USA! USA. USA?

Well. That was embarrassing.

Can someone please explain to me why Thomas Rongen is allowed anywhere near international-level soccer players, yet alone impressionable youth? If that pompous ass didn't have that ridiculous Dutch accent does anyone really believe he'd have any sort of coaching career? How does someone with a track record of unmitigated failure remain employed? Lord that dude annoys me. Almost as much as Brek Shea's hair cut.

Remember this crew? The champion Indomitable Drinky Crows?



We haven't won a game since. 0 for 5 on the season.

Art Cunningham talks sex offenders.



The applause track!

I wandered out to my porch just now to see if the mail had come. An ice-cream truck was parked in front of my house. Just as I opened the screen door, two gentleman hopped out of the vehicle. They were carrying a case of Black Label Beer and proceeded to the house across the street. The ice-cream truck then drove off.

Last night Steve Wynn, Scott McGaughey, Linda Pitmon and Peter Buck were at the Turf Club. I missed the opening set, but the second lasted nearly two hours. It was a loony, freewheeling, inspired show. McGaughey and Wynn traded turns as ringmaster; Buck and Pitmon kept the proceedings from running off the rails. There was a song about Mark McGwire and another (apparently) about Fernanda Valenzuela (in Spanish), both from The Baseball Project. Wynn trotted out "Days of Wine and Roses" from his Dream Syndicate days, while McGaughey countered with the Minus 5's "The Days of Wine and Booze." There was something from the Young Fresh Fellows catalog ("Let the Good Times Crawl") and a shambling cover of Westerberg's "If Only You Were Lonely." They clearly were just making the shit up as they went along -- and having a blast throughout.

Bahrain just needed a tie against Saudi Arabia to qualify for a World Cup playoff showdown with New Zealand. It was 1-1 heading into stoppage time. Then madness ensued:

Somehow it takes a week to send a copy of The New Yorker to Minnesota. They must be mailing the magazine from Tegucigalpa. But anyway I finally got last week's issue in the mail yesterday. So I wanted to be the last person on the planet to point out that David Grann's piece about a Texas man who was executed in 2004 for crimes that in all likelihood he did not commit is remarkable. If you're too lazy to read the whole damn thing (it's very long), then at least watch this video of Grann discussing the shortcomings of the original arson investigation that resulted in Cameron Todd Willingham's death sentence.

There's a new Bottle Rockets album out. I had no idea. It's called Lean Forward. Geoffrey Himes says it's pretty terrific.

I've forgiven Brian Henneman for giving up booze (and, more significantly, writing a terrible song about it). The last couple of albums -- Zoysia and Blue Sky -- have been pretty damn good, probably their best stuff since The Brooklyn Side (which is pure genius).

I have few claims to fame in life. But one of them is answering correctly a question posed by Henneman during a show at the 400 Bar nearly a decade ago: "Has anyone figured out the theme for tonight?" I correctly yelled out that the band was playing their songs in chronological order. For that bit of knowledge I was awarded the opportunity to climb on stage and swig from a bottle of Jack Daniels. I performed flawlessly. Momma would have been proud.

Hody can verify. I think White Jimmy was there that night too.

Unfortunately it doesn't look like they currently have a show booked for the Twin Cities.

Summer is over. Perhaps some measure of sanity will return to our nation. Marc Ambinder nicely sums up August's health care histrionics, and makes the case for why significant reform is not dead:

The more I think about the events in August, the more I think of professional wrestling. Lots of chair shots, blood and taunts, plenty of theater, but at the end of the day, everyone goes back to the locker room, changes out of their tights, and goes to the bar for a drink.