Two years ago, my friend @sctheatrical got this voicemail from a girl he has no memory of meeting. It’s rambling, contradictory, and heartbreakingly hilarious. He’s listened to it so many times, he’s memorized it. And, plot twist, he’s had a sudden, epic realization: THIS IS HIS SOULMATE.
Leah, Lydia, whoever you are and wherever you are, he wants to get a sandwich with you. Or eggs. Any kind of food really. The answer is yes.
My dad lost his dad last week. It’s been hard on him, not just since it happened, but over the past few years. We lost Papa the way an hourglass loses sand. A little bit at a time, until one day you glance over and time’s up. The last time I saw him, he didn’t recognize me. Probably didn’t recognize my dad. Just nodded a bit, and stared at us like a puzzle he was trying to figure out.
When I think of how close my dad was to Papa, it’s easy to forget he wasn’t his birth father. I don’t think my dad even met Papa until he was 15? 16? He was a foster kid, so he spent most of his childhood without a father. I think that’s one of the reasons he loved Papa so much. He understands what it means to have a father, and to not.
Papa taught my dad so many things about being a great father, but I don’t think he knows just how good he is at it. He has this innate dadness. A knack for dad jokes and puns, and a sigh-plus-eye-roll combo that manages to say “I’ll always love you but also I want to wring your neck a little bit in this moment.” He’s been there, front row and center, for everything in my life. He gave me a childhood that he had no experience with; a childhood full of memories of my father.
He used to give me Super Daddy Tuck-Ins. He’d pick me up, and I’d stick my arms and legs straight out like Superman as he flew me down the hall to bed. I thought he was so strong, just like a superhero. Looking back, he was a skinny kid in his twenties with a mustache, a mortgage, three kids and multiple jobs. So yeah. Strong like a superhero.
He read to me, for as long as I would let him. He did too good of a job teaching me to read, because well before Kindergarten I was doing it by myself and didn’t want any help. But he gave me Tolkien and Lewis, the Hardy Boys and The Count of Monte Cristo. He didn’t get angry when I stole the latest Tom Clancy book from his nightstand to read while he was at work, even though I lost his place.
He sang to me, and with me. He took me to church choir, even though I was the youngest person there by about 20 years. He taught me the basics of conducting, which led to my brief but hilarious stint as the church choir conductor in high school. We picked out audition songs together for every community theatre production, and it made it so much easier to get up there myself when I got to watch him do it first. When there wasn’t a part for him to play, he taught himself to run the light board, and do sound. Anything they needed. He just wanted to be there.
He helped with sports and school projects. He spent all night helping me paint a model of a carousel, because I remembered around bedtime that the project was due the next day. He held me when I cried because I couldn’t join the Boy Scouts. He brought me an ice chest full of snow from a weekend in the mountains, because I’d never seen it and I wanted to know what it felt like. He ran for the school board and lost, and the lesson he taught me about graciousness in the face of defeat will forever be with me.
He said yes to things. My dad is a planner. He’s careful, and thoughtful, and deliberate. But he’s got this streak of quiet wanderlust that’s always delighted me. We moved a lot growing up, from California to Alabama to Tennessee to Austria to Saudi Arabia. My dad and I were a team, researching the places we might go so we could convince my mom and my sisters that it would be the grandest of adventures. It always was. The time we stumbled upon the Notting Hill Carnival, and I had to explain that no Dad, that smell isn’t incense. The time we got caught smuggling bacon into Saudi. The time he assured us he could drive in the mountains of Cyprus on the the left side of the road. The time we sat in a Mexican restaurant in the Persian Gulf, while the Filipino waiters brought us something that almost resembled enchiladas, and the Indian guitarist led us and about 40 American soldiers in a rendition of American Pie.
My dad lost his dad last week, and my heart just hurts so much for him. I know what it is to have a father, but I can only imagine what it is to not have one. I could keep writing these paragraphs for weeks, because I have so many memories of my dad. And I get to have more. And that is an unbelievable blessing that I’ve taken for granted. To have a father who has been there and is still there is an incredible mix choice and luck. I’m glad he chooses to do it, and I’m glad he’s still around to make that choice.
Dad, I’m sure you’re reading this, because you read everything I write, even when I tell you not to (I know about your secret Twitter account don’t try to deny it) so I just want to say thank you for being a father. Thanks for being there, and being funny (even when I didn’t think you were), and being mean (even though now I know you weren’t), and being Super Daddy (and then Dad when the Daddy thing was suddenly, painfully embarrassing). Thanks for popsicles from the ice cream truck on the front step, and Star Wars marathons, and Odyssey of the Mind practices that took over the garage and destroyed your power tools. Thanks for Simon and Garfunkel, and Shakespeare, and hymns. Thanks for sharing your Nutella, and your first computer, and your bathroom with three teenage girls who couldn’t be civil to one another. I love you, you are a great father, and Papa is so proud.
Listen up, ladies. I have some important news for you.
