If all your friends were jumping off a bridge...

I did the thingy. With this photo:

And it said I look like OJ Simpson. So, I hunted around the blogs for a straight-on photo (hard to find... apparently I prefer 3/4 shots), and found one from last year with Toby.

I'd like to think that this analysis refers to the both of us, Tobs.


See? We look like Cindy Crawford!

Items found while moving into our new office space:

1 two-thirds full bottle of Jack Daniels

4 LifeStyles Ultra-Lubricated condoms (expiration 5/2010)

1 unopened bag of Key Foods brand long-grain white rice.

Seems our predecessors had a lot more fun in these cubicles than perhaps is sanctioned by the company?

Though I've no idea what one would use the rice for.

Year after next in Zürich (or Vienna)!

Well, it ended in tears. Big delicious chocolatey tears. It still seems silly to me to end 2 hours of soccer with penalty kicks, but I suppose the fussball doesn't lend itself to infinity quite as well as baseball does.

On the plus side, I made a new friend while watching the last gasp of Switzerland's World Cup hopes. One of the office maintenance guys and I now have a relatively lively rapport centered around soccer. He's from Albania, but for some reason supports Italy. He insisted yesterday that Italy "played nice" with the USA and let them draw. But, he did join me in rooting for Schweiz because he could see how worked up I was. And, when it was all over, he rather sagely pointed out that the Swiss still get to be Swiss, while the Ukrainians must continue to live in the Ukraine (Update: In retrospect, I remember that Seth made the very same observation earlier in the day... I was too blinded by grief to remember it until now. And no, Seth is not the Albanian maintenance guy at my office).

They're a young team, though, so look out for them when they're on their home turf in 2008's Euro Cup.

Brilliant!

Ok, so I found this on NYT's World Cup blog, so it may well be old news to everyone, but I think it warrants repeating.

A Brazil name generator. You too can have a cool nickname to put on your soccer jersey. Fancy footwork and world-class goal scoring abilities are up to you.

My name is Mohão. Hot. I'm totally going to put it on my NY Coed jersey with whiteout.

Make it happen.

Between an office move and a good bit of work to get through (just as soon as I locate my pens and whatnot), I won't be able to supply you all with an extended discussion of the Swiss team.

I have unpacked my big Swiss flag and secured it outside of my new digs.

The only team to keep a clean sheet in group play, Switzerland is ready to take on the Ukraine. Though they'll be short Philipp Senderos due to a dislocated shoulder after the S. Korea game, I like their chances. Then again, I liked the Netherlands chances, so what the hell do I know?

The Swiss have never played the Ukraine, and they'll have a 19-year old marking Schevchenko. Should be interesting. Let's hope Mr. Frei scores early and often.

Hopp Schwiiz!!

Hopp Schwiiz!

This is me wearing my Switzerland football t-shirt. I already wore it this week and it's in the laundry, so we're going to have to imagine I'm offering the Mohan adopted country my sartorial support.

The Swiss play against South Korea today and need to win or draw to go through to the round of 16.

I humbly request that this tiny Scandinavian nation make it happen. I need this one.

A few of the things I enjoy about the Swiss team: they have a set of twins–Philipp and David Degen–on the squad; the team chef travels with a hearty supply of Swiss chocolate; the team's diversity is representative of Switzerland itself (and by diversity, I mean German, French, and Italian Swiss...), leading me to wonder what language they speak on the field.

One thing they ought to keep in mind today is yellow cards. They racked up a lot of them in the match against Togo and I'd rather they didn't enter the knockout phase sans Philipp.

Sunsets, cuddling, 'Tek's batting stance.

It's not surprising, considering that there are dating sites for people of all interests and persuasions, but now there's Matchingsox.com for Red Sox fans.

Granted, there may be a few among you who'd rather we date and breed amongst ourselves (though I'd argue that we'd then create a breed of super-Sox fans and therefore take over the world with our virulently attractive-to-bandwagoners brand of fanhood), and keep the talk of wicked pissah Ortiz homahs behind closed doors along with the Schill and Shonda roleplay.

