Suddenly, I like my neighbors

Browsing through some of the many Netflix recommendation screens, I came across this showing what folks in my area are watching:

I may complain about the taxes here or the locals' love of Ray Lewis or all the fucking lacrosse coverage in the sports section, but I honestly can't fault the TV taste of those around me.

Hey there. Long time no blog.

Well, hello there blogverse. It's been a while. I would love to say that I've been an absentee landlord of these here parts because I've been on a fulfilling spiritual quest; seduced by a winsome nerd girl; or plotting how to spend my recent Mega Millions win (first on the agenda: "endow" a salary for a UGA special teams coach. Second? Fund a full season of a Whedon TV show and tell Nielsen families to go fuck themselves). However, that simply isn't the case. I made a long trek back to the motherland to see some friends and football, and have really just been suffering from a debilitating ennui.

So, I hope to get back to regularly blogging about television, pop culture, life and sports, but we'll just have to see how it goes, okay? In the meantime, here are a few random observations I made during my time away:

When you go through security at a college football stadium with a flask, never deviate from what's been successful. For example, if in two decades you've never been snagged by the popo with the brown elixir of life hidden in your waistband against the small of your back, then don't suddenly decide to just leave it in your back pocket on the day of the biggest home game of the season. (Related: watching a game at your local pub with other rabid fans gives you the opportunity to see endless replays of the incompetence of SEC refs over and over).

Good friends are worth their weight in gold.

The digestive system of a cat seems inextricably tied to its need for attention.

Cruel and unusual punishment for a southerner? Living in a state without a Krystal, Zaxby's or Waffle House.

You can never have enough half and half. Also, when you drink a LOT of java, it helps to have an easy to use coffee maker. At home, I use a combination of the Grind n Brew (which is not so user friendly, especially for that second pot of the morning, yet makes rich, wonderful coffee) and the Keurig single cup (which is about as easy as you can get). However, I came to appreciate the simplicity and charms of the BrewStation.

Starting a 12 hour drive at 6 in the morning, in the pouring rain, with an engine warming light and a quirky transmission? Not so fun. Having the light go away and everything return to normal after the first pee break? Better.

There's something thoroughly "Aughts" (at the end of the decade, have we finally decide that this is the preferred nomenclature?) about three people sitting in the same room watching TiVod shows, all with their own laptops and BlackBerries in front of them. (I recall the same "type" of thing growing up, except that the shows were live, necessitating group bathroom or popcorn breaks with everyone doing a mad scramble during the commercials, and instead of laptops, it was comic books, cross word puzzles and the National Enquirer).

Big decisions are looming.

I don't know how I made road trips before the advent of XM radio, iPods, podcasts and audiobooks.

Speaking of road trips, if I had kids (and thank Zeus I don't), I would never complain about them wanting to make frequent stops. I think on the way home from Georgia, I pulled over for coffee, gas and/or bathroom breaks 11 times.

You don't really appreciate how fucking awesome HD is until you watch it for a month, then return to a life of SD. I miss you, razor sharp blades of football field grass and bad actor complexions.

After careful consideration and much experimentation, I think I've finally come to the conclusion that the DirecTV DVR is an almost worthy alternative to the TiVo. (Gasp!)

Easy way to lose weight: don't fucking eat.

Small children don't seem to appreciate my ability to sculpt Mickey Mouse out of Play Doh.

Two words I would love to never hear again: "Favre" and "Tebow."

I have a sleeping disorder (complete with tubes and machines!), yet I can't doze off without the television on. However, the TV sleep timer is an invaluable aid to getting full REM sleep. Average wake up time with a sleep timer utilized? 6 - 6:30. Without? 7:30 - 8.

The Braves at least made it interesting for a while there, didn't they? A touch more hitting next year (and a bit less manager-directed work for the 'pen), and this club is a contender.

Lots of people are awfully nice, but I'm still afraid of most of them.

It doesn't matter where they are located, treadmills are still the most boring thing ever.

If Tony Romo keeps playing this way for my fantasy team, I think I'll wind up hating him more than TO and Jessica Simpson combined.

I don't care how many debates we have about it, the best way back from Sanford Stadium to the tailgate spot is via the Legion/Creswell route, and not the straight up Baxter Bataan Death March.

How do Lou Holtz and Mark May stay employed?

I've never purchased anything from E-Bay before. After the Great Freebird Satellite Debacle, I'm certainly less inclined to do so. (But for the viewing audience, all's well that ends well, I guess).

The Thursday television schedule is still a brutal trainwreck of epic proportions. I can't ever recall, in my decades of TV watching, that many interesting shows all stacked up at the same time.

Most effective method for getting "cat food dye" out of light colored carpet? A homemade concoction of vinegar, baking soda, hydrogen peroxide and Oxy-Clean. Better solution? "Natural" cat food, without coloring or dye. (Hell, "brown" is more appetizing to me than "orange and yellow" too).

I would be (more) suicidal with life as a professional gambler. First week tailgate pick 'em pool? Winner, winner, chicken dinner. Next week? 0 for motherfucking 10. I don't think that's been done in the pool before, and you need a special kind of ineptitude to put up that "score."

Did I mention good friends are worth their weight in gold? Cuz they are.

More later, y'all.

2008? Get the fuck out.

2008. The year that was. Just a really, fantastically awesome year.

Except emotionally. And professionally. And psychologically. And technologically. And sexually. And automotively. And monetarily. And fantasy footballily. And qualitatively. And Willie Martinezily. And any other Lolly, Lolly, Lolly get your fucking adverbs here-ly.

Other than that? Yeah, great.

Dawgs vs. Bugs: The Weekend Travelogue and Gameday Experience, Vol. V

The extra special extended edition director’s cut of the weekend started off early Wednesday morning, where I got up at 4:00 AM in order to catch a 7:00 AM flight back to the motherland.  Needless to say, getting up at the ass-crack of dawn, only to find an airport and plane full of harried parents and mewling infants, really set the tone for what would transpire Between the Hedges later on.  

The flight and subsequent MARTA trip was relatively uneventful, thanks to A) Bloody Marys, and B) the constant distraction of the iPod.  It took me a long time to join the iPod generation, mainly because I’ve never been one of those music snobs who thrills to discover the little known emo band that seems like they’re speaking directly to me, only to discard them once more than 15 people know who the fuck they are.  Sure, I listen to music on the iPod, particularly when I’m reading, but the thing has been a (insert fictional deity here)send for listening to audiobooks and podcasts.  There are a few “business” podcasts I’ll listen to, but I’ve primarily enjoyed sports and entertainment podcasts.  I admire the hell out of folks who put out the weekly content devoted to their favorite TV show, often for little or no compensation.  Their passion is contagious, and it certainly helps drown out the sound of the chatterboxes on the plane and makes the trip go faster.  (Note to FAA, who may be looking for clues after the next great air disaster:  I willfully disobey the request to turn off all electronic devices during takeoff.  I keep the earbuds in, make a show of hitting some buttons and put the iPod down beside my leg.  I also look and pretend to listen attentively when the flight attendants walk by me.  But I’m really listening to someone rattle on about the latest episode of Battlestar Galactica or Lost.  So if this makes our big shiny winged cylinder of death fall out of the sky, so be it.  To my fellow passengers:  Ooops.  Sorry).

The pick up was fine, though it was a different Freebird chauffeur.  Miz F (along with the WeeFree) grabbed me from the station, and the only problems along the way resulted from the overzealous Georgia Highway Patrol (we didn’t get busted for anything, just moved slowly) and the fact that none of the 6 DVDs in the rear seat player featured the exact Mickey Mouse video that was being vigorously requested.  We stopped along the way at the Redneck Bloomingdales (WallyWorld!) and at 5 Guys for lunch.  I had never eaten at a 5 Guys before, but the burgers were good, and most importantly, the fresh-cut fries were spectacular and plentiful.  We also made a run to the usual stop for the IPTs (Inexplicably Priced Tallboys).  I noticed that the prices went up slightly – but most intriguingly, they went up correspondingly.  So a 12-pack of 12 oz Lites was $10.49 (up from $9.99), but the 12-pack of 16 oz tallboy Lites was also $10.49.  The bargain remains the same.  4 free beers is still 4 free beers.

The rest of the “holiday” was rather languorously uneventful.  Lasagna was made and eaten.  Some unbelievable “red velvet” cookies were made and eaten.  I wound up talking to someone dear, and as usual, it was intriguing, delightful and wound up going nowhere.  A turkey cooked all night (with a wake up call to pull it out of the Big Green Egg) and it was delish.  The football games on TV were a colossal SUCK, with barely watchable blowouts running rampant across the screen, and no amount of Crown, crushed ice and water could make them any better.  House reruns, and my 42nd viewing of The Lord of the Rings on TNT, alleviated some of the boredom, as did the new CrackBerry.  Google Reader on the handheld (especially coupled with wi-fi) is just about the greatest thing since the invention of the TiVo.  I also added a micro-SD card with 4 gigs of memory, and now have an option of which tiny device I want to use to listen to podcasts while smoking on the porch.  Two quick things about that:  4 gigs of memory on a tiny, tiny card?  When I graduated, my first computer (a Mac) didn’t even have built in memory for storage.  To save files, you had to use a floppy disc (remember those?) or an external hard drive.  I bought one, that was about the size of a VCR circa 1985, that had 20 megs of available storage.  That new 4 gig card in my phone holds 4096 megs, or roughly 204 of those ancient, humungous external drives.  It seems like my waistline is not the only thing to have expanded exponentially since graduation.  Second, if I had had this CrackBerry about 10 years ago, I might be married today.  One of the constant wedges in that relationship was my complete and palpable boredom during soul-sucking regular visits to DSW or an antique shop.  Had I had the ability to listen to audiobooks or podcasts, surf the web, blog, twitter or watch videos from my fucking phone, then I might still be up to my ears in mind-blowing sex.  Well, as a tradeoff, I guess I can just watch porn on my phone.

