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.

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.

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.

Winners & losers

Well, we tried, but the contest was settled when we lost two important players. El Chivo Suárez collapsed a few seconds after the kickoff. He received treatment and hobbled up and down the field but had to be subbed out before halftime. Worse, between the minutes 5 and 10, two yellow cards accrued to Álex Bolaños. … Emelec pressed hard; got a first-half goal; waited for us to tire out; and, near the end, put in two more goals. So it was easy for them, but anyway they were the better team.

The President of Ecuador, Rafael Correa, celebrated with Emelec at the Parrilla del Ñato.

Antonio Noboa, our team president, tweeted out some venom against Bolaños.

I viewed the match at Sabby’s house. The male Sabby loyally sat next to me and played a bridge-building game on his new smartphone. Sadly, his bridges kept on collapsing, and his ponies kept on falling into the gorge.

Gatsby

The nation rejoices: Castillo’s ligament isn’t torn. Though he won’t play for a couple of weeks, he’ll be included in our World Cup roster.

The score of our last warm-up, against England: 2 to 2.

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Martin and I watch the new Gatsby movie. (He might show it to his highschoolers.) We take turns cringing. … Though I’ve read the book twice, and seen an opera of it, I hardly remember the story. What I notice this time is how Gatsby keeps on repeating the phrase “old sport.” (I recall a similar faux pas by a character in From Russia with Love, the Bond novel. Is Fleming spoofing Fitzgerald?) … Downtown, Sabby (the male) says of a pedestrian: “There goes the Gatsby of South Bend.” What a sad description to be known by! And how ridiculous that I, so removed from the local “scene,” should know exactly who that person is. … Reputation is a horrid thing. When I’m introduced to new people, they look startled — and then they say they know my reputation. Those are the words they use. Nothing makes me queasier.

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“Come, meet Bianca,” I say to Cristian. The little beast is resting on a chair. She raises her chin, and Cristian strokes it. “You are beautiful,” he tells her. “At last I meet this cat — the Internet sensation.”

(This photo is nothing special; but with a laptop camera it’s the best I can do to show Bianca sleeping in her box.)

May fragments

Mary had her birthday. Stephen and I bought her an artichoke sandwich and a pie, and Martin bought her some cheese puffs. … The upstairs has been rather hot; Bianca, our dear furball, has been lingering in the cool basement. Missing her, we’ve begun conditioning the air. … This week is my week off, between school terms. I wish I could travel. “You could explore the ruins of Detroit,” say Sabby. “You could clean the basement,” says Martin (everyone’s so archaeological).

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I bought The Oxford Handbook of Philosophical Theology. I agree with this reviewer:

While reading [Alexander Pruss’s] very intricate essay [on the Eucharist], it occurred to me that many medieval scholastic philosophers, if brought into the present age and given a copy of this book, would be overjoyed — while the traditional enemies of scholasticism would see most of this book as logical nitpicking.

Pruss is the leading theorist of the Real Presence (and of other Romish oddities). His Handbook essay focuses on how Christ could, at one and the same time, be in different places, e.g. in different communion wafers across the world. This problem has some pedigree; Leibniz and Aquinas offer solutions. But what non-nerd ever gave it as the main reason for doubting transubstantiation? Pruss’s own solution refers to time travel. Here is theorizing which is both inelegant and useless.

The WAG

Saturday night. We’re in our back yard, using our new patio furniture. We’ve bought Bianca a leash and a harness; even so, she refuses to join us outside. …

Aaaannnddd now we’re inside. We missed Bianca too much to stay apart from her. Also, it’s warmer in here.

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You should come to watch your bf play soccer, I tell Edoarda. You probably don’t realize how good he is. Stephen is very, very good.

Absentmindedly she replies: I think somebody told me that.

I’m not that good, says Stephen.

Don’t listen to him, I tell Edoarda. Stephen is truly excellent.

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Easter Sunday. Extravagant breakfast at the church; then, pickup soccer from 2:00 to 4:30. Edoarda goes with us. The sole WAG, she watches from the bench, the sun beating down on her. Stephen and I play quite well, but this doesn’t alleviate Edoarda’s misery. Did you see my golazos?, I ask. Uh huh, she murmurs. With my toe I arch a lovely assist to the male Sabby (I’ve gone back to wearing Venus shoes instead of cleats, and, once again, my touch is beautifully precise). I turn toward the bench: Did you see that pass? Uh huh, says Edoarda.

There’s nothing to do but sit, she says.

Well, that’s how it is, watching soccer.

Afterward, driving home, Stephen turns to Edoarda: Did you like how we played? Yes, Edoarda smiles. I did.

Melting

Most definitely not snowed in; but the last two nights, walking has been perilous due to the ice. There are too few English terms for the different slicknesses I’ve encountered.

Today, though, we’ve had lightning flashes and thick rain. The snow mounds — formerly tall as houses, hard as marble — are greatly reduced.

(Will corpses be revealed, I wonder?)

If we’re lucky, the water won’t refreeze; the air will remain warm until the fluid has all trickled away. Meanwhile our yard is a slushy swamp, impassable in canvas shoes.

The male Sabby has sent me this beautiful thing.

The female has been nagging at me to continue applying, belatedly, for health insurance:

two Facebook messages;
one text message;
one email;
one e-card;
one postcard.

It’s so touching, I almost hate to do it.

