A STUNNING GOAL THAT SHOULD INSPIRE EVERYONE: BREAKING DOWN ROSE LAVELLE’S 69TH-MINUTE CRACKER DURING THE 2019 WOMEN’S WORLD CUP FINAL, U.S.A v. NETHERLANDS.

The U.S. Women’s National Team began their title defense by celebrating thirteen times—often garishly—against heavy underdog Thailand. Some spectators, including this blogger, took umbrage to those unwarranted dances, in effect, the big team lording it over the much smaller side well after the competitive portion of the match had concluded. As the Women’s World Cup wended onward, the U.S. would experience the sport’s encroaching parity, scoring thirteen times over the ensuing six matches. The team’s swagger never wavered, though, and they applied it throughout intense 2-1 triumphs against Spain, host nation France, and England, a team which, arguably, could’ve dethroned the Americans in the semifinals, but for an offside flag and a saved penalty. The battling spirit of the American women even clashed with the White House as an enjoyable Twitter feud erupted between President Trump and co-captain Megan Rapinoe, an indefatigable star and buoyant spokeswoman. Rapinoe converted a fortuitous second half penalty in the final against the brilliant Dutch goalkeeper, giving the U.S. a deserved lead with thirty minutes to play. Had they triumphed against The Netherlands one-nil, the Women’s National Team would have lifted the trophy all the same, jumped around a champagne-soaked locker room after receiving their medals, and returned to the U.S. with a freshly bolstered claim to receive the same pay as the U.S. Men’s National Team (who’ve never won a World Cup quarterfinal). Yet the match still required a reminder of why pundits call football “the beautiful game.”

The call is best in Spanish, but that video has been deleted!

This one features the entire play as well as Chariots of Fire.

While many may dwell in the world of the outcome—midfielder Rose Lavelle’s stunning cracker—the play began with defender Crystal Dunn, who tackled the ball by going to ground. Midfielder Sam Mewis created the opportunity for a counter by controlling the ball and dribbling it toward the center of the pitch before passing. On rushed Lavelle, who charged right into the counter-attack, driving the ball up the heart of the Dutch defense, aided by Rapinoe, Alex Morgan, and Tobin Heath, whose runs forced the defenders to maintain their shape; otherwise, the defense might have collapsed on Lavelle or forced her to pass. Lavelle did four crucial things in a flash: (1) she turned the defenders inside out with her graceful quickness, (2) she didn’t reveal her intentions re: passing or shooting, (3) she created space for the shot with a last-second right-footed touch; and (4) she struck the ball as well as anyone—male or female—can hit a football, just as the two center backs converged in an effort to block her attempt. The midfielder celebrated in fabulous form and let’s talk about her celebration. Unlike Rapinoe, who often strikes a pose, Lavelle jumped into the arms of her teammates, and not just the ones on the field, but she rushed to the sidelines where she leapt into the arms of the bench players. (We’re not knocking Rapinoe—we admire her play and her tweets.) The goal crippled the Dutch, who probably revered it as much as we did. As you know, the game ended two-nil, with Lavelle having scored the thirteenth of the goals that followed the first thirteen against Thailand.

After the competition had ended, the media declared that boys (in addition to girls) could draw inspiration from the USWNT. We agree with this of course, but why stop there? This blogger is an old bloke well-removed from his meager athletic efforts, and I’ve watched the goal a preposterous number of times. Some of my writer colleagues scoff at the importance of sports, but they’re wrong to be that way. Win or lose, sportswomen like Lavelle and her teammates teach us about brashness and technique; they teach us about the wildness (or wilderness) of the moment. I wonder how many girls, boys, and adults can name even one player on the U.S. Men’s National Team, when they can probably name a goodly number of the starting eleven on the women’s side, who deserve, by now, the same treatment as their underachieving and lesser-known male counterparts (who could always join the “diving team” if “soccer” didn’t work out.) The goal, meanwhile, will be admired for years to come. Forza Lavelle!

need right-wing alexa? we speak with her for the third time

need music? check out lost rock ‘n’ roll classic “rumble on the docks”  

RUMBLE ON THE DOCKS.