NOT ALL MEN SHARE YOUR PASSION FOR SPORTS.
I know, I know. It’s mind-boggling. I mean, how? Why? Is it the result of some childhood trauma? Some deficiency in their diet, maybe? We may never know. The good news is, I know the secret to talking sports with any man. Gather round, girls, because I’m about to drop some knowledge.
The secret to talking sports with any man is to get him interested in the story.
Let me explain.
I’m not saying you should drop in non-sports-related factoids, like ‘hey did you know AJ Ellis’ third child was born in the front seat of a car?“ I mean, sure, that’s interesting, but that’s not the best way to get your non-sports man interested in sports. Because that actually has nothing to do with sports. That’s like trying to get him interested in the plot of True Detective by telling him that Woody Harrelson had his own juice guy on set at all times.
No, the best way to draw your man in is to think of what you find compelling about the game. Tell him that story. Explain what last year’s NLCS was like between the Dodgers and the Cardinals. Tell him about Hanley Ramirez and his cracked rib. Tell him about the last time these teams met, and how the tempers flared.
Tell him about how the Royals haven’t played in the postseason since 1985, and how they just knocked the best team in baseball out of the running for the World Series. Tell him that to get to the World Series, they have to beat the Orioles - who haven’t been there since 1983.
Maybe your guy is into numbers, that’s cool, a lot of people are. Explain how scoring works in baseball, and what constitutes a hit. Explain ERA, and SLG, and working the count and sac bunts. If he’s into it, go full sabremetrics on his ass. Get him a pencil and a scorecard and calculator and a blu-ray of Moneyball. That movie tells a great story.
Most importantly, don’t assume your man doesn’t already have some sort of foundational knowledge of the sport before you sportsplain. Guys HATE that. Feel out what his level of knowledge and interest is, and go from there. It’s possible he played little league, so he knows the basic rules, or maybe he collected baseball cards with his grandfather, so he knows a lot about certain teams and players in the past. He may have watched Field of Dreams a thousand times growing up. Maybe he grew up in Europe and knows absolutely nothing about American sports. Listen to him. This is a great way to find these things out. Let him talk for a second.
Finally, keep in mind that he’s not some other species. He’s a lot like you. You may have different interests and hobbies, but it doesn’t mean he’s any less capable of understanding the things you like. Tell him why you love the game, and he’ll probably become interested as well. He may never love it as much as you do, and that’s okay. It’s weird to be in a relationship with someone who is exactly the same as you. That’s creepy. But if you tell him why you love it, you just might find that he enjoys the story enough to watch it unfold with you.
Just don’t expect him to wear the foam finger because he’s not a goddamn child.
By now, even my grandmother has probably heard about the guy who raised $10,000 on Kickstarter to make a bowl of potato salad. (Btw, it’s actually $70,000 now, largely due to the publicity he got when he reached $10,000.) The responses I’ve seen have, for the most part, been scornful. “$10,000 to make a bowl of potato salad? What a freeloader.” “That money could be put to better use feeding the hungry/curing AIDS/providing scholarships!” “What a sad commentary on the state of crowdfunding and our society!” All of which beg the question -
What the hell is so wrong about potato salad?
Potato salad is delicious. It’s the best of the mayonnaise-based salads. It’s inexpensive, easy to make, and everyone’s grandma has the best recipe for it. It’s a goddamn American tradition.
And most importantly, starting a Kickstarter to make a bowl of potato salad…is hilarious. That’s all it is. It’s funny. Entertaining. Humorous. Diverting. It is Kickstarter at its best. The backlash against this innocuous bowl of potato salad is just an indication that we’re experiencing a few growing pains in the world of crowdfunding, especially when it comes to entertainment.
Remember the first time you bought a song from iTunes? A single song? Not a cassingle, not a CD single that had two other shitty “bonus” tracks. Just the one song you actually wanted. That moment CHANGED YOUR LIFE. Sure, it didn’t cure cancer. But it made you, as a consumer, realize two things: first, you should probably pay for the song instead of stealing it on Napster because $1.99 is way cheaper than going to jail and second, you should only pay for the entertainment you actually want. Why keep paying for all the excess?
This is why you don’t pay for cable anymore, but you have Netflix, Prime and Hulu Plus (and the HBO Go password you stole from your parents THEY WEREN’T GOING TO USE IT ANYWAY). This is why you haven’t bought an entire album that wasn't Beyoncé in like seven years. This is why you donated to the Veronica Mars Kickstarter, and the Reading Rainbow Kickstarter, and maybe the Brony documentary Kickstarter (no judgement here). You’ve grown accustomed to paying for your entertainment on an à la carte basis. I mean, your credit card info is saved on so many sites at this point, you’ve been trained to pay for what you want with the click of a button.
