And then there are days when I fall back in love with this city-

Some dilapidated theater around the corner from me was showing a World Premiere of a film by some local filmmakers. The filmmakers, friends since High School, had spent most of their lives writing movie scripts together, never finding any success. Finally, after years and years of frustration, they decided to D.I.Y it and made a film by their lonesomes. After two years and only three thousand bucks, their life-long dream had come true. They filmed the movie they had spent years wishing they could make.

That movie? Monsturd- an epic horror flick about a shit monster that lives in the sewers and comes out of toilets to kill it's unsuspecting victims. Heartwarming story isn't it?

Everytime I watch one of those crappy movies, either rented or seen late night on cable, I always wonder what the hell were the people thinking. I They all probably should of known that the movie was crap, so why do they always try to make it like it's not crap? How much better would those movies be if everyone just kind of said "you know, this movie is gonna suck, so let's just go with it." Those movies would be so much better. In fact, I've always loved the idea of intentionally making the worst movie ever made (have the idea already and part of a script already). Because there's a fine-line between clever and stupid. And this movie was pretty much that.

It was a definite Grade Z horror-flick, the kind shown all the time on Mystery Science Theater, except that they knew that it was nothing more than a Grade-Z horror flick. So they just went with it, up til it's explosive climax at the Butte County Chili cook-off involving a thousand flies and squirt guns loaded with Pepto Bismo.

Genius.

And you just got to love the idea of two guys spending all that time and effort in making a movie about a shit monster. A movie that'll probably only be seen by the people who acted in it, their friends and families, and a few other people who might accidentally stumble upon it. Like me.

Dreams can come true.

Followed that up by ducking into a divy Mexican bar down the street from me and watching Mexico vs. Ecuador. One of only a few gringo's in the place, but at least I didn't stick out as much as the khaki clad Yupsters who stumbled in looking like they wanted to slum it as a way of proving to their girlfriends how non khaki-clad Yupster they really were. Everytime Mexico scored, the entire place would jump and down cheering, chanting "Mexico! Mexico!"

All of which is why I'm back in love with the city. Random, indy flick followed by soccer watching in a Mexican dive bar. And people ask me why I wouldn't consider moving back to Philly.

Yeah, it's 2 in the morning.

Just got back from watching the US-South Korea game at the Mad Dog. Stupid me thought that if I got there at least an hour early, I'd have my pick of seats. Even brought a book with me so I'd have something to do while waiting. Cause nobody's gonna be watching a US soccer match at 11:30 at night on a Sunday night. Right?

I was way wrong. It was jam packed. What the hell was everyone doing at a Pub on a Sunday night? Doesn't anybody work? Oh yeah.

Found a nice little corner spot in the corner of the bar where I could have some back support for the entire game and still get a good view of the big-screen TV the Mad Dog brings in for big soccer matches. Wasn't a bad spot, either as I got a pretty good view of most of the match. That was until the start of the second-half when the cute little soccer lesbians standing in front of me got pissed at the six foot tall guy who moved in front of them and told him to move somewhere else so that those in the back could see. He did. Right behind them and in front of me. Everytime something exciting happened, he'd start jumping up and down, blocking my view so I couldn't see a thing. Completely missed South Korea's goal. Well, I wanted the full-on soccer watching experience and I got it- smushed in a packed, hot pub with a semi-visible view of the game and surrounded by a lot of loud drunks.

Hate to say it too, but the US got damn lucky to get the tie. We played like, like, well, like you'd expect a soccer team from America to play. Sloppy and slow. If it weren't for some brilliant goaltending,a lot of luck (brought on in huge part by a South Korea team probably choking a bit from the pressure and the fucking loud as hell crowd noise) and a brilliant goal, we should of gotten our butts kicked. Didn't help that FIFA hired a bunch of refs from the NBA to officiate the game ("yeah, I know that guy's lying flat on the ground, but he fouled the other guy").

Still, it was actually fun to be loudly rooting for your own country in a World Cup match, instead of your adopted World Cup team. Like England or any team playing France.

Going to bed now. I'm exhausted. Good thing that if I have an interview tomorrow, it'll be in the afternoon.

Tired, tired, tired and exhausted, there was nothing more than I wanted to do last night than go to bed early and get some sleep. I know, my Friday's are pretty exciting. Could have done it too, but damn kids across the courtyard threw a party last night. Not sure which neighbors, but I'm guessing they weren't the cool, hipster one's as the musical selection was pretty much your generic, run-of-the-mill party mix tape favored by every white, twentysomething Yupster- a little ABBA, some old skool Madonna, and lots of '80's tunes. Yawn, yawn, and yawn. Not that I'm into the whole party with a DJ "spinning" rare Bulgarian dance tunes, but does "Come on Eileen" really get the party started?

