And Father of the Year Goes To...

So, on Monday, I told you about how I sucked it up and started coaching my little boy's soccer team. For most of the year, only nine of the ten kids on the team have shown up to play. The tenth happens to be a classmate of my son's, so I knew that he was in Nicaragua. I thought they were there for missionary work (and they might have been), but it turns out that the kid's mom is doing research on various strains of rotavirus, and there's something unique about the population in Nicaragua that makes the work interesting.

Because nothing screams "interest" like little kids shitting themselves days and nights.

I learned all this on the first night that they were back and at soccer practice. After practice was over, this guy kept talking and talking and talking and talking to me. I just wanted to get to Wendy's so I could buy the kids (and, perhaps, myself) a Frosty. Finally...an hour after practice was over...I was on my quest for the Frostys.

Since the Easter holiday fell in the middle of the soccer schedule, they did not have any games that weekend but resumed the following weekend. However, there was an event at the school where the fields are, and so the Saturday games got moved to Sunday, and some of the older kids' leagues were played on Friday night. Stick with me here; this is backstory.

Unfortunately, since I'm the coach, my phone number is listed as the contact. This means that any of the parents can call me. So, Sunday morning before the game, I'm slumbering away. My wife was out of town, so I had stayed up late the night before...reading...and...not...playing video games.

The phone rings, and it's this guy from the soccer team, who spent half the season in Nicaragua. Worse, it's not even 9:00 yet! You can imagine my frame of mind at the time when my daughter brought me the phone.

The guy was calling me to tell me that his son wouldn't be at the game that day. The game that wasn't being played until 1:00 in the afternoon. Color me unamused, dude; this is news that could have waited until at least eleven o'clock. The reason why his son wouldn't be playing? The little guy broke his arm.

I reacted appropriately. "Oh no! That's terrible! I hope he's going to be alright! Is he feeling okay?"

Now, at this point, right here, they guy should have said "Yeah, he's good. He's a little trooper. He'll soldier on through." Things would have been cool.

Instead, this guy proceeds to tell me the story of how his son broke his arm. Turns out, his older daughter had a game on Friday night, so while she was playing, this guy and his son were messing around on one of the other practice fields. His son was playing goalie, and his was kicking the ball at him.

I think you can see where this is going.

Apparently, this guy drilled kicked the ball so hard so that it hit his son with the force of a meteor striking the Earth in such a manner that he just happened to break two bones in his wrist.

Buh?

And then the guy laughed. Like, "Heh heh. Isn't that just the darnedest thing?"

I'm still like Buh? Maybe I didn't hear this correctly. I've had...a few hours sleep...since I was up late...reading...and...not...playing video games...and my head is a little foggy. Did this guy just call me up and tell me that he broke his son's arm by kicking a soccer ball at him? And then try to laugh it off?

Why, yes. Yes, he did.

Now, I played goalie. I've had the ball drilled at me where I'm pretty sure a sonic boom accompanied the shot. I've had the ball hit me so hard it hurt and I wanted to fall on the ground like the pansy-ass that I am, and bawl my eyes out. Never, however, have I ever broken a fucking bone in my wrist, arm, ribcage or anywhere else from a soccer ball hitting me. Those things have give to them! How the hell hard do you have to kick a ball--at your own six-year-old son--to break not just one but two fucking bones in his wrist?

That's not the best part of it, though. Apparently, when the ball connected with the son's arm, the son fell to the ground screaming in agony. And what does his dad do? Picks him up, ignores the kid's cries of pain, and watches the rest of his daughter's game. The whole time--according to the story--the kid is whimpering in pain. They go home. They eat dinner. They go to bed. Finally, the next day, after the kid gets up and complains about the wrist still hurting, they go to Urgent Care for x-rays.

Jesus Christ, dude, at least Darth Vader tossed Palpatine down the shaft after a couple of seconds of the blue lightning. You let your kid suffer for twelve hours or so.


And this guy just chuckles about it. Heh heh. Well, what do you know?

At this point, I've kind of tuned him out. I really don't want to listen to this guy chat me up. So, after giving me the rundown of his son's injury, he then begins to talk soccer strategy with me, since hr won't be at the game. Because, you know, I haven't handled the team for the first six weeks of the year.

Insert annoyed eyeroll here...

There are two kids on the team, David and Michael, who are very, very good players. Michael even has slide tackling down almost perfectly, but this guy wanted me to stop him from doing that. He shouldn't be doing that in this league, Mr. Smasher of Wrists tells me. My response was, "The kid has a talent. I'm not going to tell him not to use it."

He then went and lectured me on not letting David and Michael play in the game together at the same time. So, at this point, I was already confused, pissed off and a little bit perplexed by this conversation. And I was thinking, "Wait, you want me to not use my two best players in order to...you know...win the games?" As he was rambling on, I was thinking about anything else. Finally, there was a pause and I finished the conversation with "Well, I should get the kids their breakfast. Sorry about your son's arm. Don't worry about bringing him to practice for a couple of weeks. Bye."

Sweet Jesus. The only good thing, though, was that I suddenly didn't feel so bad about yelling at my kids to clean their rooms. I might get annoyed and frustrated with them, but I've never broken any bones in their arms. Or anywhere else, for that matter.

Perhaps I might just win that Father of the Year trophy yet!