The potato salad Kickstarter is funny. I mean come on, it’s funny. The guy is going to send a bite of the salad to everyone who donated $3 or more? That’s hilarious. For $2, he will say your name out loud while he makes the salad? That’s hysterical. And it’s even funnier the more money the Kickstarter receives. This guy is going to end up reading a list of 5,000 names and trying to figure out how to mail potato salad all over the world. IT’S OKAY TO ADMIT THIS IS FUNNY. 28 million people tuned in to the 11th season finale for Two and Half Men. I worry about our country. Thank god there are 5,000 people who see the humor in potato salad.
I think society is still trying to figure out this crowdfunding thing, and the backlash against potato salad has more to do with unrealistic expectations than with any hatred of deliciousness. Kickstarter has three main rules for their projects:
Projects must create something to share with others.
Projects must be honest and clearly presented.
Projects can’t fundraise for charity, offer financial incentives, or involve prohibited items.
THIS is the brilliance of Kickstarter. It’s about creating something for others. I’ve done a lot of charity fundraisers, and I think they’re important. Kickstarter is not for charities. Could $70,000 be better spent on a charity OF COURSE IT COULD. As a nation, we spent $71 million going to see Smurfs 2. Of the 5,000 backers of the potato salad Kickstarter, 75% spent less than half the price of an individual film ticket. No one’s shaming the parents of America for not donating that Smurfs money to a food bank. If we’re going to judge people for throwing $3 away on something that just made them laugh, something they got a kick out of - we should probably pass judgement on every person who’s wasted money on a baseball ticket, or a mystery novel, or Disneyland.
There’s a transparency to crowdfunding that opens our personal expenditures up to public criticism. It’s new. It’s uncomfortable. Kickstarters aren’t meant to save the world. They’re meant to entertain, to support creativity, to give people a shot at making something. Sometimes they’re gonna fail. Sometimes you’re going to see thousands of people throw money at something you would never spend a dime on. That’s life. I mean, someone was buying all those Ed Hardy shirts, right? It definitely wasn’t me.
I love potato salad. I’m not ashamed of that. I don’t eat it every day, because that would be ridiculous. I eat a lot of vegetables, a lot of fruit. Things that are important. But some days, I’m going to waste my time and money on potato salad. I’m okay with that. It makes me happy. You should try it. EMBRACE YOUR POTATO SALAD. It makes the tasteless parts of life a lot easier to stomach.
We’re a week away from the big night premiere night at Newport Beach Film Festival, and we need your help. Even if you can’t make it. Even if you hate movies. Even if you hate me. Odds are good you like somebody involved with this film. Do it for them. I know you’re sitting there with your laptop, watching baseball, thinking “Erin this is dumb I can’t help what are you even saying.” BUT YOU CAN. Imma spell it out for you, step by step:
STEP ONE:
Go to:
This is the Festival Genius site for Follow Friday the Film’s screenings at the Newport Beach Film Festival. Just clicking on the link adds to our page views. THANK YOU! Now that you’re there, you may as well help us even more by:
STEP TWO:
Adding us to your Festival Genius calendar. Yes, this means registering for Festival Genius. It’s fast, easy and you can opt out of emails. But calendar adds are the fastest way for us to get to the top of the festival buzz page. WE MUST BE THE BEST. To add us to your calendar, click on Buy Tickets:
At this point, you’ll register for an account. Won’t take more than a minute or two. Once you’ve registered, and come back to our film page, click on Buy Tickets again and scroll down:
You’ll see the dates for our two screenings. Add them both! Go for broke! This costs you nothing and will help us out!
STEP THREE:
Buy some tickets! Okay I kind of tricked you there. But if you can make it, we’d love to see you. If not, we’ve had multiple people offer to buy tickets for people in the LA area who can’t afford to go! You all know an actor down here, and even if you don’t, the rest of us know plenty. If you’d like to sponsor a ticket or tickets, please purchase through the Festival Genius web site, then email me at erinmariefaulk@gmail.com. I’ll find them a home, and thank you profusely. If you’re in the LA area and would love a night out but can’t swing the ticket price, email me. We got you.
STEP FOUR:
If you’re a friend or family member who’s been lucky enough to see a private screening of the film (even if it’s one of the many rough cuts), please feel free to rate it on the Festival Genius site, and/or leave a comment.
We appreciate your help, can’t thank you enough, and totes promise to remember the little people in our Oscar acceptance speeches. Thanks you guys.
Disclaimer: I have watched 1.5 of the Best Picture nominees, have no insider information regarding the Academy, and am a terrible source for information regarding the Oscars.
Which one is that?: It’s the one with all the big hair.
What’s it about?: I didn’t see it, but I think it’s mostly about the 70’s. That seems to be the main point.
But will it win? No.
Which one is that?: It’s the one where Tom Hanks fights off the Somali pirates with a Boston accent.
What’s it about?: Just start chanting USA and you’ll be fine.
But will it win? No.
Which one is that?: It’s the one with skinny Matthew McConaughey.
What’s it about?: It’s about an AIDS patient named Ron Woodruff who smuggled pharmaceuticals not approved by the FDA into the US and sold them to other AIDS patients, providing hope and alleviating symptoms.
