Sometimes it's a baby and sometimes it's a Wusthof.

So, if you don't blog an evening... did it really happen?

Claire and I had the pleasure of Josh and Seth's company for dinner last night. We drank a whole lot of wine:

And we ate lovely food, mostly prepared by Claire (I was the sous, and I didn't harass or boss or anything. I did, however, hone the knife for her. The Wusthof is my baby.). The texture and consistency of the stew was perfect, the flavors piquant. All in all, an extremely well-executed Moroccan-style stew (that was blessedly sans olives).

For dessert, we had a clementine and pomagranate salad and some brownies my sister baked.

Obediah marched from lap to lap as we were polishing off the vat of wine (how on earth did we do that?), because there is nothing more frustrating to a cat than to lose attention to food.

Here are Obie's deep black soulless eyes:

After dinner we retired to the drawing room for cigars and brandy. Seth did a little juggling. I did not know that Seth juggles (nor did I know that typing "juggle" a few times could be so hilarious). He is clearly a very talented man. Observe a too-dark multi-burst shot I took of The Amazing Seth:

Then we watched a mediocre episode of Lost (from last week). Good times were had by all.

This is the other photo from the park on Saturday. Me 'n' the sis. Awww.

He's always bragging about his vertical leap.

I like to post photos of famous footballers to give all you non-game-attendees a sense of excitement that may or may not exist at your typical Castle Grey Skull F.C. match.

Behold, the "Hand of God" goal by Diego Maradona. I cannot leap like that ------>



I can, however, fall down and bruise and bleed like a big sissy. Which is what I did on Sunday. I was knocked down by a stocky bald man two (2) times. I mean, it's cool. I was up in his grill. I skinned both knees and bled a little. First blood in my soccer "career." Wooo!

As you can imagine, I am pretty well dinged up today, and nursing some shin splints (also because I'm a sissy). I've got a nice smattering of leg bruises, which isn't earth-shattering as I sustain brusing on my legs whilst walking into my cube (I run into my chair on a daily basis as if I were blind) or my bedroom (damn you, doorknob!), sleeping (I fight crime at night), or standing very very still (stiff winds are killer). When it happens in a game, it makes me feel hardcore and then when the endorphins wear off, I feel a little like a weakling.

Anyway, the game. Well, yesterday marked the triumphant return of Owen from his extended trip abroad, so he was able to play and be our official Guy Who Terrifies the Goalie.

We had some great moments in effective passing and pushing forward toward their keeper, which had him fairly nervous most of the time. Many on the team got a lot of shots off that went just wide, but Owen made up for that hard luck with some truly brilliant shots that were too low and hard for the keeper to stop. There was good teamwork all around, which shows (I think) that we're developing well as a unit.

The troubling part of the whole affair, though, was the opposing team's rather upsetting and dangerous lack of ball (or indeed, foot, hand, knee, whatever) control. I understand the frustruation. When you're a few back, you lash out. But man. They drew some blood from the Grey Skull. My skinned knees were minor compared to a near-hematoma sustained by Tera after a fierce kick to the leg. Will got a similar injury that included a nice cut along his leg. Basically, you know things are a little ugly when the ball is constantly bouncing off the effing ceiling of the gym. Or, for instance, when a stocky bald man pushes you down then boots the ball mere inches from your face while you're trying to pick yourself up off the effing floor.

But, the good news is, as I mentioned, we played a pretty tight game, did not get into any fisticuffs over the rough play, and Marty was a frickin' WALL. One goal allowed at the start of the second half and that was it. He was everywhere.

Claire had a really solid attempt at a goal that just went wide. Insha (who had never played until this year) and Nora made a habit of charging the keeper, so much to his surprise that they very nearly poked it in goal a couple of times. It should be noted at this point that the keeper had roughly 200 lbs. on Insha (and Nora as well, for that matter), who is both fearless and a very able marker.

