to.

The Object hasn't figured this out yet, and I'm hoping he never will, because the consequences could be devastating for me. When the Object got home from his workout last night, he looked exhausted and upset, having decided his i.d. and debit card were hopelessly lost from his weekend adventures. Despite having promised myself that I was done for the evening, I got up from my cocoon and made him a nice pasta dinner with homemade pesto, cracked him a beer, and let him yell at the tennis players on ESPN.

This would never happen in real life.

It's not the pasta or the beer- cooking and drinking are mainstays of our relationship. But the tennis business worries me. I hate ESPN with a passion most people reserve for Satan, taxes, and Ashton Kutcher. I hate that you can't actually see a game since the screen is plastered with ten thousand different icons. When their commentary isn't onanistic, it's fawning over megastars they've created, and regarding the part where they cut away from the game at key moments to interview their own commentators, all I can do is cry, "Mais pourquoi, pourquoi?!" I have no idea how this appeals to anyone with an attention span larger than a newt. And believe me, mine's not much bigger.

But more than that, I hate what ESPN reduces the Object to. Other than soccer, he's generally apathetic towards the sports world, but every so often, he decides he's going to park in front of ESPN and screech at the t.v., which, let me remind you, is inanimate. I'll be engaged in some quiet late-evening activity like reading or writing, when suddenly bursts through the calm, "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!!?!? YOU HAVE TO GET ON THAT SHIT YOU LAZY ASSHOLES!!!! WHAT THE FUCK KIND OF SHIT IS THIS??!?!?!?"

I can understand one doing this during the sports that are interesting; I've been known to dance across the couches shrieking "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL!" But that's when I have a legitimate investment in the team. When I questioned the Object about why he was so exercised about the tennis match, his reply was, "That one guy needs to beat, um, that other guy." And here's where the problem with my being kinda sick comes in: instead of adding such a statement to the fodder pile of Things to Mock the Object About, I gave him a hug and went to bed, saying, "OK, I hope your guy wins."

BWAURGH! I disgust myself!

It got even worse this morning. We recently had a mutual (no, seriously) agreement to institute a household rule that clothes can only be strewn across one surface at a given time. A person can pick the papasan, the reading chair, or in my case, the laundry basket, but only one item of furniture per person can have a heaping wad of laundry on it. The Object was in clear violation of the rule this morning. My normal m.o. would be to dump the clothes on his face while he's still sleeping and then giggle with mirth (he would do the same thing, don't feel bad for him for one second. It's hilarious if you're not the person getting laundry in your face, and if you're getting laundry in your face, you remember that soon enough, you won't be the victim). But because of my bizarro sick-induced sweetness, I waited until he was well awake to politely ask him to move his clothes from the chairs at some point when he got around to thinking about maybe getting a chance. When he looked put out, I backed right off, saying "Don't worry about it, I can fold it for you." He then proceeded to blame the messy house on me.

I normally would have pointed out that the messiness on my part was only in two areas. There was the bag of clothes that will go to Goodwill once my friend has a chance to come over and forage through, but hasn't had that chance to since her caterer cancelled 5 weeks before her wedding and she's now taking Xanax just to get through the day and may not actually have my Goodwill pile first and foremost on her brain. Then there was the breadmaker I have tried to give away a dozen times, only to have the Object rescue it and promise that he is going to sell it on Craigslist and make us millionaires.

But in my weakened condition, I just said, "I guess you have a point."

I need to get over this, and with due haste. Once the Object figures it out, there's no telling how he could take advantage of me. Endless dinners of stinky olives and soggy mushrooms with beets, topped off with grappa? Hours spent watching the legislative process on CSPAN? Oh, the humanity!

I suppose it will all be ok in the end. Soon enough I'll be sick for real, and with the sore throat I have, it's fair to assume that sometime within the next few days, I'll be able to breathe fire. He'll be soooo sorry he left his stankyass socks all over the place when they're burninated. Or maybe he'll just accept it, since by that time, there's a good chance he'll be reduced to the same pathetic state I currently find myself. I can't wait.

The Goo Report: August Arcana

It's been a while since we've had the Goo Report, but between Gonzo Gonzales, Michael "I Am A Worthless Sack of Dogshit, Which Is Why I Kill Puppies" Vick, the second-year anniversary of the Executive Branch admitting it couldn't give a rat's ass about poor and/or black people Hurricane Katrina, and Josh Gros' concussion, you might have missed some of the news that isn't. Allow me to help.

• "A man who stabbed his friend and dropped a rock on his head asked him if he was dead yet and got the response 'not even close brother', a court was told." Hey, at least he had his buddy's back.
  
• Sadistic pufferfish convinces restauranteur to pass it off as salmon, killing 15. Never trust a fish; it'll kill you the first chance it gets, even if it has to die to do it. (Guess who's still having residual huzzes from the Outer Banks?)
• You know what's a dubious honor? Becoming the world's oldest person. Cuz really, how long do you really get to enjoy that for? Also, someone has to die for you to get it, which kinda sucks, too.
  
