“Hope is not lost.” That’s what she said. The Japanese checkout girl at Fiesta meant it too—Japan is still in the cup, and tomorrow Mexico (my first and only remaining hope, now that the US has been eliminated by Ghana) will face Argentina, a team and country I sort of hate (in soccer terms only, although I’m not exactly cheering for them either). I’m not sure what our hopes are. No one at a barbeque I attended this afternoon thought El Tri had a shot. And I argued for them as best I could, pointing out the talent and passion those men have (all undermined by some terrible decisions from the sidelines). But along with the rationale of numbers there was something a little darker, what my friend Rich would call post-colonial futbol.

Argentina is historically a powerhouse. Brazil, of course, dominates. Other teams like France, Italy, England Germany, the Netherlands, and a few others I’m forgetting. And then there are the Asian teams, who no one really has much to say about. The African teams that get grouped in a way I find problematic. And the Americas, with the weak Hondurans and flakey, 17th-ranked Mexico. And of course they can’t do well, because how can 17 defeat 7.

Italy (5) and France (9) go home in shame. A shame shame to lose in such a shameful way. But when Switzerland (24) scores on a sweet cross, or New Zealand (78) puts a ball in the net for their first World Cup goal, well, we have an upset. And a story!

The World Cup this year has been full of stories. Olympic-style stories. “Voices of South Africa” stories that remind me of “Bart’s People” in a way that doesn’t reflect well on me. I guess I’m saying that the Mundial’s been rebranded for the American audience. I’ve never seen Univision or Telemundo do the deep Lifetime-esque cheese fest before a game. Perhaps I’m spoiled. Perhaps audiences here require more story. Perhaps I’m the cold one.

My mother says that most North Americans will stop watching now that the team is out. My father says I’m a terrible human being for suggesting that we lost that game, Ghana beat us, but we also lost that game. He asked me what I thought good soccer was and I responded “pass completion.” He argued that Ghana was simply better. I didn’t disagree. I just said we weren’t playing with our hearts. Because I’d seen South Korea lose, exposing their now depleted cavities when exchanging jerseys with their victors. Because I’d seen what it was like to play your heart out. To want something that bad. And I didn’t see the team do that. I hate to say it.

Mostly because I’m hoping that tomorrow Mexico will bring their backup hearts and extra-enlarged supercharged magnum hearts of steel. And that they work the beats down to grinds. This is probably because I think Maradona is a dufus. “The head of Maradona and the hand of God.”

So post-colonial futbol. The people at the bar, a couple of them said “but how could we lose to Ghana?” As if “Ghana” meant “those losers.” Ah, Africa. Maybe the vuvuzelas are to drown out the “Voices of South Africa” as produced by ESPN, maybe the trumpets exist to block out the exploitation they need to survive. Capitalism’s a bitch.

I know I’m not explaining myself well. Part of it is that I’m in a stream-of-conscious kind of mood. But part of it is that when I was filling out my scoresheet for my family bracket, I paused before filling in the numbers. Would the Netherlands been Slovakia 3-1 or 3-0? Is underestimating your opponent (not even bothering to check where they play or what talent they have) post-colonialism, racism, or just the way the world works? 17 beats 7. I said Mexico 3, Argentina 2. I know it’s a dumb bet. Even my boyfriend said Argentina 2, Mexico 1. He’ll probably get the points.

But if I win, it’ll be a whole lot sweeter. Imagine Japan (45) beating Paraguay (31). Then again, I put my money on the South Americans. As anyone who’s ever played Risk with me knows, I have a thing for South America.

“They’re so tall, so muscular.” “They play with that jungle rhythm.” “That samba step.” “That cheetah speed.” “Tsha-bala-la” sung, sung loud. Is this okay? Because sometimes all I hear is “exotic, brown, black.” But there really is a samba step. I’ve even seen Kobe Bryant do it.

I’ve been told that you can find the evil if you read into anything too much. And it’s true. I wonder if graduate school ruined me. Or maybe the world ruined itself.