So yeah, I woke up this morning with my full snark on. Even after finding out that Italy was beaten by Croatia.

Little did I know how much my mood was justified when I went to get the paper and saw this as the big, huge headline:

Senate cuts boost in global AIDS relief White House persuades GOP to await new plan


Whaaa? What, then was the whole point of the Paul O'Neill/Bono Africa 2002 tour? Was it just so Paul could tell his grandkids he hung out with Bono? Is it because the government's not gonna be able to afford it when they get rid of the "Death Tax" and helps the oppressed trust-fund babies have bigger trust funds?

Maybe Bush's new plan will be like his Global Warming Plan- diss any current proposals, make a big deal about not doing something until his government issues a new report, have the report published and have it accidentally agree with all current science and beliefs, then dismiss it just something done by a bunch of "bureaucrats" and ignore it forever and ever until the melting ice caps starts flooding the Bush compound in Kennebunkport?

Oh, and then there's this- Walnut Creek passed a law banning public urination, but once again, the Board of Supervisor's in SF refused to pass a similar law. Because banning people from taking shits on city streets is anti-poor. The plan, apparently, was detoured by Supervisor Chris Daly who apparently had enough time to shelve the proposal in between being arrested at a protest and telling all the cops who arrested him that they can't arrest him because he's a Supervisor.

Here's a quote- "If you are not clean and well-dressed, it is very difficult to gain access to toilets in the city." Well, yeah. Because if you are not clean, you have a habit of making a mess and ruining toilets for those who are clean and well-dressed. Or, in other words, is there anyone out there who willingly goes into the toilet on 16th and Mission and would they do it without loading up on dissenfectants?

But that's not even the worst news that there is. There is, of course, this:

J.Lo Goes Solo, Splits with Hubby

So, so sad...

Oh my God, Oh my God, oh my God, the Belmont Stakes is in a couple of hours. Oh my God! The excitement is killing me. Because when there's interleague play, the Stanley Cup finals, the NBA finals and the World Cup all going on at the same time, there's nothing- nothing- that excites me more than the atheletic endeavours of a horse.

From my window, I can see Twin Peaks. Behind it, the sun sets, painting the sky behind the hills. As I sit here, typing away on my beloved iMac, I watch it. I watch as the light pastel blue of the beginning stages evolves into the multicolor hue of it's peak and then it's climax into nighttime.

With the job sitch making itself clear, I smoke a joint and listen to some Zeppelin becoming the rapt audience to the sun's performance. Everything's alright.

So I'm not a big fan of Interleague Baseball, tradition and all that. I do have to say this, however:

Yankees vs. Giants at Yankee Stadium, very cool.

Oh, and yay England!

So barring a last minute reprieve from Ms. Flaky McFlake at the Flakey Recruting Company, who dangled such a kick-ass dream job in front of but disappeared soon afterwards, it looks like I got a job. Got a job-offer yesterday. For a real job. Not a temp job, but a real job. Yeah, it's Temp to Perm, but the whole Temp to Perm thing is all the rage these days (stupid recession).

But by accepting it, it means everything, everything changes. It's in San Mateo. Which means I'll have to commute- the whole BART to MUNI to CalTrains thing. And I will be a commuter. I will be one of those people with those metallic coffee holders so they can drink on the train without spilling any of it. I will be one of those people who read the paper in the morning commute, then a book or some sort of magazine on the way back. I will be one of those people who can no longer meet people at a bar in SF at 6 to watch the basketball game because I will be somewhere commuting. I will be a full, official worker drone, spending a large part of my life doing nothing but going from work to home and home to work.

See, since I've lived in SF, I have always worked downtown. The longest commute I've had to deal with was never more than an hour, that is if MUNI didn't break down. I have always been a bus ride, a BART ride, or an N Judah ride from work. Or a quick, twenty minute bike ride. I have been able to meet friends for work downtown, go to the Y for a really long lunch, or leave early to sneak off and get drinks or doctor's appointments or what have you. I could get up really close to when I had to be at work, change really quickly and still make it to work on time because it was easy too. No more.

And like most commuters, I have a choice to make. I could either get up early to get to work early and get home at a reasonable hour or I could get some more sleep, but not get back until 7 or so. I do not like getting up early. I am not good at getting up early. I should not be allowed to get up early. It makes me do bad things, and should not be allowed anywhere near heavy machinery. But it's either that or be one of those people who can't actually make it to anything during a work week because I don't get back from work in enough time. No going to the gym. No yoga classes or after-work sports. No meeting friends for drinks.