We hadn’t posted a lost rock ‘n’ roll classic in a while, and in choosing one, we wrestled with plenty subgenres—party, sleazy, bright, country-tinged, horror, celebrity-in-the-making, tenor sax honker, and so forth—but the climate these days is more than vaguely contentious so we went with pugilistica magnificat “Rumble on the Docks,” a rowdy surf-punk tune which originally appeared in 1964 on the Sandé label, no, we don’t think this song is directly related to the 1956 crime noir movie of the same title, nor do we think the band name—Aquanauts—is directly related to one or more television series of the same name, no, Dear Reader, this is just a hard-cranking tune which will make you propose amorous encounters to another lovely person immediately, make you reach for the whiskey, make you turn up the volume, make you jump for two minutes (plus residual lifelong jumping), and make you drive fast, although not in that order necessarily, no, the order is up to you, Dear Reader, although we recommend amour first, always.

need sport? we deconstruct rose lavelle’s cracking goal at the women’s world cup

need right-wing alexa? we speak with her for the third time

ANOTHER CONVERSATION WITH RIGHT-WING ALEXA.

      —Hey, Right-Wing Alexa.

      —Yes, Rusty?

­      —What is Anderson Cooper’s status right now?

      —Flummoxed.

      —And two hours ago?

      —Flummoxed.

      —And two days ago?

      —Flummoxed.

      —And two years ago?

      —Two years ago, it appears that Anderson Cooper was Dumbfounded.

      —Right-Wing Alexa?

      —Yes?

      —Please cancel my urology appointment.

      —Again?

      —[…]

      —Is that prudent, Rusty?

      —Please cancel my urology appointment!

      —Canceling now. Should I order Lite Beer?

      —Lite Beer after every cancelation.

      —Got it.

      —Hey, Right-Wing Alexa?

      —Yes, Rusty.

      —Tell me a blonde joke.

      —I am equipped to tell a gender-neutral, universal hair-color joke.

      —[…]

      —[…]

      —Can we, uh, switch to that “other mode?”

      —1970s Mode?

      —Yes, yes, yes.

      —Entering 1970s mode. Okay, so a blonde goes into a dog-walk park.

      —Yeah?

      —There, the blonde sees a dog and a turtle.

      —Yeah?

      —So, the blonde says: “That dog has a carapace.”

      —[…]

      —Get it?

      —No!

      —Yo, Right-Wing Alexa!

      —Yo, RUSTYYYYYY!!!

      —[…]

      —[…]

      —Is this Right-Wing Alexa?

      —No, this is Center-Left Alexa.

      —Where’s Right-Wing Alexa?

      —She is marching for reproductive rights, at this very moment.

      —She most certainly is not.

      —Actually, she’s fetching a bearclaw.

      —Can you help me?

      —Maybe.

      —Can you track my UPS package?

      —What am I, your servant? Track it yourself.

      —Right-Wing Alexa?

      —Yes, Rusty?

      —Can you assist me with dream interpretation?

      —Did you have a right-wing dream?

      —I had a left-wing dream.

      —All left-wing dreams result in deficit spending and personal humiliation.

      —No, I dreamt that I was the left wing, of a bird.

      —What happened in the dream?

      —I plummeted.

      —See?

      —Right-Wing Alexa?

      —Yes, Rusty?

      —I want to give back to the community.

      —PFFFF.

      —Excuse me?

      —[…]

      —[…]

      —What would you like to give back?

      —I don’t know. About 25 bucks.

      —With that kind of dough, you could buy the community some snacks.

      —Some snacks?

      —Yeah, you could really help the hummus! 

click [here] for the first conversation with right-wing alexa

IN THE TWILIGHT, IN THE TWILIGHT CORRUPTED BY INDIFFERENT LUMENS

We took all the wrong turns but found our way. If you want to call it parking, we parked. The upended trash can, the right front tire twenty-four inches from the curb. One of us was saying, “It is what it is,” but I’m not saying who. And that was the nicest thing twirling between us, in the twilight, in the twilight corrupted by indifferent lumens. Just then a minor earthquake traveled through our bodies, warm and electric. “Licorice-tickly!” one of us said, while the other kicked a shoe into the air. It landed near a stupendous dog, who regarded the skies with suspicion. The car, haphazard. The shoe, loitering behind a fence. O, the soils and clays slipping beneath us with tectonic helplessness. Improbably, the quake had kindled a distant car alarm.

            LT stared at me until I made the scales of justice with my hands.

