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.

Jester Food

To eat good food is to be close to God.

--Primo, “Big Night”

I know, I’ve used that quote before. But its very apropos of today’s post, about the advances in dorm food at the Jester Center, at the University of Texas. Or, basically, my 25 years too late complaint about the chow.

Its an earthshattering topic, sure. Not nearly as important as something like the Aggie football program, or plastic surgery. Still, this story I’m about to unfold came like a bolt from the blue. Enough to delay the third and final part of my college football trilogy.

These past few years, I’ve gotten to spend a fair amount of time on campus (the University of Texas campus, that is), mainly because I workout at Gregory Gym. Well, actually, its because they have an indoor track and pool, so when the weather is bad I can still run, or swim. Anyway, I’m there at weird times, usually after 7 p.m., so other parts of campus can be a bit sparsely populated. After around 7, I figure these kids have more important things to do. You know, like studying, dining, napping before they go out, smoking dope and watching Sponge Bob Square Pants, going on keg runs. Not getting there during the day or spending much time in spots not between my secret parking spot and the gym, I don’t get to see too much of campus.

So its easy to forget how truly lovely it is, particularly after the recent (i.e. last 10 years or so) building growth spurt. Budget deficit? Recession? No problem for the University of Texas. Its doing its part to contribute to the stimulus program with lots of new buildings. Happily, most of these have an architectural style similar to the 1920s and 30s, and similar to some of the original campus buildings, like Garrison Hall, Waggoner Hall, or Painter Hall. Not like those hideous utilitarian boxes of the Frank Erwin/Peter Flawn era. I met Dr. Flawn once, actually. I was invited, at random along with about 50 other of my fellow students, to an informal get together at the President’s office. Very imposing. Two stories’ worth of books lining the walls, kind of like Professor Higgins’ study in My Fair Lady, only a lot darker. For the President of the University of Texas, that guy sure reminded me of Sam Drucker from Petticoat Junction. (That’s actually extremely funny to the 10 people in the world who’ve both seen Dr. Flawn and watched Petticoat Junction). The new landscaping and statues are also nice additions. The Barbara Jordan statue at the Union is really nice. She spoke at my graduation ceremony. Actually, she gave the longest, slowest, most painful speech I’ve ever heard not given by Bill Clinton. “Conviction values!” she kept booming in that Burning Bush of a voice, every minute killing me and everyone else sweating to death under graduation robes in the late May heat outside the Tower. What the hell that old lady was ranting about I have no idea. I’m ok that she’s the Voice of God and all, but with 2,000 drunk graduates and three times as many parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters, and significant others all suffering silently through the ceremony for us to be able to take pictures and have punch and dessert after, that speech had to stop about 45 minutes sooner than it did. I think I took a nap during the middle part. Or blacked out with heat stroke. I can’t really tell which.

Texas has, unfortunately, made it nearly impossible to park on campus unless you patronize one of their fancy new garages charging obscene rates. Averaged out, most Park Avenue townhouses are cheaper to rent than a UT parking garage spot. I guess it keeps away those pesky outsider troublemakers (or scams the parents visiting their kids on the weekends of the last few dollars still in their pocket after they’ve paid for tuition, room and board, and books). So most people have to park in state parking lots across MLK and walk past either the new AT&T center or the new Blanton Art Museum. By the way, how funny was it that Player’s Hamburgers got over on UT, who wanted to tear the place down to build their new cash cow hotel and conference center? The owner’s cousin was a state rep, and not even a powerful state rep . Just someone with enough influence to slow down appropriations if they condemned Player’s. So the place is still in business, no doubt serving food poison like I got the one and only time I ever went there, in 1982. Thank God there’s plenty of other places to go to now after 2 a.m.

But this is all kind of beside the point, which had something to do with dorm food. Another building you have to pass to get to the gym is the notorious Jester Center, at one time the largest college dormitory complex in the nation. Or, as they used to brag for some odd reason, its own zip code. A throwback to Soviet-bloc housing styles, it pretty much resembles the People’s Central Student Housing Complex for the Glory of the Proletariat. Or Cabrini Green, but with slightly more parking. Those of you Affirmers who’ve known me for awhile know that for one, brief, shining moment, I lived in Jester East my freshman year. No matter how bright it was outside, it always seemed dark inside. And it smelled like Bourbon Street, even after it was cleaned. Everything was trashed. Usually only one elevator out of eight was working. The cleaning crews didn’t work on weekends, so by Sunday afternoons the place resembled the Turkish hospital at the end of Lawrence of Arabia.