Gameday arrived, and it was wet, rainy and overcast.  Not particularly cold, just tangibly dreary.  We drew the short straw again for a televised game, and had a noon kickoff.  The Freebird woke up with a continuing, skull-crushing headache, and we didn’t even pack any IPTs or a cooler, if that tells you about the enthusiasm for the game.  (Before you get the wrong idea and think we were starting a 12 step program, due to the rain, we were meeting and “tailgating” at a bar).  The ride down to the motherland was odd, in that we didn’t spend an hour and a half dissecting the game, talking about how to defend the triple option or wondering why the fuck it’s so difficult to keep a kickoff in bounds.  Nope, we got caught up in a miasma of soap opera drama and social niceties that turned out to be much ado about nothing.  The Freebird and I also received an offer to play George and Weezy, and “move on up” to the SkyClub for the game.  We weren’t going to leave one of our troops alone in the rain, but once we knew he had some equally rain-soaked companionship, we took advantage of the kind offer and were only too happy to ride the elevator up to the De-Luxe Apartment In The Sky.  We scalped our 4 “regular” tickets to the game for $10.  $10 TOTAL.  (In hindsight, you get what you pay for).  We undercut the hustler trying to sell two blissfully dippy chicks a pair of tickets for $10.  Sign of the recession, bad weather forecast or foreknowledge of the outcome?  As the good Doctor would say: “Goff Prices……Goff Product!”

The best thing about the game itself was the spread of delicious chocolate chip cookies in the SkyClub.  That game, and in essence the whole season, was nothing short of an EPIC FAIL.  We were out-hustled, out-manned, out-schemed, out-coached, out-rushed, out-played and obviously, OUT-SCORED.  It breaks my fucking tiny, jaded and cynical heart that MoMass played the best game of his career and left his guts strewn across that field in his last time clad in red and black, and had to suffer the indignity of losing to the Trade School.

I guess this time of year is when we’re supposed to give “thanks.”  And I do have some things to give thanks for, such as the dear friends who pick me up, put me up (and put up with me).  Or the neverending wonders of the tiny CrackBerry.  But looking at this game, here is a list of things I do not give thanks for:

• A third quarter where we were outscored 26-0.
• A defense that, according to their own players, took things for granted at halftime and thought they had the game locked up.
• A DC that could seemingly skin puppies alive at the 50 yard line, bludgeon crippled orphans with a piece of rebar, play “Iowa Fan” with 14 year old girls, and give up 30+ points and a gazillion yards week in and week out, and remain steadfastly confident about his continued employment prospects.
• Confidence in the kicking game, such that going for it on 4th and 7 seems like an infinitely better option than a field goal attempt.
• Kickoffs that have all the precision of a scud missile launched from a giant rubber band, and can’t seem to stay in bounds even though there are 53.3 yards of width to play with.
• That if you did a search on “tackle football,” the first part of that phrase would filter out any reference to the 2008 Georgia Bulldogs.
  

Look, maybe we all got too jacked up and excited about our prospects for this year.  And there will be plenty of time to exhume the rotting corpse of this season and perform an autopsy.  (One pleasant housecleaning result is that I can now throw out all the preseason newspapers and magazines I've been keeping for posterity).  But there was no way to leave the stadium Saturday without feeling bitter and wondering about what might have been.  Keep in mind, there was no “Jasper Sanks” call or other shenanigans going on.  We didn’t show up (at least for two of the three phases of the game – can’t pin this one on the “O”) and got our asses handed to us.  Give the bees their props, tip your cap to them, and move on. 

Other than the offensive fireworks that were not quite enough to compensate for our 11 man (and one DC) sieve, here was the only other highlight of the game:

If you can't tell from the pix, that's Larry Munson being honored.  Thanks for all the memories, Larry.

As for the post game, the walk back to the car was dryer than we expected.  The chili was tasty.  The company and camaraderie was wonderful.  The texting was terrific.  And this quote still amuses me, even though I was at the bottom of a flask and can’t exactly remember the context:  “Can't fix me a liquor drink and tell me to take my shoes off!”

This puts a perfect capper on the weekend:  I got an upgrade for the flight back home.  Boarded early, and started quaffing a few bloody marys.  There was some delay in getting the rest of the flight boarded, so I built up a nice little buzz and enjoyed my spacious accommodations.  We finally take off, 45 minutes late, but the weather is so bad across the entire east coast that they decide to keep everyone seated, with no cabin service, for the whole trip.  No cocktails.  So, not only is this big cigar tube of doom flopping all across the skies for a good 90 minutes, causing me to get arthritic from vice-gripping the armrests, I also can’t have any whiskey that might mitigate the stomach churning terror I’m experiencing.

Oh, and also, for the first time in 20 years of traveling, Delta lost my bags.  Yep, give thanks, y’all.

I'd hang myself. Except the noose would break.

What a fucking couple of days.

Wednesday, I go to a local lab to get a blood test, for an upcoming physical. Have all my paperwork, insurance card, everything is in order. You have to fast for 12 hours prior, so I don't eat dinner the night before, and only drink water. I wake up at the ass crack of dawn, even for me, to get to the lab before 6 AM, to be first in line (and so I can get back ASAP to my beloved smokes and java. Hmmmm. Wonder what that physical will reveal?). Wait until they open the doors, get first in line, wait another (inexplicable) 20 minutes to come up to the desk, and they tell me the Doc forgot to check the "reason" for the test on the front (all the tests to be taken were dutifully checked on the back of the form). I tell the automaton behind the desk that it's just for a regular old physical, and not any of the other exotic reasons listed. Seems logical that it would be "wellness." But no. This fucking drone says I have to come back, after getting the doc to check the form. I say let's call the doc. Of course the office isn't open at 6:20 AM. I say let's take the blood, you know what to test for (back of the form) and I'll have the doc call it in at 9 AM when his office opens. Nope, says the fucking Borg. More "debate" (me making logical points, her staring vacantly and continuing to say "no") ensues, and I leave in a thunderstorm of loud profanity that would make the cast of Scarface blush. So, I'm going to fast Sunday night, and try this bullshit all over again Monday morning. (The doc, cool dude that he is, just said in a phone call "check the 'wellness' box in black ink. And here's my cell phone, so they can call me at 6 AM if they have a problem Monday AM.")

I finally turned off the A/C in the apartment on Monday, when it got down in the 40s here. Of course, Wednesday, it got back up in the 70s, so I turn it back on. I hear it running, but I don't feel it getting cooler. I wake up at 5 AM Thursday in a pool of sweat, and it's like 78 in here. Apparently, the A/C isn't working now, and just blowing warm fucking air. When I get to work, I call the repair people, tell them of the EMERGENCY! and they say someone will come over that day. Well, no one shows up, I call to remind them again, they say someone will come over, no one does (again) and I spend the whole night boiling like a crawdad.

To top that off, last night, I have a major problem with my CrackBerry synching with my PC at home. I could recount about 12,000 words of all the troubles and travails, but needless to day, I spent 6 hours (!) on the phone (while suffocating in the sauna) with "elevated BlackBerry tech support" trying to resolve the problem, which consisted of downloading, deleting, uninstalling, reinstalling, rebooting and so much high-tech hackery I thought I was going to enter into the Matrix, free the human batteries and go on to make a really shitty third movie. I forgot to eat dinner, being on the phone until the wee hours.

This morning, I wake up (sweaty, and not for a good reason) for a cross town meeting at 5 AM. (It goes well). I come back home, and STILL NO GODDAMNED MAINTENANCE ON MY A/C. I work from home in the afternoon, call them again, and the dude finally shows up. Well, the unit is low on coolant, but something is frozen (if it's fucking frozen, then why do I feel as if I'm living in a kiln?) and they can't add the coolant until it thaws. On Monday. When they're back at work. (Oh, I'm so looking forward to Monday. Come home for the maintenance dude, AFTER fasting the night before, getting no java first thing in the morning and getting up at 5:30 to go visit my friends, the zombiefied dumbfucks at the lab. To get stuck with a needle). However, today, maintenance dude did leave a "portable A/C" unit. It's about 4 feet tall, and loud as hell (which reminds me of the humidifying units I had to have installed all over my house for two weeks, back when the white trash Jenna Jameson and clan did $70,000 worth of damage to my beautiful casa). And boy, it has the cooling power of dropping a single ice cube into a stadium cup full of whiskey. Oh, and did I mention that while all this was going on, I was on phone with crackberry support for ANOTHER 6 MOTHERFUCKING HOURS?! And I forgot to each lunch.