While I could never date-marry-reproduce-with a Yankee fan (heaven forfend), and I have, in the past, been frustrated by men who are indifferent to baseball (or sports overall...which is funny, as it's rare a sports-loving girl finds that quality a liability), I don't think I can actively seek out a relationship with Sox fan of equal-or-greater devotion.

Firstly, there's the problem of this devotion. If he's more hardcore, is he going to give me a hassle for semi-abandoning the boys to their own devices during the World Cup? Would we shut off the game in disgust at the same time during a bad, blow-out loss? This creates an immediate assessment of your mate's level of cynicism... which may be best left for much later.

Then there's the irrational, mercurial nature of the Sox fan relationship to the team. You get two similarly impassioned people into a relatioship with one another, and I'm just sayin', there could be heated words exchanged, lamps thrown, cops called.

In the same vein, we Sox fans are an opinionated bunch. Everyone knows what's best for the team, and would be too happy to be on Theo's speed-dial. But, sadly, these opinions differ widely. I can see myself giving a fella his walking papers for believing that Edgar Renteria was anything but useless.

It is a noble endeavor, keeping the love in the Nation, as it were, but this Sox fan would rather leave it somewhat to chance. Find a nice guy who likes an inocuous National League team, like the Pirates. Then we can fight about the DH. Or maybe a Mets fan. Because if there's one thing healthier than basing a relationship on shared irrational love of 9 men, it's basing a relationship on shared irrational hatred of 9 others.

It's like I don't even know me.

The World Cup has distracted me completely, and my usual obsessive following of the Red Sox has dwindled, much to my chagrin, to nothing. On the phone with my dad on Sunday, I couldn't tell him whether our boys had won the previous night. Needless to say, the pater familias was extremely disappointed in me.

I've had the wherewithal to check in with the Soxaholix every now and then, so I was shocked and pleased to see that Gabe Kapler, after a mere 9 months of post-surgical rehab (you may remember, he ruptured his Achilles tendon last year), is now back on the roster. He received a fitting warm welcome home at Fenway (picture from boston.com).

I believe that brings our Jews-on-the-active-roster total back to 3. Thanks G-d. I was starting to get a little nervous there.

Mercy Buckets.

Though I uploaded it over the weekend, Blogger has finally seen fit just now to display my shiny new icon.

It's a Photoshop-ification, by one Mr. Chris, of a photo that Tobs took.

In thanks to Messrs. Chris and Tobs for the forgiving portraiture, I give you the New Hampshire Highland Games Bagpipe Band:

Ireland expects that every man this day will do his duty.

Well, I'm a few hours late and a couple of dollars short on this one, but I searched my conscience and decided that Bloomsday could not go unmarked at this blog. Even if no one will read it 'til the day itself is long past (as of now, it hasn't been June 16th for several hours in Dublin, and the clock has clicked over in New York as well).

For those who have not endured my prattling on the subject, June 16th 1904 is the day on which the action of James Joyce's Ulysses takes place. Joyce is said to have chosen that date to commemorate the day he first "stepped out" with his wife, Nora Barnacle (just what made this date so special... that would be a handjob.).

Pretty hot, right?

Anyway, the traditional thing in Dublin on Bloomsday is to follow Leopold Bloom's steps throughout the city. All of my pictures of Bloom's haunts are not of the digital variety, so I'll post a little quote instead (here's hoping I don't get sued). It should be noted at this juncture, that while I do so love Leopold Bloom, Stephen Dedalus is really my area of expertise, so I'm going to go with an old chesnut here, rather than hunting around in relatively uncharted pages.

Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods' roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.

The man himself, ladies and gents. Our Odysseus of the mundane. I'm sure you can see why his likeness adorns my light switchplate? (The illustration of Bloom above is by Richard Hamilton, who did a series for a version of the novel... there's lots more at the Guardian. Check 'em out.)

...and yes I said yes I will Yes.

Happy Bloomsday.

Wooo! Poetry! New Hampshire!