The food was about what you’d expect. Pretty much like soup at the Hanoi Hilton. Totally unbearable. Unsanitary. Inedible. The people making it looked like they were nust out on parole. The cashiers and other workers were the same work-study idiots you’d see throwing up on Sixth Street the night before (and going back into the bar because, after all, the night is young). They’d serve grilled cheese sandwiches one day, then the next they’d serve some Cheeto-ish looking casserole which, upon deconstruction, proved to be yesterday’s grilled cheese sandwich remnants in some undefined, goo-like residue. The usual entrée involved some sort of mystery meat, generally some grayish, stringy substance which you’d cross your fingers to hope wasn’t nutria. Or horse. The salad, which I didn’t eat at the time because that was back during my strict no green food diet, had black spots and looked like it had been sun-dried. For a treat, every three or four weeks, on a Sunday they’d give you a ticket which would entitle you to a steak or some grilled shrimp. But only once through the line. Normally you could go through the line as often as you like, which is where I first coined the phrase “its not good but there’s a lot of it.” Yeah, really, I thought of that one. The only thing remotely edible was dessert. My fellow students all looked like floating corpses toward the end of the year, sporting the look of someone having their last meal before spending the early morning hours being given the last rites and then lethal injection. By the end of the year, I was like the guy in Super Size Me, bloated, close to liver failure, and I had a mustache, which unbelievably was not a good look on me. Imagine Horatio Sanz from Saturday Night Live. The next year I lived in Moore-Hill and ate at the Varsity, which had edible food. And the ambiance of a 1950s hospital cafeteria. Several years later, Steve and I went on a tour group of several Huntsville TDCJ units, and had lunch at the Ellis II unit. It was the same food they served the prisoners. I remember thinking how it was so much better than what I ate my first year at school.

Within the last couple of weeks, I had the privilege of participating in the hearing from hell. Held in the Bob Bullock Museum just off campus, we were given somewhat extra long lunch breaks. To break the tension and get outside, I would walk across the street and walk on campus for about 15 to 20 minutes. Each day I would pass the Blanton and the Education building, the main library, and Jester Center. On a whim, and to get some air conditioning, I walked into Jester and for the first time since May 1983, walked into the student dining facility. What did my eyes behold, but a new day dawn. Gone was the industrial food complex, to be replaced by a variety of choices, all of which looked yummy and either nutritious, or not borderline toxic—deli, pizza, grill, entrée, salad bar, pasta bar—it was like being at a real dining facility. See examples in the photos above. Or the Austin airport. These kids were eating something you might actually want to eat, happily ignorant of the swill and grunge the prior management formerly served at that establishment. I spoke to an adultish-looking supervisor. She said that alumni frequently came there and were shocked at the changes, and all of them complained about how bad the food used to be.

I’m no expert, but as early as 1982, couldn’t a major American university with one of the richest endowments have been able to serve halfway decent food to its students? I’ve had better meals on hikes than what I got there. Or did it really take the computer and internet revolution to enable Jester to serve grilled salmon? In 1982, there were other locations on campus where you could eat halfway decent food, and not just the athletic dining hall. Kinsolving, the Varsity, the Union, all served food that wouldn’t leave you semi-paralyzed for two hours afterward. Texas obviously had the machines and the personnel to make edible food, why couldn’t they have done it at Jester? I went to A&M a couple of times when I was in school, and they had pretty good food. I’m sure it wasn’t just the animal husbandry connection (one of my favorite Aggie jokes involves the school of animal husbandry by the way…ask me some time). Hell, that was like going to Maxim’s by comparison.

So I’m glad to see today’s kids aren’t being killed by cuisine, or getting to play the “name that meat” game like those of us from yesteryear. You can thank Bill Powers, I guess, current UT President and one of my favorite law school professors, who, incidentally, gave me my worst grades. The best was Olin Guy Wellborn III, who once berated the class for not knowing that Elvis would shoot the screen of any television set if Robert Goulet or Mel Torme came on, and used to illustrate points with stories about the heavy metal doctor, the Midnight Special, or putting little children on leashes. That’s my kind of guy. As Will Ferrell might say, “Goulet!”

Next—the athletes are guilty too, man.

Hey Aggies, What are You Thinking?

OK, this is about three months after the fact, but its part two of the three part look at the festering hypocrisy that is college football.