Well, here I am now, and the crackberry issue is finally *kinda* resolved. I ate a sandwich. I have a huge Crown and water beside me. And it's cooled down to a balmy 305 Kelvin. I think I've lost 8 pounds, so I guess that's good.

And best of all? You know what spurred all the crackberry software issues? This sweet bitch:


Yeah, baby. I'm BOLD.

Dawgs vs. Vols: The Weekend Travelogue and Gameday Experience, Vol. IV

After last week's Tolstoy-like screed, I think I'll keep it short and sweet this week. Bottom line, nothing of bloggy note really happened.

As for the tailgate and travelogue:

• There were no harbingers of the apocalypse or bad omens.
• I had the flu all week, and felt like crap for most of the weekend. And probably a little still today.
  
• There were no unexpected guest stars, nor an incident of "The Whitney Factor." (though we did agree on some of the particulars - it has to be an extended, in-person sighting, not just attendance without an up close encounter).
• The plans and trains and automobiles arrived on time.
• Everyone remembered their tickets.
• No pedestrians were run down.
• All the electronics performed as expected.
• There was an amusing comments about "lap sitting," but it would take too long to explain, and dammit, I'm tired.
• Don't buy liquor at Firehouse package store on Broad street on gameday. WILDLY overpriced.

As for the game itself:

• We won.
• I still hate the Vols and all their baby-eating-carrots-shitting-in-a-diaper-orange.
• Phat Phil is probably not long for this world.
• The score doesn't accurately reflect the total control we had of this game, and the whoop ass we laid on the visitors from Knox Vegas. Realistically, there probably should have been another 10 - 14 points added to the scoreboard. Sadly, with a few exceptions (Aloha!), it's characteristic of the CMR era to play to the level of the opponent and win, but not napalm the scoreboard. I guess we can be grateful for talented kickers.
• Unless he's just bone-tired from playing corner leading into a punt, I think Prince should be returning punts.
• MoMass is a man.
• Despite the picks, 7 had a hell of game. (Though those picks did contribute mightily to the lackluster total on the scoreboard).
• After the face plant at Neyland last year, a win is a win.
• 1 net yard rushing? That's damned impressive.
• That was a terrible call on the defensive holding in the red zone. "Repeat third down" my ass.
  
• Another bad day to be ranked in the top 5.
• Vandy and LSU look less daunting than before (but still a challenge, don't get me wrong), and of course the big circle on the calendar is for the Cocktail Party. And yes, goddammit, the game is still called "The World's Largest Outdoor Cocktail Party." (Just like I referred to last weekend's clash as the "Red River Shootout." PC mavens go fuck yourself).

Another weekend, another trip, another game. Maybe I'll feel back to normal in a couple of days. Go Dawgs.

Dawgs vs. Chippewas: The Weekend Travelogue and Gameday Experience, Vol. II

Welcome to another gameday weekend recap. Sadly, or perhaps fortunately, the weekend passed mostly without drama. The Dawgs took care of business, produced some highlights for the ages (except if you're ESPN*), escaped without major injuries and didn't drop in the polls. I didn't miss any flights, the planes didn't crash, I didn't have to sit by any smelly, chatty passengers on paid or public transportation, pass out in the 4th quarter or get lost in the foilage behind my former frat house. So we can call that a win-win, I guess.

Random musings and observations:

Yes, the Inexplicably Priced Tallboys (IPT) are still inexplicably priced. We all enjoyed our four "free" beers. (But the Freebird informed me that once again, I was geographically challenged. The home of the IPTs is in Dawsonville, not Dahlonega. Go figure. I only lived in the area for 20 years or so).

The Murph picked me up, and had a weekend pass to spend some time enjoying the tailgate. (I'm sad that I missed Miz Murph, but I'm glad that we ironed out in pre-weekend emails that she wasn't avoiding me because I've yet to start writing Buffy/Twilight fan fiction. The teen-vamp drama audiobook is in the queue, but yet to make it to my ears).

Thanks to staying with friends who have spawned, I was able to get all caught up on Calliou and Dora. I got ensnared in these intricate plot threads a couple of years ago during The Dark Time, and was able to ease back into the compelling drama over several IPTs.

The Freebird prepared some salmon in the Green Egg on Friday night, and once again, I ventured into the world of non-shellfish seafood. (I really like seafood, and even tuna, but generally eschew "fish" because, well, it tastes like fish). I tried my requisite accommodating guest single bite, and oddly, wound up eating a far more significant portion than I usually do. I still wouldn't pick salmon over virtually any other protein (give me the cow, the swine or the bird, y'all), but of all I've tried, that was definitely the best. I told the Freebird "I like your fish better than any other fish" and wondered if I'd ever uttered that phrase before.

Speaking of the Freebird, I learned that he can be a closet antiquer, but not on football Saturdays. Interesting. I occasionally punched the antiquing clock on occasion, but only to get laid.

Several of the usual suspects were missing from the tailgate this weekend due to prior commitments (is a kid's soccer game really any less manly than DragonCon? Just askin'), but we had a couple of guest stars. Of course, there was the Murph, who seamlessly blended back into the fold. And then there was Kevin, who pops in occasion. No one made a drunken ass of themselves, though Kevin, while presumably completely sober, did test the efficacy of a long grill lighter by sticking his hand over the (barely visible) flame. Yep, it worked. Just because you can't see it, doesn't mean it doesn't burn. Good reflexes probably prevented an extra-cripsy tailgater.

I know we recognized this previously, but damn, was it hot. Like tailgating on the face of the sun hot. No shade to be found, which is not good for a late afternoon kickoff. We tossed around the price of an EZ Up tent and I even checked it out online (thanks, CrackBerry! -- $210) but just decided to melt and take occasional respites in the shade of the parking lot while the Freebird discussed real estate with nudists (over the phone -- it was a tailgate sans actual nakedness). But next time? I'm thinking there should be a tent in our future.

As I've mentioned before, Miz Freebird isn't a UGA grad. And not particularly a die-hard Dawgs fan. (Truth be told, she's a fan of the orange safety vest wearing inbreds from Knox-Vegas and the North Avenue Trade School). But in an adult, committed and reasonable show of affection and partnership, she goes to the games (or at least, all of the tailgates and most of the games) with us, but forgoes wearing red and black. The trick for her is to wear something that doesn't resemble a tacit endorsement of the Dawgs, yet doesn't appear as enemy colors. This weekend, we could feel reasonably safe that the Chippewas wouldn't storm the field at Sanford Stadium wearing blue and brown plaid. And if they did, I feel comfortable saying our margin of victory would have been more significant.

During the game, there weren't any meaningful interactions with our "neighbors." There was a guy with a tax deduction in front of us who couldn't control his fidgety one time sperm, but he didn't turn around when I burst out with the occasional "What The Fuck!" (Luckily, the game didn't require that many profane utterances. Not that I would care. Expanding your vocabulary is a crucial part of intellectual development in the young). And for a couple of quarters, I felt really, really old sitting next to a young Lindsay Lohan lookalike, complete with gravity defying frontage and a low cut top that made me wonder if it was really 95 degrees in the stadium.

By now, everyone knows what happened in the game. We kicked ass, and pretty much clicked on all cylinders. We shut down "Tebow-Lite," ran and passed at will, and won a game that we should have, convincingly. The only area of concern coming out of our epic clash against the Chippewas was our continuing problem with kickoffs. From a pure talent standpoint, The Blair Walsh Project obviously has the leg. But he put them high and short and out of bounds, and at this stage, it's difficult to tell if the problem is strategy/coaching or inexperience or coverage or perhaps a combination of all the above. This didn't kill us the first two games, but as we head into the meat of the schedule, it does loom as a troubling chink in the armor for facing teams with much better athletes returning kicks and more powerful offenses getting a short field. At least we acknowledge the issue, and may try something different.

As everyone has seen by now (unless you watch ESPN), the highlight of the game was Knowshon's superhuman hurdle over a hapless Chippewa.



No, it didn't go for a TD (and in reality, wasn't as impactful on the game as his 50+ yard scoring run) but HOLY SHIT was that awesome. We all said "that's a SportsCenter moment" in the stands, but damn, if ESPN didn't show it on ANY of their weekend SportsCenters, nor on that college recap show with Mr. Potatohead and Granny Clampett (and Rece Davis). Richt, in his aw-shucks way, took some umbrage. But I guess the powers that be at the WWL were too busy gargling with Tebow's man-juice and reporting on his flat-earth brainwashing and third-world cock-snipping to notice.

*However, it should be noted that my favorite WWL personality, the always awesome Scott Van Pelt, addressed the issue on a Dawgs message board. You rock, SVP.

All in all, it was a good game and a great weekend. Between a flask-emptying game (or really, 3 quarters -- welcome back, liver!) and a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles colored margarita at the post game feedbag (what the hell was that, anyway?), a good time was had by all. This week is a road game, so I'll be enjoying the action here in the mid-Atlantic, listening to the mellifluous strains of Vern Lundquist, smoking when I damn well please, hoping for lots of visor-tossing and not peeing in the shrubs during the pregame. But the tailgate crew will be sorely missed.

