Your head is a football and your eyes broken windows

Another aging rockstar

Just got back from the park with Bru our landlords Brian and Sarah and their dog Mavis. Mavis is a shitzu-poodle mix and is only slightly bigger than our rabbit Zooby. But she loves to chase Bru as he runs after his ball. It's funny to behold. You know that episode of Star Trek when the Enterprise gets infested with those little fuzzy creatures called Trebles or Tribles or Furbies or something like that? Imagine one of those chasing Bru, and you've got an idea of what Mavis looks like.

Saw Love Actually last night, on Shauna's insistence. Much as it shakes me to the core of my maleness, I have to say that I enjoyed it, sappiness and lovey-dovey and all. But the sap cocktail was reduced in sacharrine by a bracing shot of silly British humour. Hugh Grant as the self-conscious Prime Minister and Bill Nighy as a washed-up rockstar making a comeback with a cheesy Christmas song are particular standouts. I'd put it in the same category as About a Boy or Bridget Jones' Diary (the first one, heard the second was terrible): undeniable chick flicks, but made palatable by the British talent for embarrassment and phrases like 'saucy minx'. About now you're probably thinking 'Bridget Jones? Love Actually? Ryan, are you sure that's rubber fumes in the Kitchener air, not estrogen?' Don't worry. I also rented Windtalkers, Goodfellas and The Day After. WWII, mobsters and nuclear war; those are some serious guy topics for one serious guy who would never, under any circumstances, get a pedicure, accessorize or talk about feeeeeeeeeeelings.

Gotta go change the laundry.

Okay, I'm back. Had a thought this morning in the shower as I matched Mick falsetto note for falsetto note as he sang 'Ain't no use in cryyyyyyyyyin'/Stay away from me': if Mick should ever happen to kick the bucket before Keith, Chalie and Ron are on life support, and are therefore still touring, I'd be a pretty good replacement. I can pull off a cocky British accent. I don't embarrass myself in tight pants. I've got my own idiosyncratic way of dancing. C'mon fellas, keep the Stones a-rollin!

Umm...what else to say...so I've been following Craig Davidson's blog about his new book, Rust and Bone. I haven't read it yet, but apparently it's full of stories about boxing, dog-fighting and porn stars. In one of his posts Craig addresses whether he is writing from experience---other than a dalliance with boxing, he says he isn't (nonetheless, I'm never letting him get close to Bru---his bark and lick approach would survive .2 seconds against a Jack Russell that knows what its teeth are for). We're always told to write about what we know, and I know soccer. I've been applying steady pressure to the fullbacks of my brain in hopes that they will cough up a plot I can capitalize on, but man, those guys are as revelatory as an iron door. The score remains nil-nil. So I hereby open the field to suggestions on attacking strategy, i.e. ideas for soccer-based stories. Hell, I'll make it a contest: if I make use of your suggestion, next time I score a goal for my indoor team I'll pull my jersey over my face and run around screaming your name. Until I collide with the goalpost or get a yellow card.

I'm gonna go ride my bike now. I promise I'll be back before the streetlights come on.