Comin' Down the Road

The holiday weekend is finally here, and, frankly, I'm exhausted after a full week of work, the arrival of the Hot Weather, and three soccer matches in 96 hours.Sunday the Peeper and I went to see the Portland Timbers play Montreal. It was the Peep's first soccer match, his first big venue for anything, and it was a very grown-up and exciting day. We rode downtown on the MAX train and got to the park hours before game time, but just in time to get the Peeper into the "Junior Timbers", which included scoring a backpack and wristband, coupons for kidlet food, and a tour of the old barn that included going down on the field and actually - and I had to stifle a grin when this was announced - "touching Timber Joey's log".Now TJ is NOT MJ, so there was nothing inappropriate except for some pine sap to rub off the palms. And after that there was hotdogs and shaved ice to enjoy, and a new scarf to buy, and then lots of exciting footy to take in. We did have to move down a bit, since the Timbers Army was in good voice, but the little soldier did his bit, standing for the right chants and cheering every one of Portland's four goals.

I worried that he'd get tired, or bored, but he wanted to stay to the final whistle. Great game, great kid.

Oh, I should tell you that I told him that one Magic Thing about soccer matches is that you can say things there that you can't say ANYWHERE else. So when the Army sang or chanted those words that Mommy doesn't like - like the f-bomb - he just smiled a big eyed smile. Because that's the Soccer Magic. But on the way home he was confronted with a different sort of urban magic. First a bunch of young guys jammed the train doors open and were tossed amid a sulfurous barrage of bad language. Then there was the homeless girl verbally bitch-slapping her BF. And the scruffy couple taken off by the fare cops right in front of his saucer-like eyes - I've never seen the boy produce anything as quickly as he found his ticket!

He raced in the door and tripped over himself babbling out the stories to his mom. Who sniffled a little..."he's such a big boy..."

And so he is.

Wednesday night was the Timbers against Seattle in the U.S. Open Cup. Great match, crap result (let in a goal in the first 50 seconds and see if it doesn't set you back on your heels...). But Mojo and I - OK, well, I - soaked in the sensation of 16,000 fans rocking the old Civic with chants, songs and noise. We even had our own tifo: Timber Jim cuts down the Seattle Space Needle - The Army, as you can hear, is in great voice, and felt like San Siro or the Maracana for a night, with the Sounder Flounders (or Shamus or whatever the Seattle supporters' group is called) singing right back.

And tonight was Portland against the Bayern Munich reserve side. Me and the Peep, again, with the usual shave ice and hot dogs, chanting and racing up to the top aisle under the massive timber roof. Hooting the new horn to make the dark fir rafters echo and boom. Shouting and leaping home along the MAX tracks, his bright little boy face alight with life...or drawn in with concern as his bounds almost took him unto the bed of a homeless man sleeping in a doorway for the night.

He's growing up fast, the little man, almost faster than my feet can catch up with him. That's okay, big Peep. That's your job, to run on ahead; to shout and whoop and leap, to explode with energy and joy. When your eyes light with glee they kindle an answering flame down deep in my heart. I love you, buddy."We'll Be Coming.
We'll Be Coming.
We'll Be Coming Down The Road.
When you hear the noise of the Timbers Army boys.
We'll Be Coming Down The Road".

Fading Away

My understanding is that as of tonight the U.S. maneuver units will be permanently relieved of the task of policing the mean streets of Baghdad, Ramadi, Kirkuk and every other town and city in Iraq.

This seems to have been very popular with most Iraqis.

Now that we have achieved the "mission accomplished" dream of the Bush presidency; our Iraqi Shia allies are in place, ready to make further arrangements with their other allies in Tehran, the Israelis are even more hostile and paranoid than ever, Hezbollah has been awarded the Starbucks franchise for south Lebanon and all the Maliki grandkids have brand new Hummer H3s courtesy of U.S. AID...can we make EVERYbody happy and quit fucking around in south-central Asia now?Was there really a time when we thought we could "make our own reality"? That with our tiny, undermanned colonial-period expeditionary force we could reshape the lands of Asia without butchery at a genocidal level? When we dreamed the dreams of the Caesars with the army of Marlborough and de Saxe, the political hardheadedness of Jefferson Davis and the economic discipline of Lindsey Lohan?

And now the dreamer wakes to the cold light of a cheerless dawn.

Not so thrilled...

I had an odd sort of reaction to the news that Michael Jackson had gone to the big Neverland, the one in the sky.

The first was, honestly? a sort of shrug. The man has been a has-been for half a decade or more - geologic time, for the mayfly world of celebrity. Even before that he had become a sort of freakish parody, not of himself, but of some incomprehensible grotesque that existed somewhere in his clearly badly damaged imagination. Add the very real likelihood that he was a pedophile, and a rather unpleasantly self-delusional one, at that?

So. Enh.

Then I got to thinking of the Michael Jackson I "knew", the "King of Pop", the mega-star that lorded over the airwaves and the then-ubiquitous MTV/VH-1 video world (God, remember when music videos were actually important? When they mattered, when having a killer video was as critical to a pop song as a great hook? Christ, stuff like that makes me feel older than dirt...), the singer/dancer/songwriter/icon who was supposed to be the Elvis of the 80's, the Beatles of his generation.

And taken in those terms, you have to look back on the man's career and feel...disappointed? Unimpressed? I'll give him this - he did manage to bring dance-pop over to where it has influenced rock and R&B, and grafted his Motown roots onto dance-pop. But...