Go Dawgs!

Dawgs vs. Eagles: The Weekend Travelogue and Gameday Experience, Vol. I

Not gonna have a lot of depth on the whole Gameday experience this week. I think the holiday weekend, plus a burgeoning cold and a sunburn, should serve to make me less loquacious than usual. However, here are a few random observations and thoughts from the first weekend of the college football season.

Oh, because you were all worried about it all weekend, the extra battery arrived and functioned perfectly when charged. No CrackBerry meltdowns necessary.

On the plane down, a guy was wearing an Auburn shirt. I, of course, was representing my alma mater. Brief deplaning exchange: “I hate your shirt.” “Yeah, I hate yours too.”

Another random plane conversation. Guy talked to me as we were walking toward baggage claim (I guess the earbuds weren’t quite the deterrent I thought they were). He was wearing red, but with no visible UGA logos. Said he was a fan, and going to the game. I asked him when he graduated, and he said he’s a UGA fan because of the football, but went to the North Avenue Trade School because he wanted to get “an education.” I stared at him blankly, stopping in my tracks, and suggested that the days of driving through town and getting a diploma thrown in the window are over. And as a product of one of the nation's finest journalism schools, I was slightly offended. Sigh. I faked a trip to the bathroom to maintain some semblance of manners. Fuckwad. If that’s the bandwagon, get the hell off, ya know?

Two differences between Maryland and Georgia you can instantly spot walking through the airport: the South has far more hot chicks than the Mid-Atlantic. And Southerners like to eat more. (Happily and Sadly, respectively, I can testify to both).

This was the first trip back to the motherland since I became iPod savvy, and I can tell you it makes all the difference in the world. Not only was it great to have background music of my choosing while reading on the plane, it was also fantastic for killing time on the Marta train out to the North Point station. Whereas last year, I just looked around and tried to avoid eye contact and conversation with the huddled masses while reading a magazine, this year I plopped down and watched Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog for the 12th time. Awesome.

On the way in, we stopped at the Dahlonega liquor store and once again found the Inexplicably Priced Tallboys. Price of 12-pack of Lite, 12 oz: $9.99. Price of 12-pack of Lite, 16 oz: $9.99. Why on earth would anyone buy the 12 ouncers? That’s basically 48 oz of beer – four full regular cans – for free. I do not understand the pricing, but at this point, I’m not questioning it either. I just quietly enjoy my extra ounces.

Thank Georgia's state government for the low price of smokes back home. For the next few weeks, I'm going to be a tobacco mule.

Speaking of the inexplicable, I’m fairly handy with technology. At work, I’m known as “the geek squad” because I can generally solve most computer problems that arise, and I definitely know my way around operating and programming software and various consumer electronics. However, the programmable thermostat in the Freebird’s basement remains a malevolent Hal 9000 for me. One time last year, I erroneously put it on "heat" in the middle of a hot September night. This time, I didn’t wind up a c-store rollerdog, but I didn’t put the cooling down in my usual comfort zone of high 60’s/low 70s, and somehow switched all the metrics to Celsius. Nice. They always said that the metric system would catch on.

There was a bit of the morning Bickersons on the way to the game, but nothing particularly antagonistic, and fortunately, no pedestrians were run down and left for dead.

Once we got to the tailgate, most of the usual crew was there. Given the early start, there wasn’t much set up and take down. No Bulldog Bites, no slingbox and game watching. Just a little chit chat and catching up, and quaffing of sudsy beverages.

We did, however, have time to conduct the first annual Geek-Dawg Trivia Challenge. The Freebird completed a clean sweep, winning top honors in the UGA category, the geek category and the overall combined score. (He actually tied with Scrat and The Candidate for the UGA category, but convincingly won the tie-breaker, coming within 15 yards of identifying Herschel’s all time UGA rushing yardage). And while she didn’t actually compete in the event, Gordo’s wife (in a quick post-match quiz) was surprisingly strong in the geek category. I think we may have a sleeper for next year. This year, however, The Freebird’s iTunes account will celebrate his trivia mastery.

I can say with certainty that despite pouring myself some regular cocktails at home, I was definitely not in gameday shape. Perhaps it was the temperature and humidity for a 12:30 kickoff, or assuming that 8 Chic-Fil-A nuggets was a good “base” for the first tailgate, or enjoying one too many pregame Inexplicably Priced Tallboys, but I didn’t make it all the way through the first game flask. Nor apparently, did I make it all the way through the first game, at least coherently. Hey, at least I didn’t continue last year’s bizarre trend of wandering off during the 4th quarter, like someone’s deranged grandpa at the mall. Nor did I show up lost in the shrubbery, screaming for a rescue, when I was on the road behind the frat house where I spent about 5 years of my life. (Google maps on the CrackBerry should prevent that this year).

Someone should probably take my phone away from me sometime in the third quarter.

As nice as it was to finally hear the intonations of the legendary Larry Munson, he did make a few glaring errors (more so than usual), especially calling Kris Durham "Wes Durham." (for the uninitiated, Wes Durham is the play by play guy for the archrival Bugs – but a nice guy and solid broadcaster nonetheless). However, as the Freebird and I were discussing, Larry can misidentify every single player on the field, never get the down and distance right and STILL keep that job until he A. doesn't want it anymore, or B. heads off to the hedges in the sky clutching his microphone in one hand and a coed in the other.

New Game Day Commemorative Cups! I picked up two, one Uga (the pooch) and one Sanford Stadium.

The new "non-smoking" policy for the stadium is all kinds of angst-inducing. Someone should set up a stand to peddle nicotine patches, or at the very least, those old bubblegum candy ciggies.

I have mixed feelings on the game itself. If we weren't ranked #1, I would be extremely pleased about the showing, with the exception of poor Jeff Owens season-ending ACL injury. We took care of an opponent we should have. As is Richt's way, he called off the Dawgs early in the game, once we were comfortably ahead (38-0), and got some work for some key reserves. (While many – including me – often complain about the early insertion of the backups, when you think about what’s happened to Sturdivant and Owens, the strategy seems to make a hell of a lot more sense in terms of getting folks ready to step up when called). He didn't run up the score when he clearly could have. Both Richard Samuel and Caleb King got to strut their stuff with a game well in hand. We put up 45 points.

However, you look around the "ticker" for other scores, and see The Condoms and The Jorts and The Sooners putting up a 50-spot. Will "on the fence" voters be more impressed by a score that starts with a 5? Will they hold a couple of Georgia Southern "garbage time" TDs against us? I'm sure they will, and USC's ass-whipping of the Cavs (after traveling cross-country) was duly impressive, even if Virginia comes from a conference that should now be relegated to Fox Sports Net broadcasts available only on the interwebs.

Same goes for Stafford. Yardage wise, it was his best day ever. He had some impressive frozen ropes down the field. Yet he underthrew and overthrew a few balls, too. First game rust, or ominous portent of things to come?

Frosh kicker Blair Walsh put the first kickoff deep in the end zone, and drilled his first FG attempt from 52 (and that would have been good from Dacula). From this brief sample, he looked to continue the UGA legacy of kickers. (However, his subsequent kicks didn’t really pin anyone back. More of this “directional” stuff? Tired from the heat? Not sure). And every time you hear his name, does anyone else think of this?

Watching games the night before, it was awesome to see the “1” on the ESPN scroll just before "UGA." Last time that was possible, I don’t think the ESPN “bottom line” had been invented yet. However, the new polls are just out, and we won't be seeing that again for a while, since USC leapfrogged us to become the new #1. It was really only a matter of time anyway, as the winner of the USC/OSU tussle was going to get that huge bump eventually.

Hey, the good news is we get to turn around and do this whole thing again in just 3 days! Until then, Woof, Woof.

RIP, Skip

Longtime Braves broadcaster Skip Caray has passed away.

People often talk about how a particular album or band provided the "soundtrack to their lives." For me, the voice of Caray (along with that of Larry Munson) was about as close as I would come to having a familiar sound guide me through the years. We moved back to Georgia in the mid 70s, and I remember going to bed at night, being able to pick up the radio broadcasts of Braves west coast games. Shortly thereafter, when we got cable, the best thing about it was being able to watch the Braves, in all their early ineptitude, every single night. Skip, along with Ernie Johnson and Pete Van Wieren (and later, Joe Simpson and Don Sutton) were a welcome presence in our home every evening, even as Ted Turner managed the team for a night (!) and Pascual Perez made endless loops around I-285. Skip called 'em as he saw 'em, and brought a wry levity to games the home team could just never seem win. I was as gratified for Skip and the gang as I was the long-suffering fans when the Braves embarked on their historic run of postseason participation in the 90s, because you could feel the emotional investment in the team that had been there since the first time we turned on "Channel 17." When you were out and away from the tube, it was always gratifying to turn on the radio and hear that familiar voice telling you how the boys were doing.

With changes in the marketplace, and TBS's shift to sitcom repeats, you couldn't catch Skip on Braves broadcasts anymore. But when I moved up here, I got the MLB Extra Innings package to follow the games, and frequently listened in my car on XM Radio. Not too long ago I was all alone, driving around in a strange town, and hearing Skip lament the latest one-run loss made me feel more at "home."