Living the Dream

I wrote some time ago about how I'm working two jobs to help pay down bills and pay for extravagances, like washing machines from Craigslist and groceries. I'm still working the two jobs, and it is just about as much fun as you can imagine. I'm also, you might remember, trying to write another book, publish one of the ones I've finished and "fix" a couple of others that I want to publish. Oh, and I'm teaching myself Latin. You know, easy shit. Plus, I've been trying to lead the glorious Roman armies into Egypt and conquer them, but that's been slowed a bit by Egypt's development of atomic weapons. Civilization is very much historically accurate, why do you ask?

But, because I've had so much free time on my hands, I decided I should coach my son's soccer team. Because nothing says "I've got WAY TOO MUCH TIME ON MY HANDS" like directing a bunch of 7- and 6-year old kids to run around like fools on a field of grass every Saturday.

I had originally signed up to be the coach in the beginning of the season, but someone screwed up (probably me, but I'll never take the blame!) and had me set for Wednesday night practices. This, at the time, was impossible because I had to work at the book store on Wednesday nights, pretty much every week. When I told the people in the league this, they said fine, found someone else, and then, for reasons that are still a mystery to me, rescheduled my son to be on a team that practiced Thursday nights.

Oh, and they made me assistant coach. Without letting me know.

So, the first Thursday rolls around, and I'm not there (because I'm working two jobs) and my wife is fielding a thousand angry phone calls from people wondering why the fuck no coach has shown up to teach their kid how to kick a ball. Because, let's be honest, Under-8 Youth Soccer is not exactly the UEFA cup; kicking is about all they do.

I wrote to the league commissioner, wondering what the fuck was up, and he said that, since I had expressed interest in coaching before, he thought I would positively love being an assistant.

Now, I positively love tits. I positively love blow jobs. And I positively love rum. Coaching soccer? Not so much my thing.


Oh, sure, I played soccer. I was good at soccer. But, when I was playing, I was a goalie. I went through goalie drills. I didn't go through all the drills for midfielders and forwards and defensemen. Yes, I knew what they were, but I couldn't really teach them.

So, the commish took me off being an assistant coach. There was much rejoicing.

And then...the coach quit. You could also read this as "And then...the universe decided to have itself (another) good laugh at my expense (once more)."

Reluctantly, I kind of took over the coaching of the team. I mean, someone had to think of the children, right? For once? Since I had been through the "coaches clinic" (three hours of my life which I will never get back and for which I was not nearly drunk enough), I figured I could step up and help out. It was...almost...fun. Some of the kids actually showed up to practice. Some of them came to games, too. It was...actually...nice. I made friends with some of the other coaches on other teams. I actually got along with the referees--mostly because they were high school kids who were volunteering their time. Also, they were pretty cool and they weren't douchebags with the calls.

There is one guy, though, who is an A-Prime cocksucker. He's bald and I'd wager 2-1 that he's got a dick like a sparrow poking out from between his thighs. He also only calls handballs on the kids wearing the green jerseys, despite the fact that one time I actually saw a midfielder grab a ball and spike it to the ground like a fucking volleyball and play on. Since we were up several goals, I was able to contain my rage and not get asked to leave the sidelines.

I still mentally insulted several generations of his ancestry, convincing myself that they were all tiny-dicked, bald cocksuckers. Apples don't fall far from trees, you know.

I was worried that the kids would kind of suck, like not skills-wise, but be little assholes. Because I'm crotchety like that. Get off my lawn and all that.

Pleasantly, the kids are all pretty nice; it's the parents that I can't stand. They talk about "Soccer Moms" and "NASCAR dads" in political circles, but I haven't seen any of those. Mostly I've had to deal with Douchebag Dads and Methlab Moms.


One of the first practices, I had the kids trying to pass the ball back and forth to each other, about five yards apart. I looked over, and one of the dads was on the sidelines...doing push-ups. Uh...you see...he was...bored...I guess...and...yeah.

He's since stopped with the upper-body exercises to pass time; instead, he sits on the sidelines dicking around with his iphone throughout practice. Fine. Whatever. Just keep your douchery away from me, sir.

Overall, it's been fun. And, this past weekend, my kid almost scored a goal. He even started having fun and said that he wishes soccer season would never end. Ha, little scamp...I see someone has been getting into daddy's rum supplies.

And now my daughter thinks that she might give soccer another go. Joyous.

I just wish that the parents would remember to bring snacks for the coach, too. It's a little embarrassing to be standing there with my mouth watering over the rice crispy treats and Capri suns. Cherry is my favorite flavor (hint hint).

If only I had a second source of income where I could purchase such luxuries as marshmallow and puffed-rice snack treats along with foil envelopes of flavored juice drinks...

Thank You, South Africa!

Today is the World Cup final! No matter what, we're getting a new champion! Someone who has never hoisted the trophy before will do it for the very first time, and that's exciting.

Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net

On behalf of the writers, editors and artists at Vita Brevis, I want to thank South Africa for hosting a marvelous tournament! Sure, you're six or seven hours ahead of us, thus making some of the times of the matches a little difficult to plan around, but you've done a marvelous job hosting. While others (*ahem* the French) hated your vuvuzelas, I loved them. I hope that Brazil can provide something equally as entertaining and annoying in 2014!

And just think...when this is done, it's only six weeks until college football season arrives! Hooray!!!!

Nostalgic Patriotism

I took last Friday off, which is why there's a lapse in the Latin lesson. That, and I was busy having sex on Thursday night and, while I felt plenty inspired, I also felt plenty breathless. Not to mention warm and fuzzy, sweaty and spent, drunk on the ecstasy of a post-coital glow.

So, I took Friday off.