The Castle Grey Skull F.C. ended the day triumphant, with a score of 5-1 (I know, Marty's a wall, right?). We've even inched into 3rd place in the standings.

Next week's game, for any of you amateur sports fans are interested, will be pre-Super Bowl (if you're into faux football, I imagine you'll be watching that). You should come out and cheer. Bring your own green scarf and cowbell.




image respectfully borrowed from members.lycos.nl/allstarsteam/maradona21.jpg

This is sort of what the weekend looked like

For some reason, Hello decided to transfer half the photos I asked it to do. Maybe I'll post those later... if you're lucky.

Anyway, the main reason I've been remiss for the past few days is that my lovely younger sister Bridget has been in town. It has been great fun. Saturday, after she and I woke early-ish (we are our mother's daughters), we got breakfast at Daisy's and then went for a walk in the park. Bridget, since she spends most of the year in Scotland, was so excited about the sunshine and warm-ish (thanks greenhouse effect!) dry air that she ran around kicking leaves.

Then we went to Saturday's soccer practice/scrimmage. I did not play well at all. But I did benefit considerably from our shooting drills and managed not to pull my hamstring. Rock.

After soccer, Claire, Josh, and I went to midtown for a party. We would never, ever, in a million years, go anywhere like midtown for a party unless it was for someone we like (which it was). We walked through Times Square and made sad faces, because Times Square is a place conceived in the mind of Dante Alighieri. True story. Virgil actually led us from the Subway to the bar. There were people being chased by bees running around in circles.

This is Josh and Claire on the train:

Many, many sad faces were made in Times Square. Then, when we arrived at the midtown bar, which was very very loud, we had to pass through several bouncers, an enchanted forest filled with Rodents of Unusual Size, and then we had to answer three riddles asked by a Griffin.

Our trials were awarded by being able to give our best to one soon-to-be L.A. dweller and a few birthday-celebraters, as well as partake in mini-cupcakes, and, of course, the almighty beer:

Will took this photo. I thought it was cool.

Sometimes it's fun to break away from the usual. Sometimes it's a little scary, but you pull through. So, you know, next week at the usual. There's no place like home...

Cuckoo for Coco Crisp

Holy crap, it worked!

Another resounding welcome home to Theo and his mojo. The Sox have landed Coco Crisp for center field. I am, of course, over the moon.

And now, really really really looking forward to the season. As if I wasn't already counting the days until I shell out a bunch of money for an MLB pass on cable. It's a disease, I tell ya.

image borrowed from: http://sportsmed.starwave.com/media/mlb/2005/0618/photo/g_coco_195.jpg

Uh... gooaaalll?

This is not me. ------->
It is, in fact, Carles Puyol, a Catalan footballer
and captain of F.C. Barcelona.

But, I see where you'd get confused, because
Mr. Puyol is wearing handsome blue socks. ------>

I also have handsome blue socks.

As you can see, I've turned to wikipedia to find a footballer who shares the number I wear on Castle Grey Skull F.C. That would be the number 5 (you big Grey Skull fans may remember that I wore 11 last week, but we had a sizing issue among the ladies, and I swapped for a large jersey with a smaller number). When I first got this number, I thought "Hey cool, it's Nomar's number." But then I realized I couldn't go around playing soccer with Nomar in mind. And, since I am a child who needs to know what famous athlete has the same number, I did a little research and am quite satisfied to share 5 with Puyol. And thus far, it appears to be lucky for me.

That's right, sports fans. Due to keeper misjudgement, physics, and a rip in the space-time continuum, I managed to score a goal on Sunday. An extremely slow-moving chip over the keeper's head... about thirty seconds (it seemed) after the match began. He couldn't believe it, I could believe it, our teammates couldn't believe it. But hey, it's a good way to start. And as my father has said, it's better to be lucky than good (at least sometimes). I followed that solid start later in game with my new signature move: falling on my ass (from a standstill) for no apparent reason with no players or ball anywhere near me. Awesome! Carles would be proud, no?