The new U.S. Poet Laureate, Donald Hall, is from Wilmot, NH.

The NYT story is here. Here's hoping he's outspoken against the Bush fils junta slashing of the NEA as much as he was against the Bush père adminstration.

He joins the ranks of Robert Lowell, Elizabeth Bishop (VC '34), and Robert Frost (also from NH).

Congratulations Mr. Hall! Congratulations New Hampshire!

Since we're all mildly obsessed with soccer/football/fútbol/fussball these days, I give you:

Uglyfootballers.com - not terribly well-updated or well-organized, but pretty funny anyway. I found it because they've deemed Puyol an ugly footballer (having to do with his brow ridges, probably...).

If you're feeling adventurous, you should look at the Ugly Injuries page (it is soooo gross... don't say I didn't warn you and post irate comments). Now there's a catalogue of some seriously gross and scary injuries... ones that grown men are perfectly allowed to scream about. Puts the flopping nonsense into perspective. If you don't have a gaping effing hole in your thigh, you're fine, jackass.

France was far too French, Spain was full of Spaniards, and Poland stank of farts.

I am aware that there are complex rules to the casual soccer fan following the World Cup. And, I'm trying. Swear I am.

In spite of my general distaste for US nationalism (for the past six years or so), I'm supporting my countrymen in the Cup. They fucking broke my heart on Monday, but I'm still in this thing, I'll be glued to the set on Saturday afternoon, likely cursing at the television (and uttering offensive epithets having to do with pasta and pizza and cannoli... perhaps telling Totti just what he should do with various cannoli).

My secondary team is, of course, Switzerland. A team that has never gotten a red card in World Cup play. They are unfailingly polite, to a fault, really, considering yesterday's result. It was alarming that five of them got yellow cards yesterday, though, and I'm hoping that next week they put the hurt on the Togolese and at least get cards for a reason. Though Degen (or was it Magnin?) taking Zidane down by the face yesterday was pretty great.

I'm aware that supporting Schweiz violates the rules, but I'm comfortable with my reasons (among them, there's a Swiss player whose name is Gygax. Gygax!).

After my secondary team, things get dicey for me. And it's all perhaps indicative of my still-childlike view of soccer and the World Cup. I have trouble bringing the geopolitical element in in matches that I've watched, such as:
Netherlands v. Serbia and Montenegro: OK, here I know that I should root for Serbia. But I can't. The Dutch players are dressed head-to-toe in orange. Orange! Some of them even have bright orange cleats. They have hilarious names! Ruud Van Nistlerooy? Who can argue with that? Sorry S&M, I know this your swan song together, I know you're an underdog, but I can't get on board (and Slate's Dispatches offer other compelling support for me in my confusion).

Mexico v. Iran: Yeah, I couldn't get behind Iran here.

Germany v. Costa Rica: I wanted the Germans, the WC's gracious hosts, to start off well. I thought it'd be nice for them. I'd likely be pleased for Poland this afternoon, though. They need this one. And it'd make things interesting in Group A.

Trinidad & Tobago v. Sweden: To my credit, I did right by the Trinidadians and Tobagoans. That was one heck of a match.

Spain v. Ukraine: Am pleased for Spain. Don't worry, I feel a little dirty about it, but everyone expects them to advance and get knocked out, and given their group, the Ukraine don't have all that much to worry about, right? My affection for Spain's side is super childish, as I never really studied Spanish and have only visited briefly. But... BUT, there's Carles Puyol. I've blogged about him before. I have no good reason to nuture an affection for him. He doesn't even have an X in his name, like so many other Spanish players. They do call him "Corazon De Lion" in Catalonia, though, and that's pretty cool. Also, I had a very weird dream in which he drove me around Barcelona in an early-80s Volvo station wagon (only after I had good seats at the Nou Camp for a match–though, it was a WC match, which made no sense–, of course). I figure, if the Lionheart were to get far in the Cup, it'd definitely cap off a helluva year for him.

We don't need to discuss the fact that, when not dreaming about work, I'm dreaming about the World Cup and international soccer players. Too many ins and outs and what-have-yous there.

