Gone With The Windbag

So good to be back!

Great Gabe Kaplan's mustache, that was a long hiatus! I finally saw Seattle, attended Iron Maiden Day, wrote two papers and an annotated bibliography, taught six weeks of freshman comp., finished coursework, and turned 35.

What did I not do? Let's see...

For starters, I didn't shoot a water moccasin and hang it up in a tree to make it rain. I don't "believe snakes hold mystical powers" or that "they will charm you if you look into their eyes." Why? Because this isn't Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil and I haven't been smoking PCP behind the Arby's.

Maybe it's because mom never fed me Coca Cola from a baby bottle. But apparently that was someone's experience, and his name is Rick Bragg, and he authored this drivel. And since I'm from the South (Tuscaloosa, AL, stand up!), and since I love college football, I suppose I'm implicated in the universal "We" Mr. Bragg insists on using.

Well fuck you very much.

See, it's this type of tired, fetishized bullshit that forces me to listen to the same southern jokes at the same lame ass academic parties I attend on occasion.

"You're from Alabama? 'Y'all', amiright?"

Rick Bragg

Sure, ass-hat, you're right. I have a master's degree and just finished coursework in a PhD program because I ran around hanging snakes and chanting "y'all" with my voodoo beads wrapped around a white-tale deer dick passed down from my daddy. If you're not careful I'll turn your Volvo into a stock car! Why? On fucking instinct, brother! Can't help myself. Hellfire man, all I have to do is hear the word CAR and I start jonesin' for Daytona so hard my left eye shuts and I piss myself.

Bragg's stories have already been told a thousand times. Old southern men talking about the good ol' days of SEC football? Check. Old southern white men still upset about the Civil Rights Movement and the Civil War? A big ol' racist check. College football fandom, the most cliched side of it, made to define an entire region? Well, face palm, and then check.

"The point is, we talk real slow down here, so it may take a while to get to it, that we believe some things regardless of science and sometimes common sense."

You mean dipshits? You're talking about dipshits. They have those everywhere. I've been a dipshit before. One of my best friends thought it was "bold faced liar." See? Dipshit. He's from Boston.

You say Nick Saban smiling after his second national title in three years "scared" you, "as if Billy Graham had done a handstand."

Congratulations. You've squeezed halfwit ritual, catfish, and Billy Graham into an article about the South. It's a wonder ESPN didn't just have you recite it from bourbon-soaked memory under a swamp cypress with a straw hat on and a grass blade between your teeth. Oh wait! Fuck me, you even mention hay and cotton!

"Those young men drew on a long history of not being afraid, of the hottest days or endless rows of cotton or a million bales of hay." So the football team was made up of a bunch of farmers who dropped their pitchforks and picked up helmets? You're confusing myths.

"In the winter of 1993, in an attic apartment in Cambridge, Mass., I watched Alabama beat the trash-talkin' Hurricanes--I mean beat them like they stole somethin'."

What Bragg saw in the 1993 Sugar Bowl.

Why is "stole somethin'" in italics? You already dropped the "g" from "talking." Why attribute "stole somethin'" to some southern ghost? THAT was too much? And why attribute all this old shit to me? To some "We" you presume to speak for?

I watched the same game in 1993 sitting on the floor of my family's living room. Lots of southerners were there. No one had a snake or fed their baby Coke or played the banjo or sang about God and cotton. My grandmother was there, too. "It makes a difference," she said, because she always said that. It worked as a non-sequitur, a post-script, a preface. Regardless, it was always the crux of her message.

And that's my message to you. It makes a difference.

My "we" wants to find the positive aspects of our home, not be a cliche. We want to be different from the people who give it a hayseed name, not that hick gleefully reflecting on a time when the team consisted of whites only because they were the only ones allowed to play. We revel in rivalry Saturdays. It's the end of the week and we drink before noon and we believe in the restorative power of hate. But we are far more than an ESPN 30 for 30 that gives carte blanche to six kooks from Jasper for an hour and calls it a day.

We are not the same, you and I.

What you've done, Gump, is disregard southern football fans who weren't born from a bag of pork rinds or don't dislike a team just because they're north of the Mason-Dixon (we despise ALL opponents) or don't adhere to the belief that "God prefers our teams." We love college football. We grew up with it, or graduated from there, or moved there and thought it was strange at first but now we love it. Do we follow it religiously? Sure. Shit. That term always gets thrown around when describing the southern football fan. Never Bowie fans or squash players or vegans. "My, you follow that carrot juice religiously! You're CRAZY!"

