USA out of the World Cup

Hamstring injuries. Two broken noses. 19 and 20-yr-olds playing for the national side. I couldn't be prouder of our team, but I could be happier with them, if they had won.

There were a few opportunities we might have been able to capitalize on and win with. But they had more, that they didn't get to. Tim Howard was too locked down in goal. He had 16 saves, the most going back 50 years. Or maybe more. They only started keeping track 50 years ago, meaning Tim Howard might have had the most saves in World Cup history. I think it's sad. Tim Howard might, for the rest of his life, not remember those 16 saves. He's crying right now on TV. Those two goals they scored, though, those are the ones he might remember forever. Let's hope not. We're all in awe of him. It's not like the Brazilian goalkeeper everyone hates from 1950.

2-1. So heartbreaking. We could have won. On penalty kicks, I'd take none other than Timmy. So sad. He was on fire. But he couldn't be flaming enough. He got mad at his defenders tonight. He had to do so much.

You have to realize how I don't watch soccer. I thought I literally could not watch a whole game. I sat there enthralled. I was up and down, out of my seat, pacing almost like a Niners game. Everyone in the United States is on that page. That's at least something to have pride in, too. That we cared. I actually cared and I actually understood what was going on. I'm terrible at FIFA.

Also on Tv, they keep saying "He stood on his head." Is that a real reference? Or is that a soccerism? All these association footballers don't normally stand on their heads.

2005 O. Henry Prize Stories, In Order from "Best" to "Godawful Worst Holy Crap Sphinxes Almost Made Me Vomit"

I read all these short stories to try and get a feel for different writers, juxtaposed against each other. I wanted to see what I'd like, and what I wouldn't like. Hope is important. Shitty endings and feelings of isolation with no resolution- why would you write that story? Why would you enjoy it, and why would you expect anyone else to? Every ending doesn't have to be happy. Every ending should, however, make sense, and be satisfying or cathartic. A terribly sad ending can be the best ending if it's right, if it fits. It shouldn't just be blah. Here's my ranking. 1-5 are fantastic, 6-9 good reads, 10-13 okay, 14-16 acceptable, 17-19 not good, and 20 should be stayed away from on all fronts unless you want to want to punch Timothy Crouse in the face.

1. What You Pawn I Will Redeem: Sherman Alexie

2. Fantasy for Eleven Fingers: Ben Fountain

3. Mudlavia: Elizabeth Stuckey-French

4. Christie: Caitlin Macy

5. A Rich Man: Edward P. Jones

6. The Hurt Man: Wendell Berry

7. Tea: Nancy Reisman

8. The Tutor: Nell Freudenberger

9. Refuge in London: Ruth Prawer Jhabvala

10. The Card Trick: Tessa Hadley

11. Speckle Trout: Ron Rash

12. The Drowned Woman: Frances de Pontes Peebles

13. The Brief History of the Dead: Kevin Brockmeier

14. Snowbound: Liza Ward

15. The High Divide: Charles D'Ambrosio

16. Grace: Paula Fox

17. Dues: Dale Peck

18. The Golden Era of Heartbreak: Michael Parker

19. Desolation: Gail Jones

20. Sphinxes: Timothy Crouse

Plugged

Can we watch something else?

It’s what’s on. You shouldn’t change it, that’s rude.

But he’s not watching.

You’re not watching either.

Technically. But I know it’s on.

So does he. Maybe it’s soothing.

It’s aggravating.

Why?

Why? That’s the question, isn’t it.

So answer it.

Ok. I will.

...

Fine, here goes. These people, they’re not doing anything. Nothing worthwhile. And yet, you’d never know that from listening to them. Every moment of their lives is so exciting, or heartbreaking. At least they play it that way for the cameras. You get the impression that their very lives hang on the balance of the next five minutes. The five minutes, which of course, take up twenty minutes of TV time.

