There used to be more personal essays on Hmm, I think. For obvious reasons, it feels more vulnerable and insane to publish them now than when the newsletter went out to a couple thousand inboxes. Now it’s akin to screaming into a megaphone. Don’t love that. But here we are. This is what happens when I don’t have a World Cup or a Widow’s Bay or a Weird Wedding to write about. I have to write about myself. Jesus.

This week finds me in the pre-trenches: preparing to survive my well-documented least favorite month, August. Strengthening my mental and emotional reserves, if you will, which has not been easy, what with the absolute fuckery of the last couple weeks. I normally hehe-haha at the Mercury retrograde of it all, especially as it seems to happen multiple times a year and well I can’t be regularly blaming the stars for my troubles like some sort of Homeric1 side plot, but this time … this time … I am nodding in fervent agreement with every single esoteric astrology page my algorithm brings forth, I am emphasizing every text making even the barest reference to the Planets That Be, and whenever the light pollution clears up enough for me to catch a glimpse of a star, I am frowning and shaking my head at it so that it knows I’m mad.

But anyway, we’re August-prepping.

Summer has always felt like a prelude to autumn. A period to grit my teeth and Get Through™ to reach crisp October mornings and cozy sweaters and the feeling of not being drenched in sweat the second I dip a toe outside my apartment.

Yes, like most girls who at some point in their lives had an Audrey Hepburn poster hanging in their dorm room, I do favor autumn. Sue me. It’s a classic for a reason. But in the last few years, I’ve come to resent having a favorite season. It means when it inevitably ends, I’ll feel maudlin, the way you do as a child when January hits and you have to wait a whole year for the holidays to start again.

(Forgive me, for I’m about to come frighteningly close to self-improvement language. But do not worry. The below approaches Kant more than it does Robbins.)

What I’m trying to tell you is that for some time now, I’ve been training myself to enjoy the summer. I used to hate it. So much. Probably by virtue of growing up in Miami, a place where summer abounds to the exclusion of any other season. Apparently I require a sense of scarcity to find pleasure in something. We will not be digging any deeper into that.

It’s taken me a few years and a good amount of insufferable introspection, but I did eventually figure that I’d rather find a way to like something than continue abhorring it just to stick to precedent. Better to conserve my ire for more deserving subjects: multiple heads of state, J. K. Rowling, men in salmon-colored shorts, groups of friends on crowded sidewalks who insist on doing the Sex and the City walk instead of simply separating and walking in twos. What happened to sharing the road?

Slowly, then, upon realizing this was a bit of a beat ‘em/join ‘em situation, I bullied myself into not just surviving, but looking forward to summer.

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Spain beat Argentina 1-0 in extra time yesterday and won the World Cup for the first time since 2010, earning its second star. Luis de la Fuente’s squad stayed consistent to its defense-heavy style of play that favors patient possession over flashy offense and, once again, it paid off.

Spanish football is so risk-averse, so controlled, so measured, that it usually results in rather few goals—for both sides. To watch Spain play can be frustrating. Sometimes even boring.

In fact, in last week’s recap I wrote that:

If watching France play is poetry, then to see Spain and England on the pitch is a study in prose.

It’s work, and the effort is visible. I can appreciate it, even if the style of play rarely really excites or inspires me. In other words: I never assume Spain or England will win a match, necessarily, but I’ve seen enough to know that they will eventually put their playbook to work and whether by set piece, penalty, or break, pull out a goal and defend stubbornly enough to maintain a lead. It’s hard to tell if this will be enough to beat France or Argentina, respectively.

There’s something to be learned from this, maybe, beyond my in the future, be less wrong note to self. Watching Spain dominate the game yesterday, staying so faithful to their strategy that in 120 minutes of play they only allowed Argentina two (2) shots, neither of them actually on goal, was, yes, a study in prose, but it was also a lesson in discipline. In not being afraid of letting the work actually look like work. Because beauty and poetry are lovely, but without the necessary element of victory by their side, they pale in comparison to their humble cousin, effort. Which is a bummer, because we’d like to believe that talent and flashes of brilliance are all we need to capture a win, but isn’t this almost better? A means to level the field?

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Who knows. Maybe I’m just trying to find a way to justify my more or less erroneous takes from last week. I’ve talked so much shit in the last five weeks, it was bound to happen eventually.

Because last Sunday, I also said that:

Maybe I’ll have to eat my words when France plays Spain on Tuesday, but this World Cup, it’s hard to imagine Deschamps’ men scrounging for a win.

God forbid a girl take a risk and put herself out there. Personally, I hate that in order to be recognized for being right, you have to be willing to be loudly wrong. Do not love that. It’s bad enough being wrong on the Internet, but to be wrong because I was defending the French? God, I almost deserve this. It’s just penance and I accept it.

In my defense, the France that showed up to the semi-finals (and while we’re at it, to the third place match) was not the same France that had played up to then. And sure, that was in large part due to Spain’s destabilizing defense, but there also seemed to be something of unpreparedness. As if France—like I and so many others—had bought into its own hype so much that they considered the semis a small hurdle on the way to the final. A fait accompli, a mere 90 minutes away. Except that it wasn’t, was it. Not at all. It’s like they did it on purpose, to make me specifically look bad.

I was happy with the result, though. For a second there at the end it looked like Argentina might score (another) last-minute goal, and while it’s not that that would’ve been unfair, because I don’t think such a thing exists in football, I do think it would’ve meant the better team lost. And that’s no fun.

For the last time, here are a few moments from the final that sent me into outer space:

1. That half-time show.

It’s not that I’m opposed to the concept of a half-time show, even if it is a bit unorthodox for a football game. I understand that it’s an Americanization/bastardization1 of the sport, and like, okay, sure, but there are worse things than a half-time show. It’s just that it was a No Good Very Bad half-time show, with maybe the exception of Shakira, who has become a World Cup fixture in a way I’m very amused by.

Because why, pray tell, was Jason Sudeikis as Ted Lasso there? Why were the Muppets there? It is embarrassing to be like ah yes the epitome of American ingenuity and culture: the Muppets. I know a lot of people out there love the Muppets. But can we be serious for one second. Like, there comes a point when going back to the drawing board is the only option.

2. Oh, Ferrán.

Do you understand how satisfying this was? All tournament, my Spanish friend and I have been anguishing over the fact that Ferrán Torres’ main claim to fame this World Cup has been a very pretty face and a historically excellent haircut. Like, books will be written about the life-changing power of a good barber. The looks could not be denied, but given that he is technically a football player and a forward, we—alongside every Spanish person I spoke with—were wondering if, perhaps, he couldn’t also score a goal.

He tried so hard, after all. Some time between the 60th and 70th minutes, Ferrán would be subbed in, hair inexplicably already wet, and, match after match, try his absolute very best, running all over that damn pitch for a chance to get a good shot. The goal kept eluding him.

Until yesterday. In the 105th minute, in a game that looked for all intents and purposes as if it would go to penalties. But starting with a beautiful pass from Pedro Porro a few feet from the box, a header from Nico Williams left the ball at Ferrán’s feet, and there he went, scoring for the first time since June 4.2

It’s just nice. Proving yourself.

3. We have to discuss Trump’s refusal to let Spain have their moment.

I was embarrassed. If you watched the trophy ceremony, you know what happened: after every Spanish player received their medal, Trump handed the captain Rodri the Cup. Wish that were the worst of it. But no. Because when Rodri went to stand at the front of his squad to lift the trophy and celebrate with the team, it turned out that Trump had turned himself into a fixture, just on the outer edge of the group, close enough to be pictured in the photographs, as if he, someone who in the last few months has called Spain a “loser” and threatened to cut off trade with the Iberian country, deserved to feature in any sort of Spanish celebration.

Gianni Infantino, a man for whom dignity is a mere memory, jogged across the platform in the way only bootlickers can, sporting a humiliatingly nervous grin as he pulled at Trump’s sleeve in an effort to move him away from the celebration, much like a substitute teacher in charge of a riotous middle school classroom. To no avail. Trump remained, and although most outlets have done their best to crop him out of the photos, you can still see his monstrous little outline. Ruining things.

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I could also talk about Nico Williams’ disallowed goal from a foul that wasn’t a foul, or how VAR was mysteriously out of commission yesterday, but you know what … I won’t, because all’s well that ends well.

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Now that the tournament is over, I look forward to recovering the dredges of my sleeping routine. To feeding myself something a touch more nutritious than beer and fries. To working on my small talk, which for five weeks now has ridden the coattails of “did you see the match last night?” and “are you seeing the match tonight?” and “what specific devil do you think Infantino has sold his soul to?”

There’s been a lot to criticize about this World Cup, much of which we’ve discussed over the previous four recaps. And yet I know I’ll find a way to miss it. How couldn’t I, when over the last month and change I’ve watched so many games with friends and strangers alike, suffered and rejoiced, produced more sweat than I ever thought possible, witnessed my best friend becoming a football fan in front of my very eyes, and gotten to use this space to chat with so many of you about the sport I’ve been watching since birth?

So thanks for sticking around. I promise to stop writing about sports for a while. And indeed, if you’ve made it this far, you deserve to know that today would’ve been my grandma’s 81st birthday. She didn’t particularly care a single iota about football, but probably watched more of it than all of us combined thanks to the collective influences3 at work. Feliz cumple, abuela.

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I keep accumulating books at a rate inconsistent with the space at my disposal. A problem for future Clara. From April to June, I read 12 novels—a very satisfying stat of one book a week, I suppose, and what’s a life if not a collection of satisfying statistics?

