Things Heard at 918 Veirs Mill Rd

brian16lockard: I can eat like a snake sometimes

Sangria to "Make it Rain"

If anybody was in Georgetown Saturday night they probably saw someone around 3 am walking down the middle of M Street to the dismay of cabbies, police officers and his roommate.

This explains why it happened:


Make It Rain Sangria

One jumbo water cooler

One box of white wine
One bottle of red wine
Liter of Parrot Bay Pineapple
500 Ml of Southern Comfort
2 Liters of Ginger Ale
Liter of Lemonade
2 cans of Sobe Adrenaline "Fury"
Assorted fruit slices
One airplane bottle of brandy
Top off with lots of love

Serve chilled, no later than noon, with a speakerbox of hot jams. Don't apologize for the consequences of your partying.

Belated DCU Superliga Review - Or Perhaps It's a Supremely Punctual Club America Preview

So here's the deal about being a DC United fan - winning is the expected standard, even against the highest competition. That is not to say that Monarcas was of the highest competition because they were obviously in preseason physical condition that was blatantly evident by the late stages where 8 or 9 players packed behind the ball and pushed out at snails pace after a clearance. All of that makes the blown lead, playing with a man up, ending with a tie even more bitter.

The game for United was often promising and a poorly set wall led to Gomez's wicked free kick and another early lead for United. While Dyachenko at times seemed about as useful as a stoned elephant, his pass to Emilio was surely a second if not for a misplaced bit of sod covering the National's infield. Instead United heads into the half up a goal instead of two but looking the stronger side.

Quick interjection of some positives before I get to lamenting - Marc Burch looks excellent at left back. He's big, strong and is serving some heat seeking cross field balls. Fred seems to have found his legs consistently and I can only hope Tommy Soehn convinces him to take defenders on more in the final third. Despite the miss, Emilio is still so sweet, holding the ball up and showing some truly brilliant moments on the ball.

Now, bad news time. Despite my compliments of Marc Burch, the back line still looks painfully haphazard at times especially against players with speed. The goal was an unstoppable hit, but the guy on the left who served the ball over had time to check the wind and tee up a perfect ball. Maybe some pressure inside the defensive half is in order.

Props for the goal though - I had a perfect view with my brother and friend from just above the Screaming Eagles section to watch that thing tail back into the top corner with Perkins clasping air.

There were just so many moments of disappointment to go along with the blown lead. Benny didn't look like himself out there making some poor crosses and almost knocking himself in the face with a bad touch. There were bad giveaways and Boswell wasted a chance to put the ball in the mixer, instead choosing to loft a header towards goal from 18 that the keeper took down with his chest.

I was sure the game was all over when the whole scrum happened when hunk Boswell decided the drill the Monarcas player. Instead United plodded along with a painfully ineffective attack against a team that was willing to sit back and play defense and who has a good goalkeeper to back it up. Then came a counter attack with a world class goal and the win never seemed possible afterwards.

The task on Sunday should be even greater against a more in form team who also now has the taste of defeat in their mouth. I hope that United can pull it together and get a win at Estadio RFK so we don't leave a knockout round appearance up to a game against Houston who seems to improve every game.

YouTube Democratic Debate

Gut Response - If people were forced to read a transcript of the candidates positions without names or faces attached, there might be a lot more of this - - showing in the actual polls. Those results come from a blind poll that asks for the user to enter their stance on issues and then matches up with what candidate best matches up. Mine matched up with Gravel followed closely by Kucinich. As some people know, Kucinich has great politics for the current Democratic (or Independent as some of us have turned) voter, but the Democratic voter most likely is shoved up one of the three butts of Clinbamawards.

Of the three part Democratic leadership harshly referred to above - they danced around many issues last night. They stepped on their own feet only a few times when pressured by the 'others', but mostly they behaved well and still seem to be biding time until someone else screws up.

One of the moments that surely raised eyebrows came from Mr. Obama when he voiced his intention of speaking to the leadership in countries that have been strictly off limits recently, including Iran, North Korea, Venezuela, Syria and *gasp* Cuba??? Obama does appear to be the candidate with the most presence - his physicality, strong voice and rhetoric are surely some of his biggest assets. They also aren't bad characteristics to have as a leader of a nation.

Still, the candidate who has my ear continues to be Delaware Senator Joe Biden. He's no bullshit like Mike Gravel but with less of the angry old man in the corner syndrome going on. His realistic outlook on Iraq I think will be a revelation for him as pulling out becomes more of an option. Even Hillary agreed with him that withdrawing isn't going to happen like tugging the yo yo back in; it will take time and money and security so that troops that are supposedly on their way home actually make it.

Biden's realist solution to Iraq, a division of the country under a federal system with localized governments, is a stretch that probably would never politically succeed, but ideologically it sounds like one of the best possible resolutions. He has an impressive record of experience on the Foreign Relations Committee, which is a credential the country's next leader could certainly use.

Kucinich and Richardson were sound. I don't feel like Dodd did much for himself except for having the best candidate video that included a white rabbit perched nearby and the prompter asking something along the lines of "So how many white hairs would you say you have?" I mentioned what I thought were mild political performances by Obama, Clinton and Edwards (his strangehold on the poverty issue aside).

Unsurprisingly, when the last question raised was for each candidate to voice something he disliked about the policy of the person to their left, only desperate for a voice - or the opportunity to speak - Mike Gravel actually said something useful to the voter. Who knew there were so many jokers up on stage? The jokers should really show up when the Republicans get their shot at the YouTubers.

In the end I thought the format was pretty successful and certainly a new twist on the debate format that can sometimes seem so outrageously staged to make it uninteresting. Although this was most likely almost as filtered and prepared, it at least has the feel of legitimate participation by the people that will be voting. Could these debates really alter the landscape that seems so destined to funnel toward a three horse race for the Democratic nomination? I hope so.

Horse the Band... Bitch

Obviously I have to plug the new Horse the Band album - August 28. They just put the video up for a track New York City off the new record and here's my best word for it right now - radical. You can't wait for the super slow death metal breakdown in the middle, trust me you can't.

Story Eating Room, Dollar Budweisers and the MLS All Star Game

Given that the game was last Saturday I really missed the boat on writing up a report on the travesty that were the last 40 minutes against Dallas. Disappointing really sums it up, although while watching the game from right behind La Norte, Dallas' goals weren't all that surprising. I had a perfect view of Brian Carroll being outworked by Toja on his first goal. On his second I was forced to watch Mr. Hyde come errently out of the goal and be outjumped.

I wrote up a report of the game on the Metro the other morning and I think it disappeared in the depths of my room. Unfortunately no dog to blame for eating it. I think it found its way into my shiny new trash can.

So with game report gone missing I went to meet up with Brian (one of my roommates) to catch the All Star game and some beers down at Union Jacks in Bethesda. Nice bar they have down there, lots of pool tables, and Thursday the Budweisers are $1 starting at 7.