I like a world ruled by Brazil more than I like a world ruled by Portugal. That Cristiano Ronaldo is insufferable. And I suspect he’s folliclally flammable. I’d also like a world where Chiquidrácula gives out less yellow and red cards.

ChiquiDracula

Then again, the refereeing has been rough on everyone. The US got two goals taken away. Red cards were given for safe defensive plays. No explanations were given. Italians seemed to be preparing for some kind of diving event. A rough tournament. But then again, the announcers kept saying that flopping and diving should be banned. Red cards for all. More Americans will watch if the game is cleaner. As if an Italian soccer player would think to himself, “Oh, I won’t take a dive. It might offend the sensibilities of a viewer in Palo Alto.” I agree that flopping is terrible and should be punished. I just don’t think it should be punished to make more Americans happy.

See. I’m back at colonialism again. Maybe it’s my Mexico nerves kicking in. I am nervous. Those Argentines are… well, from Argentina. And therefore, pretty darn good. But, we do have two secret weapons. The hope of a Japenese checkout girl who assured me my country and hers would rise to the occasion. The other? That somewhere in the audience, tucked in a shadow, Chiquidrácula will be rooting for El Tri, handing out imaginary cards to all those Gauchos.

…

(“Gauchos”? Was that derogatory or a fun sports jibe? You see, I’m stuck in a loop.)

Here’s what I’m going to do when I finish one final “I swear I’m only proofreading” edit of my book.

#1: I’m going to self-publish a thousand copies of my book and list them on Amazon, hopefully with funds from my potential sponsor.

#2 I will write Jon Stewart a letter, asking him to be my potential sponsor and partner in a social experiment in which I am a guest on his show, talking about my book (which is vaguely foreign and ethnic enough to be representative of the kind of material he usually has on his show).

#3 I will accomplish the following: a) I will test how much effect someone like Jon Stewart really has on the book-selling market, b) achieve awesome notoriety (and a book deal) for my brilliant caper and c) become best friends with John Stewart, my life-long dream. Plus, it’s not like my book isn’t a totally legitimate book, and all Jon has to do is throw a couple dollars my way and have me on the show one night. And it’d be sweet. So sweet.

Thoughts? Am I crazy? Could something like that work? Should I send him an email? Is everything I do secretly a social experiment?

For now, I’ll just say I came up with a brilliant plan, even if I never execute.

I don’t have a cat. But if I did, I’m not sure I’d feed it Friskies based on this commercial. Or maybe I would. Feel free to debate it in the comments. Or at least tell me what this means.

I decided to do my homework. I’ve always felt taken advantage of by car shops and I always will. The shop I go to in Pittsburgh, Bastone Auto Service off of Highland Ave, has always felt a bit pricey to me, but I figure that quality work is quality work. When I went to get my oil changed in October, though, they found all these other things wrong with the car and charged me about $90 for the change. Which is ridiculous. But, I thought, the work is quality, and that’s okay. So for this speedometer thing, I looked up what the average cost was for my vehicle. I went to Pep Boys and Advantage Auto (three locations) to confirm that the Check Engine light was related to the speed sensor problem and all four places confirmed that a) the check engine light was related to the speed sensor and b) that the speed sensor didn’t work. They all did without me saying what the problem was. And they all came up with that for free. Awesome.

All right, I thought. I’ll take my car to Bastone at 9AM and they’ll tell me how much it is to fix El Jeepo. I prepared myself to spend between $100 and $150, give or take the cost of labor. I told them to call me once they figured out how much it was, so I could greenlight or redlight their plan of attack. I told them exactly what was wrong with the car and offered to give them the printouts from the other places, which they declined.

They called around 1:45PM with the estimate: $290 to change a sensor. “Are you kidding?” “No, mam.” I asked if there were other solutions. They offered none. I asked if I could source the part somewhere else if it would lower my cost. They said maybe and then refused to quote me how much the labor would be, just muttering, “it’d be lower.” And then, when I went to pick up the car (because I refuse to pay that much), they charged me $50 for diagnosing the problem.