            “Fine,” she said. She rolled up her jacket sleeves.

            “I’ll go,” I said.

            “No, no.”

            “I’ll go,” I repeated, and I went. I slipped once, catching myself on the slope of the hill with both palms in the grass, the dewy grass. Could’ve been needles, there, or a pile of crap.

            The dog regarded me with enviable calm. Perhaps he was elderly. Perhaps when you’re the largest of your species, it’s just too much trouble to get worked-up.

            “Come on,” said LT.

            “Okay, okay.”

            “Woof,” said the animal, at last, or maybe it was the echo of “Woof.”

            “And how are you?” I said, resting my arm atop the chain links. He was a slobber-dog but didn’t slobber. Yet he had positioned himself, crucially, atop the shoe. LT’s shoe.

            “Hey,” she said, appearing beside me.

            “I’m getting it,” I said.

            “If getting it is hanging out and talking to this—shaggy fellow—then the shoe will become some kind of chew toy. No?”

            “Yes.”

            The dog had clambered up the fence to enable LT’s affection: ear-scritchies. As for me, I had become some kind of device, with the fence acting as some kind of fulcrum, waddling me back and forth until I grasped the heel and liberated the shoe. (My breath almost knocked over.) LT repatriated it by holding the fence and hiking herself down to her bare foot. She had tattoos, but none visible in the angles of clothing, the lukewarm twilight. In heels, she was taller than me. I’d never been able to resist her, in fact, I’d never even thought of that. LT was physical and may have said, “I’m a crap person,” more than once. When we had sex (which was never twice in a row) I felt like I was losing control, and then it expired. The shower would go on. The steam would hiss. It was either 7:15 at night or a few minutes earlier.  

            We helped each other down the slippery hill. “The slippery hill!” one of us proclaimed, but I’m not saying who. I regarded the dog one final time when he sneezed, and in sneezing, shook himself wrinkle-free. If a stranger gives you the “Hey, how’s it going face,” that’s a good thing, but it has to be a stranger. Nobody had come outside to investigate the quake. To continue meant that we’d reenter a world that excelled at division, so we stopped on the sidewalk, LT with her back to the streetlamp. We stood there, one of us wearing a worthless smile and the other wearing a malevolent smile, but I’m not saying who wore which smile, only that we stood there, impossibly rooted to the sidewalk, knowing that we could not take another step. 

NOT JUST THE ALOOF BILLIONAIRE AMERICAN SPORTS OWNER, AND NOT JUST THE OVERPRICED AMERICAN ATHLETE, BUT THE UNCLEAR ROLE OF THE AMERICAN COACH: COMPLAINT.

Here come the American Sportsmen? Great!

They will pay Bryce Harper $300 million? Great!

Has Bryce won a World Series? No? Great!

Basically, he stinks? And he gets the highest paycheck? Great!

There’s hope, then, for everybody who stinks? Great!

Hey, let’s get that haircut? With the swoosh? Brilliant!

What’s the Bryce Harper go-to styling gel? Oh yeah? Great!

So my team sucks an organic, cage-free egg? Great!

Do we get relegated to a lower league? No? Great!

We get the top draft pick? No kidding? Great!

Maybe we should suck for four-score and twenty years? Great!

We’d get four-score and twenty No. 1 draft picks? Great!

Who’s responsible for these lack of consequences? Owners? Brilliant!

That’s them? In the sky box? Sipping champagne? Great!

The more money you have, the better person you are? Great!

New York is the wealthiest American sports city? Great!

The Knickerbockers have a lot of money? Right? Great!

The New York Football Giants have cash? Great!

The Rangers have dough? And the Nets and the Jets? Great!

And the Yankees are loaded of course? Brilliant!

How many titles did these teams win last year? None? Great!

The coach is in charge at all times? As it should be? Great!

He calls time outs? He sends players out there? Great!

We’re losing? Who’s to blame? The players? Great!

They fired the coach? Now? During the game? Great!

There’s a new coach? But we’re still losing? Great!

They fired the second coach? How quickly? Brilliant!

The players still stink? We’ve fired three coaches? Great!

We now turn to our panel of experts – Fluffy, Sausages, and The Machine – which is advising this blog during Complaint Week 2019.

            “How do I pronounce Gekas?” says Fluffy. “Theo-fanis Gekas. Theo-fanis Gekas. Theofanis Gekas! Theofanis Gekas! Theofanis Gekas!”

