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.

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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.

Bad TV

So exhausting was our encounter with the mouse, I needed a two-week rest from blogging.

My parents have returned to Ecuador.

Ana & David have returned to Texas.

My old flatmate, Kenny, and his wife, Lara, have moved to California.

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This will be my second year living in Mary’s & Martin’s house. I resolve (a) to do more cleaning up out of love for Martin, and (b) to uncomplainingly watch more bad TV out of love for Mary, who needs to have bad TV playing as background noise while she grades her students’ homework. (Good TV distracts her too much.) She watches such dreck as Dawson’s Creek; Kitchen Nightmares; 16 and Pregnant; and Call the Midwife, which has a birth scene in each episode. Her best show by far is Downton Abbey; alas, I’ve viewed most of that show six or seven times, and I’m not sure I could endure much more of it. (All right, I could.) … To my surprise, I’m not minding slogging through Beverly Hills 90210. I forgive its characters for being so self-important, because they’re so naïve.

The fatties

Last night we watched the final game of the Copa Libertadores. Pope Francis’s team, San Lorenzo de Almagro, defeated Club Nacional of Asunción. It was the first Copa Libertadores title for San Lorenzo.

The winning goal was by one of my favorite players in the world, Néstor “The Fatty” Ortigoza, of whom I wrote in 2012.

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David’s bachelor party will occur this evening. We’ll have sushi at a restaurant; but first, for two hours, we’ll play soccer at our church, on cement. It’s been four years since I last played on cement.

Saturday will be David’s wedding-day.

The groomsmen have been asked to wear the same suits that were worn last year for Kenny’s wedding. I’m too fat to wear the same pants, so I’ll wear those that David wore last year. He’ll wear an even larger pair of pants.

The groomsman

And so Kenny & Lara were married. The previous night, the groom and his men slept in a fancy rented house; it made me happy because for the second time this year I was able to sleep in a bed. Around 2:00am I was awakened when the other groomsmen brought in Kenny and put him into bed with me. (But why did Kenny need to be helped into the bed?) … Anyway, for one last time, I was his roommate.

The thing about being a groomsman is, there’s a lot of waiting around. I read some Murakami (1Q84). The thing about being a single groomsman, I discovered, is that people subtly (or not subtly) put pressure on you to hit on the bridesmaids. So it must’ve been disappointing when I didn’t do that. Forgive me, bridesmaids.

Another who felt this pressure was one of the ushers, recently returned from Afghanistan. Near the end I found him outside, drinking beers. He poured out his heart to me: “I’m twenty-six years old and I can’t talk to a woman.” I felt sorry for him.

In a way, he was the hero of the wedding: earlier he’d been escorting guests, walking with them from the parking lot, holding an umbrella over them while he was getting soaked by the rain.

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The best dancers were Kenny’s little sisters & brothers, including the children. I mean that.

I posed for many silly photos. I expect to be embarrassed when they’re leaked out.

I caught Lara’s garter.

June fragments

This is what’s been happening in June:

My mom has been visiting from Ecuador. A couple of hours ago she boarded a train to go to Kansas City. Who knows whether she’ll arrive there; she called to say that the train was moving at 15 m.p.h. and she was worried about missing her connection in Chicago.

Ooh, she just texted to say that she’s in LaPorte (one county away from South Bend). Go, Mom, go!

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At the church, it’s Kids’ Week. I’ve volunteered to help lead the second-graders. I try not to breathe on them. I’ve been sick.

On Monday I especially enjoyed the fierce game of noodle ball (similar to field hockey; the sticks are polyethylene foam noodles — you know, what you’d play with in a swimming pool). And I enjoyed making and eating the snack. The kids also enjoyed those things.

On Tuesday I didn’t participate because I was coughing a lot. Today I’m trying to be well enough to participate. I bought a cough suppressant.

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Other weeks, I’ve been in the church nursery watching the babies and toddlers so that their mothers can attend a prayer meeting.

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On Sunday afternoons I’ve been playing soccer at Clay Township Park. The fields there are terrible — sloped; potholed; with long grass. Still, I’ve made a few golazos.

I bought a lovely soccer ball, but it got kicked out of bounds and then a car ran over it. The car was going in the wrong direction on a one-way street.

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This coming Sunday, I’ll be a groomsman in the wedding of Kenny & Lara.

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And then there’s work, of course, but I don’t have anything to say about that.

A plea for candor

Lovely weather; more time out of doors. I’m getting a farmer’s tan. So is Kenny.

K: “Lara says that a farmer’s tan is the most disgusting feature of the human body.”

JP (rolling eyes, rolling up sleeves): “Then I’m going to accentuate my farmer’s tan.”

We devise a scheme for improving our farmer’s tans: using a tanning bed to darken just our forearms and faces.