That’s right. On my receipt it says “Check speedometer not working – $43.98.” Plus shop supplies and sales tax. Awesome. I just spent $50 to confirm what I already had confirmed.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s because I’m a girl. Or because they know I can’t fix it myself. Or because it’s not Mexico or the Rio Grande Valley, where this whole shebang, parts and labor and all, would cost me $50. Maybe I’m spoiled by having grown up in a place where a full paint-and-upholstery job on the car cost me less than changing one stupid sensor in the Northeast US. Either way, I feel screwed. I know they took part of their day to look at my car. I know that that costs them time and effort. I know that rent is higher here and so are taxes.

But at the end of the day, it’s very clear to me that I drive a 1996 Jeep Cherokee (with two-wheel drive) because I am not rich, and therefore, I cannot afford to drop $50, especially when I have gained nothing, absolutely nothing, from the experience.

So, dear Bastone: I will not be coming back. Thanks for your understanding, and thanks to Bob for standing there stoically as I pretended not to be so upset I was about to cry.

Point is, the girl in the commercial had really cool hair. And my roommate is writing a book about racial identity and hair, and she’s always complaining about what few styling options she has tried. So I decided that Libby and the ‘Fro Hawk should meet.

She went out and got the required items (all Garnier) and I did my best hairdresser impersonation. Here are the results of our little hair adventure.

So I’m in Texas for the College English Associate Conference (one of my favorite conferences). Flew into Austin, where my friend Carly picked me up, and we drove together down to San Antonio for the conference. Got in, checked in, gave in—to the many temptations of downtown San Antonio. That’s right, we went to the Alamo.

And after that, the Riverwalk. The Riverwalk, a nice walkway around the San Antonio River lined with restaurants, bars, and historic buildings/bridges/whatever, more than anything though, is filled with promises of margaritas. And Carly and I cannot say no to a margarita. So we sat down at a place called “La Paloma” and partook of their delightful happy hour.

We ordered our first margaritas, along with some appetizers, and they were delicious. And only $4. (In Pittsburgh, a comparable margarita would be $9.) We’re gossiping, talking shop (as we’re both in Academia) and shooting the proverbial shite, when Carly noticed that the couple sitting at the table next to ours has left, and not only have they left, but they’ve left two intact, unspoiled, untouched margaritas on their table. Score! Free margarita for us. So Carly suggests I quickly snag one before the busboy comes and the margarita gets thrown out (see, how waste-conscious we are!). I do the old boy-stretching-at-a-movie-to-put-his-arm-on-the-girl’s shoulder move and with my arm extended grab the closest ‘rita. How exciting! A top shelf expensive margarita (because it was a $7 one) free for us! Yay!

How awesome is that? Fairly awesome. And we’re feeling a little titillated, being slightly bad and whatnot. And everything is going well until the happy couple return to their table a few seconds later, and realize one of their margaritas is gone. But, the man says loudly, we told our waiter we were going to smoke a cigarette and that we’d be back! Carly and I are mortified. Oh no, oh no. What do we do? We’ve already poured the ‘rita into our own glasses and downed most of it. And we didn’t think they’d gone to smoke. Who takes a twenty minute smoke break at a restaurant that has outdoor seating! Shit, shit, shit. What do we do?

I lean into Carly and whisper conspiratorially: “I’m about to tell a lie, play along.” She nods. I turn to the happy couple. ”Oh, my goodness! I totally saw some dude come by and grab the drink. Jeez, I should have said something. Sorry.”

Carly at this point is trying very hard not to giggle. “Yeah, I thought he was your friend or something,” she pipes in. Meanwhile, our waiter comes back and the happy couple (who are now annoyed) explain that someone ran off with their drink and would he bring them another? And as the waiter leaves to fulfill their request, he grabs the empty third glass from our table. Tee hee.

