New Year’s Eve

It’s the last week of the winter holiday. I’m sick. Worse, my thoughts have been woeful. But thanks to Karin, it hasn’t been a woeful year.

I’m grateful, also, to the Ecuadorian soccer players for winning all four of their World Cup qualifiers. Here are their goals, set to stirring music.

More of the same music.

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My “best of 2015” prizes:

Best Movie. This year I saw only three new movies: Minions, Ex Machina, and Paddington. Each was good in its way. But the award goes to Minions. The Best Supporting Actress prize goes to Queen Elizabeth II, of Minions.

Best Song. I haven’t listened to very many new songs (let alone albums). But clearly the best song of the year was “Hotline Bling.”

Best Music Video. “Hotline Bling” – there were many excellent videos of this track, but this one was the best.

Best Philosophy Book. Tom Hurka’s British Ethical Theorists from Sidgwick to Ewing. Fascinating. Breathtaking. One hundred years of insular reasoning, distilled with Hurka-l-ean effort.

Best Fiction Book. I’ve not read anything from this year. I started reading Slade House, but what with my illness, I couldn’t hold myself up against the blast of David Mitchell’s authorial voice. Maybe when I feel better.

Ana & David never came up from Houston; Edoarda & Stephen are in Nicaragua; Martin & Mary are going to a New Year’s Eve party. I await my Sweetie for a peaceful evening on the couch.

Some gluttony

Mary was given a new used car. Our Uncle Stan brought it as near to us as Indianapolis, and so I went there to pick it up with Martin and his parents.

Close to the Grissom Air Reserve Base, we stopped at a roadside café. Martin’s parents bought us breakfast.

It’d be ungrateful of me not to describe this meal. I’m no food writer – but here goes.

It was the Babette’s Feast of breakfasts. It was an all-you-can-eat buffet. The biscuits. The bacon. The casserole. The sausage. All were made from old Amish recipes. I knew, from the first bites, that this would be one of the greatest breakfasts of my life.

Caveman dieters, Martin’s parents ate just a few fried eggs. But they enjoyed the other food vicariously, keenly watching Martin and me. Their eyes took in every detail. They listened closely as we described what we were eating.

It was the first day of our Christmas break.

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Yesterday, for most of the high school students, I photocopied crossword puzzles about Christmas (also, a few “Winter Wonderland” word-searches, for the heathen). Teacher after teacher came into my office and gave me money, cards, and sweets. Then, after school was over, Martin and I went to the staff members’ Christmas party. I ate hors d’oeuvres and watched the teachers drink a lot of beer.

In a relationship

“Come here, you fat thing,” Karin beckons.

The candor of this remark is lovely. I sit down next to her on the couch.

I put on an episode of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. It’s the one in which Mac is suddenly very fat. He eats chimichangas and injects himself with insulin.

Karin isn’t prepared for this. Nor is she prepared when Charlie vomits blood all over the limousine. But, on the whole, she isn’t too repulsed.

Later, she puts on Grimm – itself rather bloody, but more respectful of decorum.

R.I.P.

A difficult, computerless week – I killed my Chromebook with a glass of water. The new one should arrive tomorrow.

The return leg

On Sunday, we returned to Indiana. For lunch we stopped in hilly Hannibal, MO, at a Subway.

The after-church queue was too long. We pressed onward to a Wendy’s.

The Wendy’s was being remodelled. We retraced our steps to a KFC.

Edoarda ate mashed potatoes without any gravy. (She’s a vegetarian.) Suddenly, a crowd came in for the lunch buffet. Edoarda was a little startled. She’d never seen so many Missourians.

Martin also felt out of place. He noted that the people of Hannibal would likely go home to watch the Rams, not the Bears. (And not the Colts, either, remarked Edoarda.)

Mary was troubled by the country music. …

Stephen … I think he was mostly concerned about Edoarda.

Edoarda was doing just fine. She ate plenty of potatoes, and on the way out she picked up a brochure for tourism in Hannibal.

Leaving town, we took a wrong turn and drove around some of the hilly neighborhoods. Finally we made it onto the highway. We crossed the river into Illinois, and all at once everything was desolate and flat.

Around Joliet, my knee started hurting badly. My leg needed to be stretched out. Edoarda was sitting next to me, and so I asked her if I could stretch out my leg upon her lap. It was an indelicate request. Edoarda refused, and not just a little vehemently. Martin permitted me to rest my leg upon the center console.

And now we’re back in Mishawaka. The next order of business is to choose presents for our gift exchange.

Missouri

It was a painless ride to Missouri. Now we’re in our grandparents’ giant house, which they built for their visiting offspring. This house has bed-closets everywhere in it. I’ve not been assigned to a bed-closet, or to the basement; I’m in a proper bedroom. (This bedroom was reserved for Karin, but Karin couldn’t come with us, and so I was lifted up from “bed-closet” status.)

At breakfast, our grandpa went several times around the table, asking us where we were born. “Quito,” Mary told him. And so he stuck out his chin and said, “High class.”

He told us of his life as a missionary in the Oriente – clearing airstrips, building houses, trekking through the jungle. “But we had no beards,” he said to Martin.

For this visit, I have grown a mustache.

The quadrennial car ride

“Story of the Week” from Library of America.

Martin showed me that website. It combines two of my greatest interests: literature and PDFs.

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Thanksgiving upon us, we brace ourselves for a round trip to Kansas City. It involves two long car rides through featureless downstate Illinois. At least it should be a comfortable trip. We’re borrowing Martin’s parents’ SUV.