So long, Skip. You'll be missed.

Picture This

A few random images:


I posted a while ago about the brilliant design and production of the Mad Men Season 1 DVD set (not to mention the brilliance contained within the ersatz Zippo on the red DVDs). Here's a picture of the set, along with the limited edition Mad Men Zippo (#333 -- good juju for me, as 3 is one of my "lucky" numbers!) that I bought myself for my b-day.


Another recent blog lament was about my love for crushed ice, and the fact that I can't easily get it straight from my fridge door. Well, here was my solution - another lovely gift to myself. A mini standalone ice crusher. Not convenient enough to use for every single glass of DC or Crown every single serving, but a nice treat. It crushes the ice so finely, it reminds me of the tiny "pellet" ice I so loved from Guthrie's or Long John Silver's back in the day. You can also see the one two punch of my caffeine addiction: the Grind-N-Brew for full pots and the Keurig for cup at a time. Mmmmm.....java....(I'm enjoying a giant size mug of sumatra now).


I've referenced the lake beside my shitbox before, and here are a few shots of it. Probably not a bad place to drown yourself if your coffeemaker or ice crusher breaks.

Sparkly skies, from the deck

Kind of a low key 4th for me. Of course, most things for me are rather "low key" right now. I live very close to a local lake, which my office overlooks, where they do the annual 4th of July fireworks. I enjoy fireworks (from a distance, that is. I'm not to keen on shooting them off myself in the backyard, as I A. hate loud, sudden noises, like firecrackers and children, and B. like to type, so I want to keep all of my fingers), but don't really enjoy crowds, so I figured that if I could see the show from my apartment, then that was enough of a celebration for me. Plus, I was 2 feet from stepping back into the welcome chill of the air conditioning, 10 feet from mixing another cocktail and 12 feet from using a bathroom that wasn't portable. (I wanted to take a quick picture of the majestic row of purple port-a-lets they had lined up in a local parking lot for the shindig, but never got around to it. They couldn't do red, white and blue? Has anyone ever seen a purple port-a-let? Was Prince playing, and no one told me?)

Anyway, it was a nice show, and I got to enjoy it from the privacy and comfort of my own casa. I tried to take a couple of pictures, which you see below, but they didn't turn out too well. I was a little slow on the draw, for one, so I captured all the "sizzle" at the lowest point, and I didn't have the camera on the right setting. I just bought a new digital camera, and couldn't recall the proper set up for taking pictures outside. Turns out there is one for "scenes," and even within that menu, one specifically for "fireworks show." Uh, as you can tell, I never made it to that menu, but you can see some nice detail of the brick on the side of the deck. Needless to say, the show was much better than what was represented here.

Happy 4th, everyone. Freedom! Liberty! No taxation without representation! (Oh....wait....).

Reasons I hate my life, Vol. LVXII

I drink something cold every day. Diet Coke, Diet Mountain Dew, Water, Iced Coffee, whiskey, you name it. Hey, I need hydration. My favorite way to enjoy cold beverages is over crushed ice. Must be a family thing, as I distinctly recall that as a kid, my parents were so excited that some company finally offered a standalone "ice crusher." (No, it wasn't as cool looking or sleek as this one, since this memory springs from the late 70s or early 80s. And of course, the 1979 version of a countertop ice crusher was much preferable to the "old school" way Sam and Bettye used to make crushed ice prior to the arrival of this technological marvel: cubes from the ice tray dumped into a towel, which was wrapped up and then banged with a hammer. Ahhh, the good old days).

So I love my crushed ice, filling each and every glass, for each and every beverage. When I bought my first home, and bought my first fridge, having a built in ice crusher was simply a "mandatory." And when I bought my second (and I presumed final) home, I got another in-door ice crusher and used that thing incessantly. So much so, in fact, that the GE repairman had to visit twice over 6 years to replace the unit.

Well, here I am stuck in apartment hell, storing perishables in a plain white "cooling box" that I refuse to call a proper refrigerator, because A. it's a top and bottom design, which I hate, and B. the motherfucker's got no ice crusher. Yeah, it has an "icemaker," and that's a step above filling ice trays (which in the early college days, was just one of many bones of contention between me and less OCD roomies), but I have to insult my chilled beverages with these graceless, lumpy "cubes" and not the beautiful tiny particles of shattered frozen water that I love so.

And the "cubes?" Jesus fucking christ, they're not even "cubes." They're the weird, crescent shaped "slices" of ice that almost every ice maker puts out these days (which were only made more palatable by, you guessed it, being crushed). Of the many, many reasons I hate these despoilers of drinks, let me offer two: First, their rounded shape on one side fits perfectly into the curve of the cup or glass, meaning that when you tilt the beverage to take a sip, instead of getting a perfectly mixed whisky and water, gently making its way way through a "filter" of tiny ice particles to arrive expertly chilled in your mouth (and allowing you to chew on a few random pieces of ice along the way), you get a huge fucking "ice dam" that takes up the entirety of the glass to mouth area, not allowing your cocktail to pass, or if it does, to only do so only after a stop and start "lurch" that makes you dribble like the village idiot. No smoothness, precision, control or consistency to the drinking experience there. Second, when you're trying to grab some ice "crescents" out of the freezer to fill up your glass or cup, if you get more than one or two in your hand at a time, they slide out of your grip like a mound of jello covered in bacon grease and wind up back in the freezer, or more likely, on the goddamned floor, skittering across the (now) cheap vinyl flooring. Six handfuls and a whisk broom and pan later, you finally have a cup ready for the main event (only to look forward to the aforementioned "ice dam" to exacerbate the tension said cocktail is supposed to relieve).

Fuck. Maybe it's time to make my weekly pilgrimage to BB&B to pick up a sleek new standalone ice crusher, and find a place for it amongst the 12 coffee makers on my tiny, faux formica countertop.

I can handle the "thong rule," but this is fucking ridiculous

Came home to the crappy apartment today, and found one of those rolled up pieces of paper tucked between the doorknob and the door, which meant another note from "management." Usually, these missives are dry announcements, along the lines of "we're testing the alarm system today. Don't be alarmed." (Redundancy, and possibly dry wit, is actual). Or a note about where to park, or how to receive packages after hours, or what to do if you're so impossibly stupid that you lock yourself out of your apartment (which I cannot possibly fathom).

So as I was pouring a cocktail and deciding whether or not to go on the Karen Carpenter diet plan tomorrow, I started perusing the scroll handed down from on high.

It starts off innocently enough, addressing the Pool Rules and Regulations:

• Proper swim wear in required, which does NOT include jeans, cutoffs, or thongs. Okay, that makes sense. After all, we're not on a campus in Gainesville, FL, so who the hell wants to see jorts? And since Charlize Theron, Carla Gugino, Kristen Bell and Kate Beckinsale don't live in my apartment complex, I'm okay with the thong rule, too.
• NO PETS are allowed in the pool or on the pool deck. Again, that's fine. I tried to give one of the kids a bath last weekend, and if she had claws, I would have looked like an epileptic in a fencing class.
• NO GLASS, ALCOHOL or TOBACCO is permitted anywhere in the pool area. Possession of alcohol will result in immediate expulsion. EXCUSE ME? WHAT THE FUCK?

Look, "no glass" makes perfect sense in an area where people are walking around without shoes, and has long been a rule at pool big and small. I'm increasingly aware that the world isn't very welcoming those of us who choose to partake of the sweet, sweet smoky treats. So I can live (perhaps a day longer?) with that rule, too. But NO ALCOHOL? Isn't this a frakkin' POOL? What else is there to do at a pool besides sit in a lounge chair, listen to your iPod, read a book and knock down a few cold ones?! The pool is only a short walk from my front door, and I'm not that good with geography, but I didn't realize that in about 50 paces, I could wind up in Provo.

Are you fucking kidding me? How else to drown out the squeals of the unsuccessful contraception that even Led Zepplin blasting through the earbuds can't diffuse? Doesn't "pool" and "beer" just go together? Isn't this a seemingly inalienable right? What kind of nonsense is this, and where the fuck have I moved? When I signed the lease, I didn't see a creationist mural painted on the walls of the office, or notice a wrought iron "AA" on the security gate.

I guess if I should decide to drag my ass out to the pool, and avoid the harpoons, I'll have to go to plan B, which is a delightful concoction of lemonade and vodka, toted in several several plastic bottles, and masquerading as an innocent and refreshing summertime elixir. Come "inspect" my thermos, LifeDouche, and I'll cut a bitch.

Childhood tastes die painful death

No, I'm not talking about a crush on Haley Mills or Kim Richards. I'm talking about chewing gum. When I was a kid, my favorite gum by far (except for a brief Little League flirtation with Big League Chew) was Juicy Fruit. I just loved Juicy Fruit. Every time we went to the store, I had to pick up a pack. And at first, I was a typical kid, chewing it for about 3 minutes until the flavor rush was over, and then I would spit it out. Or stick it on the bottom of a desk. (Oh come one. Everyone did that. Even OCDs in training). But eventually, I picked up Bettye's habit of having a "relationship" with a piece of gum, chewing my Juicy Fruit for hours on end before giving it up for another stick of flavorful goodness.