I took Friday off so that I could watch the World Cup match. I spent ninety minutes sitting on the edge of my seat, hanging on every cross, tackle, corner and free kick. I went from ecstatic to angry in a fraction of a second. I bemoaned our lack of defense in the first half and praised our beautifully synced offense in the second half.



I love soccer. For a moment, I felt akin to our Continental brethren, taking time off work just to watch a soccer match. Sure, there wasn't any drinking, and there was very little singing, but I still felt a connection with millions of other people around the world for a little bit. I even wondered how long it would be before someone blamed the Bush administration for the terrible call that negated Edu's goal, leaving us in a 2-2 draw. I mean, if it worked for why Chicago's political corruption and violent streets lost the Olympics, it certainly must work for terrible officiating in the World Cup, right?

I won't be taking today off, however, even though I want to sit in a bar packed full of dozens of other soccer fans hanging on every play as our eyes dart back and forth between the U.S. match and the English match. Two screens, two outcomes, four teams wondering how it will play out, millions of fans ready to celebrate or bemoan the results.

Since my company has a distinct French flair about it, they relax the rules slightly during World Cup time, even if Les Bleus are the talk of the town for all the wrong reasons. I'm just wondering if they can set up a room where we can watch both the England match and the U.S. match. Nirvana, splayed out on separate projection screens.

Something strange happens whenever the World Cup rolls around: I get nostalgically patriotic.



One of the reasons why I love soccer is I played it in high school. My friend Nate talked me out onto the pitch one afternoon. At the time, soccer was a club sport in Indiana, so anyone could come and play. Practices were considered meetings, and games were...well, activities, I guess. I had never played it other than in Freshman gym class, when I learned that heading the ball--especially an older ball, that was made out of concrete and allowed to harden to the consistency of granite--was a painful experience.

However, when I went out onto the pitch, and ran my first line down the right side of the field, I was instantly and rapaciously in love. It was exhausting, I was soaked both with my sweat and with the misty rain that hung in the air, but I was a soccer convert.

I would go on to play several summers with some friends at various parks and pitches around my home, either at my high school or up the road in Fort Wayne. For a while, I would play over the lunch hour at Notre Dame, but a combination of shin splints, fatigue and my advisor being none-too-pleased that I disappeared for an hour plus during the middle of the day three days a week--and then had the audacity to want to eat lunch, too!--ended my playing career. I played a couple more intramural games for the chemistry department at ND...but that ended badly, thanks to an obnoxious bitch's comments. Anyway, not to toot my own horn (I do have a wife, after all, plus I'm not as flexible as I once was), but I was a pretty decent player. At least by rural Indiana standards. I was even better once I finally got medication to help get my asthma under control and I could build up stamina!

I don't want to say that I'm a naturally-gifted athlete, because anyone who has looked at me recently would burst into tears laughing at that notion, but I have always been able to pick up a game fairly easily. Continuing and sustaining that interest has always been the difficu--hold on, gotta go check Facebook for any updates.

But, when I watch the U.S. competing in the World Cup, I like to sit and fantasize. If I had been given an opportunity to play soccer sometime before my junior year of high school, I think I could have excelled. Could I have made the U.S. team? I don't know. For a while, it seemed like if you had American blood in you and could kick a ball, you were on the team. God knows I certainly have the zeal for it.

This is when my fantasies really start taking over. If I was good enough to play for the U.S. team, maybe I could have played in Europe--certainly not the EPL, but one of the lower leagues perhaps. I could have toured the cities and nations I wanted to, seen the sights and enjoyed myself. I could have traveled with the U.S. team, as well. I could have sated the travel and tourism bug that has always been with me. Oh, what could have been. Nostalgia.

And, when I watch our side, I feel a deep sense of pride for the team. They're representing our nation, and though most people here ignore them--I won't get into my thoughts on that topic, mostly because it will probably offend--they're still out there, playing and trying to earn respect. Perhaps not in the eyes of their countrymen who are more content to sit back and slurp Busch Light and watch stock cars driving in an oval for four hours. But, hey, soccer is so boring, right?

/tangent

But, win or lose, or draw, I still feel proud to watch the team compete. Herein rests the patriotism. It's an honor to represent your country in a World Cup. It's an honor that, nowadays, I would have loved to experience.

Too bad the rest of the country doesn't feel the same.

Let the Games Begin

Okay, I haven't done a sports post in a long time, party because some people were whining about it, and partly because it's baseball and MLS season here. While I love soccer, not many people give a damn about it here in the states, and pretty much the rest of the world plays soccer during the winter. So, there you go. The soccer of any import isn't being played now, and what am I going to do with baseball? Tell you how the Cubs will find a new and inventive way of screwing it up this year? Place odds on whom the next Bartman will be? With football season just over the horizon, I thought maybe I'd do a few quick little stories that have popped up recently. You might have heard a few of them. One of them is about a guy named Brett. Screw you, Milwaukee Bait and switch, baby. The first entry is about the Cubs, mostly because they're rolling off a four game sweep in which they dominated the Milwaukee Brewers. I really don't have too much against Milwaukee, and despite the title, I kind of like them (Jesus, they're the Brewers...how can you truly hate them? Their mascot makes beer and happiness!), and they play in one of the finest ballparks in the majors. Still, screw you, Milwaukee. Nothing like seeing your hopes disappear in one second and suddenly turn into five games back in another. I think the true joy in all of this is that I read some obnoxious White Sox fan talking about how, after the series in which the central leaders in both leagues were playing the second place teams, only one of the Chicago teams would still be in the lead. I guess he was right. So, I guess I should be saying, "Screw you, stupid White Sox blogger!"

