2012 Qatar?

Initially when FIFA announced that Qatar had been awarded the 2022 World Cup I was upset. As an American my displeasure stemmed from hoping to see the Cup come back to the States. That and to be fair I wasn't really sure where specifically Qatar was. But as time has passed, I have become increasingly agitated by the decision. I sincerely wish all the best to Qatar. The game is more important than any single location that may host the Cup; and as a true fan of the game it would be petty of me to wish ill to those that have the honor of hosting. But there are several fundamental issues with this selection, which in their summation drastically question the wisdom of the decision FIFA has made. Publicly, FIFA has stated they are aware of the risks and in granting Qatar the Cup they are taking a calculated risk. But there are certain risks, which no amount of money can overcome. These gross miscalculations are as follows:

The Environment:
First and most obviously it is hot in Qatar; but really hot in June and July when the Cup is played. Average summer highs are 106F (41C). But rest assured it is a dry heat. Clearly this is an issue the Qatar bid must have addressed. Their solution is a series of solar-powered air conditioned stadia. That would be fine except how do you get to the cool stadia from your hotel? And if you look even more closely at the designs, most are ringed by seas of asphalt for the parking. So now you have thousands of spectators parking in the desert being asked to walk across the hot asphalt to reach the cool stadium. If they don't pass out getting there the temperature shock in the stadium will do them in. Secondly, where will the teams train? Are there going to be secondary air conditioned training facilities to accommodate all the teams, cause I am confident the English won't be hitting the training pitch in those conditions. These conditions are so horrid members of Qatar's own Confederation have suggested moving the tournament to December.
Qatar did a nice job of demonstrating how sustainable this game can be. The air conditioned stadia powered by the sun. The compact size of the country (about the size of Phoenix) allows all the games to take place in a small area. Now if only the English language had a word to describe this...oh wait it does...greenwashing. The South Africa World Cup attracted around 400,000 visitors. All of these visitors need places to stay, shop, and eat. And all of these places need to be air conditioned. So you are going to see a 30% increase in energy demand alone just for the visitors. Then you plan on dismantling your stadia and sending them around the world, thus consuming yet more energy to ship this behemoths. All I have to say to FIFA is if you thought a tournament in the desert in July sounds smart you should have come to the Far West Regional Tournament in Vegas. The players cleats were melting...MELTING!

Human Rights:
In relation to many Middle Eastern states, Qatar is quite liberal. But is it willing to challenge their cultural ideology to welcome the world within their borders? After announcing the bid their was concern raised by Israel, who feared their nationals would not be permitted to enter the country. Currently, persons with any visible connection to Israel on their passport are denied entry to the country. Women have also voiced concern. Their dress must remain "modest" (covered legs and sleeved shirts). But more importantly was the gender bias of the legal system. By Western standards women are not afforded nearly the rights that men are. Lastly, homosexuality is illegal in Qatar. When Sepp Blatter was specifically asked about this issue, he coyly told them not to engage in sexual acts while attending the Cup. Thanks Sepp, but that sounds pretty GAY. You expect a bunch of gays to just stand by and cheer loudly when their team wins the Cup? I don't know about the rest of you, but if I was at the World Cup and the US won I would grab the nearest girl and make out with her. But not to fear, the oppressive alcohol laws nearly ensure no one will be celebrating with an adult libation. First you need to secure a permit. Consumption can only take place in a designated restaurant or your hotel room. Then you have to stake out in the putrid 100+ degree heat in search of one of two liquor stores in the country. I imagine the line is going to be pretty long. As a side not it might be a good business move to establish a counterfeit alcohol permitting booth just around the corner from these stores. And after I do walk the miles from my car to the stadium, the heat exhaustion setting in, I won't be allowed to purchase an ice cold beer inside. Well, I guess it is safe to say there will be no drunk Israeli lesbians in mini-skirts at the Cup.



Qatar National Team:
As hosts Qatar gets an automatic birth to the World Cup. At first I wasn't even certain they had a national team. Yup, the team currently ranked #114 in the world gets to be in a tournament of the best 32 teams in the world. They are just slightly worse than Wales and only marginally better than Suriname. This past cup South Africa became the first host nation in the history of the game to fail to advance out of group play. South Africa is ranked #51. Well, fingers crossed the US gets drawn into the group with Qatar, cause this is the quality finishing we get to look forward to seeing. Perhaps the game looks better when you are suffering sun stroke with your sober male friends and you can't spot a woman cause they are all "modestly" dressed.
Simply this was what Sepp Blatter wanted. And what Sepp wants Sepp gets. Whether or not this is a feeble attempt to win a Nobel Peace Prize is unsubstantiated. Bravo FIFA, bravo. Levi out!


And now an update. This just keeps getting better.

Surround yourself with Druggie Friends

This is why I don't do drugs. And why I surround myself with friends that do.

