Heisman Eve or Why Baylor Fans Can Wait For Tomorrow

Robert Griffin III may win the Heisman Memorial Trophy tomorrow evening. As a proud Baylor University Alum, I'm over the moon about this and I almost can't decide whether I want the award ceremony to happen tomorrow at all. Everything is perfectly poised, ready to tip in the most unlikely, unexpected, and spectacular way imaginable for a Baylor football fan. It's our own little Christmas Eve and the excitement of the "what if" is too great a dream to even contemplate what it would be like if grandmother actually got us socks.

Baylor fans don't want this to just hurry up and happen. We can wait. Right now is just too delicious, too difficult to wrap our minds around, too much milk and honey after too much time in the wilderness. We kind of just want to sit here for a minute and take it all in. For the last few weeks, sports writers have been taking notice of Baylor football and RG3 and referencing this season as a shocking bolt from the blue engineered at the hands (and feet) of a once-in-a-program quarterback who quietly exploded onto the national stage. While that makes for a compelling lede, it ignores so much of what came before and on which this season was built.

I spent six years at Baylor as an undergraduate and graduate student beginning in 1998. During that time, Baylor went a combined 14 - 54 and were outscored 1,069 to 2,442. I was raised in the Austin, TX area and, although my father also went to Baylor, we were both University of Texas fans. I freely admit that the highlight of my 1998 college football season, as a Baylor freshman, was watching Ricky Williams break the NCAA rushing record en route to winning a Heisman Trophy for The University of Texas. I wasn't alone in this kind of traitorous allegiance. One of my friends on the soccer team was a huge Oklahoma fan. I had cheered for the Longhorns since I was a little kid. Why immediately switch allegiance when my new suitor gave me so little to be excited about? Plus, being a freshman on any university campus in your first semester is a little overwhelming. Not to mention one that was seemingly so antithetically suited to what I was all about at the time. I spent most of my days playing soccer, wondering why I couldn't get a girl to even throw a rock at me, and being generally antagonistic to all things Christian. And at Baylor, there are a lot of all things Christian. In short, I didn't feel plugged in. Baylor is just where I went to school.

But by the second semester I'd found an outlet. Maybe not the most traditional outlet, but a dyed in the wool, uniquely Baylor outlet, and an outlet nonetheless. There's an organization at Baylor called The NoZe Brotherhood. One of the central tenets of being a member in this group is that you remain anonymous and under no circumstance do you reveal your membership therein to anyone. This "central tenet" is adhered to on a sliding scale inversely proportional to the relative attractiveness of any/all members of the opposite sex who might be impressed by your membership in said group. Since I'm well outside Baylor's sphere of influence in both age and distance these days and I have no plans to run for public office, I'm not terribly concerned about revealing this bit of information.

I'm the naked one in the middle of the photo. 

                          

The thing about The NoZe is, they love Baylor. They don't always show it in a way the administration finds palatable, but the pranks, and the articles, and the criticisms (and there are plenty, see: Marc Ellis) are all done because The NoZe Brotherhood genuinely cares about the university, couldn't exist without it, and, as students committed to getting an education there, want the university to be as good as it can be, both academically and on the playing field. These people are not the fringes of the Baylor student body. In fact, as much as the university would cringe to hear it, some of the students Baylor markets as its best and brightest - actors, lawyers, politicians, doctors, judges, musicians, scholars - were all NoZe Brothers. How I got in is still a mystery. No one voted for me.

To be a good NoZe Brother, you have to be plugged in to the university. You have to care enough about what's going on with the university athletically, socially, academically, and politically to write articles that are relevant and plan and execute pranks that are memorable. With so much time invested in caring about what was going on on campus, representing the university on the soccer field, and just settling in, it didn't take long before I felt a sense of ownership toward Baylor. This was my university. I stopped cheering for the Longhorns.

In my time at Baylor, The NoZe definitely lampooned the football team. We couldn't not do it. If you don't laugh, you'll cry...and there was plenty to laugh/cry about. In 1999, we went 1-10 and endured Kevin Steele's signature college football coaching moment when we tried to rush for a touchdown from UNLV's eight yard line up 24-21 with five seconds left on the clock. We fumbled in the end zone and a UNLV defensive back returned the ball 101 yards for a touchdown. We lost 27-24.

In 2000, we went 2-9 and endured three straight shutouts losing to Texas Tech 28-0, Texas A&M 24-0, and Nebraska 59-0.

In 2001, we lost to Southern Illinois 56-12 to cap off a 3-8 season...that's Southern Illinois!

In 2002, we were shut out four times. New Mexico 23-0, Texas A&M 41-0, Colorado 34-0, and Texas 41-0.

In 2003, Guy Morriss took over as head coach, finally putting Baylor out of  Kevin Steele's misery. Morriss seemed destined to be a perfect fit as Baylor's coach after the Kentucky/LSU premature Gatorade bath of 2002. It was Kevin Steelesque and the kind of thing that couldn't help but be associated with Baylor football. Morriss is a genuine football guy with all the bonafides to make a good coach, but recruiting in Texas against the likes of Texas A&M, Texas Tech, Texas, Oklahoma, Oklahoma State, and any other college program licking its chops to mine the most talented football state in the country was just a bridge too far. Texas A&M beat us 73-10. And if that wasn't bad enough, The University of North Texas beat us 52-14. Find UNT on a map. I'll wait.

Still, there were just enough "if only" moments to keep a Baylor fan's sad, flickering flame of hope alight. In 2001, myself and the rest of the soccer team listened intently to the radio in one of our team vans as Greg Cicero put in a gutsy performance on a windy day against the Aggies at Kyle Field. We lost 16-10, but it was respectable. Hell, even before that game, Greg Cicero, a one time University of Texas recruit, filled Baylor fans' hearts with expectation when he transferred from UT to be our quarterback. He was a solid guy and his roommate Guy Tomchek, another Baylor quarterback, was a solid guy too (See what I did there?),  but being a solid guy and being a solid quarterback are not necessarily mutually inclusive.

Gary Baxter was a standout defensive back who shut down Roy Williams in Austin one Saturday and was a second round draft pick by the Baltimore Ravens. Unfortunately, there are ten other defensive positions on the field and Gary Baxter couldn't play all of them, although The NoZe Brotherhood suggested it. Reggie Newhouse, in spite of having God-knows-who at quarterback for his entire Baylor career had over 1,000 yards receiving in 2002 and had six 100 yard receiving games that season.

In 2002, we beat Kansas to open Big XII play...but then lost all of our remaining games. In 2003, we beat Colorado to open Big XII play...but then lost all of our remaining games. Rashad Armstrong rushed for 1,074 yards and six touchdowns that season though. That's something, right?

I left Baylor just before the fall semester of 2004 to move on to the adult phase of my life (i.e. not running around a university campus drinking beer and wearing Groucho Marx glasses and a wig), but I still followed Baylor football, returned for Homecoming, and found myself more than willing to defend Baylor and Baylor football when confronted by the Red Raiders, Aggies, Longhorns, Sooners, and Cowboys who run feral across Texas outside of the Baylor Bubble. And for a brief flash, I was armed with a few more weapons to defend myself.

Players like Shawn Bell, Dominique Zeigler, Trent Shelton, Joe Pawelek, Daniel Sepulveda, C.J. Wilson and Colin Allred were the kinds of hardworking, under-recruited players Grant Teaff had coached up to make Baylor a solid and respected football program (Side note: if this new stadium gets built and it doesn't somehow bear Grant Teaff's name, someone is going to have a lot of explaining to do). There was the double overtime win against the #16 Aggies in 2004 and a five win 2005 season in which we lost to Oklahoma in double overtime in Norman. Dominique Zeigler went off in that game and made a catch on a deep ball that I'm still trying to wrap my mind around. We were making strides. Bears were getting drafted and signing NFL contracts. Daniel Sepulveda won the Ray Guy award...twice! I didn't care that our punter was our most hyped player and neither did any other Baylor fan. He was a Bear, dammit! And he could do this.

Then in 2007 the wheels fell off, we went 3-9, and didn't win a Big XII game. Let's be honest, we were already driving on rims.

Exit Guy Morriss.

Enter Art Briles.

I can't not like Art Briles. He coached some relative of mine (I'm not sure of the cousin rules...twice removed...second...distant...whatever) at Stephenville, coached at my high school (waaaaaay before my time), and sounds just about as Texan as you can get without sounding unauthentic. Those appear to be inconsequential qualities when you're tasked with rebuilding a program that has violently resisted being rebuilt, Baylor in 2008 was sort of the Afghanistan of college football, but those are precisely the qualities that have allowed him to attract, improve, and retain players like RG3, Kendall Wright, Terrance Ganaway, Terrance Williams, Danny Watkins, Phil Taylor, Ahmad Dixon, Lache Seastrunk, David Gettis, Jason Smith, Elliot Coffey, Philip Blake, and J.D. Walton.