I'm a Sports Radio Whore It's true. I'll admit it. And here's why. All summer long, I have faithfully been listening to the two AM stations here in the Triangle, 850 the Buzz and 620 the Bull. The big draw was 850 had Bomani Jones covering their afternoon drive home time slot, and I've been enjoying his take on things since he was writing for the World Wide Leader. Well, now he's down here, and I've been loving it. Unfortunately, Friday is his last day, and August 4th we get ACC Douchebag David Glenn back. It wouldn't be so bad if Glenn wasn't a horrific ACC Homer (I get it, he loves it, yay for him), but his voice is annoying AND he asks hard-hitting questions to coaches and players along the lines of "If you were a tree, would your leaves be green? Unless of course you were a pine tree, then would your needles be green? And, if you don't want to talk about the color of your leaves and/or needles, feel free to tell some other cutesy story, and I'll guffaw like a senile old man with my teeth in my pocket." The biggest thing that gets me about this asscock is he's willing to give Roy Williams and Mike Krzyzewski as pass on every little negative blip on their radar, but he talks about what an asshole Bob Knight is. Yeah, I get it. Coach Knight was a dick. But you know what? He's also the winningest coach not named Pat Summit in NCAA basketball. So, eat dick already.
Couple the fact that David Glenn comes back with the obnoxious Billy-show run by Mark Packer, son of nefarious h8er Billy Packer, that plays in the afternoon on 620, and I start thinking of things I'd rather be doing than listening to sports talk radio around here, like having my testicles pulled slowly out of my nose with a crochet hook, for starters. Ugh.
Then, however, I turned over to the FM radio show today just in time to hear that they've picked up a contract with Westwood One radio. Do you know who is on Westwood One radio for football? That's right. Notre Freaking Dame. The guy announcing this promised every Notre Dame game every week. I about had to pull over and rub one out right there. Of course, 850 and 620 have to counter, so they are carrying...Duke football and North Carolina high school football games. Wow. The high school football games will be more interesting. So, there. Guess what, 99.9 the Fan? You've just picked up a new faithful listener. And you didn't even have to put on fishnets.

Speaking of Billy Packer... CBS got wise and told that antiquated curmudgeon to hit the road. Billy, of course, complained about how they got it wrong, declared it was over, and then shuffled off to eat his bran flake ice cream cone with extra prune. Good riddance.

Speaking of Good Riddance... Jesus, Red Sox fans, why did it take you this long? Let me back up. I passionately hate the Red Sox, mostly because the only Red Sox fans I've met in real life redefined the word "obnoxious". I believe it now means, "fat, ugly, and loud in a ball cap with a red 'B'". Of course, I've only ever met one Red Sox fan I can stand...probably because he kicks so much ass...mine, too, I'll assume, if I keep ragging on his team and 'nation'. But, don't worry, Red Sox nation, there is another group of fans who take obnoxious to a whole new level. Sorry, Hap. Anyway, it seems the annual drama has been shipped out West. The fact that Theo Epstein could convince anyone to take that mess of his hands is a major coup. I thought it was a deal when the Cubs dumped Sammy Sosa after his little tantrum...and Manny's been throwing these for years. Good riddance, I'd say. The mess that is Manny Ramirez was traded to the Dodgers today as the trading deadline came to an end in major league baseball. You got a decent pitcher outfielder (sorry, I was confusing him with Zach Duke) out of the deal, Red Sox nation, but I imagine the sudden relief of the migraine disappearing is better than Jason Bay. Unfortunately, David Ortiz is never going to see another hittable pitch in a clutch situation, but there you have it.

Stop me if you've heard this one... Danica Patrick picked a fight with another driver in the pits recently. This one with fellow female driver, Milka Duno. However, Milka, not having to abide by the by-laws of chivalry, threw a towel in Danica's face...twice...and then told her to leave the pits. This, of course, is not the first time Danica's picked a fight with someone. Famously, in the Indianapolis 500, after she wrecked out...again...she got out of her car and stormed down toward Ryan Briscoe's pits to confront him. She's had a history of punching other drivers--all male--knowing full well that they can't hit her back, and then when the guy talks about it, she insults his manhood. Also, ever notice how none of these wrecks are ever Danica's fault. I guess that's what you get when you have a bitch storming around with a false sense of entitlement. She keeps talking about making the jump to NASCAR, and I'd love to see it, because I can't really see Chocolate Myers taking her shit for too long before he hauls off and knocks her jaw loose.

More False Sense of Entitlement I see Michelle Wie is taking some more solid career advice from Daddy Dearest and skipping the major event on the LPGA tour--the tour on which she was won exactly zero events--to once again compete in a PGA tour. This will be her fourteenth attempt to play with the boys. She's made the cut in exactly zero of these competitions, but continues to play in them. If you'll pardon me, I'm going to go tell my daughter to enjoy being a little girl for as long as she wants. Look, I'm all for equality and all, but, seriously, Michelle...maybe you should focus on winning an LPGA event rather than just trying to make the cut on the PGA tour. If that's too much for you, maybe you can focus on signing the right scorecard for once.

A Man Named Brett George Brett, that is. We passed the 25th anniversary of the "Pine Tar Incident", wherein Brett showed the world that he was crazy. If not crazy, then he showed the world what a crazy face looks like, at least one without make-up and nasty scars on the cheeks. In case you forgot about it (or weren't born yet), basically Ole George used the sticky too high up on his bat and was called out after hitting a go-ahead two-run home run. His was the last out of the game. George came tearing out of the dugout to confront the umpires in a scene that was played over and over again during the opening scenes of This Week in Baseball throughout the entirety of my youth.