Snow Devolution

This past week a rather magnificent storm pounded the northwest. A frigid torrent of Canadian Arctic air violently collided with moisture breathed from the bowls of Mt. Olympus himself. Snowpocalypse 2010 was born. It was during my long (3 hour) commute home that I began to question why is winter travel so incapacitating here in Seattle. Now I grew up in the rural mountains of Colorado, the kind of place where one drives 70 mph over the passes in a whiteout without batting an eye. So what makes travel so different here? 
First, the city has 20 snow plows to upkeep 1,524 lane miles of arterial streets (or 76 lane miles per plow). Simply put when it is snowing the city cannot keep the streets open. Once snow stops and the arterial streets are clear then the city can begin to address the thousands of lane miles of neighborhood streets. Keep in mind many of the neighborhood streets are either too narrow, too steep, or cobbled which prevents the use of a plow.
Second, we have hills. Sure the Twin Cities see cold temperatures and plenty of snow; but it is flatter than shit there. When a 12% grade is covered in ice there is nothing the city can do except close it. And if you own a gas guzzling 600 HP power stroke diesel, you are still screwed. Just because you feel indestructible in your tank, doesn't mean nature isn't going to own you. Buckle up ass hole!

But, Colorado has snow, cold weather, and hills and they still get around. Yes that is all true, but they not only have ample plows to handle the workload, but they also have a population that is conditioned for living in such an environment. They drive 4X4 cars, have chains and studded tires. But Colorado's roads remain relatively ice free. Why is this?
My third point is the hippie paradox. In Colorado roads are bathed in the chemical magnesium-chloride or "mag" as the locals call it. This wonder drug lowers the freezing point and thus keeps the roads wet, not frozen. A oily translucent slime is splashed against your car all winter long, requiring you to carry extra windshield wiper fluid just to make a three hour drive on the highway. Furthermore Mag eats away the paint and many of the casings on your car. So now you have to wash your car all winter long. Although the government claims it is safe, I question this. If it eats away at my car, what does it do to the environment? And in the environmental mecca of Seattle, there is no way the citizens would permit thousands of gallons of this stuff draining into the sound and lubing up Willy. And we all know from the last snow storm we can't use salt cause it is bad for the Sound. So this time we tried a new product; brine water. Essentially a concentrated salt water mix, it was supposed to be less harmful than salt and closer in concentrations to sea water. Sounds great right? Well that was until this past storm when the Artic air from our Northern Neighbors froze that shit to the roads. So we ended up with salty icy roads.

But what perplexes me most is the attitude of Seattle's citizens. We have had snow before. We have had icy roads before. And we have all seen the youtube videos of cars cascading down our streets wrecking havoc on other cars. And yet each year we try again to conquer mother nature. It is devolution at its finest. What nudges a motorist to once again risk thousands of dollars in vehicle damage and the safety of themselves and their neighbors to try to summit a hill? You can walk up the hill more easily, more safely, and come the next morning you don't have to drive your car back down the hill you just so valiantly conquered the previous day. What is more astounding than this are the ones that avoid the secondary hills and go for the gusto. Queen Anne hill is steep, we all know this. There are other less steep routes to the top than Queen Anne Blvd. And yet some people gun their Subaru up the hill in a valiant attempt at youtube immortality. And not surprisingly they come up short and stack by the side of the road with all the other meatheads who too commonly exaggerate the true measure of an inch. This is not some pissing contest or a platform to whip it out and demonstrate how manly you are. This is mother nature and she will kick your ass. So next time leave your car behind. Take to foot or hop on the lightrail. There are better, faster, safer, and more cost effective ways to get home. Leave the hills for the sledders, cause you all know you aren't going to work the next day. And lastly, don't bitch to the mayor, he is mortal and can't walk on water or drive on ice either.

Battle of the Bums

So I failed to make a solitary post for the month of October. Excuses aside, I am going to chalk it up to the fact that I was planning a minor adventure to SE Asia and thus spent two weeks away from the allure of my glowing monitor and clunky keyboard. That is not to say that I stopped making notes of the obscure everyday occurrences I witnessed.


On a recent walk to the grocery store I approached a rather dangerous intersection. Four roads come together, three of which are one way streets, and none of them line up. This not only makes the intersection mind numbing for the motorist, as they struggle to decipher the universe ending possibility of a legal left turn on red, but it creates an equally ambiguous dilemma for the pedestrian. The best part about this intersection is the coffee shop which sits quaintly on the corner. Chairs provide a front row seat to the spectacle of real life frogger combined with Washington drivers. So at this intersection I found myself patiently waiting for that perfect window of opportunity when the red hand transitions to the white walking man. It is at just that moment when one must bravely claim the intersection. While this is going on I see a bum woman and a bum man waiting on the other side. They are talking rather loudly, his speech slurred. People are taking notice, wondering if something is amiss. And then out of nowhere, just before the signal transitions to walking man; she pushes him. I am not talking some playful little nudge. No she forcefully shoves this grown man to the curb. The bags he is holding in his hands spill into the streets, a tsunami of paper bagged liquor. His one tattered shoe shoots airborne as he stumbles for footing with the curb. Full beers cans roll down the street. Not only was her push good and forceful, her timing was impeccable. Just at the moment that his stubbled face is making contact with the asphalt, the light turns green. Motorists are dazed, taunted by the green light they cannot accept and baffled by the audacity of this woman. Pedestrians are equally perplexed, uncertain to whom they should offer aid. Bum, rolling beers, stalled motorists, bagged booze, baffled citizens, and a single defiant woman simultaneously possess the intersection of chaos. Time progresses slower, the only movement that of the brazen woman who crosses the intersection and confidently states, "that felt great!" A wry grin showing on her lips. Green turns to yellow and everyone returns to their senses rapidly helping to collect the man's belongings and return order to the intersection.

