Chin chin!

Aside from a few ten-minute downpours this morning, the weather was mighty fine in Zuerich this morning. Lots of sun and some nice spring breezes.

Dad and I went into the city to walk around and do a little shop-browsing. First on the schedule was Fussball Corner, up on Schaffhauserplatz. There, I got a most-excellent Swiss soccer shirt and an FC Basel flag (they totally pummeled Middleborough in the UEFA the other night).

Then we wandered the Zuercher Brokernhaus, a big pink building filled with people's old stuff (some really nice, some not so nice). There are loads of fondue plate sets, which is kind of funny, as that's what you'd expect of an American second-hand shop.

I did all of my requisite chocolate shopping, and we retired to the Widder Bar for a cocktail. The Widder Hotel is one of the oldest structures in Zuerich. When the excavated the foundations some years ago, they found the ruins of a Celtic settlement that predated the Romans. Nowadays, they serve up hundreds of kinds of whisk(e)y, and many swank mixed drinks, all decanted and prepared with a very Swiss precision.

Dad and Bridget ordered martinis with olives (yuck), and I started with an Elderflower Martini (vodka, elderflower cordial, and apple juice), which was a little sweet, but had a pleasant, flowery finish. Then, I moved on to a Pimm's No. 1, which I quite liked. It's a mixture of Pimm's and ginger ale, and was very prettily garnished with lemon, orange, cucumber, and mint. Oh, and a cherry. It was a little bit like I had a salad along with my drink:

Anyway, I could easily make Pimm's a frequent summer drink, though I might need to take up petanque or cricket and wear tennis whites all the time or something... that's what British people do, right? I'm attracted to the whole "secret recipe" thing.

We concluded the outing with dinner at a lovely Venetian restaurant and a stroll down Bahnhofstrasse after sunset. Then we returned home to a very wiggly and excited Chihuahua.

Tomorrow, we'll attempt a foray into the mountains for some hiking. Here's hoping there's isn't too much snow and that the weird downpours hold off.

No Toby, THIS fountain looks like it's peeing.

Fermez la douche!

Today we were back to the usual Swiss spring weather, with rain and cold and the occasional hearty gust of wind. Not very hospitable for city walking, though Bridget and I did get the train (which arrived at 2:15 on the nose... God I love this country) into the city for a little hammaming, Swiss-style.

A hammam is a public bath... sort of an offshoot of ancient Roman baths, and found, to my understanding, in Muslim countries. When I lived with a family in Morocco during my junior year, the hammam was a weekly event for my host mother and sisters, and with the expense of heating gas, became my only bath each week (well, when in Rome). The whole process involves rooms of three different temperatures and an elaborate set of bathing steps . Depending on your companions' neighborhood affiliations, you could find yourself in a hot steamy room for two hours. This lengthy bathing period, of course, allows you to cover yourself head-to-toe in henna mud, scrub your skin with a Brillo-like mitt, and eventually assist a neighbor in washing her back before you even get to the rather involved drying and lounging portion of the day. You may also witness screaming children being scrubbed with a brown, waxy soap, their mothers grim faces rosy with heat and framed by their gold necklaces pulled up onto their foreheads for safekeeping.

Here in Zuerich, however, the hammam is more like an amalgamation of the Turkish bath (a big, cool pool in one of the rooms is not something I saw in any Moroccan bath) and a spa.

First major difference: you can go about barefoot and completely confident (God I love this country... there's a antiseptic spray stationed outside the door!). The equipment is provided as well, which is nice. You're given a copper bowl that you use to get water from the beautiful copper cisterns, and a clean scrubby mitt, as well as tablecloth-like sheet (as the rules say "the hammam is a no-naked zone") and terry robe.

The whole place is as much about form as function. There's beautiful Moroccan-style tiles on the walls, there's a smell of eucalyptus and rose petals in the steam.

This was Bridget's maiden voyage into public bathing, and we were given an English-language version of the house rules, which hadn't existed upon my last visit. Among the best: "no changing of intimacy, such as kissing or huging in the hammam" (sic). As this hammam is coed, I imagine they're trying to keep the place from degenerating into some kind of crazed exfoliating orgy, which I appreciate.