There is a Wendy’s that we like to stop at, outside of Hannibal. Or else we might go through St. Louis and Columbia, and gaze upon I-70’s “fine establishments.”

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What worries me is how to choose the music. Some years ago I rode with David, and we took turns selecting playlists. It came out well. This year the other passengers are Martin, Mary, Edoarda, and Stephen: too many different wills. No matter what’s chosen, someone is bound to be dissatisfied. (Worse, I doubt we’ll agree upon an equitable procedure for choosing.)

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I hope for cloudy weather, so as not to have to squint for hours.

In South Bend, today is the first day of noticeable snow.

The news

The Venezuelans haven’t started very brightly – much to their manager’s bewilderment. This week, he called up one roster for the game against Bolivia and a separate roster for the game against Ecuador, so as not to wear out a single roster by using it twice. Venezuela lost both games.

For Ecuador, it’s four wins out of four – the best beginning in our history. I saw only a few minutes of the latest victory. (I had to tutor.)

Some nice highlights, with tecnología.

Uruguay looked very solid, beating Chile. I expect the Uruguayans to keep up with our pace.

Colombia lost at home to Argentina.

Paraguay beat Bolivia.

Brazil beat Peru.

Gloating

This talk show is gratifying to watch. Stephen and I fondly recalled it last night, while we were observing the futility of Argentina and Brazil.

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The team that gained on everyone was Bolivia, due to their two-goal victory over Venezuela. But the team that leapt into first place was Ecuador.

Stephen was irked because the Uruguayans “were not dominated completely.”

Indeed, they blemished our defensive record. Edinson Cavani, slightly offside, headed in a goal.

I had to remind Stephen that the Uruguayans are always difficult to play against, because of their garra, and because of their counterattacking prowess.

Also, I noted, many of our best players were absent.

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But I preferred to focus on our achievements.

Our first goal was exquisite. It was crafted by three different players: el Zar, la Hormiga, and Felipao.

Later, even Fidel Martínez acquitted himself. He scored a tap-in.

See for yourselves.

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Except for Martínez’s goal, I didn’t view these events when they occurred. I was busy tutoring (alas). My final pupil, a middle-aged Moroccan, noticed that I was streaming a soccer game on my computer; and so her assignment took on a less urgent feel for her. We watched until the game ended. Then we finished going over her assignment, after I’d clocked out.

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Perhaps my tone in writing about Ecuador has sounded more and more cocky since October 8, the day of the Argentina game. I’m sure it’s painful to listen to. I don’t mean to give offense.

But I understand now how the Argentinians and the Brazilians *used to* feel, during their periods of overwhelming excellence.

Thirty-four

No longer on the caveman diet, I regained 10 lbs.

Also, I turned thirty-four. For my birthday, I and a few others watched 24 Hour Party People. Now Martin goes around singing Joy Division songs (just the bass-lines). And the last two days, in the car, he’s asked me to play songs by the Happy Mondays.

What I’ve been listening to, over and over, is the first minute of this.

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World Cup qualifier, this p.m.: Ecuador vs. Uruguay, in Quito. Second-place vs. first-place. I’ll be in the tutoring office. Pray for my pupils to stay at home in bed, what with the gloomy weather, so that I can watch the game. And pray for Ecuador to win.

“Colombia” vs. “Columbia”

When I make copies for the high school teachers, I sometimes make extras for myself – copies of articles and of short stories; of intriguing or useful handouts; of assignment prompts; of diversions, such as this crossword puzzle.

I copied this puzzle because it was a FAIL.

(Click to enlarge.)

A cloudy autumn day

I’ve been doing research about Hawaii, in case I should ever find occasion to live there.

I think I will be avoiding Hawaii. …

The Ecuadorians have been progressing through the sub-diecisiete World Cup. Our latest victims, in the round of 16: the Russians.

This morning, I went for job training at the downtown office of the school corporation. How sad, I thought, that I’d miss seeing the highschoolers dressed up for Halloween. … But the training ended early. I walked to the school to do a couple of hours’ work. It turned out, few of the kids were in costume; but one of the teachers did look like Bo Peep (correction: like Dorothy, from The Wizard of Oz). … After school, I visited Mary at her job, and then I went to Karin’s apartment and visited Jasper, and he and I snuggled for a long time, until he got bored. I had planned to spend most of the day downtown, buying books, but this was a good thing to do instead.

The Orc movie

I bought some donuts to eat at school.

When I opened the box, one of them seemed to have been nibbled on by a mouse. Mary Mouse.

Right now, Mary is watching The Two Towers (which has Miranda Otto, one of my favorite actresses from Australia). … There are subtitles, because Aragorn and Legolas are speaking in Elvish to one another. … The Elves have just arrived to help to defend at Helm’s Deep. … Soon, I hope, the Ents will decide to lend a limb.

Mary knows all the behind-the-scenes lore. “That’s Peter Jackson,” she remarks of a scraggly-looking extra. She thinks it’s funny to see the Elves marching in rows: the actors were teen-aged boys, and it took an eternity for the directors to get them to behave.

The puddle game

The Bolivians wore red, not green.

We Ecuadorians struggled mightily. Puddles obstructed us. Puddles defended against us more effectively than the Bolivians did. Like this:

How sad, I thought, that we’d fail to win at home, because of the puddles.

At halftime, the rain slowed and the groundskeepers did something to the grass and the puddles mostly vanished. And so we had forty-five “proper” minutes during which to construct a victory.