No. Because of rubes like Bragg every Saturday is a Sunday and every football stadium down south is a fucking church and that's not rib sauce on my fingers it's Jesus syrup! Well okay, Bubba, I follow it religiously.

Know what else people follow religiously? Religion. I'll let you decide which is more logical. Scientifically speaking, of course.

An Open Reply To Brilliant Panda

You sure do talk a lot, World.

My Very Favorite Panda,

Indeed. You are Brilliant. I’ve scaled the tiny mountains of this Hassee province often to listen to your musings on all things science, music, literature, porn, and football. It’s that last one that rouses me this particular morning, the dream that happens every summer—pigskin soaring in slow motion through a stadium-lit sky, repetitive crunch of tackle after blindside sack, a one-handed snag, a kick return for touchdown. We’ve all had the dream. We love it. We miss it. We wake up only to realize it isn’t real, that our morning paper is merely an A-Rod article, or some Red(neck) Sox kid complains to his crotch on ESPN, or 3-4 games a day on television for what feels like 10 years. The worst—a “sport” that occasionally speeds up to a crawl in the hottest season of the year. Can you imagine sitting in a microwave and counting to 600 in Mississippi’s? That’s a Red Sox/Yankees game, only the microwave is filled with assholes.

Your open letter raises some interesting points. I am, in fact, hilarious. But this morning I woke from my dream and turned on the television to see “Breakfast at Wimbledon” and thought—Is this the world Brilliant Panda wants for us? Say it ain’t so!

Now, tennis is a helluva sport. It’s fun and fast and tough. I enjoy watching, and there was a time when I enjoyed playing. But “Breakfast at” anything is not a pre-game show I’m okay with, especially since Roger Goodell seems determined to put the NFL in Europe. THE NFL! Can you imagine “Crumpets With Eli” on BBC? This would be a disaster. I care nothing about watching the London Kettles versus the Edinburgh Sads. You’re an Eagles fan, for fuck’s sake! At halftime you want 3 beers and a shouting match with your cousin Sully. The Edinburgh Sads hold a halftime funeral for Balgaire’s Ma who croaked at kick-off. Tough old broad fought with William Wallace, you know.

I mention Europe because of your concern over what the world thinks of America, and when one makes this argument they usually mean what Europe thinks of America. So please allow me, Worried Panda, to sooth your ruffled and wooly coat.

1  1.  Americans can get anything. We just got healthcare. Just now. But alas, I understand you mean the little things, those we take for granted—cats, blue jeans, and Hollywood memorabilia. Well, I may acquire a kitty that looks eerily similar to Robert De Niro, and I may acquire said feline with the quickness. Know what I can’t get right up the street? A Union Jack scrotum beanie for those frigid Florida winters. We all make sacrifices.

   

We'll backpack anywhere we please. 

    2. Political Idiocy—I don’t know which side of the pond you're claiming this idiocy falls on. First off, if you’re an American travelling the world and pinning anything other than a RATT patch to your backpack, well, sir or ma’am, you’re dead inside already. Why would we, a Panda and a Mink, have to defend anything? Governments make terrible decisions, and ours may be the worst, but I can’t remember ever receiving a text that reads—“Yo Mink. Prez here. You got a thought on this Iraq bizz-nass? Holla if you go out later. #opentosuggestions.” This European demand is the equivalent of me blaming all of Italy each time Mario fails to save the Princess.

     3. Canada is better. John Candy, Ryan Gosling, and hockey vs Me, You, Wu-Tang, Bear Bryant, muscle cars, and snack packs? 'Merika. 

     4. It's Not "America". Maybe, but "BossOfAllBosses" wouldn't fit on the bandana I like to tie around my Levi's. LOL Europe!

    

     5. We’re Wasteful. Yes. Yes we are. I am a terrible offender here. No defense. HOWEVER, whence I’ve scaled those heights to gnaw bamboo with you we’ve chowed down to the melodious sounds of Dick Wolf. Were we actually watching the television? No, Hypocritical Panda, we were not. We just felt better because it was on, because there was justice in this crazy world, because the lone noise of conversation puts us in a panic. And this is okay! We have toys and we play with them. I understand America has a waste problem, but Elizabeth Vargas? She has a lot of money and four kids and a huge house. Her carbon footprint is the T-Rex to my Emmanuel Lewis. According to her "report" we should piss in the streets and never shower. If I wanted that I’d just live in Ohio.

