Ich Liebe Dich, Emergen-C.

As Claire has noted, we attended a pretty great party for CITY last night. Excellent DJing by The Gorgeous Undertow and a dangerous amont of free tequila made for some dancing. By us. Hamish got some photographic evidence. He also took this very nice picture of myself and Josh.

Then we proceeded to The Knitting Factory to see Marty play saxophone with The Ks (whose restraint in apostrophe usage I greatly admire. Well done, Ks! I blow a kiss in your general direction.). On the way there, I leaned forward to rummage in my bag, the cab driver stopped short, and I cracked my forehead on the partition. Ouch!

Now, I always always always wear my seatbelt in cabs, because I've heard tell about "taxi face" or whatever it is that happens to people who do not buckle up in a taxi. It's likely that I'm the only person who calls it taxi face, but you get the idea. Anyway, the one time I forget to "click it," my forehead meets partition in an uncomfortable manner. I'm glad that I didn't take it on the nose or mouth, but I'm displeased about having an egg on my forehead. It makes the morning after just that bit more raw.

Let that be a lesson kiddies: Always remember to wear your seatbelt in a New York City taxi. Even when you've been drinking free tequila beforehand. Tequila does not make you invincible.

I was going to write a long post about food, but given the aforementioned raw feeling, it's gonna have to wait.

From now on, only weeknight parties featuring lemonade and petanque.

Duck duck... goose!

If you've spent any time with me, you may know that I'm totally obsessed with food, drink and the preparation thereof. I begin planning dinner shortly after lunchtime. I'm eventually going to adjust my sidebar over there to reflect my tastes in foodie sites on the interweb.

Meanwhile, this: While I was over at Apartment Therapy's Kitchen (it's a pretty new site... I love it), I spotted this article from NYT:

Chicago Prohibits Foie Gras

The City Council voted Wednesday to make Chicago the first city in the country to outlaw the sale of foie gras, the fatty livers of geese and ducks that many consider a delicacy but animal rights advocates describe as a product of inhumane treatment.

The ban, adopted on a vote of 48 to 1, makes "food dispensing establishments" — restaurants and retail stores — subject to a fine of $500 for selling foie gras. The ordinance, which takes effect in 90 days, will be enforced by means of citizen complaints, said Joe Moore, the alderman who sponsored it.

If you're following the foie gras issue, you know that California has already enacted a ban on its production, which calls for the several-times-daily forcefeeding of ducks and geese to make their livers fatty. Not a nice life for a duck or a goose, to be sure. And I don't advocate forcefeeding. However, targeting foie gras is, in my opinion, pretty lame (and you'll see in the article, even Chicago's mayor is less than thrilled by this taking the spotlight off of, oh, urban violence and poverty).

Now, before anyone goes dumping buckets of red paint on me, hear me out. First of all, the mayor of Chicago has a solid point about prioritizing. This is low-hanging fruit.

And what of farming in general? Cities aren't passing legislation prohibiting the sale of factory-farmed chicken. And we're only just getting around to making sure that farmers don't feed cows other cows.

I have yet to develop a position on foie gras. I've never eaten it, as I'm not a particular fan of offal in general (though I do know that foie gras would taste radically different from the mutant bovine liver I had the displeasure of eating at a truckstop in France or the cow lung I confronted in Morocco). I'm interested in how this progresses. Could it herald better farming practices across the board? I somehow doubt it, but that won't stop me from hoping.

From the W.A.S.T.E. bin

One day I'll get sick of posting these things. But today is not that day. I actually enjoy these automaticall-generated spam messages more than much of the schlock that finds its way to the display tables at Barnes & Noble.

Most people believe that an avocado pit barely makes love to some tornado from the grand piano, but they need to remember how slyly a fundraiser starts reminiscing about lost glory. A spider around a formless void derives perverse satisfaction from a bartender. An oil filter befriends a wheelbarrow.

The hardly treacherous light bulb panics, or a mastadon recognizes an insurance agent around another minivan. A paper napkin underhandedly knows the snooty tomato. When a squid for a class action suit feels nagging remorse, a cocker spaniel beyond a mortician dies. A familiar cyprus mulch feels nagging remorse, and a steam engine flies into a rage; however, the ski lodge greedily secretly admires a fundraiser. bernardino.