Looking back, the theme to this trimester was carving out a bit of distance from so-called millennial literature. Of the 12 books I write about below, only three were written within the last twenty years. I think I’ve grown a bit weary of the quiet, impersonal tone often struck by contemporary literature, and lately I’ve been searching for something louder, more dramatic, more committed to the development of a story rather than the curation of a vibe. You’ll likely notice what I mean if you keep reading—my frustration with more recent reads is more evident than I’d have liked. But here we are!

As a preview, here are my April to June novels in the order I read them:

Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh

Orlando by Virginia Woolf

The Serpent and the Wings of Night by Carissa Broadbent

The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky

The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark

The Sorrows of Young Werther by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

The Hunters by Claire Messud

Cannery Row by John Steinbeck

Audition by Katie Kitamura

The Sandcastle by Iris Murdoch

Kin by Tayari Jones

Una novelita lumpen by Roberto Bolaño

My thoughts on the last six are below the paywall, alongside a completed (updated) iteration of this graph, possibly my greatest creation.

Let’s get into it:

Brideshead Revisited: The Sacred and Profane Memories of Captain Charles Ryder by Evelyn Waugh (1945)

I am soooo glad I read this while there was still a crisp chill to the air. To read Brideshead in the summer would’ve been a waste: this is a novel meant to be read under blankets, preferably beside a warm and/or alcoholic beverage. Like, you expect me to read a line like “I detected a jejune air that had not irked me before” in the summer??? Wearing shorts?? Absolutely not. Would be undignified.

This was comforting in the way that Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca was comforting, in the sense that reading about upper class denizens’ frequent insistence on wreaking painful havoc on their own lives, often with a deceptively placid pastoral background at our disposal, is never not enjoyable. To read Waugh here is to observe a set of mostly unlikable characters finding ways of repeatedly hoisting themselves by their own golden petards (Because of Society), and then acting surprised when the hoisting is indeed successful.

I don’t want to make this sound like a comedy of manners sort of novel—it’s not. Like I said, it has more in common with Rebecca than with Mansfield Park.1 However, there were so many lines that made me think of this tweet:

Lines like:

All the term I had been seeing rather more of Anthony Blanche than my liking for him warranted. (57)

Rex Mottram exerted himself to make an impression …. One quickly learned all that he wished one to know about him. (141)

In Europe my wife was sometimes taken for an American because of her dapper and jaunty way of dressing, and the curiously hygienic quality of her prettiness … (295)

Apparently he’s one of Lord Copper’s middle-aged young men on the Daily Beast. (343)2

It was essentially like reading about Frasier Crane’s melodramatic exploits (the highest compliment I could pay any work of art).

Orlando by Virginia Woolf (1928)

More than my well-documented appreciation for my beloved Modernists, the primary reason I went for this book was Jacqueline Harpman’s Orlanda, which eagle-eyed readers might remember I inhaled and loved at the end of last year.3

Given how Orlanda was inspired by the decades-earlier Orlando, I figured it was high time I took a look at the source material. And as per usual when it comes to Woolf and her pen, I was not disappointed. Even if I weren’t taken with the centuries-spanning tale of our titular nobleman hero, who ages at a mysteriously glacial pace and who eventually—inexplicably—wakes up in the body of a woman, I would find the turns of phrase Woolf employs a worthy enough reason to keep reading. Phrases like “at least a score of poor wretches were drowned by their own cupidity” (41), “With the superstition of a lover” (39), and “Thought and life are as the poles asunder” (191).4

And then there’s the inevitable comparisons to Clarice Lispector that I simply cannot, for the life of me, help making. How can I, when I read lines like “For what more terrifying revelation can there be than that it is the present moment?” (213) dovetail so nicely with “She wasn’t obliged to follow the past and with one word could invent a course of life,” from Lispector’s Near to the Wild Heart, first published a mere 15 years after Orlando?5

Anyway. Loved this. Every year I toy with the idea of becoming a Woolf completionist; maybe this is the year I finally make a serious attempt.

The Serpent and the Wings of Night by Carissa Broadbent (2022)

This was a birthday gift from a friend with whom I share a weakness for the occasional romantasy novel (sue me!!!) and it was, predictably, a delight. I love a trope, I love an unrealistic heroine coupled with an equally unrealistic love interest, I love losing an entire afternoon to turning 400 pages of world building and smut and unnecessary subplots that I know for a fact everyone also wishes they could skip, and I love texting friends after to inform them that yes, the smut was good. Do I remember any significant details about this book? Absolutely not. Would I read it again? Most certainly.

The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky (1879) (trans. by Constance Garnett)

Have we not already discussed this ad nauseam in 2026? I’m tired of talking about it. Like, okay, I came, I saw, I conquered, I finally finished this damn book. They didn’t think I could do it and yet here we are. Am I glad to have checked it off my personal books to read before I die list? Sure. Will I ever read it again? Pretty sure that’ll be a nyet from me, babes.

The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark (1961)

I included this one in June’s “shortish books to bring with you on vacation,” and it’s because I had just finished it following a few reading sessions at the beach. It’s not flawless, but it is a perfect little afternoon read because Spark, as it turns out, was a little freak (complimentary). You come in to Miss Brodie thinking the titular teacher will be some sort of prim schoolteacher and very soon realize that no, actually, with more resources at her disposal Miss Brodie could lowkey have become a deranged cult leader-in-training. Inspiring!

This is my third Spark read and my hypothesis that she was absolutely batshit crazy (complimentary) continues its journey into solid theory.

The Sorrows of Young Werther by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1774) (trans. by José María Valverde)

I read this because a philosophy professor told me to. Months ago, I watched this lecture from Dr. Michael Sugrue, and his appreciation of Goethe’s weird little tale was such that, when days later I walked into a bookshop to kill time because wouldn’t you know it, my chronically late friend was once again late, I gasped upon catching sight of the Spanish translation in one of the little swiveling columns of Penguin paperbacks. I bought it and sat on a bench to read and wait for my friend.

if you’ll indulge me with a quick tangent on translations

Goethe wrote this in German and I first read the Spanish translation (by José María Valverde), but I was looking at the English translation (by R.D. Boylan and in the public domain given the 1774 publication date of it all) to share some quotes from the novel with you. It’s always interesting reading translations in a couple different languages, because you can see how the syntax of the translated work alters the meaning; for instance, towards the beginning of the book I underlined the following line:

Estoy contento y feliz, y, por tanto, no soy un buen cronista.

Which in English I’d translate as something like:

I am content and happy and, as such, have become a poor historian.

But the English translation on Project Gutenberg of this same sentence is as follows:

I am a happy and contented mortal, but a poor historian.

Do you see how it’s different? The cause and effect that the Spanish translation creates is neutralized in the English translation, such that the character’s poor chronicling is not due to his happiness or contentment, but simply a trait that happens to coexist alongside the happiness and contentment.

Because Of Who I Am As A Person, I did look up the original German (in Projekt Gutenberg, natch), which reads:

Ich bin vergnügt und glücklich, und also kein guter Historienschreiber.

Wow, Clara, I hear you say, I didn’t know you spoke German. I do not. Can you imagine how annoying I’d be about that lol. I am, however, unspeakably stubborn. And do you know what the several different translation systems I ran the sentence by concluded? That:

I am cheerful and happy, and therefore not a good historian.

So the Spanish translation, then, is closer to Goethe’s meaning than the English one. Much as it pains me to say it, this is why it made sense for Pete Buttigieg to learn Norwegian (?) to read that one book, btw. It really makes a difference, the ability to interpret the author’s original words instead of having to parse through a translation that by definition, no matter how gifted the translator(s), separates you from the original. I’m not saying I’ll be learning German anytime soon, but I do want to double down on my Portuguese so I can properly read Lispector (see above).

translation tangent over

Anyway, this was a profoundly melodramatic book, in the vein of Dante’s Vita Nuova in the sense that our protagonist falls madly (emphasis on madly) in love with a woman and decides to let it ruin his life.

We start like this:

That she loves me! How the idea exalts me in my own eyes! And, as you can understand my feelings, I may say to you, how I honour myself since she loves me!

And end as such:

I possess so much, but my love for her absorbs it all. I possess so much, but without her I have nothing.

Bit of a perfect summer read, actually: brief and insane.

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(I do owe you a Q1 books recap, and that is on its way, but please consider the fact that I have been ill, sleep deprived, generally overwrought, and on the verge of passing out multiple times over the last week. I am keeping my favorite brand of electrolytes in business all on my own and it is not just surviving, it is thriving. It’s humiliating and I’m seriously thinking about finally joining a gym in the hope that working out will make me a less fragile individual. But not to worry, the twelve books read April-June are being written about as we speak.)

Last time we spoke, Brazil and Norway were setting up to play. In fact, I was late meeting my friends at the bar because I was putting the final touches on the newsletter, and thank God, because I think that was the first World Cup recap I sent without typos or mistaken stats.

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I did, however, say this last week:

I’ll be watching Brazil v. Norway ahead of England v. Mexico, and while I do find Erling Haaland and the Norwegians charming, I am very much predicting a Brazilian win, and not just because I’m tired of the Viking row schtick.

Not only was my prediction wrong, I was also surrounded by more Norwegians than I’ve ever seen in my entire life while witnessing the effects1 of my wrongness. A grim existence I led on Sunday, but what doesn’t kill me, etcetc. I still do find the Norwegians charming, and I can begrudgingly appreciate Haaland’s commitment to court jesterdom, but I cannot say I was particularly upset to see them lose against England on Saturday. I know; I’m as shocked as any of you.

Which brings me to the following: now that we’ve reached the semi-finals, most of us have taken the time and arrived at the objectively correct conclusion. Anyone but Argentina.