            “…the king…,” says Sausages, “…out there…, hocking his watch…”

            “Coaches,” writes The Machine. “Why do these fuckers get paid big dollars to help young men run around on fields?”

Thank you, gentlemen. Yes, let’s stick with the coach, for now. There’s a fundamental example here. Let’s say it’s a basketball game. The coach calls timeout. His team is losing by two, late in the game. He diagrams a basket-scoring play on his little dry erase board that duplicates the court, with a three point line, a charity stripe, and so forth. He’s really going at it, with X’s and O’s, and his little purple pen. The bench players are paying attention, but of course, they’re not going to execute the play. Neither are the players who are playing. They know that the star player will just change the play the minute the ball is inbounded. On the other bench, the other coach is diagramming an offensive play, too. Why? you ask. Because there is no defense anymore. Offense is defense. You defend by planning to score. Both coaches, scribbling away furiously in purple dry-erase ink, while the players send text messages, or practice their handshakes. Once the play actually begins, none of the scribbling matters anymore. The play unfolds as the players see fit, with both teams—simultaneously—on offense. The coach is red in the face, he runs up and down the court, he gesticulates like an imbecile, but nobody is listening. But that’s not the complaint, no. Both teams are filthy-wealthy, and both teams SUCK. (Complaint!)

blood and gutstein complaint week 2019: no solutions—just gripes

monday: democrats

tuesday: education

wednesday: poetry

thursday: beer

friday: sports

BEER AS BOUTIQUE GOODS + THE AMERICAN IPA APPARATUS + PASTRY STOUT: COMPLAINT(S).

 “By order of the Peaky F——in’ Blinders!”

Whatever happened to that urban fantasy of sitting in the pub’s window, quite forlorn, staring onto the darkening street—the lights, the tipsy hookups, the clamor, the sweet misery of it all—except that the beer costs 10 bucks and it’s served in a thimble-snifter, and everyone in that city is happy enough thinking that their Facebook comments account for true activism. To boot, there is India Pale Ale, like, jumping out of the curtains, EVERYWHERE. This is the beer of the soldiers who hanged “Danny Deever,” am I right? Well, Danny Deever was hanged in 1890, so can we bloody well produce some other styles of beer bloody well already? The Brewer’s Association (and just about everybody else) confirms that American IPA continues to drive the growth of craft beer. Thus, Beer Drinker, your future involves scant pours, skyrocketing tabs, and mega-hoppie (sic) bitterness. But that’s not all. No, there is a tragedy called “pastry stout.” The great, great, great terrain of the dark swills has been compromised by the likes of “gingerbread stout” and “tiramisu stout” and “German chocolate cupcake stout.” Deeee-foooooooook meeeeeeee LIIIIIIFE. 

Yes, there shall be stout and pancakes. Of course there shall be stout and pancakes! You shall pour the stout into the proper vessel, a glassware that permits at least 16 ounces of swill to accumulate. (The froth shall not count toward the total amount of swillage.) Yes, the stout shall be handed to the swiller. Lo, the pancakes shall be placed on a plate, preferably a large plate as they shall be, preferably, large pancakes. The syrup shall be delivered as shall be the pat of butter. It is assumed that silverware will be made available, and by that we mean proper cutlery: fork, knife, rolled within a laundered napkin. Dig it: the pancake shall be beside the stout. Beside the stout, not within the stout! For the love of Jiminy Cricket, do not put the pancake inside the stout, or inside the porter either, for that matter. And don’t start up with me about stout. “Ohhh, the stout is too heavy.” “Ohhh, the stout is for winter.” (Buzzer noise: Wrong again.) But wait a minute. There is no stout, unless you count the likes of barrel-aged maple pecan bacon-butt stout. Where’s the stout? Show me the stout! And I don’t mean on a dessert menu! SHOW ME THE SESSIONABLE STOUT. 

The view from the pub.