But will it win? Probably.
Which one is that?: It’s the one that looks like that fake film that Julia Roberts’ character in Notting Hill stars in.
What’s it about?: I didn’t see it, but I think it’s about space.
But will it win? Maybe.
Which one is that?: It’s the one by Spike Jonze.
Which one is Spike Jonze again?
What’s it about?: It’s about a guy in the future who writes love letters for other people and falls in love with an OS that has Scarlett Johansson’s voice.
But will it win? No.
Which one is that?: I seriously have no fucking clue.
What’s it about?: If anyone asks you what you thought of this film, ask them if you can grab them a beer. Then run away to the kitchen.
But will it win? Um, I don’t know. No.
Which one is that?: wait what
What’s it about?: Um can I grab you a beer.
But will it win? No way in hell.
Which one is that?: It’s the one with the white people on the posters in Italy.
What’s it about?: It’s about a free-born man who was kidnapped in DC and spent…12 years as a slave.
But will it win? Maybe.
Which one is that?: It’s the one where DiCaprio worked with Scorsese. No the other one. No the other one. No the other one. Never mind.
What’s it about?: It’s about some asshole trader who lost $200 million for his investors. He went to jail for 22 months and is now rich and a motivational speaker, because that’s life.
But will it win? Nope.
Okay, look, we don’t have time to delve into all the other categories, so here’s the Cliff’s Notes:
Things to Casually Drop Into the Conversation:
Things to Say When You Don’t Know What People are Talking About:
Oscar parties can be scary, but keep this in mind. When all else fails, your go-to line is: “Hey, can I grab you a beer?”
They’ll like you. They’ll really like you.
Image courtesy of Danilo Rizzuti / FreeDigitalPhotos.net
My last blog post was about how I became a football fan, and it got me thinking about how we become fans. I figured my story was a bit outside the norm, but I knew there had to be some other good stories out there. My friend Kelli said hey, someone should write about that!
So here we are.
I asked people on Twitter to email me the story of how they became a fan of their NFL team. Quite a few people responded to the tweet with comments like “isn’t it just going to be where they grew up?” And guess what? It’s not that simple. I asked the question “How did you pick your team?” The answers were amazing.
Several people told me they started watching football because of work. Spike, whose stepfather essentially turned his back on football when the Colts left Baltimore, became a Ravens fan when he worked in the city government:
"In 2005 I got a job with Martin O'Malley’s Mayoral office. Every Monday started with football and Ravens talk. I started watching, even though I used to disdain football, I found myself loving the game. The Ravens represented everything about Baltimore.“
Katie never watched football growing up, but her first job as a secretary included running the office football pool, obviously:
"My first job was as secretary to the Controller of a small company. And one of his things was running the weekly football pool. So that became my job. Since I was watching football every week to score the participants - and gambling - I wanted a team rather than just rooting for whichever team I bet on to cover the spread. My younger brother was a huge Jets fan, so I adopted them.”
Sean was 18 when his supervisor at work, a slightly racist, skirt-chasing middle-aged man, convinced him to become a Jets fan:
"There were posters all over the break room and he told me they were losers, that they hadn’t been good in 30 years and were probably never going to be good. At 18 this seemed like a good decision because it seemed like a thankless task - rooting for a team that hadn’t won, had nothing to brag about, and wouldn’t ever have anything to brag about. I’m 28 now and not much has changed.“
Others told me a more personal story. Jim, for example, went to Rice and lived with a couple of football players. Through them, he met defensive nose guard Rodrigo Barnes. Barnes was a great football player, a multi-black belt martial artist, and the kind of guy who made friends everywhere he went. When he was drafted in the last round by the Dallas Cowboys, Jim knew who he’d be cheering for:
"When a personal friend is on an NFL team – well, there’s no choice involved.”
Nick’s story is one of my favorites. He became a Patriots fan because of a girl. He’d watched American football in the UK, but didn’t have a team - until he met a “strange American girl.” This girl had once been a cheerleader at Boston University, and when a fellow cheerleader, who happened to cheer for the Patriots, was injured, Nick’s strange American girl had stepped in for her. When you want to impress a former NFL cheerleader (even just a stand-in), you pick her team:
“All things considered, since I didn’t have a team, that seemed like the obvious (and for sake of maintaining the relationship, only) choice. Almost a decade later, married for most of it and expecting a baby Pats’ fan in about 10 weeks, here we are! The irony of an Englishman supporting the NE Patriots is, of course, not lost on me.”
Lots of people did claim that geography made the decision for them, although, even those fans admit that family had a lot to do with it as well. Eric’s family were the first white settlers in Seattle; when Seattle got an NFL team, there was really no other choice:
"I was 5 when they first started as a team. I don’t remember football before then. We’d watch almost every game as a kid because they were local. They weren’t great, but they were ours. I don’t remember my dad ever telling me what his favorite team was before the Seahawks. They were always our team.“
Sue admits that geography played a role in her choice of team, but her love of the fans’ attitude toward football and life is what kept her loyal:
"From the ages of 7 to 17 I was in Saints Country. Spending your formative years near a football team means that they sort of seep into your subconscious. Even though those were the ‘Aints years (paper bags, etc.) the city of New Orleans bore it all with a joie de vivre.”