Franklin looked over at his roommate. Mark had his laptop open to BuzzFeed, a listicle of pug dogs that Franklin had disgustedly scrolled through the night before, a listicle he had scrolled through until the end, scoffing and hating and yet finishing, eagerly rushing to the comment section to express his disdain. Mark’s eyes weren’t on the pugs, but rather his smartphone, as he loaded up Clash of Clans. He had just finished exclusively liking hot girls’ posts on Instagram, and now he needed to win virtual glory. Mark had turned to the History channel when he awoke.

Franklin had returned from his early morning bowel movement to find Mark getting ready to watch “Pawn Stars.” Franklin had already sat through an hour and a half of Sportscenter when this happened, meaning he knew a half hour of sports content well, and another half hour extremely well. He still made a peevish coughing noise of offense that Mark had not noticed. Franklin felt Mark never noticed his annoyances or passive-aggressive comments. Mark felt Franklin needed to stop wearing shoes in the house.

Franklin loaded up his Instagram feed, looking at Mark’s Likes with disdain and not liking anything he came across. Two of the pictures he did like already had triple digit likes, since they were posted by sorority girls he had known tangentially in college. Franklin refused to become part of the sea. He wanted his Likes to stand out, as they did in real life. Quinoa and ketchup embodied Franklin: too off the beaten path even for those who fought the current. He incorporated cultural norms in ways that went against the grains of normalcy. He was better than the heathens, especially the people who try to sell cars to Rick on “Pawn Stars,” instead of selling them themselves like everyone else does.

Mark ripped a bowl one-handed, and had moved on to a video on his iPad. Many men multi-tasked with two or three tasks. Mark’s record, though he didn’t keep of track of those things, was eight and a half.

Carlos, the third roommate, was asleep. He had a night job but maintained himself in pretty good physical shape for that one night a week he had off. He’d go to bars. Mark and Franklin would complain that his room smelled of sex, or that they heard him the night before when they were trying to watch videos on their computers- Netflix for Mark, torrents for Franklin. Carlos simply smiled when later in the week they’d complain about their personal lack of sex lives.

Thoreau (Is the Worst)

I read another post off of Brain Pickings, which I love, about Henry David Thoreau, who I do not, and who I think is the original hipster. Thoreau is a hipster in the negative sense. I really couldn't stand him by the end of Walden. He wrote a whole book about living by himself in the woods when he was like a mile out of town and made his mom do his laundry for him. Anyone who looks up to Thoreau is mistaken. He's a fraud, not "one of the masters of the art of living," as Ms. Maria Popova put it. He's a pretentious hypocrite and I do not like him. I mean, what do you expect from someone with the worst facial hair neckbeard of all time. He is not a role model in any way. Except for hipsters.

Star Wars Episode VII

Still only one woman announced as a new cast member. Really, Star Wars? How are the humans supposed to reproduce? WIth Bea Arthur? How is Lando going to get his game on with smooth Colt 45?

Poems VI

"A Walk in the Morning/Wood"

I took a walk one morning
would I say that that was that?
No, for I stumbled upon a bone,
Earnestly circled by a cat.
Its back was arched, its fur erect,
Shunning me, shooing me forth.
So I thought hard on the matter
And promptly changed my course.

Poems V, from a ski day at June Mountain

He was a dragon now
He looked like himself
But he was a dragon
Unequivocally. He knew.
Breathing fire
Hot
Like a fart on someone else's thigh
Seagulls flying
He was better than them.
All of them
All of who?
He didn't know anymore
Anymore
Than he knew who he was

-but he did know-
The universe and its secrets.
Our universe's name was Ted
It had replaced Francine
Or rather
Inflated inside her
A balloon in a balloon
Clowns have balloons
Dragons don't.
Rawr

"Shrooms"

I think saying the title after really makes the poem better for that one. These poems were written skiing at June Mountain. There are only two. I was by myself.

"Dope Status"

Try eight
You know it when you jump
Kicker off of Deer Bowl
I'd landed with a thump

Not once not twice
I gotta make it
Can't go home
My pride just won't take it

I'm the only one who knows I landed a three
But the most important person to see it is me

I know I did it
That's what counts
I refused to bounce without, I'm no slouch
So
All hail the conquering hero
With bruises and booboos
But a 3-6-0