Mind you—mind you—I was personally pleased in 2022 when Argentina beat France in the end. One of the most thrilling World Cup finals in recent memory, what with Mbappé’s frantic, heroic, and unhinged 97-second run in minute 80 to erase Argentina’s two-goal lead and deny Scaloni’s squad a win in regular time. I just rewatched that wild eight-minute period and suggest you do the same. For the endorphins. We deserve them.

But it’s four years later, and the vibes are different. The skill levels have shifted. The French team was good—great, even—in 2022, but to watch them play this World Cup is to watch a squad that has attained the Platonic ideal of football. There’s a rhythm and an understanding and a cohesiveness that is nearly poetic. Takes your breath away.

Maybe I’ll have to eat my words when France plays Spain on Tuesday, but this World Cup, it’s hard to imagine Deschamps’ men scrounging for a win. They haven’t, this entire tournament, been caught on the backfoot, had to dig deep to come from behind, or needed to make tough substitutions to eke out a win. The closest they got to danger was against Paraguay in the Round of 16, and those are circumstances unlikely to be replicated against either Spain on Tuesday or Argentina/England this coming Sunday.2

Here, for perhaps the last time, are the moments I’ve been thinking about from the fourth (!!) week of the World Cup:

1. Watching Egypt blow its two-goal lead against Argentina caused me actual, literal anguish.

This one hurt even more than the Cape Verde loss against Argentina, because Egypt had it. They were 1-0, then 2-0, and we could taste the historic upset before minute 79 hit and Cristian Romero scored the first goal for Argentina, followed by Messi’s equalizer four minutes later, and finally, at a devastating minute 93, Enzo Fernandez’s header that finished the job and locked Mo Salah’s squad out of the quarterfinals. 14 minutes of pure agony, made bleaker still by a few questionable refereeing choices that left the field open for a variety of conspiracy theories that may or may not hold water.

2. If watching France play is poetry, then to see Spain and England on the pitch is a study in prose.

It’s work, and the effort is visible. I can appreciate it, even if the style of play rarely really excites or inspires me. In other words: I never assume Spain or England will win a match, necessarily, but I’ve seen enough to know that they will eventually put their playbook to work and whether by set piece, penalty, or break, pull out a goal and defend stubbornly enough to maintain a lead. It’s hard to tell if this will be enough to beat France or Argentina, respectively.

But just for shits and giggles, I guess, here are my predictions for the semi-finals: France will win relatively handily in regular time and England will, by the skin of their teeth, win in extra time.3 Tuchel’s squad reads, to me, as hungrier than Scaloni’s, not to mention less dependent on one star player to deliver victories.4 They’ve also played a more diverse set of opponents than Argentina and I think that’s made them more adaptable. We’ll see how I do.

3. It’s hard to cheer for a squad whose striker brags about playing golf with Donald Trump.

Here’s Harry Kane, unaware that he’s making life difficult for the millions of people wishing to see Argentina fail on Wednesday:

His golf is pretty good, to be honest with you. I hope I can play golf as good as him when I’m his age, that’s for sure. A unique experience, but I was just grateful that he invited me to play. (BBC)

And in case you think I and the BBC are making this up, here’s the snippet from the press conference:

Why. Why. How do you have all those teeth and spout so much nonsense. Because for what reason might a person be grateful to spend time with Donald Trump, famously a blight upon the world? Jesus Christ. There is no winning.

Of course, let us not forget how earlier this year Messi joined his Inter Miami teammates at the White House and gratuitously posed for photos with Trump. Whilst smiling in public, which is something Messi is traditionally and historically against.

Do you see what I mean? Atrocious options we have at our disposal here. Scraping the bottom of the barrel. This is why so many people are rooting for France, btw. It pains me to say it, but the French squad is sitting rather pretty at the intersection of most skilled and least problematic. De-so-lée.

4. Uruguay might already have a new coach.

Gonna sneak this in here even though at this point it’s only tangentially related to the World Cup, but per the rapidly swirling rumors, it looks like following Marcelo Bielsa’s unceremonious exit, Diego Forlán has been tapped to lead Uruguayan football, at least temporarily. More as the story develops, I suppose, but I am cautiously—tepidly—optimistic. See you in 2030, babes.

5. Every World Cup, people remember and/or realize just how racist Latin Americans can be.

As a Latin American myself, the recurring nature of this is embarrassing.

Last week, we saw a Paraguayan senator hop on Twitter/X to racistly mock Mbappé’s background and appearance, to which the French player responded:

Madame Celeste Amarilla, you are a despicable woman and unworthy of your position.

You do not represent Paraguay, that country which has sweated passion and honour throughout the competition.

Through your recklessness and your brazen racism, the entire world has already forgotten the journey and the historic effort that your players accomplished during this World Cup, making way for an incompetent woman who gives the worst possible image of her country.

I will never allow people like her the freedom to spread their hatred and racism across the world.

That’s not all. During Argentina’s match against Cape Verde, there were multiple recorded instances of American streamer IShowSpeed, né Darren Watkins Jr., being on the receiving end of racist abuse from Argentinean fans in Miami’s Hard Rock Stadium.5

FIFA has responded with the boilerplate “racism has no place in football” statement, but the thing is, if you’ve ever attended matches between European or Latin American countries and African countries, none of these occurrences will be a surprise to you. The racism among is casual and pervasive, and while it is true that an individual or even a team cannot single-handedly eradicate a country’s or a fanbase’s culture of entrenched racism, it’s hard to imagine that someone with a platform like Messi’s would have no impact if he did decide to take a forceful and unequivocal stand against it. If wishes were horses and all that.

Again: this is in large part why people are finding it increasingly distasteful to root for Argentina. Behavior like this (rightly) becomes impossible to ignore.

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Anyway. Happy last week of the World Cup to us all.

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The truth is, I’ve already forgotten about Uruguay’s elimination. I mean, obviously that is a lie, but what remains true is the fact that I do not begrudge Cape Verde, our erstwhile groupmates, advancing to the knockout rounds instead of us. They were the better team.

My brother and I were beside ourselves live-texting that second half of Cape Verde’s match against Argentina:

To witness Cape Verde making Argentina’s life a living hell for 120 minutes … to sweetly chronicle the drops of sweat making their way down Scaloni’s face as he faced impending unemployment … to unlock my phone and text everyone I’ve ever met “are you watching Cape Verde rn??!” A beautiful way to end my Friday night, regardless of the match’s final result. This is, I fear, what the World Cup is all about. I think I still have goosebumps.

We were seconds away from a penalty shootout, which would’ve been historic if only to give Vozinha, Cape Verde’s quickly iconic goalkeeper, the chance to keep giving his millions of new fans the performance of a lifetime.

It took a lot of work from Argentina to beat the small island nation, and I need people to realize that this was not a matter of Cape Verde being lucky, or Argentina being unlucky (a mathematical impossibility, as you’ll know if you’ve any vague awareness of football)—the 3-2 outcome occurred because Cape Verde played well. They were disciplined, talented, and took strategic advantage of the pockets of space they negotiated out of Argentina’s half of the pitch. It was a joy to see them play.

Last week, I (correctly!) expressed doubt that Argentina would have as easy a time in the knockouts as they did in the group stage, and while I also (mistakenly!) suggested that Cape Verde wouldn’t be a significant obstacle to them, I’ve never been happier to be simultaneously right and wrong. Hedging your bets is good, actually.

Like, I have watched this Cape Verde goal dozens of times and I will see it dozens more before I hit publish.

It’s stunning. I know Isaac Newton is sitting up in his grave wondering if he fucked up his little physics calculations. If maybe, rather than laws, he’d come up with mere hypotheses, because the way this ball spun and curled through the air, traveling from Sidny Lopes Cabral’s foot to the far post to create one of the most beautiful goals in World Cup history and I mean that … surely that had not been baked into Isaac’s calcs.1

Again, sadly, I have to reiterate how glad I am to be watching an expanded pool of competitors this World Cup. Legendary football is everywhere if only we give it a platform and room to breathe.

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With that, here are a few moments I’ve been thinking about from the third week of the World Cup:

1. Egypt advances to the next round and every non-Aussie rejoices.

It’s hard to explain the extent to which Mo Salah’s happiness brings me happiness. I was at a friend’s when the penalty shootout started, so I brought out my little phone, propped it up against a half-empty water bottle, and subtly suggested we all direct our attention to the last few minutes of the Egypt v. Australia match.2

I love love love watching penalties among friends, especially when it’s not my team facing elimination. You can’t be bored by PKs. The stakes are so high, you will end up invested whether you want to be or not. It’s a beautiful thing. And to see Salah, on his last World Cup, carry his country to their first ever knockout match victory … the tears in his eyes were replicated rather easily in mine, I fear.

2. Senegal is eliminated and every non-Belgian weeps.

The Egypt win was a much-needed balm after witnessing Senegal’s tragic loss against a suddenly-scrappy Belgium on Wednesday night. A 2-0 lead from a consistently superior Senegalese side, destroyed within a 2.5-minute period because Lukaku decided that actually, he did have a bit of football left in the tank … broke my heart, and I say that as a fan of old Romelu’s.

I don’t wanna mince words: it is nothing short of a miracle that Belgium’s World Cup dream is still alive. They can’t believe it either, to be clear. Every time they get on the pitch it’s with a sense of awe and resignation. It would be fascinating if it weren’t also deeply frustrating.

That being said, I do think Belgium v. USA on Tuesday will, against all odds, be a thrilling match. The European country has apparently decided not to let a total absence of energy stand in its way, which will contrast nicely against the Americans’ unrelenting I-believe-that-we-will-win mentality. Choose your own adventure, delusion edition.