Benji runs free

The life of a super hero dog is not as glamorous as one would imagine. Each day you awake, expected to accomplish something heroic. In order to do this you must constantly seek out new dangers. As a super hero dog it is easy to get caught up in a competition of sorts with other super hero dogs. Lassie saves a poor boy from falling down a well, then Underdog goes and stops an alien invasion. With so much pressure, when does a super hero dog get to just...well...be a dog? Well to this all to common question I now have the answer. See a few days ago I was busy refereeing a women's college game. The ball had just left the field and we were calmly waiting for its retrieval for the ensuing corner kick. Now I know what you are thinking, dogs like to retrieve things. Please that would be far to pedestrian for a hero dog. Instead it is at this moment I hear the put-put of a third world scooter begin to intensify. The rhythmic sputtering building to an intolerable crescendo, the speed of the scooter moving at pace slightly faster than a jaunt. The scooter slowly moves along the road in front of the goal, the screams of SUSIE NO!...SUSIE NO! competing with the torrent belching from the cylinders. As the topography shifts I see that the thin man, of suspected Indian decent, is being chased by a white puntable lap dog (hero dog). The man desperately maxing the throttle in a helpless attempt to outrun the danger. The hero dog free of its owner's grasp seizes the moment, and chases the car (or scooter). The owner now enters the fray; in hot pursuit of his precious Susie on his electric wheelchair. The bottled oxygen feeding through his nose tube, hand pushing the joystick firmly in the accelerate position, gliding down the sidewalk with the stressed hum of his electric ride. All parties parade in front of our goal, all moving at the same speed. The Indian looking back in terror, the frantic clatter of his ride stressed to the max, Susie with her tongue out and legs incessantly spinning gives chase, and her owner with his labored breaths and electric hum follows close behind. 

Adventures in Laundry

Doing laundry in an apartment building is always an adventure. The communal nature and inopportune moments are firmly cemented in our heads. You never know when you are going to be emptying a dryer; pausing on a particularly nice thong when the owner comes walking in, you holding it like some trophy fish. Or as you try to rush to vacate a washing machine for your neighbor (of course they are hot), you accidentally leave behind your gold lame speedo. But aside from the embarrassing follies, sometimes odd things just happen in the laundry room. Today was no exception. I went down to the basement to do some much needed laundry. As I open the door I find my apartment manager keeping a feather in the air by blowing underneath it. Some other guy (Crazy Man) is keeping time. I slide by pretending not to care; after all I am in the laundry room where weird shit happens and he is my manager and we all know managers are weird. As I begin separating my lights and darks in walks Crazy Mary. Now I am eager with anticipation to see what unfolds. Mary begins to chat me up, of course talking about the weather. Somehow we end up on the subject of camping (I am doing my camping laundry). This is when she reveals that her and no women would ever camp because there are animals that kill people. She is terrified of bears and cougars. But men are strong and can handle cougars. I chuckle a bit in my head as my mind drifts towards the gutter as she continues telling about the perils of cougars. As her story draws to an end, I begin my wash and return to my apartment. Thirty minutes later I return to swap the loads. Crazy Mary is now staring at Crazy Man as he sleeps. As I walk in Crazy Man stumbles around and tries to look busy. I guess he thought I was the manager, and needed to appear busy for his boss. While swapping the laundry, my manager returns. This time Crazy Man gives him a comic in one of those clear plastic dust covers. For the next 15 minutes they discuss comics, illustrators, and the next issue. This is all making sense, I can see my manager as a comic book guy. I again return to my apartment wondering what my final trip will have in store for me. An hour later I return to claim my clean clothes. Now Crazy Mary is sitting on the dryer listening to Crazy Man. This not only makes extracting the laundry awkward, as she doesn't move, but the pontification from Crazy Man is hilarious. As I gather my clothes I hear him attempting to convert Crazy Mary. Biblical babble and tenuous arguments for his form of religion spew from his lips. I am just waiting for him to disclose the location of a spaceship in a comet tail and ask her to drink some Kool-Aid.

Poison Tipped Blow Darts

It was during my third rep of bicep curls (yes I do lift) when I realized a huge oversight of the modern gym. The floors and walls are littered with a confetti of mirrors, weighted objects, and modern fitness equipment which more closely resembles medieval torture machines. The space is populated with Lycra clad fitness enthusiasts, labored grunts, wheezing, and the demands of personal trainers. Hoping to drown out the peacocking antics of most gym men, the speakers pump some mediocre music over the system. The music attempts to relate to all lifters, but instead only becomes noticeable when a truly horrible song is played. This is the modern gym, for better or for worse. There are many different types of people that use the gym; but only one that truly drives me crazy. I call this person the treadmill mouth. They do little actual physical work, instead laboring their mouth in a non-stop garble of meaningless drama. The gym to them is cheap therapy, substituting the comforts of a professional's couch for the yoga mat and a half ass abdominal regimen. They drone on about relationships, or complain about how hard this is, or mock their friends, or pat their own back while placing themselves on a higher pedestal. The rest of us get to be a helpless audience in their dramatic production. Now to be fair sometimes you learn some truly hilarious things about people. But no person should have to hear a woman tell her trainer that the exercise she is hardly performing is less enjoyable than her last Pap smear. There are some things you cannot un-hear! So I purpose that gyms now come equipped with poison tipped blow darts (non-lethal) and blow guns. When one of these treadmill mouths pushes you beyond the limit, give their mouth the rest is so deserves. Pick up the gun and give it a nice go. You will feel better and your fellow gym mate will thank you.

