The 10 Greatest Americans: 2006 Edition

In honor of July 4 and the long weekend, we're updating our roster of America's 10 all-time greatest citizens. The list was assembled by consensus, but each entry's author is noted at the end of the post. For those who like to track the rise and fall of celebrity, last year's list is available here.

Enjoy.

10. Superman. The problem with superheroes is their inadequate superness. X-Men, Fantastic Four, and Spider-Man never did it for me because I couldn’t help thinking, "How is that power going to save the day? Awesome, you shoot webs out of your wrists, or you have weird retractable claws. Good luck using that to stop North Korea."

They pale in comparison to Superman. He flies, uses heat vision, wields superhuman strength, and renders the hole in the wall in Porky’s redundant with his x-ray vision.

I could talk about how he represents how America views itself or how he was a subconscious father-figure to millions whose own fathers were lacking. But in the end, he’s just a poor, undocumented immigrant who grew up working on a farm, then, by virtue of his own super-ness, saves the world and scores a hottie.

American values embodied: truth; justice; American way; tight clothing; undocumented immigration

--Crunk Raconteur

9. Capt. H.M. "Howlin' Mad" Murdock. "In 1972 a crack commando unit was sent to prison by a military court for a crime they didn't commit. These men promptly escaped from a maximum security stockade to the Los Angeles underground. Today, still wanted by the government, they survive as soldiers of fortune. If you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find them, maybe you can hire the A-Team."

Hilarity, as we all know, ensued.

Also, he's apparently a hit on my current side of the pond, too.

American values embodied: Vigilantism; the right to bear arms; van ownership.

--Flop

8. Butterstick the Baby Panda. We live in a time of intense polarization, which is always evident in our nation’s capital. The two sides can't agree on anything.

Anything, that is, but this: We all love that freaking baby panda so much that it hurts.

Some of us love him so much that they hacked the online poll to determine his name so we could vote for “Butterstick,” and some of us love him so much they were willing to put out just to see him. The sheer amount of productivity that was lost, as hundreds of thousands of people spent their work days watching the Panda Cam, is mind-boggling.

Unfortunately, time is running out. On his second birthday we have to give the little guy back to China, so get your Butterstick merchandise while you still can. Free Butterstick!

American Values Embodied: multiculturalism; love of child stars; anti-communism; handjobs; workplace slacking; computer piracy; grassroots commercialism.

--Crunk Raconteur

7. Blog Perv Danielle, Her Majesty the Queen of 2006 ("BPDHMQ2K6"). Aside from the fact that she isn't much of a drunk, BPDHMQ2K6 is exactly the kind of chick that America needs more of.

She actively loves college football.

She claims to be fascinated by porn, and discusses it openly.

She is tolerant of bad behavior, whether it's vomiting into empty beer pitchers or dudes shouting in her apartment.

She likes the Shake Shack.

When she showed up at Brian's Memorial Day barbecue with a nicely-racked friend, Flop spent several hours hoping that there was lesbianism involved. BPDHMQ2K6 was unoffended.

BPDHMQ2K6 never takes too long getting ready, never obsesses about her hair, and has zero patience for high-strung girly girls. Aside from her fondness for tiaras and the fact that she's a chick, you could mistake her for an eighth-year senior in charge of the Sigma Chi house. We mean that in a good way.

American values embodied: liking football; being a perv.

--CrimeNotes

6. Mark Cuban. The modern Bill Veeck is loud, aggravating, and an obnoxious whiner.

But I read something about him that made me see him in a light. It was just a question: "If your favorite team were for sale, wouldn’t you want Mark Cuban to buy it?" And I would, a thousand times over. If I had any chance of affecting it, I would be actively agitating for Cuban to buy the Cavaliers from Dan Gilbert, if only because Cuban is the only owner who would do whatever it takes to keep LeBron.

Besides, at least when he whines, it’s entertaining. Like the time he ended up working behind the counter at a Dairy Queen to prove a point.

