It's Not a Myth

The South that is. And all the things you’ve heard about the South, they aren’t myths either. It’s there, it’s all there. The blondes in sundresses, the cute southern twanged voices, the rah-rah spirit that far surpasses the most passionate school in the northeast, it’s all there. And it’s absolutely amazing.

Getting there, however, can be prickly.

FRIDAY:

My particular trip started at LaGuardia Airport when I boarded a plane for Alabama to see the Crimson Tide take on the Tigers of LSU. There are only two flights that leave New York bound for the Yellowhammer State, one in the morning and one at night. I opted for the morning, of course, as an excuse to miss work on Friday. Missing work was great, but the guy sitting next to me, well, he was not- at least that’s what I thought at first.

As I stuffed my Mets bag into the storage compartment overhead, I looked down to see a cynical face staring back at me. The balding, overweight Rico Suave look-a-like ran his hands through his greasy hair and blurted out his first words. “You sitting here?” I nodded. “Good, you’re not a fatass.” “Okay,” I said as I slid my not-so fat ass past his fire truck red flannel shirt and skin-tight white jeans. Labor Day was a long time ago, pal, I thought to myself. I sat and waited patiently for take-off, hoping that was the end of our conversation. Too paranoid to put on my headphones which (allegedly) interrupts the pilot’s radio signal, I was forced to listen to Rico and his two goons in the seats behind us.

“Let’s get this bird in the air,” he yelled out. His buddies started laughing. “Hey, remember last year,” he turns to me, “we took my plane…we were rolling joints on the way, banging girls in the bathroom. This sucks!” The conversations went on and on along those lines, and from what I could deduce these three were all in their 30’s, all married, all currently cheating on their wives, and all obsessed with money. I put my ‘Bama hat over my eyes to tried and avoid further engagement. But I could feel Rico’s eyes staring at me. His breath smelled like burnt coffee. I didn’t want to open my eyes but his buddy reached from the seats behind us and tapped me on the shoulder. He asked what year I graduated, assuming I had gone to the University of Alabama. “My friend Greg was president of ATO there. Did you know him?” “No I didn’t go to Alabama,” “Oh neither did we, we just go down for this game every year.” Great, I was thinking, as I moved back into sleep positing. Again, that didn’t stop them.

The questions kept rolling in. Where did you go to school? Were you in a fraternity? Villanova. Yes. SAE. All of a sudden I found myself in a 20 minute conversation with these assholes, until finally Rico next to me started laughing, his coffee breath stinking up all of row 9 as he looked to his friend and says, “He,” meaning me, “doesn’t know who he’s sitting next to.” I pause and look at him. “I’m a worldwide influential person,” says Rico with the coffee stained tongue. My jaw dropped, and with the little air I could consciously gasp into my lungs I said, “Cool man,” and rolled over to nap until we landed. Rico had just stunned me to the point where I couldn’t tell if I hated him or loved him.

I woke up to the wheels screeching along the runway. I had made it! I took my headphones off (I guess they really don’t interrupt anything at all) and found the Three Stooges seemingly still amidst the same conversation they had been yelling an hour ago somewhere over North Carolina. More coke and stripper stories (some kind of funny, others too unbelievable to hold comedic value, but Rico was still creeping onto my sweet list). The guy from row 10 got on his cell. “Yea dad, just landed. I’m with a few of my buddies.” Rico chimes in, “Tell him you’re with the ‘King of the Business.’” I bit my lip and shuffled off the plane.

It was 10 a.m. in Birmingham when we landed, an hour earlier than we were scheduled to be there. Luckily my friend, the ‘Bama local and reason for the trip, was awake and able to come to the airport and get us. What’s there to do in Birmingham, Alabama, you might ask? Well, when the sun is up, you can get BBQ, and when the sun is down, you can drink bourbon. The rule of B’s, as I’ve come to know it. 10 a.m., sun was up, BBQ it was.

Much to my delight, Birmingham was awesome. It’s a quaint little city, with only a few small high-rises about ¾ the size of the New York Times building on 8th Avenue. Most of the streets are little bars and restaurants, or shops filled with UA and UAB gear, others lined with more traditional southern threads. We went into a popular place at the “5 points” area of town called Jim ‘N Nick’s Bar-B-Q and got a table. The three of us ordered food and few beers and settled into the booth with some laughs. I think we were about midway through our meal when we were interrupted by a loud and smelly voice.

“Strongman!” Rico belted out, lending an outstretched fist to give me a pound. We exploded with laughter. I thought for a second, maybe I don’t hate this guy so much after all. He had just pounded a complete stranger in public while screaming out the (unbeknownst to me) nickname “strongman” in the middle of a crowded southern restaurant. His partner in crime (adultery) came over as well and introduced himself. Paul was his name. Rico never disclosed his true identity to us, but I guess that kind of info is top secret when you have worldwide influence. After I explained the whole story to my Alabama native friend, we finished our beers and I hit the urinal. My love for Rico was sealed when I over heard this final conversation between him and Paul:

Rico: “You see the blonde out there?”

Paul: “Yea, hot man, real hot. Much hotter than Myra (Paul's wife). She’s like a 6 or 7, easy.”

Rico: “Yea…That’s like a 2 for me.”

Thank you Rico, that was phenomenal. And we left the bar.

SATURDAY:

With the remaining time of sunlight on Friday we bought some University of Alabama merchandise (aka “merch”) from a store called “Bama Pride.” Then we lounged on the couch, and caught up on this season of Californication. You might think this would be a waste of time, but it wasn’t. It was just the quiet before the storm. We went out in Birmingham Friday night, yes, but we didn’t go out hard for a reason.

