A Little Thing Called Desire

I want to eat a whole Dungeness crab for dinner tonight. I want my dog to stop eating dish towels and puking them up in the middle of the night. I want my frickin’ sinuses to clear up.

However, none of those things (well, maybe the last one) would make the list of my desires. The things I long for. That I itch for. That I eagerly pursue. My hunger. My lust and lasciviousness.

Nope. Crab. Dog puking. Stuffy sinuses. Not on the list.

Strangely, it seems that beating Chivas USA was not on the Sounders’ list of desires last night either.

They just seemed a little... well, flat. Like they were jet lagged, or ate too much Mexican food, or expended too much mojo having sex before the match. Like they were forced to share a locker room with the Chivas Girls, a case of champagne, ten dozen raw oysters, and three hours to kill. (For background on this observation, see Freddie Lungberg’s comments on sex before games here. And then add this article to the list of reasons why the Seattle Times should quickly follow the PI into online obscurity and leave real news reporting to even the moderately qualified.)


I know, I’m a superfan. I’m not supposed to criticize. And I’m not, not really. I’m not telling you that they weren’t attacking or didn’t have the right people in the lineup or just couldn’t recover momentum after Montero swung his chip shot wide left in the seventh minute (seventh minute!@$?). All I’m saying is that watching the game was just kinda... blah. Like driving through the Dakotas on your way out West. You know it’s gonna be good, but at this moment, well... it’s not.