American values embodied: shitty blogging; excessive wealth; bad haircuts; whining; Dairy Queen; nerd hegemony; unnecessary extravagance.

--Crunk Raconteur

5. Axl Rose. Making a repeat appearance, yes, but how could we not reward the Mike Tyson of hard rock? Since we last honored him, he bit the leg of a Swedish bodyguard and got into a fight with fashion mogul and well-known pussy Tommy Hilfiger. These are two things that I wouldn't have the guts to do, no matter how much I'd like to or how much the situation demanded. There needs to be much more of this, particularly when it comes to punishing those whose livelihoods depend on fashion.

It's almost two decades since Appetite for Destruction came along and changed the life of everyone born in the '70s who isn't deaf. If you can't still rock out to "Welcome to the Jungle," you're someone I don't want to drink with.

American values embodied: Biting; beating down a fancy fuck; substance abuse; rock.

--CrimeNotes

4. Estes Kefauver. One night at Dempsey's Pub, CrimeNotes, Bitey and I were discussing random politicians in American history.

CrimeNotes mentioned Estes Kefauver, and then was amazed that both of us at the table knew who he was. The conversation didn't end until Bitey's immortal words: "Estes Kefauver can suck my twat!"

I knew him as that guy with the '50s-style glasses from my parents' coffee table book of photos from Life magazine. But Kefauver was one of the more influential progressive politicians in American history, having been around both to support the New Deal and to stand up to racists in his own party decades later. The three Democrats who didn't sign the Southern Manifesto opposing integration were Lyndon Johnson, Al Gore Sr. and Kefauver. Not bad company.

Of course, Kefauver was vilified. He fought for antitrust legislation and consumer protection laws, which everyone knows are bad for business, bad for America, and communist.

In fact, in 1948 he was accused of being in cahoots with the commies. To refute the allegations, which compared him to a raccoon, Kefauver donned a coonskin hat and made a televised speech.

It was such a hit that he took his unique brand of haberdashery to the hustings, wearing the cap in every campaign, including his 1952 presidential run. Which should just be further proof he's the beacon the Democratic party is sorely missing.

American values embodied: Progressivism, wearing dead animals, chutzpah.

--Flop

3. Rutherford B. Hayes. The 19th president of the United States, he remains the only non-appointed president to win office despite losing the popular vote. He was known for his coarse, imposing beard.

Most importantly, he's a hero in Paraguay. He arbitrated a dispute between that nation and Argentina and decided in Paraguay's favor. Paraguay has named a province AND a city for him. It would be like the United States turning to international soccer star Barriaga, or perhaps Arriaga 2, to solve an international dispute, and then renaming Colorado and Denver for him.

Hayes is also one of the many mediocre presidents produced by the state of Ohio, and his official presidential center is conveniently located off the Ohio Turnpike in Fremont. Of course, he may be the greatest President produced by Fremont, but he's only the second-greatest American produced by that city ...

President Rutherford B. Hayes presides over a Cabinet meeting in this daguerrotype from 1879. Also shown: Secretary of State William M. Evarts (seated); Attorney General Charles Devens (No. 42).

American values embodied: Ability to juke defenders out of shoes.

--Flop

2. Summer Fucking Sanders. Summer Fucking Sanders can't get into an airport because every time she goes through security the metal detectors blow their wads.

She can only say, "What the balls is your problem? I'm Summer Fucking Sanders. Oh, are my gold fucking medals upsetting your little machine? Perhaps you'd like my tender little foot up your twat."

Little known facts about Summer Fucking Sanders: She bathes in Old Style Lager; she only eats what she kills; she ghostwrote LFO's "Summer Girls"; she has a peanut allergy yet is immune to arsenic; she has publicly pledged to dismember any mermaid on sight; she attracts lightning; she shits titanium; her favorite color is orange.

When he was 23, Flop met Summer Fucking Sanders, and like every human (male and female, gay and straight) he wanted to tap that ass. When he spoke, Summer Fucking Sanders gazed wearily past him. To her eternal heartbreak, the only male powerful enough to pleasure her was sired by Zeus and a hippo. You know him as Alasdair from You Can't Do That on Television.