Sexy and Classy

So I follow a blog called the Sartorialist. It is a simple blog. A man consumed by good fashion travels the world posting dramatic images of people exhibiting smart fashion. Rarely do his posts include anything more than the image of the person, the title detailing the location. This blog provides visual eye-candy of some of the most unique and classy examples of fashion. It is this one I am reposting here that recently captured my attention. The allure of sexy and classy is one that people strive for daily. Often woman miss the mark; their look coming off as slutty as oppose to a vibrantly confident feminine masterpiece. But this wonderful ensemble put together by Anna Dello Russo is refined expression of the marriage of sex and class. Her look is minimal and simple. As Americans we have much to learn about fashion and good style. 


Image credits the Sartorialist.

Stop and Smell the Flowers

Sometimes you stumble across a story that causes you pause. This latest one for me took place on 8 April 2007. The Washington Post decided to conduct an experiment about beauty. You can read the full article and see the videos here. The editors at the Post wanted to see if people when confronted with a true act of beauty would recognize it. So they hired 39 year old Joshua Bell, an internationally acclaimed virtuoso, to play Bach's "Chanconne" on Kreisler's violin (valued at $3.2 million) at Metro's L'Enfant Plaza Station during morning rush hour. Dressed as a street performer, the Post set a camera and watched as he performed a 43 minute concert. A compressed version of that video is displayed below. They tabulated how much money he brought in and how many people stopped to watch him play. Bell's haul for his music was a meager $32.17. Only a handful of people stopped to listen and only one person recognized him.

After reading this and watching the videos I sat in silent reflection. How could this be? I may know little about classical music and even less about the violin, but I recognize the skill this individual has is something special. But if I was faced with the same situation as all those that just casually walked by, would I act no differently? Of course my heart screams that I would have stopped, for fear of letting something so beautiful pass one by. But the experiment brings up an interesting discussion. How often do we pause in our lives to just enjoy the moment? Do we notice the vibrant fall colors, or pause to breath in the heavy sea air during sunset? When was the last time you paused and just closed your eyes and let the sounds, smells, and textures around you take center stage? This article while inspirational should serve to remind us all of the beauty around us. We can't become so engrossed in our jobs, our destinations, or our technology that we forget that the present is what today is all about.

Inconsiderate Crossword Couple

It is an early morning flight; one which is oversold and they have already populated a 'volunteers' list. Everyone knows that the flight is packed; and for the most part each person is doing their personal best to be good neighbors. The overhead bins are full and bags are being checked on the jetway. Those travelers who didn't have assigned seats are being shuffled while still trying to honor their preferences. Two young (mid 20's) people are such travelers. The woman looks like a trashier version of Lindsey Lohan and her boyfriend a round squat man who probably still plays D&D while working on his Fragglerock look (his style is a buffet of colors and textures that fail at hitting the hip look). They are sat in the row behind me, but separated by the aisle. This upsets them. They begin in a pathetic passive-aggressive triad about how tough it is not to get to sit together. Everyone ignores them and their poor attitude. Then the flight attendant has a family to try and seat. A young child and his mother and father. The three remaining seats are sprinkled around the main cabin with one being in the woman's row. The attendant asks the young woman to move back a few rows, trading an aisle seat for an aisle, so that one parent can sit with the child. She then tells the family the other one will have to sit alone in the other available seat. But NO!, the young woman thinks this is an injustice. She looks at the attendant and says, well I want to sit next to my boyfriend and I don't get to do that. The attendant, clearly a seasoned veteran, interrupts the self-entitled diva. Matter-of-factly she states, "Well you didn't purchase seats together anyway. The flight is only one hour and ten minutes, I think you will survive." The woman dramatically exhales and whips her hair in distaste and begins to move. Now the boyfriend asks the guy next to him to move so his girlfriend can sit by him. This passenger is 6'3" and could really use the extra legroom his current row offers, which I suspect may be why he selected this "assigned seat." But for the sake of us all and the diminishing hopes of our on-time departure he acquiesces. So now all the world is right, the prince and princess seating side by side in a row with extra legroom. As the plane climbs and we reach the safety of 10,000 feet, he pulls out his headphones never to utter another word to his girlfriend. His girlfriend opens her trendy magazine and does the crossword. If this is how you were going to spend your flight, why was it relevant to sit next to each other? A punch in the face would have been just.