Now its your turn Aggies. Really, I hate to do this, because everyone knows of my deep and abiding love for the Aggies. But it’s about time you folks faced reality. Running away to the SEC like some freckle-faced younger sister resentful of her older sister’s good looks, its just not going to work. You will always stand in the University of Texas’ shadow. Hiding out in a different conference will never eliminate comparisons and will never make you rise above or separate yourself from Texas.

This weirdness all got started when the Aggies took offense to the assumption that they would follow Texas and Oklahoma to the Pac-10. Worried that they might be turned gay or forced to vote for Democrats while attending games in Berkeley or Eugene, the Aggies looked east to the SEC, where they would feel more “comfortable.” When their administration decided to stay in the Big 12, for what we now know was a ransom payment of $20 million annually (its good to know all this is about the welfare of the "student-athletes" and not just a naked money grub) to repay the athletic department’s mismanaged and bloated debt, Aggie Nation erupted at the perceived humiliation of bowing to Texas and staying in a conference with such unsavory types as Texas Tech and Baylor. Hey, at least they're housebroken.

Content to jettison nearly 100 years of being aligned in the same athletic conference as Texas, the Aggies were outraged that their leaders did not move the school to the SEC. They variously gave three reasons. First, they chafe at being compared to and joining with Texas. In anything. The whole situation is like some Lifetime movie, where the ugly duckling sister (played by A&M), suffers ongoing humiliation and resentment at the attention paid the smarter, hotter older sister (played by Texas). She then spends the entire second half of the movie working on her psychotic evil revenge plot (only to be thwarted in the last five minutes by the cop who, for the previous one hour and 55 minutes, wouldn’t believe the older sister’s claims of being stalked). Second, they claim joining the SEC will help them recruit better players who want to play in the SEC but stay in Texas. The problem with that is, no matter what conference they join, their campus is still in College Station. And it’s A&M. Finally, they believe the SEC’s “culture” and “attitudes” more closely match the Aggies' outlooks on these things, whatever they are, than those of Big 12 schools. Unlike all the freaks in Austin. That thinking is kind of weird. In 20 years of living in Austin, I’ve always had to step over passed out Aggies on Sixth Street, who've poured out of College Station in their El Caminos and 1995 Dodge Ram pickups, looking for Austin-style fun. Kind of like Islamic fanatics who, when visiting the West, log a lot of strip club time. Like the 9/11 terrorists. Sorry, Aggies, for comparing you to terrorists. You know, I deplore people who look for racism under every blade of grass, but “they share our values” sounds a lot like George Wallace for President. "Stand Up for America."

You know, lots of states are like Texas, where there’s a main university…and the “other” university. You know them well. Florida State. Auburn. Virginia Tech. North Carolina State. Rutgers. Washington State. These “little sisters,” many of which are in their own way fine institutions, inevitably come up short when compared to their upstate, more glamorous university partner. They forever pour resources into PR, chase after headline-grabbing research grants, and hang onto every crumb of recognition that comes their way (“rated by US News and World Report as the 17th best geography studies program in the southwest among mid-tier universities”). But all the while their inferiority complex grows longer and longer, no matter how much time and resources they put into beating their big sister in something. Anything. And all the while, the big sister university really isn’t even aware of her because she’s too busy picking up Nobel Prizes or winning NCAA Championships.

Enter the Agricultural and Mechanical College of Texas (now called “Texas A&M”). Holy smokes Mr. Peabody, are these wing nuts off their meds or what?

They’re the yin to Texas’ yang. The beat up Trans-Am that you have to get into on the passenger side because the driver’s side door doesn’t work to UT’s Lamborghini. Red State University. Where men are men and sheep are scared. The Jersey Shore of academia. Rhoda to our Mary.

Texas A&M actually began as a division of the University of Texas, though it had its own board of directors and never was fully integrated in what became the University of Texas System. For most of its history, A&M has been exclusively white, exclusively male, exclusively military (all students were required to enter the Corps of Cadets). It existed in College Station, which essentially was a mail stop near Bryan. Not until 1963 did it even become a full-fledged university, in which women were admitted and military training became optional.