We kept our opponents, called the Shin Kickers (a name that troubled me at first, because I bruise easily), in frantic defense for much of the first half, but unfortunately couldn't score on them again. After half time, we gave up three goals to them, and were only able to make up one to end the game in a tough loss.

We played with a whole lotta heart, though, and had some great passes and a few good (though unlucky) attempts at goals.

In our defense, though, the Shin Kickers had about a million subs. This was because they basically stocked their team with big dudes and one woman. Since you have to have two women playing at all times, they recruited three solid female players off of the other teams in the league (one of whom scored their winning goal). So, while we have followed the rules and have actual girls on our team, they just bring in some lady ringers. I suppose it's better than having to play against Maradona Jr. again, but still.... Sorta against the spirit of the co-ed league in the first place, right?

Their keeper in the second half was also a complete lunatic. At one point, after booting the ball down the court, towards our net, he screamed "In baby, in! Go in, baby!" He was pretty good and vocal about calling the movement of his players, but we didn't need the anthropomorphizing of the ball (he doesn't like it). Dial it down, sir.

It was still a fun game, and though it's never fun to lose, I was glad it wasn't some kind of crazy blow-out like our first game. Grey Skull's fighting the good fight, and having a laugh while we're at it.

image respectfully borrowed from http://www.fcbarcelona.com/

Well I love it. I'll have yours.

One of the things that brings a little amusement (with just a hint of annoyance) to my day is deleting the spam from the inbox to which our letters to the editors are sent. We have about 1 legitimate email from a reader for every eleventy billion spam messages. So, as you can imagine, deleting the 500 (ahem, x eleventy billion = a shit ton)+ that come in over the weekend can get time-consuming. But, it's interesting to note the trends in spam. For example, when I started this job, half of the spam suggested "Help your (mother, brother, husband, sister) with her pain."

But, I imagine someone cracked down on that racket, or perhaps they decided that empathy for relatives' pain wasn't the right direction to take, as that one no longer graces the inbox. Instead, the spammers (that big faceless bunch of jerks) have decided to drive me crazy with nonsensical subject headings until I click through something and give them my debit card number and SSN in blind, hopeless confusion.

Now, a sampling of some of the more amusing/infuriating spam subject lines from today's batch:

"fervently ask to encounter needing companion" (there were a bunch of umlauts thrown into that one as well... always a good move)
"Never be single once again?" related: "Never be alone once more" (these make my eye twitch)
"powerful enlargement" (sounds painful)
"Silent Hookups!" (sounds... um... weird?)
"Ensured dates at the moment"
"Re: squeamish Pharmac y"
"Regenerate your aliveness!"
"Computer TV Camviewer dating" (What the hell is that?)

Now, I know that spammers make money. Boatloads of it. But I just don't understand how. Who even knows how one regenerates one's aliveness, short of becoming a mutant or something?

So, most of us are trained to avoid clicking on spam. But the thing is, it used to be harder to spot. They tried to blend in, right? Now, they're sticking out like a sore thumb. A sore, ungrammatical thumb that doesn't make any sense (because a fit, grammatical thumb makes perfect sense). And I guess the key with spamming is a shotgun approach, but might you find more willing rubes if you appeared just the teensiest bit more legitimate?

Meanwhile, thanks for the laughter and the tears, spammers. You massacre my mother tongue with the best of them.

still image of Monty P. respectfully borrowed from spamterminator.it

The-o! Aaww sugar sugar. You are my candy giiiirrrlll...

I'm taking a moment's rest from the Quest to See My Desk to really relish the official return of Boston's favorite son. My mother called me at 11:15 last night (which freaked the wife out a lot... she thought something was amiss with the family Mohan) to tell me the good news. And indeed it is good. Soxaholix tell it like it is (epic, dramatic, etc.): "Zeus has sent thundah out of a cleah blue sky — Odysseus has returned!" Theo likely returned as a gorilla, loyal swineherd at his side, and Lucky Lucchino (here's hoping those D.C. rumors are true... sorry Tobs) probably set up the row of axes on the outfield and Theo had to shoot an arrow through them all the way to the red seat in the bleachers.