• And yet, being old certainly doesn't prevent one from leading a full life.
  
• It looks like I'm not the only one who needed to mandate a no surfing the iPod or texting while driving rule.
  
• As long as we're talking iStuff, props to the kid who freed the iPhone. How you know he's young? He sold his doctored iPhones (you know, the ones that considerably hepped up the Apple market share) for a Nissan. I guess there's something to be said for humility. I'm just not sure what.
  
• I'll leave you today on an adorable note. You thought those scrubbing bubbles were cute? Check it: "Four tiny orphaned hedgehogs are snuggling up to the bristles of a cleaning brush - because they think it's their mother."

Environmentalist, Heal Thyself!

At the Baltimore Aquarium, I saw a kitchsy little "Stop Global Warming Mug". When you put hot liquid in it, you could watch the coastlines of continents recede, representing the devastating effects of global warming. I was sorely tempted to buy it, but I left the museum shop empty-handed. Why?

Global warming.

How much did manufacturing that "Be Aware of Global Warming" mug actually contribute to global warming? And, at the end of the day, how much of our efforts to stop global warming actually fuel the fire? Direct-mail campaigns asking me to write to my (non-existent) Senator ruin more trees than I'll ever save with that letter; even using the most recycled paper still requires the energy to reproduce it as a pretty little inked-up letter. Same for silk-screened tees on happy organic cotton with their save the whales and save the snails message of wholesome goodness - last time I checked, any cotton processing, regardless of how pristine the growing conditions were, will still produce harmful byproducts in the atmosphere. But how much of the problem are we creating in trying to push a solution? I have a bunch of thoughtful and conscientious friends who are avid subscribers to Real Simple, a magazine chock full of handy tips to make your life simpler, and therefore better. I read a few handy tips yesterday in the supermarket checkout line, but at the end of most of the articles, I found I couldn't simplify my life without buying something new first. So I did.

New and more alarming reports come out everyday. Who read the article in The New Yorker last week about the International Dark Sky Association that described how artificial light is increasingly obfuscating the night sky at an exponential rate, as well as providing a startlingly plausible link to breast cancer rates? What about the several reports that suggest that indoor air is more polluted in industrialized nations than outdoor air?

I would love to sit up here on my oh-so-high horse and excoriate the environmentalists and everyone else for making global warming worse. But at the end of the day, I'm contributing to the problem just as much as any red-state voting, plastic bag-toting, Hummer-driving, meat-gobbling earth killer.

I am the lazy environmentalist.

We've all learned about how plastic bottles are killing the earth, right? I’m helping- kind of. Well, at least I'm not buying bottled water at least a lot of the time when I'm not thirsty and actually remember to use a Nalgene, I'm not buying bottled water. I drink DC's finest tap water (ignoring the heap of Brita filters in the corner of the kitchen that cost me $40 bucks), but it doesn't taste nearly as good as Perrier. I'm ashamed to tell you how many Nalgene bottles are sitting unused on top of my fridge at this very moment, unused and probably killing the poor cat as we speak, leaching toxic plasticinicides or something like that into the air.¹

I'm aware of global warming, and happily, every day, more and more people are. The little changes necessary to make any real impact are, well, kind of a pain in the ass. I really like my health and natural spaces, both of which are threatened by global climate change, but everyday I make a few choices that would indicate otherwise. I like the feeling of moral superiority as I walk to work, knowing I'm playing my part in reducing greenhouse gases, but it just makes me hang my head lower in shame when I ignore the other little changes I could be making, but am choosing not to- not so much out of maliciousness, but out of sheer laziness.

What will it take to have me practice what I preach, to start remembering to actually bring one of the fourteen or so unbleached, organic cotton tote bags to the grocery store? The spirit is there, but the flesh is lethargic. Sure, I set my printer to print manually so that I can use the backside of paper, but when it goes awry, as computers are wont to go, it's a lot easier to push the “go” button than to figure out why the goddamned machine won’t print the goddamned paper so I can save the goddamned earth. Kermit was only slightly off: it’s obnoxious, being green.

Everyday, I make little promises to myself that I’ll be better. Today I am going to put a little tray on my desk so that I can use the backside of paper for scratch, instead of using brand new pads. I brought a tote bag to keep under my desk so that I’ll always have one when I go grocery shopping after work, and I’ll put a few in the car for when I stop off at the store on my way home from physical therapy- see? I’m consolidating errands! Making the effort! This way, I can get back to my feeling of superiority, and write a proper post bitching and moaning about how the greens are ruining the good green earth. I’ll tell them it's time to start pushing a "Consume Less to Make a Better Life" campaign. I’m already looking forward to putting the message in my recycling bin.