3. The enigma of tonight’s England v. Mexico match

I am at a complete loss: I have no idea how tonight’s round of 16 match between El Tri and England will go.

The head-to-head record tells us that of the nine times the two countries have faced off, England has won six times, drawn once, and lost twice. And sure, this sounds like a material point, until you realize the last time they played against each other was 2010. Sixteen years ago. Peter Crouch hadn’t even finished growing yet. Inception had just come out. I still had some tanks from Delia*s folded in my dresser. What I mean is: it’s a dangerous thing, relying on data made statistically insignificant by the passage of time.

Especially when Mexico has, by all accounts, been a strong team this World Cup, comfortably winning all their matches thus far, playing with both the sort of ease and grit that has at critical times been missing from Tuchel’s squad (see, e.g. long stretches of England’s battle against DR Congo). El Tri is a team that may not be frequently boasting flashes of brilliance, but they have been steady, and sometimes, in football, that’s preferable.3

And then, of course, there’s the Azteca Stadium of it all. Home-court advantage. The altitude element. Approximately the entire world rooting for Mexico.

What I think will ultimately result in a victory for England—that’s my prediction, alas, if not necessarily my deepest wish—is the fact that they’re not, as far as I can tell, underestimating Mexico as a rival. It’s why their match against Croatia remains, for me, the Three Lions’ most inspired game of the tournament thus far. They didn’t go in assuming they were the superior team and would therefore be guaranteed a victory. Manifestation and visualization are all well and good, but you have to leave room for the possibility of loss. Of suffering. Not to be dramatic, but survival instincts can only kick in upon awareness of death’s proximity.4

It’s a strange time to have access to my thoughts because I am not, at this time, actively rooting against England. Like, not rooting for them, either, exactly, but still—there is an element of conflict up there. I mostly just want an excellent, hard-fought game, and I think that’s what we’ll get.

4. Somehow, Portugal is still here.

There are certain athletes whose main purpose to me is that of vibe barometer.5 If I, for instance, just spitballing here, announce that I was watching Portugal v. Croatia, and someone I don’t know very well says something like, I was so glad Ronaldo made that penalty, that tells me more about that person than if they’d said something like, I occasionally wonder if the earth is indeed round. The latter is quirky, the former may lead me to question their moral fiber.6 The same works for Novak Djokovic, although I could quite easily imagine a Djokovic fan also being a flat earther. The consistency of it all, if you will. It tracks.

All this to say, I was distraught to see Luka Modric’s Croatia side lose to Portugal, not necessarily because I feel any sort of loyalty to Croatia even though I do have a soft spot for the team, but because that means I have to keep seeing Cristiano Ronaldo on my screen. The trials … the tribulations … never-ending.

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I’ll be watching Brazil v. Norway ahead of England v. Mexico, and while I do find Erling Haaland and the Norwegians charming, I am very much predicting a Brazilian win, and not just because I’m tired of the Viking row schtick. Respectfully.

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Impossible, I think, to start with anything but the alleged and rumored venue of Taylor Swift’s wedding to Travis Kelce, whose name, cross my heart and hope to die, I just had to look up, and to what deity can I pray to keep me this offline forever, my God. Anyway, the venue. Actually, no, let’s talk about the date first, shall we, because we never did do that, and July 3? To be so relentless in one’s pursuit of Americana and red-white-and-blue in this day and age, when your name is Taylor Alison Swift and your husband-to-be looks like a Walker, Texas Ranger extra?1

July 3 … It would be like Dick Clark getting married on December 30 … Mariah Carey on December 24 … Billie Joe Armstrong on September 30 … babe, what are we doing? And I do write “we” intentionally, because it is quite clear to me that this wedding is as much for the public as it is for Taylor and Travis.

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I realize the 1989 era and the summers with the Haim sisters and that brief trimester (?) when she and Tom Hiddleston dated loom large for a lot of people, what with the heyday of Instagram’s valencia filter and the time before people realized just how annoying Ryan Reynolds is, the sweet Halcyon days just before the arrival of November 2016 forced people to take a hard look in the mirror. One gets the idea that Taylor Swift is always trying to call us back to then—remember, she seems to be saying with her outfits and her fiancé and her gaggles of friends, remember when things were just fun and we all feigned obliviousness at the rising tide of fascism and I was bravely saying abortion should be legal in Tennessee?

But I fear we can’t be snatched back into 2014 by a mere invocation of curated vibes. It doesn’t work like that! If only it did!

The thing is it’s not that hard to tell when someone is posturing fun versus actually experiencing it. See, e.g., Dua Lipa, who also just got married—in Sicily, natch, because this girl genuinely cares about food and vibes more than anything in this world, more than any battery-operated neon sign at any matcha bar in New York or Los Angeles has ever cared about food and vibes—and is currently sharing snaps of beaches, ruins, pizzas, sunsets, bikinis, Callum Turners, churches, scenic drives, books, pasta-making classes, outfits … all hot, all enviable, but you can’t help but think ok this is a person who is living her best life for herself and good for her!

(Maybe this is all a roundabout way of me telling you that I myself posted a silly-adjacent 17-photo vacation carousel the other day and it made me feel free as a bird.)

When it comes to Swift, the sharing of her life sometimes feels less like a narrative and more a matter of persuasion. And that occasionally feels silly because grown people with oodles and oodles of resources at their disposal should not need to convince anyone of anything, much less that they’re having fun and are in love. Something-something about how living such a life is its own reward etcetc.

Sorry, I am well aware that some of you are gonna tell me I’m being unfair. That I’m comparing where I should be simply celebrating girlhood or whatever. Why are you pitting two successful women against each other, Clara—are you not a feminist? And I’ll take the criticism, sure, because honestly who asked me to write about this? Nobody. Except that, you know, arguably, by choosing to get married on July 3, and potentially at Madison Square Garden, Swift et al are, in a way, begging us to pay attention and write about it. Beyond the security aspect of it all.

So here I am. Following subliminal cues from Miss Americana herself. A classic case of the messenger begging not to be shot because frankly, look at the material. My hands are too heavy to bear this weight on their own.

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Anyway, I got home just in time to see Canada score the winning goal in the 92nd minute, taking them into the World Cup’s Round of 16 for the first time. Do you guys think Ontario-born Avril Lavigne was watching? Pop icon and British Columbia-born Carly Rae Jepsen? Congratulations to them and also, I guess, to Canada.

We’re here to talk about the second week of the group stage, though. But first, let’s do the elephant/room of it all: Uruguay is out of the World Cup, for which I received a variety of much appreciated condolences messages.

I want to say I’m devastated, and in a way I am, but mostly because there was no way that we, playing the way we were, deserved to reach the knockout stage. It’s not that Saudi Arabia, Cape Verde, or Spain were unbeatable teams, or that they delivered magnificent performances. Every game we played was a draw or a loss because of our own errors. There was no cohesion, no hunger, and a near-total absence of grit. It’s always frustrating to watch us play, for Uruguayans more than anyone, but this World Cup may take the cake.

Uruguay’s uninspired game against Spain—our last group match—caught me in Bilbao, where I had to keep my chill as the Spanish fans who surrounded me screamed semi-justified obscenities at the refs and the Uruguayan players. Shoutout to the siblings who briefly adopted me and walked me back to the hotel at 4am following the match’s conclusion.

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But enough about me and my suffering, etc.

If I had to draw a conclusion from the second week of the group stage, I’d say that among the countries considered the favorites to win at the start of the tournament, France is the one best living up to the predictions. Yes, both England and Spain won their groups, but I wouldn’t say they’ve been playing with the comfort and the ease of the French squad, who even among some tough opponents—Senegal and Norway, mostly—have performed with a level of skill and collaboration sometimes absent in these other favorites. They’re playing better than they did in 2022, as a squad with a keen understanding of exactly where each player’s strengths lie. Suffice it to say it does very much pain me to compliment les bleus, but what am I gonna do, lie?

A few moments I’ve been thinking about from the second week of the World Cup:

1. Mexico’s excellent performance.

Prior to the start of the tournament, you wouldn’t have seen Mexico on many of the Favorites To Win the World Cup lists, but they are one of three teams to have won all three of their group matches. The other two? Argentina and France.

The host country is facing Ecuador in the Round of 32 this Wednesday, and after the way Ecuador managed to eke out a win over Germany and cement its spot in the knockout rounds for the second time in its history … well, I think it’ll be a fascinating game, folks!

2. The chaos following the Uruguay-Spain match.

Sadly and unsurprisingly, I’m not done talking about this. Uruguay rendered a mediocre World Cup performance this summer, and on Friday night’s match against Spain, it felt like every error we made was coming to the fore. We created some opportunities, yes, but we also committed too many unnecessary fouls, lacked the energy required in what was essentially an elimination game, and allowed nerves to manifest themselves in regrettable and costly mistakes.

Mistakes such as:

There was enough time to regroup in the second half. To make some changes and deliver better chances. Was it a good idea to sub out Muslera, who’s been beset by increasingly weak wrists the last two weeks? To this day, I don’t know if it helped or if it simply added to the chaos and anxiety among the Uruguay squad. And then the aftermath … my god. Bielsa’s post-match meltdown. Uruguay’s football federation reportedly punishing the team’s loss(es) by canceling their charter flight. The rumors that have emerged of the arguments and tension in the locker room. It’s just all a hot mess.

Uruguay has already begun the search for a new head coach, and I just know that this performance will haunt national football for years to come.