We speak with the happy couple for a bit longer, and I throw in something about how handsome the guy was who ran off with their drink, and everyone seems happy and assuaged for a few minutes. We turn away and Carly and I start giggling softly, congratulating ourselves for a job well done. All in all, we have three and a half margaritas, some chips and queso along with some guacamole on the Riverwalk. Every time we say three and half, we start giggling at the half. Criminal masterminds we are.

Feeling slightly tipsy, we commence our walk back to the hotel, where the conference I am supposedly attending has been going on without me. Halfway back, we realize that we’re more tipsy than previously anticipated. This, of course, means we decide to watch street art, take silly pictures, and buy a small bottle of bourbon for a hotel room nightcap.

No need for a nightcap. The force of that half margarita hits us right when we get to the hotel and suddenly we’re drunk. Like, spinny drunk. Drunk drunk.

Whoa, I say to Carly, how’d that happen? Carly, of course, always knows what to say: “we really haven’t eaten anything today other than appetizers and salads. We ate like girls.” Like girls indeed. So I watch celebrity fit club, call my boyfriend, and when I look up, Carly’s passed out. At 9:30PM.

I’m in bed with the spins by 10. Well, I think to myself, I’ll just go to sleep and wake up normal and all will be well. After all, only three and half margaritas can’t be that bad.

So wrong. So wrong.

I wake up several times throughout the night and vomit my guts out. I drink water. I throw up water. Carly is dead asleep. The wakeup call comes at 5AM. I answer and then go back to vomiting and intermittently sleeping. Wake up again at 6:15. Take a shower. Try my best to look presentable. By 7:30 AM I’m putting the final touches on my presentation and still heaving. What do I do? Go downstairs, to the Bluebonnet room of the hotel, and sit down for my 8AM Saturday morning panel, as Carly sleeps.

The moderator introduces me, I apologize for being so sweaty and make a comment about food poisoning, and get started on my presentation. One paragraph in, I realize I’m going to throw up again. And I have no idea what to do. I feel it coming and I know that I don’t want to vomit in front of all six people attending my panel. So I stand up, excuse myself, and run out of the room toward the bathroom real fast. But not fast enough. It’s coming and it’s coming out, so I do what any person would do, I find a potted plant in the hallway and quickly and efficiently throw up into it. Then I wipe my mouth, walk back into the room, and pour myself a glass of water. About a minute has elapsed since I ran out of the room. I apologize and thank the audience for their patience. And then I pick up right where I left off. Because I’m a winner. And that’s what winners do.

Okay, maybe I’m not a winner. But I’m at least a rock star.

And at the end of it all, a couple of folks came up to me and congratulated me on my poise and excellent writing. They also ask for the name of the restaurant that gave me food poisoning. “Just so we don’t get sick too when we go the Riverwalk tonight.” I laugh and say “Joe’s Crab Shack.” Seems like a safe bet to me.

I conferenced for a bit longer, dry heaved for a bit longer, and then went up to the room where Carly seemed fine and not hungover at all. When I tell her of my trials and tribulations, she points out that we really shouldn’t have taken that extra margarita, because, you know, Karma’s a bitch.

And then we did what all post-inebriated epic heroes do: we went to Denny’s.

Like rock stars.

Not as cool as Hubertus himself. Go ahead, take a minute. Check out his website. Highlights include: his music videos, his photography, and more importantly (please look at these): his credo and the picture of his bomb-ass Mexican ski jacket.

Things I love about Andy Himalaya? His use of the rare caps-lock-right-align-italics combination. His disregard for grammar, syntax, spelling, and punctuation. His penchant for taking pictures of himself before windows. His hair. His passing resemblance to Bruno. The fact that he lists “Prince” as his nickname on his official Olympics bio page. But thing I love the most? That jacket. I tried in vain to search for it online, but I could not find it. Finally, with the aid of Pete and Paolo, I did the only thing a girl in this situation could do… I wrote Herr von Hohenlohe a letter. And I wanted to show my respect and love through imitation, as it is the sincerest form of flattery.