Yes, coed public bathing. In and of itself, not a bad thing, but it takes some getting used to. Swiss men of all ages, some attractive and many not, sallying about wrapped in tablecloth-like sheets. Luckily, there's a section of the bath for Frauen only, so we did our scrubbing in relative privacy.

They also provide a lovely argan oil soap, which prevents sensitive-skinned types like we Mohans from leaving the place looking like a couple of dried-up husks.

The whole experience at the Swiss hammam is capped by a large lounging area, where you are given water and mint tea. It was all we could do not to settle down for a nice nap, after getting close to light-headed in the steam.

A lovely way to spend a rainy day, and a pretty solid use for 38 CHF.

I don't know why there aren't any proper hammams in New York. Don't we have everything in New York? In lieu of going back to Morocco, I'll probably pop into those Russian & Turkish Baths one of these days and see if getting whipped by oily oak leaves is a sufficient compromise.

Next halte: Zuerich Hauptbahnhof.

Hooray for lovely weather!

After a few rain showers this morning, Bridget and I headed into Zuerich under sunny skies. We brought the Crumb Patrol aka Carson (the wee dog who doesn't understand fetch) with us.

Bridget decided to brave the 1000 degree temperatures of Mango to shop for clothes that fit people with no waist, so Carson and I went out among our Swiss friends to enjoy the spring day and take some photos.

Here is Carson in his conveyance of choice (namely, the kind that keeps him from literally peeing on, like, Cartier):



Carson and I picked up several chicks while on our little ramble. None were between the ages of 10 and 60, but we're not picky. He's a pretty popular guy.

Anyway, here's a fountain outside of the English bookshop.


And a nice view of the Grossmunster:

A giant game of chess, which had a fairly animated audience:

A too-sunny shot of St. Peter's (which has the largest clock face in Europe) and the Hotel Zum Storchen from accross the Limmat. Both places are featured in John Iriving's newest book, Until I Find You (which I just finished).

This is a picture of a fountain outside the Hauptbahnhof, and a passing tram (I was playing with shutter speed. Hooray!).

Um... an older, larger Maebee Funke sells bananas at the Hauptbahnhof farmer's market.

Hop Hop Hop! Die Anders sind Flop! ...And all that jazz.

That would be the nonsense cheer of FC Zuerich, graciously taught to me by my now-17-year-old sister, Hayley (breathing into paper bag). Hayley is currently stealing the show as Matron Mamma Morton in Chicago at her school (hence the rest of the title... you might say I have a rather weird amalgam of things stuck in my head at the moment).

I arrived home on Saturday morning, after a rather short (yet bumpy) flight from Geneva. I was in the very last row. There was a man with his upright bass strapped into a seat in front of me, which was funny. The flight attendants suggested that he consider taking up the harmonica. Oh, those French Swiss! Such humor!

Today, after getting a grip on my jet lag, I had grand plans of going out and wandering the city a little with Bridget, who's also on vacation, but it rained like the dickens all day, making it very difficult to get motivated to do anything. So today I played with the puppy, made some cookies (with grams and celsius... it's like being on Mars!), and watched most of the UEFA FC Barcelona v. Chelsea match, which I've already seen (but the Eurosport version is ever so much better... and I saw the first half before Lionel Messi got hurt... sweet).

Anyway, for your viewing pleasure, some photos taken from the relative safety of the terrace:


This is a view of the village of Adliswil.

The traditional Swiss mudpit, located next to our house.

The chocolate chip cookies that made my day semi-productive (aside from the UEFA rerun, that is).

And finally, observe Carson (the family Chihuahua) play fetch, as only Carson can:

Sometimes I write things.

March was a pretty busy issue for me with two, two, two stories in the book.

Look, ma! I pitched 'em myself!

Once again, I'm going to give you the print headlines, which are much better than the searchable Web ones:

IT on the Small Screen

When Wells Run Dry

Aw.

Just received this lovely team portrait of the Saturday soccer crew at the gym on beautiful Roosevelt Island. This was taken just after our mini-tournament (I was on the winning team, owing to coming in as a sub for a hurt striker), and before the bar.

Yeahr but no but yeahr but no but shut up!

