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.

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. Tide: The Weekend Travelogue and Gameday Experience, Vol. III

Well, what is there to say, really? Yes, it was good to see my friends and catch up. The weather was cool and we didn’t get rained on. My plane didn’t crash. On either leg of the journey. So that’s all good.

But that brings us to the game. I can’t begin to put into words what a hellacious beatdown that was. That first half was about the ugliest thing I can remember seeing in person, and even though UGA has suffered worse spankings (see Spurrier’s Gators vs. just about any team in the Goof/Donnan era), this one felt so much worse because of the expectations. Preseason #1, and heading into the game with the #3 ranking. Watching USC going down, and fantasizing about the chance to jump back into that top spot. Prime time game. Coming off a sharp performance in the desert. Heisman talk. College Gameday in town. Breaking out the Black. Yes, it was all set up to be quite a show. Except for the fact that we got our asses kicked but good.

You want a pop-culture equivalent of the Bama vs. Dawgs ass-whooping? How about Ed Norton vs. Jared Leto in Fight Club. Arthur vs. the Black Knight in Holy Grail. Ivan Drago vs. Apollo Creed. Obi-Wan vs. Anikan Skywalker. The Code Red vs. PFC Santiago. The critics vs. Plan 9 from Outer Space. The rakes vs. Sideshow Bob. The Aliens vs. Private Hudson. We got dismembered, savagely beaten and left for dead. There are "dawgs" on Michael Vick's property that got treated more humanely.

I could use up half the googabytes on the interwebs listing all the things that went wrong. Hands of stone. Errant passes. Offensive and defensive lines about as sturdy as a damp homecoming streamer. Rampant injuries. (More) stupid penalties. Bad gameplanning and coaching. Punts that apparently had trouble clearing the line of scrimmage. Tempting fate (Mohawks? Really?). But the bottom line is, in one of the biggest games ever to hit Sanford Stadium, the Tide showed up and we didn’t. They bitchslapped us across the Classic City and deserved to win. So tip your cap, lick your wounds and move on.

If there’s anything good to take out of this (and believe me, for a cynical “glass is half empty” sort, there’s not much) it’s this: We still control our own destiny in the East. Which could lead us to the SEC Championship game, which would probably mean a ‘Bama rematch. To not have to count on others to reach that game is a small consolation, but yet there it remains. If you’re going to lose, lose early and build your way back up. A murderous schedule still offers opportunity to overcome. Hey, no more worrying about the lofty preseason expectations and the slighting of the critics!

Okay, with the humble pie buffet sufficiently engorging our stomachs, let’s move on to the tailgate and travelogue portion of the program, shall we?

I probably should have known how the game was going to turn out, reading the tea leaves as events unfolded. But dammit, I was really going to try and give this “optimism” thing a try. However, when Munson suddenly and unexpectedly stepped down, that was probably an omen. My flight was delayed about 30 minutes while they replaced a part. I got the upgrade on the way down, and quickly proceeded enjoy a little brown water while jetting south. Right before landing, as I ordered another whiskey, the flight attendant looked at me sternly and said “you’re not driving, are you?” I think I mumbled “Marta” with all the elocution of Lou Holtz. Still, it must have worked since she brought me another one. Sweet.

It was an uneventful train ride, but the Freebird was a little late picking me up. Not anything terribly inconvenient, but it was the continuation (like the Munson retirement and the airplane part) of a series of events that in hindsight, would seem like Schleprock drops a mirror walking under a ladder while tripping over a black cat in his path.

Heading to Casa Freebird, we decide to get some takeout Mexican food. Miz Freebird phones in the order, and we arrive a little later to pick it up. When we get home and unpack it all, it seems they have forgotten one whole complete order. Oooops. So in what would eventually become a running joke for the next 24 hours, the Freebird sighs, grabs his car keys and heads back into town to pick up the missing dinner. The rest of the evening was a fairly laid back affair, with several cocktails and a viewing of Munson’s Greatest Hits.