To break it down another way, it's like I have a choice to make- get up early to get home early, but be so tired I don't have much energy to do much of anything else and have to go to bed early. Or get more rest so I can have energy to do things, but never have the time to do it.

Do commuters have lives outside of work?

But wait, there's another thing to think about, another way to add up the equation. I can get a car. I can be a car-driver. A friend is even willing to sell his beat up, but still cool sporty convertible car. No more bus to train and back again and I can cut down my commute from more than an hour to half an hour. So I can get some sleep and make it back into the City in time for things. But now I have to worry about things like traffic. Not to mention parking in the Mission. And all the expenses of owning a car. And my life will get that much more complicated and expensive. But still, a car! I've never owned a car. Hell, I drive a car maybe once or twice a year and that's if I'm lucky.

And why stop there. Since I'll have a car and be a commuter I will get a cell phone. Because if I have a car, a real job, and a commute, I need a cell-phone. That's how it is these days.

So just like that, with the acceptance of one job, everything changes. It's like Jiminy Cricket or the Fairy Godmother or Tinkerbell or whoever did what in Pinnochio, came down and, inches away from my 34th birthday, heard me wish upon a star, waved their little wand and made me an adult. A real-live 34 year old.

Do I really want to do this?

Remember awhile ago, I put up a job posting I found that was so ridiculous, that I had to skewer it? The one about the "Bowne Quality Journey" and "aligning service output" and what such nonesense?

I, of course, interviewed with them. Had a serious connection there. And if I'm interpreting all the HR'ese correctly, it's the kind of stuff I do.

Funny thing about the job posting, though. Through all the discussion about the "Bowne Quality Journey" and "Bowne Balanced Planning Support", they forgot to mention something somewhat important about the job. Like it's hours.

Turns out the job is from 4-12. That's four in the afternoon to Midnight. That's kind of a big deal. Something that, oh, I don't know, should be kind of mentioned on the fucking job posting?

Found all of this out an hour into the interview. An hour. And all of this after having to take a cab because I left my address book at home and had to turn around to get it (you need an address book, of course, to fill out those stupid application forms they always give you when you interview, despite the fact nobody ever reads them or despite the fact they already have your fucking resume right in front of them. Oh, and turns out I didn't need it because they didn't give me the form). And having to wait fifteen minutes to get one because I thought it would be kind of easy to hail a cab where I live, what with living in the fucking heart of the Mission and all. And having to stress out because I was late for the interview, traffic sucked, and the cab driver is telling me everything I need to know about Greyhound and SuperShuttle in a monotone voice. And that I'm wearing a suit and it's 80 degrees in the City and I'm sweating all over the place. Not to mention the fact I pulled a huge connection to get this interview so now this snafu brings with it repercussions of which I could only guess at.

Oh yeah, total cost of the whole thing- $5 for breakfast so I'd have energy for a 11 o'clock interview and didn't know how long it would last and $12 bucks for the cab ride. Which means, $17 bucks for nothing. On top of the $20 I spent yesterday.

All of this for an interview I would never of gone near if I would of known it was at the hours it was. I mean, the idea of never having to wake up to an alarm and having the day off and seeing movies all afternoon is kind of appealing, but I do have a life, you know. Well, sometimes I do. Not to mention I'd have to miss all that TV by working those hours. Next season is the last season of Buffy and there's no way I'm missing that.

Sounds like I'm probably, might be getting a job I'm really not that excited about, one which would involve a bitchy commute and joining the Dark Side, but I'm thinking more and more about accepting it just so I don't have to fucking put up with this kind of crap again for a long, long time.

Oh, and here's One More Thing You Don't Want to see on the Way to an Interview-
Some tweaker sitting atop the BART station shaking and moaning while holding up porn magazines.

Woke up early this morning and stumbled onto this-

We beat Portugal, 3-2 in the world Cup.

How about that?

U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!

PS- if we beat S. Korea on Monday, not only do we win the group, but we'll get a bye in the 2nd round. Which means avoiding the Azure (that's Italy for you non-soccer folks).

U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!

Caught this on the always timely and informativeAccess Hollywood.