Despite our dominance, the situation seemed grim. At last, Juan Cazares and Miller Bolaños created a goal out of a lovely, long-distance wall pass (which, earlier, would have been obstructed by the puddles).

We also converted a penalty at the end.

Some highlights.

A victory

Messi didn’t play. The rest of Argentina barely showed up. I don’t mean the team; I mean the country. How empty the stadium looked!

The other big names were on the field. At the beginning I was a little worried about el Fideo Di María, but after the first few minutes, he hardly touched the ball. We defended high up on Argentina’s half, all game long. It was as if we were the home team.

Special credit to Christian Noboa and Pedro Quiñónez – and, later, Segundo Castillo – our defensive midfielders. Antonio Valencia made some freakish runs, one of which you’ll see below.

Ecuadorians in Buenos Aires.

A clearer view of the goals.

In Ecuador: a news anchor with one eye on the game.

I wonder if the Argentinians will keep their #1 world ranking.

My various loves

Karin had her birthday last weekend. I bought her some chrysanthemums. Turns out, they’re mildly toxic to cats; since Jasper eats everything, I decided to keep them next to my own kitchen sink (Bianca is terrified of the sink).

We had plans for tonight, but I had to cancel them.

Pray for Ecuador to win. And pray for me: I’m not ready, emotionally, for this newest World Cup. I’m still reeling from the defeat to Switzerland.

At least I have it better than Martin. He’s a nervous wreck because the U.S. must play against Mexico to qualify for the Confederations Cup. That, to me, seems not worth worrying about.

Originality

From Iona & Peter Opie, The Lore and Language of Schoolchildren:

The children themselves often have a touching faith in the novelty of their oral acquisitions. Of the rhyme, 

House to let, apply within / Lady turned out for drinking gin,

which we have collected from twenty-four places in the British Isles, also from South Africa, Australia, and the United States, and which was recorded as traditional in 1892 (G.F. Northall, English Folk-Rhymes, p. 306) an Alton girl remarked: ‘Here’s one you won’t know because it’s only just made up.’ Of the couplet, 

Mrs. Mason broke a basin / How much did it cost? 

lines which are the recollection of a counting-out formula recorded in 1883 (G.F. Jackson, Shropshire Folk-lore, p. 573), a Birmingham child vouched the newness because it was ‘named after a teacher’s wife’. Children are, in fact, prone to claim the authorship of a verse when they have done no more than alter a word in it, for instance substitute a familiar name for a name unknown to them; and they tend to be passionately loyal to the presumed genius of a classmate, or of a child who has just left their school, who is credited with the invention of each newly heard composition. The unromantic truth, however, is that children do not ‘go on inventing games out of their heads all the time’, as Norman Douglas believed; for the type of person who is a preserver is rarely also creative, and the street child is every bit as conservative as was George VI with his lifelong preference for the hymns he sang in the choir at Dartmouth. The nearest the normal child gets to creativeness is when he stumbles on a rhyme, as we have overheard: an 8-year-old, playing in some mud, suddenly chanted ‘Stuck in the muck, stuck in the muck’, whereupon his playmates took up the refrain, ‘Stuck in the muck, stuck in the muck’. A 10-year-old added:

It’s a duck, it’s a duck, / Stuck in the muck, stuck in the muck,

and the group echoed this too, and went on chanting it, spasmodically, with apparent satisfaction, for above an hour, so that it seemed certain that we were in at the birth of a new oral rhyme. But when we asked them about it a week later they did not know what we were talking about. The fact is that even a nonsense verse must have some art and rhythm in it if it is to obtain a hold on a child’s mind, although exactly what the quality is which gives some verses immortality is difficult to discover.

Mr. Quiring

A note about Mr. Quiring, one of my high school teachers: a gracious, inspiring human being.

More quixoticism

So … my dissertation is coming along. I aim to complete it this spring. (Have I said this yet?)

I might apply to do another graduate degree, in history. MA to start out with; PhD if I really enjoy it. The topic: Latin American constitutions. My goal is to pile up so much knowledge as to become un-unhirable.

My emotions aren’t as frenzied as they were eleven years ago, when I was applying to philosophy PhD programs; still, I’m preparing as diligently as I can, reading books about Latin American legal history. This time I’ll have a better idea of the demands.

I’ve been writing to various historians, gauging their enthusiasm for me. Most of them haven’t replied. I did get a nice email from somebody at the University of New Mexico. I have fond memories of New Mexico, of the day I was in Albuquerque. Everything there was the color of dirt, except for the railings on the interstate, which were salmon-colored. I really did like it in New Mexico.

Karin: “New Mexico sounds lovely.”

JP: “New Mexico is the color of dirt.”

We look at the photos on Wikipedia.

Karin: “Ooooh, New Mexico really is the color of dirt.”

I wrote to somebody at the University of British Columbia, what with my fond memories of Vancouver. That historian hasn’t replied.

My sense is that most U.S. and Canadian Latin Americanists don’t spend a lot of time analyzing constitutions. (They might read old criminal cases, or whatever.) My pie-in-the-sky historian’s dream would be to edit something worthy of being included among the Cambridge Texts in the History of Political Thought. There are entries in that series by Gottfried Leibniz, by the Radical Reformers, by Walter Bagehot. Why is there nothing from my own continent? Latin Americans have said interesting things about race, about citizenship, about state-building.

What’s more, they’ve actually tried out lots of governments.

Why I am not a hipster

Toronto and the dead raccoon.

I understand a part of this. After all, my family did honor a dead mouse.