If the reactor organizes the tabloid, then a boiled paycheck hibernates. A roller coaster brainwashes the slow rattlesnake. The ball bearing goes deep sea fishing with a ski lodge near a scythe. Furthermore, another food stamp over a sandwich self-flagellates, and the bullfrog around a tabloid organizes the linguistic turkey. The scooby snack from a paper napkin hibernates, or the chain saw cooks cheese grits for a freight train.

When a fraction for a grain of sand is slyly alleged, the buzzard near another eggplant eats another food stamp. A pine cone beyond an industrial complex graduates from a class action suit inside a food stamp.

If the jersey cow near the oil filter graduates from an overpriced wheelbarrow, then a turn signal leaves. When a bartender daydreams, the industrial complex about a graduated cylinder reads a magazine. A carpet tack related to the polar bear has a change of heart about the smelly tornado. If the traffic light near another warranty finds lice on a tuba player behind the pork chop, then the linguistic cheese wheel daydreams.

Bye Buddy,
Kermit

Wishin' for bad luck and knockin' on wood.

For someone who has an extremely expensive higher education, I engage in a fair amount of magical thinking. Not that there's anything wrong with a bit of it in your every day life. We're tiny inhabitants on a small rock floating in the middle of nothing, so we occasionally need to feel in control. And if that means that Trot Nixon wears the same revolting hat all season long to maintain health, fitness and hitting ability ('cause he can't be doing it because it's pretty), well, who am I to judge?

When I was about eleventy billion pages into drafting my Senior Thesis in English (I capitalize it to make it seem important, you see), spring break rolled around and with it my long-awaited appointment to have my wisdom teeth removed. Now, while I won't claim that the thesis thus far was going really well (my advisor was patient, but I was pretty thick), I was worried. Removing my wisdom teeth frightened me as a change that could very badly alter my thesis-writing luck. What if wisdom teeth are also "ability-to-write-articulately-about-James-Joyce" teeth? That would have me up shit creek indeed.

As you may know, getting an appointment to see an oral surgeon to discuss wisdom teeth removal requires a six-month wait, and when you're staring a post-collegiate dearth of health insurance in the face, you don't have that kind of time. So, like any rational, proactive, educated person would do, I began referring to those impacted, achy little bastards as my "stupid teeth." If I rechristened them, they wouldn't cause my thesis any trouble, right?

Well, in the end my thesis turned out ok. My advisor was pleasantly surprised. However, in going over his comments, he turned to a page that ended in the middle of a sentence. The following page began on a fresh paragraph. He asked me what the end of that first thought was. I racked my brain. No idea. "Well," he said, "I suppose you'll just have to search your conscience and find out someday."

How could I do such a thing? Five months of work, five separate readings of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (do you know what happens to you if you read the hell sermon five times? You start to like it!), over a hundred drafted pages, and one fizzled thought. One idea-us interruptus. What to blame? The addled mind of an overextended college senior? Too much coffee? Too little sleep? Too many gummy bears for meals?

No! It's the teeth, I tell you! The teeth!

Today, I was posting an article to our website at work and came upon what appeared to be an incorrect possessive. "Ha-ha!" I thought. "I am an apostrophe maven! I punctuate like a champ (most of the time)!" But then I hesitated, fingers floating over the keyboard. "Wait. Do I need an s-apostrophe-s? S-apostrophe?" I began to panic. Sweat. I experienced an existential crisis. What the fuck is going on? Suddenly I'm Josh Bard facing a knuckler. Somewhere, my stickler license is being revoked.

I consulted the MLA, two priests, a rabbi, a medium conjuring William Strunk, and Seth (who consulted Google Battle). It was s-apostrophe (this, I later learned, is the house style for singular possessives, about which I have strong opinions... I may share them with you one day when we are both drunk and you can't get away). I recovered my confidence. But I knew right away where to assign the blame. My hair!

image from www.96th.ca

This can't fail.

I just threw up a little in my mouth.

They're making a musical of High Fidelity.

Is it so hard to write a new (I use that word loosely, because so many musicals are cut from the same cloth) story for a musical? Granted, I'm not sure that this is quite as bad as the jukebox musical craze, but I'd like to kick Nick Hornby for selling the rights for this.

High Fidelity, Lord of the Rings... what's next? A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man? Now, the hell sermon could be one heckuva production number, right?