My point, Understanding Panda, is that I don’t need Europe to tell me we have issues. The only America that Europe knows is New York and L.A. anyway. I’ve enough problems trying to convince people in my own country that I’m capable of holding an intellectual conversation after they find out I’m from Alabama. Europe doesn’t even know Alabama exists. To them there’s only “The South” and it’s shaped like a klan hood. Fuck those people, too. We gave Europe an American and you know what happened?

Mmmmm.... privilege and gelato 

So yes. You’re right. I should conserve far more than I do. And I will admit that while your open letter was well received, it cut a little. When I am cut, Kind Panda, I bleed. And when I bleed, I bleed fucking Springsteen guitar strings because AMERICA! WOOHOO! LOL EUROPE!

A Whale Of A Time

I do not conserve. I will leave every light in my apartment on, the water running, and fall asleep comfortably on the couch to the sounds of District Attorney McCoy magically panting the city of New York to another conviction. If I left the oven on, all the better.

this is an actual whale

But you know what I like? Whales. Love a whale. I don’t actually work toward educating anyone on the habits of whales. I don’t donate money to whale conservation and, honestly, I’ve only ever seen a whale in captivity at a museum I snuck into illegally because the line was too long and I had a flight to catch. LOL, Shedd Aquarium, I saw your belugas for free!

Point is, asked if I dig on whales, the answer is yes. YES. They’re smahht. Not dumb, like everybody says. When I say “everybody” I mean—people from Wakulla County, FL and the Japanese.

This morning I read that a bid to create a whale sanctuary in the Southern Atlantic Ocean was voted down at the International Whaling Commission’s (IWC) annual meeting. I know, right? I want to be on the International Whaling Commission. Although the bid gained more than half the votes, it needed a three-quarters majority. Boo.

Granted, these do-gooders wanted a nice chunk of salt—“The proposal covered almost the entire Atlantic Ocean south of the Equator, from the west coast of Africa to the east coast of South America.” Wow.

An actual invitation from the above whale.

Whale #1—party at my crib!

Whale #2—where’s your crib?

Whale #1—everywhere!

I don’t mind that it was voted down with the promise of more talks. Part of the problem was shear area. Countries/continents can control their own shorelines, and so, rather than mark off a portion of planet, those who voted against suggested the closer policing of these shorelines. Word up, haters.

But who were one of the biggest opponents of the plan? The Japanese. Mother. Fucker. No and no. I have a problem with Japan getting a say. The IWC tried to nix commercial whaling in order to increase whale populations back in 1986. The Japanese, always happy to help a whale, found a scientific research loophole within the legislation, and continued right on killing. I suppose they needed to make sure the meat still tasted the same? Yep, tastes right. Just to make sure, though, lets capture and kill about 70 more. Nothing like consistency!

Here’s what has never happened in warfare:

General #1—Hey, guy, Gen here, I’m gonna need you to stop this little coup or whatevs. I mean, you’re massacring a lot of innocents.

General #2—For reals? I didn’t even realize. But, seriously, we’re just conducting a little resea….

General #1—No, dawg.

Don’t get it twisted. This is warfare. The whales haven’t had many warriors, per say. There was Moby Dick and this little guy. And why shouldn’t he attack a diver. Do we not try to kill bugs that fly around our face? I went diving once, in the Bahamas. The only things in that water are tiny little fish that look like bouquets of flowers. It was like swimming in everyone’s anniversary.

But those big ol’ so and so’s need help. I’d like to arm them with lasers, but sharks have kind of cornered that one. Sheesh…sharks.

See, the whole “hey, kid, stop being a jackass” hasn’t worked with the Japanese whalers. Now it’s time to stop letting these fools vote. And before you go screaming about how I’m lumping all Japanese people and Wakulla people together under a negative light of righteousness, let me correct you.

Yes. Yes I am. This morning. Because this is bullshit. This is King Bullshit. You seen The Cove? Those are dolphins. Seems like if it’s an intelligent sea creature, there are men in Japan who will ice it. No questions asked.

You will eat the fast food!

Just as America should have nothing to do with any international dietary legislation, Japan should be left out of any vote regarding whales. If you’re doing everything you can to wipe out a species (human or whale) you’re done. DONE.