This is a true story-

Today, there was a big exclusive with Corey Feldman. Yes, that Corey Feldman. So you know this is gonna be good. Corey was on the show, going public about his huge fight with his ex-dear, beloved, best friend Michael Jackson. Apparently, Corey was in NY with Michael, helping Michael do all those celebration/ego-love-fests that he did way back when, to help him sell his last album (remember that? Any of that? Michael Jackson's last album? Anyone?)Anyways, I think I'll let Access Hollywood tell it because I can't possibly do it justice.

The last show was on Sept. 10. The next day, the world changed. Corey, eager to leave New York, turned to Michael for help. And, according to Corey, Michael said no. "He denied me the opportunity of freedom, which was essentially, you know, revoking my privilege to live at that point. When we were supposed to go on a bus with him home, he pretty much gave the order that it was the family's bus, and the order was, if Corey's on the bus, it doesn't leave New York.

Corey, pissed off at his dear friend for abandoning him in the midst of all the horrible chaos, ended his friendship and hasn't talked to Michael since. Still seething, Corey went on Access Hollywood to tell the world where their love went. Oh, and to also shill an album he just put out in which he disses his former friend.

The story adds that in a song called "Megalo Man", Corey sings-

"I believed in your words, believed in your lies, but in September in New York, you left me to die. I love you, Megalo Man."

Your gonna have to supply your own punchline here 'cause I don't even know where to begin.

Things You Don't Want to See on Your Way Into a McDonald's on the Way to a Job Interview-
Some Tweaker on the ground right in front of MickeyD's having seizures.

Things You Don't Want to See on Your Way Out of a McDonald's on the Way to a Job Interview-
The very same Tweaker, up but still having seizures, bumping into everyone at the corner where your waiting for the light to turn and then proceeding to walk right into the middle of traffic.

Things You Don't Want to Do When Getting off CalTrains on the Way to a Job Interview-
Don't think about which is the right side of the station your supposed to get off on and wind up walking in the complete wrong direction. Especially when it's like 90 degrees outside and your all dressed up in a business jacket and good shirt and sweating to death.

Oops.

Actually, the interview didn't go too badly. And the McDonald's Ham, Cheese and Egg Bagel Breakfast sandwhich might break every known rule mentioned in the Talmud, but it was damn yummy.

As we now find ourselves celebrating the Queen's Jubilee (yes, I know she's not technically our Queen as we fought a revolution for the very right to not have her as our Queen, but we still get the Royal Family shoved down our throats enough times that it sometimes feels like she's ours), it's now time to ponder something that's always made me ponder-

What the fuck is a "Royal Watcher?"

What is a Royal Watcher? They're the one's who get trotted out everytime something happens to the Royal Family, deemed experts on the Royal Family, and interviewed. Their the one's supposedly in the know of the inner workings of the family- of who Wills is boinking and whether Camilla can ever come out in public, of the latest in Diana dirt and the size of the Queen Mum's hat. In short, they are experts in everything dealing with the Royal Family. They're like Peter Gammons on ESPN or famous Constitutional Scholar Lawrence Tribe, except substitute really important things with something really dumb and useless (and don't even tell me Gammons isn't important because it's SO not true).

How does one become a Royal Watcher. Do people grow up and dream of someday being an expert in the Queen's diet? Are there courses you have to take to become one? Like "High Tea with Royalty" or "The Windsor Family Tree?" Can you major in it?

Or do people just become Royal Watchers. Like they're such incredible suck-ups and hangers-on, they've made a career out of it. They're like overgrown high school girls- the one's who weren't really that cool but spent all their time trying to be cool that they somehow managed to hang out with all the cool kids just out of sheer force of will. And they worked so hard at it that they're still clinging onto whose cool and who isn't and still endlessly gossiping about all the people who are much cooler than.

And finally, what do they do? I guess some of them write columns in British Tabloids but other than one Wills & Harry fucking up in school or the latest Charles & Camilla rumour, what is there to really write about unless one of the dies? It's not like the Royal Family, especially Elizabeth, ever really do anything other than attend funerals and wave. It seems like all they do is just hang out, find out all the latest Royal gossip, and then sit by the phone for Larry King to call. Can you really make a career out of being a Royal Watcher.

Either way, just where would we be without them? Thank God for the Royal Watcher.

My day doing the laundry:

The washing machine place I go to could be the worst one in San Francisco. If your lucky, half the machines are working. At best. Today wasn't one of those days.