The next morning, however, is when the metaphorical storm clouds began to gather. I won’t take you through the entire narrative, dear readers, but over the course of just a few hours:

The coffeemaker malfunctions.

Freebird makes his first trip of the morning, to Mickey D’s to pick up breakfast. Neighbors are working in the yard, and he passes them and waves (both ways). Little did he realize this would be the first 2 waves of an eventual 10.

Miz Freebird leaves to drop off the Wee Freebird with the grandparents. Freebird leaves to go put gas in his car, which we will be taking to the game. (See, there’s a gas shortage in Georgia, with one yahoo even calling for the ballgame to be cancelled because of it. Still, best to gas up ahead of time than be stranded somewhere between home and Athens because the pumps done dried up). An hour and trips to 4 “empty” gas stations later, he returns. With no gas. 2 more waves to the neighbors.

With a late game, we were excited to be using the Slingbox to watch the afternoon games via wireless connection at the tailgate. Freebird is worried because we couldn’t pick up a solid wireless signal at the last home game, but packs the equipment nonetheless. As a backup, he pulls out an XM radio “boombox,” so we can at least listen to the audio of the SEC. Nice thinking. As he attempts to test the set up, it appears the regular AC adapter is missing. He tries to hook it up several times, but each time the makeshift power cables come unplugged. Profanity follows, but the boombox is packed. With batteries, I think.

Miz Freebird calls, and my lovely and welcoming hosts discuss the arrangements for picking up ice and the Subway Sandwich tray we’re taking to the tailgate. At this stage of the morning’s frustrations, I think it would probably be better if Jared Fucking Fogler personally walked it over. However, the Freebird gets back into his vehicle and ventures out. 2 more waves to the neighbors later, he returns with Sonic crushed ice (whee!) and sandwiches.
Since the Cherokee was unable to be refueled, we instead decide to take Pacifica, and pack that up with all the required accessories (or so we think).

Turns out the XM radio in the Pacifica has a problem with the antenna. So no satellite sports on the way down. Hey, I have my iPod with me, full of Southern Fried Tailgate goodness and Munson clips. A perfect fire up for the journey. There is no way, however, to connect the iPod to the car stereo. So we have flip down screens on which we can watch an entire fucking miniseries about that whimpy, bald-headed little communist bastard, but no way to listen to an iPod? Okay. But wait! The Freebirds have one of those cigarette lighter connectors that will broadcast from the device through a vacant AM radio station. Awesome. Oh, but this was an older model. Which requires software to be installed on the PC, and then the PC needs to be synced with the iPod, and just damn. Guess we’re listening to fuzzy top 40 from Atlanta (or one of White County’s many stations that have both kinds of music, country or gospel).

We’re slightly behind our scheduled departure time, but leaving around noon will still put us at the tailgate in good order. We pull out and head to the game, making our 7th and 8th waves to the neighbors, still working in their yard.

After all the hassles of the morning, we’re moving at a pretty good clip and things are looking up. However, about 25 minutes from home, the car slows down. We’re not near an intersection or in traffic. The Freebird slowly pulls into a driveway, turns the car around, and says “We have to go back to Cleveland.” Instantly, the missus and I know what’s wrong. If we had forgotten the ice or the beer or the whiskey or our black baseball caps or the trash bags or the sandwiches or the fruit tray – any of these items could have been picked up along the way or in Athens without doubling back. Nope. Freebird Forgot His Tickets.

Do you go to the OK Corral without a gun?
Do you go to play golf without your clubs?
Do you go to an orgy without your cock?
Do you go to the airport without your ID?
Do you go to a wedding without a divorce attorney?

There are some things that are just absolutely crucial to the process.

Now, if this had been the Central Michigan Game. Or the Vandy game. Or almost any other game all season, this might not have been such a big deal. Someone would have had extras, or you could have scalped some for the cost of a tank of gas (presuming, of course, that you could find some place to fill up with gas in the post-apocalyptic world of Georgia, where Mad Max hunts aboriginal gangs in his dusty police cruiser). But no, this was Back In Black: The Sequel and a Top 10 clash under the lights on national TV with College Gameday.