But for some reason, I got out of the gum chewing business for a while. I went through an infatuation with Brachs peppermints and butterscotches. Tic Tacs. (For xmas one year, I got one of those wall mounted c-store racks that held like 50 Tic Tac packages, already loaded with assorted flavors). In college, I would feed my fixation with Dum Dums. I always keep Jolly Ranchers in a bowl on my desk at work (but no one likes the blue raspberry). And I still keep Altoids in the car.

But when I started flying for business pretty regularly, and realized I couldn't have a cigarette as the cylindrical tube of death was flopping around the sky, I need something to nervously chew as I contemplated crashing in a fiery ball of twisted metal and jet fuel. So I started picking up a pack of gum to keep in my briefcase. I experimented with a lot of different brands and flavors, but finally settled on IceBreakers. LOVE this gum. Flavor lasts a long time, isn't overpowering, and doesn't make your teeth hurt. For many years, it was easy to find at any c-store, airport or supermarket. Then suddenly about two years ago, it didn't show up in the candy racks. If they had it all, I had to search for it. At my regular Publix back in the motherland, I asked them to special order it, and I would wind up buying ten 15-packs in a box at a time, just so I wouldn't run out. When I moved up here to crabland, I would occasionally find it at a c-store, but no where else. Now, the only place I can find IceBreakers gum (the sticks, not the square things masquerading as my favorite gum) is in Walmart. I hate this. I've ranted before about how the parking lots here are zany rat mazes, with inexplicable traffic patterns and exits. And the parking spaces are fucking tiny, especially for those of us want to doom the planet by driving a dinosaur sucking SUV. And all the stores have smaller aisles, which makes the claustrophobia you feel in the parking lot only intensify as you go in to shop. Take all those things, and compound it with the general feeling of social compression and traffic you generally encounter in a WallyWorld, and it makes going in to pick up a pack of fucking gum an anxiety-ridden experience you don't want to repeat too often. So last week, I visited the local WallyWorld to score my IceBreakers fix, and picked up every single 10 pack bundle (of 5-stick packages) that was hanging on the hook. I think I got 12 of them. My hope is that they realize these things are really flying off the shelves, and keep ordering them. Or I may have to wander the streets trying hook up some black market IceBreakers (and I've heard they cut them with NutraSweet in the 'hood). To make me feel less silly pushing a cart around for just gum, I also picked up two more folding camp chairs for my balcony. Because I only have about 14 of those scattered across the hills of Georgia, but that doesn't do me any good here.

Anyway, in between finding my pusher at WallyWorld, I ran out of IceBreakers and needed some gum for a flight and picked up a pack of Juicy Fruit out of sentimentality. Would it still be as good as I remembered from my youth? The short answer is "no." It was sickly sweet, hard to chew and the flavor died in a millisecond. I barely made it though a 15 pack. It's weird. I still like the occasional Tic Tac, Dum Dum or peppermint, or other candy I fancied from my younger days. (Of course, I don't snort Pixie Sticks or that do that bizarre thing with the waxy stick and flavored sugar dust in two different pockets). Do tastes in candy really change that much over time? TNRLM readers, what's your experience in this area? Are there candies or gums that you were obsessed with as a kid that just don't cut the mustard these days? Or am I just crazy?

Sweet serial killer goodness

When I moved up here, we were right at the start of Dexter's second season, and I didn't get Showtime as part of the motherfucking cable package. When I finally got into another apartment and reconnected with my beloved DirecTV and TiVo, the season was already over and they weren't repeating it. But thanks to the miracle of TiVo, I just noticed that Showtime 2 was repeating all of the season over the next couple of weeks. That sweet, beautiful set top box was looking out for me, and recording it, starting with the "season premiere" last night. Believe it or not, I stayed relatively spoiler free, and all I know through general pop culture osmosis is that Keith Carradine (so good in Deadwood as Wild Bill) shows up as an FBI agent and that somehow, Dexter winds up in fake rehab. With Lost coming to an end for almost a year, this is indeed a treat.

Let's go chop up some denizens of Miami!

A little something new in the sack

When I moved up here, I stayed in a temp apartment for a few months. It was kind of like a hotel, since all the furniture, linens and accessories were provided. I just brought the clothes, the cats and a few accessories. When I finally moved out of that shoebox into an only slightly larger shoebox after my home in Georgia sold, I brought more of my own goodies. But obviously everything from a six bedroom monstrosity wasn't going to fit into this Lilliputian manor, so I called up a few players from the minor leagues to fit in.

I honestly like the B-team furniture, even though it had been relegated to guest bedrooms and sitting rooms. After all, I bought it in the first place. The desk, and the squared dining table and chairs are truly works of art, and the plantation style sofa and demi-love seat are fun, comfy and interesting. The bedroom, however, was a bit more problematic. In the master boudoir back home, I had an iron California King with a half canopy and the nighstands had marble tops and were really horizontal, making for a huge footprint that would never fit here. Nor would the gigantic armoire (which to rehash a long running argument with a former lover, is for holding clothes, not a TV, since that should always be out, visible and on). So I had to figure out which of the Richmond Braves would make The Show.

I finally settled on the queen sized sleigh bed, which is also a nice piece. So nice in fact, that the buyers of my old house kept trying to get it in the negotiations (along with the big screen television, the ping pong table, the patio furniture, the china cabinet, the signature armchairs, four quarts of blood and the rights to my eternal soul). I countered by telling them that the latter demand didn't exist (prove it, bitches!) and offering them my stainless outdoor grill instead of the bed. So I set that up here, and used the bedding that was on it in one of the former guest rooms. I treated my guests well, so I didn't have a problem with it really. But after a few months, I began to miss the pampering set up of my former nocturnal retreat. On the old king, I had an eclectic mix of Ralph Lauren linens covering a fluffy featherbed, topped by a goosedown comforter and duvet cover. Here and now, it was just a "set." A nice, decent set, but still not the luxury and enveloping comfort to which I had grown accustomed.

Over the last few months, I've been slowly but surely digging myself out of the financial aftermath of the Stage 5 Hurricane Trollop, and rewarding myself with little "treats" along the way. Regular readers have been bored to tears with my fawning over most of them (the iPod, the Keurig, the Dyson, the GPS, the XM, etc.). But last night, after one too many margaritas, I decided I needed try to recreate that feeling of cloud floating bliss and amenity, if only to feel relaxed as I went to sleep watching a west coast Braves games or Horatio taking off his sunglasses to yet another groan-inducing pun. So this morning I armed myself with a fistful of BB&B coupons and ventured out. I actually started at Macy's and Nordstrom, because they were closer, but even at those prices - which I was ready to pay - I couldn't find anything I really liked in the quality level I wanted. Plus, there it was very "Garanimals," and everything coordinated a bit too closely. I like to mix and match somewhat and give things an eclectic yet harmonious feel. A couple hours later, I returned home with an SUV full of goodies. Goosedown comforter. Goosedown featherbed and pillows. Astronomically high thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and pillow cases. Duvet cover and bed skirt. (Aside: ever tried to change a bed skirt on a bed with side panels all by yourself? Kids, don't try it when drinking heavily). All in a color combination of dusky merlot and faint mocha. Really nice. And it gives the bed that slightly rumpled, fluffy and inviting look even when the bed is made (which of course it should be just after you wake up and are waiting for the shower to get warm). It should be extraordinarily relaxing and yet it's still a tad bittersweet as I put more and more distance between what was and what is. But if I get melancholy, I can just sleep on it, right?

Okay, I'll stop rambling, as this has been flaming enough for one post (not that there's anything wrong with that).

Good night, all.

And in Hell, they'll be watching Comcast

A brief moving update. After a couple of weeks of drama, surprises, fits and starts, I'm basically settled. Most of the stuff that was supposed to arrive from the motherland did arrive and in good order. Notable absences include one of the three microwaves in the old place -- which I had carefully "stickered" and set aside to make the trip north. Hence, I have my fourth microwave. Maybe when I buy a new place, I'll have a special microwave room designed with little cabinets just for nacho cheese and popcorn. And a mirror didn't make the journey either. Given my tip top physical conditioning, fewer reflective surfaces is probably a good thing.