When Ill-Informed People Regurgitate Political Rhetoric On Facebook

College Payoff

4-team playoff? Everyone will miss the BCS once this shady reach-around is instituted in 2014. For now I'll just say---You don't fool this old rube, college football.

Your college football playoff Selection Committee 

Those old men relieving themselves in the picture? That's your selection committee (kind of,) and here's what the Great Oz (ESPN) says: "The committee will be charged with giving all teams an equal opportunity to participate in the playoffs and will consider factors such as strength of schedule, head-to-head results and whether a team is a conference champion."

What part of that is a computer incapable of? Odds are the committee will be made up of conference commissioners, retired coaches, and retired players. Let me tell you something right now---Bobby Bowden didn't know where the fuck he was for the last three years he was coaching. I imagine he's in an Alvin's Island right now wearing a snorkel and trying to convince the register girl that these souvenir shot glasses are actually "pee-pee hats."

Old players? You mean this one? Or this one? Or this one? Christ.

Don't even get me started on conference commissioners. These are the same conference commissioners that have rejected a playoff for 20 years because it had "the potential to infringe on academic expectations of student athletes." Horseshit. As soon as the playoff became economically viable these fools shook on it, and were so giddy about the possible financial windfall, they appointed a committee of this---

What bowl are you taking us to?

So, yes, college football, I doth protest. I love you, and I will watch you. But just like a stripper in Panama City, I will never trust you.

What I Wish I Was Doing Today

Roll Tide, fools.

Ugh. Whatcha Say Whatcha Say, Ugh. New York*

I hate New York. Let me rephrase—I tire of New York. I tire of television’s depictions of New York, whereby ANYONE can make it. I thought the whole deal was “if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere!” Apparently not. You want to impress me? Make it in Phoenix. That place blows.

I tire of people falling in love in New York, but then almost not getting together, but then getting together right when the lights of some building flicker on. Fuck you. I tire of people in New York being “neurotic” and thus “interesting” instead of “neurotic” and thus “eat shit”. 

this guy made it

I tire of the Knicks, who haven’t been relevant since Clinton was throwing late night cigar parties. I tire of Spike Lee’s camera-close-up rants. It’s not subversive anymore, you little troll; it’s just derivative racism. Eli Manning? Oof. 

I know I’m in the minority here. I realize that New York is the center of everything. New York is our cultural power source. It’s the reason America as a land mass didn’t move any farther west. Why is everything accepted in California? Because those poor folks are too far from the power source! They don’t have the strength to fight it! What “it”? Any fucking it!

It’s the same reason people in my home state of Alabama are so stubbornly fucking backwards. See, Alabama is entirely too close to the power source. Don’t ever let rednecks drink the redneck juice and redneck too close to the power source or them rednecks will just redneck other rednecks into a big redneck**.

This morning I see that the New York Mets played the New York Yankees in a baseball game and all the world is smitten! Two New York teams play New York in New York? New! York! There’s a subway!

Make contact or me and mom
don't love you anymore. 

Look, my father wasn’t a baseball fan and neither was my grandfather or my older brother. Mom didn’t watch it. Grandma didn’t watch it. Nobody in my family watched baseball. Love of sports (by and large) is a learned condition. You watched games with an older family member, a mentor, a creepy postman. No child ever actually walked onto a playground, saw all the sports being offered there and said, “Oooohhhh! That one! That one where people stand still most of the time! I want to do that one because I just don’t have the energy for the others!”

No. Didn’t happen. You ever go to a little league game and see a fly ball land and roll right passed the center fielder who’s staring at cloud shapes and chasing nose goblins? He’s fucking bored. The coach has to yell at him to get his head in the game. Scars him for life! Years later he’s calling me to ask if we can go watch the Mets/Yankees game. No. No we cannot.

Two teams who play baseball in the same city played one another. Makes perfect sense to me. But this morning I thought all the excitement was over a cancer cure, or world hug-it-out day, or Nickelback had exploded into a beautiful firework, or Kanye West had disappeared. You’re this excited over baseball? There are 14,000 more games. Is it the subway?

* I love Hip-Hop. Thank you, thank you, thank you, New York, for Hip-Hop. 

** There's no real point in bringing up what's actually backwards with regards to education, institution of a lottery for better funding, the university's specific navigation of racism, immigration, corrupt local government, etc., because all anyone else hears is the word "redneck". That's why the same southern jokes still slay, somehow. People see no problem with regionalism. Cool. I mean, fuck off, but cool.