Bowl Fever...Catch It!

Ah, the day after Christmas. It brings back such happy memories, and it has such wholesome traditions. Kids get to enjoy their first full day playing with new toys. Families enjoy their last moments together before parting, gathering around yesterday’s leftovers with promises to keep in better touch next year. And everyone enjoys the Little Caesar’s Pizza Bowl (f/k/a the "Motor City Bowl"), live from Detroit. What, didn’t you watch that with your dad growing up? I thought that's where Domino's was headquartered?

For some reason, college football remains on my mind. There’s just so much wrong with it that criticizing it is like hunting at the zoo—lots of easily harpooned targets. And now that we’re easing out of the Christmas season (hope everyone ate a lot and Papa Noel was good to you), its time for the next season on the calendar—bowl season.

That’s right, the festival of hypocrisy that is College Football’s major yearly showcase. All the tradition, the pageantry, the competition that are corporate sponsored exhibition games between locked in representatives of contractually obligated conference tied-in institutions. This is so much better than a playoff. I thoroughly enjoyed the Beef O’Brady Bowl, whatever the hell a beef o’brady is. Is that like London Broil?

Bowl season brings with it lots of time-honored rituals as old as college football itself. Parades, trips, fat toupeed local businessmen wearing polyester jackets and pawning themselves off as the “Bowl Committee.” Please. These things run themselves. The only responsibilities that Bowl Committees have these days is to take free trips to “scout” potential participant teams, eat free shrimp and throw up at the corporate sponsored bar late in the third quarter. These guys spend most of the year as the sales manager at the local Subaru dealership, but thanks to connections and possession of incriminating photographs, have managed to hop on board the richest gravy train outside of International Olympic Committee membership. And while prospective host countries aren’t sending them free hookers, cash-filled envelopes and southport cookies, a Bowl Committee member’s ride is a plush one.

Other than the BCS cartel bowls, bowl games today are essentially partnerships between some desperate minor league city’s chamber of commerce and an easily duped corporate sponsor. Shreveport, you and AdvoCare V100 are a match made in Heaven. The bowl game telecast essentially is a three hour infomercial, with breaks for a college football game in between. Matchups now flow from contractual arrangements with the various conferences, so past brinksmanship and scouting resourcefulness needed to land the most attractive matchups no longer apply. The Emerald Nuts Bowl, or whatever its calling itself these days, doesn’t have to scout the country to find deserving invitees, it just automatically gets a pair of WAC and ACC also-rans.

Believe it or not, that’s a good thing, because when these bowls get the chance, they absolutely screw over college football’s best interests in favor of whatever ridiculous matchup puts the most seats in seats. Take the 2008 Rose Bowl. Those people are the worse. What accounts for their slavish insistence on an annual Big 10 (now Big 12) vs. Pac-10 (now Pac-12) matchup is beyond me. Due to BCS formulas and scenarios, they could have paired USC against Georgia. That would have put two 10-2 teams in the Rose Bowl, the number 5 BCS team (Georgia) against the number 7 BCS team (USC). Instead, they chose 9-3 Illinois, which didn’t win the Big 10, and which was ranked 13th. Instead of a great game, they got a 49-17 USC blowout. Georgia instead went to the Sugar Bowl, where they smashed Hawaii (that’s right, the Hawaii "Don't Call them Rainbow" Warriors went to a BCS bowl) 41-10. Instead of one great college football games, college football was treated to two crappy ones. But the Rose Bowl got a chance to match a historic Big 10 team against a Pac-10 team. Why anyone would want Illinois to play in their town is of course a matter for psychics, meter maids, or taxi drivers to debate.

Really, guys. The bowls lost any pretense of amateurism right about the time the “gift bag” was invented and the organic names of these bowls were cast aside in favor of the “Chick-Fil-A Bowl.” The bowl system is the college football equivalent of carbon paper. Except instead of having everything in triplicate, we are being treated to roughly 30 games no one, except the players and their parents, could care less about. The "GoDaddy.com Bowl," between Middle Tennessee and Miami of Ohio. Really, must we? Couldn't we watch an I Dream of Jeannie re-run instead? We have to watch this instead of an eight-team playoff? That makes perfect sense.

One of the great traditions of bowl season is the annual cavalcade of slap on the wrist suspensions. Can you believe a 19 year old kid on an out of town trip might miss his curfew? Or the team bus? Or have a drink? Or decide to sell all the free swag showered on them by corporate sponsors to make a couple of bucks when he looks up and sees everyone but himself profiting off his athletic talent? That the NCAA decided to suspend those Ohio State guys five games NEXT YEAR for infractions committed THIS YEAR surely has nothing to do with not risking lower ratings for the Sugar Bowl (starring, you guessed it, Ohio State)? I’m shocked, SHOCKED!!!

Happily, though, the biggest victims in this charade are not the indentured servant players but the crack addict universities who so desperately cling to this dinosaur system. In some, but not all, cases, the bowls provide a fairly decent payout to the participating schools. But nearly all conferences require the universities to share bowl payout money. So while the Maaco Bowl may pay each participating team $1 million, each school must share that money with numerous other institutions. Though each school will get its share of the other conference members’ bowl payouts, most schools feel lucky to break even. By sticking the participating universities with onerous ticket purchase obligations, the bowls are royally screwing the schools who, against all self-interest, refuse to participate in a playoff system that would provide a much greater revenue opportunity.

Take the case of the University of Connecticut. As the Big East Conference champion, it was invited to play in the Fiesta Bowl. By going, it will be paid $18 million, one of the largest bowl payouts of all. But the Fiesta Bowl requires U Conn to sell (or failing that, to purchase) at face value (lowest price $111) 17,500 tickets. It has a minimum hotel reservation requirement at three local hotels of 550 rooms. U. Conn doesn’t exactly have the same fan base as a Nebraska or an LSU, and it managed to sell only 4,000 tickets to its fans. What happens to the remainder? UConn is on the hook to pay the face value of all of these tickets. And unlike home games, bowls require that the schools buy face value tickets for all the band members and other school officials who attend. Throw in transportation expenses for the team, coaches, staff, band members, cheerleaders, etc., and U. Conn is looking at a BCS financial bath. Now, appearing in a prominent bowl may help with recruiting next year and possibly with generating alumni donations, but in these economic times, that’s a difficult expense to incur. Most university athletic departments are in the red. That is, most schools are not Ohio State, Alabama, USC, Texas or LSU. Someone like a North Carolina State or an Iowa State just doesn’t have the same cash resources as the big boys. Getting ripped off in these bowls must be more and more difficult to sustain. But God forbid we should have a playoff system, like the “Football Championship Subdivision” has every year.

But I digress. The schools get ripped off, but everyone else makes money. ESPN, the corporate sponsors, the cities whose bowls generate more tourists, the bowls themselves, and the BCS which uses these minor league bowls to justify its continued existence. I suppose you could say that Dwight, the hick linebacker from Moresville, Alabama who gets a free trip to Disney World also benefits. Coaches benefit too. With so many bowls now, about half the NCAA Football Bowl Subdivision schools get to play in a bowl. Idiot athletic directors who can’t see the financial mess their programs have become usually agree to award incentive payments to coaches for taking their teams to bowl games. It’s a whole heck of a lot easier to get in the Poulan Weed Eater Bowl or the Insight Bowl or the Military Bowl Presented by Northrup Grumman than it is an eight or even 16 team playoff.

So rather than getting to watch some really excellent playoff games, we instead are treated to the festival of mediocrity. No one interrupt me at 2:30 on New Year’s Eve Day. I’ll be watching the Auto Zone Bowl, featuring 6-6 Georgia against 10-3 Central Florida. Don’t come knockin’ on my door at 11 a.m. on January 8th. I don’t want to miss a single snap of the BBVA Compass Bowl, featuring 7-5 Pittsburgh and 6-6 Kentucky (also known as the Toothless Bowl). I’m guessing it’ll be a lot easier to get restaurant reservations and see popular movies then, huh?

Bowl Fever…catch it!

Next-ok, I know you're clamoring for it...how the athletes are to blame. I know you're sick of football posts, but its football bowl season dammit! Get with the program!

Gwyneth Paltrow is Country Strong

You may fool me
And I’ll fall
But I won’t stay down long
Cause I’m country strong
--Gwyneth Paltrow, "Country Strong"

From time to time here at Daily Affirmations, we open it up for others to school us about the burning issues of the day.