Texas A&M has always lived in the University of Texas’ shadow. Though created in the same legislation, Texas received a 2/3 share of the Permanent University Fund, endowed by billions in mineral royalties from state-owned lands, while A&M received only a 1/3 share. The Texas Constitution provided for the creation of a “university of the first class,” which the Legislature implemented by creating the University of Texas in 1883. It also provided that this university, which was to be called "The University of Texas," would have an "agricultural and mechanical department." Texas immediately became a full-fledged university in the state capitol of Austin, with advanced degree programs and professional schools (law and medicine). Texas has a $16 billion endowment (largest of any public university in the nation), nine member universities, six medical branches (including a dental school and the M.D. Anderson Cancer Center), 19 Nobel Prize winners and 20 Pulitzer Prize winners on the faculty, a Gutenberg Bible, the first photograph ever taken, and the David O. Selznick collection (basically, Scarlett O’Hara’s dresses). Its 50,000 students come from around the world, only half of whom are white. The male to female ratio is roughly 1:1. Most students live in Austin, widely regarded as the most interesting, and certainly most eclectic, city in Texas. They enjoy a wide variety of live music, clubs, excellent restaurants, museums, parks, theatres, and culture. Playboy, which should know, consistently rates it one of the best party schools in the nation. The athletics programs have consistently been among the best in the nation. Texas teams often compete for and win national championships in multiple sports. Texas has the highest paid football coach in the nation (Mack Brown, at $5.1 million annually). The program has produced two Heisman Trophy winners (which should have been three with Vince Young), and annually produces NFL players. Texas has more current NFL players than any other program. A Texas game is showtime, with Matthew McConaughey, Erin Andrews, the Texas Cheerleaders and Roger Clemens on the sidelines (OK, the Rocket may have had his sideline pass revoked), and College GameDay outside the stadium. Consistent sell outs and high donation levels have just funded a major stadium expansion and addition of suites. Texas runs the most profitable and lucrative football program in the nation, and is creating its own television network. Texas alumni include the likes of Walter Cronkite, Michael Dell, Janis Joplin, Farrah Fawcett, Robert Rodriguez, Eli Wallach, Owen Wilson, Renee Zellweger, 15 US Senators and Congressmen and women, a Supreme Court justice, multiple Cabinet members, two First Ladies, and Mary Lou Retton.

Texas A&M? Not so much. If the Taliban ran a university, it would probably have a lot in common with A&M (but with a lot more muslimness). Its located in what has been, until recently, the God-forsaken backwater known as College Station. Outside of the Dixie Chicken, not much is happening at A&M. Its isolation has forever fueled a sense of insularity and resentment. Before students step foot in class they must attend Fish Camp, an indoctrination course where they learn all the intricate and extreme “yells” as well as the school’s history and traditions. These include such rituals as “Muster,” where Aggies all over the world gather to remember those who have died over the past year, “Silver Taps,” a ceremony held for those students who have passed during the previous month, and until lately, “midnight yell,” a type of pep rally on steroids and bathtub gin, “Bonfire,” held before the Texas game as a rallying point (actually, drinking point) to heap more scorn on Texas, and numerous other traditions, codes, and rituals. The official school song, “Spirit of Aggieland,” basically whines about how no one can understand what it means to be an Aggie. Imagine if Travis Bickle wrote your school song. Hullabaloo, caneck, caneck. What, exactly, does that mean anyway? Until 1963, military service was compulsory, and women were not admitted to the school. Women were not admitted into the Corps until 1974, and not admitted into the marching band until 1988, which is really astounding. I was a second year law student then. Today, A&M has an endowment of $5 billion. Male students outnumber women 53 to 47 percent, and roughly 2/3 of all students are white. 16% of all students came from Harris County. Football games have a lot in common with the inspection of the Royal Guard. Saber armed cadets “guard” the sacred Kyle Field turf (one idiot in an obvious Benzedrine rage took after some SMU cheerleaders in the early 1980s with his sword [oh, excuse me, his "saber"], all for bespoiling the sacred field of the Men of Kyle with their presence). A military band performs at halftime in a performance known as a “drill,” and these days draw more interest than the football team. Its “cheerleaders” are called “yell leaders,” and are exclusively male, wearing Good Humor Man white jumpsuits and generally displaying a Rex Kwan Do attitude. Women are expected to kiss their dates when the Aggies score, which mercifully is not that often. Its all very Branch Davidian. A&M has no law school (though it has tried for some time to merge with South Texas College of Law in Houston), and while it has a fine veterinary school its medical school was not founded until the 1970s. Famous Aggie alums (known as “former students”) include Rick Perry, Governor of Texas, Robert Earl Keen, Lyle Lovett, and that’s about it other than football players.

