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.

Mini-Vacation: Let's Go to Florida!

As some of you know, I’ve been enduring one of the worst work stretches since the time I was a first year associate in New Orleans. Now, whenever my work is at its worst, its still pretty cush. There’s plenty of people to help me take care of things, I get to work inside in the air conditioning, and I don’t come home every day with cuts and bruises. So “worst” is sort of relative. It could always be worse. I could be a mechanic. Or a prison body cavity searcher. Or a broker.

But its been quite stressful for me, and finally the opportunity to get out of town and spread my wings showed up at my door, so I answered and said, “hell yeah I’m ready, let’s get freaky!” Which in my world means setting to work making reservations at four-star hotels and booking premium car rentals (at 46, getting wild for me involves making sure the sheets have the right thread count). But, where to go? For some time, the South has been calling my name. Its saying “Chris, I want you back.” Normally, I’m great at resisting that line, but the chance to hit the road and see the South during Fall proved too great to resist. And what does Fall in the South mean? Southeast Conference football. Wild animal killing season too, but that’s not my bag, man. SEC football is like a religion. These people thrive on it, and team allegiances rival family loyalty. Texas had an off day this Saturday, so it was time to pick a game that would have me located somewhere near something worth seeing. LSU vs. Florida. Done. I’d only seen an SEC game at LSU, though we went to the Sugar Bowl last year to watch Florida vs. Cincinnati (who got crushed, but whose fans out-traveled Florida by a big margin). This trip afforded a chance to see my adopted “Team 1B” LSU play a game in the infamous “Swamp” (its proper name is Ben Griffin Stadium, though I’m not sure anyone really knows that), to check out the tailgating and the University of Florida campus, and then a chance to drive up the coast to see two places I’ve long wanted to explore—Savannah and Charleston. These cities exude Southern gentility—mint juleps or iced tea (for me) in the afternoon on the porch, wrought iron, Spanish moss, magnolia trees, saying bad things about the Democrats. All the truly great things in life. Places that feature the best things about Southern culture. At least, the Southern culture that doesn’t involve keeping slaves, marrying cousins, or running a meth lab. I mean the Ashley Wilkes South. Where everyone’s happy. Not the “starring each week on Cops” South.

So after a frenzied couple of days researching the area, trying to get a game ticket and making travel plans, off I went to the airport. I took Jet Blue because they have a nonstop to Orlando, avoiding the necessity to spend all day traveling just because you have to route through Houston or DFW (aka, the worst place in the world). Clad in my LSU polo shirt and khakis, my appearance caused the ticket counter guy asked me if I was a college recruiter. Turns out he was a recruiter for the Texas State women’s soccer team. Guess there’s one job worse than being an airline ticket seller. Jet Blue not only has non stops out of Austin to places like New York and LA, it also has XM radio and Direct TV. On the other hand, its planes are smaller, so I got stuck having to purchase a “premium seat” because my reservations were so late. All these airline nickel and dime schemes are getting really old. Price discrimination makes lots of sense, as does offering premium service. These airline schemes are so offensive because they’re just taking their existing service levels and breaking them up into a la carte offerings, then charging you more for the overall package. I sympathize with charging what the market will bear, and ordinarily would approve if these clowns didn’t show up on Congress’ doorstep every year or two asking for taxpayer money because they can’t run profitable businesses on their own. Southwest Airlines is able to do it, so its not like its economically impossible to run a profitable airline. Most US airlines get their management from the same place as the Post Office and the auto industry.

The flight to Orlando was totally full. The couple next to me on the flight was interesting. She was obviously about 10 years older than him, and was watching some TLC show apparently about fat brides. Throughout, the plane was teeming people either in their 70s, or screaming, whining, crying kids and their “covered with mysterious sticky layer of filth” parents. Ordinarily that sort of thing doesn’t bother me. I can handle one screaming kid, not a plane full. Hmmm, who would have thought a Friday flight to Orlando would have that problem? It’s a mystery. Anyway, its not like staying in Austin this weekend would have resolved the “surrounded by the annoying” problem. No, for this is one of the most hallowed weekends on the official “Keep Austin Weird” calendar. The immensely profitable, Chamber of Commerce-hawking, $180/ticket Austin City Limits music festival. I’ve never been personally. I don’t recognize the names of most of the bands, and usually its about 120 degrees out. Nature usually turns the thing into some sort of endurance test. The thing caught fire a couple of years ago, and last year the rains made it like Woodstock. I scratch my music festival urge by going to the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival. Great music of many different varieties, not to mention regional arts and culture, and incredible Louisiana food. Oh yeah. ACL, however, is world famous, no doubt due to the A, and the difficult to conceive Austin reputation throughout the world as the new mecca of all things cool. It was the mecca of all things cool about 15 years ago. Then developers and Californians came, bought up all the houses, turned all the clubs into mini-Dallas clones, and starting building loft homes. Then the City Council tried its best to kill off the vibe with its ridiculous sound ordinance (most of the “help I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” alarms that the people complaining about the noise wear cause more noise than the clubs), and ticketing musicians whose trucks double park when trying to load their equipment into local clubs. Austin is famous for great music places like Liberty Lunch and Steamboat, which no longer exist. All this is just sort of static, except that the ACL festival draws “Festival Guy” into town by the thousands, choking off downtown and making it impossible to get around my Barton Hills neighborhood. I’ve written about this guy before. He’s in his 30s or 40s, walks around somewhat aimlessly carrying a knapsack and lawn chair, and wearing a pork pie hat, sandals and socks, and a reproduction Cars “Candy-O” tour t-shirt (which is meant to be ironic, but really just completes their “Hipster Dufus” look). Generally these guys have, well, extremely large calves. Its not immediately clear where these people come from or if they have actual lives when there’s not a festival. Are they insurance agents? Night security guards? Day security (or some other dreary day job so they can jam with their Journey cover band, “Wheels in the Sky” at night)? They’re probably mortgage brokers. Or derivatives traders. Or lawyers. I do know that every year, even before the actual festival begins, these people fill the town and look dirty.