One such issue, of course, is noted stick figure/actress Gwyneth Paltrow’s performance at the Country Music Awards (no, not the Academy of Country Music Awards; I know, “how are these different” you ask? I guess its sort of like the difference between “Dukes of Hazzard” and “BJ and the Bear”, you just know it when you see it).

Those country folks sure have become more welcoming as of late. The Byrds played a couple of songs from their landmark Sweetheart of the Rodeo album at the Grand Ole Opry in 1968, to faintly polite applause at best, and outright heckling at worst. GP, however, got a standing O from this generation of rednecks. What kind of world is this? One of the stories making the rounds was that Miranda Lambert, one of dozens of country hot chick pixies who allegedly can sing just as good as they look, giving GP icy death stares while on stage (while conveniently off camera). Is it possible that Miranda somehow begrudges Gwyneth's “cut in line” privileges that comes from being a famous Hollywood actress? Or is she just another pretty face who made good and wants to keep everyone else out? All About Eve comes to country music. This can only get better.

Here with a guest view on this is Shane “Rowdy Dwayne” Dunker, music editor of the Corinth, Tennessee “Intelligincer” (that is not misspelled, BTW). Mr. Dunker, the page is yours, sir.

"Gwyneth Paltrow, country music newcomer, stole the show. By “show,” I mean the 44th annual Country Music Awards, held in Nashville. It was Gwyneth’s rendition of her new hit “Country Strong,” from the Hollywood movie of the same name, that was the night’s top performance.

The way she sang that song was from the heart. You could tell she’s walked a true country road. From the heartache and deprivation of being born to Hollywood star Blythe Danner and director Bruce Paltrow, to failed relationships with the likes of Brad Pitt and Ben Affleck, that’s just a lifetime of country problems that have obviously made her Country Strong.

When she sang “Cause I'm country strong, Hard to break, Like the ground I grew up on,” I could only think, “preach on, sister!” I mean, growing up on the mean streets of Santa Monica and going to private girls’ school in New York City, its like I can practically see her milking cows or riding in El Caminos or eating at the truck stop after the Friday night game. Who can doubt this Country Girl’s country heart?

Yes, Country Strong may as well be Gwyneth’s theme song, and I’m sure it will eventually become that as she tours mall openings, state-level beauty pageants, and state fairs throughout the southland. On the same bill with Jessica Simpson, no doubt. I have no doubts that when she sings, “I know you see me, Like some wide eyed dreamer, That just rolled in off a dusty mid west bus,” people will really tear up as they recall her dusty journey to summer acting camp in Vermont, the road back to Hollywood and beginning her life of struggles with immediately landing starring roles with the likes of Brad Pitt and Morgan Freeman.

And what Grande Dame of country music hasn’t won the Academy Award for portraying English nobility during the 16th Century, and guest starred in Glee? No one worth listening to. I bet Dolly Parton never did Shakespeare. Nope. Dolly only starred with Burt Reynolds. How is that Country Strong? And I bet none of them have married someone from Coldplay and named their little girl Apple. Nope. That’s as country as June Carter Cash.

Now, some of these uppity New York critics, who are probably lighting a candle every night lately if you know what I mean, have gotten a little above themselves with airs about how Gwyneth shouldn’t have been on the same stage as Loretta Lynn. These people just don’t belong, and they don’t understand.

What has Loretta Lynn done compared to Gwyneth? Loretta wasn’t even in her own movie; they had to get that chick from Carrie, clean her off, and try to teach her to sing. That’s not Country Strong. And all that wailing and moaning about how she was a coal miner’s daughter and Patsy Cline’s best friend. Big deal. Gwyneth was a Hollywood actress’ and director’s daughter and models for Estee Lauder. That’s real pressure right there. Loretta was married at 13 and had five kids before she was 19? So what. Gwyneth was on Saturday Night Live. Loretta was the Country Music Association’s first female “Entertainer of the Year” and has been in the Country Music Hall of Fame for 20 years? Big deal. Gwyneth knows Luke Wilson. Again, that’s Country Strong. So you “critics” need to just step back and respect a country girl.

I’m looking forward to country hit after country hit from Gwyneth. With all those pickers and pedal steel players in England, where Gwyneth lives, that should be pretty easy to accomplish.

Love you Gwynny!"

Uh, thanks Rowdy Dwayne. I'm sure we'll be seeing you and your wife and 12 kids outside a Cracker Barrel real soon. That will end our guest spot here at Daily Affirmations.

Next-the third and final installment of the NCAA infractions trilogy. Which is only slightly less entertaining than the Star Wars trilogy. You thought I had forgotten, didn't you?

Going Back to Charleston, Part II

We resume the story on my second day in Charleston, which unfortunately had to be a getaway day. It was cloudy and cool, and I walked about half a mile towards the College of Charleston campus for some egg, bagel and cheese action at Bruegger’s Bagels. It’s a chain, but unfortunately I had no time to find something local. After breakfast, I headed on to the campus. College of Charleston, best known as the perennial bracket buster at the NCAA basketball tournament (frequently good enough as a 12 or 13 seed to win a first round game and destroy your bracket, but never good enough to get past the second round) occupies about four city blocks, but I noticed these kids everywhere. I guess the nicest way to put it is that they do not look like the Citadel kids. Imagine a place filled with B- students. That’s C of C. For all I know, they’re all brilliant and will change the world. Based on their looks, however, they’ll change the world by becoming toll booth operators and mold inspectors. I’ve seen smarter kids at San Jacinto Junior College (where, as my dear friend Donna once put it, they’ll throw academic credits into your car if you drive past campus too slowly). The C of C campus, however, is lovely. Its lined with trees, and appears to have about a 2:1 female to male ratio (which is just about right). About two-thirds of the buildings are converted houses, while the other third are more conventional academic buildings. The main administration building is quite attractive, though unfortunately it was undergoing renovation. Still, why would anyone go to a school that doesn’t play football? When I wrote this last little quip in my notes, on October 12th, I also added “but then again, people still go to Baylor.” I guess that’s not so funny anymore. That’s why I really need to get these posts out sooner (look for my next post soon, complaining about the Atlanta Olympics).

Across the way from C of C is Marion Square, also across from the elegant Frances Marion Hotel. How to describe the hotel? Hmm…very tricky…what to say? Oh, I know. It’s an exact duplicate of the Stoneleigh Hotel in Dallas. Down to the smallest detail. Its like being in some Star Trek episode where you’re transported to some parallel universe. With hot green women. I guess if a set of blueprints works once, there’s no reason to just put them on the shelf. Looks to me like the same architect sold the same plans twice, to people in two different cities that apparently were none the wiser. Hope the second set of owners didn’t think they were paying for an original design.

The square houses the Charleston Holocaust Memorial. On that gray, cloudy day, the memorial makes a bit more of an impression. Its fairly austere, four fence-like walls surrounding a concrete floor with an iron tallit (prayer shawl) on the ground. The designers’ web site states that the design is meant “to signify the place apart occupied by those who perished.” Let me get back on my soap box here. No doubt all the Holocaust remembrances and their sponsors sincerely want to memorialize that horrific episode in history. But the “we will never let this happen again” mantra really begs credulity. “We,” meaning the Western nations, have let “this,” i.e. genocide and “ethnic cleansing,” happen a lot since World War II. Cambodia, Rwanda, Bosnia, Iraq, Somalia…the list goes on, and the West hasn’t lifted a finger to stop it. In fact, when intervention was proposed to stop the war in Bosnia, the “peace crowd” recoiled and seethed in opposition. Smug liberal bourgeois intellectuals at the New York Times and Harvard looked down their noses at American and British explanations for the Iraqi War that appealed to humanitarian justifications (stopping Saddam from committing future violence against Kurds or Iranians). That crowd is also among the first to smear Israeli attempts to defend itself from self-avowed enemies bent on destroying the Jewish nation and race. Don’t try to tell me or anyone else that “we” are committed to never letting genocide happen again. “We” have repeatedly failed that test.

So are we clear about that?

