Dawgs vs. Chickens: The Gameday Experience, Vol II

Well now, that was a kick in the nuts, wasn’t it? It’s not like I was predicting a 12-0 run to the National Championship game or something, but I was fairly confident that we’d handle the poultry, even if they typically play us close. As sharp as Stafford looked in the first game, he looked equally off kilter Saturday. As varied and effective as Bobo’s calls were in the first game, they were equally ineffective and downright perplexing Saturday. As good as the defense looked against the Pokes, they looked equally a step behind against the chickens. As good as the decisions were that Richt made last week, they were equally questionable Saturday. The game wasn’t a complete galactic clusterfuck, but it was inept, passionless and heartbreaking. Now I have absolutely no faith in our ability to handle the rest of the SEC, and will probably need a bottle of whiskey and case of Prozac to convince me that we’ll win more than just against Western Carolina and Troy.

Random Musings and Observations from the weekend:

The flight in was delayed a bit. The MARTA trip wasn’t that bad, and I got and kept a seat the whole time, looking like some moronic housefrau reading my US Weekly (that’s what they’re sending subscribers of Premiere – which went belly up a couple of months ago. Not exactly apples for apples).

The trip down to the tailgate was rather uneventful, except for the “mole incident.” Freebird swerved to avoid hitting a mole crossing the street, which prompted a long conversation (which I basically refrained from participating in) about the safest speeds for backwoods country roads, what the speed limits are on backwoods country roads, the tipping point for an SUV fully loaded with tailgating supplies and effective animal dodging. Hey, I’m not a hunter or Mike Vick or anything, but would the world have missed one mole? And what kind of damage would a mole do to a car? Blow a tire? Get caught in the wheel well and bring a pleasant odor wafting across the tailgate on a 95 degree day? Just squish and go away? Maybe Mythbusters (a suggested must watch from the E's) will test this for me.

The tailgate set up was quick and easy. I think the slingbox utilization is down to a science now. The big change from last week is the use of a new monitor (vs. a television). Now, there was no need to break out the confusing TVNator nor do any heavy lifting. All the connections were quick and easy, and the only problem came when some punkass douchebag unplugged our long extension cord from the 2^nd story stairwell above. It’s not like we were tapping into any of the individual apartment renters' outlets that would affect their bills. They unplugged us just to be a punkass douchebag.

For all those who found this blog last week by searching for “slingbox tailgate,” welcome. I probably won’t make too many more comments about the subject unless there are new remarkable developments or some catastrophic equipment failure. But if any of you want some details, e-mail me and I'll explain it.

I took down this note, and I think it was pretty funny at the time, but I can’t remember the context right now: “yours is the shorter of whatever is coming.”

One of the usual walking street vendors came by peddling $5 “Spurrier is a cock” tee shirts out of a laundry basket. When we didn’t buy anything, he got borderline belligerent with us. One of the objections was that the shirts weren’t exactly everyday UGA wear – they were specific to one opponent and one coach. Evidently, those Zig Ziglar “sales technique” cassette tapes I’m sure he listens to in his AMC Pacer when he’s driving to the tee shirt printing shop are paying for themselves. He loudly reminded his prospective customers that “you play ‘em every year!” Thanks, Zippy the Chucklehead Tee Shirt Vendor. I wasn’t quite aware of our SEC division affiliations and the quirks of that scheduling. As he walked off toward Locos, by the dumpster, simmering in his own failure, I yelled “coffee is for closers!” Because I’m an ass. And I didn’t buy a tee shirt. And I’d already had about 6 Miller Lite tallboys by that point.

Speaking of the tallboys, when Freebird and I were at the liquor store Friday night, they had (these exact prices may be off, but the ratios and relationships are right) 12 packs of Lite tallboys for $8.99. and 12 packs of regular 12 oz Lites for $10.99. You're going with the tallboys, right? Who's with me?

I was actually asked at the tailgate when I would be posting my annual "New Fall TV Shows to Watch" recommendation. My inner TV critic sported wood, and rest assured, that will be appearing in this space in the next couple of weeks. Stay tuned.

During a discussion of the Falcons, Freebird told the tale of the Glanville era when Travis Tritt and MC Hammer were caught on film high fiving each other on the sidelines during the Bill Joe Overthrow hail mary, back in the day. Free actually wants a picture of this cultural landmark framed for his bar, and I don't blame him. That's classic. However, when the words "Too Legit 2 Quit" (see? I use the "2" instead of the "to," so does that mean I'm old school hip hop? Or a Falcons fan? Or just an idiot?) came out, Gordo immediately went into the "Too Legit 2 Quit" hand signals. Am I lamer for recognizing them, or is he lamer for performing them? Talk amongst yourself and decide.