There's just something about Briles that makes you want to play for him, and not because you're scared of him *cough* Gary Patterson *cough*, but because you believe in what he says and you don't want to let him down. I remember listening to Grant Teaff speak at a luncheon I was invited to as a grad student. One of my buddies from the soccer team was there with me and when Teaff finished his speech, we both  stood to applaud but did so hopping from foot to foot because we were ready to go run through a brick wall for the guy. Briles has that quality and instills belief where others see only reasons to doubt. I remember Briles, in his first season at Baylor, saying something along the lines of, "Baylor fans will get behind Baylor football when we give them a reason to." It was an honest assessment of Baylor football in recent years, but it also pointed a way forward for a program that had been adrift and searching for excuses. Everything will take care of itself when we start winning. Let's start winning. Vintage Briles. He brought in guys like RG3 who are supremely confident, march to a slightly different beat, exude positivity, and wanted to be the start of something.

That start was not without its bumps as Baylor won only four games in each of Art Briles' first two seasons at the helm and RG3 missed an entire season with an ACL tear. But then there was a 7-6 season and Baylor's first bowl bid since I was in junior high. I sat in a bar in Washington, DC the night before my first marathon and sacrificed my finishing time goal to watch the Bears beat the University of Texas in Austin. I yelled and high-fived strangers. The week before, I was at Homecoming in Waco with my dad watching a Baylor football game together live for the first time since I was in elementary school. We beat Kansas State to become bowl eligible and my dad rediscovered his affinity for Baylor football for the first time since Grant Teaff was fired. For the New Year I drove from Indianapolis to Houston to share a suite in Reliant Stadium with a bunch of other NoZe Brothers and watch Baylor play Illinois in the Texas Bowl. Remember, just a few years earlier we had lost to Southern Illinois in the last game of the season to go 3-8. This was quite a change, the start of hope growing into anticipation and excitement.    

The college football public is just sitting up and taking notice of that start, but for my money, it's four years late. RG3 has looked like a thoroughbred class act since he stepped on campus, won the Big XII 400m hurdles, and did that little stutter step juke move on the sideline of the Wake Forest game in 2008. Add to that humility, humor, academic excellence, and the quiet confidence that comes from knowing there's a world out there beyond football. Watching Robert Griffin III win the Davey O'Brien award last night was telling. It's not that he was nonplussed or expected to win it, but that he didn't seem awed by the moment or affected in the way one might expect of superstar 21 year old athletes. It's a prestigious award and he was clearly appreciative, but there's a quality of aloof confidence about him that showed in  his acceptance of the trophy and that he's shown throughout his Baylor career. For the last few seasons, gliding into the huddle with the game on the line, Griffin might as well have been wearing a sign that says, "I got this."

Briles and RG3 have been the college football version of Obi-Wan Kenobi and Luke Skywalker ("Return of the Jedi" Luke Skywalker, not "A New Hope" Luke Skywalker) and if Griffin wins the Heisman tomorrow night it'll be sort of like that last scene in "Return of the Jedi" when The Death Star blows up and all the Ewoks absolutely lose their shit. They're a type of bear, right? For now though, the anticipation is just too perfect. For Baylor fans who love and are proud of their university, this has been a long time coming. This isn't the Griffin to Williams touchdown pass to beat Oklahoma on national television. It's the 21 point, untelevised comeback against Kansas as described by the insufferable, obnoxious, glad-handing, clueless, water-boy-all-grown-up, Voice of the Bears, John Morris. It's the culmination of everything that came before it. It's the work of the players who did what they could in the lean years between Teaff and Briles. It's the Baylor fans who sat in Floyd Casey Stadium at games against Texas, Oklahoma, and Texas A&M when it seemed like there was more maroon, burnt orange, and crimson in the stands than there was green and gold. Rather than a bolt from the blue, Baylor's recent success, RG3's ascendency, and Briles' stewardship of the program are the opening pages in a chapter of what has, until this point, been a very cumbersome book to read, but one that had to be read to get where we are now.

We're finally to the good part. Let us enjoy it for a few moments.




       

Top 25 Redux

When you've not written in a while or are in a slump, sometimes it's a good idea to just ride the coattails of something you've written before and ease on back into the groove. Ian Fleming, Robert Ludlum, Tom Clancy, John Grisham, and, most obviously, Dan Brown have all made a career out of this. I mean really, The Da Vinci Code and Angels and Demons are EXACTLY the same book. Yes, this means I read both of them...Damn you, Dan Brown! Damn youuuuuuuu!

Clearly, I'm not in the same boat as these guys. For one, I'm terrible at writing fiction. For two (Can you say 'for two'?), half of my posts are about people crapping their pants and my most popular writing to date is a reading of The Dukes of Hazzard as the Gospel of Christ. I guess that's a sort of hillbilly Da Vinci Code, right?

Anyhow, I'm going to pull a Dan Brown here and revisit a post from about a year ago. A lot has happened in the last year. Heartbreak, a best friend's wedding, two moves, personal crises, heartbreak again...let's see how this has been reflected in my iPod's Top 25 Most Played songs! I know, you're on the edge of your seat in anticipation. Cut me some slack.

1. This Modern Love by Bloc Party - Admittedly, this live version is not as good as the album version, but who cares? If you're going to schlep a song title from David Bowie, you'd better bring the business. Lyrically, I love this song, especially the last lyrics. "Do you wanna come over and kill some time? Throw your arms around me." Is there such a thing as a love song that isn't in some way part of everyone's autobiography? Methinks not.

2. No Love by Eminem - Only Eminem could sample a song by a guy who looks like this and still sound hard as fuck. This may be the greatest breakup song of all time. Thank God Eminem cleaned up and got his shit in one sock. Offended by his lyrics or not, the guy is absolutely the most clever, intense, and skilled rapper out there.

3. Kill Everybody by Skrillex - I probably never would have gotten turned on to Skrillex were it not for a certain young lady with an eclectic and discerning taste in really, really cool music, but I'm glad I did. A lot of dubstep producers cringe that he's brought their genre to the masses, but I have to chalk that up to sour grapes. In another universe, where I'm a mixed martial arts fighter (laughable as I've never been in a fight and have no intention of starting that habit now), this is my entry music. Pretty sure I win the fight before I even get to the ring.

4. Almost Easy by Avenged Sevenfold - I don't know what it is about these guys that I like because they're essentially a meat head band, but I have to admit to a weak spot for really aggressive music. And if there is a redeeming value to Avenged Sevenfold it's, as I've mentioned before, the musicianship is pretty unbelievable. Additionally, as I've also said before, there's something delicious about unabashed heavy metal. This song reminds me of an ex girlfriend from ages ago. We played the back and forth game for way too long; sort of a fucked up, emotionally disturbing version of the Mango skits from Saturday Night Live. If she were self aware enough to have any sort of introspective thought, I think the lyrics to this song would have been a pretty accurate inner monologue.

5. Too Shy To Scream by AFI - Full disclosure: I LOVE AFI. If I have a critique, it's that lyrically Davey Havoc (great stage name) can be a touch too earnest. Having said that, what's wrong with being a little over the top from time to time? Androgynous? Effeminate even? The fact is, I'm not sure there's a lead singer out there who has more fun being a lead singer than Mr. Havoc. Also, if you get the chance, brave the Hot Topix kids and go to an AFI show. Awesome live. Fact.

6. Veronica Sawyer Smokes by AFI - Clearly, I don't skip over these two songs as they're ordered back to back on the Crash Love Album. Ditto my thoughts above. "Oh, I saw you every time I closed my eyes in the Hughes film I had scored, produced, and starred in in my mind. I could recite you, well, I'd written every line but you strayed far from my flawless script on which I'd spent a lifetime."

7. Tell Me What it Is by Rodney Parker and the 50 Peso Reward - Again, the album version is better, but a songwriter and his guitar are tough to beat. What do we have so far? Rap, dubstep, heavy metal, Indy, Emo, and now country? Sounds like a day in my life. I have a weakness for good Texas country and this is right up my alley. I'm pretty sure Rodney Parker is going to appear somewhere else on this list...maybe a couple of times. Lyrically, Parker doesn't pander to the conventions of modern country music and I could kiss him for it. He also does a great cover of Atlantic City by Bruce Springsteen. Who wouldn't love that? Communists, that's who.

8. Just Like Heaven by The Cure - My best friend and I were both raised in separate football nuts regions of the area south of the Mason-Dixon line and constantly argue about Big XII offenses and SEC defenses. He also occasionally sends me comedic picture messages of himself in his underwear, I've told him I love him on more than one occasion (his wife too), and we both adore The Cure. If his parents are reading this, they're probably praying and mainlining Fox News shows just to stay alive. The Cure are easily the best band of the 80s and in my top five all time.

9. Smile Like You Mean It by The Killers - Can you be wildly successful and still be underrated? Great, great song writing. Wonderful lyrics. Morrisseyesque vocals. More often than not, a perfect soundtrack to my life.

10. We've Had Enough by Alkaline Trio - The aesthetic of this band is addictive and tailor made for some really great tattoos...if getting album jacket art as a tattoo wasn't itself tailor made for instant regret. I remember when Good Mourning came out. It was pretty much all I listened to and I still love the album. I'd say most of their lyrics are haunting and disturbing, but also tongue-in-cheek and playful. That's a tough combination to nail, but they do it.

11. Fast Lane by Bad Meets Evil - Highly inappropriate lyrics, expertly delivered. Best rap song of the last two years.

12. Wish by Paper Route - This band just lost the singer and songwriter that I loved them for, but hopefully it's not a death sentence. "All my decisions were just second guesses, looking for love like a bride looks for dresses." I spent the majority of a 16 hour drive back to Texas listening to this album and sang along most of the time. People in Arkansas stared.