Walking around the area west of Battery Row, closer to the Ashley River and a bit further away from the main tourist area, I encountered a couple of really interesting sites. One was Burbage’s Grocery. Straight out of 1955. This place is quite literally a corner grocery store, with two aisles, a meat and seafood counter in the back (manned by a “Sam the Butcher” type), an antique cash register at the front and an 85 year old cashier slowly punching in each item on the register. No fancy displays, no macro-biotic free range bison, no organic food department, and no hypo-allergenic cosmetic and vitamin aisle. For sale? Food. Normal, real, American food. Food egotists should avoid. Though not the slightest bit hungry, I delightedly bought an 8 oz. Diet Coke in a real, honest to God, glass bottle. Happily, and of course, the cashier had a bottle opener. Glass may not be as recyclable or marketable, but it’s the only way to drink anything. Plastic? Pssshh….

On a city bus, I noticed an interesting sight. A city bus (several, actually) prominently displayed signs advertising for participants for a cocaine dependency study, sponsored by the Medical University of South Carolina. "A non-traditional investigative study of medication effects on craving." "Non-traditional"? Really? Gee, I wonder if they're going to get a response on that? What is this, Bogota? Do you have any idea how many coke-heads are going to descend on this place looking to get paid for snorting up? Why not advertise for medical marijuana?

The other interesting sight was a real, live, VW hippie bus, straight from California, land of sunshine and freaks. It was parked next to Colonial Lake, an unimaginatively square (ok, it was more of a symmetrical oval) man-made lake just nearby. No, really, its just about perfectly square. If you were going to make a lake, wouldn’t you make it asymmetrical, or kind of odd shaped, like a real lake? Not Charleston. Anyway, the bus owners had 1968 California plates, and a very creative artistic palate, as you can see here, and here, and here. Very nearby, I stumbled onto the magnificent Wentworth Mansion. This incredible French Revival house, the finest I’ve seen in Charleston, is now an amazing hotel and spa, the kind of place where the smallest room goes for $499/night. Not unreasonable for the Upper East Side, perhaps, but pretty stout for a state with eight electoral votes. The grounds were kind of slight, though well maintained. I saw a landscaping crew working there when I arrived. The interior has been meticulously restored. Stained glass can be found throughout, and a carved wooden staircase lends a sort of stateliness to the place. This must be where locals with class spend their wedding night. Everyone else probably does shots at Applebees and passes out later at the Super 8. Good times.

Walking back to the downtown area, I returned to the main commercial drive, Meeting Street. Not unlike its smaller counterpart in Savannah, Meeting Street appears to be one of those main drives that WalMart and the malls killed off, only to become lately revitalized by tourism and the increasing move toward outdoor shopping (the Domain, Woodlands Mall, Shops at La Cantera…I like to call it “shopping in the rain”). There must be some money in this town, tourist or not. All the “big” stores are represented, albeit (thankfully) in restored storefronts. Gucci, Godiva, Lacoste…looks like there used to be a Saks Fifth but it closed. I spent some time walking down this street, checking out the architecture and the shops. I had lunch at another fine local restaurant, Sermet’s Corner. This is another place where the menu changes daily based on the availability of local meats, seafood, and produce. The menu, rather haughtily, proclaims that they don’t use chicken or seafood stock. I detect a trace of Austin therein. Art lined the brick walls, and the seating was mostly bistro style. Though I sat at the bar, next to a couple talking to a real estate agent about some deal, which apparently required them to loudly recount Charleston’s commercial history over the last 10-15 years. It also afforded me an opportunity to see either a manager or one of the owners rather openly dress down one of the waitresses behind the bar. Two thoughts about that. One—there’s no need to yell or get agitated. If an employee made a mistake, tell them. You don’t have to be Jim Mora to get your point across. Two—if you have to yell at someone, don’t do it in public. Take them back somewhere private. I’ve never owned a restaurant, but it seems to me that the kitchen might have been a better location for that sort of conversation. Nonetheless, the meal, consisting of roasted herb tilapia, butternut squash, and sautéed vegetables, was outstanding.

One thing I frequently noticed on my walks was the prominent Rebel Flag displays at people’s homes. Primarily the Stars and Bars, not the Confederate battle flag. In my walking around notes (I take my moleskin booklet with me on all my travels and jot down deep thoughts which I later record at Daily Affirmations…I know, kind of gay), I wrote down some arguments why flying the Rebel flag isn’t a particularly heinous offense. Though why anyone would want to identify with the losing side is beyond me. There’s a reason no one flies the Rising Sun…they got stomped. Flying the Confederate flag has fallen out of favor in most parts of the country, particularly in the People’s Republic of Austin. Not so here. It strikes me that people fly the Rebel flag as a protest against Washington and federal governmental programs. Though I suppose there’s still some racists flying it. But I guess its like the South Park flag that so offended Chef. Its enough that it outrages some people. Probably better in the long run for these people to pick a race-neutral symbol of the fight against District of Columbia oppression. I like the “Don’t Tread on Me” flag. What I really like is Texas' “Come and Take It” flag. That flag is just bad ass. Think I’ll raise that one when I start preparing for the revolution. Or a zombie outbreak. Don’t get me started on Indian-themed mascots, however. That’s just ridiculous. Except for the Washington Redskins. How that one sticks around I have no idea. What if it was the “Chicago Coloreds” or the “Miami Blacks”? Don’t think that would fly. Or that ridiculous mascot for the Cleveland Indians. The Frito Bandito thinks that one is a bit over the top. What’s really funny though is the State of Oklahoma flying the Confederate flag on state buildings. Oklahoma is barely a state now, much less in 1861-65. It didn’t join the union until just before the Titanic sank. Oklahoma couldn’t have been a member of the Confederate States of America, so other than telling the world “we're losers too,” which of course is pretty warranted for Oklahoma, I’m not exactly sure what they’re trying to accomplish by flying the flag. Maybe they’re angling for truck stop or gun show business.

Well that’s about it. Around 4 or so I finally left town, to make the long drive to Jacksonville, Florida, where I spent the night at some sort of resort hotel (i.e. it was on the beach and there were kids). I pretty much beat it out of town for Orlando the next morning, but did wake up early to enjoy a spectacular sunrise. You can view far more photos of a sunrise over Florida than you thought possible on my flickr site, here.

One final thought. In a Chick-Fil-A outside Savannah where I stopped to use the facilities and get some tea, a black gentleman wearing a pink t-shirt with the old “Tab” logo on it stopped me in the parking lot to gush over my rented maroon Camaro. This was a bit odd, though it was about time. Very few odd things happened on this trip, which was disappointing. I haven’t figured out whether he was being ironic or mocking me. When one lives in pink glass houses, however….

Next—a guest review of Gwyneth Paltrow’s CMA Awards performance.

Going Back to Charleston

I’m going back to Charleston, where I belong…. I want peace. I want to see if somewhere if there is something left in life with charm and grace. ….
--Rhett Butler, Gone With the Wind

He then asks Scarlett if she knows what he’s talking about, and she says “no I only know that I love you,” to which he responds, “that is your misfortune.” That’s some cold blooded stuff right there. I know she spent their entire time together throwing herself at that Streisand (Ashley Wilkes), but its not like Rhett didn’t have his flaws. Belle Watling? Really? I never understood why Rhett left Scarlett. Hadn’t she just figured out that Ashley was just another mama’s boy, and that for all his shortcomings, she really loved Rhett? Surely she’d have shut down the princess act and caused far less trouble thereafter. Plus, its not like going off to Charleston was going to shut down the USS Scarlett. If she was troublesome before, imagine her stalking Rhett up to Charleston. Scarlett seemed to have a way of always getting exactly what she wanted, no matter how high the body count. That guy and his pet rabbit would really have needed to watch his ass. I wouldn’t rely on a temporary restraining order. Women. Boy, I tell you. Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em.

Ok, I was going to write about my 24 hours in Charleston. Somehow I got sidetracked. Again.

When you think of the “Old South,” many things come to mind, some good, some bad. Unquestionably, Charleston comes to mind, a veritable symbol of and living monument to the genteel Southern past. One sees the Confederate flag flown on many homes, yet Charleston’s past dates to well before the Civil War (or the "War Between the States” as the old timers called it in the Rocky and Bullwinkle Wossamatta U. episode). Yet, Charleston is very much a living city, home to two universities and a regional port. Its noticeably larger than Savannah, and is a regional commerce center.

