Partying Like It's June 21

Nothing says summer solstice party like Kevin raising a yellow gourd, Kari and Kelly dancing in the kitchen and Ronson and Paul ( or should I say Cole?) talking soccer.

I woke up today just before noon, still feeling drunk. How did I get home?

My sincerest apologies to anyone who tried the swill I tried to pass off as wine. God it was terrible. Yet somehow delicious when mixed with Chianti. Two reds that made a right!

Happy Summer Solstice.

Careful Out There

I was in Bruegger's earlier this week when a girl passed out and collapsed onto the floor. She was fine. But she knocked over the chips on her way down.

For a moment I thought she might really be in trouble. She was not of this world. But within a few minutes she was having some water and chatting with EMTs. Then she went traipsing down Fourth Street like nothing happened.

Crazy.

Ready To Rumble

I tried to steer clear of the outcome of the Vargas vs. Mosley fight last weekend. But when Sunday morning came, it was killing me not to know. I was rooting for Fernando Vargas after their bout a few months ago was called because Shane Mosley pounded a knot the size of a lemon on Vargas' orbital bone (see photo).

I ended up accidentally on purpose finding out that Mosley won in the sixth of the rematch. I was so disappointed.

I love boxing. It can be brutal and sometimes difficult to watch, but it's pure. The Sweet Science of bruising. I like it probably because my dad and I would watch it when I was in high school. If we didn't get the heavy-weight fights on Pay Per View, we'd go over to one of my dad's friends who did.

On Sunday I finally got to see how Mosley won.

Vargas didn't even show up for the fight. He was slow, lethargic, barely able to throw a punch, let alone land one. Mosley looked good, though how could he not? He was practically in the ring by himself.

In the end, Mosley hit Vargas right on the button. You can beat a man to a pulp, swell his eye shut and bloody his face and there will still be plenty of fight in him. But hit him on the chin and it's over. Vargas went down easy. He wobbled around and tried to get up, but that was it.

Six rounds. Glad I saved the $50 and caught it a week later. But I had to convince myself of that last weekend.

You Cannot Touch The Mango

Ray and Susie came to visit today and bring back my porch swing my dad made. He'd taken it back to Indiana a few weeks ago to fix a cracked board and paint it.

I'm writing a cover piece on the Cincinnati Art Museum's 125th anniversary, and since my mom said she'd never seen an original piece of art, I took them for a Sunday tour.

My dad wandered off as I was pointing out the Monet and Van Gogh to my mom. So when I needed to check out the Sean Scully exhibition, I told my mom to find dad and show him the Van Gogh.

"The mango?" she said.

Sheesh.

"No. The Van Gogh," I told her.

A little while later I found them and tracked down the Warhol of Pete Rose for them to see.

"Man, that's something, huh," my dad said. "I'll tell ya, that little girl eating porridge was real. Her eyes followed me wherever I went."

He was talking about Adolphe Bouguereau's Girl Eating Porridge.

Kitty In The Paper

Pop Vulture closed in on Cassady, one badass cat from Mt. Lookout.

A highlight:

Q: Cassady, what was the last good movie you saw?
A: I haven't been to the movies in a while - too busy sleeping. Though I am looking forward to the cat-remake of M. Night Shyamalan's Lady in the Water, Kitty in the Litter. I have some indie friends who do some crazy sh— with iMovie.

Enjoy.

Hot, Firey Action

This morning as I was pulling onto Golden Avenue there were two firetrucks parked alongside the road. One of the trucks had its hose connected to a fire hydrant and there were about 10 firefighters milling about. A cop car was behind them with its lights on.

The hose was stretched across the road and before I ran over it, I wanted to make sure it'd be OK, so I slowed down and waited for one of the firefighters to give me a nod.

A man in probably his 40s waved me through. He was sweaty and tan and the wrinkles at the sides of his eyes were so deep they looked streaked white in contrast to the rest of his face.

I gave him a wave and a nod and passed through. He crinkled his wrinkles with a smile.

"Hmmm," I thought. "They must be draining that fire hydrant. Or whatever firefighters do when they're milling about."

Turns out, a house across the street from my apartment complex burned down at 3 a.m. this morning. Apparently the second floor collapsed as firefighters were battling the blaze.

Now, explain to me how a fire can engulf a house across the street, causing at least two firehouses in Cincinnati to respond, and I don't even stir. Not so much as a "Mmmph. I'm tired. Are those sirens? Oh well."

Nope. Slept like a baby. Woke up around 8:45 to my CD alarm clock groovin' to "Ain't Nothing Like The Real Thing."

That's the most interesting thing that's happened on Golden Avenue since the Audi girl's boyfriend jumped her car over the concrete and got it stuck on the embankment. I thought for sure it was going to slide down the hill, nosedive into the pavement and crash at the bottom. She ended up getting it towed out, after her man sheered the bottom of it off, nearly wrenched it into the Jeep beside her and grinded the gears out of it.

Damn that was funny.

Caption Contest

I'll start:

"The Purple People Bridge Climb: We'll put your ass in a sling."

"As effective as The Pill, but more stylish."

"Look out Project Runway, this suit's fly."

Enter as many times as you like.

Just Call Me Ginogrosso

My bitter disappointment that my first World Cup would be won by either of two insufferable teams, Italy or France, dissipated as soon as the whistle blew. I was hoping to see the French fall. (If they loathe Lance, then I loathe them.)

Like all the World Cup games I’ve watched over the last month, I was not disappointed.

The final had everything: Bad calls that led to penalty kicks that led to an unearned goal; Oscar worthy injury performances; a vicious head butt to the chest (!); and a heart-pounding shoot-out to end it.

It was 120 minutes of beautiful sport. Reminding me once again that there is nothing better in this world than to be young, and strong, and fast.

And let’s talk about the ridiculous good looks of many of these players. Meow! The tattoos running up the inside of their forearms and biceps rocks my world (cup)!

Picture This...

...Only without the brown shoes and white bra. This is what I'll look like walking down the aisle in front of Jen next month, with the dress hemmed to about where I'm holding it.

And this is what Jen will look like, only without the flashbulb popping in front her face.

My Blog, Or Whatever

My dad happily reported to Jen that the bathroom is fixed and he and my mom are no longer having to go to Wal-Mart to relieve themselves. Here are they deep in conversation about hostas, or some other such vegetation.

"Do you love digging in the dirt and getting your fingernails all dirty," my dad hopefully, and excitedly asked Jen.

"I do!" she told him. And the gardening discussion was on.

On the way home my mom attempted to get me in trouble with him by saying, "Gina writes articles about us on her blog and probably all of Cincinnati knows we didn't have a toilet for three days."

"Well that's allright," he said. "I'm happy to get into her blog, or whatever."