I'm Thankful For...

UGA's utter refusal to play defense in the second half. Nice job, guys.

Facebook Faux Pas

A few months back, at the behest of a good friend, I joined Facebook. At times, I think it's pretty cool. At many others, I find it to be pretty creepy or annoying. For the record, I'm one of those people who never updates a status and never ever sends or accepts flair or pokes or drinks or anything. At most, I'll log in and check it about twice a week for about ten minutes. It is, in my opinion, just one more thing to manage. Personally, I already have enough things that deserve my attention.

In spite of all of the annoyances, there are some redeeming qualities about it. There are some folks from high school with whom I'd lost touch that I've traded a few emails. Unfortunately, after not hearing from or, in many cases, thinking about someone for fifteen years, I now have the ability to know what they are doing at any given moment courtesy of the Facebook's wretched Status updates. Is it critical, for example, to know that someone has paused "The View" to run to the restroom? Methinks not.

Anyway, it can be a better way to email someone than email, you know? There's no bother of remembering an email address. If you're connected to someone, you can send them a message. I've probably done this about ten times.

Several days ago, I emailed a buddy that I've know for many years. I told him how I missed seeing him at the bachelor party/tailgate for K's bachelor party weekend, that he picked the right game to miss because Alabama kicked our ass, that I hoped to catch up with him and his family soon, and that we should go snowboarding again this winter. It felt nice to email him. After I, I did miss seeing him there. Yesterday, I popped into my Facebook account and got his reply:

Dude, I was there! We had our picture made together. Guess I was just that forgettable.LOL. Still trying to figure out if I can go on the ski trip. I really want to. Keep me posted on the updates.

I'll have no recollection of this moment in 3 ... 2... 1...

So, not only did we have our photo made but, I recall that we talked at length about snowboarding again this winter. On top of that, I walked to the stadium with him and his buddy from back home.

My only explanation is that, yes, the tailgate was that good. Yes, I am just that idiotic. Yes, I had a blast.

Sports!

Sports was easily my favorite Huey Lewis and the News album. It far surpassed everything else they put out.

Now the old boy may be barely breathing
But the heart of rock and roll is still beating

UGA Victorious in the Land of Mullets and Jorts
So, how 'bout them Dawgs? Seriously, how great was that first touchdown? The importance of a faux-impromptu moment wasn't lost on me. Thank God the announcers told me all about what it meant and how I should feel about it. It was, however, exciting to witness. What would the final score have been if we'd not sustained about a bazillion penalty yards? Any time Florida loses, I'm happy.

42-30

When my alma mater does it, it's nothing short of brilliant.

Rocktober? Nope, Sox-tober!
How great was the series (if you weren't rooting for the Rockies or for the N.L.)?


Personally, I loved it. Finally, I'll be able to go out in public again. Unfortunately, I was a little superstitious about it all. During the ALCS, I watched a game with a buddy out at a sports bar. They won but I just couldn't concentrate on the game. Plus, I felt surrounded by the stereotypical idiots that love sports bars...emphasis on "bars." Anywho, to stop the losing skid, I had to watch the game at home. I'd break my cap out of retirement, gingerly place it atop my melon, and watch the game from the darkness of the living room. Thanks to my meticulous attention to -- and repetition of -- detail, they came back to win three in a row and, in doing so, the AL pennant. Obviously, I had to stick to my protocol during the World Series. It paid off as handsomely as it did in 2004. Sweep, baby.

I'm equally happy that I don't suffer any more awful announcing by Joe Buck and Tim McCarver and shitty game production provided by Fox. Really, could they have interrupted more of the game for useless interviews with pitching coaches? Here are some of my ideas for Fox:

• How about this: show every at-bat during the game and put meaningless interviews in a small box on screen. You know, do a picture-in-picture sort of thing.
• Get rid of the "Strike Zone" or whatever the hell it's called. The beauty of baseball is that balls and strikes are called, for better or worse, by fallible humans. Umps make mistakes. They blow calls. That's part of the game. If not, the Rockies wouldn't even have been in the post-season.
• Make the announcers either shut up or say intelligent things. On Conan O'Brian, Joe Buck confessed that friends text him during broadcasts with bets that he can't work random words into the broadcast. Hell, Conan bet him a $1000 charity donation that he couldn't work "jubjub" into the broadcast. First game, Buck says "Our own little jub-jub, Chris Meyers." Nice job, Joe.
  
• Sponsorship bar at the bottom the screen. Just put all the damned corporate logos at the bottom of the screen and stop inventing dumb shit like the "Levitra 'Putting a Little Wood On It' Hit Highlights." If you experience games lasting longer than 4 hours, please consult your physician.

America thanks you for the free Taco Bell® taco.
Thanks, Jacoby!

I could go on an on and on. Simply put, Fox sucks.

So, this time of year always leaves me sad. I think of it as post-baseball depression. It's like I have to say goodbye to one of my best friends until the Spring. It really makes me blue.

Dreaming
This morning, I had another awesome dream. Again, it was one of those where I woke up happy as hell, just grinning there in the dark until I fell asleep again. I was called up to pitch for the RedSox during the World Series. I surprised my family with a trip to Fenway and the enormous players' family suite. They had no idea I would pitch, so it was fantastic news for them. Me and my dad got really emotional when I was telling him how good a role model Tito Francona was for me. Honestly, I couldn't believe that I'd never noticed my amazing pitching talent before but was sooo thankful for the pitching scouts that saw me playing with the Sleestaks softball team. The roar of the crowd woke me up.

We Never Grow Out of It.

This past weekend, I drove to Athens for Crazy Greg's Annual Tailgate. This year, he roasted a pig. Unlike a few years back, the Athens Fire Department did not show up, wade through the sea of tents, and douse his fire. (Turns out that sawing a metal trash can in half and building a raging inferno is considered a fire hazard. Make a mental note of it, you'll thank me.) Anyway, this year went off without too much of a hitch. It was, however, one for the record books.