American values embodied: hotness; badassery; gold fucking medals

--Staff

1. Thomas Jefferson

What did you expect? Thanks for putting pen to paper 230 years ago, T.J. If it weren't for you, Kevin Federline would have been in this spot.

Happy July 4th, homies.

Also receiving votes: Harry Anderson; Andre the Giant; Andrea Barber; Moses Cleaveland; Cool Papa Bell; Bitey; Clarence Darrow; P. Diddy; Hugh Downs; William Faulkner; Craig Finn; Benjamin Franklin; World B. Free; Morgan Freeman; Elbridge Gerry; Evil Girl; Alexander Hamilton; Mike Hart; Harlan Hatcher; Hiawatha; HMQ2K5; Desmond Howard; Montell Jordan; Kleinbaum; Bernie Kosar; John Larroquette; Abraham Lincoln; Shirley McFee; James Madison; Chief Justice John Marshall; Richard Moll; Oprah; Chris Perry; Charles P. Pierce; Markie Post; Elwood Reid; Franklin Roosevelt; Babe Ruth; Charles Sumner; Uma Thurman; Mark Twain; Marsha Warfield; Chief Justice Earl Warren; George Washington; Ralph Williams; Winston.

The Too-Late Endorsement: The NBA Draft

So, continuing my ongoing rapprochement with NBA basketball, plus the fact that there was nothing on TV last night, I started watching some of the NBA Draft. I like pro sports drafts, because they feature three things I'm a big fan of: sports, posses, and idiotic catchphrases.

Anyway, given that I follow college basketball for 3 weeks a year, and high school and European basketball not at all, I really couldn't be very worried about who Cleveland was going to pick (some dude named Shannon. Apparently not all those farmers play foot-ball.), but I noticed something that made this incredibly entertaining.

Right before Connecticut's Rudy Gay was picked, the commentators were discussing him. For those who don't even follow college hoops 3 weeks a year, the buzz on Rudy Gay all year is that he's incredibly talented but has a seeming total lack of competitiveness and doesn't seem to like basketball much at all. He's lazy and, despite his monumental talent, seems destined to be a career underachiever.

Jay Bilas, Stephen A. Smith, and the gang were basically giving this exact rundown when the shot shifted to Gay sitting waiting to be called, and that's when I noticed that the sound was a little weird. I finally figured out that the same audio I was hearing on ESPN was being broadcast in the room as well. Meaning, I was sitting there looking at Rudy Gay listening to Bilas and Stephen A. talk about how lazy he is.

After that, it was riveting. Later, they were discussing Marcus Williams's character issues (stemming, in part, from his role in the theft of a bunch of laptops), and knowing that he could hear it made it one of the most entertaining things I've ever seen.

Can we work this into the NFL Draft? Imagine, the shot is of Vince Young and John Clayton is talking about the bad Wonderlic score...and Vince can hear him!

Of course, this would make it incredibly likely that some linebacker or safety would kill Chris Mortensen or Mel Kiper Jr.

Quite Frankly, They Could Have Heard Him Without a Microphone

Viva los Argies

If like Crimenotes, soccer makes you blind with rage click here.

It's one of the tastiest upcoming World Cup matches: Germany against Argentina for a spot in the semis. On pedigree and class alone, it could be a final. Based on the way both teams have been playing, it might be better.

Argentina has scored both the biggest rout (6-0 over Serbia and Montenegro, a defeat so stunning, the country held a plebiscite and voted to dissolve into its component nations) and the sweetest goal. If you haven't yet seen it, enter the terms "argentina goal maxi rodriguez" into the YouTube search window and try not to hurt yourself when you fall out of your seat.

Germany, meanwhile, has been wowing fans with its attacking style. The normally cautious, counterattacking Germans have 10 goals in four games, and even their only one-goal game was dramatic, with a substitute sticking a dagger in Poland's heart in stoppage time. I've even been impressed by Torsten Frings, one of my all-time sports bad guys for his unnoticed handball late in the 2002 quarterfinal against the United States.