1. Don't worry about kitty; I left the AC on to alleviate his suffering.

Cannibal Cage Match- Make It Happen

Where were you last night? Did you get to see Jaime Moreno score his 109th goalazon, making him the all-time highest scorer in MLS history? Eat your heart out Barry Bonds, the Black and Red always prevails.

I realized two things while watching the game:

1. If only my Dad had been a soccer fan, he could have found a way to look cool wearing black socks hiked up to his knees. I guess he would have had to trade in his sparking white canvas Chuck Taylors for some cleats, though.
   
2. I would give an tidy sum of money to see Talon, the DCU mascot in a half-time cage match with the Pollo Campero, the cannibal chicken mascot of the Guatemalan Chicken chain. Quick question: which gives you the bigger huzz: seeing pigeons and sparrows haul chicken bones out of the trash, or seeing the Pollo Campero "Please-Enjoy-The-Flesh-of-My-Fallen-Brethren" marketing?
   

Insert Cameltoe Joke Here

Hey, so if anyone out there is planning their 60th birthday party, may I humbly recommend that you don't invite a camel to the petting zoo?

The camel... had come close to suffocating the family's pet goat on a number of occasions. On Saturday, the woman apparently became the object of the male camel's desire. It knocked her to the ground, lay on top of her and displayed what the police delicately described as possible mating behaviour.

Tip o' the Goo to Jason!

SuperDadaist

As discussed in yesterday's post, there's a certain amount of Dada worship from the Object's two year-old cousin. While she was generally happy to chill with me, at one point, Daddy passed her off to me for some hug 'n' kiss action. She recoiled in horror, shrieking as though my kisses were flesh-burning acid. "No no no you go! I want my Daddy, not you!" You'd think that last phrase would have offended me, but I understand exactly where she was coming from, having once been a Daddy's Little Girl (DLG) myself. DLGs understand that Dada is the only superhero, knows the answer to all questions, and can fix anything and everything from booboos to bad endings to bedtime stories.

SuperDada status is not immediately bestowed the moment he cuts the cord; it is earned through a series of events of epic heroism. To the toddler who is still working on figuring out that whole hand-eye coordination business, a man who can come along and juggle and then scoop you into his arms and tickle you into paroxyms of joy must surely be some kind of demi-god. The Object's cousin has achieved SuperDada status, and deservedly so. Take just one instance from the beach trip. This particular SuperDada, an avid and experienced surfer (who taught the Object to surf some 15 years ago, a precursor and/or indicator of his current status), took his two-year old bundle o' toddler adorability out with us and other assorted family members to jump over some benign waves in the surf. After each roll, the lot of us clapped with riotous joy, "YAAAAAAAAY! So much FUNNNNN!" At first, the DLG was tentative as SuperDada lifted her to "swim" through each wave, but finding only reassurance and encouragement, she relaxed and began to enjoy herself, giggling spasmodically with the rest of us as she rolled through the trough.

The wind picked up and the waves grew little by little. With each passing breaker, and SuperDada had to lift the DLG higher and higher. One wave washed over us, cuffing SuperDada in the face as he held his daughter high over his head, protecting her. Suddenly a swell loomed over us much bigger than any of the ones we had encountered; it was definitely going to crest before we could go over it. Bracing ourselves, all eyes turned to the father and the DLG. Time decelerated to a speed slow enough to watch the paternal decision-making process at work. Would SuperDada continue holding his only begotten daughter up over his head, hoping that the wave wouldn't hit the pair with enough force to knock her out of his grasp? Or would he take the suddenly apparent really, very, extremely fragile life under the waves with him? As paternal instinct kicked into overdrive, a look of determination crossed SuperDada's face, humbly pleading for mercy while at the same time challenging the very power and might of the vast expanse of ocean, C'mon, just try and fuck with Papa Bear. I dare you to come between me and my daughter!

He clutched her close to his chest, shielding her head and neck as the wave crested, pitching us underwater. I roiled around the water, hoping that if I went limp, I would eventually find air again. My strategy worked and I surfaced first, followed closely by the Object's seven-year old cousin (whom I'm convinced is part mermaid; she popped up with a perfect Ariel hair-toss), and the Object himself. We coughed up hefty lungfuls of saltwater and detritus, gasping to replace it with precious oxygen and scanning the briny foam as seconds ticked by slower than hours.

Finally, SuperDada materialized out of the waves, cradling his daughter. Seeing that she was unscathed and breathing fine, he hugged her closely, while the DLG started to sputter out traumatized tears, wondering why SuperDada had betrayed her and allowed that great big black thing to bonk her on the head and make her go boom. SuperDada shot us a look, mentally calling for backup, Guys, I can't do this without you. It takes a village; let's make it happen. Somehow, instinctively, we all knew exactly what needed to happen, and shrieked with what we hoped sounded closer to delight than panic, "YAAAAAAAAAY! So much FUNNNN!" Confusion flashed across the DLG's face and she stopped in mid-sputter, seemingly asking, Fun? Really? I remain unconvinced.

"YAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYY!" we cried out again in our most persuasively gleeful voices as SuperDada hugged her and held her up again. The tears threatened to drop as the DLG looked SuperDada warily in the eye, searching for any hint of b.s. Finding none, she relaxed into SuperDada's protective grasp, her faith in superheroes restored. As a gentler wave lapped by us, all was right with the world: SuperDada had saved the day, turning harrowing trauma into a moment of childhood joy, making the water once again safe for DLGs everywhere.

Well, for some, anyways. "Guys, I'm packing it in. There's no way I can go through that again," SuperDada said in a shaky voice as he turned back to the shore. "I think I might need some booboo ice."

And the Sky Is a Hazy Shade of August

After an epic dream in which the U.S. government framed me as a terrorist, forcing me to flee the U.S. via the Albanian embassy¹ with only a 2.5 tube of zit cream to aid me, I awoke late, sweat-drenched, tangled in the sheets listening to the cries of the hungry cat and for the first time in well over a week, the news, only to discover that people are dying, children are crying, and ding-dong, the witch is dead, or at least retiring, presumably to run a direct-mail campaign for the Bush twin that's getting married.

Wading through the mess of six hundred and seventy-three emails at work, it seems like it was another lifetime ago that I was wading through the bathtub-warm waters of the Outer Banks, where my gravest concern all week was wondering who would win in a one-legged hopping race: the feisty seven-year old girl with a fierce pinch, or the plucky, half-crippled 27 year-old with a heart of gold [tequila, that is]?

While the full report may or may not be forthcoming, I'll share with you a few of the highs and lows of the trip - I leave it up to you to discern which is which:

• Lost: One Black Diamond "Spot" Headlamp. How lost: In a pagan fireworks disco dancing incident.
  
• Won: Several rounds of horseshoes. Points scored by me: 0. Points scored by my awesome 8 year-old partner: All. You can call him the Professor, since he will school you.
  
• After slacking most of the week on my physical therapy and frolicking around the sand, my hip and back understandably quit in protest towards the end of the week. While fortunately, the Object is quite the nurturer and took good care of me, unfortunately, the Object's first aid remedies come from watching Major League Soccer. "Your hip is cramping? Do you want me to get some WD-40 and pretend it's Magic Spray? Should I put a tampon up your nose?"
• I had the sublime opportunity to experience local color in North Carolina: two women tanned to the same deep, leathery brown of the tobacco in the Virginia Slims they were smoking - at the gas station in between a bigass can of gasoline and a propane tank. For the love of all that is good and true in the Gooniverse, why, WHY is there not a Darwin Awards hotline?
• In a spackling incident gone awry, I'm pretty sure the Object's poor mother is scarred for life. Please people, beware of towel racks; yes, they hold your towels in a pleasing arrangement, but they are also death traps waiting to crash at any moment. Let this be a warning to all of you. How many cocktail parties must be ruined before the madness stops?
  
• On the ride down the Object and I made a pact, "No! We can NOT has speaking in LOLspeak fer teh beech trippage." Our efforts not to sound like complete morons were in vain when we learned an even more irresistible lexicon: Maddiespeak, the language of the towheaded adorable two year-old crowd. For your reference, a handy and ever-so-dandy glossary follows:
  

[singsong]Hello!: Hello!
[singsong]Please!: I don't actually want anything; I am just taking this opportunity to showcase my cuteness through politesse.
[singsong]Tank you!: Are you charmed yet?
Cuppie! (also, sippie): Give me my cup full of milky, not your cup full of Arbor Mist!
Dollies! (also, babies): Look at my twin baby dolls, Barbara and Jenna! I try to play house with them, but they only want to play drinking games.
Uppie!: Lift me up, carry me around, and entertain me in general while I determine how long I am going to be crabby about not being deep in slumber. To be administered upon the first hour after waking, often with a cuppie and/or milky.
Nom nom nom!: I find this string cheese to be a delicately nuanced balance of flavors, which suits my palate.
Booboo ice please: I bumped myself, and while it wasn't serious enough to cause any actual bodily harm, I found the experience jarring and would still like some parental sympathy and nurturing.
My Daddy's cooking for me!: This is because my daddy is truly the greatest man on the face of the earth and I'm not entirely sure why you are not prostrate in worship, you weird lady who shows up at these family events every six months or so. I am now going to give you the most withering look my two-year old eyes can muster unless you acknowledge the inherent awesomeness of my Dada.

1.Where, even in slumberland, it is a very bad idea to remind your would-be helpers of their less-than-stellar human rights record.

Also, We Have a Pinata.