The Lady with Abs

Recently I was in Portland cheering on my sister as she ran her second marathon. Watching a marathon is quite fun as the people watching is amazing. For the most part the participants are in good shape, which means the likelihood of seeing attractive women is increased (as is the saturation of attractive men for all my female readers). Secondly, many runners turn to odd antics to get through the race. Whether it is an odd hat, dressing up the dog, or just wearing a bizarre outfit to run in, one is certain to see unexpected pleasures. Thirdly, you will see the participant that looks like there is no way in hell they could complete a marathon. They may be overweight, old, and wheezing; but they will shame your lazy ass as they blow past you. I saw a man run barefoot, but that is trendy now. A dad and daughter ran in bedazzled street clothes. A dog went for a run with its owner. One man looked to be old and starving, running the race "for fun." But none of these fantastic individuals managed to capture my attention like the lady with abs. She turned the corner in front of where I was sitting. Sweat slowly splashing off each of her washboard abs, a sensual glow of athleticism. Simple running shorts and a white jog bra clearly defining her competitive nature and simple pursuit to life. She was a warrior, taking on the course, but focused on the internal battle with herself. The fight to beat the clock. Her long legs laboring silently as she strides long. Her light brown hair was streaked with highlights, badges of honor to the endless hours of training in the sun that now culminate in this one moment. She was focused on the course and I was focused on her. As she approaches she reaches out to me asking me to take a piece of trash as she is not inclined to litter on the course. I acquiesce to the demands of this divine environmentalist. She streaks past me and I find myself eager to run after her. I know I cannot keep up, but my body cries out to attempt. She was the beauty of athleticism personified in movement.

Three Reasons I can't support Spain

After taking a month off to enjoy the FIFA World Cup I find myself ready to make the one and only post about the tournament. The final was far from enjoyable. The Dutch came out with a physical style of play that aimed to break-up the elegant passing game of Spain. De Jong committed one of the worst fouls I have ever seen in a final, escaping with a yellow. These tactics were not beautiful and will not be defended here. But in spite of the Dutch tactics, Spain failed to act honestly. They committed rough tackles, delayed play, and challenged the referee from the opening whistle. As an adamant German supporter, I feel Germany was the best team in the tournament and should have raised the Cup, but they did not. 

So here are the three reasons I can never support Spain:

1: They beat Germany.

This was a close and hard fought game. Both teams put together attractive football, constantly trading barbs and generating some impressive chances and exciting counter-attacks. As entertaining as this game was I wish Uzbek referee Irmatov would have kept his cards in his pocket in the previous match so Mueller could have participated. Both teams had to play with the resources they had available, but the presence of Mueller only would have made this match better. At the end of the day Spain beat Germany and that makes me despise them.

2: Their Jerseys

After battling through 120 minutes of physical play, Spain emerged victorious as World Cup Champions. An honor usually accepted with a classy humility. Spain bombastically proclaimed their triumph in a truly classless act by donning new jerseys with a world champion star resting above the crest. No other Champion in the history of the game has done something so narcissistic and self-serving. Wearing a championship kit prior to raising the cup is putting the cart before the horse.

3: Iniesta

This is the biggest reason I despise Spain. In minute 86, he engages in a reckless tackle on Sneijder which clearly warranted a yellow card in this game. Now to be clear, I am in no way pardoning the Dutch's style of physical play during the match, but in remaining consistent with what was a yellow card in this game, he should have been booked. But he takes his play to an unacceptable level in minutes 109 and 111 when he embelishes the contact by Dutch players. Minute 109 earned Heitinga his second caution and Spain a man advantage. The contact was minimal and after Iniesta realizes he won't get the ball he goes down begging for justice. Robben did the same thing earlier and received a caution for looking for a foul. Then in minute 111 Iniesta falls to the ground, this time without any contact. Adding insult to injury Iniesta, the most dishonest Spanish player on the pitch gets the winning goal. I dismiss you and your "Italian Style" antics. Iniesata tainted what could have been a respectful victory from the Spaniards.

So the Cup is behind me and I will let the excitement build towards Brazil 2014.

Bagels and Smear

A recent outing in the rain revealed a rather passionate distaste for bagels and smear. Now let me be emphatically clear; I like bagels and I like them topped. So then how is it that smear got me all worked up? I detest when new words are invented to describe something which already exists. To me, smear represents the epitome of the trendy bagel re-branding campaign. Prior to the mid-2000s bagels were a ubiquitous ordinary food consumed by the middle-class in the comfort of their own home. You only had three flavors; plain, wheat, and cinnamon raisin. Then some brain child got the idea to make bagels classy. They became gourmet chic, an icon of healthy eating. Soon bagel eateries popped up all across this great land. Bagel sandwiches were far more hip than a simple turkey on rye. A smorgasbord of bagel options appeared overnight and with it a plethora of topping options. But to complete this culinary mirage one could not just top boiled artisan breads with cream cheeses, no they required an entirely new topping. Enter the smear (to sarcastic trumpets). Simply put a smear is a whipped flavored cream cheese. Let's dig a bit deeper. Whipped: the incorporation of air into the cream cheese. This allows easier spreading, genius. It also leads to you consuming less, marketing genius. So now I think I am eating something healthier cause the calories of smear are less than cream cheese, when all I am really doing is consuming less cream cheese with a side of air and paying more for it. If this wasn't bad enough, they gave us the word smear. If you are going to invent a word for whipped cream cheese, it could have been anything; or at least something more appetizing. The act of smearing is not terribly appetizing. Why didn't they just call it 'plop'? I mean it is a similar action, is equally as appetizing, and one letter shorter. You could walk up and order your Pumpernickle bagel with honey almond* plop, toasted and sliced, to go please. What is next; gourmet doughnuts?
*By the way your plop contains nuts. 