In Savannah, I began the day by again frequenting the Goose Feathers Café. Today the Paula Deeniacs were nowhere to be found. A curious mix of AARP couples and SCAD students filled the Café instead. A place for children of all ages, as it were. After breakfast I beat it out of town, eager to hit the road. I left Savannah with satisfaction. I saw the whole town and got to experience a taste of the relaxed and elegant Southern vibe (without the freaky, inbred, running moonshine, giving your kids weird names aspects thereof). Savannah encapsulizes the Old South’s fading beauty and elegance but without the grime and weirdness that often go with it. Like a non-crazy Blanche DuBois.

The morning drive to Charleston was somewhat arduous, with nearly all of it on US 17. No superhighways on this trip. Similar to the long, solitary stretch of US 190 from about DeRidder to Livonia, US 17 cuts through creeks, dense forest, and kudzu-choked swamps as it heads to Charleston from IH-95. The Spanish moss-draped oaks that have been ever present these last few days have given way to palmettos and swamp, an odd kind of morning haze, and a kind of Rodrigue-painting darkness as I drive seemingly back in time to Charleston.

Have I written about how all these tourists towns have the tourist part of town and then the real life ordinary people part of town? Seems to ring a bell. Santa Fe, New Orleans, San Francisco, Galveston, San Antonio, Washington, DC…they all have the relatively smallish part of town they’re known for, and where a few people actually live and work. All the ordinary folks like you and me (well, more you than me) live in the much bigger surrounding areas, which look exactly like everywhere else. Charleston is no exception. When you get out of the woods (“you’re out of the woods, you’re out of the dark, you’re out of the night….step into the sun, step into the light”), well, when you get into the Charleston city limits after the forest line, it immediately clears up into a bright sunlight bathed with Piggly-Wigglies, WalMarts, and this pretty good barbecue place where I stopped for lunch (Bessinger’s). By “barbecue,” Southerners generally mean a watery, vinegary, pork product that tastes a little like a dry, grilled hot dog. Or spam with tomato sauce. Or an old man's socks. And that was the case at Bessinger’s, right down to the smiling pig face flag flying in front. You know, nothing says you love something more than flying a flag in its honor. Or sending in commandos. Like a football team, or a country, or religion. Bessinger’s was pretty good though, offering a brisket plate and some real, non-vinegar sauce. But the only semi-decent barbecue outside the state of Texas I’ve ever encountered is VooDoo BBQ, in New Orleans, of all places.

Like other historic towns, Charleston is basically a historical district made up of preserved older homes, surrounded by the “real” town where most of the people live and work. Charleston is no exception.

Charleston, like Galveston and New Orleans, initially developed as port and commercial towns, supporting the southern agricultural base. Crops were shipped downriver to Charleston and shipped to the world. Banking and insurance houses quickly followed, to support the resulting financial transactions. Charleston at one point was the fifth largest city in the United States. Charleston is laid out at the tip of a peninsula between the Ashley and the Cooper Rivers. Just off the peninsula is historic Fort Sumter, site of the first shots in the Civil War. (Who led the bombardment? One Gen. Pierre Gustave Toutant Beauregard, New Orleans native, and before Huey P. Long, the most famous of all New Orleanians). Hey! I've been to that dude's house on Chartres Street in the French Quarter. The historic district is much larger than Savannah, or even the slowly evaporating New Orleans Garden District. The Market Street (Old City Market) area, very near the old Customs House, is the center of the District. Surrounding the market are hundreds of carefully preserved, magnificent antebellum homes of the Georgian, Federal, and Victorian style. Nearly all had two-story, and even three-story porches. Most were jammed in next to one another leaving almost no room for a yard to speak of. Most are oddly oriented, such that the porch faces to the side, rather than the street. This creates the strange effect of walking down the street and seeing the sides of houses. The government buildings get in on the act too, with many, such as the Customs House, City Hall, and Court House in the Federal or Doric Revival styles.

My hotel, the Planter’s Inn, is located right in the thick of the Market. It’s a really beautiful old inn, with period furniture and a suitably genteel lobby and sitting area (stocked with complementary orange spice iced tea and sherry at all times). All the staff gives tremendous service, and at a level one would normally find only in much more expensive big city hotels. The room was a little larger than I expected, with a four poster bed on which was located a teddy bear (kind of a theme for this particular establishment).

After I arrived at the hotel, I spent most of the afternoon on foot, exploring the historic district. I marveled at the number of well-preserved homes, no doubt the result of careful and oppressive zoning regulations designed to keep out modern box houses. Thank the Lord. Nothing’s worse than a historical neighborhood with home after home of one style, with a totally jarring 1970s post-modern box house every eight or nine houses. Well, lots of things are worse than that, actually, but for present purposes, nothing is worse than that. The presence of so many Federal and Georgian style houses seem to indicate that Sherman must not have torched the city.

Some of the architectural gems include:
• Rainbow Row, a collection of about nine or 10 Federal style commercial buildings from the 18th century, each painted in a different pastel shade.
• Battery Row, numerous Italianate and Victorian Homes at the very tip of the Peninsula near the White Point Gardens park and along the eastern shore;
• The US Customs House (which was lit pink at night for breast cancer awareness);
• The Federal-style Nathanial Russell House; and
• The magnificent, French revival Wentworth Mansion (the kind of place you spend your wedding night, if it’s the 1950s).

I was taken aback by the French influence here. Many houses resembled some of the older homes I’ve seen throughout Louisiana. Apparently a lot of French settled here after the American Revolution, and built houses accordingly.

Sadly, many of these historic homes are for sale. “Sadly,” in that it seems the recession has caught up with Charleston, but take that with a grain of salt because I saw a lot of Mercedes and BMWs parked in those driveways, and the houses appeared to be in immaculate condition. I took a couple of flyers from the signs, and was shocked at asking prices in the $300-400,000 range. For two and sometimes three story houses (albeit without much of a yard or garage). That strikes me as a pretty low price. On the other hand, I would imagine you incur a lot of home maintenance cost on some of these houses, particularly so close to the ocean. I am not tempted to move to Charleston.

Nonetheless, the historic district streets are amazing. Every block is full of simply breathtaking old homes in fantastic condition. I want to photograph them all (and if you go on my flickr site, you’ll see I pretty much did). I easily spent the whole afternoon just wandering up and down the streets. Which I guess made me a streetwalker. Which is still a step up from “lawyer.” But “that’s just real estate,” of course.

Towards the river (actually, at White Point Garden Park, at the confluence of the two rivers), lots of people were walking and running along the smallish seawall, or playing games in the park. A small group of Citadel students (“cadets”) ran by, and they looked very impressive. They wore school-issued workout gear, had on garish reflector vests, and had little if any hair. On the other hand, these kids were in outstanding shape; no pizza and beer guts there. They also had a really sharp look about them, exuding confidence and competence. I realize that’s just a surface impression, but as I saw more and more cadets throughout the town, they sure looked a lot more on the ball than those Corps nimrods at A&M. The next day I saw a female cadet in uniform, entering a bank downtown. Their uniform is really impressive, resembling the West Point cadet’s uniform. Not those stupid Brown Shirt/Boy Scout knockoffs they wear at A&M (can you tell the Texas vs. A&M game is tomorrow?).

That night I walked through the cool evening breeze to a local gym and worked out, then dined at McCrady’s, a relatively new restaurant in an old brick building, with an alleyway access. McCrady’s is the kind of place with dark wood paneling and hidden booths, with its wine collection on easy display, with clever jazz playing in the background. It serves protein by the barrelful-steak, chicken, duck, fish. In Austin, this is the kind of place where 60ish men with receding hairlines and beer guts would take their mistresses on Thursday nights. It also emphasizes fresh food from local sources. I had an outstanding meal of lettuces with spicy goat cheese, followed by duck breast, duck sausage, and roasted potatoes. Despite the calorie gorge, I did manage to resist dessert, however, and waddled back (duck-like) to the hotel. On the way, I saw that the US Customs House had been lit pink, for breast cancer awareness. This is admirable, of course, but the sight of a Greek temple-knock off federal building, in pink, did have me asking momentarily whether I’d stumbled into someone else’s acid flashback.