My letter:

TO THE MOST GRACIOUS PRINCE HUBERTUS VON HOHENLOHE, THE REAL PRINCE!, AKA ANDY HIMALAYA:

YOU DO NOT KNOW ME, BUT I AM YOUR BIGGEST FAN! AS AN EXPATRIATED MEXICAN — LIKE YOU!! — I ALSO HAVE STRONG IDEALS AS TO HOW THE WESTERN CIVILIZATION HAS BEEN BOMBARDING US WITH ITS UNCAPTURABLE EXPECTASIONS.. WE ARE ALIKE ME AND YOU, ALTHOUGH I DO NOT HAVE YOUR MONEY OR GOOD LOOKS, AND I AM BUT A WOMAN. I TOO AM INTO PHOTOGRAPHY, AND I LOVE WINDOWS, NOT TO MENTION TAKING PICTURES OF MYSELF THEREIN THEM!!

I WRITE TO YOU TODAY WITH AN VERY URGENT REQUEST – I LIVE IN PITTSBURGH AND IT IS COLD. AND ALTHOUGH I AM MEXICAN, I CANNOT BUY MEXICAN THINGS HERE. ON YOUR SITE YOU ARE WEARING THE COOLIEST AND AWESOMEST – THE MOST AMAZING! – JACKET I HAVE EVER SEEN (IT IS CAMO AND HAS LADIES ON IT WITH A MEXICAN FLAG)! IN ORDER TO PURSUE MY DREAM AS AN “EXOTIC SKIIER” (SEE, I TOLD YOU I WAS YOUR BIGGEST FAN!!!), I NEED SUCH A PHENOMENAL JACKET. I KNOW THIS REQUEST MAY SEEM WEIRD, BUT I WAS SO INSPIRED BY YOUR CREDO, THAT I KNEW THAT YOU WOULD AID ME IN MY ENDEAVOR TO FIND THIS JACKET, THIS HOLY GRAIL OF SPORTSWEAR, I JUST KNEW IT. ¡WE ARE SO ALIKE! (EXCEPT I DO NOT SKI, YET!) I TOO TAKE PICTURES, OF THE BEST KIND (WITH WINDOWS!) – AND I AM INTO BUSINESS TOO. I ALSO ONE DAY HOPE TO REPRESENT OUR ILLUSTREOUS COUNTRY AS YOU.

BEST OF LUCKY! I HOPE YOU ACHIEVE YOUR DREAMS. AND WIN A MEDAL FOR US – MEXICANS! ¡¡VIVA MEXICO!!

PLEASE WRITE BACK SOON WITH INFORMATION ON HOW TO GET THIS JACKET. I REALLY WANT THIS JACKET. IT’S COOL. LIKE YOU.

BEST.

-ADRIANA

P.S. I REALLY AM YOUR BIGGEST FAN
P.P.S. SELF-PORTRAIT IS ATTACHED – SEE HOW UGLY MY JACKET IS AND HOW COLD I AM?

Things I regret: not mentioning that I did not digitally manipulate my own photo. Not right-aligning my text. Not having another picture of me in a window handy. Not being as cool as Andy Himalaya.

*All images stolen from: http://www.hubertushohenlohe.com/, except for the one that was obviously taken by the author.

Here’s how I see it: best case scenario, he replies. Worst case scenario, he doesn’t. Either way, I totally wrote a hilarious email. And made Pete and Paolo laugh. Good enough for me.

Investment Advice

I think, given the detrimental state of it all,
that our salvation, as a people and species, lies in the
restorative power of skimmed milk.
We all know that water will fail us—
it is, after all, susceptible to the whims
of braggarts and scallywags, tarred and satiated.
When the water skyrockets, when the bidding
starts on our thirst, the old Holsteins and Zebus will
tremble, their little cow knees knocking out dollars.
We won’t drown. We’ll simply suckle.