Then Lara comes into the apartment and tells Kenny how to dress. (Today they’ll be posing for “engagement” photos.) Goodbye, Kenny.

Not that I’d mind if a pretty young woman, say, Jennifer Lawrence from Silver Linings Playbook, came into my life and told me what to do. And I’d probably do most of it … though first I’d have fun arguing about it.

What I think people enjoy about the movie (what I enjoy about it) is that neither of the leads has a filter. They both specialize in saying uncomfortable truths. Oh, their honesty isn’t perfect: they strategically withhold stuff, and they tell lies. But their candor is exceptional. They don’t shy away from difficult subjects: they chase after them. They ask and say things that most viewers wish they themselves were brave enough to ask and to say. And they accept this about each other. And that is so, so rare. That’s what makes the movie a fairly tale.

People, this doesn’t have to be a fairy tale.

Be candid. Be accepting of candor.

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Lately I’ve been so worn out, I haven’t been able to take advice. … Criticism, I can bear. Advice, if it isn’t faultless (and usually it’s awful) leaves me anxious and annoyed. It keeps me awake at night. It drains me.

So don’t be all that candid. Or don’t be candid in a way that presupposes that you’ve figured everything out. Because you haven’t.

April fragments

The best free Bembo clone I’ve found.

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What with recent rain, it seemed appropriate to watch The Ghost Writer. Much parodying: “Hatherton” is a parody of Halliburton; Pierce Brosnan is a parody of Tony Blair, of Ronald Reagan, of Bill Clinton, of George W. Bush, etc., etc.; Tom Wilkinson is a parody of Tom Wilkinson in Michael Clayton. There are jokes about Roman Polanski’s other movies and personal life. … But as I was saying, I watched The Ghost Writer because of the weather. The actors were always coming out of a downpour or enduring a drizzle, which made me feel cozy.

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Kenny’s gf Lara has moved to Indiana to be with him. They’ll be married at the end of June. Last night we went to the mall to try on dress shoes, and then on Lara’s lark we went into J Crew. For the first time ever, I felt ashamed to be underdressed. Note to self: avoid J Crew.

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Pickup soccer has been resumed, thank goodness.

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Speaking of being picked up, last week, at the bus station, I was standing on the patch of grass with the cigarette butts, minding my own business, when a black SUV with tinted windows crept up. The driver lowered his window; I stared (bad habit). The driver (middle-aged) said: “Want a ride?” I said: “No.” He drove away. At first I was like, doesn’t he realize I’m waiting for the bus? Then I was like, whoa.

February fragments

Last week I was sick. This week I feel better, but I’m still blowing my nose a lot. We’re out of tissues and I’ve switched to napkins (which, oddly, I prefer). I’ve gone running just twice — barely enough to keep limber. With sickness comes sadness, and sadness weakens my resolve to trudge through snow.

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At IUSB I tutored a professor. (He was from China; he needed help writing in English.) He was submitting an article for publication. The draft had been typeset with LaTeX, which made me nostalgic for graduate school.

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I’m conflicted about Libre Baskerville. On the one hand, well, it’s a Baskerville (or a Baskerville clone), and it has boldface and italics, and it’s free. I printed out a sample and it looked OK. I liked the tall x-height. On the other hand, I’m pretty sure the font was designed for webpages, not for print, and I don’t wish to be caught printing out the wrong kind of font.

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With Kenny I’ve been achieving domestic bliss: we’ve just finished watching Season 2 of Downton Abbey. But this weekend he’s in Nicaragua. With whom shall I watch TV? With Sabby, that’s whom. Five hours of Pride and Prejudice.

With David, two weeks ago, I watched Two English Girls. All we knew of it was its Hulu Plus synopsis: “A romantic triangle develops between two English girls and a Frenchman.” That seemed very promising to us. The movie fulfilled that promise.

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On the bus, an old lady asked to listen to my music, and so I lent her an earbud. She listened to “Cups” from Beaucoup Fish. She said it was the bomb.

Midwinter, pt. 3

My Kenyan friend has agreed to reduce her generosity to just two meals each week.

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Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday were warm days. At first everything was foggy: steam was rising up from the leftover snow. I exercised in shorts. Later it rained. Walking home from work, I saw that the river had flooded over parts of the East Bank Trail.

Since Thursday it’s been cold, cold.

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At IUSB the custom is to avoid proclaiming one’s religion. And so my department’s secretary — a jolly, John Goodmanesque, ex-naval man; a motorcyclist with all the paraphernalia — keeps his faith low-key.

One day when I must’ve looked lousy, he said, “I’ll be sending positive vibes your way.” I thanked him. Lately he’s grown bolder. When I’ve come into the office and flipped the switch, he’s said, “Let there be light.”