I'm glad that after two months of the front office dudes all having a pissing contest, and then standing around and comparing their johnsons, they all finally agreed that they no one is dissing anyone else's johnson or pissing-for-distance ability. Yes, yes. You're all very virile baseball men with big johnsons and lots of money and respeck and all that. Now, go out there and get me a muther-effing SHORTSTOP! And stop trying to trade Manny, dickheads. That chapter of the offseason is over.

And, fine if you want to call T-Dog a "consultant" or whatever, but eventually you're all going to have to put your "pride" away and agree that he's the GM. Alright? We clear on this?

Welcome home Theo. Ummmm... Marry me?

Claire has her obsession with gross pictures of ugly dogs, cycloptic cats, and corneas, and I have my obsession with gross animals (though to my credit, I did not post about that new breed of scorpion yesterday).

Today, I bring you Nomura's jellyfish. As big as a sumo wrestler (like 200 kilos), and apparently turning up in Japanese fishing waters by the thousands. They break fishing nets and crush the fish within them.

Oh, and they're TERRIFYING.
Now, unlike the disappointment of the giant squid, we have a basis of comparison with this thing due to the diver swimming next to it. I appreciate this. Now, I can safely say I will never go swimming anywhere near Japan. Ever. Holy God. Would you look at that?

According to wikipedia, someone's developed a way to make tofu out of them, which makes no sense at all.

The population spike could be due to that global warming we hear so much about. At what point do our fearless leaders get scared? Frog rain? I mean... THE INVASION OF GIANT JELLYFISH?

Do it.

We all know that Nutella is good on everything: toast, pretzels, fruit, a spoon, your finger (I don't know this young lady, but she's got the right idea).

From my kitchen to yours: The next time you're making rice pudding (stirring, stirring, stirring towards freedom), add a good dollop of Nutella at the end. It's a transcendent dessert experience. And it doesn't turn the stuff to spackle like melted chocolate bars do. You'll thank me later.

I may have subconsciously nicked the idea from Rice to Riches, everyone's favorite money-laundering business, but in lieu of their imprimatur, I'll just proclaim myself (for the umpteenth time... sorry Claire) a genius.

Long weekend by the numbers

Number of cats on my bed this morning: 3 (I know, I know. It's a wonder I'm single. Who doesn't want a piece of this?)

Prior to this photo, Gus (far left) was perched on my chest, succubus style (all nose-to-nose, purring in what cat-speak is likely something akin to "Kalimah! Kalimaaahhhh! " as he pressed all of his 14 lbs down through one foot onto my sternum).

Evenings spent at Buttermilk with the usual suspects: 2
Pints of Brooklyn Brown Ale consumed: Ugh, don't remember... many?
Cosmopolitans consumed (with some chagrin...): 1 (Thanks Seth!)
Pizza eaten: Lots
Late-night fisticuffs witnessed: 1, intense
Soccer games won: 1 (woot woot!)
Goals scored in games that counted: 0. In games that did not count: 1
Severity of post-soccer pain on a ten-point scale: 4 Last weekend: 50
Failed attempts at seeing Brokeback Mountain: 1
Netflix DVDs conquered (because when they've been sitting around the apartment for weeks, it's not about watching or enjoying, it's about winning): 2.5
Instances of harassment by cats: 80 (give or take)
Hot Stove opining with Dad: 15 minutes (gosh darn it, if you're trading Manny, you'd better friggin' get Miggy)
Episodes of Lost watched (on Seth's ipod): 6
Consequent collective gratitude to Mr. Seth as a result: immeasurable
Cigarettes bummed for Seth as a result of blind gratitude: 1 (Why did I do that?)
Current temperature: balls-cold
Wind speed on walk home from Buttermilk last night: eleventy billion knots
Number of beers it would have taken to make that walk warmer: infinity
Doorknobs in apartment busted: 1
Strangers I called "You fucker!": 1

All in all, a pretty good weekend. Happy (slightly belated) MLK Jr. Day!

