Rock Chalk Algeria

I haven't watched a single game of the World Cup yet. Not because I don't want to, but because the part of my brain reserved for paying attention to sports is still recovering from the NBA Finals. My wish for the New York Knicks to lose just enough to extend the series to a full seven games—I never know when to leave a party—did not come to pass. So it's only a matter of time before I learn who's playing in the tournament and let a vague sense of geopolitics guide me to the right plucky underdog. For now, my relationship to the spectacle consists of the whiplash between horrible news of immigration shakedowns and World Cup Racial Harmony videos. I consume the latter greedily, sending them out to friends with a promptness you might expect from a newswire. Occasionally I behave like a one-person propaganda office for the concept of soccer-based multiculturalism. It is simply quite funny to watch a video titled something like "Spain National Team Arrives In Chattanooga, Tennessee." There is apparently no limit to the number of times I can enjoy clips of Korean fans binge-drinking alongside Mexican ones. A deli is just a deli until you hear "Can I get a chicken parm with vodka sauce?" in a London accent, and a thick New Jersey one coo "I'll make it beautiful for you" in response.