On the other hand … I really don’t think this is very nice.

More salt mines

I’m working at IUSB. No one is coming in to be tutored. I hope it stays that way.

Between work shifts, I’ve been going over to Karin’s apartment to play with Jasper, the adorable cat.

Jasper and I have an understanding.

Oh, snap, someone just came in to be tutored.

I tutored him. It took ten minutes. I did a good job.

(The “Bravo!” is for the client, not for me. I’m the midwife, helping the client to give birth to his paper.)

Now, time to dissertate.

The salt mines, pt. 841

Back at the high school: making copies, moving heavy textbooks. For this I receive, daily, a heap of praise. At home, I dredge the Internet for PDFs of other people’s dissertations. I read their acknowledgements, abstracts, and introductions; and if I decide, “I’m doing better than this poor sap,” I write for a couple of hours. Then I watch Law and Order: Special Victims Unit (Karin is present for some of this). Then I go to bed. This is the routine I foresee for the next nine months – along with tutoring, which I’m on holiday from, one more week.

I go to the school at six-something each morning, with Martin. Mary has retired from teaching. She got a job at a nice little public library. Next week she will go back to college to become a nurse.

“An earthquake will destroy a sizable portion of the Pacific Northwest. The question is when.”

A modest ambition

Side-project: a paper on “atomism” in political theory, though the heyday of that discussion was in the 1980s.

Turns out, the Canadian philosopher Charles Taylor was born exactly 50 years before I was, on November 5, 1931. His own “atomism” paper was first published in 1979. If, by 2029, I publish something of that caliber, or calibre, my ambition will be fulfilled.

(I have no ambition to write anything comparable to Sources of the Self.)

More and more weddings

The raccoon went away during the night.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

David is in town for E&S’s wedding.

David: “I just passed my comprehensive exam. Now, all I have to do is write the dissertation.”

JP: “I just wrote a section of my dissertation. The section contains some nudity. I ask the reader to consider a thought-experiment about the world’s most famous clothing-optional swimming pool.”

David: “Um.”

JP: “I’m a character in the thought experiment. It goes like this.”

David (pretending to quote me): “‘Imagine me, nude …’”

JP: “No, no. I am not nude. But I am exposed to people who are nude.”

David (pretending to be a member of my thesis committee): “‘Your degree is withheld.’”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

JP: “What book is that?”

David: “Ian McEwan.”

JP: “Which Ian McEwan?”

David: “The newest one, The Children Act.”

Martin: “Is he the writer of Atonement?”

David: “Yes.”

JP: “He’s also the writer of A Horrible Wedding Night at the Beach.”

(David chuckles.)

Martin: “Is that what it’s called?”

JP: “It’s called On Chesil Beach. But I call it A Horrible Wedding Night at the Beach.”

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Martin & Mary just got back from Florida, where Martin’s brother and Martin’s brother’s wife had a “destination wedding” on the beach. I stayed home and took care of Bianca. In homage to M&M, I bought Finding Florida, one of those liberal, revisionist histories about how awful the United States is. The prose is mighty good. The content is less than charitable (and, I gather, somewhat untruthful). I highly recommend it.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

E&S’s wedding is tomorrow.

Some houseguests

Today, my dad will arrive for Edoarda’s & Stephen’s second, larger wedding (August 8).

Edoarda’s family has been trickling into the town. We’ve been finding hosts for them.

Also, my mom got here last weekend.

On Monday morning, after I got out of bed, I went to her room. (I knew she’d already be awake.)

“Good morning, Mother.”

She was thrashing around a bit, under the covers. “Oh, I had such an awful dream!”

“What was it, Mother?”

“I went into the dining room and saw the dinosaur-rat. It was on the table. It was eating the food from people’s plates. It was drinking the baby’s milk.”

She was distressed. I was intrigued: the dinosaur-rat.

(Right now, there’s a frightened, young raccoon out in our yard. My mom and M&M are trying to shoo it away. We all feel badly, though; it’s very cute.)

Libro Nacho

Having visited Ecuador, Martin is eager to improve his Spanish. He uses a web app to study the language.

Some recurring phrases:

el oso bebe la cerveza
el gato contra el pingüino

I bought myself a libro Nacho and lent it to him. But no.

Copa de Oro

Europeans have the Euros; South Americans play in the Copa América; the nations of North and Central America and the Caribbean put on a farce called the Gold Cup.

In recent years, the tournament has always been hosted by the USA – the venue where the profits can be maximized – and, in effect, co-hosted by Mexico, whose fans fill the seats. The victories have gone to the U.S. or to Mexico. It’s in the interest of those countries to maintain the status quo, and to collude.

Well, last night, in Semifinal No. 1, the U.S. were upset by Jamaica. Martin was sad. I wasn’t.

In Semifinal No. 2, the Panamanians were outplaying Mexico – and they were winning, despite an early red card (much too soft, I thought).

Jamaica vs. Panama in the final. I was warming up to the idea (though I knew that the gaudy NFL stadium in Philadelphia wouldn’t sell out). Mexico and the U.S. hadn’t done squat all tournament. The Panamanians were actually a little bit interesting to watch. I mean: under pressure, they would bring the ball out with calm, short passes; that’s usually a sign of interestingness.

And then, in the dying seconds – for the second straight game – the Mexicans were gifted a bogus penalty kick by the referee.

The Panamanians were furious, of course. Their bench players charged the field, with my full sympathy (and I don’t often give out sympathy for that). Mark Geiger, the gringo referee, sheepishly refrained from punishing any of them. But the damage had been done; the call stood; the Mexicans had the opportunity to equalize the score.