Next-Charleston, part II

Great Moments In Writing, Part II: Godzilla Smashing Through a City Level of "Suck"

Is it me, or does our President look kind of like Sad Alfred E. Newman? That's not a good look.
Some time ago, I promised a series featuring examples of excellent writing. I highlighted Gen. Douglas MacArthur's sympathy telegram to Mrs. Kennedy upon her husband's assassination. Then didn't publish anything else.

Most days I read just legal briefs and pleadings, which generally don't display much creative or poetic writing. Actually, for the most part, lawyers write with an appallingly bad style. At one end of the scale of writing quality, we have Shakespeare (and Hunter S. Thompson). At the other end, frantically searching through a thesaurus to figure out a different word to use instead of saying "good" for the fifth time in a sentence, would be the average lawyer. "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? First, like the summer, you're hot. Second..." See, it kind of goes nowhere fast.

Most political writing is near the lawyer end of the scale. Political writing is generally hackneyed, sophomoric, and cliche-driven. But this year's election season just produced a real gem, which I reproduce below (copyright laws be damned).

Courtesy of the Pajamas Media blog (via the Wall Street Journal e-mail bulletin), this missive occurs in an October 20th post predicting that the Republicans would roll at election time. Certainly not a bold prediction, but the post essentially makes the case that the Republicans, for all their warts and flaws, would win because they suck less than the Democrats. Let's get to the payoff point:

So the Democrats sucked. But not just plain old, usual politician sucked, but epic levels of suck where it’s hard to find an analogue in human history that conveys the same level of suckitude. It was sheer incompetence plus arrogance — and those things do not complement each other well. We’re talking sucking that distorts time and space like a black hole.

It’s Godzilla-smashing-through-a-city level of suck — but a really patronizing Godzilla who says you’re just too stupid and hateful to see all the buildings he’s saved or created as he smashes everything apart. Or, to use Obama’s favorite analogy, you have a car stuck in ditch, so you call the mechanic, but the only tool he brings with him is a sledgehammer. And then he smashes your car to pieces and charges you $100,000 for his service. Finally, he calls you racist for complaining. Obama and the Democrats have been so awful, it’s hard for the human brain to even comprehend.

Yowsah! That's just creamy goodness. Everyone take note. You know, I knew Godzilla was mean enough to knock over buildings, but I certainly was not aware he could be so patronizing while doing so. Its one thing to be mean, but quite another to be insufferable at the same time. Later, the author compared the Republicans to a dog barking, while the Democrats are like a "zombie apocolypse." Both suck, of course, only one is a whole lot worse.

Leave aside the political point made here. That's just really outstanding writing. You may go another five years before you read a better phrase than "a really patronizing Godzilla."

OK, straighten up and fly right readers. Hopefully soon, we'll conclude the travel posts with my report on Charleston, SC.

29 Days of Fun: Bilking the Insurance Company for Fun and Profit

I'm postponing the final southern travelogue installment because a very good friend sadly reports that she's suffered some sort of slip and fall workplace accident, thereby rendering her unable to work for the next 29 days. Personally, I suspect drinking at work has finally taken its toll, or yet another contemptible but unprovable insurance scam. Either way, its just another government employee with nothing to do during the work week. She's asked friends for suggestions on how to while away the days. Doing things other than work, that is. I'm happy to help.

Though I must say, poet laureate and voodoo priestess Darci Ratliff has beaten me to the punch with 29 much more creative and profitable daily activities. Hopefully, this list will help if you lose Darci's list.

So, without further a-do, here's 29 suggestions on how to spend those dreary days spent bilking the taxpayer, err, recovering from an unavoidable workplace mishap. Enjoy!

1. Ask the clerks at the "Everything's a Dollar" store how much stuff costs.
2. Spend a day at some high-falutin' grocery store eating "samples."
3. Let the animals at the zoo out of their cages.
4. Get a $1,000 bill.
5. Ask the teller at your bank for change for a $1,000 bill. In pennies.
6. Wear one item of clothing for each primary color. For example, one red sock, one blue sock, a purple shirt, a green hat, orange pants, etc.
7. Interview for a job in said outfit.
8. Spend an entire day riding the same city bus (or subway for those of you city folk).
9. Now, this one will require true game, so be careful. Go to Neiman-Marcus (or some other huge pretentious retail establishment). Try on one of their most expensive dresses. Then go to the housewares department and lay out a placesetting in the furniture department with their finest china and silverware. Next, go to the gourmet department and get some cheese or other snacks (or better yet, bring your own) and a bottle of wine. Return to your placesetting, and enjoy a lovely in-store picnic. Remember, club soda gets out red wine stains on expensive dresses.
10. Spend the day in character as your favorite Three's Company character (see above). Personally, I liked Mr. Furley best. That guy had mad skillz with the ladies. But among the women, my heart goes out to Janet. She definitely exercised authority and kept her cool despite the antics of all around her. And you know she'd leave her hat on, as it were.
11. Test drive an expensive car and keep it all day. True, this is partially stolen from Ferris Bueller's Day Off, but the twist is that you dress up like a nun when you do it.
12. Stand next to people at the Museum of Fine Art as they admire the various works, and tell each one, "I could do that Ethel."
13. Stand at the passenger arrival area at Bush Airport holding cards with common names like "Smith" or "Jones" or "Gawlikowski" and offer rides to those who assume you're their ride. Then take them for ice cream (and make them pay when you get to the cashier).
14. Make a citizen's arrest.
15. Buy a humidifier and a dehumidifier and watch them fight it out.
16. Watch the zombie movie 28 Days Later and dream of better days.
17. Attend an AA meeting drunk. Or, alternate activity, bring donuts to a Weight Watchers meeting.
18. Volunteer for jury duty, then continually shout out that the defendant should be tarred and feathered and put in the public stockade.
19. Pass out "Satan Loves You" pamphlets. At Baylor. Dressed in a Wonder Woman costume.
20. Watch a ceiling fan spin for about an hour, then spring up and sprint as fast as you can towards the door. Enjoy the relaxing feeling after you black out.
21. Play solitaire monopoly. In the board room at city hall.
22. Use an Indian accent and call the 800 number for computer help.
23. Switch all the "regular" and "decaffienated" signs you see.
24. Apply a handlebar mustache and wear a stovetop hat and cape, and tie a mannequin to the Houston Metro railroad tracks.
25. Return to Neiman's with a sharpee, and change all the dress sizes up one full size. So, a 2 would be a 4, a 4 would be a 6, etc. Observe the resulting dressing room hilarity as the liposuction crowd recoils in horror and heads to the bathroom to purge.
26. Post garage sale signs all over the neighborhood with the address of your most hated neighbor. The night before the "sale," put all your crap out on that neighbor's lawn.
27. Speak a crazy made-up space alien language all day. Alternate (though plagiarized) activity, speak only in cliches, all day.
28. Reset all the thermostats in the office.
29. Say "that's what she said" after everything said to you. Or, "get back Honky Cat."


A little lagniappe:
30. Do the Twist. On the escalator at the Galleria.
31. Sponsor a "Rally to Restore Sanity"


* * * *
One more thing. I noticed this morning that the clerk at the bagel place's name is "Rhiannon." Really, 1970s parents, was that entirely necessary? I'm sure you could have all waited til the 'ludes wore off to name your kids. Now look what you've done. A whole country full of Rhiannons, Brandys, Rikkis, and Joannas. Spectacular.

Touring Savannah: What'll You Have?

In Atlanta, the first question is “What's your business?” In Macon, it is “Where do you go to church?” In Augusta they want your grandmother's maiden name. But in Savannah, the first question is “What would you like to drink?”

-Berendt,John
Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.

Well, I think I’ll have a mint julep, thanks. Or a Mad Dogs and Beans’ cookies and cream milk shake from 1983 would be even better.

Today I toured Savannah in earnest, turning a two hour trolley tour into an entire day of walking around town.