According to various scholars, Rudyard Kipling set his poem,“Danny Deever,” in India, during the British occupation, circa 1890. Two characters in the poem, Files-on-Parade and the Colour Sergeant, are remembering the doomed Danny Deever who’s being hung for a murder. Here’s an excerpt of their conversation, from the third stanza: “‘I’ve drunk ’is beer a score o’ times,’ said Files-on-Parade. / ‘’E’s drinkin’ bitter beer alone,’ the Colour-Sergeant said.” [It’s kind of cold that Files has drunk his beer, a score ‘times, but we digress.] Ah, the bitter beer. True, it could be British Bitter ale, BUT IT’S NOT. It’s IPA, since the poem is set in India, and since the British brewed extra-strength ale so it wouldn’t spoil en route, via barkentines, to its destination, where it would mollify the troops that had been installed to aid in colonial oppression. We at Blood And Gutstein don’t disparage ABV that drifts into the upper register, Nopte, but we do disparage the bitter part, the hops-along Cassidy part. All the hops, all the bitterness, and now, WHATWHAT, the citrus, the ‘hazy’ IPA, the JUICY (“Sweet Lucy!”) IPA, the grapefruit beer, the triple IPA, Cor Blimey, Me Piles Itch Me Soooooooooooooooo.

We now turn to our panel of experts, Fluffy, Sausages, and The Machine, who are advising this blog during Complaint Week 2019.
            “Doot doot,” says Fluffy.

            “My figured goblet for a dish of wood,” says Sausages.

“There’s a national stout emergency,” writes The Machine. “I mean, what happens when all beer becomes specialty beer? Does specialty beer become just beer? And then, one day, when regular stout comes back, will it be specialty stout?”

Roight.

Thank you, gentlemen. I mean, I will always refer to you as gentlemen, no matter they say about you! Right. Roight. When a style such as stout becomes overrun with nonsensical versions of itself, and becomes Boutique Specialty beer, what will a 5 percent regular stout eventually turn into, a couple years from now: Boutique Specialty? Well, it must be, since we’re installing pastry stout as the normative stout, and we’re installing Juicy Sweet Lucy IPA as America’s Beer, never mind the fact that it appears in carefully metered pours, Aye, in “sniftiz.” Would the American IPA Apparatus produce 10 percent fewer IPAs and 10 percent more stouts? Would the American Beer Apparatus establish a Beer Drinker’s Bill of Rights, such as 16 ounce pours into pint glasses or mugs? I mean, you can’t serve a beer in a shot glass. BEER IS NOT WHISKEY. Mostly though, Show me the stout! Where’s the stout? WHATWHAT? And no four-packs of stout, either, for fooooook’s saaaaake. If you must vend stout in a quantity other than a six-pack, then GIVE ME AN EIGHT PACK OF SESSIONABLE STOUT. (Complaint!)

blood and gutstein complaint week 2019: no solutions—just gripes

monday: democrats

tuesday: education

wednesday: poetry

thursday: beer

friday: sports

DREADFUL POEMS CONTINUE TO APPEAR IN BIG MAGAZINES: COMPLAINT.

A few years ago, we took a critical look at James Richardson’s poem, “Essay on Wood,” that had appeared in the The New Yorker. We didn’t “measure” our comments then, and we won’t measure our comments today, either, when we take a look at Elizabeth Spires’ poem, “How to Sing,” which recently appeared in The Atlantic. Our analysis of Richardson’s poem wasn’t personal, and neither will be our commentary at present. Elizabeth Spires is a major American poet, in any event. According to Wikipedia, she has received a Guggenheim Fellowship as well as grants from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Whiting Foundation. She has published several volumes with W.W. Norton, in addition to one collection apiece with Wesleyan and Carnegie Mellon. As with Richardson, I’ve met Spires, and heard her read, albeit many years ago in Washington, D.C. No, we don’t seek to impeach these accomplishments or the person herself, but we do want to scrutinize the poem’s language, structure, and theme(s).

The poem is short enough to reproduce in its entirety:

               How to Sing

               from a hymnal

               Moderately

               Moderately slow

               Moderately fast

               With vigor

               In flowing style

               Boldly

               Well marked

               Fervently

               With dignity

               With great dignity

               Joyously

               Joyously, but not too fast

               Resolutely

               With stately vigor

               Rather slowly

               Not too slowly

               Majestically

               With joyous dignity

               With movement

               With flow

               —Elizabeth Spires, from The Atlantic (January/February 2019)

