I wonder sometimes whether gardeners stop mowing and trimming when I walk by because they want to be polite to women or because they want to look at my breast jiggle as I scurry past them.

So France brought it to the Spaniards yesterday, 22 years to the day after beating them in the Euro Final. Suckas. Man, was that a fun match to watch, save for the first thirty minutes. For the entire first half hour we couldn't break past their 30 meter line; frankly they were dominating us. Once we were down a goal, my boys started creating some spaces for themselves. And finally, finally Franck Ribery stopped shooting the ball up in the air as though he were kicking a free kick in rubgy. Sangfroid the boy showed in front of the goal, and the rest, as they say is history.

La victoire est toujours en nous. Allez les bleus.

I'm listening to:
Sleater-Kinney- One Beat
man, did those ladies know how to put on a rock show. Janet Weiss is one badass on the drums. *sigh* I'll miss you.

I was just stung by a motherfucking bee. That had better be the best fucking omen before I take the boards tomorrow, otherwise I'm going to be seriously pissed.

This better go so well that I'm practically Rosie Perez on Jeopardy in White Men Can't Jump, naming all the foods that start with the letter Q.

Who gets stung by a bee? I mean, unless you're 9 years old and waiting for your mother outside Giant food with the cart, or maybe 6 and frolicking in the grass barefoot, because those are certainly the only times I've ever been stung.


I'm listening to:
Bjork- Medulla

p.s. beestings? still hurt.
p.p.s. were I allergic, this would be a type I hypersensitivity response
p.p.p.s. I don't care anymore

The fine folks at ESPN clearly heard my complaints on their commentary during the Argentina-Ivory Coast game:



Heard them loud and clear, as within the first 5 seconds of their wrap-up on Argentina's rout this afternoon, they mention Maradona's heart attack and his Hand of God. You should probably watch the whole thing though, to see the stunning goals. Would that I could post some brilliant action on France's behalf, but I can only pray that I'll have something to show on Sunday.

Time to finish up my last Qbanks. Huzzah. Tomorrow I will wear my Italy jersey, acquired for the 1994 World Cup to which France failed to qualify.

America is going down, and I can't wait.


I'm listening to:
The Magnetic Fields- Holiday

I was pretty excited to post here about this repair kit I had to buy this afternoon to fix my glasses (I'm pretty excited today to do anything that does not involve pharma or cology).

The screwdriver hangs on a key ring. I imagine this is for those events where a pocket protector might seem out of place, but you still want to show off what a huge nerd you are. I was stringing those words together as I started to screw in my new screw when I realized that not only is the keyring a worthless accessory on a miniature screwdriver, but it actually impedes a fluid screwing motion. Curses.

I clearly have no point and will recede into my corner and learn about serum sickness. Rapael Nadal made me cry when we won today, this after I was passively rooting for Federer. Nadal is the sexiest boy in the universe for me right now.


I'm listening to:
Gang of Four- Songs of the Free
I love a man in a (soccer) uniform. 42 hours until France's first match in the World Cup. And not a moment too soon because not only did Portugal not deliver the goods today (dull, dull, dull), but Scolari obstinately refused to put in Nuno Gomes and furthermore the camera operators refused to pan over to him.

Some thoughts on Day 2 of the World Cup

Cornrows? Seriously? Rio Ferdinand needs to stop it with the blow:



Speaking of Diego Maradona (zing!)... did you see him dancing up in the bleachers at the end of the Argentina-Ivory Coast game? His poor heart, that dilated cardiomyopathy will not last long if he keeps this up. The color commentary for that game was pathetic. Here's how it should have gone after Argentina had a handball in the first half:

Color guy: Ah, the Hand of God strikes again.
cut to Maradona sweating and gyrating
Color guy: He's about to give himself another heart attack.

Instead, after Drogba scored, the color guy notes that the game just turned around 360 degrees. Which, if you're keeping track at home, means that the game is right back where it started, motherfucker. Is it any wonder Americans don't watch soccer? Is it any wonder that I will do so poorly on this USMLE thing in 9 days that I'll be forced into American soccer commentary?


I'm listening to:
Can- Future Days

Looking back on my posts over the last week, it would appear I've gone a little boy-crazy. I suspect that's because my two latest suitors have left so much to be desired that I have to rely on international soccer star fantasy.

Why only the day before yesterday, a moustached dufus left me a voicemail proposing a casual sex relationship. And I quote: "I figure you know you're looking for something you know, some people you can be like casual with and all, and that's what i'm looking for too. You know, just some casual fun, go out, you know, have some kicks have some drinks have some good times."

It's clearly easier to avoid reality and turn to this:


The Juventans. I love Trezeguet, even as I am quite worried about a 4-4-2 with Henry and Trezeguet up front, given how poorly it's performed in the past. I love this game, even during a relatively lousy game between Ecuador and Poland.


I'm listening to:
Broadcast- The Noise Made by People

Oh dear lord: look at Gattuso in a Dolce & Gabbana underwear ad:


Of all the unattractive Italian soccer players to put in their underwear, they had to go put him in the center of each of the pictures. Has Domenico Dolce not read my post on how monstrous Gattuso can look? At least I can take comfort in the fact that his tightys have the most material, that and the delectable Fabio Cannavaro (thank you very much to Trent for the link.

So the World Cup has started and I'm just as antsy as expected. I couldn't fall asleep last night, as I had the Marseillaise coursing through my head instead of Lysosmal Storage Disorder pathways. 12 days until I take the cursed boards and they promise to be grueling given how much I'm going to be drawn to the television.

I refuse to prognosticate before seeing more of the teams play. I was burned in the 2002 World Cup boasting that France had the top goal scorers in three first divisions- Italy, France, and England- and look how well that turned out: we didn't score a single goal. Allez les bleus.


I'm listening to:
Broadcast- Haha Sound

Speaking of which, here's hoping that now that Scolari is Portugal's new coach, my boy Nuno Gomes will play more than 25 fucking minutes in the World Cup starting next week. That shit was bananas: it is a shame on the sport of soccer that Gomes was not played often enough and Greece had to win.

Portugal is, of course, my second favorite club team. This is because they are the biggest brutes in soccer. Who can forget Joao Pinto punching the referree in the 2004 Euro and blondie Abel Xavier spitting on another player in the 2002 World Cup. Now that shit is bananas.


I'm listening to:
PJ Harvey- Dry

Raphael Nadal is so impossibly dreamy that I can almost cheer for him over Paul-Henri Mathieu (allez les bleus) and Roger Federer (allez a grandslammer). He's consulting with the Doctor right now (the word 'platano' has never sounded sexier) and the possibility of someday being his physician should be enough to keep me focused on cursed pharmacology this afternoon. Seriously, he's got the charisma of Nuno Gomes, but with the looks to match.


I'm listening to:
PJ Harvey- Rid of Me