My photos from the day.

Standing on the Shoulders of Giants
Since graduating and moving to Atlanta, I've been to only a handful of games. About once a year, I make it up to tailgate with everyone but rarely make it inside the stadium. The last game I attended was Spurrier's first visit to Athens with South Carolina. Anyway, it was a crisp, bright morning, perfect weather for football. As I got closer and closer to Athens, I got more and more nostalgic for my college days. Man, I was younger, had a full head of hair, and took full advantage of my ability to stay out all night with no ill-effects the following day. Now, I'm tired by 10:30 p.m. and more than three beers leaves me stunned for the following 48 hours. How I miss my youth! At one point during the drive, I actually talked myself out of blaring R.E.M. and singing at the top of my lungs. I convinced myself that driving along alone, crying and laughing while singing "King of Birds" would really be pushing into sad, old guy territory. Better to hang back as fun, nostalgia guy.

After what seemed to be an eternity, I made it downtown and looked for parking. With each vacant handicapped spot I passed, I died a little inside. As I was walking out the door that morning, my wife asked if I wanted to take the "handi-pass" she earned with her knee surgery. I declined, explaining that I feel dishonest and guilty using it when she's not there. As a result, the boy scout got to pay fifteen dollars to park downtown. As quickly as I could, I filled a trash bag with beer and ice and shoved it into my backpack. I grabbed my camp chair, slung on the pack, and commenced my hike toward Legion Field and the memories of youth.

Older and wiser.

When I walked up to the tailgate, I may as well have stepped into the early 1990s. Tons of old counselor friends were there. It really was like being back home. Everyone knows your history, knows how you are, accepts that. We laughed, drank a few beers, ate some pig, and slowly got out of hand.

Pig pickin' in Athens.

It's Not a Party Until...
So, a friend of Greg's was there with his girlfriend. At least, she probably was his girlfriend. Today, probably not so much. As an observer, she seemed like a big bowl of crazy. For nearly an hour, they argued back and forth over an innocent bystander who was literally caught between them. Certainly, their alcohol consumption didn't help matters. She seemed to be a young, attractive gal who gets crazy as hell and maybe mean when she hits the sauce. I stayed as far away as I could manage.

As game time approached, people drifted off toward the stadium. [Crazy Train]'s boyfriend had, by this point, passed out in the front of Greg's truck. That guy is nuts, I thought. Hell, it's only 1 p.m. I noted as I drained my beer and fished another from my pack. Sometime near the start of the second quarter, I think, Greg made his start for the game. Turns out that, [Crazy Train] was going to join him for the trip. About an hour and a half later, I get the following text message from Greg:

Lost [Crazy Train], tell [Drunk Boyfriend]. With [Old Female Counselor].
See you soon!

And that, my friends, was the last we saw of [Crazy Train]. As best we could, we woke [Drunk Boyfriend], told him that [Crazy Train] had gone off the reservation. He didn't seem that bothered.

[Crazy Train] makes her exit.

Always Be Prepared
Some time later, Greg arrived alone. He told us that [Old Female Counselor] would show up to meet him later. Finally, she arrived. It could've been the beer but she looked like a supermodel. Turns out it was the beer. She's an attractive woman but none of us are supermodels, you know? Anywho, Greg was officially on the hunt. The two chatted for a while and, without a word to anyone, tried to steal away for a little privacy. At this point, beer logic failed them: When two people try to hide behind something that's only four feet tall, people can still see them kissing. After enduring everyone's yells, they got wise and move farther away. Every few minutes, however, Greg would take a break and run back over to us to complain about his indigestion. Each time, I think I offered him a Pepcid that I didn't have. I'm an asshole.

Which one suffers from acid reflux?

After more time passed, the pair decided that they were going to head to a friend's house and get a little rest. As Greg sauntered over to tell me goodbye, I beckoned him over to my pack.

"Hey man, you should take this PowerBar," I say.

"What the hell are you talking about?," he asks.

"Dude, she's hypoglycemic. Remember from camp?"

"She grew out of that."

"What? No hell she didn't! You don't grow out of being hypoglycemic. Trust me, take this damned PowerBar."

"Okay. Whatever," he says while nonchalantly pocketing it.

Aftermath
Later, we all split up and went our separate ways. Several of us ended up at a friend's condo to sober up before heading out for a bite. We made it into a bar/restaurant downtown in time to see Auburn completely dismantle the Gators. That was a nice way to finish the evening. After dinner and more time hanging with my friends, I returned to Atlanta. My head hit my pillow at about 2:00 a.m. on Sunday morning. All in all, it wasn't a bad day.

Later that morning, I spoke with Greg to find out about his evening.

"It was pretty boring," he confided. "She asked me about a thousand questions. I got psychoanalyzed for about two straight hours. Finally, I told her I was going to sleep."

"Did you find [Crazy Train]?," I asked.

"She called me from jail at about midnight. Disorderly Conduct and Public Intoxication. Cost $1000 to get out."

"What? How damned drunk do you have to be to get a ticket on Game Day at UGA?"

"I know, man. I think she hit a cop."

"What the hell?"

"I don't know, man. She never even called her boyfriend."

"Wow. She's loco."

"Yep. Hey, guess what else happened," he said.

"No clue. Somebody got shot?," I guessed.

"This morning at three a.m., [Old Female Counselor] wakes me up. She was shaking and acting all weird. I asked her what was wrong and she said her sugar was all messed up. I thought, damn, that son of a bitch was right. Then, I walked to my truck and got that PowerBar. Good call on that one, man."

"Told you, you don't grow out of that shit."

"I guess not.