Hipsters

What I miss from Xanga are the xangazons: the thumbnail pictures of movies, books, and music. Like this one:

[not a thumbnail picture]

Currently:

the bird and the bee

The Bird and the Bee

“Fucking Boyfriend”

Or like this one:

Currently:

Interpreting the Masters, Volume 1: A Tribute to Daryl Hall and John Oates

The Bird and the Bee

“Private Eyes”

Before you pounce:

Listening to hipster music doesn’t make me a hipster. I enjoy reading certain Japanese novels, but that doesn’t make me Japanese (not even in spirit). An outsider can wallow in foreign ditches.

One time, Sabby and I went to Chicago and the female Sabby pointed at some youths and was like, look at those hipsters, hee hee, and we giggled at them. And then she said, John-Paul, you’re a natural hipster. And I was like, that’s impossible; being a hipster requires too much artifice; naturalness precludes it. (That is, hipsters can’t be genuinely cool.)

And she was like, well, I have in mind your sweaters. I said, you mean the sweaters that I bought at Old Navy, that super-hip store. Hee hee, she giggled, no, I mean your hideous, old, second-hand sweaters, the ones hipsters would like. Oh, I said, you mean the sweaters I’ve been using regularly since the 1990s (it isn’t my fault that it took so long for fashion to catch up). Hee hee, she giggled (all red in the face).

If somebody wants to make an entire album of Hall and Oates tributes, I can enjoy those songs. It’s difficult even for hipsters to ruin that music, despite its having been recalled into fashionableness.

The “Boyfriend” song just sounds pretty.

I return to Bethel

Finally, my Xanga has been shut down.

I moved into Mary’s & Martin’s new house. My helpers were M&M, my uncle, my brother Stephen, and Sabby — heroes.

Right now, M&M’s basement contains approx. 30 boxes of my books. Their garden contains my treadmill, abandoned to the recyclers. So long, Timothy. …

I teach just one section at Bethel but often walk across campus to get to IUSB. What an innocent place, Bethel. There isn’t much feeling of urgency …

… except in the class that I teach. There the students sit up straight, eyes wide open.

Through the grapevine I hear:

The readings are difficult;

When he lectures he uses big words.

(And I thought I was so colloquial!)

Our first textbook is Hume’s Dialogues, which many of the students have been supplementing with SparkNotes (not what I recommended, but OK). The class discussions are satisfactory. The students make good points. I wonder which points are from SparkNotes.

Yet somewhere a screw has come loose. In previous years I would quickly learn all the students’ names; this semester, so far, I haven’t bothered to. I know the names of the most frequent talkers. That’s all.

Maybe the reason is that I have so many students (one section at Bethel, two at IU). Even a few students’ faces seem unfamiliar. I never used to have this problem.

Or maybe, during the last year, something happened that is now preventing me from caring like I used to.

Home improvement

Today at IU I tutored someone who said, “I don’t think you should be getting paid to do this.”

Um.

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Wanna be my housemate/flatmate/roommate? Or know of anyone else who might want to be? My lease expires at the end of August. I’d like to stay around Keller Park, but that’s negotiable.

Funny, I care more about living near to my church than about living near to my job. (Yes, I’m very pious, but the main reason is that on Sundays the buses don’t travel.)

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More orbiting around those twin suns, Sabby. Their magnetism is irresistible. Last week I was with the male Sabby, the architect, and he was like, “I found some cool stone artifacts in the river. Let’s go haul them out.” And so we did that. I can’t remember what every cool stone artifact was, but one was a part of a century-old balustrade (I think the male Sabby said). We brought them to Sabby’s house and the male Sabby put them away. I’m not sure what he’s going to do with them. (His wife, the botanist, is like him: she’s always collecting leaves and flowers and things, which is a little strange and endearing.)

Then I saw their very old reel mower and felt a sudden compulsion to mow their lawn. And so I did that.

Then this week I was in Sabby’s kitchen, which they’re remodeling, and I had a sudden longing to help them to strip the floor. And so the next day I did that. I helped to tear out a thin layer of sticky stuff and a thin layer of wood and I pounded the exposed staples deep into the bottommost wood layer (see, I don’t know any of the technical terms). It was very extraordinary of me and I’m a little surprised. The female Sabby got me to help her to cook, an activity which wasn’t so extraordinary for me but which felt less effortful than usual.

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.

On the ownership of books

Your ambition in life should be to have libraries and libraries of Voss.

[My brother David]

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Sabby — Sam & Abby — are the most agreeable couple I have met. Some weeks ago I hosted them in my apartment for beans and rice, and then obliged them to carry away half a dozen Agatha Christies.

A week later, they told me how much they’d been enjoying those books.

I gloated about this to David. “They accepted my Agatha Christies and have been reading and enjoying them!”

“Of course they have been,” said David. “Sabby are agreeable. There is nothing they don’t enjoy.”

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Last night we again discussed that couple.

“What books of mine are in your apartment?” said David.

“A considerable number of Agatha Christies,” I told him. “You were saying how eager you were to repossess them.”

“I was saying how eager I was to burn them,” David said. “I suffer from the cold: I need kindling for the fire.”

“You were desiring to read them,” I said. “Your interest in them is keen. Recall also that Sabby have been enjoying those books.”

“What Sabby enjoy is Phantastes,” said David, changing the subject. “I’ve read much of that, on Sabby’s recommendation.”

“I own Phantastes — the Dover edition. Do you have the Dover edition?”

“No,” said David, “I don’t own that book. The copy which I read was Sabby’s. But yes, Dover was the publisher.”

There was a pause, pregnant with fellow-feeling. And then I said:

“Isn’t it a solace to find a friend with whom to discuss the variegated editions of books?”