I bring in three loads- one thing of white, one thing of coloreds (excuse me, clothes of color) and some sheets. Have just enough quarters to get most of it done. Get there on a Monday morning around 11:30 and find that it's unusually busy. Most of the machine's are in use. Find two that I know work and I can use, so put two loads in them, but still have another one to go. Open up at least three or four machines, all are full of water. Finally find one that looks like it works. Put the clothes in, throw in $1.50, hit start, and nothing. Machine doesn't work. $1.50 down the drain. Now I have to wait for one of my loads to finish up so I can have a machine to put my next load in. More importantly, I now need enough quarters to do another wash, plus the dryers, so I'll have to get more money. Naturally, I'm out of cash, so have to go the ATM and break a twenty.

Go home for lunch, then go out to the ATM machine to get money. Now I have to go break the twenty, so I go to the store and buy just enough food to get plenty of one's back but also enough to make it worth my breaking the twenty. Then I head back to the laundry place. This should be easy enough, especially since the place has a change machine. Change machine isn't working.

Go looking to find another change machine. Since I live near a BART station, which has change machines, I head down to the station and try and get three dollars worth of quarters. Get two dollars worth of quarters but a dollar worth of dimes and nickles. Head back to the laundry place, put the sheets in one dryer, grab the other finished load and look for an unused dryer and throw it in. Just as I'm about to put in the money, someone whose washing his clothes dry tells me that the machine's broken. Considering how sucky the laundry place is and how much money I've already thrown away at this place, I believe him.

Look for another dryer. All of the one's that aren't in use look broken except for two. Start putting them one. Guy says that's broken too. Ask him about the other one. Broken. He tells me to wait for him to finish and I can use his.

Couple minutes go by. The guy finishes his laundry, tells me it's all mine and then I start putting my clothes in. The one I thought he had his clothes in looks like it's broken. The coin slot is not only not there, but completely torn out. There's one for the dryer up above, but I swear the guy was using the bottom one. Ask the guy which one to use and he, very nicely, drops what he is doing and tries to figure it out with me. Even though it says "Above Dryer" it's really the bottom one he tells me. Put in a quarter to see what happens and he's right. The bottom machine starts up. Put my clothes in and drop in more money. Then I take the clothes that were sitting in the washer that didn’t work, and put them in a new washer. I'm golden. For now.

Go home, watch some TV, then go pick up the clothes. Realize I'm out of quarters and still have one more dryer run so I go to a corner store and get two dollars with of quarters. Need only a dollar, but you never know. Since we all know, once dollars have been changed into coins, it virtually ceases to be money and is instead just something that sits in your pocket in case you need it, it adds to my total. So far, including items that I bought just so I could make change for a $20, a laundry run that should cost around $5, is now costing me $15.

Get to the laundry place, check the stuff in the dryer. Take out my sheets and put in my clothes of color. Put in 75 cents (twenty minutes) and go get my white clothes. My white stuff is still a little wet, but I'm way past the point of wanting to deal with it, so I start to take it out. As I start to take it out, the dryer that holds my clothes of color stops. Just stops. Like that. Fizzles out as it were. So I quickly throw my white clothes out of the dryer and throw in the rest of my clothes.

Half an hour later, I go to pick up the rest of my clothes. Four hours later, I'm finally done.

So need a job just so I can go back to doing Wash & Fold again and never, ever have to deal with this crap again.

PS- I also learned today that kicking washing machines does not necessarily make them work. Neither does slamming the door closed.

Cranberry vodka
Like oh my God Spinsters Ball
Drinks spilled everywhere

Here's one more useful MUNI tip from your friendly folks at Hooray For Anything-

If someone says "excuse me" over and over again, that means "move out of the way of the person who is saying it so they can get out the door."

It does not mean "strike a pose." Nor does it mean "do your best impression of a punk-ass teenager and think it beneath you to move."

And to the old guy whose knee I slammed my bags of groceries on, I apologize. See above.

I'm not sure how good of a thing this is in a relative sense, but once again, I find myself unemployed at the start of the World Cup. I know, I was kind of hoping to be unemployed now, which again, might not of been the best thing to wish for, but oh well. Doesn't make that much of a difference anyways cause I forgot about the whole time thing.

Last time there was a World Cup, most of the games were in the morning. The early games were at 8, mid games at 10 and the late games at 12. For the unemployed, this is perfect timing. For all the big games, I'd hop out of bed, throw on a sweatshirt and head down to the Mad Dog in the Fog for some pints and some football. Three to four hours later, I'd come stumbling out drunk, into the bright sunshine with the happy realization I just got drunk and watched some great games when I could have been at work. Can't say it was that awful of a thing.

This time around, it's different. The game's are in the middle of the night. Yeah, I can stay up to watch them, hell my insomnia is usually keeping me up at that hour anyways, but I don't really feel like schlepping to a bar to watch those games at 4:30 in the morning. And yeah, I could go watch them when they played them on tape, or I could even tape them myself, but it's just not the same. To get into soccer, to enjoy it to it's utmost, you have to watch it with others. And watch it with people who really, really, fucking care.