13. Jenny Don't Be Hasty by Paolo Nutini - Where is Paolo Nutini from, you ask? Paisley, Scotland. When I was a little, little kid, I used to think it was odd to hear a black man speak with a UK accent, but now it seems completely normal. A guy named Paolo speaking with a Scottish accent still doesn't seem right. Great song. Fuck age differences. Like R. Kelly said, "Age ain't nothin' but a number." And that officially marks the first time R. Kelly and Paolo Nutini will ever be referenced in the same literary space. You're welcome.

14. Why Are You Here by MeTalkPretty - I'm beginning to wonder why I have a weak spot for overwrought female break up songs. Yeah, I'm not going down that rabbit hole. This chick has PIPES.

15. American Slang by The Gaslight Anthem - Working class band from New Jersey. Fender Telecasters. Heartfelt. I've seen this formula before.

16. Cautioners by Jimmy Eat World - Bleed American is a killer album from beginning to end and the ultimate "F you!" to the record label that dropped them. Yes, they can be a little too pop prone for my taste, but what a lovely song...and yes, it's breakup apropos.

17. 11 Hours by Rodney Parker and the 50 Peso Reward - God, this is a beautiful song. Do yourself a favor and listen to the album version (iTunes). If I cried, I never do...and I never lie either...seriously, this song would get me like a baby every time I hear it.

18. Silver Wings by Thrice -

From tender years you took me for granted
But Still I deign to wander through your lungs
While you were sleeping soundly in your bed,
Your drapes were silver wings, your shutters flung

I drew the poison from the summer's sting,
And eased the fire out of your fevered skin.
I moved in you and stirred your soul to sing;
And if you'd let me I would move again.

I've danced 'tween sunlit strands of lover's hair;
Helped form the final words before your death.
I've pitied you and plied your sails with air;
Gave blessing when you rose upon my breath.

And after all of this I am amazed,
That I am cursed far more than I am praised.

If you're going to sing about God, by God, do it like this.

19. International Players Anthem by UGK - You have to love southern rap. Seriously, you have to. UGK and Outkast may be the best ever. Pour one out for Pimp C. Also, does Andre 3000 remind anyone else of RG3? Makes RG3 even more Heisman worthy as far as I'm concerned. Andrew Luck's got no drip in his hip.

20. Just Say Yes by Snow Patrol - Apparently, this was played at my request at my best friend's rehearsal dinner. I say "apparently" because, even though I was the best man, I was in a plane somewhere over the Deep South when said rehearsal dinner was taking place. Halfway to the airport early that morning, I realized I had forgotten my suit. Faced with the decision between upsetting the groom by missing our tee time and upsetting the bride because I forgot my suit, I immediately told the cab driver to turn around and head back to my house to retrieve the suit. Not exactly Sophie's Choice.

21. Motivation by Kelly Rowland - Not exactly my go to genre, but I'm pretty sure people get pregnant just by listening to this song. Hot.

22. First of the Year by Skrillex - The drop in this song melts my face. Creepy video though. Seems sort of like a, "Well, we have to make a video, any ideas?" kind of video. Whatever. I have a friend who works for a concert promotions company who I'm pretty sure thinks I only contact her when I'm looking to score free tickets to good shows. I texted her to say hey right about the time Skrillex came to town. She responded with something along the lines of, "You just want Skrillex tickets, don't you." I really was just saying hey...but once it was mentioned...

23 and 24 Wax and Wire by Loch Lomond and A Little Piece by The Jezabels (respectively) - I heard both of these songs for the first time on this video of Danny MacAskill doing absolutely insane things on a mountain bike. I watch this video at least once a week. Part of it is the music, part of it is the ludicrous shit this guy is doing on a bike, and the other part of it is a little bit of Scottish pride. I claim Texas, but I was born in Scotland. That's a pretty badass combination if I do say so myself. Barbecue and haggis. Kilts and cowboy boots. Six shooters and headbutts. William Wallace and Sam Houston. Battle of Stirling and The Alamo. #winning.

25. Rosa Parks by Outkast - The mock phone conversation at the beginning of this video is what Outkast is all about, and God bless them for it. I can't hear this song and not dance. I sent a text to a girl I was dating referencing lyrics to this song. She responded with question marks. I educated her. Don't say I never did anything of value. Hush that fuss.

Lies, Damn Lies, and Statistics

A week or so ago a study was released that suggested Fox News viewers were actually less informed than people who watch no news at all. Fox News viewers were probably shocked and offended by this - well might have been, but I'm guessing Fox News didn't even put this on its ticker and it's doubtful Halloween Mask Nancy Grace reads anything but her own teleprompter so she probably never got offended by the report in the first place - but it did stir up quite the tit for tat on various Facebook walls on which it was posted.

One such Facebook debate, a debate I regrettably got involved in, led off with a tired saying by a self-proclaimed Fox News fan that there were, "Lies, damn lies, and statistics," suggesting that any survey can be tweaked and spun so that it supports a certain bias. While I somewhat agree with this, I often find that this argument is used by people who don't want to even contemplate that the survey in question has any validity to it. It did however get me to thinking about statistics and emboldened me to click on the "stats" tab at the top of my Blogger home page for the first time to see, statistically anyway, who it is that reads this blog. Here are the results from the last month:

699 page views - Apparently I'm not the people's first choice in blogging entertainment. I've not written much recently...that must be the issue.

Blogger's Choice Awards, Google, Twitter, and Facebook lead the referring URLs, but there are some notable referrals from other bloggers that are greatly appreciated! Specifically, Nomad With Glassware, Life As We Make It, and Petite Pasteque (sorry, I can't do the accent on this keyboard).

There's also a significant number of referrals from a particularly odious and parasitic crap bag of a website called Nasty Banners that takes other people's work and tries to pass it off as its own. More on them later. I don't have the energy right now.

Breakdown by country:

USA - 492
UK - 38
Canada - 34 (Thanks, Canada!)
Australia - 21
Germany - 17
South Korea - 8
India - 6
Poland - 5
Russia - 5
Latvia - 4 (WTF?)

So far, everything makes sense. Statistics seem pretty solid. Fox News viewers must really be morons. But for what, you ask, are these readers searching?

Well, in the last month, Boss Hogg beat out Uncle Jesse with 54 searches to 35. Also, given that The Gospel According to Duke is far and away my most popular post, statistics say there are a lot more "Dukes of Hazzard" fans out there than I thought possible.

"Genie" led 25 online searches to my blog.

"Drinking Stories" appropriately accounted for 21 hits.

"Frogdog" comes in at 12.

"Mordecai" Children of the Corn gets a respectable 9.

Still, I get it. All of these are things I've posted about and form a logical pathway through the intertubes to my humble cyber affectation...but then there's this:

"Dad son masturbation stories." 1 search.

Fuck statistics. I'm watching Fox News.

Happiness

There's a kid who plays for Texas Tech's football team named Happiness Osunde. Unfortunately, he suffered a horrific injury against Baylor last night so his name is more than a little ironic at the moment. I was watching last night's game (Sic 'em Bears!) and I started to think about Happiness, the player initially and then the idea, while the television announcers were showing images of Happiness' knee folding gruesomely in the wrong direction.

How can you not be struck by a name like Happiness? I know nothing of his background, but my initial reaction, although I'm not sure I'd name one of my own children Happiness, is that it's a wonderful name. How many times do you say your child's name from the time he is born to the time you never say anything again? Even calling him to dinner is, although I'm sure at some point it becomes routine, a subliminal reminder of the joy his birth has brought into your life. Happiness the person, just like happiness the idea, is something that requires(d) nurturing and patience and practice. Maybe you didn't get it right on Monday, but there's always Tuesday. Maybe you didn't get it right in January, but there's always February. Maybe you didn't get it right in 2011, but there's always 2012.

I'm coming to grips with this after some recent and spectacular personal failures. Without getting into details, I've spent the better part of the last 10 years waiting for happiness. When this debt gets paid off....When I meet the right woman...When I find the right job...When I find the right city...When I lead a healthier lifestyle...When...

The tricky thing is, none of those things happen unless you commit to making them happen. The trickier thing is that none of those things happen unless you create a context in which they can happen. You can't commit to meeting your soulmate. What is that? You may as well commit to walking to the moon. A commitment to something as massive and intangible as that fails almost as soon as you've articulated it and then where are you left? You're left in the same spot you were right before you committed to it. Stuck. Waiting. Finally, after some alarming and painful wake up calls, "when" has become right now. Failures have become starting points from which I can commit to the thousand little things that eventually, after time and practice, add up to the idea of happiness. That's the hope anyway.

On a long run this morning in a cold rain I found myself smiling at nothing in particular. The run, in and of itself, wasn't that gratifying. I had stepped in a few too many puddles and the rain was picking up as the temperature was dropping. If I hadn't been running regularly for the last month or so, I would have been cold, wet, tired, and miserable. As it was, the work I'd put in on sunny days in the early fall had accumulated in the form a ludicrous, beaming smile on my face. I must have looked ridiculous to anyone who drove past me. It occurred to me that gratification and happiness are not the same thing and things I've been doing for the last 10 years that I have found gratifying have not gotten me one step closer to being happy. In fact, in many ways they've kept me waiting. Gratification is what you feel while you're doing something, but it stops as soon as that something stops.