Girls on Bikes

The other day I was reminded of a few simple things that can take an ordinarily beautiful woman and propel her into the accolades of stunning. I am driving home after another mindless across town nothingness; my mind wandering as the vuvuzela humming drones on the radio. Everything about this moment is ordinary. My mind and body content in the moment. Only something magnificent could shake me from the mechanized commitment to my drive home.  And then it happens as I approach the next incessant red light. A motorcycle now occupies the space in front of me. My eyes drift and I find myself staring at this person lit perfectly atop her motorcycle. At least I hope it is a her, but how can I know? The purely utilitarian nature of her wardrobe offers no hints to her gender. I mean chances are probably greater that I am now staring at some man on his bike admiring his ass. This possibility worries me and I find increased desire for this to be a most attractive woman. A girl on a bike is hot. Green light. Off she accelerates, weaving between cars letting the power of the engine propel her at will. I struggle to keep up....who am I kidding. The four cylinders of my 88' Camry putt down the pavement, broken-in shocks whining with each bump, a bent antennae proudly proclaiming my fiscal constraint. Watching her go not only makes her more elusive and thus hotter; but watching her delicate and comfortable control of the machine makes her stunning. Like the tortoise in some childhood fairy tale I plod on. Approaching the next stop light, I come to rest next to her just before the light turns green. She lift her visor and our eyes meet. They are raven black and flicker with an unbridled quest for living. And they are a woman's eyes. Her arrow turns green, slamming her visor down she banks left and away. Leaving me to discover one final secret about her. As she banks the sunlight cracks upon her neck revealing a small tattoo. Who was this most epic woman on a bike with a tat?

In Green We Trust

We may not be the best country when it comes to football; but we sure know how to frustrate the Brits.

Princess Cruise

This past week I had a rather frightening experience. My friends and I had decided to tailgate before the Sounders game at Pier 60. This is the pier located just north of the aquarium, the totally empty pier where occasional concerts are had. So four of us show up before hand, each enjoying the nectar of rather larger Rainers. The day is warm and beautiful, the beer cold, and all in the company of good friends. It seems like this will be a wonderful evening. Then some young stunt bike wannabes come up. They relocate quite a distance from us. Now I would have pegged them for the crystal meth type, but no they were just good NW toking punks. Our conversations continue the salt air now mixing with BC bud. All is good in the world; until we hear the commotion on the Sound behind us. The noise is coming from one of those private party cruises. But this private party was terrifying. At first I thought that perhaps I had consumed some bad Yakima hops. This was to no avail. There was indeed a Furry cruise going by. Now if you don't know what a furry is please do not google it. Just follow this link and read. You will thank me. Never in all my life have I seen something so bizarre. I felt sorry for the captain. Needless to say we downed our last beers and rode to the match; which the Sounders won.

Meatless Monday

Yesterday marked my first meatless Monday. Recently I have decided to undertake a new personal endeavour, one of vegetarianism. So to begin I have committed to eating nothing with a face every Monday, or Meatless Mondays as I elect to call it. This is not some self-entitled extremists quest. Simply put I chose to do this for two reasons. First, to reduce my carbon footprint. And second to pare down my resource consumption to be more on par with the greater world. But that is not to say that this current attempt will not yield health benefits while contributing to a more humane approach to our treatment of animals. So for now I give it a go and see how I feel. If I find that my energy remains consistent all the while reducing my carbon footprint and food costs, then I may look to expand. In time you may find I reserve the consumption of meat to weekends. For now I have reduced my meat consumption carbon footprint by 14% annually.

Oh to live
among the clouds.


Within the cumulus comfort,
sun kissed between the vaporless
arroyos.


To welcome the morning glint
and praise the setting
magnificence
somewhere between yesterday and tomorrow.

Star Wars Reigns Superior

Although not a World Cup commercial, this Adidas ad does a fantastic job of combining soccer and Star Wars. The banter with Beckham is priceless. Well done Adidas.

2010 World Cup Commercial Competition

Every four years the FIFA World Cup occurs. This, the biggest tournament, sports global competition while contributing to a measurable decrease in global productivity as billions are glued to their televisions. As these matches are beamed across oceans, over mountains, and into the deepest canyons of the world the thirst for the best commercials unfolds. So in the spirit of competition I will be evaluating the 'teams' as they compete to be the best 2010 World Cup Commercial. I will be scoring the teams in 5 categories: Star Power, International Appeal, Passion, Creativity, and Artistic Expression. Each category will be awarded a maximum of 5 points with a perfect score equaling 25 points. May the best team win.


Team: ESPN
2010 FIFA World Cup: United

Star Power (3 Stars): Limited until the end of the run; they were second rate players shown as a collective, thus dulling their luster.
International Appeal (4 stars): A wonderful collage of people and places. Missed out on five stars due to emphasizing American political issues and U.S. Flag.
Passion (5 stars): A limited emphasis on soccer failed to fully link the connection between the passion of the people and the passion of the game.
Creativity (3 stars): Little more than a politically updated version of their 2006 entrant.
Artistic Expression (5 stars): A delicate weaving of diversity with a rhythmic score and a comforting narration (Bono) truly reflect the texture of the game.
TOTAL (20 STARS)


Team: Puma
Journey of Football 2010

Star Power (3 Stars): Good use of Africa's biggest stars and brightest teams.
International Appeal (2 Stars): Entirely focused on the African market, but then again that is the only market Puma has.
Passion (5 stars): A nice job tying the dreams of youth to the passions of a Continent. Captured the African flavor.
Creativity (2 star): Nothing more than a nicely connected series of video clips.
Artistic Expression (5 stars): Excellent musical choice coupled with a vibrant series of images that make you want to kick the ball; even if the ending catch phrase is a bit weak.
TOTAL (17 STARS)