And Nancy told me her role as a Broncos fan was determined before birth:
"My parents were from Nebraska (my mom) and Iowa (my dad), which are huge football states with no pro teams. They moved to Denver a year before I was born in 1970 and the rest is history. Football is like religion to me and the affinity I feel for my beloved Broncos is that strong.“
Nancy’s mother would always tell the story of how when Nancy was a toddler, she’d ask Nancy "Where’s the football?” Nancy would walk on over to the TV, and point right at it, even if it was under a pile a players. Nancy’s mom passed away in 2011, and her father passed away last May - this is her first season without either of them, but I’m pretty sure they’d be proud of their Broncos this season.
Jorge also inherited his team from his father. And who knew that the Steelers were so popular in Mexico?
“My whole family is from Mexico, including me. When my dad grew up in the 70s, the Steelers were the most popular team there. He’s been a fan since the Steel Curtain and watched them win 4 Super Bowls. When we moved to the US 10 years ago I decided to start watching football. I live in Chicago but I went with the Steelers like my dad, and was lucky enough to see them win SB XL, the first complete season I watched.”
My absolute favorite response came from Eric S:
“When I was five my cousin gave me a bunch of football cards. He gave me more Chicago Bears than any other team. Since then the Bears have been my team. I live in Los Angeles.”
No matter what path you took to your team, you have this story. Almost like how couples tell the story of how they met, the story of how you picked your team is something you tell, and retell, until it’s maybe more mythology than fact, but the feeling is the same. It’s part of who you are, and where you came from. And it doesn’t feel so much like a choice as it feels like fate. Jim put it well when he wrote, “I suggest that team allegiance is not a matter over which we exercise free will."
I asked people to tell me how they picked their NFL team, but I’m pretty sure I asked the wrong question. I should have asked, "How did your team pick you?” Because that’s how being a fan feels. Like an inevitability. It’s kismet. You and your team. They may (will) break your heart, but in the end, your team is your soulmate. How great is it that they found you?
National identity is a funny thing. We talk about it a lot when bad things happen - 9/11, the shootings in Aurora and Sandy Hook, Hurricane Katrina. Something happens that shakes us not just as individuals, but as a larger community. As a nation. It seems like we talk about national identity less when it involves the positive things that bring us together. No offense, but this might be because it’s often used as a political and commercial tool by people who think we all love watching Duck Dynasty and drinking Bud Light and driving Chevy trucks and shooting guns. (If you’re not American, we don’t all do these things. Well, I mean, I’ve never watched Duck Dynasty.)
There are some things that just make you feel American. In a good way, not in an ugh I wish we would stop bombing people and polluting the environment and making life harder for poor people sort of way. The good things are what keeps this ragtag nation of differing opinions and varied backgrounds from going off the rails. Things like apple pie, and Law and Order SVU marathons, and that summer when everyone and their dog made a Call Me Maybe video. THIS IS WHAT BRINGS US TOGETHER, AMERICA.
This, and also football.
Whether you’re a die-hard fan, or a player, or someone who watches the Super Bowl for the commercials, or that person that says I only watch “real” football because that’s cooler than saying you watch soccer, football is an inescapable part of American life. Not that I didn’t try my best to escape it for almost 30 years. Until last year, I had never watched a football game. It was on in the background during holidays, and I told my parents I was going to high school football games a few times (sorry mom and dad), but I didn’t get the rules, and didn’t understand the attraction. It’s a bunch of guys hitting each other. Meh.
So when everyone in my Twitter feed started counting down to the start of the football season, I thought oh great. I’m going to have to read all these tweets about football and everyone will have this thing to talk about and I’ll be totally on the outside and I HATE that and there’s nothing to do about…except…what if I just decided to become a football fan? I mean, what if I just decided to do that?
So I did. I told everyone on Twitter I needed a team. (As it turns out, if you ask what LA’s football team is, everyone finds it endlessly entertaining. Feel free to read up on that here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_the_National_Football_League_in_Los_Angeles)
With no football team in Los Angeles and no NFL fans in my family, I told everyone I was a free agent.
And the bidding began.
Some people thought I should be a Rams fan because of the LA history, and some people thought I should be a Raiders fan because I don’t know those people hate me I guess. Other people thought I should pick the Seahawks because my family lives in Washington State, and everyone in Chicago thought I should be a Bears fan because everyone in Chicago thinks everything in Chicago is the best all the time. There was a half-hearted vote for the Chargers, and several people who wanted me for the Cowboys, until the outcry from the rest of the nation made it clear that could not happen. (America’s team lol)
In the end, I signed with the Green Bay Packers. In the early years of the NFL, small-town teams were the norm. Now, the Packers are it. They are the oldest NFL franchise in continuous operation in the same location with the same name. They have more league championships than any other team, and they are the only non-profit, community-owned major league pro sports team in the US. (Plus Packers fans are called Cheeseheads and also Aaron Rodgers is the greatest quarterback in the NFL.)