Things that must be accomplished before I leave for Switzerland:

1. Worky things.
2. Outfitting a couple of Romaniacs in Castle Greyskull gear.
3. Teaching abovementioned Romaniacs how to use silverware again.
4. More worky things
5. Find birthday present for soon-to-be-17 sister (umm... who's got ideas? a pony? what do the kids like these days?)
6. Become comfortable with the fact that my "baby" sister is going to be 17 (hand me a bag to breathe into, mmkay?)
7. Send really big fruit basket to Theo Epstein (though would rather send myself cleverly hidden in a really big cake). Wily Mo Pena! Sorry Bronson. You've got a special place in our hearts, in spite of the music career. Good luck with the high-kickin' out there in Cincinnati.
8. Pack. Pray that the suitcase doesn't go to the Ukraine.

Things that may keep me from accomplishing these goals:
1. Little Britain on the DVR.

Oh! Unlucky!

There's no rest for the wicked [awesome], Greyskull fans. Your favorite squad (or, "side") began the outdoor season today against a team called "Working Poor."

We were assigned orange jerseys, so these guys showed up to cheer us on.

It was our first game together outdoors, and it was witch-tit cold up on the dark side of the moon (ahem, 'scuse me... at CCNY). We had some good runs up the field (which was an almost incomprehensibly enormous space after Baruch's little auxiliary gym), and a few solid attempts on goal, but we ended up losing the match, 4-0. It should be noted, however, that we did not lose 11-1, as we did in our first indoor game. We're setting ourselves up as comeback kids, just not in quite the same spectacular fashion.

It should also be noted that, at one point in the match, it was actually snowing. Such that Carrie, one of the newest additions to the roster, screamed out (in the middle of play) "Wait, are you serious? It's snowing!" Ms. Carrie is from Hot-lanta, where it is one million degrees half the year and there's Coke running through the streets.

Both Carrie and Hamish (another new member of the team) got our season started right with the shedding of blood on the field of battle. Well done, kids!

It was a difficult start, but not insurmountable. I hope the weather improves for the next match. Much of the fun is subtracted from the equation when your fingers are blue and your nose is running uncontrollably.

As a rather ironic finish to the day, Hamish spotted a few members of "Working Poor" leaving the field in a Lexus.

AP photo from cnnsi.com

kittykittykittykittykittykitty...touch it!

This is The Great Catsby. She belongs to Will (stole the photo from him... thanks Will!). Isn't she cute?
She's come to stay at ours (which may be called a legitimate cattery at this point...oy) while Will and his housemates are out of the apartment for a few days. She is very young (under a year), and doesn't really know how to interract with other cats. So, she gets defensive and she growls. It's all pretty normal for introducing a new feline to the established "pride."

The rub: growling makes her barf. Yeah, it causes some kind of tickle in her throat, so she's growling and sounding grouchy and then she's heaving. It's gross.

She's super cute, though. Here's hoping she settles down and starts playing with them. Obie (the peacemaker) brought a ball out for her this morning and everything.

Do you get the smell of porter?

Well, it's St. Paddy's Day. Have any ginger-haired guys from Jersey named McMurphy insist that you kiss him? If he does, you kick him instead.

Americans associate this day with Irishness, when really we invented the whole thing. Though I have to hand it to the people in the mother land—live on, Kathleen ni Houlihan!—they really know how to capitalize on our imaginations. Roar on, Celtic Tiger.

All grousing about the boozy disaster that is the American St. Patrick's Day aside, I will quite possibly drink a little Guinness today, maybe make some soda bread. I even wore a green sweater. I will not demand that you kiss me for being half Irish. I will, however, do two things. First, I'll remind you of what being Irish is all about (this was culled from a mass email I wrote to my nearest and dearest on this day last year... before I had a blog):

1. Despair
2. Humor in the face of despair
3. Drinking to ease despair.
4. Writing about despair to show that you've found beauty in despair-ridden life.
5. Drinking some more.

Second, I'll post the following poem by Flann O'Brien, one of my favorite Irish writers (indeed, one of my favorite writers period):

The Workman's Friend

When things go wrong and will not come right,
Though you do the best you can,
When life looks black as the hour of night -
A PINT OF PLAIN IS YOUR ONLY MAN.

When money's tight and hard to get
And your horse has also ran,
When all you have is a heap of debt -
A PINT OF PLAIN IS YOUR ONLY MAN.

When health is bad and your heart feels strange,
And your face is pale and wan,
When doctors say you need a change,
A PINT OF PLAIN IS YOUR ONLY MAN.