3. Argentina and Messi.

There’s a running joke in Latin America about how Argentina always manages to be placed in relatively easy World Cup groups. And although I do hesitate to call any group easy, given the heroic performances we’ve seen from countries such as Cape Verde and DR Congo and the lackluster ones we’ve witnessed from countries like Belgium and, ahem, Uruguay, I do think there’s something to this, which is why it’s difficult to predict how Argentina will fare against more experienced and more skilled opponents.

There’s also the fact that of Argentina’s eight goals thus far, six of them were scored by Messi. Like, yes, he’s still playing at a level that Cristiano Ronaldo can only dream about, and congratulations to him on that, but when faced with a more challenging opponent than Jordan, Algeria, or Austria, will that overreliance on Messi prove itself a problem? I doubt—respectfully—Cape Verde will be much of an issue for Scaloni’s squad,2 but the quarterfinals are likely to be a different story.

4. Do not sleep on Colombia.

Thanks to whatever FIFA devil was in charge of scheduling the group stage matches, I haven’t been able to watch as much of Colombia as I’d have liked. That being said, I’ve loved what I’ve seen. Maybe because they were in a group with Portugal, who a lot of (respectfully!) delusional folks insist on calling a real contender because they’re stuck in 2010,3 but sharing the spotlight with Cristiano Ronaldo is never easy, and I suspect that is a large part of why their participation thus far has flown slightly under the radar. But it shouldn’t! It’s a confident and experienced team with a solid chance to go deeper into the knockout rounds.

5. Everyone reacted super normally to South Korea’s group stage exit.

So South Korea also saw a group stage exit, and they’re also not taking it particularly well. Head coach Hong Myung-bo has resigned and taken responsibility for the disappointing results, which seemingly was not enough, as:

[T]he national team’s official fan club Red Devils issued a statement calling on Hong to “kneel before the entire nation and leave the football world forever”. (BBC)

President Lee Jae Myung, meanwhile, said:

“I sincerely apologize to the public for the deep disappointment caused by this absurd situation. We will move swiftly to reform sports administration to ensure this does not happen again.” (AP)

As someone who occasionally relies on hyperbole and histrionics to process personal crises, I found this approach charming and relatable and not at all problematic. Well done, everyone.

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P.S. I urge you to watch DR Congo’s Yoane Wissa’s last goal against Uzbekistan from last night. Insanity.

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I never really know what time it is anymore, which is super fine and normal and above all healthy, actually. I do, however, know the population of Curaçao (155,000, give or take) and how many goals got past the small island’s legendary goalkeeper Eloy Room last night: ze-ro, baby. 15 saves to give World Cup debutant Curaçao their first point ever in the tournament.

Which brings me to one of my main points today: there were a lot of people who doubted the intelligence of expanding the World Cup from its traditional 32 teams to 48. I was one of them because I am, by virtue of strong historical evidence, suspicious of any decision taken by FIFA that reeks of CYA and/or financial motivations.2

But I have loved seeing teams I may never otherwise have seen play on the global stage—Curaçao, yes, but also Cape Verde (who plays Uruguay tonight, so forgive me if I’m slightly less enthused about Vozinha’s diabolical goalkeeping skills today), Haiti, Uzbekistan, Bosnia, Jordan, among others. A couple, yes, have been in the World Cup before (Bosnia in 2014, Haiti in 1974), but one (1) constructive thing we can say about the Internet and especially social media today is that it amplifies lesser-known players and teams in a way that traditional media never could.3

There were questions about the level of the football that would be brought to the World Cup when the tournament was expanded to include teams that, but for the expansion, would likely never have qualified. But what if I told you Cape Verde v. Spain was a much more exciting time than, say, USA v. Australia, a game whose most titillating minutes took place when the ref cramped and had to be stretched out by both an Australian and an American player.4

Yes, there have been a few bad games (Czechia v. South Africa comes to mind) and worse than that, a few boring games (Qatar v. Switzerland … why?), but that happens every World Cup. You can’t have several matches a day and expect fireworks every time. The key, though, is that while historic matches will not happen every time, you never know when they might hit you in the face—like last night’s Germany v. Ivory Coast, for instance.

Tl;dr: This is why it’s important to watch as many games as humanly possible. Because you just never know, and because you can sleep on July 20.

Considering how many more games we’ve had during this iteration of the tournament, actually, I’ve been surprised by the relatively level playing field.5 In comparison to previous World Cups, I don’t find there’s been a noticeable gain in bad/boring games this year.

To be clear, I do not in any way, shape, or form, feel called upon to hand it to Gianni Infantino et al, because I firmly believe that anything good that happens to and around football is strictly in spite and not because of that nefarious crew. More of a broken clock still right twice a day situation. You don’t get to take credit for a sunrise for merely opening the curtain.

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With that, here are a few moments I’ve been thinking about from the first week/ten days of the 2026 World Cup:

1. Back to that shocking Cape Verde v. Spain match for a second.

Despite dozens of attempts, Spain simply could not find the back of the net, and it was largely due to the heroic performance of Cape Verde’s keeper Vozinha (né Josimar José Évora Dias), a 40-year-old who only went pro at 25 and plays for Portugal’s second division, in case you wanna direct some inspirational talk your way in the mirror tomorrow morning.

Following this game, it became widely known that Vozinha’s mother had been unable to witness this tour de force because she hadn’t had time to gather the $15,000 bond payment required as part of the visa approval process.

Cape Verde is among 50 countries whose citizens face bonds of up to $15,000 to secure a U.S. visa, part of President Donald Trump’s broader crackdown on travelers from countries that officials said had high rates of visa overstays. The Trump administration last month suspended the requirement for ticket-holders from Cape Verde and four other World Cup nations, but critics said it was too late for many fans. (ESPN)

Following the public’s outrage to this tragic set of circumstances, the visa was expedited, fees were waived, and Vozinha’s mother is now expected to attend tonight’s game against Uruguay.

For the nth time, Trump et al refuse to understand the most important reason why a country should want to host an event as expensive and as chaotic as the World Cup: the exercise of soft power. To tangle one’s own culture so intimately with the beautiful game and welcome fans from all over the world, and in so doing, convince the world that actually, you’re not so bad!6 Instead, what this American administration is doing is hopping on a global platform and showing everyone that their preconceptions about our government, actually, were pretty much on the money. Well done, everyone. Just racking up unforced errors, one day at a time.

2. Cristiano Ronaldo stays losing.

I just. When DR Congo equalized against Portugal late in the first half and kept the European country at bay for the rest of the match, denying the aging Portuguese striker the chance to celebrate? That was so special to me.

I’ve recently become aware that Ronaldo, in the year 2026, still remains in possession of some shooters, including in my own social circle, and the news shocked me to my core. I won’t even get into the rape allegations because they’re somewhat legally murky, but a player who accepted a €200 million/year contract to play in the Saudi league and is universally considered an egomaniac by the majority of the football world? That’s your man?? Anyway. As always: If Cristiano Ronaldo has no haters, it means I’m dead.7

3. We must briefly speak of Curaçao’s goal against Germany, and that nirvanic 17-minute period during which the game was tied at 1-1.

I am really rather original in that I love an underdog, and the idea of a small Caribbean8 island with a population of around 155,000 making 4-time World Cup champion Germany sweat for a bit? Baby, that’s what the beautiful game is all about. And sure, Germany later came back to score six more times, but you simply cannot take away the thrill and the joy of Curaçao’s first goal in their first World Cup.

(By the by, after seeing Germany barely eke out a win against (a very strong, to be fair) Ivory Coast last night, I’m starting to doubt the likelihood of them making it too far into the knock-outs. I don’t say this as a hater because I actually like the German style of football and think their recent victories have been well-earned, but—they’re not looking as solid this time around, are they?)

4. America’s treatment of the Iranian national team.

Another low point of which I know you’re all aware. Cruel and embarrassing.

Iran has said that 15 members of its delegation have been denied entry into the United States. On top of that, the visas of those who have been allowed entry are structured in such a way as to require them to enter and leave the U.S. on the same day as their matches, which is not a stipulation placed upon other teams and which quite clearly places the Iranians at a tactical and practical disadvantage.

An initial peace deal between Iran and the U.S. was signed earlier this week, which should mean the restraints on the Iranian delegation are loosened, but that would assume an exercise of logic and rationality from the Trump administration, and it saddens me to say that I am simply not an idiot and that I have eyes and that my brain remains capable of drawing inferences from relevant precedent. But hey, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe come this afternoon, Trump himself will be down in Los Angeles at the Iran-Belgium match, respectfully shaking coach Amir Ghalenoei’s hand. A huge time for naked delusion, the World Cup.

5. Allow me a moment of bitterness.

This is the South American in me, but there’s something about both France and England both handily winning their opening matches that does not sit right with my spirit.9

It’s hard to draw any sort of conclusions after a single match, but the Senegal side France beat 3-1 was strong, and although this Croatian team is inferior to the one that knocked out England in the 2018 semi-finals … they’re not an inconsequential opponent, and 4-2 is a fairly convincing victory. I’ll be playing close attention to France v. Iraq on Monday and England v. Ghana on Tuesday, but it’s unfortunately looking good for these former champions. Starting to have some difficult conversations with myself, I fear.

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P.S. I know everyone and their mother will be rooting for Vozinha and Cape Verde tonight and I get it (see above re my usual underdog preferences), but if you could spare a little thought for Uruguay, it would not be remiss! I wouldn’t hate you for it! That’s all!