Purple Number 4? So, Brett Favre is...quasi-retired? What a fucking circus this has turned out to be. At first, I was like, "Brett, just walk away." But then the whole thing came out that Ted Thompson, GM for the Packers, and Mike McCarthy, head coach for the Packers, pushed Favre into retiring. If that's the case, then they should either let him come back, or outright release him. If it's false, and Brett really wanted to retire, then he should stay gone.
However, I can't understand the Packers' position here. They are rock solid, dead set on Aaron Rogers taking over in Green Bay. McCarthy has said there's no quarterback controversy...Aaron is our guy. Wow. Versus a hall-of-famer who owns ever passing record? Really? I mean...every team in the league has quarterback competitions, except Green Bay, Indianapolis and New England. To tell me that Aaron Rogers is on par with Peyton Manning and Tom Brady is fucking ridiculous. I mean, you've seen this guy on the field, right? Not to mention, he's a Jeff Tedford quarterback. Those guys always turn out to be great NFL stars, right Akili Smith and Joey Harrington?
Yeah, it's gotten ugly and comical, but my favorite is when Favre was going to call the Packers' bluff and show up at training camp. Thompson talked him out of it, saying "If you show up at camp, Brett, I'll lose my job." Okay, yeah, because when you're not making the playoffs this year with Rogers, and Favre is leading some team to the playoffs, your head isn't going end up on a pike in Green Bay. Good luck with that, buddy.
Honestly, if Brett ends up in Minnesota, I will root for him to beat the Packers. I know, my loyalties should not lie with one man, but the Packers bungle-fucked this long ago. I want to see Rogers fall flat on his face and I want to see McCarthy eating shit pie. Sauerkraut is optional.
Check it out. I just switched allegiances again...and still no fishnets. Although, I'm thinking someone out there might need to put on a pair to help cement my ties to the Purple People Eaters.

I think that should just about do it for alienating every one of my readers.

Happy Leap Day, Everyone!

Today is February 29th, which signifies that this year has both a Summer Olympics and a Presidential Election! Oh, yeah, and it's Leap Year, one of those years when February gets to shuffle off its inferiority complex for a single day, which only happens 25% of the time.

Historically, this is the day that Columbus convinced the Native Americans that he had the power of a god and could make the moon disappear from the sky for a few hours. He then tossed several blankets filled with small pox at the natives and took their gold and anything else he could find (like their dignity).

Also, Hattie McDaniel won an academy award in 1940 for her roll in Gone with the Wind, making her the first African-American to win and Oscar.

A few years later, Dwight D. Eisenhower announced on February 29th, 1956 that he would seek a second term in office. People around the country declare that they like him. Again.

Not much else seems to happen on this day. It's like it pops up once every four years or something. Sheesh.

Also, today is the birthday of my childhood friend, Chris Long (not the dude from UVa also known as "Howie's Kid"). Happy Birthday, Chris, you're 8 years old. Hope you get that bike you've always wanted. Take heart! In another 32 years, you'll be old enough to drive! In 40 years, you can buy smokes, lottery tickets and porn, and in 60 years, you can have a drink.

He shares a birthday with Carolina Hurricanes (ah, local flavor) goaltender Cam Ward, New England Revolution forward and U.S. Team stud Taylor Twellman, sax man Jimmy Dorsey (not to be confused with Texas gunslinger Jimmy Dorsey), and Pope Paul III, who rocked a seriously badass beard.

So go out, enjoy the day, and be sure to tell February you love it, because it needs this propping up from time to time.

It's Nice to See Some Things Don't Change

To the Fat Coach who wasn't wearing a red shirt this time: You're still an asshat.

If you ripped into my kids like that while PLAYING A GAME, I'd kick you in the nuts. Hard. In fact, while you were on the ground, I'd back over your nuts with my car.

That is, assuming you have nuts. I imagine you must have a pretty tiny penis in order to derive so much joy from belitting five- and six-year olds while they play soccer. You are a douchebag. I'm glad we beat you. I only wish we would have beaten you by a bigger score.

Again, Coach Doug proves that he's the better man by taking the high road and not putting our best offensive players on the line and crushing the other team. In fact, he probably did the right thing. God only knows how many lashes each of the children must have had to endure for the four goals we scored against them.

Sadly, we dropped our second game against a team that, I felt, we should have beaten. I think we were a little tired from the earlier game, and some kids had a big-ish lunch between the games, thus causing some heavy legs during the course of the game. But, oh well. It was a beautiful day and, aside from losing, the kids had fun.

And that's what it's about. Take a memo, Coach Douchebag. It's not about making up for what puberty didn't give you.

Still a Bunch of Savages out There

So, tonight's episode of Asshat Theatre is the coach of the other team who wore red-and-white. Now, this guy wasn't as big as asshat at the team we played a couple of weeks ago where he was chewing the ass out of the little kids who didn't play hard enough. No, tonight's Asshat Award goes to the red-and-white team's coach who allowed the kid on his team to push three of our players down...three of our players who weren't even on the ball.