Like many other Christians, he’s offered to drive me home. (He shudders at the weather.) Once, during a downpour, I accepted; but I hated to, despite his kindness.

I like to ride with those whom I particularly enjoy — for the sake of being near to them, not for the sake of free-riding, of doing what’s easy. What I’m discovering in South Bend is that the burden of friendship falls unequally because I never drive. (In Ithaca this wasn’t an issue, for I seldom rode with friends.) I never will defeat this culture. I never will convince the world to walk. The result of my stubbornness is that I’m a bad friend.

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Kenny drives me when I can stand to ask him to do that. On the other hand, Kenny and I just finished watching Peep Show, and lately we’ve been watching Downton Abbey, and I pay for the Netflix subscription.

Midwinter, pt. 2

A delightful surprise: today an Ecuadorian came in for tutoring. I helped him with his grammar and then we talked about the Homeland. It turns out, we both cheer for Barcelona Sporting Club, and his family lives in my parents’ neighborhood in Guayaquil.

“Do you like South Bend?” I asked him.

“I do,” he said. “I go everywhere on foot. Compared to Guayaquil, this place feels very safe.”

In South Bend he’s found two other people who’ve lived in Ecuador: another IUSB student (I met her, too, last semester) and, of course, the Pedro.

But the winter displeases him.

It displeases me less and less. As I walked home along the East Bank Trail, the frozen river looked lovely; the trail itself had recently been cleared of snow. And yet I noticed just one other pedestrian. I had the city to myself.

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My Kenyan friend brought food four times last week. Four times! Some of her dishes are elaborate, some are not. One day, she’ll bring over a complicated chicken dinner; another day, a tuna sandwich. I don’t know how to react. Kenny charmed her in Swahili pretty well, but I think he’s out of phrases.

The bleak midwinter

It’s Martin Luther King Junior Day. No school.

Temperature: 12 °F.

Wind speed: approx. 20 m.p.h.

Wind chill: 5 °F.

Snowy.

I go running.

Clothing: 3 shirt layers; 3 pant layers; shoes; spikes (thanks, Cristian); stockings; a stocking cap; 2 pairs of gloves.

Attempted distance: 7 miles.

Completed distance: 5.95 miles.

I knock off early because my hands are more numb than they’ve ever been. After I return to my building, I must wait several minutes until I can grasp the key firmly enough to unlock the door.

When feeling returns, the pain in my hand is so severe, I nearly faint. I collapse onto my couch; my head swims. Hours later, my nose still stings.

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Hours and hours and hours later, indoors, it’s beautifully cozy — you see, we’ve been turning on the heat. (We kept it off until last week. I was always under a blanket.) I glance up from my computer: outside, snow is swirling in all directions. Kenny emerges from his room, dressed from head to foot. He’ll try his luck running on the trail. … Some short minutes later, he returns. He brushes the snow off his cap; I feel cozier.

These days, Kenny and I watch a lot of Peep Show. Flatmates watching flatmates. Males watching other males who can’t help but compete against one another. Which of us is Jez, and which is Mark? Alas, I’m Mark (the anxious one). Or is Kenny Mark? (Kenny is definitely more of a capitalist.) But why must one of us be Mark? Or Jez for that matter? Why must we be either of those twerps? Why couldn’t we both be Super Hans? Super Hans is the cool one. Kenny and I are both cool, aren’t we? I’m definitely Super Hans, without the drugs.

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The 49ers and Ravens will play each other in the Super Bowl. Coach Harbaugh vs. Coach Harbaugh: brother vs. brother. Goodness that’s rough.

Lame

Foot pain has been preventing me from running. I’ve ordered a new pair of shoes: until they arrive, I’ll sit back and rest. Which is to say, I won’t get any rest, because all the while I’ll feel antsy.

Because of the foot pain, whenever I go on errands I walk with a ridiculous limp.

On Sunday I was jaywalking with Stephen. “Let’s cross here,” he said. “All right,” I said. And when we were halfway across the road, a car loomed up and I had to limp with double speed.

Yesterday I rode the bus to Walmart and then limped over to Great Clips for a haircut. The stylist had plenty of piercings and tattoos, and her manner was aggressive. I felt obliged to pretend to be a badass.

“Cut it very short,” I said.

“You do realize,” she said, “when it grows out, it’ll stick up in the back.”

“Honestly I don’t even care,” I said.

“You don’t like to get your hair cut, do you,” she said.

“No, I don’t,” I said.

“When was the last time — eight months ago?” she said.

“Five and a half,” I said. Bam.

Admiringly she said: “Your hair grows really fast. You’re really healthy.” I said: “You mean, like, I don’t have cancer.”

She was amused by that.