I slept late, having stayed up watching the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie. The other two were pretty wretched, but the first one was really enjoyable. But what was going on with Johnny Depp? Its like he was in one movie and everyone else was in something different. He was in a comedy and everyone else was in a thriller. Depp was basically playing Keith Richards. Why didn’t they just hire Keith instead and cut out the middleman? Guess Keith and his Grand Canyon-like wrinkles and Grim Reaper façade would have scared the kids. Casting Keith might have made it a little difficult for Disney to get production insurance. Disney probably also wouldn’t have wanted to cast the Heroin Poster Boy. That would conflict with The Mouse’s phony baloney “family” reputation. On second thought, maybe they should just go all the way and make the ultimate anti-family movie. Have Lindsay Lohan play a sadistic kindergarten teacher, who joins a cult/child abduction ring led by R. Kelly and Dennis Rodman. Justin Bieber has a cameo, in which he gets kidnapped at age 15, gets brainwashed into being the worst singer in the world, and through some James Bond-style villain’s world domination techniques, is forced to become part of the cult. Together they go on a crime spree throughout the Southwest, all the while being tracked down by rogue FBI agents Bruce Willis and Colin Farrell (they don’t get along too well with their supervisor, cause they don’t always follow department policy). After lots of indiscriminate illegal in 26 states style sex and explicit drug and alcohol use, the whole thing ends up with Bruce and Colin killing everybody in a very bloody gun battle, with lots of explosions. Colin dies at the end in Bruce’s arms. Jessica Simpson, playing a newly deputized FBI officer (having returned from a forced stay at the Hollywood Fat Farm), steps in at the end to console Bruce and agree to go with him to Tahiti for a few weeks to “get to know one another.” Last line of the movie: “I guess I can give up my Knicks tickets for a couple of weeks.”

Hmm…speaking of not being in the same movie as everyone else, I’m not even in the same blog that I started. This appears to have become some sort of Hollywood script blog.

Now getting back to the point, which was how I spent my day in Savannah.

This day began with a hearty breakfast a few blocks away from the hotel at the Goose Feathers Café. On the short walk over, however, I passed the wrapped around the block and on to the next street line to make dinner reservations at the Paula Deen café, the Lady and Sons. I guess everyone in the world knows who this person is; I do not. I don’t live under such a big rock that I don’t know she’s some sort of Food Network star or someone of that ilk, specializing in Southern anti-health food. The “more butter and gravy = better” philosophy. The sort of thing that capped average Southern life spans at around 60. Every one of these people looks like they stepped out of a Southern Living party, or just like your middle school principal’s secretary Millie. Offhand I can’t think of any meal for which I’d actually stand in line on vacation (other than burgers at Port of Call). Nor any cooking show that I’d watch. That’s not entirely true though. I used to watch Justin Wilson’s old Cajun cooking show on PBS. Mainly it was because it was Cajun food, which at its best is simply irresistible, and for the stories. Like the Poo Poo Boudreaux story, or the state agriculture inspector story. Outside of dorms or Tarrytown, cooking is a daily basic activity. You don’t see any shows about cleaning bathrooms or doing the wash. At least not yet, I guess. Otherwise, if you want to know how to cook, buy a cookbook or take a class.

As true of most locations in the vicinity, Goose Feathers Café is located in a historic (which around here means older than 100 years) brick building just off City Market and Ellis Square. It specializes in great breakfasts. Around 9:30 or so it was filled with tourists and a few locals, and later with Paula Deen devotees. The workers were cheery and helpful. Not at all like the sour, annoyed waitresses at the angry lesbian breakfast place in Point Reyes, the Pine Cone Diner. Geez, despite the good food, one trip to that joint will scrape the sparkle off your day for sure. Of course, that place was mostly empty on a sad and lonely Monday, and located in a fairly deserted little hamlet; an Allman Brothers’ “Stormy Monday” for sure.

Over breakfast, I learned that Solomon Burke had passed. Now, this guy was a real treat through the years, especially at the Jazz Festival. He sang some really fine R&B and soul songs like “Cry to Me” and “Everybody Needs Somebody to Love.” He was part of that early 60s return to roots movement, which the success of the early, gritty Rolling Stones of all people had made possible. I first saw Solomon Burke at the 1993 Jazz Festival. He was wearing a purple satin suit, and had a young man on stage nearby acting like a valet, holding his cape and generally attending to Mr. Burke. It was the same James Brown schtick made famous on the original TAMI show. He also starred as the lovable drug kingpin Daddy Mention in The Big Easy, only to have lovable rogue cop John Goodman whack him in a drive by shooting. The last time I saw him was at last year’s Festival. Though mostly confined to a wheelchair, he still belted out about an hour’s worth of songs, and absolutely commanded the stage. To captivate a huge crowd like that from a wheel chair, well that’s something only a true master could accomplish. Sorry to see him go.

After a great bagel/egg/spinach/cheese breakfast, it was a short walk to the Old Savannah Tours location to begin the tour. The walk over was really enjoyable, for the most part. Savannah’s downtown streets, as mentioned in the post about the day before, are quite lovely, with historic, Spanish moss-draped oaks covering most sections. I passed through several historic squares, all meticulously tended.

Numerous trolley/bus tour companies plying Savannah’s historic area all day; my hotel recommended this as the best one. It had an option where you can get on and get off along the tour to walk around, which I exercised frequently. The tour guides are quite knowledgeable and relate lots of historical facts, a few of which I’ll unfold here. Savannah is about 60 years younger than Charleston to the north. Founded in 1733 by James Oglethorpe, who also founded the Georgia colony, Savannah provided a buffer protecting Charleston against the Spanish in Florida. Just goes to show, it wasn’t that long ago that we were just a bunch of tribes arguing over spoils. The town was laid out on a grid system around 24 town squares, and all but two are still in existence. Chippewa Square is the location of the bench where Forrest Gump was sitting at the beginning of that movie. The historic district is 2.2 square miles. The city has numbered and registered every oak tree in the historic district. The city painstakingly cares for and preserves each, to the point of denying building permits that might injure one.

I departed the tour trolley at Forsyth Park, the old town’s main park area outside the squares. I first stopped at the Mansion on Forsyth Park Hotel, an old Victorian mansion just outside the park. It’s home to a cooking school, art gallery, and an excellent restaurant. One of those kinds of places that serves “high tea.” Then I explored the park. It’s somewhat long and narrow, with a wide open space at the center ringed by shaded sidewalks, tennis and basketball courts, and a bandstand. At its northern end, it has magnificent fountain imported from Paris in the 1850s. Lots of kids were playing in a playground near a converted old Army facility, now the park headquarters. Forsyth Park resembles parts of the Battlefields Park in Quebec City, with a distinct French design influence and vast wide open recreational space. To the south and west of the park lies a Victorian District, which the tour guide termed Savannah’s “Haight-Ashbury.” That’s a pretty wild exaggeration, though there was a coffee shop and natural foods grocery store across from the park, which in coastal Georgia probably does constitute a hippie district. The town bohos clearly reside at the Sentient Bean coffee shop. This area resembles a downscaled New Orleans Garden District. The homes are somewhat smaller but remarkably well preserved, though there’s just a bit more “edge” than you’d see near Commander’s Palace, for example.

While walking through the park, I saw what appeared to be an entire class from SCAD sketching trees. Later when I resumed the tour, I learned that SCAD owns 65 buildings in the historic district, and has an enrollment of approximately 8,000 students. Let me tell you about art school. Its right up there with taking breathing lessons. Either you can paint, sculpt, carve, or whittle, or you can’t. Who taught Picasso to paint? Felipe Jones? Art school is just an excuse to get Dad to keep paying your bills while you spend your time smoking pot and watching Scooby Doo on the Cartoon Network. Its right on par with film school in that regard. Utterly useless. Case in point—SCAD operates not only a theatre (where it currently is showing a movie festival), but also an equestrian center just outside of town. What these have to do with art or design is beyond me. These are the kinds of things one would feature in an adult never-ending summer camp. Like art school. An art school degree, much like a University of Oklahoma degree, is merely something you can use as a coaster (or in a pinch, a diaper).

As I resumed the tour, I learned that yellow fever epidemics claimed thousands in the 1800s. It got so bad that the city government sealed off hospitals, and only allowed them to remove the dead at night so people wouldn’t see how many corpses there were. But, was it really yellow fever, or another zombie uprising? Why all the secrecy? Also, the Civil War didn’t claim most of the historic buildings in town as it had many other southern towns. The Confederates decided to evacuate rather than defend the town, so Sherman decided to spare it from his march to the sea.