Packers fans are the best of all the fans. This was clear from that first day when they passionately lobbied for me to join their ranks. Without ever having watched an NFL game, I decided publicly to become a Packers fan for life. (I do what I want.)
It’s honestly one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.
I spent last season watching football with Twitter. I had my laptop out at bars, and on my living room couch. I bought a Packers hat. I was often confused, but there was always someone on Twitter to explain the play that had just happened, or the call the refs had just made. (btw, I still don’t understand pass interference, it seems really arbitrary) Nataliya, a friend from Twitter, gifted me an online course called How to Watch American Football (it was priceless - check it out here: http://storify.com/erinscafe/how-to-watch-an-american-football-game). I suffered my first playoffs loss, and thus my first football heartbreak. I hosted a Super Bowl party. And more than anything else, I joined the conversation. I finally got the jokes and the gifs and the headlines. I knew what people were talking about Monday morning. I knew the words to the Sunday Night Football song. I drank all the beers. I reached peak American.
This season, I became that person counting down to the first kickoff. I became convinced that if I wasn’t watching the Packers game with my hat and my special football t-shirt on, we would lose. In week 9, I missed the start of the game and was inundated with tweets telling me my quarterback was broken. I mourned. I watched him come back in week 17 to beat the Bears. I rejoiced. And just when I thought I couldn’t love football and its fans any more, I got the opportunity of a lifetime.
A Twitter friend in Wisconsin had an extra ticket to the playoff game against the Niners at Lambeau Field, and asked if I wanted to go. (I know you were probably joking @laduper, but never joke around about football on Twitter.) @tedder42 offered to get me a plane ticket with his airline miles, @hammad_26 got me a bus ticket to Madison, @laduper offered her couch, and a slew of people actually sent me money to buy warm clothes so I wouldn’t freeze to death (thank you Eileen, Daryn, Paul, Aimee, Megan, Katie, Virgil and Michael). A friend of a friend got me VIP field passes for the game, to watch warm-ups (thanks Anna and Pat). In less than two hours, football fans literally gave me my first live football game. Because more people wanted to chip in, I pointed my Twitter followers to a fundraiser for the MACC Fund for childhood cancer research (thanks @N0tAaronRodgers), and so many people jumped on the chance to donate. I’ve been on the receiving end of a lot of kindness and generosity, but all of this this still blew me away. (Hey, look - you can still donate! http://teammaccfund.kintera.org/faf/donorReg/mobileDonorPledge.asp?ievent=426280&lis=1&kntae426280=4BFB6C6871754C5D934016C9BD59C07D&supId=372629944&team=0&scWidth=320&extSiteType=)
They predicted the game would be one of the coldest on record. I live in Los Angeles for many reasons, but mainly because I hate the cold. I was completely unprepared. I was visiting a friend in Idaho, so I raced to the local outdoors store and told the salesclerk that I needed pretty much everything. It felt like Pretty Woman, except after we were done I looked like a marshmallow. I had long underwear and ski pants and a coat and gloves and mittens and a half balaclava (which I still don’t know how to pronounce). The clerk came up with an assortment of hand warmers and I said “I’ll take them all.” 48 hours later, I was on a plane.
I wore my Packers hat for the journey. I got good-natured shit from the Niners fans, and fervent support from the Seahawks fans, and made friends with an older gentleman who was headed to Lambeau Field for his first time as well. Born and raised in Wisconsin, he was attending his first home game with his grown son, who was a Niners fan. When we had to switch planes before takeoff due to a mechanical problem, he grabbed my arm and said “This is my daughter, she’s pre-boarding with me.”
To say that Ice Bowl II was one of the greatest experiences of my life would be an understatement. To be at Lambeau Field, in the middle of a sell-out crowd of more than 70,000 people who couldn’t care less about the cold was nothing short of magical. Everywhere I walked, people high-fived me, and yelled “Go Pack Go!” Everyone was tailgating in the neighborhoods surrounding the stadium and in the parking lot of the stadium. It was euphoric. At kickoff, the temperature was 5 degrees (-10 with wind chill), but you never would have known it. We were all too excited about football to care.
Okay, once the sun went down we started to care a little. My beer froze before I could drink it. Flasks came out. Facemasks went up. I lost all feeling in my toes. I had hand warmers crammed in the back pockets of my pants, and down my shirt, and in my boots. In front of me, a woman’s eyes were watering because of the wind, and the tears were frozen on her eyelashes.
You guys, it was cold.
And we lost.
My mom asked me later if it was devastating. And I said absolutely not. It was football. Sure, it’ll break your heart more often than not. But dear god, it’s worth it.