Given the lack of information (the All Star game started at 9:30 I think) and the amount of time to drink dollar Budweisers between 7 and kickoff, I consequently missed a good bit of the game.

I did see Beckhams blond head. I did see Gomez score before looking at the linesman in dismay. I saw the Colombians score. I saw EJ miss his penalty because he neglected to notice that the goalkeeper was pretty much already standing on the side where he was shooting. That's all that happened right? Two and a half hours = many $1 Budweisers.

Staring at Your Computer at Work All Day Makes You Do Funny Things...

Like look at this on Youtube

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cQ25-glGRzI

Stupid embedding disabled... now you're just going to get sucked into actually clicking on it without immediately disregarding it for the horrific content.

Travelin' Light - Part VII - THE END

** If you want to read this whole piece from the beginning, check out previous post listings in May and start at Senior Project. Oh, and sorry for no pictures, they're coming.

About a week ago, or maybe it was longer, Berthoud Pass was buried by Colorado’s biggest avalanche in years, sweeping over fifteen cars off the road. Miraculously no one was hurt, but days later I can still see the carnage inflicted on trees and a telltale path carved out in three different places above the road like a hand smashed down leaving marks of three long fingers.

I’m navigating the pass to meet Teddy, an old friend from soccer who graduated two years earlier, at Winter Park. He’s cleaning tables at the peak restaurant to snowboard a couple times a week and graciously gives me some space on his couch. It’s a gorgeous day before another impending storm; the drive to Winter Park takes longer than Jon and my estimates of forty five minutes to an hour. I don’t mind the extended driving time as I gaze at the moon perched in daylight above a craggy peak.

Teddy and his childhood friend Rick embody my vision of mountain spirit. They’re laid back, they love the outdoors and to me they’re here for all the right reasons. Teddy still marvels over the beauty from the pear of Mary Jane even though he’s been up countless times.

It’s beautiful because there’s nothing unnatural, no lodge, nothing human within sight except for a distant road that looks like a penciled line faintly drawn across a page.

On the lift, we discuss how graduation is going to affect Ashley and me in a couple months. He went through the same thing not too long ago, and for him and his girlfriend the stress was too much. At the same time he’s supportive of my view that the only way to stay sane is to see what happens along the way and make sure that we’re both happy and having fun.

Snow is supposed to start soon and we watch the clouds approach, preceded by a furious wind. That afternoon, catching my breath at Winter Park, I saw someone with some good-looking skis. After complimenting them, he informed me they were Simon Dumont’s pro model.

I could only smile and say Oh, really?

He probably would have thought I was kidding to tell him that’s who I spent the last two nights with – and that he gave his best friend’s sister a face full of hickeys.

Rick and Teddy have been moving since their graduation. They’re working at Winter Park before they go to Whistler in British Columbia for the end of the ski season before moving back down the coast to shack up in California for a summer of surfing.

Teddy seems genuinely happy, which is a beautiful thing given his alternative lifestyle after finishing school. I’ve heard discouraging words over that path because there’s no money or that it’s a dead end road. Those people might have a different opinion if they walked in his shoes, or snowboard boots, for a week.

Teddy reminds me college is different from high school, because there’s no constant of coming back to one place.

He still follows the Eagles religiously, a little slice of his Philadelphia upbringing that stays in his life. I can’t help but notice the books on the shelf: On the Road, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Johnny Cash the Autobiography, a collection of Ayn Rand and Ken Kesey.

We talk about different surfboard sizes and his work at a microbrew over the summer before I’m stuck awkwardly in the middle of someone’s mourning. A neighbor comes bursting in the door bawling her eyes out – her ex-boyfriend died the night before. With the slamming of the door comes cold drifts the smell of chain smoking. Here she is sobbing drunk while I stare emptily at the carpet and fidget with my bruised toenail. It makes me scared to see someone like that and not help.

But as difficult as they are, these are the moments I’ll remember as much as any physical experience from this trip. I’m reminded that while I might be having a blast, people are still living and struggling through the difficulties their life presents. No matter how far I stray from my frame of normality, I’ll always be wandering into someone else’s reality.

After the past several nights I realize I’ll sleep anywhere to stay out in Colorado a couple more days. I feel guilty about spending more money but I want at least one more day at Copper to ride and meet people, to tap into the pulse of the mountain.

I’ve stayed in ten different places at this point and my clothes reek and I’ve met bums on the street in the city of Denver and the superstars of a blossoming sport that I’ve packed my life in a car for. There are unique little features that I associate with each of the mountains I’ve ridden. Like my friends who have their different qualities, Mary Jane has her bumps, A-Basin its gnarly streak and Copper its halfpipe.


The day I leave Teddy’s I realize how much my body is wearing down, because I don’t even feel like skiing. The smell of my car is getting to be distastefully distinct – road salt and cheap breakfast fast food wrappers are seeping into everything. Dirty ski socks and worn too many time t-shirts litter the backseat along with a scattered library and an empty cooler – my bookshelf and refrigerator in the backseat.

But it’s not all bad as I think about how much more satisfying a sprinkle of cold from dusting snow is than rain. I’m listening to Against Me, which has become a sort of personal soundtrack, just fulfilling to listen to over and over again. The sunny side of the valley brims with brown and green while the shady side holds its snow until much later in the spring.

So maybe while I'm not together I can feel like I'm not alone.

And somewhere off in the distance, rapidly advancing, is an onslaught of sorts. And there's a joy, a joy in all I can see.

Back at Copper, while I warm up in the lodge, I smile watching a child toy with his glove. His hand is lost deep inside, flapping it around with a grin on his face. His father is in the lodge talking business on a cell phone and both parents have matching undershirts to keep them warm during the day.

I hear dad stop chatting for a second before he reaches down and tugs the gloves off. Those gloves are too big on you son!

Sometimes I feel that same satisfaction in not quite fitting, and being the one that’s still trapped innocently and maybe a little naively in youth. I want to tell the little boy its fine because it doesn’t matter as long as we’re having fun and the times keep a smile on his young face. If he were old enough to understand I’d tell him to keep getting lost in things that seem too big.

Not too many people are out on the halfpipe. Most of the knowledgeable riders have gone home since the wind picked up and snow blows across making the visibility really low. The lifts are still pretty packed with those out early from work for the weekend or those on vacation but it looks like most people have their energy zapped, sometimes the whole mountain can gather up a certain vibe.

I’ve never taken longer to get ready for skiing. Every article seems like heavy labor. I secretly hope they’ll close the lifts so I could have an excuse for not going out all day and that I will get a call for a place to stay – otherwise I’m going to head east. Just like any other activity, it’s hard to pull myself out there lacking any enthusiasm or emotion.

I’m restless and need some company and worst of all I’m too tired to ski; I’m afraid I’ll hurt myself. Maybe I’m spoiled already. I decide to try and occupy myself with talking.