What was most interesting, though, was the booth commentary, which was by Mexicans (e.g., Jorge Campos). All of them were outraged. Not like this, they kept on saying. Not with another bogus penalty, not for this sorry team. Mexico is undeserving.

Touchingly, they pleaded with Andrés Guardado to miss the penalty kick, on purpose. He didn’t miss it.

During the overtime, the Panamanians were tired. Mexico scored with another penalty kick; and I thought, “This might just be the worst game I’ve ever watched.” (This, after the dismal quarterfinal between Mexico and Costa Rica.)

In soccer, the gravest injustices are arranged “behind the scenes.” Still, I’m grateful when they’re this blatant so that even the purported beneficiaries can’t but be disgusted.

I hope this helps to make a better world.

En route to Aldi

“Mary, writing so much philosophy is distracting me from reading philosophy, which is distracting me from reading novels, which is distracting me from reading short stories.”

“Maybe it would help to distract you if I were to put on some more TV.”

¡PLOP!

July fragments

Martin & Mary were in Ecuador for three weeks. I took care of Bianca. She ate one of the houseplants.

On Friday, M&M came back. They brought a hammock (too small) and a new, woven tablecloth. Bianca likes the tablecloth very much.

Mary has been watching some new DVDs, e.g., Harry Potter and the Bucket of Bla. Martin has been growing his hair out.

During the three weeks M&M were gone, I followed a kind of caveman diet, eating mostly sweet potatoes. (I don’t know how many lbs. I’ve lost. I’m not supposed to weigh myself yet.) Every day, I would eat sweet potatoes and watch Law and Order: Special Victims Unit, and then I’d read and write a lot about political philosophy. And I’d watch the Copa América, which you already knew.

This last Sunday, I played soccer and gave seven assists. I scored one goal, but it was invalidated. I also wrecked one of my ankles, and so now, when I walk down the stairs, I have to lean against the wall.

Copa América: wrap-up

By now, I’m sure you know that Chile defeated Argentina in the final game.

The host nation seemed happy. The Argentinians seemed a bit miserable. Lionel Messi turned down his Best Player award. …

The male Sabby, Stephen, and Kenny (yes, Kenny) and I watched the first half at Martin’s & Mary’s house. Or, rather, bits of the first half; the internet was lousy. We watched the rest of the game at Stephen’s apartment, on his new flat-screen TV.

The Peruvians finished in third place. For the second straight Copa América, Paolo Guerrero was the top scorer (well, this time, the joint-top scorer). The Paraguayans finished fourth, with a goal differential of minus-six; last time, they were second, with minus-three. I went to Wikipedia and read about the Wars of the Triple Alliance and the Chaco.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

For Prof. Robby P.’s book club, we’re reading Shirley Jackson’s We Have Always Lived in the Castle. The meetings keep on being postponed.

Copa América: the quarterfinals

The male Sabby helped me to watch Brazil’s demise. … Robinho scored early, and then Brazil allowed Paraguay to attack for the rest of the game.

Paraguay drew level with a penalty kick. It was conceded lamely by Thiago Silva, one of Brazil’s best players.

“How miserable to be a member of this Brazil team,” said the announcers, who were from Peru. “How miserable to be Dunga.” This, while the score was 1 to 1.

Everton Riberio – late substitute, purported penalty specialist – brushed his penalty kick out of bounds. Douglas Costa also missed. The Paraguayans shot as accurately as they had to.

Yesterday, I watched a riveting game between Argentina and Colombia. (Karin helped me.) Though the Colombians were second-best, David Ospina gave Messi and Co. some difficulty, and his teammates also had their moments. When the Colombians lost their shootout, it was no disgrace. … Earlier in the week, Peru beat Bolivia (which the announcers won’t stop harping on about). Karin and the male Sabby stayed awhile afterwards. We watched the dancing girls on Peruvian TV.

Chile eliminated Uruguay. The defining moment was when the Chilean Gonzalo Jara touched Edinson Cavani on his bottom. The world has not finished condemning this heinous act. (The Chilean press already is at peace with it, according to the Peruvians.)

Copa América, pt. 3

The male Sabby came over and helped me to watch two other games.

Colombia vs. Peru

Hats off to the Colombians for playing three thrilling matches. But the zero-zero draw favored the Peruvians. This result sets up a quarterfinal between Colombia and Argentina.

Brazil vs. Venezuela

For about an hour, the Brazilians were respectable. They built a two-goal lead. Then Dunga, their coach, replaced three attackers with three defenders and allowed the Venezuelans to claw back into contention. Brazil won anyway.

Neymar was absent.

His substitute, Robinho – twerpiest of the Ros (though not as twerpy as Neymar) – was downright refreshing to watch.

Neymar Jr.

With some dignity, our women lost – narrowly – against the Japanese.

Our men also lost, against Bolivia. But at least we’re not from Brazil. The best Brazilian, Neymar, is a twerp. Brazil is now a nation of twerps. During the Copa América, Neymar has been carded for these offenses: Against Peru: clearing away the freekick foam.

Against Colombia: scoring with his hand (or trying to) and brawling, petulantly, post-match. I grew up watching the likes of Romário, Ronaldo, Rivaldo, and Ronaldinho. But now it’s Neymar. Brazil, what happened?

Optimism

For the first time, our women’s soccer team is playing in the World Cup.