I've got nothing against the Germans. The country has been an exemplary host nation, they've managed to shed some of their understandable qualms about nationalism without losing their heads and their team is playing entertaining soccer.

They must be stopped.

Why? Simple. I want their coach, Los Angeles resident and former Germany superstar Jurgen Klinsmann, to take over the United States team. And for that to happen, I want him to come under a torrent of bullshit from the German media.

No sport does recriminations like soccer. So if the Germans get whacked, even by a team like Argentina, the outcry against Klinsmann's attacking style _ and quite possibly Klinsmann himself _ should be substantial. Normally, I'm appalled when the media and fans pronounce innovation dead on arrival after one attempt, but in this case, I'd be happy for the United States to benefit.

After enough piling on from the press and fans, you'd have to think the easygoing media treatment of soccer in the United States would look pretty good to Jurgen. Did I mention he lives just up the road from the Home Depot Center in Carson? As bad as the 405 Freeway can be, it's got to be better than 11 hours on Lufthansa.

And if Klinsmann did take over the considerable young talent on the U.S. team, the stage would be set for a sweet grudge match in the 2010 World Cup. For U.S soccer fans. it would be revenge for the 2002 quarterfinal, as well as vindication in finally beating a European power after two games in which we were the better team, yet came away without a result. For Klinsmann, it'd be vindication of his style and his talent, in support of his adopted home. Movies have been made about less.

This could what Jurgen Klinsmann sees on his way to work, if he takes over as U.S. soccer coach. Mmm, Crenshaw.

Big Papi of Arabia

On Monday, David Ortiz of the Boston Red Sox drove in the winning run in walk-off fashion for the second straight game against the Phillies. Tuesday morning, I saw the highlight on Sportscenter, and then grew angry as the Sportscenter gang threw it over to the Baseball Tonight studios so Orel Hershiser and Steve Phillips could discuss whether or not the Phillies should have even pitched to Ortiz in the first place.

Hershiser’s point was that the situation (there were men on first and second, two outs in the bottom of the 12th) was such that the pitcher is better off pitching to Ortiz, no matter how “clutch” he is. With an open base, a pitcher can throw a wider variety of pitches to a wider variety of locations, since if he walks Ortiz, it isn’t the end of the world. Hopefully, the pitcher could get him to swing at a bad pitch out of the strike zone and make the last out. If Ortiz ends up walking, you have to throw strikes to the next hitter (the extremely-good-at-hitting Manny Ramirez), because walking him brings in the winning run. As such, logically, being able to pitch outside the strike zone to Ortiz has a better chance of success for the pitcher than having to throw only strikes to Ramirez, no matter who is or isn’t clutch.

Meanwhile, Phillips (notable for putting together the early 00s Mets, the Arbusto Oil of baseball teams) had no particular argument other than “Nooooooooooo, Big Papi is just soooooooooo clutch. You just know he’ll drive in the winning run! You just know it!”

This is the same argument we had over the Iraq war, just in a different forum. On one side, you have logic and reason. On the other, just something that “everyone just knows is true.” Back before the war began, I used to argue all the time that it was a bad idea to invade, because of (insert one or more: historical animus between Sunnis and Shiites, making a civil war between them likely; the fact that an alliance between a radical Islamist group like al Qaeda and a secular dictator like Saddam didn’t make much sense; etc.)

All there was on the other side was, “We were attacked on September 11!” and “He’s a threat, everyone just knows he’s a threat!”

And I think we know how that turned out.

No matter how it turned out for the Phillies, they still did the smart thing. Hershiser was right. The pitcher just made a bad pitch. It happens. But pitching to Ortiz is still the right move.

The Bushies keep trying to say the same about Iraq, that it was the right thing to do but there were just some problems in the execution. But they didn’t do the logical thing, the Hershiserian thing. They followed the example of Phillips. To take the metaphor further, what they did is equivalent to having intentionally walked Ortiz (because you just knew he would beat you), then given up a walk-off grand slam to Ramirez, then saying “Hey, nobody could have predicted that Ramirez would have hit that. Walking Ortiz was still the right thing to do, because he’s so clutch. What? How can you say he’s not clutch? I can’t believe you would continue to deny his clutchness!” As if that were the point.