And finally, see how Appomattox likes Excel spreadsheets:

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Victoriance!

As I'm sure everyone's dying to know, the Castle Grey Skull F.C. won yesterday, which puts us in a three-way tie for second place. Our opponents, the very able Bleu Cheese, put up a good fight, but in the end our swift feet and powerful goal-kicking overpowered them. Here below are some photos of the game. Claire, having suffered a subway-steps fall was team cheerleader and documentarian.

In this picture above, you'll note Grey Skull's handsome green jerseys (yours truly is number 11), and the blue ones of our opponent. But wait! Who is the gentleman in the yellow jersey? One of the members of Bleu Cheese? No, my friends. That man is none other than Diego Maradona Jr. (whose work you may remember from Grey Skull's tough loss last week). For some reason, Bleu Cheese was allowed to put young El Diego Numero Dos in as their keeper. This was sort of ok, because he wasn't to be running around willy nilly with his fancy footwork and scoring millions of goals. It was also not ok because he is still fucking brilliant and, as Claire noted, is "a douchebag full of douche." He should not be playing in our league, dammit, and why do they get to use him even though they have two subs? Stupid jerk ref. Stupid jerk El Diego Numero Dos. Whatever. Grey Skull is nothing if not resilient and after some initial grumbling, we shook it off.

And while Marty had a rough spell in goal during the first few minutes, the powerful combination of Tera and EDND's case of butterfingers handily brought the score back in our favor.

But El Diego 2 was not to be outdone. Nay. On a few occasions, he collected the ball as it approached the keeper's box and dribbled it (with the fancy footwork and so forth) ALL THE WAY DOWN THE COURT, in a taunting manner, I'd say (because clearly he does these things to piss me off). Oh man did this piss us (or maybe just me, because I'm a child) off. But rather than let it get me down, I found a woman much smaller than me to mark. And mark her I did. Up and down the court she ran with me her oversized shadow. I even had a decent pass or two by some happy accident, and we kept the pressure up on Bleu Cheese throughout the game.

Shown here is Marty in goal and our resident "Big Dude" Will. Number 2 is Mike, who's got some fancy footwork of his own. Marty blocked some scary attempts from Team Cheese. During one of El Diego 2's forays down the court (with his enormous "prowess" swinging in the breeze for all to see), Will neatly and legally used his BigDudeness to take down Young Maradona. And how we cheered.

In the last minute of the match, Team Cheese had a moment of panic. Grey Skull had them on the proverbial ropes... what were they to do? This would give them an 0-0-2 record. Maradona was to don a blue shirt and take to the field. They futzed around... Maradona abandoned the goal. The game was still going on... so Tera blasted it in, giving us a 5-3 victory. The wee ref called time and it was over. Wooo!

One final highlight, because I know everyone's interested (hi Mom!): I was marking a gentleman who smelled strongly of garlic (this makes it easy... just follow your nose), and someone passed the ball to me. Because I have little to no control, he nicked it from me handily, at which point I (in a perhaps slightly unsportwomanlike manner) yelled "You fucker!" This did nothing for me getting the ball back, but it made me feel better. I think it could be my signature move.

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Hooray! I got Hello to work!

Here's my last batch of photos from Barthelona. I took these at St. Josep La Boqueria. We wandered drowsily through it on our first morning. There was enough lovely food there to have me packing up my bags to move there.


















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What is "Who are the ad wizards who came up with that one?"

Sorry about the lack of nonsense yesterday, I was in an all-day meeting, followed by some partying with the work folks, followed by utter collapse due to exhaustion combined with Cabernet. But I did not sleep peacefully due to two things: 1)feline harassment and 2) this movie:

When I first took this screen-shot, the object of my ire was clearly visible, but apparently it flicked away just as I grabbed it. You've probably happened upon a bus or two with this poster pasted on its side, with the tagline "She always thought she was somebody...and she was."

