Like ceviche in a sports bar

Plus, final days for free shipping on signed books

Thanksgiving is the most American holiday. Its ancient symbols of gluttony, greed, and violence manifest as an overabundance of food, Black Friday deaks, and the National Football League.

I didn’t go to Puerto Vallarta to avoid Thanksgiving but I didn’t realize how thoroughly I’d erased the holiday from my mind until we went to a restaurant at the hotel that Nuvia wanted to check out.

“You want to go to a sports bar?” I asked when she showed me the listing.
“The menu looks good,” she said.

Usually, I’m the one trying to coax Nuvia into places where we might be able to catch a glimpse of an LA Dodgers or NY Giants game, but not this time. After taking in the sunset on the beach, sleeping in, and lounging by the pool with a virgin pina colada, American football was the last thing on my mind, but there we were, venturing into a sports bar. It was like stepping out of Mexico and into America.

The room was packed with white Americans, most of whom were dressed in Packers gear. They were all clustered around the biggest television screen I’ve ever seen that boomed commercials for pick-up trucks and auto insurance.

I love football in the way I love many problematic things like punk rock and drugs. As a veteran of the Navy and recovering alcoholic you could say my whole identity is problematic. Watching the occasional football game on Sunday, Monday, or Thursday and sometimes Saturday is probably the least problematic thing I do.

Most of the people were gazing reverently at the screen and they didn’t see us come in, but those that did looked at us with suspicion and scorn. We were both dressed in matching floral shirt and shorts. (Meaning my shirt matched my shorts, not that we wore matching outfits, though I suppose the argument could be made that we matched by dint of our complementary aesthetics.)

We ordered ceviche and for the first time in a week I felt a tinge of apprehension. The hotel was decent. The restaurant had good reviews. We were in a fishing port, after all. But ordering ceviche in a sports bar is a line one shouldn’t cross. Like having a baptism in a toilet. You can do it, but why in god’s name would you want to?

But when you’re a pescatarian in Puerto Vallarta on Thanksgiving, you go with the flow. Thankfully, the ceviche was fresh and delicious, but watching everyone else in the joint plow through pitchers of beer and platters of chicken wings while the Packers upset the Lions made me think about times in my life when I was in one place and wishing I was in another and trying to make the most of it. Was that what these people were doing?

I didn’t think so. No one seemed to be enjoying themselves very much while they sat and stuffed themselves, grimly watching the game, and when it was over there wasn’t a whole lot of joy in the room. Then they all got up and went… somewhere. Were they retirees? On vacation? Members of a sad cult?

I’m a fan of the New York Football Giants. Sadness and football have become intertwined to the point where they are more less the same thing, but if I’m going to drag myself away from paradise to watch my team win a game they were supposed to lose, I’m not going to be a sad bastard about it.

I’m not sure if this counts as one haiku with four stanzas or four haikus but here it is/they are:

Is it too late in
this godforsaken season
to say, “Fuck Aaron

Rodgers?” Scream it on
the fifty-yard line of the
frozen tundra of

social media,
but fucking say it until
the clock stops ticking

for me and you on
this godforsaken season
of relentless doom.

Tune in next week for a sonnet about combat sports.

Free shipping ends next week

I’m still offering free shipping on signed copies of all my books. I’ll send them anywhere in the US. Just tell me who you want them inscribed to and what to say and I’ll take care of the rest. Click here for more details or reply to this email and we’ll get it sorted.

Thanks to everyone who ordered books so far. I got a bunch of orders the first week, but none last week. [Sad face with implied guilt emoji] Remember, you have until December 6 (i.e. next Wednesday) to get your orders in.

Santiago, Chile?

I love going back to places over and over again, becoming familiar with a place I don’t live, exploring new spaces, acquiring history along the way, even if it’s intensely personal. Long-time readers know my fascination with places like Barcelona, Cushendall, Mexico City, and Merida.

I don’t, however, always do a good job of telling people in advance that I’m coming. So I’m going to put this out there.

Next month I’m going someplace completely new: Santiago, Chile. As usual I’ll be tagging along with Nuvia, exploring the city and finding places to write while she works with the city’s educators. Why Santiago?

In the first 55 years of my life I had zero opportunities to go to Chile. How many will I have in the next, um, 55 years? (Chuckles darkly)

Plus, how can I turn down a trip to Chile when I’m in the middle of writing a novel inspired by a Chilean novelist?

It’s a long way to go, but fate compels me. If you have any recommendations for places to visit, bands to listen to, books to read, or where to start with Pablo Neruda, please share with me in the comments or simply reply to this email.

Thank you. See you next week. Also, why does this go so hard?

If you’re new-ish here and you liked this newsletter you might also like my new novel Make It Stop, or the paperback edition of Corporate Rock Sucks: The Rise & Fall of SST Records, or my book with Bad Religion, or my book with Keith Morris. Message from the Underworld comes out every Wednesday and is always available for free, but paid subscribers also get Orca Alert! every Sunday. It’s a weekly round-up of links about art, culture, and science you may have missed while trying to avoid the shitty news of the day.