Kudos to the kid, I guess, who figured that he could take it out on everyone else that...well, I don't know what the kid was thinking. In true Zinedine Zidane fashion, the kid was clever enough to do it off the ball so that the referee wouldn't see it. However, bigger kudos go to Coach Doug for handling the situation as best as he could. Obviously, the asshat coach of the other team wasn't going to do anything (in fact, all of his players were pushing, but it's a little more understandable when you're pushing to keep position on the ball...that's all well and good, says I, and shows toughness, especially when it's a girl doing it and she's not taking any shit off the boys), and the ref wasn't seeing it because he was watching the ball. So Coach Doug finally called the kid on it and then, with the other team close by, called over our entire team and said, "I will sit you down if you push other kids like that. That's not how we play the game. Right?" And the kids all said "right".

Kudos also to the red-and-white teams fans. They travel well. I'm not sure where they're from, but they were loud and very supportive of their team. Which is really what this is all about.

Kudos also go to Coach Doug for turning on his wife and telling her "Listen, I'll handle the ref and the on field stuff." He effectively told her to shut her piehole, which is something that's needed to be done for a while. In one of our other games (where we ended up tying), she constantly ran her mouth at the ref and basically, I'm thinking, cost us the game because he wasn't calling anything for us the rest of the night. For that old wound, she gets the asshat of the night runner-up award. Should the coach for the red-and-white team fail in his duties (or pose for Penthouse), she gets the crown.

I should say that the coach for the red-and-white team did substitute the offending player pretty much immediately and I don't think he played anymore. However, he still gets the asshat award for not nipping that shit in the bud earlier.

Oh, and major kudos to Brennan, for scoring the game winning goal. Not only did he score his first for the season, but he kept chasing the ball all the way to the goal, a failing in all of our players so far this season. Good job, Brennan!

Bunch of Savages in This Town

So, I've bragged about my robot genius when I was coaching the soccer team the other night. Deep down, I was glad we won, right? Because the kids feel good about winning and all, and everyone got to play and that makes everyone happy. But I didn't really want to win. It didn't control my soul and make me plan on luring the other team into a dark cavern with a huge spider living in it to ensure I got what I wanted. I just wanted to have 10 happy kids around me at the end of the night, and winning made sure of that.

However, we played a team tonight that I really, really was glad we beat.

Now, it's one thing for someone like The General, Robert Montgomery Knight or Robot Genius Charlie Weis to get fired up and yell at their players to try and get them fired up. It's another when you're out there chewing the ass of a 5-year-old girl off because she's not doing what you think she should be doing. It doesn't make you a legendary coach nor a Robot Genius. It makes you a prick.

It also isn't cool that, when your defense gets beat, you whine about it to the refs that it was off-sides, especially when there are no off-sides. And then you're in clear violation of the rules by keeping kids in for the whole game as well as keeping one goalie per half (supposed to change them ever quarter). That makes you a whiny bitch.

And then you rip into your team for being out of position, bearing in mind that they're only 5 and 6 years old. That makes you an asshat. What's worse is when you have a goon the size of the Colossus of Rhodes out there, running up and down the field the whole game, pushing the other, smaller players off the ball and then you have the balls to ask if we're playing a team of 5- and 6-year olds, and where's the girls, this is supposed to be a co-rec league. That makes you a cocksucker. Especially since it was my daughter out there playing and you were insulting.

I could go on about your lack of sportsmanship and courtesy at the end of the game where you didn't have your team shake our team's hands. I could go on about you setting picks on our players when we're driving on offense, effectively turning the ball over. I could go on about how you're a fuckstain, but I won't. Fortunately, we won the game 1-0, on a goal so late there was no way you could "goon it up" and play for a tie. You prick.

So, coach in the red shirt and white hat, here's a message to you. Just be glad that Doug was coaching tonight. Cause if my robot genius ass would have been out there, and you had mouthed off to me, your team would have been buried by ten goals. And my best player would have drilled you in the balls when you didn't move your fat ass out of the way of one of our drives.

You've been fairly warned for next soccer season...

Quick Thoughts

Just a few thoughts that ran through my head over the past few days. I'll have a more full review of the beer fest later (it was a blast), but in the meantime, here's this.

- I've pretty much decided that, if I can either get someone to watch Thomas for me or if he settles down a little bit, I'll probably coach Madeleine's soccer team next fall. Maybe this spring, if she wants to do spring soccer. I think Coach Doug's son will be moving on to the 7 & 8 year olds next year, so that would leave no one to coach what is now her team (apparently, there's no guarantee that you'll get the same players next year...harumph). Anyway, I guess I'm mad with power. My robot genius mind needs to teach kids.

- Joe Girardi interviewed with the Cubs. Offer him a contract. Now.

- If you discover a half of a watermelon in the back of your fridge that you forgot about, don't assume those big, black, sunken-in areas are seeds. That's probably mold eating away at the flesh of the fruit.

- There's not much more disgusting than mold growing on hot-dog chili. That's literally a "pick yer poison" matchup right there.

- I was reading up today about who would win in a fight between Brock Samson and Wolverine. Naturally, it's Brock Samson. Only Jesus can defeat Brock Samson, but only just barely.

- Speaking of Brock Samson, don't look him on the internet while at work. Apparently, there's a porn starlet whose last name is Samson, and her big old fakies pop up on the screen. Just a warning.

- No, seriously, get Girardi a contract.

- College basketball starts this weekend. Why the hell must the two best sports in the world coincide like this? Can't we push basketball back just a hair, so that March Madness becomes April Madness, and it takes up more of baseball?

- I really need to update my beer list.

- In fact, I need to update my webpage as a whole. Expect major overhauls within the month.

- I need a digital camera to better track my drunkenness at beer fests. And other worthy pictures.