Walking around the town commercial district after the tour, I saw that it was alive and bustling with shoppers, something very rare in this day of mall-driven shopping and dining. Though malls and WalMart have killed off most such old commercial districts, this one appeared to be thriving. Many local stores and even some upscale chains populated several blocks, creating a de facto outdoor mall. Late in the afternoon I stole away to Green Square (not sure if this is technically true, but such bad Tennessee Williams language fits the environment of intrigue and elegance all around me), enjoying the late afternoon sunbeams streaking through the oak and moss canopy and the historic buildings surrounding the square. With the early evening heat on the wane, I sank into one of the park benches (to rest my increasingly aching back), and slowly settled into a kind of hypnotized trance. Sort of like falling half asleep. The squares can tranquilize their patrons. Just like a Ben Affleck movie.

That evening, after watching Monday Night Football countdown, I had a great dinner at a riverside restaurant, Vic’s on the River. From my bar seat I watched the first half of the Vikings-Jets game, the triumphant return of Brett Favre to play one of his old teams. By that, of course, I mean, watching Favre throw an interception to end the game. Its like an old sitcom. No matter what the story that week, a key game in which Favre is quarterbacking always seems to end the same way. Who knew? But at the time I enjoyed a fantastic dinner consisting of softshell crawfish with peach glaze over arugula to start, followed by crab stuffed shrimp with white wine sauce and local vegetables. At the other end of the bar, a piano player belted out a medley of probably every 1960s and 70s TV show theme song—Andy Griffith Show, Gilligan’s Island, I Love Lucy, All in the Family, Star Trek, just to name a few. It’s a little disconcerting trying to eat shrimp while “Space…the final frontier…” is running through your mind. No reason given for omitting the I Dream of Jeannie theme.

To end the evening, I walked on over to Broughton Street to have a taste of ice cream at Leopold’s Ice Cream. This locally owned establishment has been family owned and operated for over 90 years. The current owner, a Leopold, happens to moonlight as a Vice President at Paramount Pictures. Movie memorabilia lined the walls, and other relics furnished the place, including an authentic jukebox with some really great titles (and real 45s). The ice cream is made on premises in small batches. Eschewing my normal anti-sugar diet, I had a small serving of chocolate chip, which really hit the spot. As it was a pleasant evening, I sat outside, next to the SCAD theatre marquee, which was advertising in bright lights for the SCAD movie festival. About a dozen students milled about, no doubt pondering another tomorrow filled with such excitement as drawing a tree or riding a horse. All in the name of design greatness.

Next-on to Charleston!

Savannah Would Be Better for You. You'll Just Get in Trouble in Atlanta

True words from Mammy. I heeded them and stayed away from Atlanta on this trip to Georgia, veering instead to the more elegant, genteel Georgia coastal town of Savannah.

I spent this warm, sunny day at the helm of the USS Cheesemobile (aka the Camaro), leaving Gainesville relatively early and making it up to Savannah in time to get a few hours’ walking time before sunset. It was about a three hour trip (eerily similar to the three hour cruise that Gilligan and his posse took). On the bright side, the road is mostly backwoods highway, meaning that I’d get to see some “off the beaten path” scenery not accessibly on IH-95. That turned out largely to be the case. US 17 trades off and on with 95, running through woods and marshland, affording a great view of really fine natural beauty. On the other hand, it also runs through Meth-ville. Some of these little towns you have to slow down while traveling through are really impressive. I hate to keep coming off like such a snob (well, not really), but in some of these places there’s like 14 teeth. Total. In the whole area. An overabundance of cellulite and smoker’s cough replaces teeth I guess.

Enhancing the experience was the fact that I could enjoy the Breakfast with the Beatles program on XM satellite radio. It’s a regular Sunday morning feature; this day was devoted to John Lennon-penned Beatles songs (and some solo stuff just released on his remastered CDs). Even though I’ve heard every Beatles song probably more than 100 times, I can’t get over how nearly every time I listen to the Beatles, I still discover some new (to me) wrinkle or layer. The songs were like three minute symphonies. John Lennon. What hasn’t already been said about him, at great length? Let me deviate briefly to talk about that and offer a contrarian view. Mick Jagger once called John Lennon the rudest person he’d ever met. Lennon was by all accounts an insufferable human being, and nearly every interview or clip of his I’ve ever read or heard confirms that. A total egomaniac, he basically was a street punk until the Beatles hit, then thought himself very far above it all. His many masterpieces owed as much to his competition with (and against) McCartney as to organic talent and creativity. Abusive to friends and particularly women, and bothered by not having his way, Lennon must have chafed at having to defer, somewhat, to the other Beatles, which probably accounts for the reports that he wanted to leave the Beatles by as early as 1965. In Yoko Ono, he found someone to provide a mother figure, whose love he’d always craved. Yoko provided the final bit of missing confidence that he could stand alone and apart from the other Beatles and have an artistic life outside the group. Without the moderating influence of the group, and having become a virtual idol of millions, Lennon became completely insufferable. A limousine liberal spouting goofy Utopianism (while abusing heroin during part of the early 70s during his LA period), he spent the 70s trying to live up to and in many ways take back what he’d accomplished in the 60s. The lyrics to Imagine or Working Class Hero, for example, separated from their matching music, are cringe-worthy. Hence, all the peace, love and agitation, followed by giving up, withdrawing and becoming a house-husband, and then in the end embracing his career and coming back with some of his best solo work. But despite all this, Lennon made the Beatles—without him there would never have been a Beatles as we knew them. Lennon was the preeminent songwriter of the rock era, ahead of McCartney, ahead of Dylan, ahead of Jagger/Richard, ahead of Brian Wilson, Lieber and Stoller, the Brill Building teams, Holland, Dozier and Holland…you name it, Lennon stood on top of Rock Mountain.

Back to Savannah. I’ve often said that other than New Orleans, every town in America looks exactly the same as everywhere else. Chock full of KFCs, Home Depots, WalMarts, Applebees, Olive Gardens, and other chains and strip malls that make it difficult to tell whether you’re in Jacksonville, Florida or Jacksonville, Texas. Its what I demonize as the homogenizing of America.

Of course, that’s not totally true. Some towns are a little unique. San Francisco certainly. The old parts of Santa Fe. Nantucket. Pasadena. And as it turns out, Savannah, Georgia and Charleston, South Carolina. They look different, though that’s mainly the carefully preserved and regulated historic downtowns. I arrived around 2, and was prepared for it to disappoint. Just like the Strand, which is overrun with awful tourists (“good tourists” don’t do the things that “awful tourists” do, namely, stand in the middle of the street looking at a map or peering through a camera, ask for directions to a location right in front of them, driving two miles per hour in a parking garage, wait more than an hour to eat at theme- or chain-restaurants, take horse-drawn carriage rides on busy downtown streets, and wear shorts that were too tight 20 years ago with mismatched socks). Savannah resembles the quieter parts of the French Quarter. Some chain bars and restaurants, but some good locals. Mostly, the obnoxious touristy area (i.e. the Galveston district) is limited to the two block city market area. There's no national chains (except Thomas Kinkade), and its not really that obnoxious. There's no Buffalo Wild Wings.

The town is laid out on a grid with alternating streets and boulevards. Interspersed is a set of 22 squares, which the city has meticulously preserved. Each is slightly different, but all well landscaped and tended, excellent for strolling or lounging. Incredible oaks with spanish moss line the streets, providing shady canopy. This reminds me of the Rice University area. The spanish moss adds a ghostly quality to many streets. The town area is really alive, and many streets are bustling with cars and pedestrians. Great Southern Gothic architecture dominates, and very well preserved antebellum homes line most streets. Along the Savannah River (at River Street), the city has renovated the old shipping buildings and cotton warehouses, which are now occupied by bars and restaurants and shops. The streets are brick, with cobblestones lining approaches and alleys. Ships used these as ballast until loaded, then emptied them, leaving them behind for Savannah to use in their roads. This reminds me of Old Montreal or the Natchitoches Front Street. There are plenty of younger people and some hipsters, no doubt attending Savannah College of Art and Design (“SCAD” a/k/a Waste of Time U, see tomorrow’s post). Some obvious tourist types are milling about and taking tours on Sunday afternoon and evening, but these folks are a little more well heeled than in similar places. Maybe people staying at home. Even Sunday night. Dinner at some quasi-brewpub was pretty wretched; though local, it allowed smoking. Some SCAD student sat right next to me and lit up her cigarette. Awesome. At dinner a woman came in who looks just like Joanie from Happy Days (and Joanie loves Chachie). That was the highlight of the night.

Next-touring Savannah.