Copper has an area for its employees called the Edge, located a little ways from the main lodge. No matter the time, the computers are always packed. It’s become the best way for people to stay connected when letter writing feels too slow and you have to be quick if you want to sneak in on one. I get a thumb up for the Juventus soccer jersey I’m wearing. Many of the employees are from Peru, Argentina and Brazil but don’t speak much English. For them soccer is something bridging any language barrier.

When he tried to signal me I was stuck on the phone with Zach, whose house we stayed at in Boulder. He took a job in the mountains for the rest of his winter break. While he doesn’t seem too willing to make any promises on a place to crash, I’m going to Vail when I flip off the phone.

By the time I make my way up the pass it’s getting dark, and the weather is not good at all. I forgot to wipe the grime off my headlights, which slows me down to a crawl and cars – mostly enormous trucks – are flying by me with what I’m sure are dirty looks painted on their faces. Whenever they go by I try to follow as closely as seems safe, using their taillights as guides since mine are almost useless. My teeth hurt from being clenched together most of the thirty minutes to Vail and my snow pants are a darker green around my waste from stressful sweating.

Once I’m there, I don’t quite have a destination. Zach arranges for me to meet him at the base where there is a Vans Snowboarding event, but it doesn’t start for another hour. I drive around Vail aimlessly, looking for somewhere to eat for less than a million dollars. After stuffing down two pieces of pizza, I eventually find a place to park a good distance from the event and follow the crowds to the snowboarding competition.

Zach is almost too relaxed while snowboarders launch in the background. The stray glances of his blue eyes under wavy white blond hair give me the impression that he doesn’t even like the mountains that much. He’s only out in the area because his friend hooked him up with a job for break; he only skis occasionally. He’s accepting money from rich people for mindless jobs to round out his break, getting tips for moving ping pong tables and chairs.

Zach’s friends are pretty much assholes: the one a drunk and the other a good old fashioned grumpy fucking asshole. The second in particular doesn’t come kindly towards visitors – at a young age he’s driving snowplows around at four in the morning, clearing the roads for yuppies in fur coats and he’s taking on the role of the disgruntled local.

This guy, whose name I didn’t get, is avoiding the subject of me spending the night with them even though they sleep in a warehouse. I can’t imagine what the big deal would be if I took up a little more space on the concrete floor.

The snowboarding session was entertaining, though I expected a better crowd; most people weren’t even paying attention to the riders cruising in to a quarterpipe littered with various rails and features. But from some of our reactions you can appreciate the creativity, both in the course’s construction and how the riders approach the features.

Similarly, I think that’s how young people approach traveling. While I might be generalizing, the young are still discovering what they like. When we try something new it’s usually slow and probing the first time. Then we go forward with more and more gusto and abandon until our comfort in moving allows for the perfect experience. I think it’s the younger group here in the audience that’s enraptured by something truly innovative and then erupting in applause for the artist.

On our way out, after everything shuts down, I finally get a veto on sleeping at the warehouse. I’m shocked at what is really my first negative response. After I get a short goodbye from Zach and not even that much from his friends, I wander in a sort of uncertain stupor through the village. I guess there just wasn’t enough room on the floor.

What seem like herds of beautiful girls wade through Vail, maybe drawn by the shopping or just the sheer glamour of the mountains’ Rodeo Drive. I ride the Vail bus back to the parking garage, listening to a girl with dyed haired red head chatting up with a vacationer from Atlanta. Most people on the bus are drunk and I don’t know how she deals with such a crowd everyday.

Carefully I get back to Copper, which seemed at least like a good base of operations. I get settled in a corner of the lobby at the Mountain Plaza condo complex with the same clothes I’ve had on for two straight days and my coat draped over my legs. I’m uncomfortable and I frequently swivel my head around the nearest corner to check for security personnel. I try reading for a while in hopes that my uneasy eyes will drift to sleep.

A group of high schoolers pass by. Their flight or bus must have been delayed since they arrive after midnight. Eventually it strikes me that the fourth floor might be more secluded and less likely for any disturbance with the rest of the resort sleeping. I move my camp upstairs and lie to a passerby that I’m sleeping on the couch because I got in a fight with my girlfriend. Just down the hallway, Natrisha’s condo is occupied with new visitors.

My phone alarm rings at 4:45 so I can get up and move my car before the attendants arrive for their morning shift. It doesn’t seem cold at first but after driving to Safeway in Frisco I feel like the temperature drops steeply. With my life’s possessions in the car, I recline, hoping no one kills me in my sleep.

The stars are my first sight when my eyes open intermittently and it keeps getting colder. Finally I give up and eat an apple Danish for breakfast that I saved from the night before. I drive slowly back to Copper, not more than three hours since I was curled up in the hallway of Mountain Plaza. I’m one of the first twenty people in the parking lot including employees. My trial was not in vain – it’s a powder day.

All morning I make laps on the Sierra chair. It’s my favorite spot on the mountain for fresh snow and I don’t see anyone for the first four or five runs; a perfect way to spend my last day of skiing.

There’s not too much talk on the lifts, it’s too windy. I get at least a little reaction out of a man from St. Louis, who is visiting a friend in Leadville for three weeks.

While unloading yells over his shoulder, I’m going to get me some Union Bowl!

When the lifts do start to get a little crowded I head down to the base to bid Copper goodbye for the last time.

The door of the trip was closing after a couple of creaky days. The drive down to Jeff’s house in Denver felt good. It felt right. I flip through the local mountain radio stations one more time. The independent radio was a nice change, pushing Phish and Widespread Panic to Keller Williams and the Dead that don’t get any play elsewhere. As I come down from the mountains into the foothills, the moon sits suspended over nearby peaks, a disco ball over Denver.

Travelin' Light, and you can catch the wind.

Travelin' light, better let your mind pretend.

Get on down to paradise, maybe once, now maybe twice.

Travelin' light, is the only way to fly

I think about the guys I stayed with in Breckenridge, and I realize it wasn’t just jealousy over them being allowed to ski a hundred and fifty days a year. It was their passion and opportunity to go out and attempt perfection at something unique every day. Their willingness to risk bruised heals and fall after fall for one moment of clarity when they land the trick they’ve been working on for weeks. And it doesn’t matter if its in front of a thousand screaming people or their three friends who click their poles together in celebration.

And that’s what writing has become for me – my opportunity for a sublime moment where practice and repetition intersect with something new. For me that independent factor is travel, and whether I can share what I find with the world or with just a couple curious readers makes no difference because the page is always there for me, just like the mountain.


Early Monday morning, the second week of January, I’m ushered out the door by Jeff who has to get to work. It’s hard to watch the mountains disappear in the rearview and not whip the car back around and slap myself for being silly. Drunken talk, about just dropping out of school and skiing, from two nights ago still lingers in my head. A solitary mountain looms over the flat landscape that is Eastern Colorado.