So, basically, I'm failing at earning legitimacy as a follower of the game (aside from the getting up ass-early bit). I started out fine, with the US and Switzerland, but on a match-by-match basis, I am fickle and unstudied. Maybe next time. I mean, it took a while for me to develop legitimacy as a Red Sox fan (aside from birth, that is... I didn't "get it" for many years). In fact, you would think my prickly, Sox fan, New Englander heart would be capable of drawing lines in the sand for supporting soccer teams. But since I know so little about all of the teams, I'm easily wooed by funny names, uniforms, silly fans, and weird dreams about Catalan footballers.

I'm going to work at this thing. There's a nice pub close to my office that has Canadian commentary (I can't even tell you how much better it is than the ESPN nonsense) and numerous televisions.

For anyone who's interested, Slate's Cup Dispatches are pretty good.

ps. Red Sox: Sorry for the neglect. I've got to work out a couple of things. I still love you.

Once again, dear readers: RFID: World Cup Tickets Get Smart. By me.

In my wildest dreams, I never thought I'd publish a piece with the word "hooliganism" in it. Goooaaaaallllll!

Wait, really?

Once again, I ask: how did we effectively invade two separate nations thousands of miles away from us? How did we find said nations on a map?

Please read the following passage from an AP article on today's France v. Switzerland match:

"The idea of the little Switzerland, that's over," said [Swiss footballer Alexander] Frei, who thinks a win over France will put the tiny Scandinavian nation on the soccer map ahead before co-hosting the 2008 European Championship with Austria.

You read that right. Tiny Scandinavian nation. I had to reread the article a few times to be sure I wasn't hallucinating. Granted, this AP reporter is not in charge of any diplomacy, but I am shocked... shocked that no one picked up on it. Let us all briefly ponder a map of Europe. The countries in red are Scandinavia, obviously.

I need to lay down.

Update: Danke Schoen, Sanity Claus. I need to lie down (I always get that wrong... so embarassing.).

Wilkommen zum Fussball indeed.

Well, I suppose it's been percolating for a while, but I've definitely got the World Cup fever. And how. Saturday morning found me bouncing out of bed at the ungodly hour of 7:45 to watch England v. Paraguay at Hamish's (many thanks again, Hamish. Please accept this token of my gratitude). Watched the mighty exciting Sweden-Trinidad and Tobago match while cleaning the apartment. This morning, while I wasn't quite as ambitious, I did stumble from bed to couch for the second half of the Serbia-Montenegro v. Netherlands match. Didn't catch the goal, but saw some a-mazing attempts and incredible run down the field by Arjen Robben.

...Just now saw the beautiful goal by young Mr. Bravo. Insipid commentary: "Bravo Bravo! Bravo indeed!" I'm going to have to disagree with Tobs on this one... I'm pulling for Mexico, rivals or not. I mean, don't we want them to advance, so that if we advance we'll meet them in the knockout round? Right?

Oh. There's another one. Iran is starting to implode a bit. Yikes.

It's going to be extremely difficult to do anything for the next month. There's at least one match I want to see each day this week, and something tells me that 2 hour lunches at 3pm aren't going to help me get shit done.

My favorite bit of commentary thus far in this Mexico-Iran match: "They call him 'The Carpet,' because he glides around defenders like a Persian carpet from ancient times."

Also he was woven into being by small children chained to looms.

Incontheivable!

There's no good way to preface this. Umbrellas + free time + Claire + Seth + sneaky video-taking =







Seth thinks I should start having people sign releases. I think he should stick it.

I prefer "charmingly eccentric," thank you.

Here now is the final installment of photos from "The 36-Hour Bender; Boy Are We Stupid (Or Brilliant?)."


Friday night was mussels night. After an abortive effort to save the three or four little bivalves (out of six pounds) who survived the trip from Fresh Direct (here it should be noted that six pounds of dead and dying mussels in your kitchen is unpleasant), we got fresh and kicking ones at Whole Foods, whom we coached to stay alive during the hot and stupid trip home.