The most important development is the triumphant return of DirecTV service and my beloved TiVo brand DVRs. It took 38 calls to various powers that be, three separate trips by installers, a pole mounted dish several parsecs from my unit and a football field worth of cables, but dammit, all is right in the universe and I'm free of the evil clutches of Comcast (except for phone and internet, which both seem to work fine). Among the many things to be thankful for with this development:

• A recorder that actually works. It doesn't mysteriously and suddenly think Chuck airs on Wednesdays, and then records nothing on Wednesdays (because as we all know, Chuck is on Mondays). You set up a season pass on TiVo, and glory be -- it works! It remembers the day the show airs and actually gives you the options to record only first run, or repeats and first run, or any showing. How novel!
• Searches longer than 6 days. You can look out in the future over two weeks (only for TV shows, sadly. Not for lottery numbers or game winners) and find shows by time, by channel, by title, by actor.
• The ability to pick up programs where you left them. On TiVo, if you stop watching a Lost rerun about 20 minutes in, and go to live TV or another show, when you return to said ep of Lost, it will pick up right where you had been. On Comcast's TiFaux, you had to start over at the beginning and then FF all the way to that part again.
• The 30 second skip. A long known TiVo "hack," you can program "end of line" button to act as a brilliant 30 second instant skip. Perfect for going through commercials. (If you don't know how to do this, it's easily findable with a google search, but I'll give you the skinny here. While watching a recorded program, just hit the following buttons in quick succession: 1. select 2. play 3. select 4. 3 (number three on the keypad) 0 (number zero on the keypad) 5. select. You'll hear three quick confirmation beeps and bingo! 30 second skip.
• NFL network. Just in time to hear more than I ever wanted to know about what a lying dirtbag Bobby Petrino is! And Bryant Gumbel's incompetent play by play!
• NFL Sunday ticket! Hey, I can watch my beloved Falcons again! And not just Ravens and Redskins games! I can track all my fantasy players in real time on the screen and on the laptop, too!
• Station numbers I remember! I never quite got the hang of where some of my favorite channels were on the cable system. But I definitely recall 206, 209, 244, 501, 245, 242 and others.
• Favorite channel grid. I love how in TiVo you can change the onscreen guide to only show the channels you want. No scrolling through all the home shopping crap, jesus-freak programming, Disney pablum and home and garden bullshit.
• All the stuff I've recorded before! Now I can revisit the all of last season's BSGs and Lost. Gigs of Caruso sunglass removal to fall asleep to. Eps of the brilliant Andy Barker, PI. Last season's UGA games.
• Customer service that actually helps you. Of course, I never have to call DirecTV customer service because the product actually works (compared to Comcast, who I actually added to one of the coveted one-touch speed dial numbers on the crackberry). In a little under 4 months, I went through 4 different TiFaux units and had customer service visit no less than 13 times.

Ahhhh, yes. Welcome back TiVo. Burn in Hell, Comcast.

Saturday Quickies

Though it aired a couple of weeks ago, I just caught BSG: Razor last Sunday night. Yeah, it covered some ground that's been tread before, but I thought it was exceptional. Michelle Forbes can do no wrong and Stephanie Jacobsen was stellar as Kendra Shaw. Someone put her on a show, stat. (Maybe a rival spy on Chuck? A "Faith" to Sarah's "Buffy?") And who didn't squee with fanboy (or girl) delight when the old-school toaster said "by your command?"

Speaking of BSG, here's another wrinkle in the Katee Sackhoff Bionic Woman saga. May be moot anyway, since the ratings have tanked.

In case anyone didn't realize it, moving sucks. Sucks hard. The labor, the chaos, the total feeling of untethered helplessness. Of course, doing it by yourself -- in a snowstorm -- doesn't make it any easier. When this happens again, and godsdammit, it will, I think I'll train the cats to act as burros and put boxes on their backs.

I could go into a rant about Comcast and DirecTV that would take up much of the available space on the interwebs, but I won't. The short version is that I'm doing all in my power, short of wearing a dish on my head, to avoid the crappy service, incompetent representation and bewildering failures of the Comcast Ti-Faux. For over a decade, I've been pleased as pie with DirecTV, but recent discussions with the Freebird indicated that while the service itself remains superb, their subcontractors for installations give new meaning to buffoonery. Sadly, I've come to realize this fact. After 4 (count 'em!) attempted hook ups, I'll know later this afternoon whether I'm doomed to another year of entertainment raping at the hands of Comcast, or I'll have established a tenuous detente with DirecTV.

It appears the Heisman is Timmy's to lose.

The Chipster had a memorable exchange recently with an SI writer. I think it's in the standard contract that "journalists" sign with SI that they must ignore, discount or slight UGA in some fashion. I'll leave it to his judgment if he wants to share his correspondence in the comments.

Did I mention that I can look out my window and see snow? After 5 years, my all-wheel drive is finally coming in handy.

I normally hate the holidays, eschew any pomp and circumstance and don't bother with presents, especially for myself. However, this year, I think I may be treated with a satellite radio. 472 channels piped into the multi-speaker array in my luxury vehicle -- just so I can get non-stop sports talk. Which in this market, would be great, since there's only so much chatter about the Redskins and Ravens you can listen to without wanting to drive headlong into oncoming traffic.

For those anticipating JJ Abrams new Trek movie, here's a handy "A-Z."

Remember bullpen cars? Great article on those here.

Canadians are serious about workplace safety. Check this and this out. Not for the faint of heart.

I didn't know Columbus, Georgia was "down under."

Another of Wil Wheaton's hilarious Star Trek: TNG recaps.

A touching, sentimental movie about four men struggling with a disease. (NSFW, if your sound is on).

Dawgs vs. Wildcats: The Game Day Experience Vol V

Well, it was a short weekend, folks. Early game on the old Jefferson Pilot schedule (now Lincoln Financial), with kickoff set for 12:30. The trip down to the old stomping grounds was uneventful. No encounters with bag checking dads of former NFL stars. No torture at the hands of TSA authorities because I left my deadly 1 inch blade on my keychain (though I think at that length, I may have passed muster with Dennis Felton -- as long as I didn't have any primo Hippy Lettuce hidden in my briefcase). No pedestrians endangered. No Freaknik throw down. I'm happy to report that I didn't get lost solo after the game, and wander around the campus and the greater Athens area unable to recognize any landmarks that I'd seen some 2,639 times during my time there. (One of the street signs I almost slept under last week was for a road directly behind my frat house. Good Lord, I have no innate sense of direction). So, nope -- no controversey or major drama.

Unless of course, you count Freebird's sloppy, fawning man-love for Gators QB Tim Tebow*. In response to my blog post Thursday night, and subsequent discussions on the viability of other potential Heisman candidates, Freebird declared that you cannot argue with 42 TDs and Tebow's "rippling biceps" and "dreamy good looks,"* and the award should be bestowed upon a sophomore for the first time in history. Though Freebird said it would be "awkward" to reconcile his UGA degree and fandom with his daydreams of a romantic picnic in a sunny meadow with Tebow feeding him slivers of passion fruit*, he still boldly stood by his declarations to the scorn and contempt of the tailgate gathering.

The only real "action" at the tailgate occurred when some dipshit parked his Solara in one of our designated parking spots, and the tow truck was summoned. "Be here in a few minutes" turned into well over an hour. However, since the Scrats and Huffs were running behind schedule (news flash!), it wasn't that much of a detriment to the logistics. We were treated to the painful machinations of the tow truck driver trying to back up to the illegally parked Toyota. To call him a "driver" would be stretching the definition of the word. Seriously, this took over an hour while we all stood around eating chicken biscuits (Thanks, Hank!) and quaffing frosty beers. Freebird used this time to pen a quick sonnet to Tebow, only bringing his head up from his rapturous ode to ask us if we knew a word that rhymed with "bulging."* Even worse was the sound the tow truck made when it was put in reverse. It was a loud, high pitched, beeping whine that could only be more annoying if it was played from a tiny speaker on the end of a knitting needle that was jammed repeatedly into the recesses of the cochlea.

Well, there was the action of the "competitive scrapbooking" going on. Miz Freebird and Ricky Bobby poured over the pages, but we're not sure who was declared a winner. Mr. Freebird, however, is working on a scrapbook of his own. It will include a foreward by Urban Meyer, and lovingly tell the Tebow story in pictures from his christian missionary work in the Philipines, through his home-schooling all the way to the podium at the Downtown Athletic Club. The scrapbook will be gingerly wrapped in denim, cut from the jorts Freebird wears during his nightly masturbatory fantasies about the strapping man-beast of a QB running the "spread" in The Swamp, with Freebird cheering him on from the Gator sidelines sipping a white wine spritzer.*

Attention Scrat: Your pants are still missing. So much for that "dropping off at the tailgate" idea.

As for the game itself, it was a win. We didn't look great, but we didn't shit the bed like we did against UT. It could have easily turned into a listless performance that put the final outcome in question. Sean Bailey, after all his heroics and brilliance the past few weeks, looked particularly out of it, not fighting for the balls that were errantly thrown his way. But 24 and 20 ran like champs and we were left sitting at the tailgate, basking in a win, listening to the Commodores try not to act like, well, The Commodores.

A hearty Applebees dinner followed, washed down with several Brewtuses (is that the plural of Brewtus? I can't be sure about these things) and a drop off at a c-store somewhere between Athens and Lawrenceville to exchange "the package." After Freebird went in to grab a few supplies that resembled dinner at the Britney Spears household, we were off. I'm sure Miz Freebird had an entertaining ride home. And had to thwart the attempts of her husband to cajole her into wearing a blue jersey adorned with #15 for a little sexytime later on that evening.*

Maybe it's a good thing in hindsight that the large flask hit empty sometime in the 3rd Quarter, as I kept wondering why it was so damned hot in the E's car on the way back to their house. I kept cranking up the large knob in the center of the dash wanting more volume, not realizing the sound level didn't increase yet the temperature kept rising. I think I may have actually experienced being in a convection oven before my benefactors took pity on me and pointed out the difference between climate control button and the radio.

So endeth the home schedule for 2007. To all who participated at the tailgate and in the stands (and vicariously on this page), I raise my glass to you and toast you with a hearty Go Dawgs!