I’m not feeling well as I drift across the map in my head. After so long by yourself the road starts to come alive. I sympathize with poor Hunter S. Thompson because even while I’m sober, I’m getting delusional on the road. Shadows form bridges that I’m never going to pass under. Little birds on the side of the road come at my window then vanish. I focus on everything except what I’m leaving, trying to discover a musical track that is brilliant to distract me in the confines of the car.

Feel the volume of the sky, mark your place in time with another question, why? Just sway, when all you want is to find home.

I keep looking at my phone like someone is supposed to call. When I think through these past couple weeks, I’m surprised my leaving was so emotionless. I’m glad there was hardly even tug. Power lines and train tracks decorate the plains parallel to I-70 East; I’m chasing the storm that just dropped over a foot of snow on Denver, back across the country. I sparingly take pictures of the flat landscape while I drive.

I pop in the appropriately titled album Distance Makes the Heart Grow Fonder and it lets me know the time was right. The road back allows plenty of time for remembering everyone I should thank for making this trip happen and letting me know that Colorado isn’t home yet. I’ll see Virginia soon enough.

A Noble Cause for Sports

While the writing in this article isn't my favorite, the story is one of seeming impossible success, and certainly makes anyone who doubted the power of sports to change the world waver a little bit from their position.

The story of these two Northern Irish men, one Catholic and one Protestant, to forge something above those distinctions bears lessons that probably belong on a grander stage than ESPN the Magazine or the ESPY awards last weekend where Dave Cullen and Trevor Ringland were co-recipients of the Arthur Ashe Courage Award at the 2007 ESPYS. Tom Friend at ESPN the magazine should be applauded for being able to put together the pieces of the story. So I'll do my little part and put a bit of the story on here with a link to the full story at the bottom.

ESPN The Magazine: Hate is a waste of time
By Tom Friend
ESPN The Magazine
(Archive)


Editor's note: This article appears in the July 16 issue of ESPN The Magazine.


Across the ocean, in a bigoted Irish town, little girls ask other little girls, "Coke or Pepsi?" It is a veiled, mean question -- because the wrong answer can get a little girl's home firebombed. This is a story about the right answer: a basketball game. A game arranged, in part, by one man who's a Coke and one man who's a Pepsi …

* * * *

His first memory in life is a funeral.

He can still see the stone facade of the church, the wood seats and the casket that held his father, his "da." It was no place for a 5-year-old boy; then again, Belfast in the mid-1970s was one corpse and one restless night after another.

He remembers, after his da's death, the police and the British army repeatedly storming his home after dark, yanking his mum out of bed and tossing her to the ground, manhandling him and his two screaming brothers. The strange men would rip up floorboards and drywall in a vain search for stashed ammunition. They never did find any, but from what he's been told, they once returned 40 times in 30 days. It drove his mum to drink, and she became a staggering alcoholic whom he had to follow up the stairs, in case she tumbled backward.

Months later, his mum moved the family to the Ormeau Road section of town, near her mother but also near the epicenter of the Catholic-Protestant "Troubles" of Northern Ireland. Men were butchered just beyond his front stoop -- over religion, land, politics -- and when he got older, he wanted answers. He wanted to know why his da was gone, why his mum never visited her husband's grave. When no one came clean, he eavesdropped. He heard his mum tell a relative that his da had been a member of the IRA and heard her tell a neighbor that he'd been shot. All sorts of questions raced through the boy's head. Shot by whom? Protestants? Had his da shot people too?

As a teenager, he roamed the area around the Ormeau Road with his most rugged Catholic friends, looking for Protestants to pay back. He knew a Protestant when he met one. If a man's name was William, Tom or Oliver, he was Protestant. If he was a Sean, Liam, Paddy or Seamus, he was Catholic. If he rooted for the Rangers football team, he was Protestant; if he rooted for Celtic, he was Catholic. If he played rugby or cricket, Protestant; hurling or Gaelic football, Catholic. If he went to a school called Holy Cross, definitely Catholic. The giveaways were numerous.

This was the world he lived in, where bigoted Catholics called Protestants "Prods," and bigoted Protestants called Catholics "Fenians." But it was also a world in which he could almost hide. His name was Dave -- Dave Cullen -- which didn't peg him to either religion, although he was Catholic. And his sport was basketball, a game considered neutral in Ireland, if it was considered at all.

Outdoor courts were scarce, so young Dave had to walk alone past dangerous Protestant neighborhoods to find a gym where he could shoot baskets, a gym he'd have to pay two quid to enter. He accepted the risk because he needed the escape. He was still haunted by his da's death, still furious at the army and the predominantly Protestant police force that had driven his mum to the bottle. He knew he was a bitter, prejudiced young man. But there was something about basketball, something about draining a shot from well beyond the arc, something that gave him peace.

Hate is a Waste of Time

CD's and Circle Pits - A Week of Darkest Hour

Eyeing the stage during the soundcheck for Darkest Hour at the Ottobar on Thursday night, my brother and I started talking about the first time we saw them. It turns out it was a little over 7 years ago at Fletchers, also in Baltimore, where they played after a lovely band named Shat. I watched the odd performance, that ended with the drummer shitting on the stage, standing unbeknownst next to DH guitarist Mike Schleibaum.

Waiting for them to set up before playing all I wanted to do was ask Mike if he remembered that performance that precluded my first of many Darkest Hour shows spanning through high school and outlasting college. This show at the Ottobar wasn't as memorable as others - the crowd wasn't quite there and for them being headliners the set wasn't quite as long as I would have liked.

But that doesn't mean it wasn't blistering because it was from the very start when Mike stepped on stage with a smile plastered on his face, high fiving everyone in the front row while feedback wailed, signaling the intro to A Thousand Words But One. It also didn't mean the show was without surprises - the new songs sounded tight and full of energy and not only did regular guitar hero Kris Norris run his gamut of solos, his typically rhythm driven partner dove into several of the shred sessions himself, including a team performance on Sound the Surrender.

If there is one consistent thing about their performances it's their passion for performing the songs they obviously love. Their playlist included three new songs, a heavy dose of 'Undoing Ruin,' a splash of 'Sadist Nation' and their usual epic "For the Soul of the Savior" unfortunately sandwiched in the middle.

People can criticize John Henry for not having any vocal range or the entire band for not having a creative style of their own, but I think after the seven years and five albums now that I've been following Darkest Hour, they've never disappointed, and continue to evolve and improve as musicians just enough with each album that they're fresh and bring something new to the table for punk and metal.

I guess a brief review of the new album is in order to get my words in after seeing a range of reactions online. 'Deliver Us' didn't produce any songs that are going to crack my Top 5 list of favorite DH tracks, but as a record I think it emerges as the best produced and impressively written album. The band has grown so much from 'Mark of the Judas' and as far as songwriting is concerned, this is it for them.