When food is scarce and your larder bare
And no rashers grease your pan,
When hunger grows as your meals are rare -
A PINT OF PLAIN IS YOUR ONLY MAN.

In time of trouble and lousey strife,
You have still got a darlint plan
You still can turn to a brighter life -
A PINT OF PLAIN IS YOUR ONLY MAN.

from Hellshaw.

So, my friends, hoist your pint of plain today to the most prolific island in the English-speaking world (it's made with poverty and despair, so it tastes like poverty and despair). And don't fear. I'll be coming at you with some Joyceana come Bloomsday.

photo of Dublin's Ha'Penny Bridge from travelireland.com

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Or, as Ian just called it, St. Drinky McNosnakes' Day.

I'm going to whet our appetites, as it were, with some Guinness. Namely, this pretty kickass Guinness ad. It's not my favorite Guinness ad (I can't seem to find that one anywhere), and it sorta ends weirdly (and Brokeback-y), but anyway. Enjoy.

It's wery funny this vay.

I'm going to have to rename this blog "things I look up for Claire during my lunch hour."

Veritas is a latin word meaning truth, and is predictably, rather popular among the motto-writing set. Observe:

• Veritas ("Truth"), the motto of Harvard University
• Lux et veritas ("Light and truth"), the motto of Yale University
• Lux et veritas floreant ("Let light and truth flourish"), the motto of the University of Winnipeg
• Veritas lux mea ("The truth enlightens me"), the motto of Seoul National University
• Veritas liberabit vos ("The truth liberates you"), the motto of Canterbury Christ Church University
• Fortis est veritas ("Truth is strong"), the motto of the town of Oxford, England
• In vino veritas ("In wine, truth"), a phrase meaning that wine loosens the tongue

The amusing thing about veritas, and indeed, all Latin words beginning with v, is that "v" is pronounced like a "w," thus making many Latin phrases a little bit funny. Kind of like the time when the Swiss train ticket agent told me my pass would be "walid" for a year (don't get me wrong, his English was loads better than my German).

And while I think Claire, when thinking of a phrase "In ____ veritas" was just thinking of "In vino veritas" (so true! am I right? who's with me?), you could really go wild with the structure.

• In via veritas. ("In the road, truth")
• In villa veritas. ("In country house, truth" - if you've been to the Hamptons, which I haven't, I imagine you could confirm or deny that)
• In viro veritas. ("In man, truth")
• In vulpa veritas. ("In fox, truth")

See, Latin is fun! I'm sure I'm effing up the declensions and whatnot.

Wind me up 'til I'm winded.

So, as resident research maven (in my apartment, that is), I've been given the task of determining whether or not we're having a banner year for wind. Claire feels that it's been especially windy this year. And while it does seem like there's that runaway train sound outside the window fairly often, I'm not ready to rubber-stamp this year into the record book. Mostly because I can't store lifetime weather info in my brain unless it has to do with snow or heat waves.

So, I hit up wikipedia and the National Weather Service. And while I have yet to come up with a wind record for New York City, I have learned a few things that might be of interest (to big dorks like me). But first, this video of Al Roker fighting the high winds of Hurricane Wilma:


Oh, that Al Roker. He lost a bunch of weight and then just blew away...

Anyway. Wind. First of all, if you read this word a lot, it will lose all meaning. Also you will forget that it has another meaning and pronunciation, such as "I have to wind my watch" (and sentences like that will look really funny).

Accuweather says that our wind highs in the region are in the 20-30 mph range for the next 24 hours, but the regional average is 15-20.

Wikipedia has much sexier wind information, I must say. First of all, the Beaufort Scale. Created by an Irishman in 1806, it's the manner in which we measure winds for nautical purposes. Wikipedia's chart has helpful descriptions of what each level of wind does on land and see. A "gentle breeze," for example, creates "wavelets" at sea and "leaves and small twigs are in constant motion" on land. Gale force winds break twigs (poor twigs!) and cause cars to veer on the road (yeah, that's scary).

I'd say the wind of late is a 6 on the Beaufort Scale. A "strong breeze," if you will.

But, the major influence on global winds is the differential heating of the poles and the equator and the spin of the Earth. So, it's entirely possible that our winds are changing due to global warming. I'm willing to blame everything on global warming (and our idiot president for not signing the Kyoto Accords), including, but not limited to, my current struggle with dry skin.