I started to form a list in my mind of things that over time and with practice create a context in which I can nurture happiness. I'll spare you the details because I'm sure the list makes for boring reading. Promiscuous, booze fueled sex didn't make the cut. I'm not upset about that. This is going to take time and it's going to be hard, but finally, finally, finally.

David Crowder Band - All I Can Say

When You Find Yourself the Villain in the Story You Have Written

I have this pan I love. I use it for almost everything. It's Calphalon, non-stick, very sturdily built. A while ago, I pan fried something and burned an acrid layer of gunk into it that seemed impossible to scrub out. I washed it on every conceivable setting in the dishwasher. I scrubbed the bejesus out of it with the coarsest scrubber I could find that wouldn't ruin its surface. I even put it on the stove, heated it until it was almost glowing, set off every smoke detector in my house, and tried to burn off the offending black residue. No dice.

Eventually, I just decided to continue to cook with it until it worked itself out. Great plan, right? This just made the residue worse and every meal I cooked, meals I used to love, began to taste charred, caustic, and poisonous.

As this is one big metaphor (yes, it is), I can't just toss it and get a new one, that would ruin the metaphor. There's only one thing for it. Stop ignoring it. Scrub the hell out of it. Keep scrubbing the hell out of it. Scrub it until every last bit of burnt shit is gone. Scrub it and don't use it until I'm confident I can enjoy a meal again without feeling like I licked the inside of a chimney.

Consider this a hiatus.

Until I'm the Good Guy again,

Doug

Warning: Genies Are Bastards

Genies, leprechauns, and the like are sneaky, devious little bastards. I learned this from a Twilight Zone episode I saw when I was a little kid. Who says TV isn't edifying?

These three teenaged friends caught a leprechaun (what he was doing out of Ireland is anyone's guess) and made him grant them each a wish. The first kid wished for what I would probably have wished for when I was 13, x-ray vision. Why did he want x-ray vision? To check out girls' underwear, of course. What were you thinking? Well, at first the x-ray vision works swimmingly, but then as he focuses, panties give way to skin and then skin gives way to internal organs. The little perv gets sick and faints (also what probably would have happened to me at 13).

The second kid wishes that his parents will do only what he commands them to do. Not a bad wish, I suppose. His wish quickly goes awry when he has to tell them how to do everything. To make a pizza, he has to tell them in excruciating detail to first open the freezer then remove the pizza then unwrap the pizza then turn on the oven then put the pizza in the oven...you get the point.

The last kid wishes for a hot car and a kick ass limo pulls up complete with a driver. They go tear assing around town and soon get pulled over. The driver disappears and the three kids are arrested for driving a stolen car. Get it? "Hot car?" And that's the problem with genies and/or leprechauns. They're always trying to teach you some moral lesson about greed or self-centeredness.

My buddy Barrett reminded me of this on a six hour drive back from a casino in Shreveport, LA (that's another story altogether) after we had listened to R. Kelly's Ignition remix twelve too many times and needed something else to occupy our time.

"If you got one wish from a genie, what would it be?" He asked.

"Hmmm...not sure. You?" I replied.

"I'd wish for the ability to throw a 100mph fastball. That would take care of the money, fame, and women thing. I mean, if you're throwing that kind of smoke, you're gonna play in The Bigs."

He'd clearly wrestled with this important question many times before.

"Good wish," I responded.

There was a long pause while I was thinking of my wish and then Barrett broke the silence.

"Fucking genies. I take that back. I'd wish for the ability to throw a controlled, left-handed, 100mph fastball in a healthy, pain free way for at least ten years. Genies are always trying to teach you some ridiculous lesson and if I just wish for the fastball I'm not gonna be able to hit the broad side of a barn and I'll need Tommy Johns surgery after one pitch."

So true. Damned genies.

A couple of days ago another buddy of mine said he'd wish for a ludicrously wealthy wife so he could be a kept man and coach high school football for fun. I may have saved him a good deal of future misery when I cautioned him about genies and their mischievous lesson teaching.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," I said. "Seriously, you've gotta be careful jumping the gun like that. It's a good wish, but no genie is going to pass up the opportunity to make your wealthy wife hideously ugly and/or annoying, dumb as a stump, self-centered, unfaithful, abusive, prone to divorce you immediately, or all about a pre-nup. You've gotta think these things through."

"You're right," he said. "Fucking genies."

So let this be a lesson. Genies and leprechauns are wily and dastardly moral pedants. Take caution and really think through any wishes you might be tempted to make right out of the shoot. You've got time. Don't waste that wish.

You're welcome.

My Kind of Thuggish

I have a deep and abiding love for rap music. I've written about this before, but I'm still no closer to being able to explain this affinity. UGK, Do or Die, Maino, Outkast, Three Six Mafia, Eminem, NWA, Tupac, Jay-Z, Lupe Fiasco, Mos Def Lil Wayne...the list goes on and on.

This seems to be pretty much par for the course for white guys my age and all I can say is that maybe we listen to and enjoy it in the same way and for the same reason that our parents listened to the Rolling Stones and Bob Dylan. Namely, our/their parents hated it. I've never been arrested or destructively rebellious and I definitely pull the Office Space roll-up-the-window-and-turn-down-the-hardcore-rap maneuver when I pull up to an intersection in a predominantly black neighborhood. Essentially, I have no street cred.

The next video is a case study in my kind of thuggish.

General Tso's Revenge

I always wanted to be good at a particular type of writing. When I was in college I had this fantasy of being the next young, edgy, insightful, sensitive, and humorous author who could break hearts with a few soul cleaving paragraphs and touch human truths with an artistically wry wit that seemed to playfully ambush my fantasized about troves of loyal readers (mostly swooning females).

Turns out I'm good at telling stories in which people shit their pants.

I know this because every time I post something that lays my soul bare my dad calls and says something like, "Hey, I read your blog the other day. I thought it was well written." When I post a poo story, I hear similar comments, but said comments need to be deciphered among periodic peals of laughter and child-like giggling. Typically, these stories also receive the most Facebook comments, often from people I've not heard from in years, and also get the most hits on the blog. I guess as a writer it's good to have a wheelhouse, I just never thought mine would involve human excrement.

Oh well. Know thyself, right?

In college my sister dated a miserable asshole we'll call Zack, mostly because Zack is his real name and I have absolutely no love loss for the guy. Zack was an odious hipster at a time when Austin was just becoming overwhelmed with odious hipsters. He had that heroin chic look, multiple awful tattoos, and and an artist's affect that was less genuinely artistic and more exhaustingly practiced. He was sort of like Bug from Uncle Buck but minus some weight and plus some disapproval from my family. The disapproval I speak of came not from Zack's appearance, my parents have always been very accepting, sometimes to a fault, of the people my sister and I have chosen to date, but from his complete disregard for my sister's needs and the sense of entitlement he felt he had to date her. Aside: I love my sister dearly and although I am anti death penalty, I know that were anyone to ever do anything terrible to her I would want to murder the bejesus out of him. Clear enough?

Anyhow, Zack and my sister were on the rocks and Zack, thinking he would show some vulnerability and the ability to communicate intimately, decided to share a particularly awful story involving his unfortunately exploding bowels in an effort to win her back. It didn't work, but he unknowingly created a magnificent parable for their relationship.

Being college students and particularly strained in the pocketbook (Sound familiar?), Zack and his buddy decided to do work at an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet before attending a cookout at another friend's house. Apparently, the General Tso's Chicken was of particularly tasty quality that day and Zack consumed literally all he could eat. He and his friend were politely asked to leave by the restaurant's proprietors who afterwards undoubtedly rethought their business model so close to a university campus.

Stuffed to the gills on General Tso's delicious chicken, Zack and company made their way to the aforementioned cookout and immediately began to chase their affordable and delicious feast with multiple bottles of Shiner Bock. I was shocked later to learn that a rousing game of volleyball was also played at the party (who knew hipsters played volleyball?!), and about an hour or so in, General Tso, Shiner Bock, bumping, setting, and spiking collectively served as the impetus for some low grade intestinal cramping.

As I've said before, as with any good I Shit My Pants story, or Greek tragedy for that matter, impending doom could always have been avoided were it not for the hero's hubris. Zack could have left the party at the onset of his intestinal distress and violently evacuated his bowels in the privacy of his own home and Odysseus could have elected not to tell Polyphemus his real name and avoided being cursed by Poseidon, but arrogance is a powerful intoxicant and shit happens. Literally.

Zack instead elected to down another few beers thinking, foolishly so, that his discomfort would pass and a party marked by his early exit wasn't a party at all. Another hour or so passed and Zack finally felt the steel fisted squeezing of his lower abdomen that marks the beginning of an uncontrollable and immediate expulsion of the contents of one's bowels. It was go time.

Zack sprinted to the only bathroom in the house and found it occupied by another partygoer. Affecting his coolest I'm-just-waiting-calmly-for-my-turn-in-the-restroom-nothing-to-see-here stance, he tried to flex just the right muscles to avoid unleashing hell in the middle of the living room and managed to do just that long enough for the bathroom to become vacant.

Once inside, he hurriedly locked the door, sprang to the toilet, and began to struggle with his belt. At that time in Austin, proper hipster aesthetic necessitated the wearing of a scout belt with a completely unnecessary amount of slack in it. This required the wearer to cinch the belt tightly and prevented the smooth release of the sliding bar in the buckle. In normal situations involving waste elimination this is a minor inconvenience. In waste elimination situations involving General Tso, Shiner Bock, and volleyball, this is what we refer to as a "perfect storm".