- I've decided not to do NaNo this year. I was going to try and slam together the finish of The Boar War in order to get to the NaNo project. However, Boar War is coming along nicely, and I don't want to rush it. I'd rather take my time and do Boar War right and try to shop it. If that takes up part of November, sobeit. Overall, it'll make me a happier person.

- Never, ever, drink Steel Reserve. Ever.

That is all.

Me = Robot Genius

Yeah, that's right. I stepped onto the field this evening as the interim head coach while Coach Doug was away in Michigan. I figured my goal was to make sure everyone played, no one had hurt feelings, and we'd try our best. I wanted to see if more people could score goals than our normal goal scorers.

After a scoreless first half, I decided enough of this and put forth our most potent offensive line out front and two of our soundest defenders on the field with a pretty good goalie. Sure, it's probably how we should have STARTED the game, but remember, back then I was in let's make sure everyone plays and has a good time. Nothing says good time like winning.

(As an upswing, the fourth quarter featured plenty of substitutions in which everyone on the team played...and I tried to teach our defense how to "stall").

My tactics payed off well.

We scored two goals in the third quarter and topped it off with another in the fourth. Then I packed the defense in around the goal and kept them out of the goalie box. I even almost had one of the boys who has never scored a goal before score. Almost. I think he was suprised that my robot genius mind had placed him in front of the goal so wide open, so he just kind of tried to quickly kick at the ball and it didn't go toward the net real hard and the opposing goalie scooped it up. I should add in here that she was really good.

So. There you have it. I'm 1-0 in my career as a head coach. Not bad for an interim who had never done it before.

Now, do you know what the worst part of coaching 5-6 year olds is? The coach is on the field and runs up and down the field with the team. All game. The only restriction is that you can't go in the 18-yard box. Which I forgot. Fortunately, the referee was very nice and didn't punish me or throw me out. Some jackass from the other team mouthed off about it. Which is why, even though they are only 5-6 years old, I didn't feel bad by trotting our version of the greatest show on turf.

Most importantly, the kids had a good time. All of the parents told me I did a good job. I hope that I also taught them a little something about spacing, since I know that two of the kids picked up on what I was trying to tell them about standing in front of the goal when everyone crowded around the ball in the box. I also tried to spread them out on corners and free kicks, to optimize our spacing on the field and confuse the opponent. And there was much less stealing the ball from your own teammate tonight. It was almost like we were a team. Which for 5 and 6 years olds, is a major accomplishment.

I'm awaiting that phone call from the United State Soccer Federation. Next stop for me: South Africa, 2010.

Updates? Updates. Who needs updates? You do.

Ah, so I've been silent for some time. I think I posted once in September, and that was just about puke clean up duty. That's always pleasant.

So, the story goes like this. I changed projects at the end of August. I'm still employed at SCYNEXIS (apparently it's spelled wrongly if you don't capitalize EVERYTHING), and I'm still loving it, as much as anyone can love a job which revolves around chemistry (that fickle bitch). I just changed projects on which I am working.

The joy of changing a project, however, is that I have to wrap up everything from the old project and hand it off to the appropriate authorities and all. It also means I had a shitload of paperwork/deskwork/computerwork to do. Essentially, I would come in, sit at the computer, and start pulling apart the multiplets and splitting constants that I had to report on my NMRs. Whee. And type up all these reports and how I made stuff and all that. Serious eyestrain issues here. It was not the type of thing where I would want to come home and, after doing the fatherly family guy thing, sit in front of my computer and type more stuff. So, I had about a two week period where I didn't feel like writing much. It got me out of the groove. I suck. I know. I admit this. It's just how I am.

I also got deeply involved in this whole home improvement project. I've essentially gutted my bathroom downstairs and redone it. New floor, new crapper, new sink, new closet door, new wall coverings, new light fixture, new mirror, paint, floorboards, moulding, wainscoting. The whole deal. It looks nice, now. It's been a pain to deal with in between. So, if you ever come to visit me, you know where you'll be pissing. There's even some fine artwork on the walls. And you will admire my handiwork.

Let's also toss in that I'm now a soccer mom. I take my daughter to soccer practice and try to entertain Thomas so that he doesn't run out onto the field during games or practice. It didn't work one night, and he went running into the goal while all the kids were shooting at it. Predictably, he got drilled right in the face. He's alright. I think he's learned his lesson. I've learned mine. I have to be a better goalie, no matter how damned tired I am. Anyway, we're 1-1-1 on the season. There's no overtimes, so we end in ties. We've also been head-butt free, so we're one-up on France.

In case you didn't notice, football season also started.
And I have killed six mice over the past two days.
Yes, I've been distracted.

However, tonight, I picked up the last chapter on which I had worked. I was right near the end, anyway. It was one of those chapters where Sleepy Karl took over and I couldn't finish it in one night. So, I finished it tonight. I feel better about that. So, Chapter fourteen is done (it used to be fifteen, but I switched it...seemed more appropos, timing-wise). Chapter fifteen is up next, along with 13. Both are achievable. I still have 4, 7 and 10 which I am chipping away upon. So, there's plenty to keep me busy.

Anyway, Sleepy Karl is taking over again, so I'm going to wrap this up. Here's the work:

Word Count: 62137
Page Count: 206
12 chapters complete. Hooray.

Happy Yom Kippur! (I'm late, I know, but I started this post on Monday. Honest).

Four Plotlines in Search of an Ending

I'll admit this up front: I don't know how to end this story.