The other sexy things the Wikipedia has to say about wind are all the many names and effects of winds around the world. The Santa Ana in California, the foehn in Switzerland (I like that one, it makes the Alps visible from Zuerich... the foehn is also "popularly associated with ailments ranging from migraines to psychosis"). I also enjoy the information on Aeolian winds, which cause geographic transformations. Remember Aeolus giving Odysseus the bag of winds in The Odyssey? And then the foolish sailors opened the bag while he was asleep and they were lost at sea yet again?

Now, who else is all wound up about wind? Just me?

Proof of life, audio edition.

You saw the picture. You read the tales of woe.

It seems that the Mission to Romania is going swimmingly (at least as far as collecting story material for the bar is concerned). Lost belongings, wet feet. I can hardly wait until a poor defenseless Renault and a couple of bears (not to mention Dracula) are added to the mix.

Yesterday, I had the pleasure of receiving two (2) voicemail messages from our intrepid travelers, neither of which they knew they were leaving. So, they were really more like recordings of four heartily boozing (I can only assume) voices and a bunch of ambient Eastern European noise... it was like being a fly on some Romanian public house's wall.

I have been told that there is some way to post said messages here, but until I figure that out (don't hold your breath... I only just summoned the tiny amount of patience needed to set up my new Douchetooth earpiece), I'm going to just transcribe my favorite bits of the messages from memory.

Gilhouse: There's no ring. I'm not hearing a ring.
Josh: Remember when *garble* was in *garble* and we called? It was like boop boop! boop boop!

*garble noise of Romanian bears roaring in the background...garble*

Josh: boop boop! boop boop!
Someone (Seth?): It says it has reception.
Gilhouse: Yeah I'm not hearing anything. Mohan. Sheena? Hello?
Toby: *garble garble*
Josh: Why do you hate everyone?
Gilhouse: What did we dial. It's Plus 1, [redacting my phone number... stalkers!]. It's supposed to be beep beep!

*sound of phone being passed around*

Seth: Hello? Hellooooo?
-click-

Needless to say, this little gem made my day. Mostly because I did not receive it at 3am (when it was allegedly recorded... though I'm not entirely sure how that would have worked...). If all you denizens of the Interweb are very lucky, I'll have more to report should those fearless gentlemen decide to call from a real Carpathian kitten ranch, or from within a bear's stomach, or from the bottom of the Black Sea.

What condition our condition was in.

Finally, finally I got Hello to behave and here, in no particular order, are some photos from one of the many events during Claire's Week-Long Birthday Extravaganza.

Buckets o' Rocks were consumed, be-cummerbunded barkeeps were befriended (say that five times fast), gutterballs were rolled. It was just another wild night down at Melody Lanes.

Here is Chris en route to a spare (after the strong start of sliding headfirst halfway down the lane). In our second game, he broke 150. Bravo Mr. Chris!

Larissa observes the competition.

Carrie is in the witness protection program, and therefore must hide her face behind a bowling ball.

Muscles Mensa MacGyver takes us to the gun show.

Claire, Chris, and the Ghost of Christmas Past, apparently. The alley's disco ball really did something special to the lighting in these pictures.

Ian expresses his distaste for Seth and I copying his signature brown sweatshirt. Don't fuck with the Ian.

He really started a fashion trend, that Ian.

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Just like Mighty Ducks. Without the winning.

As Claire has noted in her weekend roundup, our little season forecast came true. Castle Greyskull FC faced the dreaded PPSH (or, as Owen likes to call them: Pipishes) in the final.

But soft! Sheena, do you mean to say that Greyskull defeated Footlocker, one of the top teams in the league in a semi-final match? Why yes, yes I do. You may remember that they forfeited to us a few weeks ago, rather than brave a couple inches of snow. So, we'd never actually played them, so we were pretty keyed up. I'm pleased to report that the Greyskull schooled Footlocker and won, 5-3. We marked them tightly and prevented many turns. It was a thrilling and nerve-wracking match, overall. Mike continues to have a preternatural ability to find the spaces (or to predict where spaces will appear) and get great shots off, or pass the ball for some truly brilliant assists. Will scored two beautiful goals.