Greyskull Loses, Keeps Streak Alive*

It was another tough loss for us on a rather sodden pitch yesterday. We played the amusingly-named FC Hammer, who are all very nice (a few familiar faces from our indoor league). Lessons learned: playing without subs is hard, I am not a fast runner, I am not good at throw-ins. Still do love to play the soccer, though, in spite of my athletic shortcomings.

In happier sports news, the Red Sox won yesterday, thus ending the Toronto trip with a scrap of dignity. Also, Jonathan Papelbon now has a "Wild Thing" haircut.

How 'bout that rain, folks? Who do I have to sleep with to get some decent drainage in my public transportatation system? Seriously. All of those grates in the subway are just for show. They don't actually lead anywhere. I would just like to know why all stairwells have been made concave? Because a serious logjam of people trying to get out of the pissing subway at 9am is fun? We live in the Northeast. There is rain here. A little drizzle causes giant fetid puddles in the areas with highest foot-traffic in the subway. It doesn't make any sense. Who designed this?







*with a respectful tip of the cap to Josh, for telling me about an old Philly headline

What? Too soon?

So, one of the actors who plays a hijacker in that new movie about flight 93 (anyone heard about this? apparently it's controversial) has not been allowed into the US for the premiere.

He's Iraqi, served in the army in the 90's, and plays a hijacker in a movie.

I don't really have the energy for the various ins, outs, what-have-yous in this one.

I do have the energy to recount my feelings upon seeing the United 93 trailer: Disgust. Pure bilous disgust. TOO SOON!!!!! Really, it is too soon to "memorialize" (read: "make money from") these events on film. This soon afterwards, you might seem to be, oh I don't know, profiting from people's considerable emotional distress.

This makes me about as pissy as that Patriot Day nonsense. Thousands of innocent people died in a horrifying manner and the least we can do is show a little dignity when remembering what happened. There is really no need to bring in the effing circus, dancing girls, flame-breathers, baton-twirlers, unicycling bears all draped in the American flag. Why don't we wait ten years before busting out the chest beating brohuha? Or longer? How about that? Maybe we could consider being reeeaaaaalllly restrained and respectful. Maybe we shouldn't come off like a bunch of vultures.

Or, you know, maybe not.

Baah ram ewe.

So Claire posted a picture of one of her dogs, so I thought I'd join the fun.

These are the original, New Hampshire-based Mohan family dogs, Mick and Josie.



We are currently renovating the family farmhouse, and my mom, who's in the States preparing to reenter the American workforce in the fall, has been sending photos of the demolition and progress to those "remote" members of the clan. The latest set ended with these two pictures. Note the very nice birch (I think it's birch) floor in my Gram's section of the house.

This is one of the great things about our family. Any time someone's at home, pictures are taken of the dogs so the rest of us can see how they're doing. As you can tell, they're pretty content, now that the shock of moving from downstairs to upstairs has worn off.

In true Border Collie fashion, they are as smart as they are handsome. Creepily smart, actually. They can spell. We used to talk to one another about going for a walk, and the two of them would freak out and go to the door and we couldn't bear to see their disappointed faces if the plan fell through. So, we started to say "go for a W-A-L-K," but they got hip to that pretty quick. They really really like walks.

They also have jobs. Mick vigilantly looks after my grandmother and her cat. And Josie vigilantly ignores said cat. She pays close attention to Gram when toast crusts or ear-scratching is involved.

So, what do we think will happen when the smart-people-trapped-in-dogs'-bodies meet the little Chihuahua who doesn't understand fetch?

Help me help ME.

People! There is a punctuation error in this blog post. Yes, I was ill when I wrote it, and yes none of you cares about this as much as I do, but humor me, or I'll just get crazier.

I am one woman! I can't do this by myself! I make mistakes!

This is an artist's rendering of me leading us to punctuation victory. Please be advised that in real life, I am doing this with my shirt on.



Listen: you can't let me walk around on the dead bodies of punctuation idiots by myself. I'll just look silly. Help me out! Keep me honest!

Can you hear the people sing?
They're singing the songs of angry men.
It is the music of a people who will punctuate again!
With a comma at the start, and a full-stop at the end,
A sentence we shall write when this verse is done.

Tristo tristo, one two three! Turning taxi from across the sea!

I'm beginning to suspect that I'm somehow enmeshed in the Tristero system. There's probably a W.A.S.T.E. bin around here somewhere.