The drums and bass keep everything as heavy as it's ever been. The guitar work is phenomenal and you can distinguish the solo styles between Norris' sprinting fret acrobatics and Schleibaum's meticulous bends, squeals and riffing. As for John Henry, my humble opinion is that the album is his best vocal performance. He's oft criticized for not being dynamic - I assume that means not singing like he's in Taking Back Sunday.

Darkest Hour is not Taking Back Sunday and the vocals rang from grind metal burps to gravelly punk yells that harbor a subtle melody.

Aside from the short interlude track that gets under my skin everytime I'm playing through the album, everything belongs. 'Doomsayer' lights a fire at the beginning of the album that the title track 'Deliver Us' closes out with as much intensity. My favorite track is #5, 'Paradox with Flies' that shows exactly how much musical balance DH possesses.

Since that didn't make it onto Youtube from the show at the Ottobar, here is the track 'Demons' the way I heard it on Thursday.



This is truly a band that will be long appreciated by metal fans for maintaining a place on the scene and elevating their game after time they are asked. If you're in the DC area I hope to see you slam dancing and circle pitting at the 9:30 club on August 12.

Travelin' Light - Part VI

** If you want to read this whole piece from the beginning, check out previous post listings in May and start at Senior Project. Oh, and sorry for no pictures, they're coming.


It’s time for another movement after we help Natrisha close up her condo. It’s just Jeffries and Dave who keep me company on my last day at Copper with friends. We ride for a couple hours, picking some of our favorite runs that include making laps on the Mountain Chief lift that take us through the expansive back bowls, then down the back of Golddigger to the bottom of the Timberline lift and it’s seemingly impossible long line. We take a last run through the terrain park where we fail miserably at photographing some jumps and almost all crash disastrously.

We exit Copper without emotion, trying not to think about what we’re leaving. We head towards Silverthorne and our hostel, the Alpen Hutte, where we’ve reserved the last three available beds. Since the hostel doesn’t open its doors until 4 o’clock, we park the car and, craving Kentucky Fried Chicken, embark on an adventure with the Summit County bus system. Its map seems decipherable. Waiting anxiously inside the station’s hut, I slurp down some hot sauce with snow – I’m hungry.

We end up with a grand tour of Dillon and Silverthorne. We could have walked to the transfer station in three minutes but instead take a half-hour ride. Eventually we find the KFC we’ve been questing for but miss the return bus to Dillon. It’s snowing hard and the wind is picking up.

Dave’s instincts from a summer traveling Alaska kick in, and as the weather keeps deteriorating, a thumb from his lanky arm goes out in hopes of a ride. We wander in a general direction and eventually, without hitchhiking, stumble upon the Backcountry Brewery on Main St. in Frisco. It’s not as good as Dillon Dam. The beers lack flavor and the place is too busy. They seem more worried about catering to tourists like us than the local constituency we hope to find.

We move down the street and slip into Po’ Boys – it’s packed with attitude and good tunes, and a dollar cheeseburger during happy hour, to boot. The woman of our dreams– a blonde with a Scandinavian accent – is serving us beer. She was a good hire because the three of us hang around as long as our wallets agree.

A couple blocks down we find a beacon of the old mountain town, a local hole called the Moosejaw. It’s cheap, only sporting two beers on draught, and has taped up wooden stools that must be a safety hazard. Ceran wrap seals the space where a window used to be and an enormous plaster hand with an outstretched finger looms overhead pointing you to the restrooms. We fit the dress code still donned in ski regalia – other places might have expected something classier.

The weather isn’t better when we emerge, but at least we are warmed by a couple pints. Hunting for the elusive bus becomes increasingly frustrating as an hour passes. The wind exposes us – thumbs are outstretched again. Passes are made by ten SUV’s with only a driver and we’re curious about their obvious gaze at the other side of the road trying to avoid us, especially when several two-doors stop and see if they can help out, but they’re all headed the wrong direction.

Finally a bus shows up and takes us back at the Alpen Hutte. We quickly unload my Subaru, which looks like a clown car at this point. It’s packed to the brim with stinky luggage. In the conservative culture of America, our hostel is trying hard to live up to its European counterparts. I flashback to the Salmon Weir in Galway, Ireland and eight different nationalities all spouting stories in the broken pieces of languages none of us really knew. Those images aren’t rekindled by the Alpen Hutte living room.

Though dogs roam the living room and swigs of beer are taken in between pauses of conversation, everyone seems to be just passing time. The owner says the hostel is full but there are barely a handful of people in the common area. As diverse as it seems, everyone remains separate in their ethnic groups while a European hostel seems to have a power of bringing people together in a collective experience of travel.

We never get comfortable and the fact that it’s not particularly cheap doesn’t help. We’re charged over thirty dollars for a space with no linens and a shitty pillow, no breakfast and a midnight curfew. Contrary to its free spirited image, the hostel is a tightly run ship in a jam-packed town.

Our distracted wandering for food makes it too late for a trip to Breckenridge; by the time we arrived we’d just have to turn around. We quickly escape the clutches of the hostel, diving in and out of side streets we don’t know, aimed for the bus station. A local jumps on the bus with us and we ask for guidance. We find out it’s his first night out in Dillon after moving from Breckenridge. He’s looking desperately for foosball in a stupor of marijuana and booze and he’s coming up empty handed. He drunkenly chastises us for trying to travel this late to Keystone or Breck, so we loosen on grip on the reins of fate and see what plays out when we follow him to a local joint called Pug Ryans.

Immediately in the door we find the ATM busted. Our new friend furiously exits because he doesn’t have any cash. We find ourselves a seat next to the place’s fish tank and open our ears. The place brings a good vibe right away as I watch the hated Cowboys season slip away in front of my eyes when their celebrated rookie quarterback fumbles a snack on the last play of the game.

The place is really breathing and everyone working seems to have a good time. They playfully jostle with their patrons – a British accent behind the bar leads to high fives and hugs around. Shouts are sent around the bar. In the corner are five girls playing a card game. We get free bread sent over to our table. Warm talk abounds of the ski day past and the neighboring table even donates some of their leftover ribs. Another round of beers makes its way to the table while a waiter takes a shot with friends.

We think we’re lined up for a return bus trip at quarter after eleven, which gives us plenty of time to get back to the hostel before it locks its doors at midnight. After shivering out in the bus station for too long, we realize something has gone wrong. Closer inspection of the faded schedule peeling off the wall reveals we were reading the weekday times – it’s Friday. We frantically call a cab company but they tell us a ride is just not going to happen because the few on duty are already busy.

So we start running in the general direction of Silverthorne. We’re laughing raucously in the dark while the odd car passes us wildly. Breathing heavily, I keep pulling the drawstrings on my hood tighter to shield my face from the cold. Dave’s beard is crusted with ice. It’s very possible we won’t make it back in time.