After about 5 minutes' rest, we regrouped and played the Greyskull nemesis, Pipishes, a.k.a the yellow team for the championship. We held the lead at 1-0 for the whole first half. It was a hard, frantic fight. Then, Owen badly rolled his ankle and had to be attended by some paramedics. He was down and out. We were shaken, and we let our lead slip. But, they didn't trounce us (the final score was 3-1), tried as they did to run circles around us as they did in our first game. It was hard to kiss the made-for-Hollywood plotline goodbye along with the championship and nice shiny trophies.

Didn't feel like a loss, though. We had loads of fun this season. There were thrills, spills, trips to the ER (that wasn't so much fun, but Nora's on the mend, last we heard), hearty tackles of opposing players, season-long unwashed jerseys, and many laughs had by all. We got some pretty sweet bruises, cuts, what-have-yous.

Owen reported yesterday that the ankle is feeling pretty ok. He said he's stored painkillers up for just such an occasion, and it seems like he's going to give the ankle a good rest this week. All of us are pulling for his speedy recovery and return to the pitch with the spring incarnation of Greyskull.

My personal best whalloping came yesterday, when Young Maradona (you may remember his work) took a shot from about a foot away (from me, not the goal), and totally clobbered my thigh. Blogger's misbehaving, and I can't seem to add the close-up of the soccer-ball imprint on my leg, but you can sort of see it here:

It occurs to me that, after posting photos of my hand a few weeks ago, I'm well on my way to establishing a little niche bruise fetish blog. Not my intent. Though, I suppose I would consider having my various and sundry bruises photographed for a price.

Nor am I whining (my parents are fond of checking the blog and later telling me to "suck it up" or "walk it off"). Nay. I am presenting my war wounds. If I can't score a bunch of goals in the game, I might as well show off how I may have prevented some.

Anyway, it was a great season, and I'm excited to keep playing with these kids (in addition to the pack o' newcomers).

Also, I'm a Viking.

It's spring, the air is warm, the trees are gilt with sunshine, and the Castle Grey Skull F.C. is getting ready to take the party outdoors. I have taken up the mantle of team organizer. This is as glamorous as it sounds, and involves mass emails and keeping a ledger and whatnot. I have various and sundry responsibilities, including making sure my teammates do not urinate in public.

Upon registering with Metrosoccer, I had to put my name down as "team captain," which weirds me out. I mean, I was the president of my drama club in high school... I'm pretty sure I'll be identified as a fraud. Fortunately, Marty (whose good work as keeper in the indoor season I've been raving about for weeks) will remain our athletic and spiritual leader. Which makes me the clerk (I know how do to that).

I briefly became very excited, because I thought I could begin referring to myself as the Team Beadle. I love that word. But, as it turns out, beadle doesn't mean what I thought it did (I thought it was another word for clerk... ). It's more religious than clerical. More like a deacon than a secretary. Oh well.

You still can't pee in public, Grey Skulls. I'm looking at you, Claire.

Oh, and welcome to the newbies.


image from philaprintshop.com

You look like a monkey and you smell like one too!

It's Claire's birthday! Three cheers for Claire! Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!

In honor of the day, I'd like to share a story:

Once upon a time, when we were in freshman year of college, and Claire's and my relationship as cohabitants was in its infancy, I was hard at workon a paper while Claire, who was apparently not taking any writing-intensive courses, did fuck all in our room. Her Vassar-issue bed was covered in laundry and other detritus while mine was pristine (as always). There I sat, typing away.

Claire yawned, stretched, and sauntered over to my side of the room.

Claire: "Sheena, my bed is all covered with shit. Can I take a nap on your bed?"
Sheena: (tap tap tap tap) "No. Are you serious? Fuck off."
"Aw, c'mon. You're so mean to me."
"I'm working on a goddamn paper."
"Hmph. FINE." Claire proceeds to brush the aforementioned crap onto the floor. She stretches out on her bed, cuddles Gunter, her teddy bear, and wheezingly falls asleep. Like all good sentinels and college students, she reaches R.E.M. sleep at a moment's notice. I continue working. Fretting, typing, reading, consulting the MLA.

Roughly 45 minutes later, Ms. Golden's eyelids flutter. She yawns and smacks her lips in the self-satisfied manner of the fully rested.

"Oh, what a nice nap. (*yawn* smack smack smack) Jealous?"