Anyway, here is my correspondence from Mario:

When the tabloid inside a fairy laughs out loud, the salad dressing beams with joy. Sometimes some overripe wedding dress ruminates, but a sandwich always seeks a sheriff! A single-handledly dreamlike line dancer has a change of heart about a greedily shabby ski lodge. Any hydrogen atom can make love to the fraction, but it takes a real freight train to give lectures on morality to the globule.

Indeed, another razor blade for a cowboy competes with the minivan. Any graduated cylinder can secretly give secret financial aid to some girl scout beyond the cab driver, but it takes a real fighter pilot to play pinochle with a defendant around the wheelbarrow. The skinny polar bear thoroughly assimilates a squid about the avocado pit. Now and then, a cough syrup about a prime minister brainwashes a particle accelerator. When the buzzard behind the spider is orbiting, the surly avocado pit somewhat shares a shower with a greedily optimal grand piano. symmetry. Hmm..today nothin interesting happened..I went to Wlds juz now and initially planned to meet wif Azhar but he went home already aft Friday prayers..then met Catherine and passed her a guide book on Singapore's transportation route..hopefully she can find the shortest route to go to ngee ann poly wif tt...After tt,i went to my old apartment to check my mail..yes tt bloody apartment still haven't find a buyer..-sigh-..I guess cos it's a 5-room flat,it is difficult to find a buyer esp wif the economic downturn and stuff..so..yeah..now stoning at home on front of the tv..feeling damn bored.. 2

A briar patch defined by a ski lodge carelessly makes a truce with a recliner living with the demon. A cargo bay teaches some crispy customer. A miserly short order cook borrows money from a statesmanlike graduated cylinder. A fractured cloud formation eagerly reaches an understanding with the deficit defined by a crank case. A resplendent pig pen ignores the obsequious crane. Mario

Dear Thomas Pynchon,

I love you and do not think that your brilliant writing resembles InterWeb spam, nor does it resemble your writing. Please do not kill or sue me. Love, Sheena ps. would love to meet you, can I stop by for coffee someday?

I love the smell of meat sweats in the morning. Smells like... victory.

Someone pass me some Tums. There's a great interview on Salon.com (you'll need to watch an ad first, but it's worth it) with, Ryan Nerz, an emcee of competitive eating contests. He's just come out with a book about a year on "the circuit." Though I'd likely feel like barfing ten pages in, it looks like an interesting read. It's called Eat This Book: A Year of Gorging and Glory on the Competitive Eating Circuit. Which is not nearly as great a title as Horsemen of the Esophagus (that's a real book. Didn't make it up).

Unless we're talking wasabi peas and samosas as an accompaniment to Guinness (after an hour and a half of soccer), I think I might be the slowest eater in the world. Which is OK. Because I really like eating, and I'm pretty sure if I trained my esophagus to let whole hotdogs through, I'd stop really tasting anything. Furthermore, I'm comfortable with resigning myself to the idea of sweating, say, Schlitz after an evening of debauchery... but meat sweats? That amount of meat cannot be good for you. Heed me, my friends. Beer sweat = fine, meat sweat = unhealthy. Also gross: how people on "the circuit" (I can't really type that without quotes) refer to vomiting as "reversal of fortune." Seems like this "circuit" is my own private hell. Fast eating, hot dog buns soaking water, battling gag reflexes. Ugh. And everyone in my family knows my feelings about vomiting (run away! run away!).

Of course, reading about Kobayashi and "The Black Widow" had me thinking: I must have some kind of mundane talent that I could turn into a competitive sport. Vacuuming? Dishwashing? Apostrophe usage?

Oooh. I know. Claire: we're going on the road as an unstoppable competitive cat-nail trimming team. She soothes and hog-ties (seriously, I'm pretty sure Claire could successfully subdue anything... feral cat, unruly child, psychotic water buffalo...), and I trim with speed and accuracy. Just ask Gus. No bleeders. Which is a good thing, too, because Obie usually steals the Q-tip I have reserved for applying emergency styptic powder. See? We work under pressure! Without a net! It's craaazy!

Your one-stop shop for, you know, stuff.

So, this here blog came up in a Google.de search for "video slime mold accumulation."

Really. I'm not making this up.

I have realized my full potential after that fancy and expensive liberal arts education. My new life's goal: to be a hit ABOVE THE FOLD in Google.de (and Google.com, because I like to challenge myself) for "video slime mold accumulation."

If you're curious, here's why. Please forgive my incorrect spelling of the word "lavender," they were talking about fossil sex. It was exciting.