Time has been kinder to Texas than to A&M. Texas desegrated much earlier than A&M, leading to an early break down of white male control and protection from legislative politics. As Texas’ power has grown, its influence is felt in major corporations, governmental and financial institutions, the law, medicine, and other disciplines. It has a diverse student body, vast resources, and incredibly loyal (and giving) alumni. A&M, on the other hand, has had rocky times since Col. Rudder brought it into the 20th Century, in the early 1960s, by turning it into an actual university. It endured painful litigation over segregation and the admission of women. As late as 1987, it was still in litigation over allowing women into the marching band. Uh, yeah. That’s right. The marching band. Its system campuses are located in complete backwaters, like…Kingsville, Quatar, and Galveston. What, no plans to start a Pyongyang branch? Anyway, it’s bought some Nobel winners from other universities, but, cold fusion? Really? With the ascendancy of former yell leader Rick Perry to the Governorship, he has sought to assert control over the school, through his handpicked Chancellor, former State Representative Mike McKinney, much like Frank Erwin ruled the University of Texas as a “boss” in the late 1960s.

While Texas has an eclectic, inquisitive, and diverse student body and dynamic atmosphere, A&M has one of the most conservative and homogeneous student bodies in the nation. Like Fiddler on the Roof, “tradition” drives A&M. Rituals, ceremonies, codes, symbols…all live at A&M. It is not a place where one’s pre-existing attitudes and values are questioned or even examined. Aggieland is not a place for exposure to other ways, lifestyles, or thoughts. It is a place where one must fit in, and the quasi-basic training indoctrination promotes that. The Aggies are about fidelity to the past; Texas is about making the future. A university education should reflect a liberal view, though not liberalism as we know it politically. A “liberal view” is a view that exposes one to all manner of philosophies, lifestyles, values, and thoughts. Only by examining other ways can one truly lead an informed life. Anything else is just pablum. Put another way, an unexamined life is not worth living. A university education should provide that sort of view, yet at A&M, insults of being a “two percenter” await anyone that does not hew to the village norm. While Texas attracts students from around the world, A&M is largely a place where suburban Houston kids with above-average grades go to school. Close enough to take laundry back home over the weekends.

The disparity shows up most obviously on the playing field. Texas has four national championships, played for a fifth, and should have played for a sixth. It has two Heisman Trophies (and should have a third). It has won numerous conference championships, and played in some of the greatest college football games of all time. It consistently ranks in the Top 25. Its baseball teams have had more College World Series appearances than any other school. The basketball program was in the Final Four within the past several years, and has had much tournament success. Texas has the highest annual athletic revenue of any program in the country. The Aggies? Other than their 1939 national championship (before facemasks, and the year Germany invaded Poland), it hasn’t seriously contended for a national championship or had the sustained dominance as Texas. It boasts one Heisman Trophy winner, from 1939. During one stretch in the 1980s under Jackie Sherrill, of course, it enjoyed some success, principally due to paying players like Kevin Murray. But A&M has lost twice to Baylor in the last six years. Its athletic department is approximately $16 million in debt to the university, and fans are staying away in droves as its football fortunes remain moribund. A&M’s baseball program is virtually non-existent. It enjoyed some recent basketball success, only to see its coach leave for Kentucky. Otherwise, while the Aggies have been competitive for the most part they have never achieved Texas’ sustained excellence level.

Texas has clearly dominated the athletic rivalry, for rather obvious reasons. Take free Trans Ams and cash-filled envelopes out of the equation, and there’s no way the average college kid is going to prefer four years in College Station to four years in Austin. There’s really no comparison. We have (or at times have had) Farrah, Sandra, Sixth Street, Willie, Barton Springs, Robert Rodriguez, Matthew McConaughey, Austin City Limits Music Festival, South by Southwest, Quentin Tarantino’s film festival, Round Rock Express, Highland Lakes, the Continental Club, Matt’s, Salt Lick, Hamilton Pool, Hula Hut, Mount Bonnell, the Blanton Museum, the Bullock Museum…the list goes on and on. College Station has…not as much. Maybe some stills and meth labs in Brazos County. Lots of farm animals. I think there’s a Grandy’s next to the Target. Oh, and the Dixie Chicken. Lots of grass on campus that for some unknown reason you can’t walk on. And more pickup trucks per capita than anywhere else in the world. Throw in the fact that for at least the last two years, only 12 A&M players have been selected in the NFL draft in the last five years (to Texas having had 61 draft picks in the last 13 years), and its relatively easy to see the huge recruiting advantage that Texas has over A&M. The Aggies offer a more college-like atmosphere, but their school is insular, white, conservative, and rural. It’s a great place if your pickup is a dualie and you chew skoal. Not so much if you’re a 6’, 5”five star quarterback from Madison High who can run a 4.58 40.