And yet, somehow, we have remained friends lo these 6 years. Though, if you've met Claire, you know that it's not a complete mystery. Aside from being one of the kindest (nap story notwithstanding) and generous people I know, she's an accomplished cat-whisperer, dutiful sous-chef, fearless striker and kleptomaniac, talented musician and yodeler. If I were in a duel, she'd be my second. Without her, it's unlikely I'd be able to wax philosophical about Footballers' Wives on the subway, or dance and sing such smash hits as James's "Laid" in public.

Happy Birthday, Jerkface! Kisses! 

Oh man. I want it. (via BoingBoing)

Bit o' this, bit o' that.

Change is a little scary, but I've finally gotten around to fixing up the old sidebar. Will has had a new blog title for ages, several months' worth of things I've written have gone unfiled, and the blogroll has become musty. The template could still use some futzing (that sidebar text gets awful tiny), but this'll do for now. It's a war of attrition, really. The minute I fix one thing, something else annoys me.

Note the addition of Ms. Cupcake, Caroline, and separate categories for sports.

I've also finally updated the the list of my oeuvre. It's all very exciting.

Castle Grey Skull F.C.: Masters of the Universe.

Exciting news from the world of the Grey Skull. We won our elimination playoff game, which will send us to the semi-final next week.

We faced Bleu Cheese in the elimination match. They're a solid team with a couple of fast attackers, and all in all a really fun team to play against. They're good-natured and non-violent, which is always a plus. There aren't as many wince-inducing hard shots to nowhere as there have been with some of the other teams.

But we managed to come out on top, 4-1. This was by virtue of what I must acknowledge as some truly brilliant passing and teamwork. I was most impressed with us. I was also impressed with myself for not freaking out because it was a so-called important game (facing elimination, that is).

A few game highlights included Mike's many, many shots on goal that were just a tad unlucky. He kept their defense nervous for the entire second half. We also managed to sustain many "junk balls" during the game, which was, you know, not so fun. Marty was, yet again, stellar in goal. We all marked quite well, I thought, even though some of their players had some formidable speed and ball control. We kept the field wide and found the spaces.

I lacked the presence of mind to force Josh to take some photos, but rest assured I was wearing a She-Ra headdress whilst taking the occasional "junk ball" (or lady equivalent) and marking their best player as if I could really keep up with him.

Many thanks to the folks who turned out to support us. It was a great match.

After our match, we got to see the Nora-nemeses Purple Haze play against Just in Time.

Now there was an intense match. The two teams, not unlike Grey Skull and Bleu Cheese, were pretty well matched. And they both REALLY wanted to make it to the semi finals. I'm wondering if someone had money riding on that game. Anyway, things got so heated over a direct kick (I think it was direct... someone correct me if I'm wrong), that there was shoving, and manly posturing (that thing where dudes stand chest-to-chest and stare deeply into each other's eyes... I believe this is some kind of psychological warfare, right?). This forced the tiny (and spunky) Ukrainian referee to yellow-card a few of the main offenders. As the fracas progressed, he took his red card out of his pocket and held it at the ready, rather like a gunslinger. He eventually yelled them into submission and the game progressed. Just in Time came out victorious, which made we Grey Skulls happy.... it's karma for last week's game.

Next week, we go to the semis against the number one team, whom we have not faced (they forfeited on the day of the "blizzard"). I'm a bit nervous, but more sad to be facing the end of the season. Fingers crossed that we can find a slot in an outdoor league.

image from mvcreations.com. Thanks!

The devil you drink; sput and dervish, sputnik denial.

It was a great and somewhat beer-y weekend.

Friday night, we branched out a little and hit up Spuyten Duyvil in Williamsburg for some rare/fancy beer. Pilsners, outmeal stouts, kolsches, and barleywines were consumed. Yum.

Here is Seth enjoying what appears to be the Dogfish Head Midas Touch Golden Elixir. It was quite tasty and served in a wine glass. It was also quite potent.

Here's Claire, pre-Midas Touch, and Andy, pre-pickle plate.

Andy and Josh in the king's chair.

The only complaint about the bar would be the sub-zero temperatures in the loos. This unpleasantness is slightly made up by the chalkboard walls in the bathrooms, but still... how about a space heater, folks?

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Posting that silly video reminded me of home. New Hampshire home, that is.