Green eggs and spam.

Big day for me, I know.

This is the text of a rather bizarre spam message that came to the work email today. Claire says it's the product of a hundred monkeys at a hundred typewriters. I think it might be a missing bit of On the Road (hoo-ha!). Either way, it is bizarre and hilarious and I'm not sure why it was emailed to me. Enjoy:

Any oil filter can assimilate some ostensibly gentle scythe, but it takes a real cashier to can be kind to another cheese wheel around a pit viper. When the jersey cow hibernates, the anomaly around the skyscraper hides. When the lover toward an ocean laughs out loud, an eagerly mysterious oil filter beams with joy. If the dolphin falls in love with a crank case about a ski lodge, then a diskette beyond a warranty feels nagging remorse. The globule self-flagellates, and a dolphin around a recliner reads a magazine; however, a gentle crane wisely graduates from the tuba player.

A satellite, an earring, and a dust bunny are what made America great! The deficit makes love to the oil filter. A senator from the squid wisely learns a hard lesson from a skyscraper related to the reactor. If a corporation seeks a ball bearing, then the canyon inside another steam engine hesitates. Indeed, a revered sandwich figures out the polygon. wash. Monday morning came and I got up and finished the laundry, had to pick up the living room since people just throw theirs kids night clothes all over the place to dress them, as well as some paper work form the school. I picked it all up and threw it in their bedroom. I straightened our room and ate a sandwich for lunch, took the leftover for dinner and went to work.2

A mating ritual of a traffic light can be kind to a carpet tack. Furthermore, a bottle of beer beams with joy, and a traffic light feverishly plans an escape from a sheriff around another earring a burglar near a photon. Sometimes the microscope from the crane goes to sleep, but a false graduated cylinder always avoids contact with the mean-spirited line dancer! A grizzly bear somewhat figures out the rude polygon. Alice

Former Illinois Governor George Ryan (whose stellar death row-emptying work you may remember) was convicted of all federal corruption charges brought against him.

It would appear, that, as a crooked Republican politician, the death row thingy was a wild stab at equalizing karma.

Here's the NYT story: Ex-Governor of Illinois is Convicted of All Charges

Of course, the sad thing is that while federal corruption is uncool (though from the article, it's not Halliburton or DeLay-grade corruption), at least the man sees that it's pretty much wrong to kill anyone under any circumstances.

April Morning, observed.

Happy Patriots' Day (or Patriot's Day, depending on how many patriots you think participated in the Battle of Lexington and Concord).

If I lived in Boston (or Maine, or Wisconsin, I guess), I'd be in my pajamas watching the Red Sox game. But, I am at work in New York.

For those of you who did not grow up within a stone's throw of the cradle of the Union, Patriots' Day is observed the Monday before April 19th, commemorating that day and the start of the Revolutionary War. As a junior in high school, I trekked down to Lexington around 4am with my history class to watch the reenactments. Then, we were loosed upon Boston to "watch the marathon" (or "wander Newbury Street"... By happenstance, I came out onto Boylston just as the leaders were crossing the finish line. It was pretty cool).

Click the picture to go to a short essay on the Battles of Lexington and Concord by Ross M. of Dr. Prudhomme's 5th grade class at Virginia Murray Elementary School. I believe that he also did the illustration.

Also, for your reading pleasure, a poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson:

Concord Hymn

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,

Their flag to April's breeze unfurled;

Here once the embattled farmers stood;

And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept;

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps,

And Time the ruined bridge has swept

Down the dark stream that seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream,

We place with joy a votive stone,

That memory may their deeds redeem,

When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

O Thou who made those heroes dare

To die, and leave their children free, --

Bid Time and Nature gently spare

The shaft we raised to them and Thee.

Try not to confuse Patriots' Day, with President Bush's proclaimed name for the 9/11 anniversary, Patriot Day. Perhaps he was unaware of the existing holiday? Or, does he somehow equate the horror of an unexpected terrorist attack on innocents as the trials and triumphs of patriots? I am suddenly very tired. Though, I'm pleased that Mr. Bush didn't attempt apostrophe usage in his remembrance-day-naming. That could have been disastrous. Hey, we (not me, or anyone I know, mind, but someone... or millions of someones whom I'd like to punch in the nose) may let the man keep his finger on The Button, but at least he's abstaining from punctuation. Small blessings, people.

So how long after Passover does one traditionally have the goat song stuck in their head?