I’m certainly no football expert, but I do know this: football brings us together. I can walk into any bar in this country and find someone to talk football with. Every football fan knows what it’s like to see their team win, and to see their team lose. Some more than others (sorry, Washington fans). We’ve all stood in front of the TV, because the score’s too close to remain seated. We’ve all been mocked by our friends when our team was down, and tried to catch glimpses of the game while walking through an airport. And it’s oddly comforting to know we have that in common.
It’s not too late to jump on the bandwagon. I promise, it’s worth the effort. Football fans are funny, and smart, and sure, assholes sometimes. There’s plenty of serious talk about how to make the game safer, and what happens with money raised for charity. But it’s a great game. And it’s part of our national identity, whether you like it or not. I mean, I’m not saying you’re not a good American if you don’t like football. I’m just saying you clearly haven’t given it a chance. (Also if this changes your mind, let me tell you why you should be a Packers fan.)
God bless America.
This weekend, a story I told on Twitter almost six months ago was published on a few web sites. If you haven’t read it, the story was about the time I went looking for Matt Damon while I was studying in Morocco. I tweeted it because a friend asked for a story, and I’d had a few beers, and, well, that’s the whole thing. A friend asked and I’d had a few beers.
I have absolutely no idea how it became a thing six months later, but I woke up one day with a thousand new Twitter followers and a lot of mentions of Matt Damon. I also had a few texts and tweets from concerned friends who had read the comments on Jezebel and Gawker and were worried about my feelings. From what they tell me, there were quite a few comments that were less than flattering.
First of all, I am so grateful that I have people in my life who rush to my defense when the internet tries to put me down. Truly. But this whole episode made me realize that Twitter has taught me a life lesson I should maybe share with others. Listen up, because if this is new information, it’s gonna change your life.
Never read the comments.
No, really. NEVER READ THE COMMENTS.
Don’t get me wrong. I think it’s important to hear from people who have different points of view. Constructive criticism is essential to any artistic or intellectual endeavor. But let’s be real. Comments on the internet are the opposite of constructive criticism. They’re the ‘ring and run’ of virtual social interaction. They are THE WORST.
Imagine, if you will, a cocktail party. Someone you’ve never met is telling an anecdote; an amusing, but essentially superficial, humorous tale of the time they almost met a celebrity. Everyone is laughing politely, and sipping their respective adult beverage. Some people think this party guest is the greatest thing since sliced bread. Others think oh my GOD, is this story over. The storyteller delivers the punchline, and most people laugh politely. Except for one person. ONE person, who stands up and says, “That was the dumbest story I’ve ever heard and you are a fucking moron."
THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is your average internet commenter. The person who lacks the social fluency to gauge the relative importance of your discourse, and respond in an appropriate manner. In essence, the asshole.
I tweeted a story about looking for Matt Damon. From what friends have told me, the comments have ranged from "check your privilege” to “you’re a fucking liar.” I’d like to say that I just don’t care, but I guess that’s not 100% true. Nobody likes being called out. I’m not immune to that. But to be completely honest, I don’t really have a lot of feelings. This is a joke among my friends, but it’s true. I don’t have a lot of feelings. So I’m not going to say this for myself, but I will say it for everyone else out there who maybe needs to hear it one more time.
You are not the dumbest thing on the internet.
I mean, think about that. There is literally no point in time in which you are the dumbest thing on the internet. Have you seen the internet? YOU ARE NOT THE DUMBEST THING ON THE INTERNET. That will always be true. Statistically, in your lifetime, that will always be true. There will always be someone dumber than you on the internet. Geraldo Rivera tweeted a half-naked selfie last night. I mean, ffs, YOU ARE NOT THE DUMBEST THING ON THE INTERNET.
Remember that the next time you think about saying something. You are not the dumbest thing on the internet. No matter what anyone else says - and trust me, people will say things - you just aren’t. You may not have the best story to tell, or the smartest take on whatever breaking news is currently breaking, but you’re not the biggest idiot out there either. Ann Coulter is still spouting nonsense. Glenn Beck has a radio show. You’re allowed to say something that isn’t the most thought-provoking thing this generation has ever read. You can just tell a semi-drunken story about a thing that happened a few years ago. You really, truly, can.
All of us have that voice inside our head that tells us we’re not good enough. That what we have to say is stupid, and not worth listening to. That we’re insignificant, and ineloquent, and essentially a waste of space. And that’s plenty. I mean, for god’s sake, we don’t need anyone else driving those points home. So when someone you don’t know comes out of nowhere with an opinion about what you have to say, or how you’re choosing to live your life - take a step back and think. That person took the time to register with that web site and create a profile. They made a password, and handed over an email address. They probably falsified a date of birth and zip code. Just so they could tell you they think your story is stupid. I mean, think about that. That is some seriously misused free time.