But hey, who am I to question the received wisdom from on high that everyone just knows? Does this mean I hate America and David Ortiz, or am I just objectively pro-Manny?

Something about monkeys

Editor's Note: Commentor Evil Girl wrote a couple weeks ago complaining about the lack of "irrelevant" posts since Flop left for Europe. When Evil Girl speaks, we listen. She's been a friend of mine for about a decade, and despite my attempts to be a good influence, she and Flop had a dangerous liaison late in college. Also, she's been known to castrate guys who don't do what she says. This is why Flop can sing soprano. Last week she submitted the following post. It was written e.e. cummings style, so I've formatted it to be a poem. I don't exactly understand it, but it sure is in the spirit of Flop. I present Evil Girl:

flop called the other evening
he was drunk in a phone booth
recently befriended by
the british equivalent of crimenotes while
doing his wash

at the time he suggested he hadn't
posted anything of late because
he feared the writing equivalent of
"come look at this neat log i left in the loo"
alas the derth of irreverant musings
and crenshaw melon

in flop's honor and absence,
crimenotes agreed to
let me write the following:

monkeyballs

this weekend the discovery channel aired
what is perhaps the greatest interpretation of shakespeare
ever produced
using monkeys

monkeys may even have typed it

romeo and juliet: a monkey's tale

it's not scheduled to air again anytime soon
god willing there is a blackmarket dvd

there was a monkey juliet
a monkey romeo
monkey tension
and monkey romance

but more than anything
these monkeys had balls

gigantically disproportional balls

i wish i could provide you a drawing

it would be one-third balls
and two-thirds monkey

Italian barber shop

I get my hair cut at a barber shop near City Hall. It took about a year of living in the city to find a barber shop I like. This wasn't a problem for me in Boston or in Michigan. In hair, as with everything else, I want to keep it simple. I want my hair cut by people whose idea of hair product involves running the comb under a spigot before it touches my locks. If there's music, it should predate 1960 or else be sung in a Romance language other than French. I don't care if the cutting is competent so long as it doesn't make me look dumber than usual.

As much as I hate getting it cut, I was born with a thick head of hair. Sometimes I fear that I'm starting to become prematurely gray, and when I feel sorry for myself, it's comforting to know that I'll never be bald. The problem is that I have to keep it short, especially in the summer. Get complacent, and on a humid day, it looks like I should be drumming for The Who, with all kind of cowlicks and strands. "You look like Archie from the comic books," a former co-worker once said.

Haircuts suck. It's not comfortable to have a stranger hold a sharp blade four inches from your eyes. In old age and retirement, I plan to never shave or cut my hair. I'll look like a cross between the Unambomber and King Lear, and probably will adopt their attitudes to boot.

Still, I like this barber shop. It employs five or six Italians, ages 45-75, of both genders. After a few years of going there, they recognize me by face. I know who cuts fast and who'll get on my nerves. The walls have framed autographed pictures of Giuliani and Bloomberg and Ray Kelly. The barbers say enough to be entertaining and friendly but not so much that we get into awkward smalltalk.

They mostly speak in Italian, and I know enough of the language to grasp every fifth word. Today, when the youngest among them ran in sweating and shouting, I didn't understand a word, but I knew it was about soccer.

He was ranting so angrily that I assumed Italy lost. The sixtysomething lady clipping my coiff paused mid-haircut to listen.

In fractured English, she asked whether I like soccer.

"No," I said proudly. "I like football."

She was dismissive and told me that when the U.S. became good, I'd learn to like soccer. I didn't have the energy to correct her.

It was the first time she'd cut my hair, and she was quirky. When my neck posture slacked she slammed her elbows onto my shoulders and pushed my head up straight. She kept breaking to listen at the youngest barber's soccer ravings. She winked at me in the mirror and said something intended to incite her coworker.