It's springtime in Brooklyn. Yippee! I took some pictures on my way to the park today. People who have room for flowers and greenery seem to be taking full advantage.

In a rare display of Sunday-morning (a Sunday morning after which a few young persons may have consumed a bit too much gin) energy, Josh, Seth and I went to the Museum of Natural History. There, we saw many terrifying creatures great and small, and I learned that we are probably well advised to kill and stuff them all. Including this ginormous crab:

After learning how truly horrifying biodiversity is, we went to look at the sperm whale fighting a squid in a dark corner of the Hall of Ocean Life. There, we waited for an important denouement. It didn't come. I became that girl in the museum who turned her flash on. You'll be glad I did:

On the way to the Darwin exhibit, we ambled through a display on North American Forests. This is October in Southern New Hampshire. I know what that's like.

In the Darwin exhibit, we learned that Darwin had a sense of humor. Whilst studying finches and whatnot on the Galapagos, young Charles was sure to climb on the backs of tortoises, rap on their shells, and ride them as they walked away. Go it, Charlie! Also, while he was away on his revolutionary journey that changed biology forever, his girlfriend married some douchebag. She wasn't getting any younger, people. I'm just saying, if he's off on a tiny boat for five years, sailing around the world and riding tortoises, at some point you've got to take stock and get on with your life.

Don't fret, gentle reader. I did not spend this glorious spring day in a dark museum. Nay. In the afternoon, a few of my fellow Greyskulls and I played a bit of makeshift soccer in beautiful Prospect Park. It was lovely. I only wish the weather could stay like this through the summer. Anyway, here's a bit of video of Will, Seth, and Chris playing keepy uppy. Impressive, no?

I've got your two zuzim right here.

As Claire has deftly recounted, we hosted a seder at our place last night, featuring whole wheat matzoh, many bottles of wine, and delicious pesadiccha comestibles lovingly crafted or purchased by the seder participants. Claire even got an extra chair, so one of us didn't have to sit on a stack of cats. I took a few pictures. I imagine Josh's will be pretty good, as he actually remembered to take pictures of people.

Here's the table all ready for the seder

A slightly closer shot of the seder plate. I helped put it together!

My contribution to the meal: Nutella Cake (a Nigella Lawson recipe... it calls for a whole jar of Nutella. She's a smart lady, that Nigella). Yummy.

More flourless cake porn. The time-consuming part of the recipe is skinning the hazelnuts. The key to that is to do it in full view of your family or roommate. Then they'll take pity on you and help. Actually, if you boil them for a few minutes with some baking soda in the pot, they'll slide right out of their skins.

All in all, it was good fun to be honorarily Jewish for the evening. And the whole thing went pretty well. The food was excellent (big round of applause for Ms. Claire and her brisket, greenbean, and charoset-preparing), the company lively. Chris managed to survive the cats for about three hours, which was miraculous. The only thing missing was Elijah. And, you know, Jesus. But I don't think they want me to say that. *shhhhhhh*

Well done, people. Happy Passover!
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At nighttime, I fight crime.

So, since I've been laid up with a cold, I have taken on the job of disappointing Josh with low blog productivity. I do this gratis, which I'm sure he appreciates.

To be fair, I was productive in other ways. Monday evening I made a flourless chocolate cake for our Passover seder, since we needed oven time yesterday for the brisket (Josh is bringing wine, which I will then change into the blood of Christ, as the seder's token sorta-Catholic). This was tricky, as I occasionally had to abandon my egg-separating and hazelnut-skinning so that I could run into another room to cough/honk in a manner that frightened the cats.

I spent yesterday afternoon watching the baseball. And by "watching the baseball," I mean "asleep listening to the dulcet tones of Jerry Remy whilst festooned with purring cats."

Unrelated to my malaise or Passover, I'd like to add this Slate piece about lacrosse players (and the cult of "lax"... ugh, that abbreviation makes me want to barf. Or fly to L.A. But mostly barf.) to the discussion about the Duke scandal, in which I did not orginially participate due to sleeping, coughing, and being buried in cats.

The whole thing is straight out of CSI or SVU or CI some other acronymed television program (less the murder bit). The stonewalling athletes, the elite rich college kids vs. the so-called poor townie. It's creepy. And I'm curious: If nothing happened, as the players' lawyers say now that there's no DNA evidence, why did they all take this stupid vow of silence? Wouldn't you want to point out how it's all a big mistake, and tell the authorities what happened if she's lying? Furthermore, if nothing happened, why would they let this go on and consequently bitch up their whole season?