I'm spending the week in the Outer Banks of North Carolina, where, according to the website of the Outer Banks of North Carolina Visitors' Bureau, "Since 1587, people have been drawn to our undisturbed beauty." See, pre-1587, there were only brown people on the island, and I think we all know that brown people are patently unable to appreciate undisturbed beauty. White peoples can do it, shrubbery being the clear example of the highest manifestation of undisturbed beauty. Since my week is filled with such undisturbed beauty, plus a lot of awesome people, a shoreline as far as the eye can see, picture perfect weather, more booze than I can shake a stick at, parties every night, and a lousy internet connection, I'm not so much keeping up with the Goo. But I'll be back next Monday to regale you with all the latest and greatest in beach vacationery. Have fun with your workweek- really, enjoy that cubicle.

Now, if you'll excuse me I need to go shake a stick at some booze.

Tell Me Again Why This Is "Flyover" Country?

"A massive hot dog clogged Chicago's main artery Thursday morning.

In a rare occurrence of an encased-meat vehicle committing a traffic violation, Chicago police ticketed the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile for illegal parking on the Magnificent Mile...

"You can't just park here," the officer said.

One of the passengers, who declined to be identified, said they were visiting a Wienermobile alumnus who worked nearby, but were unaware that one could not park a giant sausage in the middle of the city's busiest thoroughfare."

I appreciate that Chicago's finest are on top of these things, since it would have been a tragedy if traffic prevented access to the dumping of the duckies for the 2nd Annual Windy City Ducky Derby.

Tip o' the Gooey hat to Carijudy!

Lan-don Sad

Which was the highlight of last night's DC United VICTORY against DAVID BECKHAM and L.A. Galaxy?

• Troy Perkins' amazing balls-out save, crushing the hopes and dreams of Tarzan Lan-don Donovan (making the whole thing that much sweeter). "Beckham's downfield pass to Landon Donovan in the 83rd minute... probably would have resulted in an equalizer if not for a brave tackle by D.C. goalkeeper Troy Perkins." By the way, certain people think that Perkins keeps coming too far out of the box and that he's missing some important saves, but those people are wrong. This is the hallmark of Perkins and why he was last year's goalie of the year: he's fine-tuning a balance between knowing when to step it up when his defense isn't supporting him and knowing how to rally that defense to do the work for him. Seriously, I pledge allegiance to the Red and Black and the United States of Troy Perkins, who knows exactly what he's doing.
  
• Marc Burch stepping up with the assist to Emilio, who scored the only goal of the evening. Marc Burch- who knew?
  
• The five seconds that David Beckham was half-nekkid in between having taken off his warm-up jersey and before he put on his game jersey. Delicious!
  
• The sourpuss look on Tarzan Landon Donovan's face that sulked all night, "Lan-don hate David Beckham because Becks famous-er than Lan-don, and that makes Lan-don sad. And Lan-don just realized trophy wife not pretty." That's ok, Lan-don, Posh looks like a mutant, too.
  
• Hearing Beckham speak post-game- "Those were the biggest raindrops I've ever seen!" (despite the fact that I come from England, where this is the norm) and then hearing Ben Olsen (who puts little cartoon hearts and stars in my eyes whenever I think of him) speak post-game. Somebody's smarter!
  
• That Beckham has more security than the president- because if W. dies, that would be, um, something, but if Beckham dies, we lose a priceless work of art. I just don't understand why Ben Olsen doesn't have even more security than the both of them, because if Ben Olsen dies, we lose a national treasure.
  
• Fred. FRED!!!!!!!!
  
• Who just really, really wants to see Kpene score? I kinda love that kid.
  
• That almost 46,686 people and countless viewers all over the world know that DC United is the team that shut down L.A. Galaxy in Beckham's debut. It's not just a victory for morale, it's a moral victory.

DC UNITED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A Room with a View

The more and more global climate change becomes accepted as true, the more we have to look at creative solutions to maintain a healthy biosphere while still enjoying a high quality of life. as this Daily Show report uncovers, modern windmills are a blight on the environment and clearly not the answer, albeit old timey windmills that don't actually have a useful function are just fine:

Well This Is Certainly Good News!

Napping can save your life!

"A six-year Greek study found that those who took a 30-minute siesta at least three times a week had a 37% lower risk of heart-related death."

I'm willing to bet that taking a nap on the beach lowers that risk even further. I'd be more than happy to participate as a test subject.

Four... more... days... til... the Outer Banks! Longest... week... ever...

National Hooray for the Object Day

Here's a series of updates and random thoughts:

• The Object and I get to keep our little 1,200 square foot slice of heaven!!! Having spent pretty much every morning for the last month trying to get the leasing office on the phone and making deals with them, the Object convinced our leasing VP that we only needed our rent raised $30, as opposed to the $300 (each) they were initially considering charging us. I do believe that he worked some heartstrings magic by telling her we were "getting married and that we wanted to save up for our life together" (don't go running to your mailbox anytime soon). So let this be a lesson: there are good, kindhearted people in DC; sometimes sad puppy dog eyes work (albeit over the phone), and the Object is the awesomest doer-of-stuff-that-needs-to-be-done-that-I-really- don't-want-to-deal-with ever. By the power invested in me by Blogger, I hereby declare today National Hooray for the Object Day.
• You know what my job is now? Planning the housewarming party! I like it that the Object and I have a fair balance of power and assignment of household tasks.
  