The Whole Foods mussels were interesting because they varied widly in size from the ginormous to the medium, to the eensy-weensy. We determined, during the scrubbing and debearding process, that whomever found the smallest mussel on their plate would win a prize.

I am pleased to report that I won! My prize? The littlest mussel for my very own. I ate him, washed out his shell, and dubbed him Maurice Le Mignon (AKA "The Littlest Mussel").

I brought him along to the Brooklyn Brewery and bought him a tasty Pennant Ale to make up for steaming him alive in a nice wine sauce.




See how wee he is?


Here are Claire and Andy enjoying the sights and sounds of the Brooklyn Brewery tasting room.



Here are two blurry attempts at capturing a dude with an amazing popped collar. The second one is better, but we really failed to effectively capture him.




Claire and Lara in Beacon's Closet.


Seth, adorned with umbrellas:



Look! Look! A picture in which Josh is smiling!


The rather frightening phallus piñata at Lara's friend's birthday party. It sagged so dramatically because of the humidity.


Claire attempts to bob against the music. It requires incredible concentration and fortitude of will.

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Add metaphor, mix well.

I could send this to Overheard, but it's too good not to share.

Friday, Claire and I were riding home together on the N train. It was completely packed, as it had rained and typical train chaos ensued. The N was running local in Manhattan, and we were in for the long haul with six pounds of Maine mussels in tow.

At 8th street, a pair of tweens/baby hipsters got onto the the train. After the doors closed behind them, the young fella said to the car at large: "I feel like a can of caviar."

His girlfriend giggled appreciatively. Yes indeed, it would seem she felt like a can of caviar as well.

Win, lose, and draw.

So, I'm going to futz around with the order of the "36-Hour Bender: Boy Are We Stupid (or Brilliant?)" documentation, mostly because I'm sure everyone's aching for a Castle Grey Skull FC update, since we had a week off for the holiday.

Yesterday was our last game with Metrosoccer's Spring Coed 8-a-side league. We were scheduled to play Bohemians, a very nice bunch of folks against whom we very much enjoy playing because they do not pee on our shoes (bring in ringers to kick our asses) and tell us it's raining (that said anonymous ringers were on their team the whole time), which we always appreciate.

Anyway, we were all quite keyed up for this last match. After the previous match ending in a draw, we were hopeful. And what better way to conclude the season than play the team we like the most?

The day got off to a rocky start, however, when I realized (on the first leg of the subway journey) that I had forgotten the team's keepers gloves. I am a big, forgetful jerk. Josh comforted me anyway.



I shook it off (sorta) and we got to the field nice and early for a little bit of creative dancing. Note Claire's handsome yellow socks (borrowed from my stash from Hayley):





We were warmed up and ready to go. But where were the Bohemians? Apparently, they got sidetracked listening to the String Cheese Incident whilst smoking a strawberry-flavored hookah, because only two of them showed. So, we divided the Grey Skull squad, threw the Bohemian stragglers into the mix, and Vlad kindly reffed the scrimmage.

Here's Josh, closely followed by Kevin, who's quite stellar in defense.



Chris is apparently walking a tightrope in the box while Robbie looks on.


Claire goes ass over teakettle... I'm not sure why, as there's no one really around her.... Claire?


Josh chases down an errant ball.


Seth, the sleevéd keeper executes a mighty drop-kick.


Here's a great shot of Claire doing a throw-in.


Josh, about to dodge bullets Matrix-style.


This looks as if Hamish and I are holding hands and chasing the ball together, but really we are locked in a battle for possession. Unsurprisingly, I lost.


I collapse for a rest behind Seth "Two-Tone" Pomerantz while Alan, one of the Bohemians mans the net.


A much better view of Seth's socks, and a nice shot of he and Claire running.


This is by far the most amusing photo of me on the pitch. Sassy backward glance and everything. I look as though I have a clue, right? I think this was the point in the game that found me up front, as an only slightly feckless striker. I managed to trap and shoot one of those inch-perfect patented Mike crosses for a goal. It was pretty sweet. Slightly sweeter was Carrie (then the keeper for the sleeveless team) screaming "Get out of my house!!!" afterwards.