Because as the always excellent Brian Murphy pointed out in today's Chron, with soccer, it's all about the singing.

I learned the real meaning of soccer while travelling through Europe in '92. My first taste of it came while taking the train from Brindisi to Rome. Trying to get some sleep after three continuous nights of partying all night, I was woken up in the middle of the night by singing . The town's team was on it's way to Rome that night and what sounded like half the town had turned out to see them off. This was at like 2 in the morning. As the team bordered, some of their fans boogied down the aisles beginning what was going to be an all-night party. Those who weren't going along for the ride stood outside the train, singing what one of the British girls I was spending the night in the cabin with, told me was every soccer song known to man.

But I really got to understand it, to really know what it's like, when we went to Oktoberfest. Whenever the Oompah band would take a break, some group from like England would stand up and sing an English fight song. As soon as they started, someone from another country would counter the English cheer and stand up on their table and sing their country's soccer song. It was this big huge singing fight, with each country trying to prove they were the better country by trying to outsing another country. This would go on for a couple of minutes until someone, in the name of peace, love and understanding, would start singing "Ole"- the international soccer song and probably one of the greatest songs ever created- and the entire tent would start clanging their steins together and singing along. There is nothing that gives you that warm fuzzy feeling of brotherhood and peace on earth like singing "Ole" with several thousand other drunks in a beer tent, let me tell you.

So when the '98 World Cup came along and I had found myself recently laid-off, there was nothing much more than I wanted to do then go spend all my time at the Mad Dog watching me some World Cup.

Watched a game featuring the Netherlands with a bunch of guys all dressed in Orange. Went to a Brazilian club to watch Brazil win a big match, then later got caught in the middle of the impromptu street celebration involving climbing on MUNI busses when Brazil made it to the semi's. And there were all the games involving England, stuck in a jam-packed pub full of drunk British ex-pats at 10 in the morning.

And then there was the England/Argentina game. Now, I've seen a lot of sporting events and seen a lot of great games. I've been to a Phillies game in the'70's right after the Phillies fans psyched out the Dodger's pitching staff and blood was in the air. I was at Pac Bell when the Giants clinched in '00 and at the 'Stick when Kurt Reuter shut down the Dodgers 2-1 in the first of that super-huge two game series against the Dodgers (the one before the Brian Johnson home-run). And I've slept out for seats to see my Gaucho's beat then #1 UNLV and sat in the dorm's tv room surrounded by howling Broncos' fans cheering on John Elway during the Drive against my beloved Browns. Watching the England/Argentina game just might have topped them all. It was so much fun.

To understand what England vs. Argentina means in the scheme of things, think of Yankees/Red Sox but then imagine would it be like if New York had fought a war with Boston a couple of decades ago. Throw in Diego Maradona's "Hand of God" goal in '86 in which he won the game for Argentina by basically punching the ball into the net for the game-winner, and you got a lot of rowdy, excitable Brits.

Got to the bar at 10 for a noon-time game. Which came in real handy because by 10:30, the bar was so jam packed that I never got the lunch I ordered because the waitress couldn't make it through the crowd to get to me. The bar got the British TV feed from the satellite so we got the full English treatment. Before each Cup game, the British TV would show the official England World Cup '98 Video, which consisted, of some guy walking down the streets of London singing what I think was only two words "Engerland" and "Vanderloo" and being joined by hundreds of others singing the words with him. When the video started, the crowd cheered and sang along.

Throughout the game, the Brits sang every English soccer song (which, strangely enough, all were based on mainly American songs, but that's another story) and chanted the names of each of the players. When Michael Owen, the 18 year old pin-up English soccer wunderkind went down after a dicey tackle, some woman behind me, in a thick British accent screamed at the tv "don’t you hurt my baby!"

Which is the why the singing and the chanting is so cool. Because we don't do that in America. We don't have songs for our favorite teams. We don't chant out players names. Instead, we have big huge screens telling us when to clap. We have the PA playing fake claps to get the audience riled up. We have "We Will Rock You" and that God-awful Gary Glitter song. We don't stand up, in complete spontaneity, and sing. Our even chant. Most fans at Pac Bell can't even put down their cell phones long enough to cheer for Barry Bonds. But not with soccer fans. They kick American's sport fans butts.