Zack managed to get his pants (he was wearing no underwear, another hipster habit) to half mast or, for the more graphically inclined, half moon, before General Tso exacted his revenge. Without getting into too much detail, Zack's pants, legs, shoes, the toilet, and a generous percentage of the floor were covered in a fetid fecal eruption.

After a good few minutes collecting himself, surveying the damage, and trying, as calmly as possible, to convince the multiple partygoers impatiently waiting at the restroom door that he would be out momentarily, Zack hopped in the shower pantsless and washed himself from the waist down. He also had to wash his shoes. Seriously.

Aside: My Brother-in-law, the man lucky enough to eventually marry my sister and one of the best guys I've ever known (he's been a great buddy since 6th grade), is a naval fighter pilot. Pilots have a phrase for people who manage to stay cool and collected in awful situations that made perfect sense to me the first time I heard it because of this story. *Ahem* He's really got his shit in one sock. Zack had it in both shoes, his pants, and all over the floor.

After toweling off, he used the same towel to clean the toilet and the bathroom floor. He then disposed of the irretrievably soiled towel and his socks in the waste basket under the sink. At this point, those waiting for the bathroom had given up and returned to the party. Zack cracked the door and waited for his buddy to pass by and then, in a panicked voice, demanded that his buddy find him pants and quickly. Not knowing why Zack needed pants, his buddy leaned closer to the door and started to ask for clarification but was then assaulted by the caustic stench escaping from the cracked bathroom door. Without further question, he wheeled around and went searching the host's bedroom for some trousers.

Unfortunately for Zack, who stood well over six feet tall and weighed all of 140 pounds soaking wet, the party's host was a short, portly fellow. Any normal person would have cut his losses at this point, cinched the ridiculously fitting pants, and beat a path home. Zack decided to return to the party. Questions like Why did you change pants? Where have you been? Why are you barefoot? and Why are you carrying your shoes? were not enough for Zack to deprive the party of his company. What finally shamed him enough to leave was a question that was asked only after the central air kicked on in the house. I remember when I was a kid hanging out in my room and my mother was cooking chocolate chip cookies in the kitchen. I would have no knowledge of her cookie baking until the air conditioning would turn on and the vents in my room would gently emit the aroma of freshly baked deliciousness. This was the opposite of that. The question in question? What the fuck is that God awful stench?

Zack grabbed his buddy and told him it was time to leave. Now.

Like I said, a perfect parable. Take advantage of a good thing. Create a stinking mess. White wash your fuck up. Pretend nothing happened. Leave. Zack never got his shit in one sock.

Airport Bars: A Case Study in Story Value

I was flying home the other day - Arms sure are tired! (forgive me, I had to) - and had a couple of hours to kill before my flight departed so I sidled up to a bar (the only bar) in the Lubbock airport and ordered a beer.

Frequent travelers who enjoy people watching as much as I do LOVE airport bars. The transience of the other personalities is so palatable and that I'm-never-going-to-see-you-again voice in the back of many of their heads is so strong that they will air the dirtiest of secrets, release the most reprehensible inner beliefs, and sometimes completely fabricate a life to an absolute stranger just because they can. And the great thing is that one (assuming one is more of the listening ilk than of the confessing ilk) has to do almost nothing to coax this out of them. They WANT to do it. Sitting at a bar, ordering a beer, and looking approachable is often enough to attract a talker. They're like moths to flames. Granted, you can never quite be sure what is going to be said and you run the risk of hearing something that upsets you and/or causes you to lose your faith in marriage, government, the arts, religion, schools, men, women, family, the military, big business, the entertainment industry, dogs, sports, Halloween, or the decency of all humankind, but regular readers of this blog will realize that this is a small price to pay for story value. Put in simple terms:

Personal Discomfort (what is said + what is done) - Disbelief < Story Value

or

PD (ws + wd) - D < SV

It's science.


Anyhow, I'm sitting in this bar in the airport in Lubbock watching these three soggy, middle-aged salesmen chug boxed wine and literally dry hump a young, svelte blonde thing who is headed to New Orleans for a bachelorette party and chuckling to myself when Rick sits down right next to me.

Rick looked normal enough. Rick turned out not to be normal. If Rick were a character in a screenplay, he would be introduced thusly:


[Rick enters from the left side of the bar. He briefly surveys the patrons, then walks confidently, but with a slight chip on his shoulder and seats himself next to the young(ish) man at the bar who is drinking alone. Rick wears cowboy cut jeans with work boots and a denim shirt tucked in to reveal a healthy paunch. Rick's collar is open to the third button and a gold chain dangles there ensnared by his graying chest hair. The sleeves of the shirt are rolled to 3/4 length to reveal a faded, indecipherable tattoo on the back of his right forearm. Rick's salt and pepper hair is styled in a tight crew cut. He wears aviator shaped yellow lensed glasses. Rick orders a double Jack and Coke in a pint glass. Rick taps his drink with his large, gold pinky ring before speaking.]

And speak, Rick did. In thirty minutes, I learned the following:

Rick's son's best buddy was slated to be the high school valedictorian but one day got stoned to the Bejesus Belt and decided to rob the small town Sonic...at 3pm...maskless. His son's buddy made it two blocks with the $63.00 haul before he was apprehended. Oh, and Rick's son was with him. Rick made his son spend the night in jail to teach him a lesson.

Said lesson didn't work. Rick's son, years later, is currently in the clink.

Rick's daughter is a softball player and can throw smoke in fast pitch soft ball. Rick cannot comprehend how anyone can throw a ball that fast underhanded.

Rick is a construction supervisor and his current project is "seven ways of fucked up." It's not his fault though.

Rick met his wife while living as a foster child in her parents' house.

Rick's parents and parents-in-law are the same people.

Rick's current neighborhood has a large number of Vietnamese families moving in.

Rick believes this is why the family cat has gone missing. "You know they eat cats," Rick questions me and the bar in general after double Jack and Coke #2.

Rick wishes "The Whites" would stop getting forced out of their neighborhoods by people like "The Cat Eaters."

Rick is trying to get his card for the Senior PGA Tour. Qualifying rules have thus far prevented him from qualifying, but he's got sponsors lined up to foot the bill now and will be on tour in no time.

Rick has to ride in a golf cart when he plays on account of his disability.

Rick has chronic back pain.

Rick's chronic back pain stems from the second time he was struck by lightning.

Rick's gonna have one more Jack and Coke and then go catch his plane.

Rick was "Damned glad to meet [me]!"

PD(ws + wd) - D < SV

Like I said, it's science.

Damn you, poison ivy! Damn Youuuuuuuuuuu!

I'm getting over my second epic struggle with poison ivy this week. Although I wish I could write that as "Poison Ivy" and therefore, through the blogosphere, confess to you all that I am actually Batman and have recently vanquished for the second time the sexy and salacious villain of same name, I cannot. Alas, my poison ivy is a virulent little bitch of a vine/shrub/weed that has been the bane of my existence since I first encountered it as a child tromping around in the undergrowth of the creek that ran by my home pretending I was GI Joe.

My first youthful encounters with this spawn of Satan were more inconveniences than actual death matches, but since moving to Indianapolis four years ago, I have, on two occasions, been exposed to the urushiol that spews from its every surface and thereafter been subjected to the seeping misery that accompanies it.

How, you ask, has this happened? Well, my dog has A.D.D. and is too curious for her own good. Any overgrown area that smells faintly of chipmunk, squirrel, rabbit, or other woodland creature is immediately a target for her reckless tromping, sniffing, and digging. The urushiol gets on her fur, her fur gets on me, and voila! Horrible seeping rash.

The first time this happened, the rash that eventually appeared on my leg was bothersome, but no worries. A seeping leg rash can be easily covered with a bandage, jeans, and a little modesty. Plus, the scar that eventually formed there blended nicely with the multitude of other scars on my shins and knees that have been the consequence of what my fellow soccer playing friends call a "sometimes overzealous style of play." When they don't use that euphemism they just say "dirty." I'll argue that until I'm blue in the face, but I digress.

The second time this happened, just last week, I had finished doing a little yard work and was playing with the aforementioned A.D.D. canine and wound up with a disgusting, oozing swath of broken skin that extended from my shoulder to the top of my right ear. There's no hiding this. I was literally under house arrest for three days save for my mandatory trips to work (although I did take one sick day). Shaving was not and still is not an option. This is bad for someone who has to appear respectable on a daily basis. To boot, I am challenged in the facial hair department. Were I able to grow a Paul Bunyanesque man mask, things might not have appeared so bad. Unfortunately, my beard is what can best be described as "weedy" and is starting to get a little too much salt mixed in with the pepper. I also may wind up with a neck/facial scar from the whole ordeal. Scarface is a seriously cool nickname, but you want to get that nickname as a result of a knife fight in a Cuban prison, not a canoodling session with your beloved dog.

Which leaves me where? Well, I have a pretty serious poison ivy infestation in the backyard. I need to get rid of this poison ivy. Poison ivy is notoriously difficult to eradicate and I'm allergic as hell to the stuff. If you've got any suggestions, please throw a guy a bone. How far am I willing to go? Well, here's a list of things I would rather do than EVER be exposed to poison ivy again:

Go on an 8 hour road trip with Sarah Palin.