The shore of Lake Dillon appears on our left, letting us know we’re not too far off. At this point we’re cutting it awfully close to sleeping in the car. Jogging backwards, downhill, on the side of an icy Rt. 6, a car responds to our desperate thumbs. It noisily veers over to the shoulder and just when I think it might clear us out like bowling pins, comes to a stop.

I don’t know if I have room for all of you but how far are you going?

Before he finishes his sentence we’re packed into the backseat of his aging BMW. Its windshield is cracked and the engine sputters, then stalls out, whenever we stop at a red light. Maybe we’re not going to make it out of this one alive – I envision the driver skipping past the road that leads to our hostel while the three of us exchange glances and from the backseat I’ll give Jeffries a tap and nod and when the driver has come to a stop and has to turn the engine back over we’ll make our move; it will be a quick jab to the head and Jeffries will dive out the door, hiding behind it while keeping it open for me and Dave to escape. My paranoid vision evaporates when the driver delivers us pretty much to the doorstop of the Alpen Hutte and after many thanks we wish him luck getting to Vail. Who knows how far that car made it.

When we get inside, the hostel seems even less friendly than before. Our room smells like sweat and stink. We all suffer under the heat that’s choking after the temperature outside. We’re awake most of the night even without blankets. Rolling around uncomfortably, I just keep reminding myself we’ll be at A-Basin in the morning.


My eyes crack open and I’m struck by the oppressive funk; it makes me double step my morning routine. I stumble out of the bunk after my phone vibrates against my face – it’s Drew. Luckily he’s not calling and asking where we are, because our party is still two thirds asleep. Drew’s stuck in traffic, but I still force everyone moving. After living with Jeffries for three years, I know the extent of his morning lethargy. I make as much noise as my snow pants can manage and eventually they grumble and rub their fists against their faces.

A black lab rests peacefully by the fire in the hostel’s living room – two paws grounded while its head rests on the others perched up on the mantle. The room is much quieter than last night but the tender seems unmoved, still watching TV, still reclined in the closet of a reception room. His frayed gray hair and permanent dishevelment makes him looks like a mannequin on display, a relic confined to his workspace where he’ll serve his function and expire in time – hopefully after midnight.

The roads haven’t improved since last night, and after some greasy Mickey D’s rises to the challenge of crushing our hangovers, we tenderly drive past Keystone Resort and climb another ten minutes to A-Basin – the Legend. Our cautious driving is vindicated after passing a red Civic that was on the wrong end of a fight with a bus; its hood is pressed up against its windshield. A couple miles later we hook a right into locals’ paradise – there aren’t a whole lot of mountains left where you can park not only for free, but within a short walk to the lift.

There aren’t any lines but the whipping wind makes the morning painful. The arctic temperature can’t keep smiles off faces though, and the sun manages to withstand the snarling gusts. There’s no cell phone reception, so I wait, huddled inside my jacket on the lookout for Drew and Arienne, who we’re supposed to meet. I’ve known Drew for a couple years and he’s already living the vision I had for myself, moving out West with a cute girl that loves to ski, working at a ski shop and riding every day that he has off.

Finally everyone arrives and my reservations over paying the fifty dollars for a lift ticket dissipate once the lift crests and A-Basin’s three hundred and sixty five degree view unravels. Dave is gone almost as soon as we’re off the lift, disappearing quickly with his now infamous phrase, “fuck it.” It’s his version of magician’s “abracadabra.”

We ride through the morning but dip inside after only a few runs to thaw out. When we emerge from the creaking lodge the weather is balmy by comparison when we arrived; I can actually feel my toes.

We finish the day of skiing at a particularly bad time for traffic, especially since we’re headed back through the mountains to Boulder, where our friend from school has volunteered his basement for us. It will be a good jumping off point for us in the morning when Jeffries and Dave need to get to the airport. Before the trip back though, we determine that pizza is certainly in our best interest after a hard day of skiing, so we head to Breckenridge’s Downstairs at Eric’s.

The pizza joint is a collage of sports paraphernalia, TVs and general insanity that’s overwhelmed by a clanging from the glowing arcade set in between the two dining rooms. I first came here with my dad almost eight years earlier and skied his favorite run today at A-Basin called Standard. It starts tamely and towards the end you start to wonder what the double diamond on the sign is all about. Then you rear to a stop because you can’t see the slope anymore, just the lodge a couple hundred vertical feet seemingly right under your skis.

It’s nervy, just scooting close enough to see the moguls that pock the steep pitch underneath a little ridge. Rocks and stumps peek out from under a noticeably thin snow pack. Skiing it this time around makes me realize how much physically stronger I am than the first time I visited Colorado.

Another run put me back in my place. The route was a four foot fide, unmarked chute pocketed secretively in the sprawling trees. After carefully edging past some rocks and straightlining through the chute’s hourglass middle barely a full ski length wide, I flew past Jeffries and Drew. I felt like a runaway truck with burnt out brakes, but I didn’t have an emergency ramp, only an imposing mass of trees below me. I’m smiling now though, merrily reciting the story over greasy slices and a weaving of tales that criss-cross the table.

The drive home is the worst of the trip; we’re crammed in between everyone’s luggage and the car barely crawls through the mountains. After the road finally unclogs, we hit a spot just after Idaho Springs where the wind must slice through a gap in the mountains and causes a whiteout; we’re completely blind. I don’t know whether to slam on the brakes or keep moving at the same speed and it’s like a game of Russian roulette.

We turn the music off thinking it will make it easier to see. Jeffries’ hands are pressed against the ceiling and every muscle in my body is tense. Only Dave is calm in the back, blissfully ignorant and unable to gauge the situation because he’s blocked in on all sides by ski equipment. I let go of the gas for a few seconds, coasting, before two red lights dimly appear and relief crashes into my brain. I breathe again.

Just out of the foothills we crush three snowboards that are strewn across the road, though we surely must not have been the first to hit them. I mentally thank Drew and Arienne for taking my skis in their car so I didn’t have to leave them to the fortunes of my untrustworthy ski rack. Over three hours later, double the normal time, we make it into Boulder after the scariest drive of my life.


The decor of some homes says so much about its inhabitants. I think of Jeff’s parents, who wanted a ranch style house with a southwestern motif years before they moved to Arizona. It was obvious in their Virginia suburban house they had earthy tones and artwork with Native American motifs. When they moved to Denver, they at least could see some mountains before minimizing to the single floor when both children went to school. They finally made the move to Phoenix last year, actually realizing what they had been invoking for years.

The same goes for Zach’s house, but instead of desert and adobe there are evangelical books and biblical adages adorning the wall. After staying in basement, I notice how everything is religious on the main floor and it makes me a little uncomfortable while we eat a light breakfast of eggs and bagels.