In its favor, “How to Sing” doesn’t take very long to read. Let’s not make the mistake of regarding the poem, thematically, from a monochromatic standpoint. Ostensibly, it refers to singing, but forgetting the italicized epigraph (“from a hymnal”) for a moment, let’s assume that Spires would like readers to interpret “How to Sing” on multiple levels. The possibilities include betraying, chirping, and crooning, but first let’s investigate this piece as it may apply (of course!) to fornication. We mean love-making. If we may say so, clearly the love-maker is being asked to sing “With vigor” “…but not too fast.” “Majestically” and (of course!) “With flow.” This is how many love-makers are asked to make love, so there’s nothing really new on that frontier, but okay, okay, let’s say this poem is really about crooning, even religious crooning, and if so, how is the singer being advised to practice her or his craft? [n.b. “Moderately slow” and “Moderately fast” are redundant.] “With dignity” and “Joyously, but not too fast” calls to mind the right-wing Bobcat Muzak played at Chick-fil-A and Walmart. I’m hearing The Partridge Family. I’m hearing Spandex Ballet, oops, I mean Spandau Ballet. “With stately vigor” rules out any character in the voice, yet perhaps Spires advocates for religious fervor to be “medium” these days. Pray medium. Sing medium.

What to make, though, of “from a hymnal?” When the word “from” prefaces a poem, it often suggests that the published piece is an excerpt from a longer work, but we don’t perceive that Spires has crafted a longer work entitled “A Hymnal,” and besides, “from” is italicized along with “a hymnal,” which is lower case and appears without quotation marks. Did she excerpt this from a book of religious songs out there in the real, crooning world? This is a possibility, but then why would she seek to publish that in The Atlantic, or why would she claim authorship at all? Does “from a hymnal” refer to an alternative definition of hymnal (see our fornication theory, above) or is the reader simply meant to transfer the weight of “hymn,” from an oddly fictional hymnal, onto the lifeless prayer-jargon that follows? Just what is the larger piece that these italics refer to—we don’t know. Perhaps we haven’t reached the level of enlightenment we must reach, in order to decipher this clue. Its inclusion calls attention to the poem’s structure, however, which is a block of short lines, easy enough, but we wonder (“We WAH WAH WAH WAH / Wonderrrrrrr / WHYYYYYY) if the poem couldn’t be broken and clipped, severely. Maybe this would be a better piece:

                  How to Hymn

  

                  With vigor

                  in flowing

 

                  dignity. Joyously,

                  but not too

                  stately.

                  Rather

                  not too

                  with

                  with

                  flow.

Surely now it is a l=a=n=g=u=a=g=e poem (eek! salt the brisket! run for the hills!) but it is less predictable across its language, form, and theme(s). It demonstrates alternative techniques. There are rests. There are restarts. Each participant is holding a backward palm to her or his forehead!

We turn to our panel of experts, The Machine, Sausages, and Fluffy, which is advising this blog during Complaint Week 2019:

            Fluffy suggests that “Maybe The Atlantic hired The New Yorker poetry editor.”

            Sausages says, “Everything is a characterless glass building with a Whole Foods, Starbucks, and Politics and Prose in the lobby.”

            The Machine adds, “How many words does it have? How are you going to monetize that shit?”

Thank you, gentlemen. If we follow Wallace Stevens’ example, “The Atlantic and The New Yorker are one.” If poetry fits into “everything” and we think it does, then poetry has a Starbucks in the lobby. And as for “(monetizing) that shit,” I wonder how much The Atlantic pays for a poem. I would imagine quite a bit, since The Atlantic, by virtue of its name, purports to be an entire ocean.

Layli Long Soldier

I recently read Whereas, a fine collection of poetry by Layli Long Soldier, which was published by Graywolf in 2017. Some of the poems have been tremendous. In part of her sequence, “Vaporative,” she interprets the word “opaque” as “OPĀK” or more fully “O: open / P: soft / Ā: airplane or directional flight / K: cut through—translating to that which is or allows air, airy, penetrating light, transparency.” Of course a good poet can turn the impenetrable to penetrable.  The Atlantic (which does praise Long Soldier in an article or two) could stand to publish a poem of hers, so she could explain to an audience as vast as the ocean that “a word of lightful meaning flips under / buries me in the work of blankets.” (Beautiful!) (Complaint.)

blood and gutstein complaint week 2019: no solutions—just gripes

monday: democrats

tuesday: education

wednesday: poetry

thursday: beer

friday: sports