Masturbate with Tiger Balm.

Let a tiger masturbate me with no balm.

Cheer for the Mexican Men's National Soccer Team over the US Men's Team.

Paper cut my ass hundreds of times and then sit in a lemon juice bath.

Have a blistering sunburn on my business.

Wax my head.

Roll in stinging nettles.

Be stung on the tongue by bees.

Give a two hour PowerPoint presentation naked.

Watch my parents have sex (maybe not).

Get tipped over in a full Port-O-Potty...door down.

Go to a Justin Bieber concert.

Let David Beckham kick me in the crotch. Maybe just left footed, but the crotch nonetheless.

Eat a light bulb.

Kiss a hot stove.

Drink water wrung from camel shit in the Sahara with Bear Grylls.

The list goes on and on. Please leave your poison ivy eradication suggestions in the comments and any other things you would rather do than be subjected to rashes from this particularly onerous and evil flora. Help!

What Would Jesus Do? He'd Wait Three Days.

A guy has a formula he uses to determine the number of days he should wait before calling a newfound target of his affection. I've never been too big on these formulas and usually call if and when I feel like it. Having said that, I'll concede that even if I feel like it moments after being given a phone number, and this has happened on a few rare occasions, I believe you have to at least wait until the following evening. That's just common courtesy, right? I mean, she could have been drunk...you could have been drunk. All sorts of things could have conspired to cloud the judgement of the parties involved and you're only going to make it worse if your zeal gets the best of you and you pick up the phone too soon.

I've heard the standard Three Day Rule explained ad nauseum, but a buddy of mine recently laid it out before me with pretty impeccable - strike that - Biblical logic. I'm pretty sure he didn't come up with this on his own, but that doesn't undermine the analogy's genius.

Jesus would wait three days, and here's why:

For a little context, the Bible never actually says on which day of the week Jesus was crucified. Most people go with Friday, but there's a whole lot of stuff that happened between the crucifixion, death, and resurrection to make Friday the least logical. Not to get too into it, but the Passover Sabbath and then the actual Sabbath of Saturday would have severely limited anyone's ability to get anything done and there was a lot of spice buying and feast preparation going on between Jesus being taken off the cross and Mary running into the Big JC on Sunday. No way all of that happened Friday afternoon before sundown and then super early Sunday morning. This is BCE we're talking here. It's not like there was a supermarket around the corner for all of your Sabbath needs.

I kind of feel like Wednesday makes the most since. Agree to disagree if you're breaking out your Bible right now to argue with me. I mean, come on! This blog is called Drinking Stories, for Christ's sake!

So, let's say Jesus died for all our sins Wednesday afternoon. If he'd been resurrected Thursday anyone who ran into him would be like, "Oh, hey Jesus! What's up?" No one would have known he'd been gone and more importantly, no one would have missed him. Sort of takes the miracle bit out of The Resurrection.

If Jesus had been resurrected Friday, people would be like, "Oh, hey Jesus. I didn't see you yesterday. How was Passover? What did you and The Twelve do?" No big deal. Same thing goes for Saturday.

Now, after three days and three nights, Jesus shows up on Sunday and it's like, "Holy fuck! Jesus! He is risen! I'm SOOOOOOO glad to see you!" That's a big deal. It's been long enough that people miss him, but not so long that they've forgotten about him.

Three days: Score!




Imagine what would have happened if Jesus had waited until Monday?

"Hey, who are you?"

"It's Jesus. I was crucified the other day?"

"Jesus who?"

"Jesus Christ of Nazareth?"

"Jesus, Jesus, Jesus....hmmmmm. Oh, I think I remember you. Tall guy? Beard?"

No one wants that conversation. Wait three days. Not one. Not two. Three and no more. Do not wait four. It is written.

Nickname Friday!

Nicknames are tricky business. They come and go on their own time; they do not respect the rules of logic; they can be demeaning and meant to show affection at the same time; and they are often so powerful as to consign a person's actual name to irrelevance. In short, I freaking love nicknames.

So without further ado, I am officially beginning Drinking Stories' first recurring segment, Nickname Friday. Don't all get too excited at once.

The Texas Wagon - I met The Texas Wagon in college. She was the best friend of a girl that was sometimes sleeping with and sometimes not sleeping with one of my best friends. She made the trip up to our university one weekend and the four of us wound up hanging out for most of her visit. The Texas Wagon was certifiably gorgeous. Blonde hair, blue/green eyes, tanned, intelligent, quick-witted...the list went on and on. Why The Texas Wagon, you ask? Well, she had the most disproportionately massive ass I have ever seen in my life. Seriously. It's as if all of her other body parts belonged to her and at some point she experienced an ass transplant. She looked like a one of those Japanese Hentai characters with ludicrously sized breasts and asses, but minus the breast part and double the ass part.

Also minus the Japanese hang up on pigtails and schoolgirls who also know Karate...and may/may not be robots...or cyborgs...or under the influence of some mind control device. Also, she wasn't Japanese (in case the blonde and blue eyed part didn't clue you in). So I guess now the analogy is completely disproved and gasping for life on the floor of this blog somewhere. I tried?

Note: This nickname can be used in any geographical circumstance. Hoosier Wagon, Cajun Wagon, Jayhawk Wagon, Chi Town Wagon, etc. You get the point.

Another note: Rereading this, I know it sounds hugely chauvinistic, but that is not at all my intent.

Another note: The Hentai thing is common knowledge, right? Right? Someone please agree with me so I sound a little less pervy.

Thank God We Found and Tamed Those Frogdogs

I had this buddy in college named Aron (Yes, with one 'A'). Aron was maybe the best story teller I have ever been around. He was so good in fact, that I unknowingly began to mimic his mannerisms and pattern of speech in my own stories because they seemed to illicit peals of laughter independent of what he was actually saying. I also appropriated a good number of his stories and made them my own, or at least retold them as I-have-this-buddy-who stories.

No one had better stories. Everyone in every story had a great name, and if they didn't, they had a great nickname. There was Steve Ignash who everyone called Jaws. Johnny Yelverton (whose nickname escapes me). Stu who clearly didn't need a nickname and was actually in college with us at the same time so any story involving him could be immediately corroborated to make sure it wasn't total BS, and many of Aron's stories seemed like they had to be total BS.

There was a story about his summer camp counselor, Mr. Moon, who had a tendency to absolutely flip his shit and scream at the slightest provocation or violation of camp rules. Shortly after directing his wrath at a young and terrified Aron, he was arrested for murdering his mother with a hammer. There was the story about the Korean gang fight at his high school where everyone was LITERALLY Kung Fu fighting. There was the story about two mall hoods who tried to steal a shirt from Aron while he was wearing it. There was the story, light on details, about his father and something involving a bank robbery (Aron liked to say 'heist'). There was a famous story, often retold, about a conversation Aron overheard at a truck stop coffee bar at three in the morning between a trucker and two women Aron described as "Rode hard Biker bitches." Actually, it wasn't so much a conversation as a monologue by the trucker told for the benefit of the "biker bitches." The monologue went thusly:

"So there I was, right? And me and the bitch are getting it on. The bitch has whipped cream all over her. Things are gettin' hot and right as I'm about to blow my load, I grab one of the empty whipped cream bottles and I start to get high. Then the bitch gets mad at me. What's up with that?"

Ridiculous and absurd things like this seemed to only ever happen to Aron. Or maybe they happened to us all, but he was the only one tuned to hear, synthesize, embellish, and retell them to hilarious effect. He was/is a screenwriter so that must say something.

When he didn't have any material based in reality, Aron had no problem turning to his dreams for our entertainment. One dream in particular stands out in my mind.

"So we're on this island, right? All of us. And it's like fucking Water World and the water is continuing to rise. We're all running up to the top of this island and scrambling to stay ahead of the rising water. There are old women and babies and dogs and just a fuck ton of people, right? Everyone scrambling. I'm ahead a bit and I turn around to see this old lady with the water lapping right at her heels and I'm thinking, 'Man, that old lady better put it in gear,' and right as I think this, the BIGGEST FUCKING CROCODILE I have ever seen springs from the water and chomps her right in half. I'm like, 'Holy fuck!' --"

At this point in the story, Aron executed one of his patented mannerisms which was sort of a wide eyed look of shock combined with a partly agape mouth and a casual point for about a two beat pause. Clearly, I can't recreate this via the written word, but you get the point.

"-- So I turn around and start sprinting to the top of the island and there's very little room left up there and the water's still rising and now I know there are these massive, prehistoric killer crocodiles rising with the water. So, we all get to the top of the island and there's nowhere else to go. We're totally screwed. The water's almost to us and one of those massive crocodiles jumps out of the water at us. Right at that moment, this fucking mix between a dog and a frog, but like a vicious frog with fangs and a dog body, leaps out of nowhere and starts attacking the crocodile. Then there are like twelve more and they just shred the fucking crocodile. All I remember thinking is, 'Thank God we found and tamed those frogdogs and they're on our side.' Wildest thing I ever saw."

I'm thinking more the above and less the below.

In Which I Suddenly and Inexplicably Become Irresistible to Women 15 Years Older Than Me

I'm not old. Contrary to what some of my younger friends tell me, I'm still in the spring of my life (late spring, but spring nonetheless). Let's call it May? Which is why I'm still trying to wrap my mind around last Friday night and failing to do so.