After I get Jeffries and Dave to the airport I’m on my own for the first time, but I decide to bum around Denver for the night and give my body a little rest. That night I slept in my eighth different place since I left home. For some reason, Jeff, who Ashley and I stayed with our first night, seems reluctant to put me up for the night. I force my hand because I don’t have much of an option.

He’s still scared by his decision; I can tell by the way he doesn’t want to get settled. Everything is still packed in boxes after almost two weeks, like college might not be over, or his parents are going to call him back, apologize and say bring yourself home. Maybe it’s easier for me to say that as an observer while he’s still trying to cope with such a shift in life.

I’m alone in what is supposed to be Jeff’s bedroom, but he sleeps in front of the TV and is out early to rest for his accounting job the next morning. My thoughts drift to more unnerving areas listening to the sad tones of Jose Gonzalez. Even though we talk every day, I’m miserable at letting Ashley know how much I miss her over the phone.

Seeing a Woodstock ‘99 poster, still stowed in a moving box, makes me think of my mom, who chaperoned us there when I was just fourteen. She’s always allowed me the freedom to move and try new things; I promise myself I’ll call her tomorrow. Lack of permanence is starting to wear down my spirits as my eyelids close together.

By the time you reach your goal, tongues will be twisted,

to the point where you'll lose track of your soul,

distorted pictures is all you deliver.


It’s miserable driving from Denver to the mountains everyday, so I’m trying to arrange something more permanent to abbreviate the drive. Without anything settled, I head back to Copper. I had been hooked up with the number for a kid named Ian but he never returned my message. Maybe I’ll have to call Jon, my slightly estranged roommate from sophomore year but Arienne gave me foreboding reports of the people Jon is staying with as disgustingly rude and generally unbearable. Heading up to Breckenridge again I wonder if they’re as bad as she suggests and concoct scenes in my head. I imagine something akin to a Jackass movie with incessant harassment of innocent people and beer cans littering the house.

The ski day turns out to be full of chatter. I meet a wife whose husband was in the army for many years; her children are both struggling with their undergraduate degrees, one as an actor, and the other as an architect.

My third is a photojournalism major still twelve credits short sand now waiting tables in Breckenridge. The school messed up her transcript and she’s too pissed off to even go finish school. She might be done for good.

Even a mother can admit the lifestyle sucks you in.

Another parent offered me their home after hearing of my plan for bumming around, although it wasn’t quite hers, it was her daughter’s.

After already giving me the number she asked, you aren’t a drug dealer, are you? Because if you are, then, don’t call her.

I rode up with a first-time snowboarder. She was quiet and obviously prepared for the worst. But friends were taking her along, trying to teach her the intricacies of unloading from the lift. Their attempts to console her alerted me that what I was missing today was someone to ride with. It’s been so long since I’ve been out without a companion, someone to rant about the ski runs past or what part of the mountain to ride next and I sit glumly in silence.

On another ride up I talk with Molly, who just moved to Copper from Seattle. She came out here to see some different mountains after working at Mt. Baker for two years. For some people, this is just the life they love.

Some of the workers speak very poor English and a lot of them come in and ask me for help because I can speak a little Spanish. There is such an enormous disparity in wealth, with most people either filthy rich or dirt poor but in love with the spirit.

I end the day by relaxing in the sun at the base of the mountain. Watching me claw at the top of a can of chicken noodle soup with a knife must be a spectacle. I’m vainly trying to pry the sustenance out of the can with my unbuckled ski boots sliding across the wooden deck like ice skates. A man from Iowa interrupts my efforts, asking me if I’m a local, and after several weeks here I feel obligated to say yes.

Finally breaking into the can I take a seat and scoop most of the soup onto a plate. My slurping instead of using a spoon spills the soup straight onto my black t-shirt. Unfazed by my mess, he goes on to tell me why he’s here without me asking. I halfheartedly listen, soaking up the sun and peering up at the halfpipe.

I worked IT for many years. Now I’m forty so I think I’ll buy a ‘Vette. Or get back into skiing. I need something to cure my midlife crisis.

He laughs and looks for a similar response. I don’t give him one, and he hurriedly bids me ado. Suddenly I can’t be bothered by the idle chatter from vacationers. I finish my meal, soaking up the soup with some pieces of bread, and casually take a few more runs before confirming that I can spend the night with Jon.

We’ve been through the friendship spectrum. Once roommates, we ended living together on caustic terms. After living separately for two years, we get along without any bad blood. As it turns out, when I give him a call, he’s staying in a condo given to him and some professional skiers for the week while they film around the mountain. He enthusiastically extends an invitation, and although I’m excited by the hint of celebrity, I try not to take the offer too quickly.


When I arrive at their condo in Breckenridge with a housewarming case of beer it’s nothing like Arienne’s report. Simon Dumont, a young skiing phenom, sits idly at the table with the keys to his Hummer spinning in his hand. Peter and Michael Olenick, two brothers from Aspen, and TJ Schiller, a gold medal winner at last year’s X-Games, are lounging quietly in front of the television with bottles of Gatorade rather than beer. They’re only around for one night before they have to go to a competition in Sun Valley, Idaho. I’ll see them on TV next week when the X-Games begin, but all I can think is how they all seem so much smaller in real life.

Jon introduces me to everyone and they politely return hellos. He fits the look of extreme sports, with a thick frame and a tan face from skiing daily in the sun. Long bleached hair protrudes from the holes in a home knit hat. He’s putting me up for two nights in a condo that must go for well over a thousand dollars a week.

I’m fraught with jealousy over them getting paid absurd amounts of money to play in the snow. Simon is on a contract with Target that pays him over $400,000 as a base, doing what I call a hobby. “Smelly” Pat paces in and out of the kitchen with the phone pressed against his ear, mouthing for us to shut the fuck up while he gives an interview.

I feel like an intruder when we stop by their favorite pizza joint, X-Treme Pizza for dinner and, shoot a few games of pool. They roar into the restaurant like movie stars, and to some people out here, like me, they’re more than that – they’re heroes. I sheepishly sit at the table while they woo our waitress with overly polite language every time she walks by flashing smiles and asking what she’s doing after work.

They carom from table to table, knocking beer onto plates of pizza and peering over shoulders to get a better look at some video footage they’re watching on portable video cameras. Many of them have baggy pants on with overly big shirts like you might see on a child when it’s time for bed. They’re screaming obscenities across the restaurant while employees look on, vainly trying to limit the damage. By the time we get through dinner most of the other patrons have evacuated the scene.

Later that night a couple of us decide to poach on a jacuzzi at another condominium community because ours is closed. On the way out, Peter Olenick eyes up the space between two cars that are parked against the curb. They’re making the normally two lane street precariously narrow for his vehicle that is a borderline monster truck. When he hits the side-view mirror of one car, he quickly throws it into reverse.

Getting out and looking at the damage he laughs, and in disbelief says I can’t believe I thought my car was going to fit through there.