The rant in heavily accented Italian went on for about five minutes, and for the first time I was amused by soccer.

It reminded me of the day that John Ratzinger was named pope. I was getting my haircut an hour or so after the white smoke came out from the Vatican.

The barbers were all livid, livid the way I was the night of the Alamo Bowl when Michigan lost to Nebraska. "Tedeschi!" they kept shouting, using the Italian word for Germans. The shouting was relentless. My haircut turned out fine.

Better Know Your Adversary: Introduction

I have a Republican friend, with whom I argue constantly over email. I enjoy this, because it keeps my arguments sharp and allows me to hear all sorts of laughable Republican talking points and false choices (my favorite is still when he angrily demanded how, had he been elected in 2000, President Gore would have handled the Iraq War. Um…).

Anyway, I received an email from him a couple of weeks ago, ostensibly about the shortcomings of the DNC’s website, but really a metaphor for how the Democrats don’t stand for anything and the Republicans are strong and resolute and blah blah blah. This contained a great comparison of how all the DNC site had were platitudes, while the RNC site “has an Issues section that says what the Republicans have done, and bullets what they plan to do.”

You hear a lot of this, and it’s pretty well hardened into conventional wisdom. I figured it may even be true, so I went to the Issues section of RNC.com to see for myself (I don’t want to ruin the surprise. Stay tuned…). I tried responding to him, but it was too long and complex for an email. This, however, is a much better venue for that discussion.

There are 9 subsections of the Issues section, each discussing a different topic. Every day (okay, most days), I’ll examine one of them and find out if the Republicans have really been as forthright as my friend claims about their accomplishments and intentions. I can’t be completely sure what I’ll find yet, but it’s likely that we’ll also get into many of the myths, straw men, and false choices that represent pretty much the entirety of Republican thinking and argument these days.

Tomorrow: Issue 1, Social Security.

If Plato Is a Fine Red Wine, Then Aristotle Is a Dry Martini*

It’s hot. It’s really hot. And the weekend is just a few short hours away. And nobody wants to a) work, or b) read the series of political rants I keep putting off. So, here are three ways to kill this Friday afternoon.

• Make your own South Park doppelgänger. Some of you may have seen this already (when I mentioned it to Flop, he told me he’d seen it before), but the create-your-own-South-Park-character generator is absolutely fantastic. Included at right is the character of me made by my roommate. It’s terrifying in its realism. This looks more like me than my passport picture. I particularly like that he added the sweat from wearing that suit in 98% humidity.

• Devise a bizarre comparison. This post over at Baseball Think Factory inspired some of the best blog comments I’ve ever seen. Ostensibly, the post is about the new U.S. poet laureate, who has done some writing about baseball. The comments, however, are what make it great. For example, there’s an argument about whether Ted Kooser is the Russ Ortiz of poetry or the Bob Wickman of poetry. My posit: Ezra Pound is the Jimmie Foxx of poetry.

• Remember that, fundamentally, soccer is laughable. Honestly, is this clip from the Simpsons ever not funny? And yes, I’m bitter about Team USA. But I’m going to keep watching the World Cup, I just have to find a new team to pull for now. Maybe the Netherlands? I don’t know why. Maybe it’s my predilection towards teams with orange in their uniforms, funny names, and a tendency to never win championships.

*Okay, I need to stop with the Kicking and Screaming references.

This looks familiar

Via MZone we have this video of two teenagers whose argument about Texas and Ohio State turns retarded:


Their conversation ends like pretty much every conversation I've ever had with Flop, only with less bloodshed.

An idiot's travels in London

LONDON (CSB) -- Yes, yes, yes. My undisclosed location is no longer a secret. I'm in London, as probably was obvious by my earlier dispatch. Contrary to my co-blogger's rodent-centric experiences, I've found the city to be more than just a theater of the absurd and giggleworthy.