My grandparents raised sheep for many years and when I was in middle school (or maybe it was sixth grade...), they bought a donkey to help deal with the coyote problem (four eviscerated sheep in one night). This was fairly novel for the sheep farming people in our area, but it started a small trend, and now everyone who knows what's good for them has a "watchdonkey."

Donkeys are wicked smart, cautious, and they keep the flock around them (they'll even separate out new sheep until they're sure they're cool). They chase away would-be predators, and the only sheep fatalities Half & Half Farm had after getting Paco were ones who got out of his pasture.

Paco, is still around--though retired from the sheep-protecting business--braying like the dickens at all hours of the day and night (he's just happy to be alive, folks... he's got to make a joyful noise.), and spends his days escorting my cousins' ponies around the field.

One of my favorite columns in Slate is called "Heavy Petting," all about people's relationships with animals. Jon Katz, who also writes about his adventures with sheep and Border Collies, recently posted a column about his burgeoning herd of donkeys. Check it out. Be forewarned: there's a ridiculously cute picture of a baby donkey.

I'm an auteur.

Yes. I've discovered YouTube. This will mean more moving pictures of my pets, soccer players, and the Red Sox.

To get everyone in the mood for a weekend involving debauchery and feats of mediocre athleticism, here is a silly video of me playing tug o' war with an overzealous Border Collie named Mick, while another Border Collie (Josie) occasionally gets involved. These, along with the rather prissy, though adorable Chihuahua, comprise the canine members of my family.

Hey, remember Zuerich?

In a few short weeks, I'll be taking a bit of vacation in lovely Switzerland. Huzzah! So, everyone can start getting excited about more posts about Swiss things.

I'll start you off with some photos I took in Janauary. Here are the Alps and Lake Zuerich:

And the city itself as seen from the shore. Pretty, isn't it?

And, because I can't resist, here's a link to some pictures of Swiss medal-winners at the Turin Olympics.

Unrelated to Switzerland, I think we should discuss why this man is wearing a dead beaver on his head.



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"Also because I am huge."

Red Sox Opening Day is just over a month away, and though I have been distracted by soccer of late, I'm still pretty excited for the warmer weather, longer days, and wrenching anxiety of the baseball season.

One of my favorite things about spring training is the gads of photos the Boston Globe and the AP take of the players as they warm up, pitch, take BP, sneeze, etc.

One such gem, from boston.com, is this one of David Ortiz talking to a couple of Sox rookies:

Aren't they so little and cute next to Big Papi?

And, to take up Toby's complaint about stupid-looking uniforms, I saw the USA's WBC jersey for the first time today, as worn by Sox captain Jason Varitek:
The fuck is that? The S-curve of stripes? Really? Must the flag really be bandied about on effing everything? Proud as I am to have the right to shoot first and wiretap later, choose from a billion salad dressings at the grocery store, and eat myself into hypertensive oblivion from the comfort of my own Hummer, I really don't want my baseball team going out there looking like a bunch of Madison Avenue - created nancyboys. Which is, incidentally, what they're going to look like. I mean, we may very well get our butts kicked by "Dominicana," Cuba, and Venezuela... there's no need to take the field having handed your dignity in once you got dressed. Listen. Give me a flag during the game and I'll wave it. I will. I'll tie one to Gus's tail. But there's no need to invoke Old Glory everywhere. There's a patch, you see... right there on the sleeve. The terrorists do not win if you just put "United States" or "USA" in an attractive, simple typeface on a nice white jersey. AND LEAVE IT AT THAT.

Tobs has already given them the business for the stupid hat, so I'll leave my comments to this: It looks as though the Astros had a hat-surplus and the MLB, in an effort to save money, did some "creative" restitching.

Sorry 'Tek. Your uniform sucks. Even the Netherlands' BP jersey is cooler. The Netherlands!

It's just funny that, as the country that invented the sport, we have the feeblest grasp on a good-looking, classic baseball uniform. It would make sense if we had stupid-looking soccer uniforms. Odd that we don't.

Now, it's Red Sox (ridiculously easy) quiz time:

Who knows the origin of the quote that is my headline?
Bonus question: What song do they play at Fenway when he (who spoke those words) comes up to bat?

Yeah... even if you don't care, I'm gonna tell you later!