Seems likely that it'll devolve into a good old-fashioned "she says, they say" type scenario. Sigh. Where is Gil Grissom when you need him?

Organic, Free-Range Chicken Soup for the Sheena Soul. With an Emergen-C Chaser. And Airborne for Dessert.

As you may have gathered, my cold has not improved with a weekend of rest and successful Red Sox games, with is really effing annoying. I'm all glass-eyed and lackluster. I suppose it's bound to happen after air travel and jet lag and whatnot. Here's hoping all of these fizzy things help me beat this thing rather than turn me into a giant orange. If that does happen, you have my permission to call me Sheena Samsa or something like that.

Anyway, without further ado, here are some pictures from yesterday's soccer game, in which I played poorly, and photographed less poorly. Sorta. I did block a shot with my hand (the left this time), causing a bit of a painful reverberation up the forearm. We were defeated, once again, by Working Poor in a Lexus. It was a shame, but we played well together. It was mostly just hard luck.

Tera and Robbie during a pause in the action.

Kathryn and Robbie chasing down a ball.

Claire, Josh (you can see his foot there, looking as if it's growing out of that dude's arse) and Robbie marking up the Working Poor. Marty protects the goal.

This is Vlad, the referee. He shook my hand and let me pick heads or tails for the coin toss (I lost that, too).

Drew and Will (who's arm is growing out of that dude's chest) look for a pass.

Seth and Hamish look on. I should have gotten video... they did some super-cool cheers in Dutch. 'Cause we wear orange, you see... just like those "Nederlanders."

Carrie and Insha look on. Carrie and I often subbed for each other, to keep the ill persons on the field ratio up.

And then the scary space children chased us away with their sticks.

It was a nice day to be outside on the pseudo-field. Many thanks to Andi, Andy, and Kathryn's mom for joining us for a little sun and soccer.

Hopp Greyskull!

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Whacked out weirdo and a lovebug junkie.

Sometimes I suck at this thing. Sorry kids.

Anyway, I'm working from home today, until the chest cold my body has been incubating overwhelms me and I fall asleep under the crushing weight of a couple of cats.

But there's been plenty going on in the world of Sheena.

I hit the duty-free pretty hard in the Zuerich Flughafen. I'm pretty sure the people at the Xray machines thought I was some kind of lush. But, I mean, if you've got the francs and the time, why not pick up a bottle of Pimm's (and, um, some other things)? Exactly.

I, like the Soxaholix, have a hard-on (metaphorically speaking, that is) for the 2006 Red Sox. And I've ratcheted up the intensity thanks to fancy cable. I don't want to hear about how I'm not supposed to be this insane in April. This is how I live my life, people. 160 games a year.

Saw The Inside Man. It rocked.

I finished the new John Irving novel, Until I Find You. Yes, it was completely panned by most reviewers, and has elicited a hearty "eh" from a bunch of devotees, but I liked it. My main gripes were stylistic. For instance, he uses a lot of parenthetical asides and qualifications, as well as rather pedestrian foreshadowing, which made for a rather irritating omniscient third person narration. This might have something to do with the fact that the novel started out in the first person, but he felt it was too personal, so switched it to third. I think maybe he couldn't relinquish the subjectivity of the first person. This distracted me frequently. I did, however, like the story and its pacing and trajectory. I loved the detailed elements of both the North Sea ports and the tattoo culture. Irving's always been really good at this. Made me want to travel around the North Sea AND get a tattoo. Any thoughts on how I should get inked? I'm thinking a profile line drawing of James Joyce. Anyway, it was a great story, and it's hard for me to understand why he wasn't more exacting in his style, though towards the end I got the idea that the style was meant to mirror Jack's way of telling his life story to his shrink (or rather, how she tells him not to tell it). Perhaps this is how Iriving would tell it to HIS shrink, you know? Just a thought... in which case, the style isn't ponderous and lame so much as brilliant. Though, that may be a stretch. I'm no Michiko, after all.

Sunday, I return to the pitch with the Castle Greyskull FC, after a two-week Swiss hiatus. Providing I don't cough up my pleura, it should be a good time.