Team: Nike
Write the Future

Star Power (5 Stars): Nike capitalizes on the biggest stars in soccer, basketball, and TV. I am willing to overlook the Ronaldinho debacle as everyone expected him to make the squad (he didn't get fat).
International Appeal (4 Stars): Failure to make a nod to the Asian market cost this ad a star.
Passion (4 Stars): Capitalizing on the energy and stress of expectation bode well for this one.
Creativity (3 Stars): Nike builds upon their theme of the fanciful future of the game, but we have seen that before...here...and...here.
Artistic Expression (5 Stars): Who doesn't like the watching Ribery turn Rooney into trailer trash. Plus they reinvigorate the Portugal/Netherlands rivalry.
TOTAL (21 STARS)


Team: Pepsi
Oh Africa

Star Power (4 stars): Good use of International Stars; but did you literally have to spell it out for us?
International Appeal (2 stars):Aside from the big names that were brought in, this ad flounders.
Passion (2 stars): Using children and an eagerly bored human pitch makes the excitement feel contrived.
Creativity (1 star): A predictable ending with a painful wait to get there. Worse than sitting at a long red light.
Artistic Impression (2 stars): Poor CSG graphics cost it a star. I know South Africa is a developing nation, but they still understand fashion. This ad lost 2 stars for those hideous denim Pepsi jerseys from the 80's.
TOTAL (11 STARS)


Team: ESPN
The Power of 10 
Star Power (4 stars): A great combination of contemporary and historical figures. Truly captured their shine.
International Appeal (4 stars): Again another failure to make a nod to the AFC, minus a star.
Passion (4 stars): A good blend of trophy raising and fan celebration.
Creativity (3 stars): Same dog, new trick. Take a risk and deviate from the safe ESPN.
Artistic Impression (2 stars): The creation is too banal and ordinary to set this ad apart from the competition. It will be quickly forgotten.
TOTAL (17 STARS)


Team: MTN
Two World Wars and One World Cup

Star Power (1 star): Local companies rarely have the resources for true stars, but this little guy shines enough for a glimmer of hope.
International Appeal (2 stars): If it is assumed that the scene is South Africa, then two continents are present.
Passion (4 stars): A true English hooligan would not have covered his child's mouth. Minus a star.
Creativity (4 stars): A healthy dose of wit demonstrates even local companies can compete with the big corporations.
Artistic Impression (5 stars): National flag mohawks...need I say more.
TOTAL (16 STARS)


Team: ESPN
Passion

Star Power (2 stars): Brazilian fame plus sparklers for two.
International Appeal (3 stars): Two continents and a nod to the masses.
Passion (5 stars): It is the name of the spot, and not to mention what isn't more passionate than sex and footie.
Creativity (4 stars): The same ESPN story style, but with a fun ending.
Artistic Impression (3 stars): A short spot with an even shorter climax.
TOTAL (17 STARS)

The New Busy

The latest marketing attempt by Microsoft is "The New Busy." Aside from being another hapless attempt at wit, its a failed attempt to revitalize hotmail. Dear Microsoft, don't you think it is a little late to revamp hotmail? Not only is is out of favor with the tech savvy youth, but graphically its stuck in a cubicle from the 80's. It is boring, mauve, and not worth the energy to raise it from the dead. The New Busy is an old trick; one we have seen too often from the corporate drones at Microsoft.
Aside from my clear displeasure with Hotmail, The New Busy represents a campaign I detest on principle. It suggests that there is a better way of being busy; that the Old Busy can somehow be improved. The fundamental problem is busy. In arguing for a better busy, Microsoft is praising the cluttered, hectic lifestyles that we live. They praise our harried pace that is fueled by caffeine, nicotine, and alcohol. They praise our sleep-deprived state that results in dilute results at work, strained relationships at home, and the neglect of our families. They idolize the hours wasted in our cars, isolated from community, breathing carcinogens while drowning out our cries for help with the incessant babble of the radio.
We are too busy. In these difficult times our stress is increased and our resources stretched. It is now that we should be simplifying our lives; returning to basic principles. We need to strip away the excess and focus on the important things. It is not about social networks which devalue friendships to a few accessible keystrokes. Instead it is about tangibles; playing catch with your kid or stealing your wife away for a "date night." It is about family dinners, block parties, and camping trips. It is about using this moment to reclaim our lives, our energy, and our future as a people.
And it is a time to deject The New Busy for a life of happiness.

Paparazzi

Sometimes a video just makes you pause and appreciate the natural talent of an individual. Hopefully, puberty and middle school won't destroy the potential.

Head Rush

Simply this is one of those videos where you feel conflicted. The conservative side warning of the dangers of such an idea. The liberal side knowing how epic such an idea could be. Rest assured, both sides of your psyche will be rewarded with danger and excitement beyond what you expected. 

A Silent Sea

Helpless to scream
profoundly exhausted;
I lie.
Dingy barely keeping water at bay
the sea perhaps not
restless
just endless.
Sunlight lost to cumulus
though heavy with rain
won't loosen her burden
to quench the parched lips
of a helpless man.
Day indiscernible from night,
sky devoid of definition
texture.
Sea and sky
separated by a thin meniscus of horizon,
both endlessly stoic and mute.
Not even the ocean breaks silence
with laps against the bow.


