I wrote this song "Dollar Store" some months back. Jimmy recorded a beautiful version of it. Now that I can download files on this groovy new blog software you get to hear it.

I've been mulling over MLS attendance figures the last couple of days. The average attendance for regular season games this year was 15,108--down from 15,559 in 2004.

Perhaps it's just that I've become more obsessive in my scrutiny of MLS, but I expected attendance to ramp up significantly this year. With the addition of Chivas and Real Salt Lake I thought the league had finally turned the corner from being a fledgling, financially tenuous organization to an established part of the sports landscape.

But it's clear that the league still has a ways to go. Any further expansion plans should be put on hold until the MLS can get its existing teams on decent footing. Two franchises--San Jose and Kansas City--are up for sale and in peril of being relocated.

It'd be a real shame if San Jose ends up moving. Attendance has always been sluggish in that market. This year was no different, with an average of 13,037 butts in the seats. But the city's potential, even without a new soccer-specific stadium, was amply on display this year. The two home games against Los Angeles featured some of the best crowds of the year going absolutely apeshit for 90 minutes. People who were at those games will return.

It was an even more remarkable year for them on the field. San Jose lost just four times in 32 matches--the fewest defeats in the league's 10-year history. And they did it without LD and despite losing two of their starting defenders to season-ending injuries. They've got to be favored to win their third MLS Cup this year.

Kansas City is another matter. The season was an unmitigated disaster for them. They easily had the worst attendance in the league, averaging less than 10,000 fans per game--some 23 percent less than the next crappiest tally (New England). What's more, attendance declined for the second straight year. It was the team's worst showing at the ticket counter since 2000. Both the Miami Fusion and the Tampa Bay Mutiny drew larger crowds in their final seasons before contraction than Kansas City drew this year.

Things were no better on the field for the Wizards. Despite returning most key elements of the team that went to MLS Cup last year, Kansas City somehow crapped out of the playoffs, going winless in their last eight matches. They won their last match of the season on August 19th!

There are no named prospects for local ownership, despite the team being on the block for almost a year. And that means there's been no serious discussions about building a soccer specific stadium in Kansas City.

I see no other option: move the Wizards.

I finally picked up a copy of my old colleague Sean Rowe's debut novel today. It's called Fever. It's a thriller, set in Miami, involving an elaborate scam to hijack a cruise ship. I've only read the first 25 pages, so can't comment with any credibility. But the Washington Post liked it, and the great George Pelecanos has endorsed it. Sean's the best writer I've ever worked with. If you can read, you should buy the book.

Sean got hit by a train on the night of his farewell party in Fort Lauderdale. We were all boozed up and wandering through the Himmarshee District. Next thing we knew there was a train flying by where Sean had been standing. Somehow he survived. For quite awhile his skull had to be held together with giant metal staples, presumably so his brains would not spill out.

The redoubtable Bob Norman, who was also present that ugly night, has written a swell remembrance. The piece also includes a hilarious list of what Sean's learned in the book business. This is my favorite:

5. Your ex-girlfriend will sell your soul on eBay. You inscribe an advance review copy of your novel and hand-deliver it to an old flame. Weeks later, she calls you and mentions that she was cleaning house recently and sold your book on eBay. For three bucks.

My bro is writing about movies and TV for the Macon Telegraph.

I've got yellow fever.

I went out to Canterbury on Saturday morning to play some cards. It was the opening day of the Fall Poker Classic. I'm too financially challenged to justify paying the tournament entry fees (which start at $200) though.

So instead I sat down at a $45 one-table satellite. The winner would get $300 in tournament buy-in chips and $50 cash. I was wearing a cowboy hat and a black t-shirt with the words "rock star" emblazoned across the front. I hadn't shaved in roughly a week. I looked like a real ass.

Things started off promising enough. I bought a few pots and mostly laid low. There was a 20-something dude in seat 10 who was betting aggressively and driving people out of pots. In seat six there was a grandmotherly type who seemed to be catching good cards and was piling up a pretty big stack of chips.

By the time it got down to five players I was sitting fairly decent, with the third biggest bankroll at the table. At this point, however, the woman running the show announced that they needed to clear out the tables for the impending tournament and that the blinds would begin going up every five minutes. This meant that within ten hands we were facing blinds big enough to put most players all in before the flop. You were basically forced to endanger your entire bankroll before seeing a card. It wasn't poker. It was blind luck.

I hit an A-2 off suit on my big blind and felt pretty good about that. But then I got two callers: 9-9 and A-Q. That was the end for me.

I was going to be smart and leave, but I still had $50 burning a hole in my pocket. So I sat down at the $2/4 stud table and ran that up to $120 in three hours. The old dudes at the stud table didn't know what to make of my moronic get-up. They were calling me cowboy. Yeehaw.

I went out to Canterbury on Saturday morning to play some cards. It was the opening day of the Fall Poker Classic. I'm too financially challenged to justify paying the tournament entry fees (which start at $200) though.

So instead I sat down at a $45 one-table satellite. The winner would get $300 in tournament buy-in chips and $50 cash. I was wearing a cowboy hat and a black t-shirt with the words "rock star" emblazoned across the front. I hadn't shaved in roughly a week. I looked like a real ass.

Things started off promising enough. I bought a few pots and mostly laid low. There was a 20-something dude in seat 10 who was betting aggressively and driving people out of pots. In seat six there was a grandmotherly type who seemed to be catching good cards and was piling up a pretty big stack of chips.

By the time it got down to five players I was sitting fairly decent, with the third biggest bankroll at the table. At this point, however, the woman running the show announced that they needed to clear out the tables for the impending tournament and that the blinds would begin going up every five minutes. This meant that within ten hands we were facing blinds big enough to put most players all in before the flop. You were basically forced to endanger your entire bankroll before seeing a card. It wasn't poker. It was blind luck.

I hit an A-2 off suit on my big blind and felt pretty good about that. But then I got two callers: 9-9 and A-Q. That was the end for me.

I was going to be smart and leave, but I still had $50 burning a hole in my pocket. So I sat down at the $2/4 stud table and ran that up to $120 in three hours. The old dudes at the stud table didn't know what to make of my moronic get-up. They were calling me cowboy. Yeehaw.