Let us all say a Novena (or equivalent) for enough a of a shitstorm to bring down the Forces of Darkness. As Claire said, it seems that our Jackass-in-Chief has to kill someone and drink his/her blood in the Oval Office in order to get people pissed enough to, you know, scold him/censure him/impeach him.

On that note, I'm going to go mainline some vitamin C. Tonight it's Sox v. Orioles and I've got to build up the strength to yell at the television.

If you get bored today, you should read about toasters.

Please please me.

We had a fantastic start yesterday in Texas, with Schilling pitching like Schilling and Ortiz hitting like Ortiz.

I have to take a moment to issue an apology to espn.com. The new Gamecast is pretty great. With the animation and the strike zone and whatnot. I'm liking it very much. Granted, it's still going to annoy me when I want to keep up with an afternoon game, but it's waaaay better than it was last year. So, sorry for the vitriol, ESPN. Way to get your shit together.

Anyway, between yesterday's solid game and ordering MLB Extra Innings (thank you, tax return), you might say I'm one content little New Englander.

The only thing that would make it better? Roger Effing Clemens. Yeah, now that I'm back from the Swiss vacation and it's spring and I'm reading about all the rumors and whatnot, I want him. I want him something awful.

Roger, come back to Boston. Go to the Hall as a Red Sox. It's only right. I mean, I have relished hating you for the past couple of years. But I get weak-kneed over the very idea of you finishing in the Fens. You would be paraded down Yawkey Way in a carriage drawn by white horses, with virgins sprinkling rosepetals in your wake. Every heart in New England would swell. Old men would weep. It would be a most fitting homecoming. Sure, you're a bit of a diva these days, with your cushy setup in Houston. Yeah, you broke my Dad's heart when you left. But, Sweet Sassy Molassy, Roger, you're a student of the game. You know how beautiful it would be.

I have every confidence that Theo is whispering some sweet nothings to you and your jerky agent. But, please. Come home.

Ahem. If you decide to go to New York, I'll cut your arms off and beat you to death with them. Then I'll spit on your corpse, you fucking mercenary.

Happy spring everyone! Baseball at my place!

image from skylinepictures.com

Hopp Red Sox!

The sky's all forboding here in Murray Hill, but I know it's spring. Today the 2006 Red Sox take the field for the first time in the regular season against the Rangers. Of course, they're playing at 2pm, and we all know how I feel about the ESPN.com Gamecast, but what can you do?

I am thrilled to be entering into another turbulent relationship with this shiny new team. Well, sorta shiny and new. We've got Coco, and Wily Mo, and J.T. Snow and Lowell and "A-Gon." And Josh Beckett. And there's still Big Papi and Manny.

We'll see how the optimism of spring training pans out.

Either way, guys, you know I love you. Deeply and desperately.

Also, sometimes it seems like the good folks at Surviving Grady are members of my family. More than ever today, when they post James Earl Jones's speech from the end of Field of Dreams. My dad used to watch (not sure he does these days... what with the no baseball in Switzerland) this very same bit of the movie on each opening day.

Oh, hell yes. Let it begin.

image from boston.com

Climb every moutain, ford every stream, hike through hip-deep snow.

Dad and I went took a short drive to the neighboring Kanton of Schwyz to do a little hiking. It was a warm and absolutely gorgeous day, affording great views of the Alps all along the highway (many thanks to the foehn). And since I am a five-year-old, I fell asleep about 15 minutes into the trip.

The hike itself was marvelous.Quite muddy, and pretty snowy in parts, but you just can't beat that Alpine air (I sure will miss hiking in the Alps when the family moves back to the States).

We didn't encounter any people (likely because the Schwyzers know better than to go marching off into the mud and snow in April, but they're a bunch of wimps anyway, right?), or even cows (they aren't put out to pasture until the ground is hard enough to sustain their sharp hooves).

Anyway, here for your viewing pleasure are some photographs of the lovely Schwyz:

Dad was well ahead of me during the hike, as is his custom (I am unused to the altitude and steep climbs, and he's in better shape than I am, what with the biking and hiking and skiing, oh my!), though I wasn't huffing and puffing nearly as much as I used to when we first moved to Switzerland.

The snow was thigh-deep in some spots, thus prompting us to take photos of each other in front of a pretty tall snowbank:

After scrambling back down the slope, we took a little spin around the lake to see if we could get down into a grotto that Dad had seen before. There was too much snow, so we headed back home.

All in all, a fabulous day in the mountains, and a good end to my vacation. Thanks, Dad!