Here's the crew, high-fiving after our victory against ourselves. Goooo Grey Skull!




A nice Grey Skull-orange smile.



Here's a [partial] team photo.

Many, many thanks to our distinguished guest, Lara, for taking some lovely pictures for posterity and bringing some truly delicious orange slices.

Mark up your summer calendars, footie fans. There will be a Grey Skull squad tearing up the turf over in Chelsea with NY Coed. Even Vlad's excited. I had the following exchange with him three weeks ago:

Me: Hey Vlad, Are you going to ref for NY Coed on Fridays this summer?
Vlad: Yes.
Me: Great! We're going to have a team in the Championship league. So, we'll see you then!
Vlad: Oh.
Me: You couldn't get rid of us if you tried!
Vlad: Ok.

He loves us. It's just hard for him to show it.

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This is why we are the world's only super power. No, really.

(Note: you may consider this Part One in a larger series entitled: "The 36-Hour Bender. Boy Are We Stupid.")

My friends and countrypeople,

As I'm sure you are aware, there are times when we as Americans are tested. We are asked to rise to the occasion, to strike a blow for the forces of good in this world. We must test our mettle and show the world what this great country of ours is all about.

I am pleased to inform you, oh readers two (or three), that myself and Claire (along with the usual suspects) are no slouches when it comes to these kinds of responsibilities. Claire's good friend (from those days abroad in London) Lara has been staying with us for a few days, and we gathered some of the troops together for a rooftop picnic on Friday evening. Sadly, it rained like the dickens, so we picnicked on the floor in the living room instead. Josh brought along his new (subletting) roommate Katrin, who is from Germany.

Aside from giving our guests a pleasant meal, we wanted to give them a true American experience. We therefore turned to Melody Lanes here in Brooklyn, site of past exploits and glories.

And so, we braved the elements and bellied up to Melody's bar for some Buckets of Rocks before we showed our friends from abroad in what manner we are known to roll here in the good ol' US of A.

Here, in no particular order, are some photos of this venture. The quality varies in proportion to my consumption of Rolling Rock (my game varied in much the same manner).


Tyler demonstrates how one selects a good bowling ball. It must be approximately the same size as your head. He then communed with the ball, asking it to "show me your wisdom."


Erica celebrates a solid roll. Strike one for America (Erica.. America. Coincidence? I think not).


Marty knows I've just rolled a gutterball.


I am displeased by said gutterball.


Josh knows all about the restorative powers of the bucket o' rocks. Also, he knows that you've got to live life to the fullest and fucking get out there and experience it. He does not, however, look like a young Lorne Michaels.


One of our international pupils, Lara, watches the action with Erica and Marty.


Katrin, a credit to her people, has just rolled a strike.


Somehow, I (at least I think it was me... coulda been some one else though... damn you, Rolling Rock!) took this picture upside down. I believe Claire was "robbed" of something.


Lara cannot believe how sophisticated we are here in America.


Katrin selects a weapon for another battle with those pesky pins.


Roomies bond over Rocks. Also, Josh attempts to put his eyeball into his beer.


Claire performs a neat arabesque. That's talent, folks. You can't teach that.


In case you were curious, I am about six years old.


The highlight of the evening, for all of us, I think, was when a child walked up to Seth and said (someone correct me if I'm wrong): "I like the way you roll."

He likes the way Seth rolls.

Firstly, duh. Everyone likes the manner in which Seth rolls.

Secondly, well played anonymous kid. Well played. You are a credit to your parents. Though it would have been way cooler if you'd said "I like the way you roll. Teach me, O wise one." Next time.

Stick a fork in him, people. Josh is done.


Good times were had by all. We really tore the place up with our bowling prowess and ended the evening on a high note by dining on White Castle at 2am in the middle of the 15-block death march from bowling alley to bed.

Mission accomplished, fellow patriots. Mission accomplished.


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