Oh yeah, and then there was the actual game itself. England and Argentina both scored two goals in the first half, which, yes is pretty remarkable in and of itself. Not only that, one England's goals was scored in one of the most amazing athletic displays I've ever seen. Michael Owens basically took a pass from mid-field, dribbled past what seemed like the entire Argentine side, then nailed a shot past the goalie. It was the equivalent of watching, say, Jordan dribble down the court, juke and jive his way past the entire opposing team, then lay down a monster dunk. Except Owens did it all with his feet. And in a game where one goal is a huge deal, not in a game where the average point total for a team is somewhere in the 90's.

Then, at the start of the second half, David Beckham, aka Mr. Posh Spice, got Red Carded for a kicking someone. Which was totally lame because what basically happened is the Argentine guy kicked him while the ref wasn't watching, and when Beckham retaliated, the ref saw that and only kicked Beckham out. Which meant that England had to play the entire second half, and then two overtimes, down a player. Time and time again, Argentina would penetrate into England's defensive area only to be foiled by an English defender, emerging out of nowhere to save the day. Or England's shaggy haired, droopily moustached goalie would make an incredible save. England even almost scored in the first overtime, but got it disallowed due a ticky-tack call by the ref. England eventually lost by penalty kicks at the end of the second overtime, but it was probably the guttiest, grittiest, leaving it all out there performances by any team I have ever seen. The kind of game where you kind of win by losing. Except they lost and had to go home. It was tremendous. It rocked. It was so much fun.

And that's why it totally sucks that the games are in the middle of the night. Because I SO want to go through that again. England is even playing Argentina in a week in the first rematch since that game.

Just might have to pull an all-nighter for that one.

Just when you think you've seen it all, spam-wise, this just came to me:

Raping Animal Lovers Go the Extreme.

It's not just rape porn, it's not just bestiality, it's rape-bestiality!

Woo-hoo!

Forgot to ask in my interview yesterday with the "premier provider of online direct marketing solutions for enterprises" whether that was gonna be the kind of stuff I'd be sending out. Darnit.

There's a homeless guy whose always in my neighborhood. Actually, he's very often right outside my front door. He's not a crazy homeless guy- in fact he looks pretty together and pretty bright, the kind of guy who you think really needs money because something obviously fucked him up enough that he's stuck doing what he's doing. Instead of asking for spare change, he's always trying to sell Street Sheet, which everyone knows is just really a front for asking for spare change, but whatever.

Because he's always in my neighborhood, I see him almost once a day and every day he always gives me a "hey, how bout this time?" Then he gives me the international signal for "gimme some money."

I hate seeing him. I wish he wouldn't always be right outside my door.

You see, when I first moved into my apartment, I bought a cabinet for my place. I lugged it all the way from a store around the corner, got it to my apartment, but realized that it was way, way to big for me to carry up to my third-floor apartment. That guy, the homeless guy, was there, saw my problem, and offered to help. Since I was pretty stuck, I said sure, and for ten bucks, had him help me carry the cabinet up into my apartment. Which means that not only has he helped me out of a jam, he's been in my apartment. Inside. I have friends, really good friends who haven't been inside my place yet, but this homeless guy has.

All of which makes the whole thing really weird. I have no idea if he remembers helping me out. I also have no idea if he also recognizes me on the streets, but I do- I recognize him. So the whole interaction- your basic homeless guy asking anonymous, random person for money- that whole dynamic, has changed. I'm no longer an anonymous, random person being asked for money anymore. I am someone he knows. Someone he's helped out. Someone who has given him probably more money in a day than he usually makes.

Dealing with as many homeless people as you do here in the city, you get pretty used to blowing them off. I don't even acknowledge them anymore, just make sure I don't look in their direction and go on my way. I know, pretty mean-spirited of me, not a very "C'mon people now, Smile on your brother, Ev'rybody get together, Try and love one another right now" kind of way, but when you get solicited on the average of three times per city-block, for eleven years, it happens. But I can't do that with this guy. It's personal now. So everytime I tell him no, I feel really guilty about it.

And I have to go through this almost every day.

Since man has crawled out of the primordial ooze, the male has been told that it's not size that matters, it's what you do with it. Knowing how insecure the male is towards all things big and small, every male is taught since an early age that dick-size means nothing. That you may think you have a small dick, and other people might think you have a small dick, but that it doesn't really matter. Women don't care. So don't worry about it. Don't measure yourself with your friends, don't feel inadequate when showering with black guys in the gym, don't overcompensate by buying European convertible sports cars. It just doesn't matter.

But wait, everything we were told is wrong. Size does matter. It is a big deal.