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What have been your favorite (and least favorite, I suppose) moments from the first ten days of the World Cup? Tell us about them! x

Thanks for reading! You can find me on instagram. The newsletter is fully supported by readers, so if you often find yourself thinking I enjoyed that and also I happen to have disposable income, please consider sharing the newsletter with a friend and/or becoming a paid subscriber for $6/month or $40/year. If not, honestly, that’s fine, too. I get it.

Folks. Babes. Friends. Fellow World Cup watchers.1 I have been watching Widow’s Bay, a series on Apple TV, a platform whose output toggles so faithfully between mediocrity (see: Stick and, bringing me no pleasure to say this, Your Friends & Neighbors), in[s]anity (see: The Morning Show and Drops of God, two series I’ve seen every episode of, to be clear) and genius (see: Severance, Bad Sisters’ first season, Slow Horses) that every time I press play on a new show I brace myself for impact. Box of chocolates and all that.

Apple TV is the finest purveyor of whiplash this side of the Atlantic, which is why I was nervous when I read that Widow’s Bay was a comedy-horror series set in a fictional island east of Massachusetts. A Kirkland-brand Martha’s Vineyard. But as aforementioned, I more or less trust Matthew Rhys, who leads this cast, with my life, in large part because no one can deliver a line like this and not receive my eternal gratitude and devotion:

Needless to say—and I swear to god this is not sponsored even though Apple should really consider bringing me under their (seemingly meager) marketing budget, because I watch a lot of television and have a lot to say. Not all good, sure, but isn’t all press good press, etc—anyway, needless to say, I was immediately invested in this kooky cast of characters. I love kitsch and I love eccentrics and I love moody little islands where strange people of indeterminate ages frolic and flail.

What is Widow’s Bay? It’s a show with the campiness of Scooby-Doo, the small town eeriness of Twin Peaks, and the off-beat humor of Arrested Development. (And if I said Widow’s Bay was Riverdale’s older sibling, what then? What then???)

It is also the funniest series I’ve seen thus far this year.

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The island, we are told from the first episode, is waking up. Strange things are happening—storms, creatures not of this world, floods, Chris Fleming selling fucked up mushrooms from a weathered couch manufactured no later than 1951.2

On top of it all, there’s a pesky little problem slash (sub)urban legend: whoever is born on the island cannot leave. If they do, they might find themselves a little—well, dead. It’s a bit of an issue.

At the center of all this is Rhys’s Tom Loftis, our creepy little island’s mayor who only wants to make Widow’s Bay a tourist destination to rival Martha’s Vineyard—or, at the very least, Bar Harbor. Beggars, choosers, etc. He wants the island to outgrow its demons and its backwoods nature. To eventually procure a cell phone tower. To become a place from where his son—famously born on the island—can leave without facing near-certain death.

He’s essentially Belle twirling around her Alsacian village, begging people to be less rustic. More ambitious.

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I’m sad/happy to tell you that it is June 11 and we are officially mere hours away from the start of the World Cup—shoutout to Mexico and South Africa for kicking us off. Indeed, if FIFA weren’t one of the most corrupt organizations in the world, I would omit the “sad” from the previous sentence, because unfortunately, the summer of football that takes place every four years remains one of my favorite events. I enjoy it more than the Olympics, more than my own birthday, more than Christmas, more than that period of summer when every year we all silently agree to avoid labor for several weeks.

But that little Zurich-headquartered self-governing and self-regulating body run by literal clown Gianni Infantino insists on rendering me and millions2 of others fools. Embarrassing. Nevertheless, we persist. We probably shouldn’t, like there comes a point when persistence is both futile and a mistake, but here we are. Persisting anyway. Like idiots.

The 2006 World Cup is the first one I really remember watching; we were visiting Uruguay for the summer and watched most matches from my grandparents’ living room. Uruguay hadn’t qualified but Italy, where we’d lived a few years prior, had, which meant that we watched the final with bated breath, trying not to cheer too loudly so as not to antagonize my grandfather, who’d attended French school his whole life and was the kind of francophile that would3 drive adult Clara up the wall.4

For 20 years, then, I’ve been pausing my life for four-six weeks every four years; for at least half of that time, I’ve been doing so begrudgingly and guiltily, knowing that anything that monetarily benefits FIFA should not receive this much of my attention. I mean:

And that doesn’t take into account the long list of issues bedeviling the current iteration of the Cup, such as:

• Gianni Infantino: Fifa president accused of breaking rules after giving Donald Trump peace prize - BBC Sport

• Infantino’s Yearslong Effort to Woo Trump for the World Cup - The New York Times5

• World Cup 2026 visa chaos: from referee Omar Artan to Iranian officials – who is affected? | World Cup 2026 | The Guardian

• 2026 World Cup tickets: FIFA confirms use of dynamic pricing - ESPN

If you want to read a comprehensive survey of 2026 World Cup controversies, our beloved Wikipedia does have you covered.

Then there’s also the fact that since at least 2014, I’ve marveled (derogatory) at Alexi Lalas’ ability to delude Americans into thinking he’s at all qualified to comment on and analyze football. His whole career is an ode to mediocrity and it made me angry even before I learned that he searched for his own name on twitter.

But. But but but. I love to stay up late and wake up at ungodly hours to watch teams I know next to nothing about play each other. Like, June 23, Jordan v. Algeria, 11pm EST? I will be there. I will, for the duration of the tournament, become the biggest fan of players and coaches I haven’t even heard of yet. I just know there’s a young breakout star from a country I’ve never once had even a passing thought about just waiting for my five-week unconditional support. And I’m ready! Maybe I’ll become an expert on Uzbek football. We don’t know! The summer’s just getting started!

All this and I haven’t even mentioned Uruguay; long-time readers will know it’s where I’m from, and football fans will know it’s our fifth straight time heading to the World Cup. I’m not making any predictions, because it’s pointless and because it really is an honor just to be nominated (see: qualify) but there are unfortunately few things as stupidly pride-inducing as being from a small country and watching your team perform on a global stage. It’s why people root for underdogs. It’s why we were excited when Morocco beat Spain and Portugal in the knockout rounds to reach the semis in 2022 (more on Morocco below).

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Anyway. Once again it will be a fraught time, balancing the joys of the tournament with the trials and tribulations caused by FIFA and the American government. You’ll find me here writing about it, surely.

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As a reminder, due to the 48 countries participating (as opposed to the usual 32) there are 12 groups this time around as opposed to the usual 8.

Here are a few groups I’ll be paying particular attention to:

Group C

Brazil

Morocco

Haiti

Scotland

Brazil is certainly the most likely to emerge as leader of Group C, but I’m curious to see how Morocco plays after the nightmare that was the Afcon final. The whole world seemed to be rooting for Morocco when they reached the World Cup semis back in 2022, and for a while it looked like they’d enjoy that support again in 2026, but few people were pleased with how Senegal’s victory was bureaucratically—and, if I may, nonsensically—snatched away months following the Africa Cup of Nations final match. A mess. Lastly: I feel like Haiti got the short end of the stick with this group.

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Group H

Spain

Cape Verde

Saudi Arabia

Uruguay

Hopefully self-explanatory. Yes, Spain and Uruguay are the favorites to take the top two spots, but I think it’ll be a harder group than people assume—Saudi Arabia, if you’ll recall, beat Argentina 2-1 at the 2022 World Cup group stage. And Spain has underperformed at every World Cup since taking the trophy in 2010: they didn’t get past the group stage in 2014, and were knocked out in the round of 16 by Russia in 2018 and Morocco in 2022. So.

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Group I

France

Senegal

Iraq

Norway

I refer you back to the Afcon debacle to explain why I will be rooting for Senegal, in addition to the former colonizer versus formerly colonized of it all. That being said, France’s team remains rather strong, coming off a convincing Champions League win for Paris Saint-Germain under which several squad members play … I don’t really see any other team leading the group, but I do think it’ll be a pretty fair fight between the remaining three countries for the runner-up spot. It’ll be a great few matches.

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Group L

England

Croatia

Panama

Ghana

I don’t think any of them will scroll down this far, but I have more English friends than I used to have so I can’t openly disparage Thomas Tuchel’s squad.6

However, I will say I never fail to find the “bring it home” chants funny.7 I mean, I appreciate enthusiasm paired with delusion as much as the next girl, but the conviction inevitably elicits a fond little chuckle. And the amount of controversy surrounding the omissions from the 26-man squad … like in no world should I know who Cole Palmer is. Nowhere in my head should reside the notion that “Harry Maguire should probably have been called up, too.” And yet. Here I am. Having my little thoughts about England’s football team. I do think they make it out of the group stage and into quarterfinals, but no further. And you know what? Quiet as it’s kept, this is actually one of the trickiest groups—I predict Ghana or Croatia take the top spot and England the second. Respectfully!

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Tl;dr: Happy World Cup, everyone. Let’s never forget how awful FIFA is. If you have thoughts, predictions, arguments, opinions: let me know in the comments. This is the main—maybe only—subject I’ll want to talk about for the next five weeks.

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When I think of vacation/beach reads, I don’t necessarily think of light subject matter, but of physically light novels. When I’m traveling and frolicking, I don’t wanna carry a heavy book in addition to the sunscreen, phone, keys, wallet, years-long collection of crumpled receipts, and hand sanitizer of it all. A girl’s gotta impose a few limits on herself. If not me, who, etc.

Languid, portable prose is what we’re looking for here. Stories to while and wither away the long summer days. I mean, I like committing to a massive novel as much as the next girl, but during the hottest months of the year I prefer to switch it up—I enjoy a revolving door of shorter works. Tl;dr: I’ll wait till October to finally tackle Middlemarch.1

With that said, below is a list of 212 books I have brought or would bring with me on vacation or to the beach or to the pool or like, to the park on a sunny day. To a coffee shop after work, even. Work with me here. Summer is a time to photosynthesize, you just gotta find a place to do it. I’ve kept them all under 250 pages, which was challenging, so please clap.