Cameroon defeated us 6 to 0 in our debut. And last night, Switzerland defeated us 10 to 1. Our defending hasn’t been very good. We’ve conceded four penalties and two own-goals.

Our lone goalscorer converted a penalty (for us), as well as both own-goals (for the Swiss).

These are growing pains.

Our men also have experienced these pains. For example, in 1942, we lost 12 to 0 to Argentina.

On Thursday, in Chile, our men debuted in this year’s Copa América, losing 2 to 0 to the hosts. It wasn’t a bad result for us. Our next two games are very winnable.

Our women’s next game is against the Japanese, the world champions.

The gringos vs. FIFA

Old news: in Switzerland, the U.S. government has caused a dozen or so of FIFA’s bigwigs to be arrested.

No doubt these bigwigs are guilty of corruption. No doubt they’ve violated international law – or, under U.S. jurisdiction, U.S. law. I don’t know the details … but I’m sure the gringos can legally justify the arrests.

According to the Russians, this is just “another case of illegal extra-territorial implementation of American law.”

But I don’t think it is illegal. Or I’ll assume it isn’t, for discussion’s sake.

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Nor will it matter to what I’m going to say that the arrests are being done in a vindictive spirit.

What if the U.S., and not Qatar, had been awarded the 2022 World Cup hosting rights? Would the gringos have pursued the bigwigs? I doubt it.

But I won’t dwell on this.

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What interests me is how FIFA’s members will react to the arrests, and what all of this means for international tournaments.

FIFA’s members, the national soccer bodies, determine how FIFA is governed; and up until now, what they’ve done is to insist on FIFA’s (and their own) autonomy from sovereign states. No national soccer body is permitted by FIFA to be housed by an interfering state. A national soccer body is punished by FIFA if the state which houses it does not refrain from meddling in its affairs (and in those of the soccer bodies of other nations).

This is to preserve the integrity and voluntariness of the sport. FIFA wishes to arrange neither gladiatorial contests between slaves, nor “champion” warfare between nations.

Punishment takes the form of simple banning. FIFA isn’t going to confront anybody with planes and tanks, but it may disallow teams from playing in tournaments.

There are lighter bans, too.

For example, in 1993, the Aussie government refused to allow Diego Maradona to play against Australia in a World Cup qualifier. (Aussie law blocked convicted drug offenders from entering the country.) FIFA judged that this was an unwelcome political intrusion upon the sport, and threatened to move Australia’s home game to a neutral site. The Aussie government relented. Maradona was allowed to play.

Notice: the Aussie government could have permitted its soccer federation to receive punishment. Or, in protest, it could have withdrawn the Socceroos from the World Cup. It did neither of those things. It chose to refrain from enforcing the law of the state.

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Faced with lawbreaking, the U.S. government also could have chosen this option. But instead it has chosen to prosecute FIFA’s elected officials.

Let me stress that in the present case, the gringos aren’t just reacting to a crime. In effect, they’re enforcing their own idea of how FIFA should be governed, not minding that these officials were elected, wisely or foolishly, by FIFA’s other members.

Now usually when the U.S. government behaves like this, there is little that the opposition can do. But this time the opposition has a good deal of clout. The national soccer bodies have the power to impose some kind of ban against the U.S. Soccer Federation.

Will they do it? My guess is, no. Should they do it? Well, yes, if they want to preserve their autonomy from the states.

This is the situation. X, Y, and Z have long been coming together to hold a sporting contest – jointly deciding how to hold it. Those who won’t cooperate simply are left out. But now the godfather of one of the contestants is insisting, coercively, that the contest not be held in a certain way.

Suppose X, Y, and Z acquiesce. Whose contest is it, then? Is it still theirs? One thing, for sure: it’s the godfather’s. The participants, X, Y, and Z, are no longer making the decisions of this joint activity all on their own.

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Do the various national soccer bodies really want the gringos to have de facto veto power over them?

My guess is, they’ll put up with it, because the U.S. has a lot of political and cultural influence – as well as a lot of money, some of which will trickle down.

In effect, the soccer bodies will be selling out, again … and then again … and as long as they continue to allow the U.S. to have de facto veto power. And by selling out to this (de facto) administrator, they’ll be privileging one participant over the others; and not just for one tournament (as Qatar is being privileged for 2022) – or even for a handful of tournaments – but indefinitely.

If the soccer bodies set out to contain corruption on their own, they’ll at least be able to do it with some fairness. The sporting benefits of corruption will be spread out more or less evenly around the world. Contestants like Qatar will have fifteen minutes of glory, and that’s all.

But if the gringos have veto power over the governance of FIFA, the sporting benefits will skew towards them. I couldn’t specify the mechanism. But we all know how it’ll turn out.

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For the sake of sport, then, I think that what the gringos are doing is bad, and that FIFA will be shirking its sporting duty if it doesn’t punish them. This isn’t yet an argument about morality (though one may try to draw further moral lessons from it). Morally, is U.S. hegemony in global affairs a bad or a good thing? I know what I think about that, but I don’t have the time to discuss it here. It’s taken long enough for me just to hint at how tacky it is that the U.S. should dictate sporting justice. Moral justice is yet another problem.

Disaster

Well, during the hours I was at work, the floor of Mary’s & Martin’s basement endured another flood. M&M don’t know it yet. I won’t tell them until after they get home. Let them have a few more moments of bliss.

Karin – professional librarian, expert book-dryer – rescued some of my books.

Bianca has been staying the hell out of the basement.

We all thought the flooding problem had been fixed. Alas, no.