Not that there isn't all sorts of ridiculous shit to see, but rather than spin yarns about my observations on all the slight differences that make going to other countries worthwhile from almost the minute you step outside the airport, I thought I'd provide some vignettes from my travels. I'm not yet at the midway point of my transatlantic sojourn -- I've got more countries and more travels ahead. And tomorrow, blog "pinup" Brian joins me in London for soccer-related antics and alcotourism opportunities.

For now, here are some highlights:

• On approach to Heathrow, my plane banked right over the center of London. I was struggling to make sense of the grid laid out before me when I saw the serpentine in Green Park. I said "holy shit" in a voice just audible enough to make my seatmate laugh softly. Then I stared at the houses of Parliament, the London Eye, the British Museum, St. Paul's and all the other landmarks as they shone on a perfect Sunday morning at dawn and thought to myself: "It's about 1 a.m. back in New York. Crimenotes is probably three sheets to the wind and stealing accessories from drag queens so he can work out in the bar."
• I wandered around London in a sleep-deprived haze all day that day. Some memories include: Finding a truly awful novel on a table that someone was selling underneath the Waterloo Bridge. I didn't want to carry it around, and now I've been back twice and can't find it. Would have made a perfect gift for my friends with literary taste. ... Walking for hours and seeing next to no one, as if London were there just for my own exploration. Then stumbling into the market at Covent Garden and smiling at the sight of all the people there as if I'd just spent six years on a deserted island. ... Sitting on the bed in my hotel room (once I could finally get in) and enjoying the slow pace of a test match between England and Sri Lanka in cricket. Giggling when the commentator's partner in the booth kept silent after being asked "penny for your thoughts" while England was getting crushed by Sri Lanka's batsmen. ... Waking up in the middle of the night to a broadcast of "Sunday Night Baseball" on Five, and seeing the British guy and American guy talk ball between innings instead of commercial breaks. ... Bangers and mash for dinner, along with a pint of Guinness.
• Danced with a Japanese girl who barely spoke English at a Brazilian bar after Brazil beat Croatia.
• Absorbed Meghan Daum's collection of essays (fucking brilliant) with a pint or two (ditto) at a pub across the street from the British Museum. Going into the traditional, red phonebox in front of said plunder repository to tipsily call a friend who dog-eared one of the essays for me and tell her how fucking good they were. Seriously.
• Giggled at the Guardian's World Cup guide. ... Giggled at the Guardian's daily bets placed by a fish. ... Giggled at the Guardian's "Soccerball: Today at the World Series" item, supposedly written by a 12-year-old Tampa Bay Buccaneers fan. (If you don't get why the Tampa Bay Buccaneers are so odious to English soccer fans, pay more attention to the world around you, or at least google that shit.). ... Wondered why the United States doesn't have a newspaper as good as the Guardian.
• Found a local pub, somewhere in between the pub at which I had the pub dinner my first night in town, and the one at which I read those essays. I've wanted to have a local for years -- now I do.
• Did shots of Jagermeister with a leggy blonde German girl because, well, she was a leggy blonde German girl and she wanted to do shots of Jager.
• Went to the London Aquarium, partly because I was feeling introspective and partly because I'd just seen Closer. ... Ate fish and chips.
• Went to an Aussie pub shortly after the Socceroos lost to Brazil. Marveled at celebratory mood and willingness amongst drunken Antipodeans to sing "Land Down Under" at full volume. Chatted up a Brazilian girl who spoke English with an Aussie accent, because all her friends are Australian.
• Speaking of on-the-nose soundtracks: I watched the RAF flyover on the Queen's birthday. I'd taken my headphones off, but not hit pause on my iPod because the planes showed up sooner than I expected. As the last few groups of jets flew over, I realized that "Danger Zone" was playing.
• Discovered all sorts of random alleys, parks and markets. ... Made instant friends in pubs while discussing the World Cup. ... Watched a shitload of soccer. ... Walked until I got blisters on my blisters. ... Purchased a used copy of "James and the Giant Peach." ... Finally asked out the unbelievably cute bartender at my local.

London as shown in CrimeNotes's photo stream.