You said it all tasted like nothing anyway.
We may as well just drink the creamless,
you said (as if I didn’t understand simple “skimmed”).
The mere liquid of it works. And, oh, I know they’ll
say, there are ethical concerns. The methane, the hormones,
the guilt of consumption and sacrifice.
And when I remind them that they didn’t
have too many moral dilemmas the first time,
you’ll simply say that you should have invested in
the stuff when it was cheap.
We could have made a killing.

Ten minutes later I’ll laugh when you call it
white gold. And twenty minutes after that, when I
open that cranky refrigerator, a thought will drown me.
I’ll miss lemonade the most.

Big thank yous to my father and Señor Peter Jones for making this possible. I soon as I get back to Pittsburgh from Texas, we’ll start playing. Woot.

Two Steelers fans found themselves thousands of miles away from home. In fact, both were in Texas during what may or may not have been the most significant game of the season for Pittsburgh. What did they do?

Brad sent me a text message at 1:46PM yesterday from the Dallas airport: “do you know the Steelers have a chance in hell of making the playoffs?”

My response from Mission, TX: “But a chance nonetheless. Remember: we have it in us. Now is when we need the most faith. If we fail today, then we’re totally f*cked. So have faith!”

The Pittsburgh Steelers are not an easy team to follow. To quote TJ Donegan of the Bleacher Report:

Can anyone figure out the Steelers? Anyone? Bueller?

This really is getting ridiculous. Can they just decide if they’re

a cursed, Super Bowl hangover team or if they’re just an unlucky, injury-prone team that is capable of beating anyone on their day?

They just capped off a five-game losing streak by having their recently-concussed quarterback toss for over 500 yards, knocking off one of the sneakier talented teams in the le

ague 37-36.

Of course before that five-game skid they won five in a row, handing the undefeated Vikings their first loss of the season.

Good times.

Last night’s game was crazy. A game-winning catch in the final seconds. A throw and reception similar to the Super Bowl. A last-instant save of face and hope that will hopeful catapult the Steeler’s toward some kind of playoff chance.  And I believe.

I have to.

Javi keeps saying that this blog has cursed the Steelers. But I don’t believe in curses. And I certainly don’t think that the blog of one short Mexican girl will make any difference. But then again… I certainly think that having  faith means something.

After all, to quote Steelers coach Mike Toml, the Pittsburgh Steelers are

Not dead yet. The guys hung together, fought, made enough plays to win. We haven’t won in a while so it feels good. To keep it in perspective, we’ve got a little pulse here. Hopefully we can use this as momentum to get ready to play Baltimore next week, which is of course a very warm football team. Good to stay in the fight, good to win one for our fans, we’ve got the greatest fans in the world. Good to perform for them and get them something to be excited about here at Heinz Field. Today, I’m just as excited about that as I am getting that five-week monkey off our back.

I’m one of those fans. One of the “greatest…in the world.” So if they’re performing for me, then I’ll return the favor and not give up on them.

So now the name of the game is “wildcard.” Part of learning to watch football this season is trying to understand how this whole NFL system works. And it’s complicated. For the uninitiated, there are two conferences (AFC and NFC), with four divisions each (North, South, East, West). The four division winners for each conference (that’s eight teams total) play each other in the playoffs, which is run tournament style to determine who plays in the Super Bowl. That’s pretty clear, no? Nope. Because there are “wild cards.” Two slots per conference go to the teams that did not win their division, but beat everyone else.

But how do you beat everyone else? First there’s your overall record, against all the teams you play (six of your games in the regular season are against the other three teams in your division and conference, the rest of your opponents are distributed: some of which are in other divisions, some of which are in the other conference – how they put together the schedule is a ballet in and of itself). After that, there’s your record in your division, and then conference (which is unfortunate for teams that are good at winning against teams in the other conference, like the Steelers). After that, it goes to tie breaker. This shit is complicated, but it makes sense after you read it eight times and you start to understand the game.

Why does this matter?