*May be exaggerated slightly. Or perhaps even untrue.

Dawgs vs. Tigers/Plainsmen/WarDamnEagles: The Game Day Experience Vol IV

Well now, THAT was satisfying wasn't it?

Before I get to the tailgate and game itself, one note about the trip down. I could have hijacked a plane. Fortunately, I'm just a mild mannered traveler, not interested in downing a jet over a centuries old land war, or to prove that my mythical deity can kick the ass of your mythical deity on the schoolyard. Or because I'm offended by the crass and disgusting popular culture that America foists on the rest of the world. (Wait -- I hate reality TV. And I don't think I could stop it by downing a jet. But even if I could -- I don't think I'd crash a plane just to save the planet from another edition of The Real World or Flavor Flav's latest attempt to get laid). Anyway, I have a tiny pocketknife that I use as my keychain. Actually, a "penknife." I tiny swiss army knife keychain that I got at The Masters. It contains a small blade, barely an inch long, that I don't think could cut open a bag of M&Ms. It has a pair of tweezers, a nail file and a toothpick. There are 3 keys on it, unlike Freebird's, whose keychain resembles something The Keymaker from the only slightly disappointing first Matrix sequel would have. Normally, I go through the ritual of taking this Weapon of Mass Destruction off my car keys and leave it in the vehicle before I make my way into the airport terminal. But Friday was a frazzled day from beginning to end, and I was running late for the flight with a thousand things on my mind. I just stuck the keys, with penknife, into the designated key compartment in my briefcase and made my way to the terminal. Checked my big bag (with Antonio Freeman's dad again) and got in the security line. Went through the usual drill, took off the shoes, the belt, unpacked the laptop -- all the usual hassles. However, at the end, the dude in the blue gloves brought my bag over and asked to search it. (Blue gloves? Shades of Firefly, I'm telling you! I thought they were going to melt my brain!) Instantly, it dawned on me. I was about to fly with the penknife. I could taken the crew hostage and threatened to pluck their eyebrows or give them a manicure! I could have poked a hole in a styrofoam coffee cup! So what to do? Fess up about the keychain, have them take it, and lose a valued piece of memorabilia that can only be purchased one place and one place only on the face of the earth? And it's not like I'm making that annual pilgrimage to Augusta, GA for a little golf every year now. Or, I could just continue to play innocent and hope they don't find it. Or if they do, feign surprise and hope they chalk it up as a forgetful accident and don't call Jack Bauer to interrogate me with a table lamp. I kept my mouth shut, the bag went back through the X-Ray machine and hands of blue searched it thoroughly. Well, not so thoroughly, since he didn't find my penknife keychain. Off to the plane, armed with a toothpick!

In hindsight, I'm not sure this makes me feel safer. But I'm happy to have my Masters keychain.

Okay, enough of that silliness. Friday night was a sedate, relaxing cool down. We all actually turned in early. No drama on the drive down, either. No pedestrians were almost mauled under the wheels of a crossover vehicle. No marriages tested by backseat driving. (until, of course, we tried to park in the spot at the tailgate. For some reason, it took two drivers and a guide outside to get us properly aligned within the yellow stripes).

We were the first ones there, and got the PC and AV all set up and all was well. Noted Professional Sports Commentator and Expert Buddha showed up, and offered this insightful analysis of Darren McFadden vs. the Vols D: "He should run through them like soup." Not sure if he, McFadden, was the soup in that analogy. Of if Chavis' boys were the soup. Or even what it's like to run through soup. Is it a big, streaming waterfall of soup? Is it more difficult to run through if it's something like Chunky Soup or Chili? Or easier if it's water, like egg drop soup? We pondered that for a while and had a few more beers.

The tailgaters beside us insisted (again) on recreating Freaknik out of their car stereo. Which was odd, coming from a tall white dude in a big red pick up truck, but annoying nonetheless. Hopefully, their car batter will die soon.

Gordo arrived late, but with a rolling cooler full of steamed hot dogs delicately wrapped in foil. Yes, they were tasty.

Tailgate raconteur DHuff was apparently high on life. I don't know if it was the fact with all the black around him, absorbing the light, he didn't have to slather on SPF-70 with a paint roller and put on his demented beekeeper get up, or if he was sniffing glue behind the dumpster, but the boy was certainly excited without the benefit of draining a huge flask. I need to score me a bag of this "life" stuff.

Here's where things start getting sketchy for me. I don't know if it's because of only having two hot dogs as a "base" for an afternoon of imbibing, or that I had way too many tallboys wandering around chatting with everyone, but my note taking became intermittent and sloppy. I recall accusing Ricky Bobby of wearing blue socks with "Blackout" ensemble, but after careful inspection, it appeared that they were indeed black, and even more importantly, perfectly matched. Later, it turns out that it was Miz Huff who participated in the "Blueout" with regard to hosiery. That's why I have two separate drawers for blue socks and black socks. Always difficult to make that distinction in the haze of the morning.

I recall the Good Doctor calling to tell us that they saw a chick with a big sign that read "Knowshon is on my To Do list." I recall some worry about the local fuzz trying to bust people for open containers again. So A. we took the "back way" to the stadium, and B. I eschewed the normal red 12 oz. Solo cup for a less conspicuous huge, Chic-Fil-A "big gulp" foam cup. It was used, laying on the group beside the car, and I just dumped half a bottle of Crown in it and Voila! A Ball Game Drink. I recall walking to the stadium, and after negotiating with some roadies for Public Enemy on ticket prices, I arrived at the top of the stadium stair in our section just in time to see the team run on to the field, resplendent in the rumored and now confirmed black jerseys to the strains of this all time classic:



Wow.

Sitting there, looking around, I don't think I've ever seen anything quite like that. Usually, most of the stadium is a sea of red, with a little black and white mixed in. Saturday, Sanford looked like a cavernous, living black hole, rippling with electricity. Truly a sight to behold.

I won't go into detail about the nuances of the game, since I don't recall a lot of them. But a few observations:

Now that Richt has given up the responsibilities of calling all the plays, he's had more time to focus on recruiting (we're either the number 1 or 2 school in many early 2008 forecasts) and skillfully working the head coach duties of motivation and management. Between the Cocktail Party celebration and this week's Blackout, I'd say he's doing okay. And even though it was Richt who called the 45 yard Stafford to Bailey TD pass, I'd say Bobo (after a shaky start) is doing okay, too. We haven't put up 40+ in three straight games since 1942. And this wasn't against a coterie of directional schools, either. Yes, Troy was in there, but they were bookended by the Gators and the (previously) stout Tigers/Plainsmen/WarDamnEagle Ds.

You couldn't ask for more in a game. There was the scintillating atmosphere from the Blackout. A first quarter lead. A second quarter fade. An Auburn lead that made it a close contest and typical SEC slugfest in the third quarter. And then a take you out behind the woodshed for a total ass whooping to close the game out. From David Ching's excellent UGA blog, there's this:
After Wes Byrum hit a 33-yard field goal to put Auburn up 20-17 with 6:47 left in the third quarter:

• Georgia's offense totaled 308 yards of offense in the next quarter and a half and scored touchdowns on each of its next four possessions.
• Auburn totaled 39 yards on 19 plays, with three drives ending on interceptions, one with a punt and one with a turnover on downs.

As for the Blackout, there was lots of speculation about who knew what and when. You can check out the AJC for some detail: Inside story of the Blackout

Only the seniors knew, and they kept it quiet. Center Fernando Velasco: "I didn't tell my girlfriend, I didn't tell my mama, I didn't tell nobody. That was the only way it could work."

Just awesome.

Even more unbelievable? Positive press from the normally UGA unfriendly Stewart Mandel over on SI.com.

I haven't watched the recording of the game, but I do remember being outraged on more than one occasion about the quality of the officiating. Perhaps I may have let fly with some vehement questioning of the officiating crew's ancestral heritage, or suggestions that they engage in animal husbandry with relatives of a maternal nature.

The win was so sweet and so savory, I didn't mind my own personal re-enactment of Thursday's episode of The Office, where Michael was dropped in the middle of the woods alone to play "Survivorman." I left the game solo, and made the mistake of walking out the back entrance (note to self: DON'T EVER DO THIS AGAIN. YOU ALWAYS GET LOST). Moments later, I had no fucking clue where I was on a campus I haunted for 5 years and have been back to on and off for the past two decades. I recall being by the Coliseum for a while (paying homage to Dennis Felton's boys?), before finally receiving a call from Miz Freebird wondering where the hell I was. (Humorously and ironically, they got lost as well, but still beat Magellan back to the tailgate). Fortunately, before I could collapse in a puddle of whiskey and hopeless despair, Freebird and Scrat played Dwight Schrute to my Michael and led me back to civilization. I felt like I was also in an episode of Alias or 24, when Miz Scrat was asking over the cell phones "do you have the package?" All's well that ends well, with a post game journey to Applebees for the Fifth Quarter show and celebration of one of the Best Days of Georgia Bulldog Football Ever.

Once again, many thanks to my hosts, chauffeurs, bartenders and rescuers. One more trip back to the Motherland next week, and that's it for 2007.

Go Dawgs!