Conservative estimates the week prior had tickets going for upwards of $500 each. So we turned the fuck around and spent a very, very quiet 25 minutes retracing our steps back to Casa Freebird. We pulled into the neighborhood, and waved to the neighbors for the 9th time. Turned into the driveway, parked and retrieved the tickets from their resting place. Which was in the glovebox of the other car. Now, I can understand that keeping the tickets in the car so you won't forget them isn't a totally horrific idea. If you only have one car. Or always, without exception, take the same car. But that's not the case in this situation, though I will say, in the Freebird's defense, that he did have a stressful morning and that up until the situation with the lack of available fuel, we did plan on taking the vehicle with the tickets. But I felt compelled to relate the story for several reasons:

• It truly set the tone for the on-field carnage that would follow later.
• The consensus at the tailgate was that despite the attempts to impose Chinese journalistic standards and censor the story, the truth must be blogged.
• Said ticket-forgetter openly and derisively mocked me for making checklists for all my travels and endeavors. (Of course, I've never forgotten to take something I intended to on a trip, either).

We finally headed to Athens (for the last time that day) and waved to the neighbors for the 10th time. I'm not sure what the hell they thought was going on. Perhaps the guy up the street was taking every beer in his cooler to Athens individually?

Look, there's that VFW. And that Bingo parlor. And that vegetable stand. And that truck on blocks in that field. And that place with two refrigerators on the front porch. This all looks very familiar.

On the way, Miz Freebird sent a blanket text message to all the tailgaters indicating that we were at DefCon1, and please don't call or text – we'll get there eventually. Poor Hank was left in the lot alone for a while, with two Bama fans (granted, they were family) and the camo-wearing, football-throwing rednecks to the right of him. All things considered, the Freebird handled this dramatic setback pretty well. Or, as one caller on Sunday pointed out, with "maturity, wisdom and fortitude." He didn't even get pissed off and throw his (blue) hat in anger.

You'd think the clusterfuck of a day would stop there. Of course, you'd be wrong.

Despite concerns of a less than powerful available wi-fi signal, we did bring the laptop, monitor and Slingbox accessories to watch all the day's high profile football action. We never got a chance to test the signal. Because the extension chord wasn't packed. Those checklists are handy, I guess.

The rednecks who tailgate beside us did set up the whole DirecTV dish and TV (coaxial cable, receiver and dish were probably on their checklist). So we got to watch the Florida – Ole Miss game. Or at least most of it. Because at the very crucial end of the game, their generator ran out of gas. So the entire crowd moved en masse over to our area, where we had the XM boombox (remember that? Hey, we had batteries!) tuned the game. We kept listening while the dudes got the generator filled up and started again. Florida eventually loses the game, and a cheer breaks out through Athens. And while we were all thrilled with the Jorts spitting the bit, it did start to be cause for concern. USC and now Florida. Uh-oh. Is this one of those weekends where upsets are more contagious than a Columbus high-schooler back in the 80s? Turns out, yep.

Freebird somehow wound up cutting his hand. I never got the full story on how it happened (though I do know it wasn't a paper cut from a list entitled "Important Things To Take To The Game On Saturday"), but he spent several hours with paper towels wrapped around his left thumb.

And then there's "The Whitney Factor." We have a fraternity brother whose Zelig-like presence at big games spells almost certain doom. I'm not sure of all the examples and corollaries of The Whitney Factor, but perhaps that's something to sort through at the next tailgate. However, even though we know he's attended Falcons, Braves and Dawgs games where we didn't see him, or only saw him briefly, there's a very good chance that an extended sighting will inevitably cause the catastrophic collapse of the team in question.

The other thing going on was just a palpable sense of ennui regarding the game. Maybe everyone was wary of getting too drunk and too fired up too early, and not making it through the game. But I can't recall a single "call the Dawgs" cheer during the many hours we were tailgating. At the special request of The Candidate's wife, we broke out the Bulldawg Bites.