• I'm teaching the Object how to play cribbage, which is a useful game to know, since it's the only game you're legally allowed to gamble on in a pub in the UK. It is now his greatest aspiration in life to "score one for His Nob."
  
• I'm a little sad that Barry Bonds made his home run goal, and disappointed that it was the Nationals who pitched it to him. I was kind of hoping that every pitcher for the rest of the season would have walked him. Tell me that wouldn't have been hilarious!
  
• As long as we're on the subject of sports, yeah, David Beckham getting paid 250 million to sit on the bench is great for MLS, but you know what's much better?
  

THE SUPERLIGA!!!!!!!

Forget the part where it sounds like the coolest band of superheroes ever, and that whenever the color commentators on TeleFutura say it, it sounds even more badass. The SuperLiga is the ultimate tournament to draw a larger MLS audience. I mean, what better way to get a U.S. audience into soccer by giving them carte blanche to hate on Mexicans?

Wild Wild Northwest (And Southeast)

LOOK! I live near a genuine, bona fide den of iniquity!

FW: [MPD-3d] Building Checks Yields Prostitution House

Posted by: "Lieutenant Gottert" lt_gottert@hotmail.com sgtbigg

Fri Aug 3, 2007 5:21 pm (PST)

From: "Santiago, Marco (MPD)" <MARCO.SANTIAGO@DC.GOV>
Reply-To: MPD-3d@yahoogroups.com
To: "Santiago, Marco (MPD)" <marco.santiago@dc.gov>
Subject: [MPD-3d] Building Checks Yields Prostitution House
Date: Thu, 2 Aug 2007 11:25:10 -0400

On July 25, 2007 around 10PM in the 2400 block of Ontario in PSA
303 Officers Kurtz and Baez were conducting a building check when
one of the officers notices an adult male leaving an apartment
suspected of being a house of prostitution. When questioned, the
suspect lied at first but the then admitted leaving the suspected
apartment. The suspect then gave consent for the officers to
enter the apartment. Inside officers found several adult males
and two adult females. The back bedroom was split in two by a
blanket and had separate sleeping areas. Among items seized was a
large amount of cash, business cards, condoms, poker chips, and a
notebook. A detective from Narcotics Special Investigation
Division (NSID) made the scene.

Poker chips and a notebook! Oh, Harriet the Spy, where did you go so wrong?!

So this next little nugget about the vigilante cabbie who took justice into his own hands doesn't exactly take place in my neighborhood, and not even really in my quadrant:

At some point in the dispute, according to police, the driver, who was outside the taxi, pulled a handgun and allegedly fired one shot into the ground.

It has a very spaghetti western appeal, don't you think? I can just see the cabbie pointing the gun at his fare's feet, taking a long drag on a cigarette, and drawling out, "Doncha know this town is for zones only? Meters? We don't need no stinkin' meters! This is how we teach non-payers to dance 'round these parts, varmint!"

If you read the comments (the best part!!!), you'll notice some conflict- people aren't sure whether to hate the cabbie cuz he's an A-rab, or stick to good ol' fashioned hatin' on the blacks¹, but people are definitely clear that brown peoples in general are not to be trusted.

But then the commenters come to the cabbie's rescue:

"All who ride in taxis should show complete trust in taxi drivers, for they are Hard Working."

Didn't I see that logic on the LSAT? Answer B, right?

Well I so happen to know the cab driver that was involved in this. He is a close friend to my family and I know that he didn't intend on hurting anybody. He is the nicest and sweeties person in the world.

I, for one, am sold. Where's Mayor Fenty to give this man the key to the city? What's that; he's not around? No worries, I'm sure the cabbie doesn't need the key; he can just shoot the lock open.

1.I kid you not: yesterday, there was a comment about those "damned negroes" in reference to the cabbies.

Subtle Power

While we're on the topic of art today:

While nothing can compare to the special little place in my id where I store my complete and utter loathing of poetry slams¹, I have a nice little hardened knot in my bowels that tightens in disgust whenever I am subjected to watching performance art. Maybe it's having seen one too many liberal arts students hepped up on crystal meth, thinking their used tampons are an extraordinary piece of art that chronicles the human condition, or maybe I'm just a philistine, but I'm wholly convinced that 97.935% of performance art is bullshit, and that a lot of it actually contains actual bullshit, making the comparison to tripe that much easier.

