From ita's link:

Vice President, Dukes of Hazzard Fan Club

Life-Size Barbie Model

Some of the geeks are kind of cute, in that you just want to play with them and muss them up a bit way.

Joining in with the Happy Birthday, Sean brigade -if it's not too late.

Geeks like Dukes of Hazzard?

-if it's not too late.

Not at all quester. Thanks.

Geeks like Dukes of Hazzard?

Some geeks do. They also tend to get their asses kicked by other geeks, but that's the life for you....

Oh, and happy b-day, Sean!

Thanks, tommyrot.

This geek doesn't so much love The Dukes of Hazzard as much as she loves Duke boys.

Seany's back! Seany's back!

How's our birthday boy? Recovered from his ice cream cake?

Just got back from Emmett's game a little bit ago. His team won in a real nailbiter -- something like four innings 0-0, and then finally Eli the Thief made it to first, then stole second and third, and Emmett came up to bat and brought him home (then stole second and third himself, but was thwarted by a third out before he could make it home).

Emmett was just godly out there. He pitched three innings beautifully, cleanly, with only a handful of coach pitches and a whole lot of sweet sure strikeouts. While pitching, he snagged a short grounder and threw the runner out at first. He hit gorgeously, ran beautifully, was a rock-solid catcher totally in sync with his pitcher.

At one point I actually had an ita moment and started welling up. Baseball is such an incredibly varied jumble of skills that take decades to fully master, and it's so damn hard for kids to stay on top of every aspect of the game, and there he was being so strong and graceful and present to the game, so sure of his power and his instincts without being cocky, so attuned to the rest of his team. I got gaspy and (almost) teary watching him surrender his body, his whole self to the game.

Also, I got to see his game face: When he was pitching and a runner on first got itchy to steal second, he'd drop his chin down to his left shoulder and, without moving his body at all, glare down the length of his arm at the runner. Right hand clenching at the ball, jaw just a little slack and front teeth visible in a primate's threatsmile, and his eyes just drilling a cool, impersonal hole in the runner. Feral and almost bored at the same time. Saying, clear as words, Step off the motherfucking bag and die, motherfucker. I'm just saying. Die. And each time the runner's shoulders would drop and he would step meekly back onto the bag.

Now he's all dressed up in his new pirate togs and wriggling in delight at the prospect of Episode III.

I'm so step-maternally smitten, there are no words. Aside from, y'know, the ones I just wrote. But they don't even begin to convey the force of it.

Just in time for the Indy 500, whiny race car drivers.