I know who lives and who dies. I know how the final battle that provides the climax for the entire story is going to play out. I know who does what and when and where and why and how. It's that final chapter I have planned once the action comes to a head that I cannot seem to pin down. I've got a couple of different things in mind, but I'm unsure how to tie up in a nice, tidy little "they're happy for now, but not for ever after" bow. It's very odd. I have all the chapters leading up to it planned out (mostly). By that, I mean I know who is going where and what they'll do. For the most part, I think I'm done introducing characters. There will be a few more that pop up from time to time, especially among the humans as their political push for power play themselves out (Dr. Egan, eat your alliterative heart out).

It's just kind of frustrating. It hasn't slowed me down. In fact, I want to stay up later to keep writing so I can keep going further. I want to get there badly. I haven't felt like this while writing in a long time. Perhaps it is refreshing to write short, neat little one-shot, stand-alone stories like this. Long, grueling series may keep your readers buying your books just to see how the story plays out, but after a while, the author can get sick and tired of certain characters. Not that I hate my Hundred Kings Saga cast (on the contrary, I quite enjoy a few of the new charactes I've dreamed up and can't wait to include in the cast...the fact that suddenly Lord Greyskye is no longer an only child will make for some very interesting character development...which is important since a lot of the religious background of these people hinges on him...is that a teaser enough?). It's just that sometimes I would be like "Damn, another Montgomery chapter...why did I make them have five kids? AND then start getting married? Thank God this series only comprises one generation!"

Anyway. Talk about digression.

Instead, let's talk Boars and Wars.

I set for myself some rather aggressive goals (I thought). Let's see how we're doing:

Finished chapter 11. I am now currently working on 4 and 13 simultaneously...but a lot more on 4 right now. It's time to build that backstory up more.

Started three new chapters tonight. Chapters 14, 15 and 16. 14 and 16 are in the infancy stages. I got about 1/3 of 15 done. For some reason, I really like this chapter. Once it's done, I'll probably focus a bit more on 16. It, too, has some good promise for development of plot and intercharacter relationships. Or at least interactions. Some characters are going to soon discover that they must rely on other characters. Whether they like it or not.

I'm hoping to get 15 done tomorrow night. I have most of my chores done around the house, so hopefully after the midweek mopping of the kitchen floor, I can sit down and crank out some pain and punishment in literary form. After that, I hope to finish 13 either Thursday or Friday.

Now, let's look at the numbers:

Word Count: 60073 (I think the goal for the week, if I remember right, was 65,000)
Page Count: 200

I'm rather proud of myself.

I went and signed Madeleine up for soccer this evening. They asked me if I wanted to help coach. I thought about it, but I'm going to have to take care of Thomas while we are at soccer practices and games. So, until he gets older and a bit more manageable (how I'm going to keep him off the field while sissy is playing, I'll never know...), I'm not going to be coaching anyone. Besides, I played the one position on the field that is mostly useless in youth soccer (as I understand it): goalie. Besides, I'm sure 5 and 6 year olds don't want to learn about angles and how to avoid corner kicks as opposed to throw ins. They want to play with flowers and bugs they find on the field.

I'm going to have to learn to squelch my competitive side...fortunately, it's soccer and not basketball. I'd be in real trouble then...

Bella Italia!!!

I watch and watch and watch college basketball for four months. I watch such games at ODU vs. VCU. I watch Championship Week and Pre-Championship week and Bracket Busters and everything else faithfully. More faithfully than I watch my favorite shows (though, I am pretty good about catching up with Mike Rowe's latest trip through disgustingness on Dirty Jobs), I might add. I consider myself to be somewhat of a knowledgable person about college basketball.

This year, in the office pool, I got no teams in the final four and finished in the bottom ten of the entire thing.

I'm marginally familiar with World Cup soccer (I do love to watch and root for the underdogs, just like in any sport). I know the strategies, the rules, the appeal of the sport. It's great. I love soccer (or football, just so I don't upset anyone). However, I'm far from an expert in the field (I do know which teams have actually won the cup...but not when all their championships were). I know a lot of the names (moreso for the American team) but, I wouldn't say that if Michael Owen walked up to me on the street and asked for a fag if I would know him. Until three days ago, I didn't even know that South Africa was hosting the next cup. I'm not a soccer fanatic, but it's fun and I do get emotionally invested in these games (though I refuse to feel shame for the American team's poor showing this time 'round. They still made it. Where was Canada's team? Or Belgium's? Huh? Right. In Canada and Belgium, that's where).

This, of course, means that I have won the office pool for the world cup. In fact, I've got such a commanding lead on the next guy that, even if my team (Italy) loses, I still win.

Now, normally, I root for the U.S. And after the U.S., I root for the British teams. I always pull for England (I pull for us over England, thankyouverymuch) and if Scotland and/or Ireland manage to make it in (a la 1994) then I pull for them. I also pull for Spain because they always seem to get shafted in some way. Come Sunday, though, I'll be pulling for good ole Italia. That's right. Those dark-skinned, dark-haired angels of beauty have raked me in somwhere around $200. I've declared a moratorium on Italian jokes, the words "whop" and "daygo". I'll even drink a glass of chianti (but hold the fava beans, please) if they so desire me to. For you see, I'm easy. Give me $200 and I'll root for your team (this includes you, Jim Hendry). And yes, I do realize I won the office pool because les francais upset Brasilia, thus knocking out most of the competition.

Maybe I should use that money to buy Bruce Arena a clue as to how to play defense against the Czechs...