Perhaps it was the venue. Perhaps it was the lighting. Perhaps it was the copious amounts of booze (some fruity wine, no doubt) clearly imbibed by my potential suitors, but I inexplicably found myself the main course of a cougars only buffet. Maybe not cougars. What's older than a cougar?Sabre-tooth Tiger?

The evening started promising enough. A buddy of mine and I went to a bar we frequent with some regularity. A band was playing. People were dancing. More importantly, there were plenty of men and women in attendance that I would easily, and with no creative mathematics on my part, call peers. Now, I'm not a pick up artist, never have been. There's just something sleazy to me about approaching a woman I don't know in a bar and trying to get in her pants. I see it as a sexual telemarketing call. Phone rings, you think it might be someone you know, you pick up, and then your heart sinks as you realize some douchebag with too much hair gel and after shave (and it's always after shave and not cologne) has interrupted your good time. It's just not for me.

Because of this reluctance on my part to ever play that roll, my buddy and I posted up at the bar for a few beers, some decent music, and some decidedly solid people watching. Then I got a tap on the shoulder. More accurately, I got a boob on the shoulder. As I turned around to see who said offending mammary gland belonged to, I was shocked to see a woman who resembled my portly, jovial, and matronly third grade teacher. Thinking it must have been an accident, I scooted my stool over so that the school mistress could have unfettered access to the bar and order her drink more easily. It was crowded and everyone was having trouble getting service. The boob followed...with a sly smile.

Nothing more followed at that point, boobs ordered her drink, and that was that. A few more songs were played and then she came back. Same routine with a little awkward banter this time. Nothing more followed, boobs ordered her drink, and that was that. A few more songs were played and then she came back again. SAME ROUTINE. Seriously? The male equivalent of this is an old guy approaching the bar, dry humping a young woman's leg, smiling creepily, and then disappearing only to repeat the cycle over again 10 minutes later...except it would probably only happen twice because guys like that tend to make an early exit at the insistence of a manager or a bouncer.

I was shocked the fourth time I felt a tap on my shoulder because I was pretty sure I hadn't given off the "I have a thing for larger, significantly older women vibe." However, this time when I turned around it was a different woman. 26 year old, smoking hot, blonde athlete? Negative. It was another massively overweight 40 something.

"Excuse me, are you single," she asked.

I was flummoxed and thinking I was on a hidden camera show so I didn't answer quickly enough. My buddy, ever the mischief maker, sprang into action.

"Yeah, he's single!"

"Single and content? Or single and looking," she pressed.

Again, I don't know if it was the beer I'd had or the still total inability to comprehend what sort of signals I was clearly sending out, but I hesitated to answer.

"He's totally single," my buddy laughingly answered.

"Well, I have a friend who's been staring at you all night. Would you like to meet her?"

I started to answer, "Well, I'm not really -," but before I could get out the rest of my objection, my buddy leapt off his bar stool and offered it up for the mystery woman waiting in the wings.

"Great," the middle woman exclaimed, "She'll be right over!"

I stared dumbfounded at my friend as he smiled back at me.

"Maybe it's a niece or younger coworker," he offered, still with a shit eating grin on his face.

I took a sip of my beer thinking that although that was a nice idea, I was pretty sure he was wrong. I was right. Moments later, a woman I can best describe as Skeletor dressed in drag, sauntered up to the bar and sat down next to me.

Mercifully, the music, crowd noise, and my total lack of desire to engage in any conversation whatsoever prevented us from having anything to talk about beyond me finding out that she had children my age (as in plural), and a gentleman equally as long in the tooth as her sidled up moments later to drop his best soccer mom game on her. Far from feeling like my territory was being intruded upon, I was thankful that at least one person in the bar (albeit a 50 year old dude) seemed to recognize that I was as old as I actually am and that there was no way in his mind that anything remotely amorous was unfolding between myself and his quarry.

Disaster avoided, I excused myself and sought out my buddy to tell him he'd better never, ever, ever, in a million years pull that type of shit again. He apologized, said that he owed me, but did all of this with a ridiculous smile and twinkle in his eye.

The "I owe you" part of his apology should have sent alarm bells ringing in my ears, but I let it go. Mistake. As the evening was winding down, he excused himself to go to the restroom. But he didn't go to the restroom. Instead, before I could object, he walked to the other side of the bar to tell the most Helen-of-Troy-like female in the entire establishment that his buddy (me) across the bar would like to meet her. I know I've said that I'm not one for approaching women I don't know, but I'm REALLY not for outsourcing said approach to someone else. The approach is douchey. The outsourcing is spineless.

Knowing I was stuck -I mean, you can't jump up and leave while your buddy is trying to point you out and you can't flail your arms and yell "No!" from across the bar (which is what I wanted to do) - I just sat and tried to act as unsuspecting as possible until he returned, and he did return.

"Your presence is requested across the bar," my buddy said as he walked up to me, shit eating grin still firmly plastered across his face.

Fuck.

I took a breath, not wanting to go, but forced myself to walk over to the other side of the bar and introduce myself to Helen. She was actually a friendly and talkative young lady (yes, young), but about 20 minutes into our conversation, she asked me who the woman on the other side of the bar was and why she was burning holes in her with her eyes.

Confused, I looked up, and there was Boobs, sitting alone, and absolutely shooting icicles at us both.

"Do you know her," Helen asked.

"No, I don't. She was ordering drinks between my buddy and I earlier, but I've never met her before."

As if on cue, the bartender set a beer in front of me.

"I didn't order this," I said.

"You're Doug, right," the bartender asked.

"Yeah."

"It's from the lady across the bar," the bartender replied.

Shortly thereafter, Helen left with her friends.

Shortly after that, my buddy and I left, but not after trying to decide what to do with the beer that the school mistress had ordered me. In case you're wondering, I drank it. Etiquette is one thing, but wasting a beer is another altogether. I'm not proud of it, but I did this while making as little eye contact as possible with the school mistress. I did, however, mouth "Thank you" across the bar before I took my first sip.

After we'd paid our tabs and left the bar I asked my buddy what the hell had just happened.

"Don't worry about it," he said. "Once is an oddity. If it happens again, it's a pattern."

A few moments of silence passed as we continued walking and then he offered, "I mean, there is a little gray over your temples."

Thanks, Ass.

When Abstinence Goes Horribly Awry

I'm not a big believer in abstinence. And by "not a big believer," I mean I think it's pretty silly in the grand scheme of things. I'm not saying I advocate copious amounts of promiscuous sex, but not having sex until marriage is a little like allowing someone to teach you skydiving because they stayed at a Holiday Inn Express last night. Bad business.

I could go on and on, but I'd probably just end up coming off as a typical guy who wants to sleep with women (I am, but that's beside the point), so I'll just retell a story that encapsulates my distrust of all things abstinence.

*Ahem*

Bob and Julie were like a lot of the people I went to college with. If you've ever read this blog, you know that I went to a conservative Baptist university in The Great State of Texas. The student body ran the gamut from heartless, pagan wild children to first century throwbacks intent on ruining the fun for everyone else. Bob and Julie were neither of these things, but fell more to the first century side than the pagan wood nymph side.

Bob and Julie were, in most ways, a delightful couple really, truly in love with one another. They were on the path to marriage weeks into their relationship and had that glow of young romance and the security that they had found The One in one another. As a newly minted couple wanting a Christ centered relationship, they decided to wait until they were married to have sex. Although Bob had done the deed in a previous relationship (Julie had not), he gladly accepted the no sex stipulation as he was confident Julie was the end all be all of his romantic life.

Fast forward one year.

Bob and Julie had just made it back to their hotel on the night of their wedding and were both anxiously anticipating consummating the marriage. This was the main event. Julie nervously went into the restroom to slip into something more comfortable and prepare herself for what she had built up in her mind as the most earth shattering, consequential moment of her entire adult life. Bob, as the cagey veteran in this equation, knew that his new wife was nervous and he anxiously fumbled around the wedding suite thinking of what he could do to take the anxiety out of the situation for them both. I can't say that I would have formulated the same plan of action that he did, but I give him high marks for thinking outside the box.

What was his plan of action? Bob stripped down to just his socks and laid stark naked on the bed with all the lights on. His big plan to break the tension was, as Julie exited the bathroom, to grab his ankles, roll onto his back, and fart. Like I said, not what I would have done, but who am I to judge? I imagine at this point in the story you're calling bullshit on any of this ever happening. All I can do is assure you that this is entirely true and that although you may think there are some embellishments, I heard this from Bob himself and when you read how this romantic mastermind's plan of action actually plays out you'll ask yourself, "Jesus Christ, why would he make that up?"

Back to the scene. Julie is finally ready. She's purchased classy lingerie for the evening (Think more La Perla and less Frederick's of Hollywood), redone her makeup, brushed her teeth, redone her hair, and whatever else women who have never ever had sex before do to get ready on their wedding night. She affects her most alluring and graceful posture as she sweeps into the wedding suite, rounds the corner, and sees her betrothed rolled onto his back, holding his ankles, and giving her the most unadulterated view of his asshole she's never wanted to see. There's a two beat pause and then a giggling Bob lets rip with a fart he's been holding in since they got to the wedding suite.

Except it wasn't just a fart.