Ms. Claire very alertly pointed this out to me the other day, and I have puzzled and puzzled ('til my puzzler was sore) over it since.

She always thought she was somebody...and she was. What in the name of William J. Strunk does that mean, exactly? And how did They (I'm not entirely sure who is responsible for this... Paramount? The Devil? The same people who decided that Two Weeks Notice didn't need an apostrophe, for reasons that escape me?) arrive at that?

I imagine a crack team of monkeys at typewriters were involved. And then, when they produced something serviceable (which is to say, pretty much anything other than what eventually got put on all those buses), They fired the monkeys and got a bunch of marketing people to do it. Then there was a meeting in which the marketers decided "hey, let's put a bunch of those 'words' in a row, throw in an ellipsis, and slap it on the poster! We'll be rich!" And so, this blight upon our lives was born.

I get angry about these sorts of things all the time. I could never have a career in marketing because I know what words mean and I put them into sentences that make sense. I can't even rewrite that tagline, because I don't really know what they're trying to tell us about Ms. Queen Latifah's new movie. "It was just as she suspected, she was somebody." "She always knew she was special... turns out, she was correct."

Personally, I think they're barking up a tree that will not yield a line that makes sense. Furthermore, it doesn't seem to say all that much about the movie itself. So how, how, how on earth did that get green-lighted? Didn't someone along the way say "Wait, I'm remembering something... something about the English language...and vigorous prose... it's hazy, but it's telling me that if we put this on the side of a bus, everyone's going to think we're a bunch of idiots. No, wait, it's gone now. Let's do it!"

The answer is no. No one who cares about their alleged mother tongue lodged any objections. No one saved those marketers from themselves. And we are left to pay the price during those long, dark, winter nights. Tossing, turning, asking for a sign from God. "She always thought she was somebody...and she was." What does it mean?

Also, Gerard Depardieu is in the movie. How sad is that? Why, Cyrano? Why?

Garbanzo!

As you may know, Claire is related to a Don in the Hummus Mafia. The benefits of such an association include the occasional crate of hummus "falling off a truck"(by which I mean, "being delivered by a nice man named Sharon") into our refrigerator.

My friends, eating a whole crate's worth of hummus and other Middle Eastern treats is not for the faint of heart. I am, at this very moment, losing a battle with a vat of Hommous Tehina, which I keep at work - the better to assault with Wheat Thins regularly.

I am beginning to suspect, however, that we are not regaled and privileged Hummus Mafia Princesses so much as marked for the insidious Death By Chickpea. And, as a more sporadic eater of hummus, I am feeling a little weird about eating the stuff twice daily. I might see if I can sculpt it into likenesses of our Mafia benefactor as appeasement. Or, you can find me down by the East River, shod in cement, eating hummus by the fistful with tears streaming down my face.

Offer we can't refuse, eh?

The nutjobs, my friend, are blowing in the wind.

You can't make everyone happy. Especially when it comes to energy. I mean, everyone wants their lights (and televisions, by God) to come on, but no one wants to own a house near a power plant or live in a town with a nuclear reactor. Or, apparently, a wind farm.

I've driven from L.A. to Palm Springs, where there are thousands of turbines dotting the desert, and I think wind farms are kind of pretty in a post-modern sort of way, I guess. I was proud to read that an enterprising fellow is opening one on Mount Jericho in the fair state of New Hampshire.

But, no such project goes without controversy, as some folks in upstate New York are protesting a wind farm because it'll reduce property values and look ugly (I guess they're not as PoMo as I am). Also, according to Wired:

Other complaints are a little further from reality. In a recent symposium held by the Concerned Citizens for Steuben County, one speaker compared the sound of the spinning blades and whirring machinery (which most people find inaudible from fairly close distances) to the noises Nazi troops tortured Jews with during the holocaust.