I don’t read the comments. Not about anything I post, and not about anything I read. There’s a time and a place for measured, thought-provoking dissension. The comments section on a Gawker post is not that time or place. Not because the shit I tweeted one night in February is just that awesome; but because anyone who takes the time to tell me it’s really not is kind of a dick. And that’s all there is to say.
Don’t read the comments. Anyone who says nasty things in them is essentially the guy the rest of us are staring at, wondering who invited them to the party. We got your back. Do your thing, say your piece, and odds are pretty good that you’re not remotely the dumbest thing we’ve seen all day.
I mean, two million people watched the premiere of Sharknado.
You got this.
You know how some people are completely anal retentive about their name? Like, if you spell Sarah with an h, but it’s actually Sara without an h and they totally lose their shit? Or how other people let someone continue to call them by the wrong name past the point when it’s socially acceptable to correct them?
I’m in that latter group of people.
I honestly just don’t care. My name is Erin Faulk. It’s a pretty good name, except for when people don’t pronounce the l. That gets awkward, mostly for them. But other than that, I can’t complain. St. Patrick’s Day always feels like it belongs to me a little. And I don’t mind hearing the occasional “Faulk you.” My middle name is Marie, which is kind of boring, I guess. But better than Louise, which is what my parents wanted it to be until they realized my initials would be ELF.
People think that because I don’t have the same last name as Adam, I didn’t change it when we got married. That is incorrect. I did change it. I was 20, and getting married, and everybody said “But what about your kids? Don’t you want the same last name as your kids?”
Looking back, it’s hard to understand how that argument made any sense to anyone ever. Are these hypothetical children too stupid to know who their mother is unless they share a name? After birthing said hypothetical children, would I not feel any attachment to them unless we had the same last name? Also, did you know that you can name kids whatever you want when they’re born? (Except for dirty words and stuff - that’s illegal in some places). My hypothetical offspring could have my last name, how does that sound, I’m the one who GREW THEM IN MY BODY.
Most importantly, I’ve been married for ten years and this issue has yet to come up because the children are still hypothetical. So I changed my name back.
Which is not as easy as you might think.
Changing it the first time wasn’t so bad. Show the marriage certificate at the Social Security office, boom. New driver’s license, boom. New Erin. Changing back was a circus. I actually had to pay money to get my name back. My name, which is the first thing ever given to me as a little tiny human; my name that was mine for 20 years. And I had to pay with cash or check.
I had to sit in a courtroom filled with other people who wanted to change their names, and watch them stand before the judge, one by one, and explain why. There was a judge, and his actual job that day was to be like, yeah, okay, that seems like a good reason to change your name. Aside from the one kid getting adopted, everyone’s reason was divorce - I had no less than three women ask me “How long were you married?” and I said “Oh, I still am,” which got me the stink eye, and a row of chairs all to myself.
When my name was finally called (which seems kind of mean, since they knew for a fact I was there because I didn’t want people to call me that anymore), I walked on up and stood before the judge.
“What is your legal name?”
“Erin Marie Critchlow.”
“And what would you like to change it to?”
“Erin Marie Faulk.”
“It says here the reason is marriage: is Faulk your husband’s name?”
“No, it’s my maiden name.”
“I see. You’re getting divorced?”
“No.”
“…”
“I still want to be married, I just want my name back.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s mine. I want it back.”
“Why did you change it then?”
“I don’t know, I felt like it.”
“But not anymore?”
“No, now I want my real name back.”
“Well…uh, okay then.”
My argument won him over. I had to swear that I wasn’t trying to avoid debt or outstanding warrants, and then the judge approved it and I paid my money with a check that no longer had my legal name on it and walked out the door. Then I had to go to the Social Security office and show them the document, and then the bank, and then my university, and then my health insurance company and my credit card companies and my cell phone company. Plus, they printed it in the local paper, because everyone has a right to know I changed my name, which led to numerous people telling my parents they were so sorry my marriage didn’t work out. The good news is, I think Erin Critchlow still had some unpaid fines at Blockbuster. Don’t tell the judge about that one.
But I got my name back. Because it’s a pretty good name. Now when I fill out forms, I have an alias that has to be listed. Which is kind of cool, like Critchlow was my spy name. I don’t think having my name back has caused much confusion (except for every elderly relative on both sides who send a birthday card to Mrs. Adam Critchlow every year - I’ll tell you right now, that person never did exist). People know Adam and I are married, and if they think we’re not, I could not care less. My hypothetical children are pretty smart, so I think they’ll continue to be well-adjusted and hypothetical. And some people still call me Erin Critchlow, which I respond to the same way I respond to Erin Faulk, e faulk, Erin Scafe, Erin’s Cafe, Anne, Ingrid, and yes last week I let someone call me Sarah for like an hour. Or Sara. Whatever.
Feel free to call me whatever you want. In the words of my late grandfather, Earl “Scotty” Douglas Swall, “Just don’t call me late for dinner.”
(J/k, have you met me? I’m always late for dinner.)