Is it the football yet?

We all know fully well that football is unique from other ventures, or arts. Yep, I consider football a part of the arts and those who perform to be artists - with a large heap of those clearly noted as being anything but artists (let's see, Kevin Davies, Robbie Savage, Gary Neville, John O' Shea, anyone on Spurs). And in my day-to-day life, I crave art. That's why I'm struggling at the moment ... no football.

See, I have this thing called a job. It's held me from the Champions League matches that I love so much (I'm a sucker for pageantry as well). Then I had to go and take a vacation, and I missed the club football at the weekend. That leaves me with the fading memories of that beautiful romp over Bolton from two weeks back. So I'm sitting here enjoying Jim's posts on the potential unfolding at Anfield, but I'm wringing my hands because I want to watch some football - for crying out loud!

I missed the Arsenal's calamity against Hull last weekend and I missed the stunning bounce back against Porto at mid-week. I can only read so many reviews, articles, opinion pieces and rumor pages to tide me over. And have I mentioned the obvious? That living in America leaves me with scant few options for recording a Champions League match to watch it later. Because of Jintao and his world domination marketing plans (I can only assume it's his fault), I'm faced with Manchester United (turn your head and spit) and Chelsea (retch) nearly every time ESPN2 sneaks out of Peter Kenyon's back pocket long enough to program a match. The swine.

Deep breath, though. Won't be long, will it? Kickoff is in what, 37 hours? Yes, that'll do. Sunderland in 37 hours. And I expect a delicately artistic display to follow. All I can cling to at the moment is that Nasri is fit, RVP has yet to hurt himself (that'll come soon though, another agonizing international break is around the corner) and seems to have a burgeoning understanding with Adebayor, Cesc is getting Cescy again, and still our central defense leaves me wobbly at the knees.

Whatever happens until then will be markedly unimportant, and undoubtedly carry only a fraction of my focus.