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Asterisks denote books in translation (nine of 21!), and the links are to my bookshop.org affiliate shop, although as per usual, I strongly urge you to visit your local bookshop, if only to marvel at the deranged and incredible novels the staff is recommending.

(Scroll to the end to find the completed graph referenced in the below:)

Shortish books to bring with you on vacation, etc.

1. The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark (1961) (160 pages)

2. Cannery Row by John Steinbeck (1943) (224 pages)

3. Hamlet by William Shakespeare (1601) (140 pages)3

4. The White Album by Joan Didion (1979) (224 pages)

5. Last Summer in the City by Gianfranco Calligarich* (1970) (192 pages)4

6. This Is How You Lose the Time War by Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone (2019) (198 pages)

7. A Man’s Place by Annie Ernaux (1983)* (96 pages)5

8. Heartburn by Nora Ephron (1983) (192 pages)

9. So Much Blue by Percival Everett (2017) (236 pages)6

10. The Story of a Shipwrecked Sailor by Gabriel Garcia Marquez* (1970) (128 pages)

11. Valentino and Sagittarius: Two Novellas by Natalia Ginzburg* (1957) (134 pages)

12. Vita Nuova by Dante Alighieri* (1294) (128 pages)7

13. No One Is Talking About This by Patricia Lockwood (2021) (224 pages)

14. The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway (1952) (160 pages)8

15. The Carrying by Ada Limón (2018) (229 pages)9

16. The Short Reign of Pippin IV by John Steinbeck (1957) (176 pages)10

17. Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger (1957) (176 pages)11

18. Greek Lessons by Han Kang* (2011) (192 pages)12

19. First Love by Ivan Turgenev* (1860) (112 pages)

20. Água Viva by Clarice Lispector* (1973) (88 pages)

21. Perfection by Vincenzo Latronico* (2022) (136 pages)

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And now, for the chart:

Does this (and the 349 footnotes below) make me look deranged? If he saw it, would Fox Mulder put together a cute little personality profile? The project kept my emotional support Canva tab open for hours, so I can’t begrudge it.

Happy reading, friends.13

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Thanks for reading! You can find me on instagram. The newsletter is fully supported by readers, so if you often find yourself thinking I enjoyed that and also I happen to have disposable income, please consider sharing the newsletter with a friend and/or becoming a paid subscriber for $6/month or $40/year. If not, honestly, that’s fine, too. I get it.

It’s not just now, and it’s not just the number one seed.2 Professional athletes and teams have been sponsored by sports apparel companies for a long time. But lately, the sponsorships have been getting out of control. Over the last few years, they’ve begun to take more of a starring role rather than lying discreetly in the background.

Brands in sports are not novel, of course. I know that; we all know that. The first time I remember becoming aware of the intricate post-match pre-interview preparation routine was watching Roger Federer’s jaunty little off-white sports coat following his victory at Wimbledon in 2006. I went down a deep YouTube rabbit hole that I’m pretty sure concerned my coffee shop neighbor, and it looks like the year prior, Federer’s only sponsored addition was a watch. No blazer for Wimbledon in 2005. Just vibes and sweat. The way sports should be.

Somewhere in the mid-2000s, then—incidentally, during logomania’s heyday—brands decided to up their stakes. To leverage the attention athletes were drawing from ever-growing audiences and engage in a little additional zhuzh. As a treat. Make every fan a future consumer of as many items and brands as possible. And why not! In 2006, people were famously buying things! More was more!

If you’ll allow me a spot of wild conjecture and generalization, it does make sense that in the years of excess prior to the global financial crisis3, Nike, in its infinite wisdom, decided that it was not enough for a player to wear their kit—their one measly kit, peasant stuff, really—on the court. No. A costume change was necessary. Roger Federer would now have to pack a cunty sports coat beside his extra rackets and protein drinks, and he would wear it, along with his Rolex, while lifting his trophy in front of whatever royal family member was around that day. One wonders how much more he was paid for this. One hopes it’s a lot—the very idea of putting on clean clothing over a four-hour build-up of sweat … in front of thousands of people … well, it should be expensive, is all I’m saying.

I was on a non-date recently when the subject of sports and advertising came up. Naturally. It’s either that or AI, these days.

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When the subject of John Travolta pops into my head, in a frequency that is surprisingly not never, here is the breakdown of what I think, in this exact order: long-time Scientologist (see also: does he know Elisabeth Moss?), bald because of Pitbull (see also: has Pitbull ever googled Scientology founder L. Ron Hubbard?), and flies planes semi-professionally (see also: do he and fellow Scientologist Tom Cruise discuss aviation and plastic surgery together?).

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(I am so sorry for this but I desperately need you to indulge me in a Brief But Very Important Tangent because while doing my own googling, which I’ve apparently been slacking on, I found out that in the late 1970s, several high-ranking members of the Church of Scientology (including Mrs. L. Ron Hubbard) were indicted on grounds of espionage against the U.S. government, just a few short years after the Scientology founder and his minions were caught plotting to—I’m so serious—take over the town of Clearwater, Florida. Unrelatedly, I’m sure, Travolta’s $100 million residence is located in Ocala (horse capital of the world, baby!), a Floridian metropolis a mere two-hour drive from Clearwater. The twists and turns of this story have kept me up at night. Thank God for science fiction writers turned alleged cult leaders hiding in the California desert until their mysterious deaths.)

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But back to the berets. Person Who Shows Up At Cannes With Fits Worth At Least Three Watercooler Conversations is not one of the categories within which I’d classified John Travolta. He’s not Bella Hadid. Like, I just checked his IMDb and the most recent thing I’ve seen him in was the unfortunately-excellent O.J. season of American Crime Story, much as it pains me to ever compliment Ryan Murphy.1

(A second brief but very important tangent has hit the newsletter because once a month, I kid you not, I think of David Schwimmer as Robert Kardashian mournfully and repeatedly and disappointedly saying, “Juice …” to Cuba Gooding Jr. as O.J. Simpson. A career-best from Schwimmer.

I was going to bury this one in a footnote but the compilation video—I think we all needed to see it.)

Back again. Unexpected, no, to wake up on a Monday morning to images of John Travolta in berets? But who am I to forsake a bit of secondhand joie de vivre? Such a thing would be foolish of me, and lately I’ve been trying my best to, quite specifically, not be a fool.

Which means that when I see a 72-year-old man at Cannes wearing an outfit almost uncomfortably reminiscent of my outfit, donned in 2018 at Versailles, itself inspired by Audrey Hepburn’s Paris outfit in Funny Face2 … well! Life is hard, and I’m gonna take this moment as a GIFT is what I’m gonna do.

Which obviously leads me to:

Anyway. Shoutout to whimsy. Travolta said his ode to the French pseudo-intellectual (I say this with love) was actually an homage to the “old school directors [who] wore berets and the glasses.” 100%, man. For sure.

I’ve been watching too much television but it’s quality stuff

I finished watching the Apple TV+ series adaptation of Rufi Thorpe’s gorgeous novel Margo’s Got Money Troubles (2026) and I think it might be my favorite book-to-series adaptation since Normal People? No spoilers, but—if I’m remembering the book correctly—they seem to have excluded just one major plot point, and while it worked very well in the novel, I don’t think its exclusion actually weakens the series. It’s also one of the best-cast productions I’ve seen in years … Elle Fanning carries it exquisitely, but I was particularly delighted by Michelle Pfeiffer and Nick Offerman’s turns as Margo’s parents. If no one’s got me, I know David E. Kelley’s got me.3

Before that, I’d watched Los Años Nuevos (2025), a series that had been sold to me as the Spanish response to Normal People (accidentally sticking to a certain theme today, it appears). It’s a love story—I guess—told over the course of ten episodes and ten years, each of which takes place on a different New Year’s Eve. Ana and Oscar are 30 when they meet in the first episode, and the comings and goings of their lives and relationship(s) and heartbreaks and joys over the next decade … well, folks, it wrecked me a little! I was spiraling between may this love never find me and may this love find me immediately. A perfect show to watch on a lazy Sunday if you’re gonna be depressed anyway.

I’ve also been keeping up with Widow’s Bay (2026), which Apple TV classifies as a comedy-horror series (why not)—it’s good, and I’m not just saying that because after The Americans, I’d quietly follow Matthew Rhys to the ends of the earth.

And lastly! Last night I finished Hal & Harper (2025), a limited series starring Cooper Raiff, Lili Reinhart, Betty Gilpin, and Mark Ruffalo, and I had a great time. Like, I definitely cried every other episode watching these two deeply codependent twenty-something siblings try to figure out their lives, but I had a great time. The series is tonally similar to the Dakota Johnson vehicle Cha Cha Real Smooth (2022), which Raiff also wrote/directed/created. A real Marc by Marc Jacobs situation we’ve got going with this guy, but it’s fine, it more or less works. He wields a sort of earnest and self-deprecating millennial humor that may not work for everyone, but Hal and Harper is slightly less self-indulgent than Cha Cha, mostly because Raiff gives his co-stars more time to shine and I, for one, believe Reinhart continues to be severely underrated.4

I hate to bring up Sally Rooney again, but if your favorite part of Intermezzo was the sibling relationship between Ivan and Peter, then you kinda need to watch Hal & Harper.

