Brought to You by the Number L

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang

Music: Big Rig Jackknife, "All Night Truckstop"

Time: Night

Upfront disclaimer: No scary story tonight. I'll do two tomorrow, I promise. But tonight's all about life, not chain-rattling returnees from a Victorian afterlife.

Good things came in 50s tonight.

As I type this, the Chicago Fire are leading the New York Red Bulls 4-1 in the second half. That means the Kansas City Wizards -- barring an utter collapse by Chicago -- will make the Major League Soccer playoffs. For me, that's a much-needed extra 50 dollars for covering the home leg of the first round.

(Update: The final score was 5-2, Chicago. Seven goals but no punch-up, so Nick Hornby wouldn't have called it perfect.)

And earlier tonight, I was the recipient of a random act of caffeine -- a 50-dollar gift certificate to a coffeehouse I really like. I was there, getting some work done on an art show review, when the barista came up to me with a happily baffled (henceforth to be known as "happled," which is a much better state than "hapless") smile.

"Someone just called in with a credit card number and asked me to give you this," she said, as though she still couldn't quite believe it.

The giver has been thanked. Ordinarily, I would do so publicly, by name, but I have the feeling I would get a bit grumbled-at if I did that in this instance. The giver didn't do it for a mention in a blog.

We had a bit of a discussion about what Christ would think about many of the things that go on in His name today. (Upshot: He would not be pleased.) That made me think about the admonition in Matthew: "When you give, do not let the right hand know what the left hand is doing." In other words, don't give in order to get the approval of others. Don't even do it to feel better about yourself.

Do it because it's the right thing to do.

And if you're in the mood to do so right now, whether by 50s or any other amount, might I suggest Heifer International? Every gift there helps people sustain themselves ... and isn't that one of the things we're here for, to help others to live?

Hither, Meet Yon

Tea: Lemon

Music: The Doobie Brothers, "Black Water"

Time: Night.

Wow ... just looking at my weekend schedule has me wiped out, and it's only Thursday.

I'm solo parenting Friday and part of Saturday, because of a women's retreat at the church.

These are my whenabouts so far -- and because my life is what it is, they are always subject to change:

Friday morning, ca. 8-9 a.m.: Rouse son for ten-mile hike (still have no idea where we're going).

Friday afternoon, upon returning: Trying to get out some pitch letters before ...

Friday afternoon, 4 p.m.: Pick up Mrs. Steep from work, drop her off at church.

Friday evening, 5 p.m.-whenever: Arts stuff, arts stuff, arts stuff. There's an opening at Leopold Gallery in Brookside, and the usual Third Friday things downtown and in Columbus Park.

Saturday: The two oldest kids have things going on at Mission Arts and Eats, here in the home'burb, plus my son has play rehearsal. So, basically, morning to early afternoon, I'll be getting them where they need to go and trying to check out the artists. Then I'll try to catch part of Holly Swangstu's opening at J. Bird Studios in Kansas City, Kansas, and then I'll bail to cover a 7 p.m. Kansas City Wizards game. (I have to be there well before kickoff.)

Oh, did I mention the Plaza Art Fair is this weekend? I'm going to have to cram that in Sunday afternoon, in between church stints.

Then Monday brings three deadlines, 1,300 words total.

I need a clone. Why should I have all the fun?

Aren't They All?

Tea: Arctic Storm

Music: King Crimson, "Starless"

Time: Night

This will be short. My leg hurts (the price of playing football past whatever passed for my prime) and it's been a semi-rough night.

With most members of my church's youth group off on a mission trip, and their director overseeing the endeavor, it fell to me tonight to run the show for those who stayed behind (six kids, five of them seventh-grade girls.)

Before the short lesson, on forgiveness and thankfulness, I got to tell them that one of the girls who went on the mission trip is now without a mother. She was found dead in her car last night.

I don't know details, and I'm not going to speculate on what happened. The senior pastor described the circumstances as "tragic" -- but really, isn't any death that leaves an adolescent motherless tragic?

Isn't each death a tragedy, or the culmination of one?

(And a 5.2 from the Bulgarian Judge ...)

Tea: Passionfruit Jasmine bubble tea

Music: Golden Earring, "Radar Love"

Time: Night.

I finally understand those people who record sporting events and threaten the health of anyone who divulges the result before said recording can be viewed.