But when it came time to drink a toast, it was just lackluster. Sure, we tipped one for Larry, and 24 and 7 and CMR, but the enthusiasm just wasn't there. Had the bad karma of the day overcome us? Did we know, deep down, that we were lambs being led to the slaughter?

When we got to our seats, I will say that the pregame spectacle was quite good. The site of the stadium almost completely "blacked out" was a thing of beauty, and I think collectively we may have actually been even louder than we were for Auburn last year. We started off with a rare good kickoff, but then it went all downhill from there. That first half was about as demoralizing a two quarters as I can recall, and that includes the West Virginia Sugar Bowl (of course, I spent that game trying to figure out which random dude my purported girlfriend was going to be fucking later). To the fans credit, we stuck it out in the second half and tried to will the Dawgs back into it, and for a while, there was a faint glimmer of hope that we could make a game of it. But there were just too many mistakes, too many injuries, too many poor decisions, too many bad plays and too much bad karma to overcome against a very, very good 'Bama team. We came, we saw, we got our asses handed to us on a platter.

I think I summed it up on the walk back to our vehicle after the game: "This is the best cigarette ever and I hope the cancer kills me before we get to the car."

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.

Saturday Morning Dawg Bites

5 reasons why the Dawgs will win it all this year. Frankly, about the only decent response to the murderous schedule is "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger."

We're number 19!

Hopefully, the Dawgs won't be on this list next year. (Though the last game for the coach referenced in #5 still makes my blood boil).

Best line in this post:

No more College GameDay road trips to Tallahassee for you, Lee. Then again, since Mark Richt went to Georgia and took all the brains with him, there hasn’t been much call for it.

The AJC's Mark Bradley ranks obnoxious SEC fans. Westerdawg responds. My take? Kentucky, Vandy, and the Mississippis don't really move the needle. Bama fans have a lot of history to crow about, but their allegiance to the snake-oil messiah will start to grate quickly. Maybe it's the interrelated history and connections between Auburn and UGA, but I don't think I quite hate them or find them obnoxious as much now as I did as an undergrad. Chicken fans have the highest (or lowest, depending on how you look at it) ratio of "smack talking obnoxiousness" to "actual football achievement." And taking pride in the increasingly impotent Darth Visor certainly adds to that. But you know what? I actually admire their tenacity and loyalty and support, especially considering what a dismal and laugh-inducing history of mediocrity they have. When I made my only visit to Hogland, I found the Arkansas fans passionate and not all that confrontational. I guess they're only truly obnoxious if you're Mitch Mustain's mom or Houston Nutt's cell phone provider. That leaves us with a top 4:

4. UGA. Yeah, we're passionate and unruly, and do tend to bark and get quite drunk for the games. (In fact, how many other schools have a song distinctly about "drunk obnoxious" fans? "Nothing finer in the land" indeed). And some of the fringe elements of obnoxiousness turn out to be the fans who actually never received a diploma from the school. But all things considered, I think we're behind the Top 3.

3. Really, you can split hairs here. But I'd have to go with LSU at 3. (Knowing that several of my buddies, particular Dr. and Miz M, would put them at #1 with a bullet based on their personal experiences). I've known a few of the hard-drinking cajuns, and they seemed like alright folks. And in my SEC Championship and 'tween the hedges encounters, they were batshit crazy. But I admire the fact that they start partying first thing in the morning and last until and through regular night games at Death Valley. Gotta earn some respect for that.

2. Florida. Yep, you could easily put them at number one, especially since they seem to take on the personas and unctuous smugness of their eminently hatable head coaches. And of course, there's always this: JORTS.

1. But I have to go with the roadside trash pickup color wearing, inbred morons from Tennessee. Their humorless coach. Their humorless fans. The tiny seats in the stadium that they all try to pack their fat asses in. That checkerboard end zone. That fucking song. And that fucking color.

A "Hater's Guide to the Top 25." If the worst you can say is that REM and the B-52s came from there, and we worship a "topiary," then I think it's okay.

And finally, a (signed!) preview of next week's activities.

I don't think this would make it past the ticket takers and security

But I take pride in the fact that the makers chose Red & Black for such an important contribution to society.