I had booked a convertible, to enjoy the great weather during all my driving. Naturally, when I showed up at the counter they didn’t have one. They offered to give me a Corvette instead. But I didn’t want to drive a plastic car with no trunk for a week, or show up looking like a tremendous douche. So instead I exercised my backup option reservation at Avis. Which turned out to be a Camaro. Great. So instead of looking like some mid-level crack distributor, I’m going to look like an Aqua-Velva and gold chain wearing guido from Jersey Shore. Six of one, huh? Unfortunately, the “new” Camaro is about as cramped and uncomfortable as the old Camaro, which means you feel like one of those astronaut monkeys they used to test Mercury space capsules. Trying to see out of the windows is like peering out of a porthole. But the lady at the first of about a thousand toll booths liked it.

Yes, Rick Perry would love Florida. Everywhere you go, it’s a toll road. Every four or five miles, a toll plaza. Its like the government is incapable of building roads, or buildings, or running prisons, or funding schools, or doing much of anything anymore. But that’s another post. In this case, the toll roads took me to the heart of North Florida, via a couple of stops along the way. One stop was because I got lost. I’d have asked the 7-11 counter clerk for directions, but her 5 o’clock shadow scared me. Is that wrong? Each stop gave me a first-hand encounter with every cheesy, Jersey Shore, chain-wearing, neck tattoo-having stereotype. Guys in do’ rags and Ed Hardy shirts. Girls named Mysti smoking Salems and driving Chevy Malibus that Daddy bought as a high school graduation present two years ago (before they meet their meth-dealing boyfriend Brad). North Florida apparently has become Jersey South. With deeper tans. So when people say God looks after his children, I say, that’s why I wound up with a Camaro. To fit in. By a simple twist of fate, I resembled Ron Johnson, Pacific Stereo Audio Consultant from Fast Times at Ridgemont High. You know, the tool who Jennifer Jason Leigh waited on at the mall’s pizza place (“the best food stand at the mall”), who ordered “a meatball sandwich, a medium coke, and your phone number.” Yeah, I look like that guy. Oh, and did I mention that this Camaro has a glow-in-the dark stripe on the interior of each door? Yeah, it’s a like a mini-glow stick. Nice touch. I get to have my own rave inside my car every night.

So, let’s recap. South Florida is populated by cialis-popping, chocolate brown leather skin-having, Bronx refugees with names like Morty, who eat dinner every day before 5 p.m., and who drive cars the size of three city blocks. North Florida is full of the aforementioned rejects from the auditions for every Kevin Smith movie.

When I arrived, two hours later, at the Gainesville Quality Inn (the best of a bad lot of remaining hotels), I met two guys wearing LSU shirts trying to check out. They’d been booked into a room with one queen size bed and a Jacuzzi. They said they weren’t having that (it was actually a little more graphic than that). Meanwhile, my room had two beds and no jacuzzi. Talk about your bad timing.

When I finally got checked in, I headed over to campus to check out the “night before” scene. It was packed. Tailgaters in RVs had already arrived and were setting up tents. All the kids crammed bars along University Avenue, spilling out into the streets. It never ceases to amaze me how women, particularly younger women, will dress up and look really nice and at the same events, guys their same age look like they just got finished painting their house. All these girls were wearing nice cocktail dresses and the like and were fixed up. The guys looked like they were shipwrecked. Even in my day, 120 years ago, when very few women were even admitted to colleges, there was at least a “uniform” of sorts. It was the khaki shorts/izod shirt look. Guys looked ridiculous, but at least there was some effort, misguided as it was, to look somewhat better than normal. Apparently that’s old fashioned. These kids!

The night ended for me, very late, at the local Steak & Shake. Of which there’s about a million in Gainesville. At this particular 24-hour establishment, there were about 20 Florida kids and three very fat, very drunk LSU guys. And me. Tigers…we need to represent a little better than this.

Tomorrow-LSU vs. Florida.