Well, in the AFC (the American Football Conference) there are six playoff slots. Indianapolis and San Diego have cinched the top two and are now playing for seeding (the playoffs are seeded and the top team from each conference gets a bye to the next round). New England and Cincinnati each have 9-5 records, and are close to cementing their place in the playoffs (after all, even if they lose the next two weeks, they’ll both be 9-7, with tie-breakers and conference records to beat most everyone else). The problem lies in the two wildcard slots.

This is where shit gets crazy.

Baltimore and Denver both have 8-6 records this season. And on their heels? Jacksonville, Miami, New York, Pittsburgh, Tennesee, and Houston (in that order) all have 7-7 records going into the last two weeks.

So, for the Pittsburgh Steelers to make it into the playoffs, here’s what I think has to happen.

• Steelers win against Baltimore and Miami (duh).
• Denver beats Philadelphia.
• Denver loses to Kansas City.
• Baltimore loses to Oakland (Oakland’s on fire, they might do it!)
• The Pats beat Jacksonville and Houston (likely, although mad love to Houston)
• The Jets lose to Indianapolis (likely)
• Tennessee gets crushed by San Diego and (hopefully) Seattle

Well, here’s to hoping that this is how it plays out. Then we’ve got a shot at either wild card slot. If Denver wins, then we really have to destroy the Ravens. If the Ravens beat us next week, we’re out. We’re done. We’re dead.

Maybe.

Case and point: The text of a note I found at the Crazy Mocha in Bloomfield.

Dear Joseph
how are you? It occured to me today that thousands of cartoon artists are drawing every day, many of which are, I expect, coming up with new super heroes. One who can lift trucks but only certain models (ford) at certain times of the day (3pm-4:15pm), one who can point the furthest distance, one who can travel back in time but never forward again, etc. etc, hundreds weekly. One that can make Autumn come 2 weeks earlier… Surely out of all of these hundreds of thousands, one looks just like you. You’re a super hero!
Love, Lenka + Michael

Finding this note (ps, the whole note is [sic]) today made me very happy. Well done, Lenka and Michael. I really hope Joseph felt a little like a super hero when he got your note.

Happy, Thanksgiving, everybody.

Jamie Bono suggested Pictionary. Well, I offered, I have a clipboard, some paper, and a permanent marker. But what about the words, everyone said. And then I remembered the basket of writing prompts.

A year ago or so, a few friends (some of which were also at game night a year later) came over and we decided to do writing exercises (English department nerds are the best kind of nerd, in my opinion). So we wrote a bunch of words and phrases on slips of paper and put them in a basket. Slips of paper with “sanity” and “sexual” and “Mexican dare games” written in the scrawling hands of people used to grading student essays.

Well, these words came out for pictionary. And yes, it was the nerdiest nerdly nerd-nerd fest that “English Graduate Student Writing Prompt Pictionary” evokes. So, a faculty member in the English department, a chef, a chemist, an optical engineer, and a bunch of English graduate students played a strange drawing game (without any artistic skills between us, too).

Here are the fruits of labor.

“Sanity” by Adri. No one guessed it.

“Sexual” by Eric Fest. We played boys versus girls. The boys all got this.

Brad’s version of “Melodrama.” He writes “fail” because his team surely did.

Shelagh keeps it clean and puts the girls back on the board with “Eruption.”

Jamie Root doesn’t have to do much to get us to guess “pattern.” We know this shit.

For some reason, the boys are unable to guess Seth’s “Cruelty” here.

Amy over-explains “dissection,” lambasting the girl team for not grasping her pictorial interpretation.

We decided to put more words in the basket. This was, of course, a  mistake as I took the opportunity to put in the strange. Poor Seth had to contend with my phrase “serpent face.” Interestingly enough, the boys got it. I laughed about this for days.

Effective. Awesome. “Mouthwash” by Adri.

Eric was going for “pantaloon,” but instead drew guesses from Brad like “genocide pants.”

Shelagh keeps it simple with “fraternal.”