Alone.


A stubbled face man lies exhausted
drowned by sorrow of heartbeats lost.
A brain tormented by the haunting 
notion of grace once achieved
but ultimately lost.

In Search of Patience

Life is such a beautifully complex and yet simple entity. Despite attempts to control life or to develop systems which provide the illusion of control and predictability; life just is. Tomorrow may come or it may not, and choices made today have minimal impacts on the actions of tomorrow. If life, twice distilled, is so simple then why is the pursuit of fulfillment so elusive? I do not recall life always seeming so complex and daunting. And if I can recognize where this change occurred, why can I not ascertain how to restore my life to this simpler time? Despite our best attempts, fulfillment is not quantifiable. Numbers cannot be punched into an equation to yield a solution to fulfillment. And yet we as humans struggle to understand that which cannot be learned.
This is where patience becomes of paramount importance. I used to be a naively optimistic person. My emotional range could be quantified by the range represented by a ruler. On either end, the emotional extremes (both good and bad), and in the middle the spiritual balance one seeks. Then an interesting thing happened in my life. Someone came up to me and said, "Wow that is a nice ruler; but have you seen a yard stick?" Previous to this conversation I lived the expanses of my emotions; but only within the confines of the ruler. The ruler represented the known extents of my emotional world. Impressed by the novelty and mystery of the yard stick I eagerly traded; simultaneously failing to comprehend the totality of my decision. Of course there was added range to the good, a place to experience a whole new world of euphoric exaltation. I drank the cool-aid and immersed myself in the wonderful toxicity of new found happiness. But I was blind to the increased dark range of the yard stick. The shadows of my soul were now more present and more accessible. The distance of balance now further from the bipolar edges of experience.
The reality is that I can not go back to the days of the ruler, even if I wanted. When one learns that a yard stick exists, one cannot unlearn that. Perhaps this is the way people grow. Perhaps I am on the cusp of learning that there is another larger range of emotion to experience. But in the present as I waver between edges of my yard stick; I develop patience. Patience for direction to be found. Patience for tomorrow. But most importantly, patience for life.

LEGO Star Wars Trilogy

Crazy Lady #3

I would like to first preface this post by saying, although this represents my third "Crazy Lady" post it by no means is meant to construe a disproportional representation of crazy women. There are are "Crazy Men" that I will mention when they present themselves as minor characters in this drama. For now the plot is building with a fairly constant stream of crazy ladies.

I met Crazy Lady #3 on my return flight from Dallas Cup. Now Josh can attest not only to this lady's craziness, but also to the the resounding misfortune I have with airplane neighbors. I had just settled into seat 16D, a more spacious exit row, when she immediately turns to me and begins to talk me up. Acrylic red framed glasses nest in her auburn/purple hair. Here sideburns sculpt an amazing swoosh about her ears. She wears all black, clearly signaling a woman of design taste as her left hand cradles a Lamy and a bejeweled red bracelet accents her right wrist. She dons a sheek black pencil skirt and a long necklace of multi-colored tumbled glass (think taste the rainbow). I catch myself staring at this woman, mind wondering if she in an unknown teacher at Hogwarts. The clencher is a magnificent diamond rock whose brilliance could out shine the sun. It sheer radiating magnitude comfortably places it in the four carat family.

An impassioned jubilant dame she eagerly begins asking questions about me. Running through the standard quid pro quo of airline neighbor questions we are now ready to engage in truly meaningful conversation. At this point her booming energized voice has forced Josh to disobey the flight attendant; plugging in his iPod, praying for escape by sleep. Resoundingly thrown under the bus, I reluctantly return my attention to the conversation; one more of take than give.

An AP French and English teacher in Anchorage, my crazy lady rattles off story after story about the joys of teaching, the quest for a life of knowledge, and why she is pursuing a second PhD. She is a contradiction wrapped in a conundrum. Adamantly liberal she sweats praises for President Obama while simultaneously speaking of the conservative oil tycoon who placed that 'little gem' upon her finger. She waivers between the need for an alternative energy economy while describing guilt in the bounty black gold has gifted her. In one short breath she laments for a withdrawal from Iraq and the misguided decision to invade then shifts to the life story of her Marine brother. She giggles at the way she makes Laura Bush uncomfortable during big Texas events and then switches the babble to some other loosely connected tangent. I find myself not only regretting my seating selection but oddly feeling sorry for Mrs. Bush. Hoping to time a pause in her conversation with the insertion of earbuds, I earnestly wait for her to surface for air.

No sooner am I relinquishing all hope for relief when the drink cart arrives. All praise the powers of booze. I defer to the woman (after all ladies first) before making my drink selection. She orders two Jack and Cokes. A wry grin sneaks across my face as I elect to forgo the adult beverage selection. The conversation slows only enough so she can inhale her libations; mama needs her juice. After the last drop of medicine is sucked from the bottom of a clear plastic cup the cadence, energy, and speed of the conversation accelerates. I thank the pilot for requiring me to wear my seat belt. Like a kid ramping up during a sugar high, I hold on praying for an immediate crash. And then passes out, her mouth agape as she sucks recycled air. Quivering lips and an occasional snore are the only distractions from my neighbor for the next two hours. The silence awakens Josh who looks at me stunned. I give him a polite shrug and a devious grin and return to my pages in seat 16D.