Where was "Thriller" or "Billie Jean" playing on FM radio Monday? Who was watching "Moonwalk" last week? Where was the comedian riffing on him, or the musician stealing from him?

In the end, the man was a talented musician who wrote some decent pop songs. Had he been willing to live with that, he might now be remembered the way Prince or George Michael or Madonna will probably be remembered; as a talented artist fixed in a certain time and place. But by insisting on the ludicrous "King of Pop" grandiosity, by first creating and then believing his own publicity machine, he could really only have failed, was doomed to fail, because who COULD succeed on those terms.

So my other reaction was a sort of pity. Now the man will never be a Paul McCartney, going down to the grave full of years and honors; done and gone, as faded as an old newspaper, yes, but with the glory of his youth and strength still clinging faintly to him. Instead, his demons drove him, rode him, until he will be remembered as the freakish albino travesty he became - Whacko Jacko - and the self-created hoopla that overwhelmed his talents will be his memorium.

Wi'v a little bit o' luck...

...you can beat the best soccer team in the world.

Today's victory over Spain has to be considered one of the most stunning results in U.S. soccer history. While beating Mexico was considered miraculous in the day, the USMNT has pretty much owned El Tri over the past ten years, suggesting that the level of play in CONCACAF (while still pretty much wallowing down there with Asia and the better teams in Oceania) has levelled out, with the U.S., Mexico, El. Salvador and Honduras the pick of the litter.But this wasn't Mexico at Azteca; it was the monster, the red-and-yellow beast that has swallowed European soccer whole and been chewing on it for the past three years, the Seleccion d'Espana. This isn't just David and Goliath; this is David whipping the Giant of Gath's feet out from under him and then doing one of those Buffy under-the-arm-backhand stabs to the heart.

Not since the days of Joe Gaetjens has the USMNT done anything like this. Admittedly, the goals were freakish (mind you, Gaetjens' was, too); Altidore got away with some pretty dicey pushing and then managed to riccochet the shot in off the Spanish keeper's right hand, Clint Dempsey should, frankly, be hunting up Ramos, the Spanish defender who managed to completely lose his composure six yards from his goal and tee the ball up so the Clintster could turn on it and slot the thing in, a shot a U-6 would have had a hard time missing. And, yes, the Spanish had most of the run of play, most of the shots, and Howard and the U.S. backline had to play like madmen to keep the clean sheet.

But the point is, they did. They DID. For the first time in history, a USMNT will play in a FIFA championship final.Somewhere where the fields are always green and level, the referees always knowledgable and fair, and the fans always rowdy and happy, Joe Gaetjens is juggling a ball with a little smile on his face.

Queen of the Night

Speaking of Missy the Zombie Slayer, have I ever mentioned that I was and am a huge Buffy fan?

Yup. Secret vice and all that. Has nothing to do with a skweechy crush on Sarah Michelle Gellar, who, despite her lovely surname, I find entirely too Hollywood-skinny and affected. Haven't seen her in much of anything else, don't really care too. I'm not interested in the woman as a celebrity or even an actress at all...but I love the hell out of her Buffy. Which probably means that I actually have a crush on Joss Whedon, in a hot, manly, totally het-guy way, of course. Ahem.

Vampires being all the rage, I couldn't avoid the recent publicity surrounding the release of the "Twilight" movie. Twilight, for me, combines all the things I find irritating about the recent young-adult vampire trope; the looming atmosphere of adolescent gothy angst, the patronizing theme of the hunky prince "awakening" his princess' sexual nature with his, ahem, kiss (which, of course, seals her to him in a sort of icky, vampy "covenant marriage").

So here, thanks to "Rebellious Pixels", is a real treat for me: Buffy versus the panty-sniffing Edward Cullen from "Twilight".

Gotta love how the cool, confident, competent Slayer proceeds to flip off Mister Cool Sparkly Broody Heathcliff Vampire and his wierd stalkyness before settling the entire icky business with the business end of a tent peg.

Did I mention how smart, cool, confident, competent women are utterly and infinitely devastating?

You can keep your emo arm candy. I'm down with the Slayer every time.

Slayer? Slay? Er? Y'know, the Chosen One?

Mmmhmm.

Missy of the Dead

[looking through Shaun's LPs for suitable records to throw at two approaching zombies]
Ed: 'Purple Rain'?
Shaun: No.
Ed: 'Sign o' the Times'?
Shaun: Definitely not.
Ed: The 'Batman' soundtrack?
Shaun: Throw it.
Ed: 'Dire Straits'?
Shaun: Throw it.
Ed: Ooh, 'Stone Roses'.
Shaun: Um, No.
Ed: 'Second Coming'.
Shaun: I like it!
Ed: Ahhh! 'Sade'.
Shaun: Yeah, but that's Liz's!
Ed: Yeah, but she did dump you.

So she did, both of them, slam, right on the floor. No zombies can mess with my baby girl - such a tough little Miss!

Out with the bad air...

Incredible: Sarychev Peak in the Kuril Island chain, northeast of Japan, on June 12.From MSNBC: "The main plume appears to be a combination of brown ash and white steam, according to a NASA statement. The vigorously rising plume gives the steam a bubble-like appearance. The surrounding atmosphere has been shoved up by the shock wave of the eruption. The smooth white cloud on top may be water condensation that resulted from rapid rising and cooling of the air mass above the ash column. This cloud is probably a transient feature, which the eruption plume is starting to punch through."

Volcanoes, the OJ Simpson of nature - powerful, sexy, fascinating, but you trust them and they'll flat-out kill your ass.