When it was done she said I looked like a different person. I asked whether that was a good or a bad thing. “Well, I enjoy the shock value,” she said. “I will, too,” I said.

“See you in six months,” she said. “If I come back at all,” I said. Bam.

I have no idea how to do nice, normal smalltalk.

Kenny asked which stylist it was. He knew her. I told him about the conversation. He said I should ask her for a date. Kenny is always telling me to ask people for a date. But I don’t want to go on a date.

Kenny’s mom told me I need to drive a car: if I won’t drive a car, I won’t get a wife. You make a good point, I said. Kenny’s mom told me she’d pray for me to get a wife. I told her I’d appreciate that prayer. I’d appreciate any prayer on my behalf, including that one.

Fifteen years later

A couple of weeks ago I said my team would end its title drought. And now it has. Last night, Deportivo Quito defeated Emelec, ensuring that Barcelona would finish in first place.

All around Ecuador, thousands (millions?) of barcelonistas took to the streets.

My parents, gleeful:

In South Bend, Kenny and I took to McDonald’s.

Thirty-one

Yesterday I turned thirty-one. Loved ones gave me lunch and supper; on Facebook, the commentators were effusive. So I’ve no complaints.

But the previous day, Sunday, was the spectacular one. I played soccer for the first time in a month. I ran tirelessly and scored five golazos. (So what if most of my opponents were approx. twelve years old.)

Meanwhile, in Ecuador, Barcelona were thrashing Emelec, 5 to 0. This is the year we’ll end our title drought.

Some thoughts about turning thirty-one:

(i) My experience is vast.

(ii) I wish I owned more books. I don’t own as many as my parents did at thirty-one. The other day, my brother Stephen told me in all seriousness, “John-Paul, you really don’t own very many books.”

(iii) I look younger than I did last year. Or, at least, more youthful.

(iv) I’m as idealistic as ever. (This is evident from my recent blog posts.) Barring some Phineas Gage disaster or weird chemical influence, that quality will never, ever change.

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Kenny wants me to tell you that his Xanga is currently unavailable because he’s hiding. He’s been offered a new job, and wants to appear squeaky-clean on the Internet for a while.

Kenny, I love you, but we are not alike. I will never try to appear squeaky-clean.

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I wish I could trust someone who wanted to be President of the United States.

[Kelly Oxford]

The game against Uruguay

Ecuador, my Ecuador. From the first, we attacked bravely. Felipe Caicedo earned a penalty and then scored it in the same manner in which he’d scored against Bolivia.

Then we hung back and waited for Uruguay to give us spaces. During a counterattack, Christian Benítez seemed to’ve earned another penalty — but instead was booked, unjustly, for diving.

Infuriated, we committed our sole defensive lapse, and the Uruguayans tied the score.

Still, we outplayed and stole points from one of the world’s best teams. The replays are here.

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More tutoring at IUSB. Dunno how helpful I really am, but my students thank me profusely. Many are panicked and seek reassurance. I give them that in heavy doses in order to make my criticisms go down more smoothly.

It’s remarkable what a gentle “bedside manner” I’ve developed these last few years — especially since, with non-students, I continue to be abrasive.

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After work yesterday I watched my dear little friends, the Romaniacs, play soccer. Their team dominated; the ball never seemed to leave their opponents’ half of the field. It was like watching the Spain of the middle-school girls’ league.

Then I visited the Romaniacs’ house; they have two new pet rats, Dusty and Pickles. We all ate supper and I persuaded the Romaniacs to watch “Swooner Crooner.” When Bing Crosby came onscreen, they cracked up, which pleased me. Later I re-sung one of Frank Sinatra’s lines, and cracked up Cristian, the Romaniacs’ father. It’s so gratifying to be with people who think you’re hilarious. :)

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Kenny and I have Web access! We’ve negotiated for weeks with AT&T, and today they finally sent us a technician who could help us. (The previous one was of no use.) Best of all, I got them to promise to waive their installation fee.

More of the same

Who are these Californians who read my Xanga? Sometimes I wonder.

Kenny and I finished viewing Barry Lyndon — an act of masochism. One scene, especially painful, showed various 18th-century bigwigs and damsels playing cards by candlelight. The shots were beautifully composed, but there was little dialog or drama, and the scene dragged on for ten minutes; all the while, tedious chamber music blared.

When, at last, the scene was changed, the narrator said: “To make a long story short …”

This sort of joke was repeated for three hours.

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Still no regular Web access, though not for lack of trying. As far as we can tell, our modem is defective.

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Today I am inspired by Evelyn Waugh.

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Finally my holidays have ended. Yesterday, Cat and Kenny and I went to the beach, and afterward I hosted a dinner party. (I entertained my guests by talking about my books.) But today I put in six long hours tutoring at IUSB.