The Remains of the Day is unfolding nicely. I’d never read it. I’d watched the movie umpteen times, but the movie doesn’t include Stevens’s long, philosophical reflections on dignity and greatness. Stevens is lovable, not least because he puts so much consideration into his butlering.

The remains of the May

A Texan whose birth was in Arlington
Read all about Stevens of Darlington.
The Remains of the Day
Was the name of the play
She perused on her Kindle, in Arlington.

I wrote this because I wished to test whether it would be easier to write a limerick or to write my dissertation. The limerick was much easier to write. One can put any nonsense into a limerick. (I am now testing whether it is easier to write a blog entry, or my dissertation.)

The Remains of the Day is my choice for Prof. Robby P.’s book club, which I’ve intermittently attended since 2004. Joel, my old schoolmate, has been going to the meetings, and so have Prof. Cristian (the Romaniac) and Prof. Uncle Tim. (Come to think of it, Joel may also be a “Prof.”; I’m not sure what his title is.) Morgan, Robby’s frisky black Lab, died some time ago, but he has been succeeded by two frisky, young, black Labs who jump all over everybody like Morgan used to. The other attendees are young women who recently studied at Bethel College.

This morning I read The Remains of the Day instead of going to church. Martin & Mary and I all took the day off from church. We have really been dragging our feet at the end of this school term.

On the couch

Long ago, a young, pretty girl was strolling through the forest. She was an oblivious sort of girl. She had lost track of the time; worse, she had lost the track, and did not know where she was. She was starting to feel hungry. She looked up to the sky for guidance; but the foliage was dense, and she could not see beyond it. 

Oh-so-hungry she saw, in a clearing, a little house with a thread of smoke curling up from its stony chimney. She tiptoed toward the house. She looked in through the window. The table was set for breakfast — but there were no breakfasters. The young girl made furtive glances through the window until she decided that truly no one was inside the house. It might be an enchanted house, she thought; perhaps that was why the food appeared so fresh. She climbed in through the window. 

On the table were three bowls of porridge: one large bowl, one medium-sized bowl, and a small one. There was no cutlery, but the girl had brought a spoon from Taco Bell …

(Karin chuckles.)

She tasted the porridge in the large bowl, but it was too hot. She then tasted the porridge in the medium-sized bowl. It was too cold. But the porridge in the small bowl was just the right temperature. The girl began to eat it. 

Little did she know, the house belonged to a family of three naked mole-rats …

(This, Karin can’t handle. She laughs and laughs and buries her face in my chest.)

The mole-rats had gone out for a stroll in the forest. Which was unusual …

(Somehow, this is even funnier. Karin laughs and laughs.)

The story peters out. I can’t remember what Goldilocks or the bears or the mole-rats are supposed to have done. “Let’s write a novel,” I say to Karin. “Let’s take turns writing the chapters.” She declines.

Another wedding

Yesterday, Stephen carried off one of my bookshelves, because it belonged to him. He took it to his new apartment. He’s living with Edoarda, who is his wife. (In a sense, though, they’re both continuing to live with M&M, because they keep on coming back to M&M’s house to watch TV.)

Edoarda & Stephen married each other last week, in a small ceremony. They’ll marry each other again in August.

I spoke about it, on the phone, to David. David told me that he intends to stop using parentheses in his prose.

More fragments of April

Another month feebly chronicled. The epistle demanded my full attention.

I did send it in, last Thursday. That night, the Chairman of the Board replied that he would forward it to his fellow Trustees. His tone was friendly. He thought I was my uncle (a rather well-known figure at the College). I told him I was glad my letter would be read.

For some days afterward, I worried whether I’d chosen the proper font, but then I decided that I had.

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What with the springtime, the lawn is longer. It’s grown especially long over the spot where, last fall, we buried the mouse.

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One more day to finish this year’s book-reading. I’ve given up. (Next year, I’ll do better.) Lately, I’ve been reading essays about political libertarianism and conservatism. Here are belief-systems which depend on the most incredible historic claims. How to make these systems plausible? This challenge frightens off all but the boldest thinkers. I understand now why so many lifelong atheists study religion sympathetically, and why some of them convert.

A strange syllabus

One of my IU tutees brought in this syllabus.

Course title:  

• Typography I.

Objectives: 

• To develop an understanding of color theory, color relationships, and color terminology. [Uh, what.]
• To develop hand and eye skills and technique for mixing and applying paint.

Texts and Materials: 

• Color: A Workshop Approach by David Hornung.

Assignments: 

• Various exercises on color theory and relationships.
• Interpret an image using different color harmony schemes. [WTF.] 

Term Paper: 

• Write a 10 page paper on a graphic designer/type designer of your choice. [Finally. No more of this “color” nonsense.]

[Etc., etc.]

I looked up “typography” in the dictionary and on Wikipedia to make sure I wasn’t going insane.

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Last week I was able to stay home in the mornings and work on my epistle, “Toleration at Bethel College.” About 50% of it is written. It’s time to crank up the speed. The trustees will vote on April 23.

April fragments

Alack/alas, only two entries for the month of March.

Also, I’m behind on my reading. My goal each year is to finish twenty-four books from May to April; this year, despite a rapid start, I’m stuck at twelve. As in most years, I’ll resort to reading Young Adult novels and a few very short, weightier works, e.g., A Psychological Study of Typography by Sir Cyril Ludowic Burt (Cambridge Univ. Press, 1959; xix + 57 pp) (requested from a storehouse at IU Bloomington).