LSU vs. Florida

I spent this warm, sunny day, which would have been John Lennon’s 70th birthday but for a psychotic, exploring the University of Florida campus, resting, then attending the LSU vs. Florida game in the Swamp. All in all, a really banner day.

I made it over to campus around 11 and already tailgating was in full force. I’m excited to report that Tiger Nation was representing in full force; maybe one in every four tailgates was an LSU party. All around me, country music and the play-by-play of first the Georgia-Tennessee game and then the Alabama-South Carolina game were blaring. Barbecue, fish fry, crawfish boil, and meat smoker smells drifted around campus all afternoon. Tons of people had come from all over in RVs. The collection of creature comforts was staggering. Lots of tailgates had portable generators, satellite dishes for oversize flat screen hi-definition TVs, professional-grade grills and barbecue pits, and portable cool-air misting machines (like you see on the sidelines with players sitting next to them). And don’t forget the inflatable Florida Gators at just about every other tailgate. I guess there wasn’t a NASCAR race this weekend. Cars and tailgaters eventually took up nearly all the open space on campus that the police had not roped off. A huge number of tailgaters lined the stunning shores of Lake Alice, located on the west side of campus. That’s all fine, but there’s alligators in that lake. Like, for real. I saw at least four of them in the water within about 20 feet of the shore. I also saw about 10-12 large turtles swimming near the bank, and a blue heron in flight. Signs warned people not to feed the gators. Uh, anyone that has to be warned not to get close enough to an alligator to feed it pretty much deserves what they’ve got coming. What was most alarming, however, was seeing the infants and small kids within about 30 yards of alligators lining the banks. I’m not a parent, but if I had a little baby or toddler, I think I might set up camp closer to the corn dog stand than the wild alligator den. Just to be on the safe side.

The Florida campus is extraordinarily widespread and sprawling. Unlike Texas or Texas A&M, or even LSU or other campuses, Florida apparently has all its professional schools on one campus. So, Florida has all its medical, veterinary, and agricultural facilities on the same campus as its undergraduate and other advanced and professional degree-related facilities. This accounts for the incredible acreage. Additionally, Florida’s campus designers have done an amazing job of not only building around some really beautiful natural wetland features (streams, creeks, ponds, and even Lake Alice), and various woods. Not only have they preserved these spots, the designers have actually integrated them into the campus. Ponds, creeks and woods have adjacent viewing platforms and nature trails. Campus buildings in close proximity seem to disappear when you duck into these spots. These places are really treasures. Exquisite oaks with Spanish moss provide shady canopy. Tall palms, and some sort of maple-looking trees also abound all through campus. Hopefully, these kids appreciate being able to walk just a few steps to exchange school stress for the peace and tranquility of the woods. And they don’t even need a fake ID to chill. Even aside from the preserves and the ponds, the Florida campus’ buildings seem to be deposited into nature. Parking seems minimal and unobtrusive (many garages ring the campus), and buildings are separated by expanses of grass lawns and amazing trees.

On the other hand, the buildings suck. With a few notable exceptions, such as the classic Century Tower or the engineering building, the Florida campus seems to have been designed using a 1960s fallout shelter design manual. Every building uses some sort of not-red but not-orange brick. Many look like that building where Major Nelson worked in I Dream of Jeannie. These buildings make my Dad’s old telephone company buildings look like the Palace at Versailles.

Campus became more and more packed as time wore on, of course. Lots of students were on campus, going about their day or going to parties at fraternity houses or other buildings. Lots of students got together in groups of six or eight with a cooler and blanket, lay out on the grass and tossed the football (no Frisbee or hackysacks, I’m pleased to report—those things were tired 30 years ago. It’s a football game day, toss the football.). One sort of questionable practice that has gripped the Florida pre-game is the widespread play of a bean bag toss game known, rather ineloquently, as “cornhole.” Basically, you toss bean bags at a platform made to resemble half of a football field, with two holes in the platform. Put the bag in the hole, score points. Everyone was playing it. Everyone from Florida, that is. Happily, I didn’t see many LSU fans playing this game. Don’t these people have anything else to do? Like playing Madden ’10, or cards, or talking, or throwing the football, reading a book, watching other games on TV, solving the Israel-Palestine dispute…? I mean, even the fraternity kids were playing this stupid game outside their houses, with their dates looking on in a sort of hypnotically bored funk. What’s wrong with these kids? They need a more suitable college-age hobby, like cheating on tests or drugs. Hey Florida frat guys, the dance scene at the gym in West Side Story called. It thinks you’re really lame.

Unlike some other tailgates I’ve seen, there didn’t appear to be a lot of loud, obnoxious drunks. Everyone seemed to be having a good time. Nor did there appear to be much hostility between the Floridians and the numerous LSU fans sporting their gear. That pretty much held up as the game approached and during the game. Though I’ve seen some reports on some LSU web sites about Florida fan abuse, I didn’t see or encounter any, even though I was wearing my LSU polo shirt.

The game itself was pretty amazing. As many of you know, it was another typical Les Miles, go down to the last play affair. I was just about as interested in the scene as the game, however. The Florida crowd consisted of a lot of insurance salesman looking types, and botoxed, collagen and breast implanted women of all ages. Apparently, black tank tops with rhinestone gator emblems is a thing. Florida fans, not the students but the fans, all sport cheap tans as well. Florida really has fan access figured out, relying on an extensive park and ride system that shuttles fans in from remote locations. By some coincidence, I rode a bus that was filled with LSU fans. Even before the bus left the station, they were leading cheers and talking loud. Geaux Tigers! Tiger Nation really showed up. I was shocked at how many LSU fans I saw heading into the stadium. We arrived at a spot right next to where the LSU band was warming up, and on a lark, I walked alongside them as they marched into the stadium. Unfortunately, they didn’t march at halftime. No, that honor was reserved for the Florida band, clad in its 1969 Pete Townshend white polyester bodysuit (like the one he wore at Woodstock), replete with blue Professor Harold Hill hat with a really sweet white feather. They played 70s album rock songs for about 15 minutes. Yawn. We’d have been much better getting to see the Golden Girls. Back outside the stadium, however, the Hare Krishnas were dancing in the north end zone. Is it 1971? That’s something I’ve never seen, even in Austin.

The game experience itself was really interesting. The Gators came out wearing special orange jerseys. They hadn’t worn orange since 1988. That’s just goofy. Texas has it right. Pick a color, stay with it. I managed to score an awesome seat, in the front row near the back of the end zone. It was about 10 yards down from the Florida cheerleaders, who by the way are not as great as LSU, Ole Miss, Bama or Texas. In fact, they weren’t even as good as the Washington cheerleaders at the Ohio State game I saw a few years ago. In the first half, the Swamp was loud but nothing comparable to Death Valley or Kyle Field. The Florida fans surrounding me were jumping ship at the first sign of trouble, even though it remained a close game. But after LSU fave up two gimme touchdowns to let Florida back into the game, the stadium got really loud. Jet engine loud. I could feel the vibrations. One thing I need to mention. Towards the end as the game stayed close, the loudspeakers piped in pre-recorded music that completely drowned out their band. The same kind of music played in NBA arenas towards during time outs. I understand other stadiums throughout the country are following suit. This is pretty disturbing. This is college, not the NFL. Its not a show. The thing still makes college athletics more palatable than the pros is that, although commercialism has greatly expanded in the college game, its still nowhere near the pro games. But as the in-stadium experience becomes more and more similar to NFL and NBA games, that special experience will disappear in the process. Let’s hear the band, not a tape. The Tigers won on what at first seemed like a questionable touchdown call. On the jumbotron, it looked like LSU’s receiver was out of bounds. What was really amazing though was that in the span of about five seconds, that stadium went from rumbling with screaming fans to deadly silent. Once the referees threw both hands up, the air was let out of that balloon. It was sweet. Florida fans everywhere began sulking about how the refs stole the game. That’s hilarious. Close calls usually always go in the home team’s favor. Waiting for the bus on the way home, some LSU guys in front of me told a story about their buddy who was drunk by kickoff and spilled all his nacho cheese on a girl's seat. The cops came, smelled his gatorade bottle and tossed him out. Then he got mad at his buddies for staying behind to watch the game instead of joining him outside. Can you blame them? Just another game night in the SEC.

Next-on to Savannah.