Why do I know this? Because I keep on getting e-mails telling me that it is.

Every day, I get about four to five e-mails from people telling me it does matter and that I'm just not satisfying enough to women because I have a small penis. Somehow I've gotten on the "small penis" mailing list so somebody out there must know something about me that I didn't realize before. And just how did I get on this list? Did I click on a Web site that's known for being frequented by people with small penises? Is someone who would know trying to tell me something and if so, haven't they heard of shrinkage?

And it's not just via e-mail. I'm seeing more and more ads in the paper telling me the exact same thing, that if I wanted to be more manly, I have to get my penis enlarged. And last night, as I was flipping through the channels at about 1:30 in the morning, I even saw an informercial about it. Yep, the whole penis enlargement industry is going big time. Hosted by Ron Jeremy himself, as well as some female porn star who I don't know because I, of course, never watch porn and wouldn't know one female porn star from another, telling men about this and that and about how if I ordered now, I'd be able to get some FDA approved supplement that'll make me the sex stud that I've always wanted to be. I could be like Ron.

Isn't it great that some people out there managed to get the money out there to totally prey on male insecurities and make them feel like they had to get something that they never really needed in the first place? What with going bald and beer bellies, don’t' we have enough to worry about? Fuckers. I mean, it doesn't matter, right?

Right?

This week's big cover article in the Bay Guardian is about a group of women who occasionally meet, dress up in funny outfits, and roller skate around San Francisco. It's a scene, man. According to the article, the group is going world-wide and has at least sixty members to it. Sixty. And this is the article that merits the cover.

This is actually a pretty typical cover story for the Bay Guardian. They all folllow the same pattern:

1)Said writer considers themselves really, really cool.
2)Said writer joins a group of people who are even more really, really cool than said writer and do really, really cool things. (It, of course, goes without saying that the group of really, really cool people are usually neither straight, white, nor male. Because you can never ever really be cool if you are straight, white and male)
3)Said writer is so convinced that they and their new, really, really cool friends are so cool, that they write a big story about them and their friends in the Bay Guardian to let everyone in the world know how cool they are.

And there you have it.

Actually, I have no problem with the people in the story or the idea behind it. I think the idea of a bunch of people dressing funny and roller skating around the city is a great idea. Go nuts. It actually sounds like a hell of a lot of fun. If I wasn't over thirty, wracked with a bad back, out of shape- not to mention a straight white male- I'd be into it.

But, of course, because this is San Francisco, the whole roller skating thing isn't really about just dressing up all crazy and roller skating around the city. It’s more than that. It's also a political thing. Not to mention art.

According to the writer, the group's mission is "a desire to come out in numbers, to be a visible part of the landscape so they can have a say in what the city looks like." It's inspiration it is something called "Reclaim the Streets, a direct-action network bent on social and ecological change through strikes and street parties and other fun non-state-sponsored activities." So roller skating, then, is an attempt to bring social and ecological change. Somehow.

"We share the same vision," (a member of the group says) . "That revolution can be beautiful and sparkly and furry and striped."


But wait, it's also art, performance art that makes a stand. It's a way of "enriching the community." Their roller-skating around decorates "the city the way the most generous, high-spirited kind of art does – like murals and the wheat-paste chronicles of midnight marauders, like bands playing on top of buildings and site-specific performances that use the walls of the city as their set design." Wheat-paste chronicles of midnight marauders?

In a dramatic conclusion, the author sums up the entire theme behind the skaters and the reason why she joined, because they "have found ways to deliver their revolutionary messages through outbursts of performance and unauthorized street parties."

Whatever.

Why oh why can't people just call something for what it is- something really fun. Why does everything people do have to be "revolutionary" or "artistic."

I swear, somewhere out there, there's probably a group of people who make shitting into a political action. Like a group out there that purposely shits on the streets to protest the arresting of homeless people for similar crimes. Or, maybe, there's an artist out there who just wanders through SF shitting everywhere as part of some performance art.

There's also probably someone out there who only uses environmentally, economically correct toilet paper because the toilet paper industry is an evil, globalizing, corporation. That they destroy the environment and is made by 5 year old Bolivian children fed only gruel as sustenance (which could be entirely true- I'm just not an expert on the politics of toilet paper). Maybe they protest the toilet paper companies and picket outside Charmin? Who knows, maybe the toilet paper industry is really behind Mumia's imprisonment? Or, there's probably someone out there who does something different when they shit, like women going into men's room, or not squatting or what have you just because it's empowering.

Hmmmm…..maybe I've just stumbled onto a whole new political movement.