(H/T: Gizmodo)

Live long and prosper......'tween the hedges

A personal note for my far-flung tailgate compatriots.

Many find my twin obsessions (as evidenced in this post) incongruous. How can you on one hand, own hundreds of geeky sci-fi DVDs; blog incessantly about nerd TV; not shy away from a youth spent building models, reading, writing and illustrating comics and playing D&D in your basement; work out listening to Harry Potter audiobooks; and proudly wear "Dharma Initiative" and "UC Sunnydale" tee shirts to company functions? And yet on the other hand have more UGA football memorabilia than will fit into a tiny temp apartment; cash in millions of Delta miles just to return to home games 'tween the hedges; tailgate like a frat-boy version of Keith Richards; consider "Larry Legend" to be famous for Athens, not Boston; do a dance of joy when the season tickets arrive (to blur the lines, that would be Numfar's dance of joy) and proudly wear UGA logo shirts to company functions?

I've had friends who could recite episodes of Buffy chapter and verse, yet didn't know who the hell Herschel Walker is. And friends who could tell you Frank Sinkwich's collegiate stats, but didn't know what craft is captained by James T. Kirk. You know, in the words of Popeye, "to thine own self be true." Or was it Polonius who said "I yam what I yam?" Whatevs. The point is, I don't find it all that strange to spend all day woofing and drinking and screaming and analyzing the finer points of a no huddle offense and then get to another friend's house after the game, and rejoice because they TiVod the BSG movie "Razor" to watch with me.

Case in point: a few years ago, I was all psyched to attend DragonCon and spend a fantastic Labor Day weekend reveling with my fellow nerds. Of course, that's also the traditional opening kickoff weekend for the Dawgs, but I was bound and determined to leave the hotel in downtown ATL early Saturday morning, tailgate with the best of 'em, go to the game and then leave shortly thereafter to return in time for the geeky merriment that evening. However, the Friday night before the game was the "Buffy Horror Picture Show" party, where they show the classic ep "Once More With Feeling" and dress up and sing along (a la Rocky Horror). We stayed up late getting hammered, and when it was time to drag my ass out of bed, I was moving slowly (it takes a while to get back into tailgating shape, ya know). I decked out in black and red, packed the backpack with radio, media guide, flask, Crown and all the requisite accessories, got in my car and tried to depart the hotel parking garage. As I rolled up to Peachtree Street, my exit was blocked by the DragonCon parade and the troops of the 501st. I watched the stormtroopers go by, and realized there was no way I was gonna make it to Athens. "It's only Western Kentucky (or some other directional school)" I told myself. So I turned the car around, went back to the Con, and spent the afternoon listening to Larry and Lorne and Scott in one ear, and Farscape and Trek panel discussions in the other. When I got back to the tailgate for the game the following week, I caught a lot of shit ("can you say 'Go Dawgs!' in Klingon?"), but did so with a smile on my face. This year, I'm making the Sophie's Choice to follow the Number One Fucking Team In The Land from the get go, and happy about that, too.

However, I'd like honor my geeky heritage while following the Classic City Canines at the season-opening tailgate, and risk crossing the streams.

To that end, I'm proud to announce the

First Annual Dawg-Geek Tailgate Trivia Challenge.

For all our regular tailgaters, the rules are simple:

1. In rapid fire fashion, I'll fire off 20 questions from the disparate worlds of UGA football lore and nerdly sci-fi/fantasy/superhero arcana.
2. First contestant to "buzz in" (method TBD) with the right answer gets a point.
3. A wrong answer earns you a shot of our legendary BullDawg Bites.
4. Contestant with the most points at the end of the Challenge receives a Grand Prize.
5. Contestant with the most points in the UGA category receives a prize, and contestant with the most points in the Geek category also receives a prize.
6. Ties broken by sudden death (hopefully, not from an overdose of Bites).

A perfect way to be firmly planted in one world, yet feel like I'm a part of the other.

Tailgaters, bring your thinking and drinking caps, and I'll see you in Athens. Games begin at 10:45 AM.