Against that backdrop, the Ags cited three reasons for jumping to the SEC. The first, to not be tied to Texas, makes no sense whatsoever. You are. Face it. By history and society, by government and alumni, you and Texas are forever linked. Each school’s alumni live on the same streets, work in the same companies (though the Longhorns usually supervise the Aggies), frequent the same establishments, and otherwise live the same lives. When we order our pizzas, you show up at our doorsteps. The Bonfire collapse, and resulting outpouring of assistance from the Texas campus, showed this. You will always be our little sister. Though Texas and A&M could still play a non-conference game against one another if A&M jumped to the SEC, part of the rivalry arises from the fact that we play not only a game, but we compete through the year for the conference title. By playing the same conference schedule, it provides another way for the schools to measure themselves directly. Plus, Texas’ flagship schools should be in a Texas conference with other Texas schools. I appreciate SEC football as much as anyone. Great football is played in Florida, Louisiana, Mississippi, and so forth. But face it, this is Texas’ game. We wrote the book. Texans, whether they played for Texas colleges or not, dominate the NFL. Texas colleges need to play other Texas colleges. Not Vanderbilt. And not the land grant schools in a bunch of hick southern states still mad about desegregation. The two schools will always be compared, whether A&M joins the SEC or not. But if it joins the SEC, it will forever lose the ability to prove its superiority with a direct comparison to conference records.

Another reason Aggies cite to move to the SEC is that it will help them recruit. Texas kids who might want to play SEC competition but want to stay in Texas, I guess, will see A&M as their chance to do just that. Ask Vanderbilt about that theory, guys. Or Arkansas. Arkansas has been nothing since it left the Southwest Conference and stopped playing Texas schools. Texas, California and Florida have the highest numbers of quality high school football players, and until the past few years, A&M had generally had success in recruiting them. Now Tech routinely out-recruits it (and its not like four years in Lubbock is any great prize either). Texas kids who want to play in the SEC are going to go somewhere they can get on TV and get to the NFL, neither of which describes Texas A&M. The Aggies will be lucky to go 4-8 every year in the SEC. That simply won’t entice Texas kids to go to A&M.

Another reason given is it will force A&M to step up its recruiting. I don’t get it. Are you not trying now? You people can’t even count on beating Baylor. Oh by the way, R.C. Slocum never lost to Baylor. Bet you wish you had that guy back. You’re clearly getting beat now; why not just step it up now? Try to beat Oklahoma, Texas, Tech, and Baylor consistently before worrying about taking on LSU and Alabama every year. Besides, the reason A&M can’t recruit is its campus and its anemic football program. The campus won’t change if A&M plays in the SEC, and the higher caliber competition there will ensure A&M’s record deteriorates. Going to the SEC won’t do anything to help those factors. It’s like being an average hitter in AA baseball, and thinking your average will improve if you jump up to the majors because there’s stronger competition. How have you done against SEC opponents lately? Arkansas and Georgia, in the middle of the SEC pack, both crushed A&M last year. Actually, what will happen is you’ll get killed. Or become someone’s personal assistant. Oh, and your closest opponent will be in Baton Rouge, not exactly a quick trip over from Brazos County.

The final thing I remember Aggies saying is that SEC schools are “more like us,” while Texas is made up of freaks and weirdoes. A t-shirt recently seen on campus states, “Keep College Station Normal.” Its intended as a counter-point to the “Keep Austin Weird” motto. What exactly do they mean by “normal”? Apparently, most of Aggieland thinks that SEC schools are more “normal” than Texas, or the Pac-10 schools. SEC schools like Ole Miss, Arkansas, Alabama, Tennessee, Georgia…. Predominantly white schools, which became desegregated under court order and in some instances at the insistence of several Airborne Divisions called in for the occasion. Not exactly known as bastions of inclusiveness, or scholarship generally. You don’t exactly think “Nobel Prize” when you think of Mississippi State. You do think of the Sunday catfish fry down by the river bank after church. With lots of country music (along with plenty of Lynyrd Skynyrd and Molly Hatchet, of course) blaring from tricked-out Ford F-350s. Lots of Wrangler jeans and plaid short-sleeve shirts on thick-necked men beaded with sweat. Too many people are too eager to find racism under every rock. But when the Aggies talk of wanting to be in a conference of schools “just like us,” its not unfair to ask if they mean a conference dominated and run by rural white Southerners resistant to change and other “outside” influences. Or just a bunch of hicks.

So to my Aggie friends, you need to check yourselves. Don’t go counting birds in the bush that haven’t hatched. Or something like that.

Next up—the players are at fault too.