As Bob was explaining later, the rich wedding food, wine, stress of the event, and anxiety surrounding having sex for the first must have all conspired to create what we call in Texas "a rumbly basement."

Bob shit all over the bed.

Julie screamed, burst into tears, ran directly back into the restroom, and locked the door.

Bob lay shocked on the bed wondering what exactly just happened. As he said to me years later when recounting that awful evening, "I saw things going differently in my head." Indeed.

After a hurried attempt at some sort of clean up, Bob donned a hotel bathrobe and spent the rest of the night talking to Julie through the restroom door. Part mortified, part concerned husband, part crisis negotiator, Bob was finally able to convince Julie that his actions had a sincere and caring intent and that he was not in fact a sexual deviant bent on doing God-knows-what to get himself off. Just before dawn, Julie finally left her restroom sanctum, hair down, make up off, lingerie put away for another time. They both went directly to bed and apparently didn't even try having sex with one another until nearly a month later.

Abstinence: Nice idea. Crisis of expectations. Can be messy.

This Week's Band No One Has Heard of But Everyone Needs to Listen To: The Weeks (See what I did there?)

Ever heard a song and thought, "Why, on God's Green Earth, is this not a hit?" Yeah, me too. This is that song. The Weeks are a band from Jackson, Mississippi (is that not the most ridiculously spelled state?), and they're solid. I'll spare you the experience of reading me wax philosophic about a band I really don't know that much about, but I'll also urge you to give this song a listen. Because they're from a southern state and sound a certain way, they have garnered their fair share of Kings of Leon references, but that's just because people need context in which to describe them, "People" meaning music fans and idle bloggers like myself. This is sort of the curse of being a new band or new writer or new painter or new poet or any other new artist. I once described The Kooks as the musical progeny of an orgy between The Cure and The Rolling Stones, lack of female sex organs aside. As inadequate as a comparison often is, it's all a new(ish) group has. So without further ado, The Weeks!

The Gospel According to Duke

One of the consequences of going to a Christian university is that the young, curious mind is inundated with all manner of Jesus talk. This is especially true if said young, curious mind is, like mine was, a bit of a tabula rasa when it comes to talk of the Big JC. It's not that I was raised a pagan, as some of my more earnest classmates would have had me believe, but that I did not grow up attending vacation Bible camps and was not already firmly satisfied that I had a firm grip on Absolute Truth at the tender age of 18 (By the way, 18 year olds who feel this way are scary as hell. Just saying. They're sort of like an older version of Mordecai from Children of the Corn).

Whereas I initially found talk of finding Jesus in all that I encountered on a daily basis cumbersome and a bit naive, I eventually thought of it as a sort of tongue-in-cheek intellectual game. It was sort of like spiritual hide-and-go-seek. Jesus H. was out there hiding in my morning bagel, political science classes, and Wednesday margaritas, I just had to get in the right frame of mind and he would jump out at me with an "Aww, shucks, you found me" grin and embrace me with the grace and tenderness of The Lord. Kind of like a Jack-in-the-Box...but a Jesus-in-the-box!

This was especially true one evening when some of my more irreverent friends and I were sitting around a table at the local coffee shop snarkily commentating on an article that had appeared in the university paper about a student who had a deep and aiding love for all things Dukes of Hazzard. I can't believe the article can still be found online, but there you go.

Anyhow, our snarky commentary eventually led to a serious and well-reasoned Christological interpretation of The Dukes of Hazzard. I know, I know...$30,000 a year to discuss Jesus as he pertains to one of the worst TV shows of the late 70s and early 80s. Sorry, Mom and Dad! But I still think we were really on to something. Allow me to elucidate:

First let's talk about the theme of the show. Bo, Luke, and the Duke family and friends were, at best living on the fringes of Hazzard County life, yes? I mean, they were just some good ole boys, never meaning no harm, but they'd been in trouble with the law since the day they were born. It's even in the theme song. Fact. What were JC and his early followers if not on the fringes of early Judaic law? Lepers, hookers, outlaws, heretics? And they certainly didn't mean any harm. They were just trying to usher in the Kingdom of Heaven. The whole show is all about the Duke boys trying to do the right thing even though they're desperately misunderstood as petty criminals and hell raisers.

Once that understanding of the shows driving thematic element is pinpointed, it becomes pretty easy assigning roles to the characters. Let's start with the bad guys:

Boss Hogg

As I recall, there was some debate about whether Boss Hogg was more of a Pontius Pilate or a Caesar. I went with Caesar. Look at the guy! All white (just like a Roman toga), cigar smoking luxury, and that fat, tanned and greasy look of a man living in the lap of ill begotten wealth. It's not too much of a stretch for me to imagine Boss Hogg being fed grapes and drinking wine...ok, maybe pork rinds and Boone's Farm, but you get the point.



Roscoe P. Coltrane

In my Gospel According to Duke, Roscoe is the Pontius Pilate figure. If it were up to him, he'd just wash his hands of the whole Duke boy situation and get about the business of patrolling Hazzard County. He really never thought of the Dukes as being all that bad, but he had Boss Hogg...er Caesar up his ass all the time demanding that something be done about those wily rabble rousers so he really had no choice.




Enos Strate

Enos was sort of a minor character and was Roscoe's deputy so that automatically qualifies him as a Roman Army henchman. Having said that, he had a thing for Daisy Duke and really kind of liked the Duke boys. Chalk it up to a disinterested Roman Legionnaire who got stuck out in the boonies because he signed up for the army. He just wanted to put in his time and get back home alive...and also bang Daisy. Isn't this sort of a typical enlisted man's plight?


On to the good guys!

Uncle Jesse

Uncle Jesse was the patriarch of the Duke clan and the font of wisdom that kept the Duke boys on The Path. He's the tangible legacy through which the Duke line could be traced back to the early days. Therefore, Uncle Jesse has to be The Stump of Jesse. I mean, it's in his freakin' name! Isaiah 11:1 reads: There shall come forth a root from the Stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots. This is a horticultural parable for the growth of the Davidic Line that eventually spawns a one Jesus Christ. Jesse was David's father - Does anyone else think 'Jesse' is the least Biblical sounding of all the Biblical names?! - and is the guy who sort of started it all. Nothing says, "I'm the God damned pater familias," like a massive white beard and transcendent Southern wisdom.

Daisy Duke

That feathered hair! Those sultry eyes! Those incredibly short, short, short shorts! Daisy Duke = Mary Magdalene or I'm a monkey's uncle. Mary was a woman of ill repute who was taken in and forgiven by Christ. Despite her appearance or past actions, she was a good woman who eventually became the Apostle of Apostles. Daisy was Bo and Luke's right hand woman. Dressed like a ho, but had a heart of gold. Yeah, she was flashing ass all over Hazzard county, but she also helped the Dukes spread the good news. Bonus points for having a badass white Jeep.


Bo and Luke Duke

As the main characters of The Dukes of Hazzard, Bo and Luke have to be Apostles. I know, I know, why isn't one of them Jesus? Well, firstly, there are two of them. You can't have two Jesuses, that would be Jesi. Secondly, the main characters of the story of the spread of Christianity are actually the Apostles. They did all of the writing and all of the promotion of this kickass guy named Jesus who was crucified for all of our sins. By the time the Good News was being spread like wild fire, JC had long since lived, died, and been resurrected. It was left to remaining 12 to go out into the world and preach the Gospel. Bo and Luke drove all over Hazzard County doing good deeds, foiling Boss Hogg's nefarious plans, and looking out for the downtrodden and disadvantaged. If you're like me, you never thought of Bo and Luke as early purveyors of Christianity, but there you have it.


The General Lee

So who's the General Lee? You guessed it, Jesus. I do all things through Christ who strengthens me. Amen. How many times were the Duke boys in a tight spot, an impossible spot, and The General Lee got them out of it? How many leaps of faith did they take in that Dodge Charger to escape the clutches of evil men? I mean really, it's like the whole of Hazzard County was comprised of a road system predicated on dirt ramps set on either side of a creek. And that "01" emblazoned on the doors? Who's Christ if not number 1? Also, did you ever notice how the Duke boys seemed to be the only ones capable of driving The Lee? Remember that one episode where Boss Hogg tries to get in The Lee and he gets stuck in the window because the doors are fused shut? Mark 10:25 - It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter The Kingdom of God. You can see my logic is unassailable here.

Cooter

I'm probably going to hell for saying it (let's face it, I'm probably going for all sorts of things other than this), but Cooter is The Holy Spirit. Cooter is the guy who kept The General Lee running. He was a mechanic who helped the Dukes with all things technical and repaired The General Lee when the Dukes had taken it for a few too many creek jumps on the roads of Hazzard County. You could say - and I'm going to here - that Cooter breathed life into The General Lee and gave the Dukes the pick me up they sometimes needed to continue to spread the good word.

Waylon Jennings

Most people forget that Waylon Jennings was on The Dukes of Hazzard as the omniscient voice who narrated the Duke's adventures. He sang the theme song at the beginning of the show, knew everything that was happening with all characters at all times, and could FREEZE LIVE ACTION before the show went to a commercial break. Waylon Jennings was God. Think about it. All seeing. All knowing. Knew the Dukes and all of the other characters better than they knew themselves. Plus, I like to think God would talk to me in a deep Southern drawl. Waylon Jennings, who art in heaven...

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