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P.S. I’m working on a summer book guide of sorts inspired by my favorite disassociation setting: the beach. Fair warning, what makes a beach read for me is portability, which does not necessarily align with literary levity. Like, Kafka wrote short novels. I won’t let myself get overtaken by existentialist reads, and we all know that I do not scoff at romance novels, but … far be it from me to mislead anyone. Steinbeck will be on the summer book guide.

Thanks for reading! You can find me on instagram. The newsletter is fully supported by readers, so if you often find yourself thinking I enjoyed that and also I happen to have disposable income, please consider sharing the newsletter with a friend and/or becoming a paid subscriber for $6/month or $40/year. If not, honestly, that’s fine, too. I get it.

Everlane, the formerly high-flying Millennial direct-to-consumer basics brand, is being sold to Shein by its majority owner, L Catterton … The deal, which values the company at $100 million, was approved by the board on Saturday …. L Catterton and Everlane’s current C.E.O., Alfred Chang, had been searching for an investor to clear about $90 million in debt—a $25 million loan from Gordon Brothers, and a $65 million asset-based revolving credit line. (Puck)

(I think we’re not discussing the $100 million valuation2 enough … like, with respect to the American dollar, that is pocket change. A measly 5% of the Eras Tour ticket sales. In this economy? With inflation the way it is? I don’t wanna embarrass anyone, but these are not serious numbers.)

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Now, I can’t and won’t lie to you: this did tickle my funny bone. I remember when Everlane was a little-known San Francisco-based brand quietly favored by a Suits-era Meghan Markle, who wore their eventually-somewhat-ubiquitous logoless tote on one of her first public outings with Harry (and why must my brain be burdened with this information at the click of a synapse like I did not have to look this up and that is probably at least one of the reasons why I can no longer perform long division by hand).

Talk of this brand, which for a long time I believed was Canadian because that is how unassumingly it positioned itself, really takes me back. Mostly to one of my most annoying acquaintances back in New York, who used to brag about how she was shopping at Everlane way before the first brick-and-mortar store opened in Soho in 2017, thank you very much, like she was personally responsible for single-handedly saving the rainforest all because she bought leather flats from Everlane and not, like, Steve Madden. God, it is so hard to be in theoretical agreement with self-righteous people. Makes you understand why the messenger is always getting shot.

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Let’s lay the personal cards on the proverbial table, then.

I’ll admit that circa 2016-2021 I did buy quite a few pieces from Everlane: I was literally living in New York and going to law school; when the company created a target demographic they had a picture of my anxious little face on their marketing decks. Still, I’m proud to say I never took a stab at their weird little flats. I have this irrational hatred against campaigns to make ugly shoes appealing to consumers. Apologies for having eyes, I guess. This is incidentally also why from an aesthetic perspective, Rothys have never failed to viscerally upset me.3

So yes, I was a fan. I hadn’t yet figured out the impossibility of ethical consumption, and I loved the idea that through equipping my closet with various unassuming shades of black and beige and grey I could also do my part in like, rebuilding the Great Barrier Reef.

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It’s not that I’m a bury-my-head-in-the-sand girlie. In fact, the only thing I have in common with ostriches is weirdly long legs for our height.1 Frankly, I’m an overly observant person who loooves self-awareness. But I’ve learned to curb my destructive little habits, which is how I know that paying too close attention to the cruise industry will bring me nothing but grief. Therein lies madness, etc.

I say this as someone who has been on a cruise ship. In college, to be fair, so it comes very close to not counting, but still. I was there, I remember it.2

The truth is I do not think cruise ships should be real. Beyond the theoretical and the historical, I mean. There’s the Titanic situation, yes, that’s a big one, although I do think the “Rose had room for Jack on the door” engagement bait is a flashing sign of our crumbling literacy, but there’s also the Petri dish of it all. Like, there are people who don’t shower at night going on these cruises. Breathing in stale air like it’s Eden.3

These companies really said let’s get hundreds or thousands of people together in a steel cage for several days—weeks!—and hope for the best. And you know what, let’s offer them unlimited alcohol while we’re at it. Make it a real party. Let’s give germs a good chance to flourish and evolve. I love that. The optimism of it. Breathtaking.

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Then there’s the fact that I don’t love going anywhere I can’t leave without a high chance of perishing. I still quake in fear when I think of the Scientology service I attended at sixteen to appease my curiosity, giggling with my summer camp friends as though we weren’t risking our chances of ever being prescribed anxiety meds. I mean, yes, I got a lot of mileage out of it, they still talk about the stories I told that July, but nevertheless—insane of me. Crazy, the things a person will do while waiting for their prefrontal cortex to finish cooking.

Do you remember the OceanGate submersible that exploded in the Atlantic back in 2023? At the time, I wrote,

That feeling of vastness we feel in the middle of the ocean isn’t peace—it’s the foreboding sense of being somewhere we don’t belong. There is a reason why very dramatic people (Virginia Woolf, Kendall Roy) are so attracted to the sea as a means to an end: as it repeatedly tries to tell us, it is not meant for us.

I stand by this.

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But women’s stories matter, so let’s tell the story of Reese Witherspoon’s AI journey.

When an industry, a stance, a technology—etc—becomes controversial, there are few actions more productive to proponents of the same than to collect and/or assign and/or recruit a few female spokespeople. Respectable women. Titans of industry, even. Vocal defenders of the female plight, as most perfectly evidenced, wouldn’t you know it, by their own individual plight (overcome, of course, via vim and perseverance—how else to become a titan of industry, an honorary member of the old boys’ club? Do keep up!).

I see what’s happening here, by the way. I see what supporters (see also: investors) of AI are attempting. The playbook is insultingly conspicuous. They’re trying to make the usage of AI a matter of feminism. As someone burdened with the questionable gift of an absurdly excellent memory, I can tell you right now: I have seen this film before. The Powers That Be, if you’ll allow me a bit of triteness, looove to drape problematic behavior in the fineries of Big Feminism.

This is of course the Trojan horse that there’s a special place in hell for women who don’t support other women let in. That was huge. Meant that any criticism of women, however valid, needed to be diluted by a painstaking three-paragraph introduction (see above)—a justification detailing why exactly we’re allowed to engage in such critique: do we not believe in gender equality? Name three women you would die/kill/go into crippling debt for.

God, how tiresome. How distracting. How clever, the imposition of the notion that to be a powerful woman means, necessarily, to be a feminist, and thus immune to rebuke.

Enter Reese: Oscar winner, forehead-haver, person partially responsible for keeping the lights on my sleep paralysis demon series The Morning Show, and co-founder of Hello Sunshine, a multi-media company that’s produced shows like Big Little Lies, Daisy Jones and the Six, and The Last Thing He Told Me. Hello Sunshine’s stated mission is to amplify female-driven stories—a laudable goal, to be clear! One I appreciate! I love women’s stories! I’m living one myself!

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Hello Sunshine’s business model has historically relied on novels or memoirs written by women—these are promoted via Reese’s Book Club (part of the Hello Sunshine corporate structure because if you wanna get ahead in this world you simply cannot skip the synergistic subsidiaries!) and a lucky few’s film/television rights are bought by Hello Sunshine so that, within 12 to 18 months, they can reach us, the consumers, via Hulu/Netflix/Amazon/Apple TV. A one-stop shop for women who support other women!

This brings us to the reason we’re here today. A week or so ago, Witherspoon hopped on Instagram reels and peppily declared that we need to get on board with genAI, because at her ten-woman book club she asked who among them was using AI and only three of them raised their hand, and of those three, only one said she really understood AI. This troubled Reese.

Several things about this reel are interesting to me. Anyone who’s dabbled in video content—a population that includes yours truly, if you’ll recall—is aware of how intentional this composition is.

Forget for a moment the concept of the scientific method, with which Witherspoon seems to have dispensed for this thorough and bias-free study on AI female usage.

(Is it possible, perhaps, that some of the seven women who didn’t raise their hands are ethically or morally against AI? Maybe they would like to retain the ability to put together a sentence or complete a task without outsourcing brain cells to a company guzzling millions of gallons of water and stealing intellectual property from artists? I don’t know! Seemed like it might’ve been a worthy follow-up, Reese!)

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This Sunday, as I accidentally walked 13.4 miles, shot photos of approximately 137 building façades, consumed three to five cups of mediocre coffee1, and ate my body weight in french fries, my mind kept wandering back to the Holy See, famous for its art collection, its starring role in Conclave (2024), and for being the funniest country (“country”) an overzealous student could be assigned to represent at a Model UN conference.

When last year the newly elected Pope turned out to be not just American, but midwestern, I had to physically restrain myself from literally whooping. For a few days, I’d be out with friends and have to hold back from breaking into a little did you guys hear about the Pope? A Chicago man! He’s probably also seen While You Were Sleeping (1995) and had impure thoughts about Peter Gallagher and/or Bill Pullman! Like, I’m used to a momentary shock of patriotism during the Olympics, but I never expected it to come roaring back over the election of an American Pope. A humbling moment.

Like, in no world do I want to share a source of happiness with one J.D. Vance, vice president and adult convert to Catholicism with credible ties to grim reaperdom.

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Lucky (?) for all of us, the president and his lackeys are currently engaging in a unilateral tiff with the Vatican for preaching the egregiously offensive, unnatural, and of course overly liberal values of … caring for thy neighbor. Practically heresy, that. Trump is upset, you see, that the Pope is following the teachings of one Jesus Christ and suggesting that immigrants should be treated like human beings. That entire civilizations shouldn’t be threatened with extinction by the sitting president of the United States.

Humanity??? Perish the thought, said Trump’s Jesus, showing us that actually, maybe we can create new and inventive stories from old IP. It’s time for a new New Testament, folks!

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