I think this was supposed to be “black hole,” but the evening turned a little hostile at this point.

I’m missing a couple for some reason. I’m going to go look for them (I distinctly remember Bono’s version of “hero,” which I’m hoping the scanner didn’t eat). They’ll be up here as soon as I get them.

[EDIT:  Here are the ones I missed. ]

“Mechanical” by Amy Lueck. I’m pretty sure no one got this.

Jamie Bono keeps it simple with “Hero” and people guess it immediately.

I’m not sure about this one. It’s been a while now (I write this edit much later), but I think someone got this. I think Jamie Bono had a perfect record.  [: end of EDIT]

In the meantime, enjoy the ridiculousness.

I wanted to share a podcast of me reading from my manuscript thesis (tentatively titled La Violencia) available at Hot Metal Bridge (the University of Pittsburgh’s graduate literary journal).

I apologize for the podcast editor’s crummy job (she accidentally overlaid some audio during the introduction); she should be reprimanded—or flogged. People take these things seriously around here.

Lessons learned so far? College football and professional football are different (again, this is “duh” for some of you, but for me… new). My second lesson: the Steelers, in particular, are a stressful team to watch .

Mostly because I know they are good. They are very good. Which means that when the defending Super Bowl champs, and the team that’s won the most Super Bowls ever, fails, it’s really hard. They should be better. They can and have been better.

The win over the Titans set a good tone—the Titans are a good team. They’ve done well in the past and I would never count them out. Although, I guess this season has not been too good for the 0-6 Tennessee Team, as they recently lost (terribly and embarrassingly) to the Patriots (59-0).  Which just proves that in football, being good is no reason to succeed.

After Jeff Reed missed two field goals (something I simply don’t understand, although most everyone says I’m being way too harsh oh him. I know he’s only missed three field goals out of the last sixty or so, but still. He missed twice when it mattered) and the Steel-City lost to Chicago, I was bummed. I thought it would only be a fluke. It was, after all, the kicker’s fault (and oh, the Ace Ventura quotes that kept popping in my head, “laces out!”). But it established an interesting trend for the next few games—a trend of fourth quarter comebacks, from the other team.

Chicago scored 10 points in the fourth quarter, winning 17-14. Cincinnati (a team I’ve always hated for Oiler type reasons) scored 14 points in the fourth quarter, to win 23-20. San Diego scored 21 points in the fourth quarter, coming back, but still losing 38-28 to the Steelers, only because our offense managed to score 10 points as well. If not, the game would have been tied. Detroit scored seven points, and thanks to a healthy Pittsburgh lead, were kept at bay 28-20. And yesterday, the Cleveland Browns only managed a field goal during the last quarter. In four out of the five games, the Steelers haven’t been able to get it together to score during the last fifteen minutes of the game.

Why do we peter out at the end? Is because we’ve (metaphorically) blown our load during the first forty-five minutes and are too weak to defend? Or are we complacent? Do we know we’re good, and simply not care?

I don’t know. What I do know is that this needs to change. The boys need to wake up and get their shit together. Polamalu is back. Our Running Backs have either turf toe or idiocy with which to contend (no offense Mendenhall, you’ve been brilliant, but sometimes you do seriously dumb things, like not come to practice or learn plays, but you do attend the Pittsburgh Poetry Slam, sometimes, which is awesome), but that’s not the defense’s fault. The offense is still connecting. Ben Roethlisberger, although heavily sacked, keeps connecting that ball. In fact, yesterday’s game was amazing. He has over 400 passing yards, which according to Brad, may be some new kind of record for him or something. (We just looked it up, it’s his second best game, three years ago he passed for 433, which is a little more than 417.)

There is more to be said.  I’ve been taking notes, but one of the things I’ve realized is that note-taking and analysis do not a fun blog post make. What I do know is that I’m still learning.

Apparently you’re down till you’ve been touched. A push of sorts. Which I think is a nice metaphor. Until someone knocks you down good, you can always get up and keep going. Turf toe be damned.