(Yeah, that's a convoluted sentence. It's late. Cut me some slack.)

I still haven't seen today's Euro 2008 quarterfinal between Germany and Portugal. I'm studiously staying away from sports sites until I can watch the replay online.

I know who I'm pulling for, even if that cause is lost by now. Hint: It's not the Iberian side.

I don't know what it is about the western and middle Mediterranean peninsulas that produces whiny, dive-prone football (the real kind, not the pointy-ended kind) teams. (Okay, so I don't know for sure about San Marino, and I don't think the Vatican has a team. Kind of hard to run in robes, I guess.)

You know the sort: Any bit of physical contact with an opponent, no matter how slight, and down goes the poor "foulee," writhing and screaming. The only cure is for the referee to produce a yellow card and show it to the "offender," after which the "victim" pops to his feet, miraculously healed.

Makes you wonder how long they've been getting away with it.

Perhaps that's how the Romans conquered Gaul: "Oooh, and that's the second yellow for Vercingetorix, and the Gallic captain has been sent off." (One hopes he was able to deliver a head-butt first. Anyone who head-butts an Italian player is quite all right in my book.)

That could also explain the Conquistadors' success: "Not quite sure I agree with the referee's decision, Clive, but the fact of the matter is that Montezuma has got to leave the pitch. Cortes up to take the penalty for Spain ..."

Portugal, to its credit, doesn't dive quite as frequently as Italy or Spain. And it does have the best goal-scorer on the planet in Cristiano Ronaldo. I'd probably like him if he didn't play for Manchester United (can't spell "manure" without "Man U," after all). But he does, for now -- unless he's already transferred to the equally loathesome Real Madrid.

And that's reason enough to cheer against Portugal.

Wayne Rooney (who looks as though he should have bolts in his neck) also plays for Man U -- but I don't get to boo him this time around. That's because England didn't qualify (snicker, giggle), leaving its hooligans with nothing better to do than sit home making up unprintable lyrics to "Three Lions" ("England's staying home, it's staying ...") and trying to find Macedonia on a map.

Here, for the day, endeth the snark. Go Germany! (Unless you're already gone.)

One is All

Tea: Mandarin Orange with Honey

Music: Mike and the Mechanics, "The Living Years"

Time: Evening.

This post was going to be about the most excellent bounty of football (the real kind, not the pointy-ended sort) I've gotten to see lately, between Major League Soccer, World Cup qualifiers and Euro 2008.

But within the last two days, my inbox has contained news of (a) my only surviving uncle's diagnosis of lung cancer and (b) the death of a cousin's husband from a heart attack -- at age 52.

It's Father's Day, and his children are without him. Meanwhile, my uncle's three children and their families are spending the day -- and will spend many to come -- praying the surgeons were able to get all of the tumor.

Relationships with fathers are complicated things. Some fathers are unworthy of the name. I've heard stories to freeze (or boil) the blood. Most, I like to think, do the best they can.

Mine has been gone for almost a decade. Suddenly, I miss him as though he had passed yesterday.

He would have loved all of this football, too.

Shoot Down the Shootout

Tea: Marron Glacé

Music: Bob Dylan, "Mr. Tambourine Man"

Time: Night.

After today's UEFA Champions League final, I'd just like to take a brief moment to say one thing:

I hate penalty kick shootouts. Loathe them.

We don't decide Super Bowls by letting kickers alternate field goal attempts, Stanley Cups with best-of-five faceoffs or the World Series with a home run derby. (I'm not doing the usual basketball analogy. It's been done to death.) So why do we decide soccer championships (if regulation and a 30-minute overtime doesn't settle things) with penalty kicks?

It's anticlimactic. It's artificial. And it's avoidable.

Look, by that time both teams are exhausted. Someone's bound to make a mistake and give up a goal -- at the very least, an honest penalty kick.

Let the TV people howl. The only honorable way to settle a tie in a soccer championship is to go through the regulation 30-minute overtime -- and if things are still knotted up, go to 15-minute golden goal periods until someone puts the ball in the net.

Then -- and only then -- let the celebrations begin. That's how it used to be, and how it should be again.

Here endeth the rant. Now let's see if anyone at FIFA cares.

(Insert wry chuckle here.)

Yeah, right ...