Case in point: Public circumcision. Snipping off your pippy in public could, I suppose, be seen as a means of making some inchoate statement about genital mutation, but if not done in precisely the right way, it seems like a thinly veiled excuse to whip it out in public for a few friends, a statement that has been made to me far too many times after far too many drinks, and with far too many lousy pickup lines.

Yes, I know my shoes are nice. No, I do not want to- DUDE, put that thing away. Jeez!

And yet, there's always that exception that proves me out to be the mistaken and overly misanthropic skeptic that I can be.

Last Saturday, as the Object and I were driving to a luau, as we passed the Bodysmith parking lot on 14th Street near U Street, we noticed what appeared to be a dead body sprawled out in a huge pool of blood, with blood spattered all over the walls of the nearby building. Just in passing, it appeared to be a gruesome and violent bloodbath, the kind you'd see on a can't-miss-sweeps-week-episode of Law and Order: SVU. A small crowd had formed around the scene with a few people taking pictures and vying for a better angle. Something deep in the pit of my gut churned and the Object reflexively slammed on the brakes.

"Did you just fucking see that?" we cried out simultaneously.

"There were people taking pictures!" the Object cried out.

"Turn back!" I searched for some valid reason to actually need to go back and check out the scene without completely being a rubbernecking asshole. "Ummm, we should see if everyone is alright."

"You're so morbid," the Object responded, seeing right through my guise. But he turned the car around with such haste that I knew he was grateful for the excuse to go back. As we reapproached the scene, we saw that the crowd that had gathered couldn't be the gawking of overly curious passersby.

As it turned out, the scene was a piece called "Healing" by performance artist Kata Mejia that commemorated the one-year anniversary of the murder of her little brother by Colombian FARC guerillas. Mejia, dressed in a black robe, had dipped her hands and hair in deep red paint. She placed her hands in the middle of the wall,then proceeded to use only her body writhing slowly down the walls to draw a series of thick, straight lines onto the floor of a stark white space. The suggestion was one of a body being slammed against a wall and then being dragged across pristine space.

I couldn't understand where the healing was involved. Here was a woman who had evoked powerful and violent imagery, creating a deep sense of empathy for the pain she and her family must have gone through. And yet, I got no sense of catharsis, no sense of healing. Eventually, the Object and I had to get back in the car and move on to our evening's plans. As we drove to the party, we were quiet for some time, reflecting on what we had just seen.

"That was something," the Object quietly remarked. I nodded in agreement. We pressed our hands together gently, as though trying to reassure ourselves with some kind of human connection without being obvious about it. The Object changed the subject, asking about mundane plans for the evening, and we carried on with our lives. And therein lay the healing: the artist's vision realized.

1. I once dated a man who fancied himself a "poet". He would drag me to poetry slams and then spend the evening scoffing that he could write better poetry. He mostly just programmed computers, though. Six months I dated this man. Six months!!! No... regrets!

This is Bananas

Look! Gooey friend and cohort Rababob is this week's featured artist profile on the Wii MiiPlaza!

True story: for Bob's senior art final project thesis in college, he made a whole bunch of very realistic-looking banana peels, which he then placed all over the lobby of the art building, and in the middle of the peels, he then drew a chalk outline of a body, like they have at crime scenes. He finished off the whole installation by cordoning it off with yellow "Crime Scene Do Not Touch" and "Caution" tape.

Hi-hi-hilarious!

An Open Letter

Dear Vampire Weekend,

While I appreciate it that you are willing to sing less about matters vampiverish and more about matters grammatical, I must answer your ostensibly rhetorical question, "Who gives a fuck about an Oxford comma?" with an emphatic,

"♫ME!♫"

While it's the rare occasion when I actually agree with Robert J. Samuelson, his elegy for the comma is well-deserved. Commas, as well as other grammatical indicators of tone, voice, and style, have done something much more insidious than sped up our lives; they have been replaced by bubbly, obnoxious emoticons, thereby reducing the printed word to the level of a love-starved tween trawling MySpace pages in a desperate attempt to make a connection with another human being. Let me just be quite clear about this:

I FUCKING HATE EMOTICONS.

From emoticons, it's a slip-n-slide slope down into the world of reading CosmoGIRL! and getting tips on how to maximize your sleepover party by making out with your pillow.

Huzz, huzz, huzz.

Now, I do see how you would be dismissive of the serial comma in light of graver matters of the heart, especially where the telling of truth is concerned. Unfortunately, some personal and extremely non-fun things that went down recently have forced me to ask not once, but twice, the same question that you pose in your lyrics, "Why would you lie about something dumb like that?"

During such troubled times, which wholly and completely blow and make me want to pull hair and gnash teeth¹, the natural logic of grammar offers much more flexibility² than math, which I still maintain is completely made-up bullshit. As long as we're on the subject, what the hell is wrong with our nation when there is a whole month devoted to math awareness, and yet only one day devoted to punctuation?