Group members also warned of health problems ranging from strokes caused by the sunlight as it pulsates through the spinning turbine blades to mange in cattle. Others claimed that women living near the wind farms are having as many as five menstrual cycles a month.

Yes. That wind farm is a way for someone to torture you, Upstater, just like the Nazis tortured the Jews. Just like that.

Nuclear power and toxic waste? Fine. Sending people into mountains to dig for coal (which is, as Tobs and Josh have rightly noted, completely absurd)? Fine. But wind turbines? Those'll give ol' Bossy the mange and your old lady will be having feminine problems five times a month!

Cite your source. The tinker who sold you your snake oil last month? Old Pappy McGhee who knows when it's going to rain on a account of his rheumatism?

This guy is PoMo like I am. And makes an interesting case for putting alternative energy for vehicles on hold while we step up the effort to make our living electricity greener.

I'm sorry...Really? Mange?

I respectfully request that the Concerned Citizens for Steuben County please stop breeding until further notice (your making rural people look like idiots!). I also have a bridge I'd like to sell them.

Gooooaaaaallllll!

This past weekend, Claire and I inaugurated our Weekend Indoor Soccer Season of Pain. Two teams (one with a ref and rules, the other with a coach and no rules), two days a week, two very sore ladies on Monday morning.

This is a blurry picture of the no-rules Saturday soccer. It was the first time I'd played in about nine months, so I was a bit rusty.

Lessons:
1. Running is hard.
2. I still have very little ball control. Oddly enough, I didn't develop that over 9 months of not playing. Pity.
3. Soccer is really, really fun. How did I not realize this when I was little? Oh, right, dislike of competition, fear of failure, fear of other children.
4. Sometimes, I score a goal and that's pretty cool.
5. I appear to be allergic to the gym on Roosevelt Island.
6. Drinking Guinness and eating "chips" with curry sauce after soccer is always the right answer.

Sunday was the "real" game with a grouchy Russian (I think) ref who was apparently blind in one (or possibly two) eyes. Claire and I were later arriving at the gym than we had expected to be, so there was little time for our team, Castle Grey Skull F.C. (boo-yah) to organize or strategize. We did, however, have time to obtain our handsome green t-shirts. The court was much, much smaller than the one we play on on Saturdays, and we were not allowed to play off the wall, which blew a whole lot.

Lessons:
1. Running is still pretty hard. Though muscle soreness goes away when your adrenaline is pumping.
2. Rules are hard. It took Will a really long time to explain offsides to me.
3. It is very difficult to gain momentum when everyone is constantly kicking the ball out of bounds.
4. It is very difficult to gain momentum when the team you are playing against is really effing good. As in "Who brought Diego Maradona's illegitimate child to America to play on an amateur rec team with Pele's long lost brother?" It just ain't fair.
5. It's nearly impossible to mark that chick who doesn't run so much as disappear and then re-materialize on the other side of the court.
6. Soccer, even when we lose spectacularly (to a team that should be in the "premier league," by the by) is still pretty fun.

All in all, it was a fantastic, though exhausting weekend. Next Saturday, I intend to work on using my left foot more, as I can't so much pass with it as impotently roll the ball to an opposing player.

We're hoping to face that team for the finals after we scrap our way through a dream-season rife with turmoil: Marty will take one for the team and get injured in the big game, requiring our old, grizzled, washed-up alcoholic coach (coach TBA) to stand in for the last half. Tera will refuse a cortisone injection to the knee by our corrupt team doctor, opting to play through the pain. I'll suddenly be able to use my left foot effectively, allowing me to score a miraculous-leaping-in-the-air goal. Claire will get kicked out at the last half for an illegal tackle of her nemesis. Together, we will take down the team in the ugly yellow shirts and triumph so that the name Castle Grey Skull F.C. lives on in Co-ed rec soccer forever.

And the winner is...

Who likes to play The "_____ is my least favorite place in New York," Game? Ooh! I do! Who answered “Times Square?”