The Doc got a ticket for an open container violation. First, this is complete and utter bullshit. Doc went to park his car down the hill in his usual tailgate spot, and walk back up the hill to spend a few more minutes with us at our tailgate. Being a UGA fan, of course he had a beer with him. I can't recall anyone being stopped for an open container violation, unless you were walking down Baxter with half gallon of bourbon wearing a "Spurrier is a cock" thong ($5, from the guy with the laundry basket). But the fuzz was out in force this weekend, busting ALUMNI CONTRIBUTORS CAUSING NO PROBLEMS for walking around the town with a beverage. Granted, the Doc didn't utilize the typically obscure method of pouring his beer into a red solo cup, but 2 hours before kickoff? The pigs' explanation was that he was on "City/County" property instead of "Campus" property, but their nitpicky interpretation of the laws would require you to have a jetpack and leapfrog in 10 yard increments from campus lilly pad to campus lilly pad to avoid setting foot on a street corner or square foot of county property. How much bullshit is this? Don't TPTB realize that the entire economy of the city depends on people like us, who bring our dollars and contributions into the city, and cause no mischief other than occasionally peeing in some shrubbery? Not only busting the Doc, but the "man" was out in force, harassing tailgaters on their way to the stadium with customary "ball game drinks." We tried to go a back way, and saw some of the boys in blue with their goddamned clipboards and basically sat in the Locos parking lot downing potent concoctions in about 3 minutes. I felt like Ann Frank running around the Achterhuis with a menorah. Too bad for the Doc getting harassed by the man, but on the upside, everyone at the tailgate appreciated his delectable concoction of chicken wings.

Then there was the Bulldog Bite issue. Regular readers recall last week some controversy over the shots being "orange" instead of their regular red. Much debate ensued over whether the positive outcome of last week's game should necessitate the shot mix being hued to the color of the opponent, following the Klingon second right of ascension ("The battle is mine. I crave only the blood of the enemy."). We decided to make the shots up in a garnet color, adding a dash of grape Nehi to perfect the tint. It was a bad omen when the grape soda bottle exploded all over me (fortunately, I was wearing red, not white, and didn't require a Thai Stick). So while the shots were tasty (as always), their juju did not work. Next tailgate: back to the traditional red to ride out the season. Perhaps it was like the old Klingon proverb: "Today is a good day to die."

Speaking of the shots, the "toasts" and "cheers" are getting seriously lame. No enthusiasm. No passion. The low point was a rambling toast from noted tailgate raconteur David Huff. To quote Steve Martin in Planes, Trains and Automobiles: "And by the way, you know, when you're telling these little stories? Here's a good idea - have a POINT. It makes it SO much more interesting for the listener!" It appears Bobo, Richt and Stafford weren't the only ones off their usual games.

Hank was eager to meet the octogenarian UGA fan that sits behind us, who goes by the appellation "Corn Dog." Yes, that's how he introduced himself last week. Other than going by such a colorful nickname, he also tried to flirt with Hank's SO, the delightful Ricky Bobby (Not, not in a Larry Craig way. Ricky Bobby is a chick) last week. On the green monster scale, Hank is right there with me, so fortunately, given the game circumstances and the tailgate booze flowing, Hank was not introduced to Corn Dog. However, as we were sorting out the seating arrangements – we have seats 3 – 8 on the row – Hank kept yelling at poor soul toward the end of the row "I got 3!!! You got a problem??!!" (Also, and probably completely unrelated, every time I heard "Corn Dog," I thought of the Bluth "Cornballer.")

Legendary Larry was keen on telling us about the temperature of the stadium, every time it dropped a degree. Of course, for the first quarter, it felt like being wrapped in tin foil, covered in Duke's peanut oil and staked prostrate on the Mojave.

There's not much to say about the game itself. In the words of the inimitable Private Hudson from Aliens, "Hey maybe you haven't been keeping up on current events, but we just got our ASSES kicked pal!" And after suffering through 4 quarters of some of the worst playcalling I've ever seen, I would also echo Private Hudson: "Why don't you just put her in charge?" Egads. I can't even describe how awful the playcalling was. Yes, #7 was off. Yes, both lines were porous. But the O scheme, plans and adjustments were horrific. Let's just chalk it up to a bad game from Richt (kicking the field goal? Yes, it was 4^th and 15, but seriously? What the fuck?), Bobo (my head hurts thinking about 70% of those calls) and Stafford. The only one to come out unscathed was Moreno. And yes, I tried to continue the "bada bing!" proclamation. I don't think it's going to sweep the nation. I also heard the student body was singing "Rock The Boat" ("you've got the 'Kno-Shown.'"). Props to them.