That book helped me to decide that Plantin is my favorite font. I’ll use Plantin in my letter to the trustees of Bethel College.

That letter is now a tome.

My spring break at IUSB was two weeks ago. My spring break at the high school will begin on Friday.

The activist

I’m writing a letter to the president and trustees of my old college, trying to persuade them not to fire teachers for refusing to teach (or to believe?) that the Bible contradicts the theory of evolution.

[*Sigh*]

This is my first time doing philosophy and social activism together. It isn’t easy. I’m not permitting myself to indulge these habits:

• quoting (except from the Bible and the “Position Papers” of the denomination);
• qualifying nearly every statement (my poor readers would never get through the whole epistle);
• worrying about the font.

I wasn’t fine-tuned to be an activist.

If any of you fellow alumni are interested in this cause, let me know, and I’ll tell you some more details.

One surprise: my sympathy is growing for the anti-evolutionists. I think they may have a case. I mean, I still think they shouldn’t fire people, but I also think the anti-anti-evolutionsists owe them a concession. (Another reason I’m a lousy activist.)

Brianna

With Karin, I’m going through that stage of romance which is very visible, very ostentatious. Most people are putting up with it. But not Brianna, Karin’s little sister, who is writing thinly-veiled protest literature.

Here is some of that literature. (“Potato” is Karin’s cat, Jasper — nearly as good a cat as Bianca.)

Once there were two girls. They were nine years apart. There was a Little One and a Big One. They were not in fact twins. Little One was at home. Big One owned a Potato. Big One was at home, too. But one day, a big, mean Soccer Ball — and his family and friend [the male Sabby] — stole Big One’s love away. Little One and Potato were sad. Potato mewed, but Big One did not comprehend; she was too busy getting her love stolen away by Soccer Ball, his family, and his friend. Big One left to go see said people. Little One and Potato were sad. Big One came back home later. Little One and Potato were okay but sad. Big One said she had seen the way of errors, and she would never let a Soccer Ball, family, or friend steal her love again. 

The end. 

Similarities to real people, places, and settings are purely coincidental.

Brianna was my friend before Karin was: we used to babysit the church children together. She deserves much credit for my recent happiness. Also, she’s adorable.

P.S. Greetings to my other friend, the female Sabby, on holiday in Guatemala.

My two jobs

My job at the high school:

Today I was notorious. I was summoned publicly — via intercom — to the principal’s secretary’s office; but as it turned out, I wasn’t the culprit she was after.

I’m becoming too efficient for this job.

I complete most of my tasks by Third Period, and then I try to kill off two more hours. This morning I spent a good deal of time looking for spare change so that I could buy a sandwich. (The students were selling Chick-fil-A sandwiches in the cafeteria.) I did find enough change. My sandwich was soggy but delicious.

My tutoring job:

I’m clocked in right now.

There’s no one here for me to tutor. I’m killing time, blogging this.

How these jobs look to other people:

When my girlfriend’s mom interrogated me on Valentine’s Day, she said, “I hope you’re aware of certain things about your life that you need to fix.”

“I am,” I said.

“What do you think those things are?”

“Well,” I said, “I was hoping you’d tell me what you think those things are.”

“Well,” she said, “I was hoping you’d tell me, so I could be sure of your awareness.”

Then I was quiet, because of course there are many things I’m aware I need to fix, but I didn’t know which things she had in mind for me to fix. And so she told me them. What she had in mind was my employment. I needed more of it.

Probably, some of you are thinking, “Hurray for Karin’s mom.”

News

Snowed In until this afternoon all day. I write blog posts on days we’re Snowed In because, other days, I’m too tired.

New gf: Karin, my church friend. Monday was our one-week anniversary. I spent Valentine’s at her mother’s house so that I could be interrogated.

This is my first gf since 2008, when Xavi was in his prime.

Pepys, pt. 2

No longer feeling sick, but still coughing up phlegm.

My Kindle ed. of Pepys’s Diary is unwieldy. Footnotes interrupt the text (and then go on for pages). Thus I’m retreating to The Shorter Pepys — 1025 pp. of continuous, but heavily abridged, diarying. My initial plan was to read one entry per day, reaching the Diary’s end in one decade (more or less). I’d also keep a diary of my reading of Pepys’s Diary. I’d publish that diary on this blog.

Last night, though, as I lay in bed, I briskly read five or six diary entries because they were so absorbing and concise. Pepys eats hearty meals. He hears pedantic sermons. For hours and hours, he plays card games.

Entertaining though this is, I don’t think I’ll be describing much of it.

I, Claudius, pt. 3

Using Mucinex. Sick since Wednesday. On Thursday, as the temperature was climbing into the forties, Martin and I enjoyed an unexpected snow day. I slept all morning, on the couch.

Tomorrow it will be truly cold, and I expect to be Snowed In again.

Shoppers have been crowding the grocery stores, buying food for this snowstorm and for tonight’s Super Bowl parties. (Ah, yes, the Super Bowl. My policy is to boycott football, but I’ll watch this game.)

Edoarda wants to read I, Claudius — Stephen and I have persuaded her. Our enthusiasm for the book is undiminished, though we haven’t read much more of it. Last night I did get through two other chapters. There were a few more poisonings, and some suicides and banishments (for variety). But not everything was awful. There was a lovely account of little Claudius’s education (in particular, of his earliest forays into historiography). Claudius’s tutors were shrewdly described.

My first Kindle purchase, for my smartphone: Diary of Samuel Pepys — Complete ($0.00). Let’s see how much I read of that book.