There are also a number of funny comma-related puns one can make:

And I think we can all bask in the glory of the Giant Comma, knowing that the most fun aspect of grammar and language is fucking with it.

All of that said, I find your music quite agreeable, and you're in fierce competition with the new Spoon album for the highly coveted Goo Top Musicks of the Year Prize. I even made a mixtape from your 3 song EP. It's one of the better mixtapes I've made, which consists of "Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa", "A-Punk" and "Oxford Comma" played over and over and over ad nauseum, for twelve straight hours^.3 Today is the seventh day in a row I have listened to this mixtape.

In the interest of not being ruthlessly killed at the hands of my less obsessive friends, colleagues, the Object (who's been surprisingly ok with this playlist), and the crack whore who likes to sleep on the street below my open window, can you please make and distribute more musicks?

And possibly come back to DC really soon?

Thanks for your kind consideration; I'll see you in about a month, when the Object and I will head up to NYC for our own little vampire weekend, the crowning glory of which will be, of course, Vampire Weekend. I look forward to the ensuing case of rawklash!⁴

Eagerly anticipating further VW rawk,

The Goo



1. Or is it pull teeth and gnash hair? I'm confused easily.

2. Well, it does if you're a descriptivist or semi-descriptivist, and if you're a prescriptivist, clearly you hate humanity and should just probably die. But, being a descriptivist, that's not for me to prescribe.

3.And therein lies the magic of the iPod: now it is possible to have a mixtape (aka "playlist") that stretches out 15 minutes of music over the course of twelve hours.

4.Rawklash \rɔk læʃ\: (n) An acute cervical condition characterized residual pain in the muscles of the neck and upper shoulder, resulting from vigorous and repeated bobbing of the head and pumping of fists to the beat of rock and/or roll music played at high volume. Frequently accompanied by a hangover as a result of over-consumption of alcohol.

A Specific Trajectory

The review went well. More than getting a tidy raise, I got some really quality feedback, as well as an overview of the potential growth of my position, which is supremely awesome. As in what I want to be doing for a Career, not just a job, and will start thinking about maybe going back to school and being overall generally brilliant.

So, YAY!

More Bunnies That Are Not Me

In a tragic installment of Colin and Claire, they miss the sah-weet keytar auction because of Colin's trickery. Which, admittedly, is some kind of awesome. But sadly, there are no keytarts on ebay, and the only keytars for less than $30 have less than an octave range. And are pink.

However, there is a sweet, sweet melodica that I'm seriously entertaining bidding on. Excalibur finish!

MPLS: The Place That I Like Best

A few rules of the Gooniverse were violated yesterday, and I think we all just need to go back in time and try again.

• The Mississippi and anything related to it is invincible. Look, even Mark Twain (kinda) said so:

It is strange how little has been written about the Upper Mississippi. The river below St. Louis has been described time and again, and it is the least interesting part. One can sit on the pilot-house for a few hours and watch the low shores, the ungainly trees and the democratic buzzards, and then one might as well go to bed. One has seen everything there is to see. Along the Upper Mississippi every hour brings something new. There are crowds of odd islands, bluffs, prairies, hills, woods and villages--everything one could desire to amuse the children. Few people every think of going there, however. Dickens, Corbett, Mother Trollope and the other discriminating English people who 'wrote up' the country before 1842 had hardly an idea that such a stretch of river scenery existed. Their successors have followed in their footsteps, and as we form our opinions of our country from what other people say of us, of course we ignore the finest part of the Mississippi.

• And nothing bad happens in Minneapolis unless there's some serious Liquor Lyle's involved.

So Minneapolis and your city full of fantastically wonderful people, you're in our thoughts today.

Crossies!

I have my annual performance evaluation tomorrow. Our HR "department" came up with an even more nerve-wracking method of reviewery, which means that the whole awful process is drawn out over the course of a week. And because I work in the Executive Office, I'm held to a high standard.

Jittery jittery jittery...

Guess who got a scathing review last time?

Yup. Stupid interwebs, teasing me with their tubes and tubes of perfectly, wonderfully useless information.

Now that I have completely stopped reading the news, op-eds, musicks blogs (cough for that one; it's an addiction), I'm hoping I'll get some better news tomorrow. In the meantime, in an effort to share with you all the wisdom I have gained in becoming a truly model employee, I offer you the latest and greatest in meme-ery: What LOL cat are you?

Apparently, I'm a lot nicer than my Schmoopums McKitty, who's a teensy weensy bit of an asshole.

Your Score: Lion Warning Cat

62% Affectionate, 86% Excitable, 37% Hungry

You are the good Samaritan of the lolcat world. Protecting others from danger by shouting observations and guidance in cases of imminent threat, you believe in the well-being of everyone. To see all possible results, checka dis.

Link: The Which Lolcat Are You? Test written by GumOtaku on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the The Dating Persona Test