At the very least, I didn't graduate from an academic institution in Ann Arbor Michigan, St. Joseph County, Indiana or Blacksburg, VA. And my school mascot doesn't involve the word "cock."

As I was taking notes in the CrackBerry during the game, I noticed a couple of things. You know how the device has the "predictive typing?" Where it anticipates what you're typing and suggests a word? Well, "open" (as in "open container") pops up as "porn." And bag (as in "douche bag" or "check a bag") comes up as "bsg" (television aficionado shorthand for Battlestar Galactica) It knows that I'm a geek.

Speaking of Geeks, Miz Huff is also apparently comfortable letting her geek flag fly. Kudos.

Nothing like bitterness, loss and liquor to make the closet smokers come out.

Sometime this week, in a meeting that didn't involve me, we decided to do the "fist bump" instead of the "high five" for good UGA plays. Which I approve of. Fist bumps are easy. High Fives have the potential for missing, and test the limited equilibrium and impaired balance often associated with a Dawg in the stands.

I'm happy to report there were no wonky eared trollops drunkenly falling down the stadium stairs, and wandering the concourses of Sanford looking to give $10 hand jobs to strangers to raise enough money to buy a dime bag from her mom.

Apparently, sometime on the ride home my OCD kicked in and I decided that I MUST know the plans for Sunday lunch with the Es. There is a cell phone voice mail that I refused to listen to that recounts my state of mind (and quality of Crown Bathing) where the only intelligible words seem to be "Chilis" and "11:30" and I rambled on to the limits of the digital recording about the loss the Cocks, how my friends were having a spectacular time at the "Buffy Musical" and other things that didn't require a proper working knowledge of the mechanics of the English language.

I'm glad I had a salad Friday night, because there was another disturbing appearance of the post game pizza gorging. Huff even made a "two slice sandwich." Of course, I recall none of this.

Before I could indulge in the pizza, however, I had to make my way through the shit, man. I walked back to the car, separated from the gang, and got within 10 yards of the tailgate spot and the car. I walked down the wrong alley though, and found myself looking at the Cherokee through 4 feet of solid shrubbery. Yes, I could have walked an extra 20 feet and avoided the shrubbery. But after a day of being hassled by the man, spurting bottles of grape soda, an embarrassing loss to the Evil Genius and baking in the hot sun, I went through the shrubs. I stumbled and fell into the foliage. It's not like there was a little path carved out for me to traipse through. No, I just tried to bore my way through. And my walkman got caught on a branch, and I nearly impaled myself on a random limb. I wallowed around in the greenery, cursing a nonexistent god, and finally crawled out the other end. And I wonder why there are grass stains all over the ass of my khaki shorts.

On the flight home, I had another interesting "row mate" in First Class. We only talked as the plane was landing, but she noticed the huge "G" on my shirt and asked if I went to UGA. I said proudly that I did. Class of 88. She said she was there from '83 to '88 – same as me – and I almost upchucked the 26 Crowns I had on the flight. You see, she looked like Keith Richards. Only she didn't drink on the flight, and presumably didn't engage in any of the shenanigans that I did as an undergrad (and post grad). But through my (admittedly bleary) eyes, she looked like 100 miles of bad road. And closer to 60 than to my age. Goddamn. Do I really look that old? Am I the person someone else is blogging about today? Holy shit. That almost scared me into quitting all my vices and eating salad for 3 years. However, when we chatted about going to games "back in the day," she said she didn't make it too many. She was working her way through college, and putting in several shifts at the DuPont factory. A tinge of bitterness came through her voice, and then she pegged me as a "frat boy." Suddenly, I didn't feel quite as old, imagining her toiling away under Dickensian conditions handling dangerous chemicals, while I was living a life of carefree fun, flitting around Athens, handling dangerous chemicals.

Getting your bags at BWI is not exactly a speedy process. I suppose I could eschew checking a bag and just do the carry on thing. But I hate the anxiety of wondering if there's going to be space in the overhead bins. And I have my shaving kit all set up with specific compartments and straps for every item, and absolutely refuse to put things all willy nilly into a sandwich bag for examination.

Well, despite the embarrassing and soul crushing loss to the poultry that casts a pall over the rest of the season, I did have a good time this weekend. Mucho thanks to everyone who acted as hotelier and shuttle service, and I look forward to seeing the gang again for Ole Miss.

Go Dawgs!