Ordinarily, you’d be right. But this week, I’m anointing a new winner. Someplace far worse than Times Square before the curtains go up on Broadway. Worse than Herald Square, you know, ever. Worse than Union Square on a Saturday night when they’re giving away free Palestine.

My friends, the American Airlines Terminal at JFK is a far greater blight on these five boroughs than any of the aforementioned squares could ever be. It has all the elements of a least-favorite place: filth, crowds of slow-moving people and construction that is never complete. But it also has frequent unintelligible announcements on a PA system, tiny baggage claim areas (to which the baggage is delivered from the plane bucket-brigade-style, it would seem), check-in lines that can stretch out of the door, customs lines choked with luggage carts and families rummaging for passports, and people who have just spent extended time in a confined space dining on Snack Packs and subjected to SEVERAL HOURS of “Everybody Loves Raymond” (related: how American’s many passengers have not committed ritual suicide at 30,000 feet due to said “food” and “entertainment” is a miracle).

So, congratulations American Airlines Terminal at JFK. Because of you, I walked serenely through Herald Square’s rush-hour scrum. I could probably survive Times Square without entertaining homicidal thoughts. I might even accept a leaflet in Union Square.

If the lackadaisical manner with which the airline itself under-achieves in delivering actual service for way too much money is any indication, you are looking a long tenure as the place in this city that inspires in me an acute visceral dread. Bravo.


image from vittiphoto.com

The things we ate.

More from Barcelona. This time in the vein of Meals I Have Eaten, a blog whose proprietress I do not know, but of whose epicurean bent I wholeheartedly approve.

On our second night in Barcelona, we took the Metro down to the harbor area to partake of some seafood. Mom had a hankering for paella, and as we are New Englanders, we are pretty much always up for something funny-looking from out of the sea.

Mom and I shared some paella and Bridget ordered what was called "mixed seafood plate." This is what arrived:

A pile of mussels and cockles, a passle of razor clams, a brace of langoustines, a herd of shrimp, and a big, fuck-off sized squid. A bit more mixed seafood than Beez had bargained for. She's a game girl, though, and once she cleared the platter of already-empty shells, she tucked in and gave it the old college try. She managed to get about 3/4 through before the strength of the garlic broth overpowered her desire not to waste food.

I had a giant pile of paella:

It was pretty good. Entirely too much rice, and I object to the school of cooking seafood that dictates you simply steam the bejesus out of it, but when in Catalonia, you've gotta go for it. My mother alleges that I somehow charmed the waiter into giving me the lobster claw (thereby securing for myself the only bit of lobster that hadn't been practically powdered in the shell), but I claim innocence.

Not pictured is the lovely bottle of Sangre de Torro that went with the food that I was allowed to select. Overall, it was quite the fishy meal, so for dessert, I had to have chocolate mousse tart:

And Hayley got a lovely pineapple sorbet, presented in a pineapple skin:

And Bridget, upon consulting the dessert menu, which was written in Catalan and Spanish, selected something with a long and elaborate name. Then, the waiter brought her this:

Yup. That's right. A glass of orange juice. Delish.

And when our waiter saw me snapping pictures of the food, he volunteered to take a little family portrait at the table:

Things that we ate that I did not take pictures of: many slices of yummy bread slathered with tomato and olive oil, some of the best anchovies I've ever had, nice slices of ham, a pudding-thick cup of hot "xocolate" that Hayley had on our first day, properly made tortilla (the omlette, not the bread), and the many glasses of cava I consumed while taking in the ambience at the hotel bar (and by "ambience," I mean bad elevator music and cigarette smoke) while reading or chatting with the fam. We also took advantage of what the patisserias had to offer and sampled chocolates and pastries. And I drank quite a lot of cafe con leche in order to keep up with the Power Tourism schedule. Also, it seemed that every meal contained about a pound of salt, so we did a lot of overnight bloating and daytime water binges. Good times.