Without further remorse or any effort to apologize to anyone, we jump into his sister’s station wagon and head for the hot tub.

We’re sharing the bubbling water with a liftie and Breckenridge native named Shannon.

I hate it when people suggest that they didn’t know people actually came from this area – they don’t know that my parents make a living off their tourism. They used to lead activities around the area but now they manage a travel website that’s basically a gateway for people to find stuff to do in Breckenridge.

I want to ask her where she’s traveled. Surely her view of tourists and travelers must be skewed from being part of the destination. I wonder if she’s left this town or this state. I understand a certain amount of bitterness towards visitors, but I can’t help but wonder if she isn’t jealous over their journey? If one of the advents of travel is discovery, she must have learned to stem that flow of curiosity. I feel sorrow for those who haven’t left where they were born and raised. How much can you really know about yourself if you don’t know about anything else?

Again I think of George Santayana writing about travel.

There is an acrid savor in their elderly sweetness: they believe they have missed something which they pretend to despise.

But I don’t think someone who has lived their life in one place is bittersweet about their unmoving. Many people probably think of vacationing as frivolous movement. If everything is provided for in a certain place – there’s food to eat and air to breathe – what more is there to find anywhere else. Sadly, in a time with more opportunity for movement and learning than ever before, some still plod from the beginning until the end, possibly cheated of an unfound love or undiscovered conversation.

I can’t trust that everything will be found in one place; it feels like a constant flame is burning just behind me and whenever I slow down for too long it flares up, pushing me forward. I hope I leave this world still teeming with curiosity, dissatisfied with the little I know.

My second night in Breckenridge is different than the first. The condo was less crowded. Even though I’m crashing on the floor of some of a condo full with the best skiers in the country, there is hardly a lick said about skiing, which is a relief for me. Even though I’ve skied since I was five, I feel like I can’t contribute to their stories of competition or mastering a difficult trick.

They spend most of their time talking about, and then actually chasing girls, like most sexually overcharged twenty something’s. You certainly can’t blame them; they spend ninety percent of their time with men, and the ratio in a ski town is something cruel like eight guys to one girl. Even the lone female in the house, Meg Olenick, is used to their lewdness, accepts it, and uses some of the same crude language.

Early in the evening, when Simon urges me to go get more beer from the fridge, I take a jump towards the kitchen and slip backwards on the heel of my sweatpants. On the way down I jam my chest into the corner of the counter, ripping both my shirt and my skin open. The room goes silent and starts spinning a little, while I lay there not knowing whether to cringe or smile. Later that night, Dumont almost meets the same lethal corner with his face when he somersaults out of a wrestling move applied by Jon in the living room.

Despite their seemingly reckless behavior and their thoughtless attitude, many of the skiers I stayed with were sincerely dedicated to advancing their sport. TJ Schiller and Peter Olenick were on the mountain with photographers before the sun rose. Their day was hours old by the time I struggled out from under the covers. They endlessly critique each other on hours of video footage compiled on a laptop. I can only watch in awe and reassure myself that what I’m watching isn’t done by someone supernatural; they’re right next to me on the couch.

Jon and his friends’ time in the condo is up the next day and I’m losing track of my dreams, of what I’m really doing out here. Most mornings I wake up with my mouth like sandpaper from a dehydrating day of skiing and then little to nothing except beer to drink in the evening. It feels like I haven’t slept in months. Without any income I worry about my slimming funds. I rejoice when it hits thirty degrees out, because when the sun peeks out from behind the snowy clouds my entire body warms underneath my ski clothes.

United vs. Wizards

On our rainy July 4th up in Ithaca I'm watching United play in front of what looks like about 700 people in Kansas City and even that number feels generous. The production on Mls TV online wasn't bad although what is probably a combination of my internet connection, computer and not quite top of the line technology yet from MLSNet left the picture quality pretty subpar.

Anyways, on to the game. What a different display of finishing by the Wizards after the clinical show at the season opener at RFK. Today it's been pitiful from all angles and personnel, although credit due to Troy Perkins for making his share of special saves especially in one on one.

Clyde Simms and Devon McTavish look suspect in the back. Simms especially is overly cautious to the point where it makes things more difficult and ultimately dangerous situations. Emilio continues his hot streak, exploiting some lazy defending inside the Wizards SIX YARD BOX. LAZY... INSIDE THE SIX YARD BOX.

A nice chance to see what Dominic Mediate could bring to the table, although after a full 45 minutes that contribution was rather tame. Greg Vanney looked civilian although solid in the back which is a rather stark description when lined up against a typical Facundo Erpen performance.

One word that sums up the game from both sides: soft. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe the middle of the season and middle of the week game in front of next to no fans. Game should have been buried once or twice. Although it might seem nit picky, a couple players had the opportunity to put it out of reach in extra time. But I'm glad United is going to get the soft 3 points and take their perch on top of the Eastern Conference standings.

Man of the match ends up being shared by Troy Perkins and his left post that kept the Wizards out on two occasions. Now hopefully the rain will stop in time for some BBQ and fireworks.

US v Paraguay

Just after discussing how Gilmore Girls makes me want to vomit, I actually found something more barf inducing - the United States' vile display of finishing. Absolutely pathetic, the word FINALLY used from one of the announcers on Gol TV who in both this game and the one against Argentina was very positive on the Americans.

Great effort, enormously disappointing result.

Thank God It's Ending Soon

I have to move the computer close to my body as I write this so Ashley doesn't peer over my shoulder and lambaste me for every bitter word I have for the Gilmore Girls. This show, better understood as a virus that infests the minds of young women and slowly drives everyone around them insane, be it in their own house or on vacation until I'm soon worried that every public television will soon be simultaneously broadcasting seven years worth of speed talking white noise. I have nightmares about being bound and left in a room with a season of Gilmore Girls

Yes, I know how many seasons of Gilmore Girls exist. And I know Rory and Lorelai (although the spelling mystifies me) as the dispensers of hours of mindless banter promoted as witty chit chat. I'll be frank: it makes me want to shove sharpened #2 pencils into both my ears before I hear the theme song again. If the grandmother on the show was in anyway related to me I'd make sure she met a quick but extremely painful end. Or I hope they both get eaten by a shark.

At least it's almost over. The bitching never ceases and the selfishness of the characters is enough to vomit over. I hope that my youngest sister, who adores the show, doesn't take after any of them. I'm overjoyed the final show is apparently next week. More than a half hour of their back and forth snipping is something Dick Cheney should look into using on some detained terrorist suspects - no more than that though for fear of consequences in an international court. It's worse than Chinese Water Torture. I can only hope that a special guest appearance from Kiefer Sutherland leaves a trail of bodies behind and no hope for any sort of reunion down the road. Or I hope they get eaten by a shark.

I'm pretty upset with myself for having paid enough attention to be forced into writing this.