Saturday morning we all woke up at 7 a.m., which really shouldn’t be hard to do when your body is still on Eastern Standard Time and you’re in a Central Time Zone state, but for some reason 7 a.m. and I can’t seem to get along no matter what. So after a few minutes, I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower. It was game day, and I was excited.

Tuscaloosa and the University of Alabama are about a 45-minute drive from my buddy’s house in Birmingham, the perfect amount of time to eat some Chick-Filet for breakfast and down a cup of Joseph. (That’s coffee for any of you wondering). In the spirit of the situation we blasted Alabama's "Song of the South" and sung along in our best southern twangs. We were on our way. No longer would the snow white A on our Alabama hats be mistaken for Atlanta Braves paraphernalia. We were here, the place where A meant “rammer jammer,” the land of cotton, where crimson and white meant you roll with the tide, hate the tigers (of LSU and of Auburn, equally), and if you were heading south on interstate 59 that sunny Saturday morning, you were heading to the game.

We pulled onto campus around 9:30 a.m. thinking we were going to be catching the early crowd of tailgaters heading to the parking lot. We arrogant northerners refused to listen to our southern friend when he said, “We really need to hit the road no later than 8.” He was right. By 9:30 the party was in full swing. Streets were crowded beyond belief. Flags were flying and banners that read “Give ‘Em Hell Alabama” hung proudly from the second floor balconies of rundown student houses. Luckily for us, my friend’s cousin lived in one of such houses and had a bed and a parking spot ready for us. Then the bourbon came out, and though it wasn’t our first shot of the trip, it held a special place in my heart.

9:30 turned into 2:30 (game time) pretty damn quickly as it tends to when you basically brush your teeth with whiskey. We walked over to the stadium and entered. We were a small speck of dust floating along a crimson sea 92,000 bodies strong, rushing into Bryant-Denny Stadium. The atmosphere was electric.

I’ve never cheered so hard in my life. The game was a thriller and when Julio Jones ran a small out pass 73 yards for the go ahead touchdown, my voice flew off in the swirling Alabama winds that whipped across the faces in the upper deck. When the final whistle blew, here is what ensued:

After the game we regrouped and put together a game plan. A few beers in the quad, dinner, then out to the bars for the night with my buddy’s cousin. We downed the beers and walked over to the restaurant for food. The restaurant turned out to be a corner burger joint with a superb bar. Once we fought our way to the front of the long but disorganized line (got to respect that northern, “me first” mentality sometimes) we parked ourselves at the table and called over our waitress. She was a cute girl with brown hair and that funny accent. I would attempt to explain to you how our order went, but I think seeing the bill for yourself will better serve my point:

Needless to say our waitress loved us. We didn’t get much eating done, but we did get a head start on the bars. Which is exactly where we headed when we parted ways with our little country helper.

From here things got a little hazy. There were definitely a few bars hit before we found ourselves at our final destination, a place called “1831” aptly named for the year the University was founded. It was a long and narrow place with a fantastic southern-style porch out front and a DJ in the back.

Only one memory sticks out clear as day. The DJ put on a catchy beat with a southern sound to it. You know how it goes, something like “a-one-TWO-three; a-one-TWO-three.” Everybody started to dance to the beat, abandoning their drinks at the bar or on the floor and bobbing around as if there were no other choice. The beat, tractor beam, lured us in. Then the DJ started singing chants to the song. First I remember him saying, “a-F**k Tebow, a-F**k Tebow” bashing the hated Florida quarterback and rallying the crowed behind an enemy. Then slander turned into celebration as the chant morphed into “a-roll tide roll, a-roll tide roll!” At this point the place was shaking. More shots were ordered and bourbon, music, and laughter are the only things I remember from then on. Simply perfect.

SUNDAY:

A quick nap at my buddy’s cousin’s house and we were on the road, headed back to Birmingham to ensure we made our 12 p.m. flights to New York. I was still filled to the brim with whiskey when we got in the car. Needless to say we had to pull over. Here I am on the side of route 59…making sure all of the grass was planted properly:

The Tide fans honked as they passed, cheering on a fallen soldier and friend. I was proud to be like them, leaving everything out on the field like a true southern gentleman.

Despite my two and half hour delay on my flight back to New York, the trip was absolutely amazing. Anything I said in this post indicating that I was unimpressed with the south after recapping a wedding in Virgina, should be thrown in the trash with yesterday’s news. I have seen the promised land. I have been to the Mecca for all fun loving people. I’ve been to a place where you need not worry about pick up lines because the beautiful girls come up to you just to chat. It’s out there my friends. I’m talking about a little place called Alabama. Go, see for yourselves. I promise you’ll come back singing the same tune (Song of the South!).

ROLL TIDE ROLL!

p.s. to any followers reading, one of my traveling partners and I are looking to find a good Alabama bar in the city to watch the games on Saturdays. I know Brother Jimmy's is technically a Bama bar but if there are any other suggestions, let us know. Thanks.

One last thing...

Here's a link to a book supporting parts of my story. Enjoy: Rammer Jammer Yellow Hammer

A Brush with Greatness

“I think you should come.” That’s how it started. A simple comment. A simple call back. Before that, my buddy and I were merely discussing some future business ventures, kicking around ideas, old stories, you know, the usual Monday night, pre-football, we-need-to-kill-some-time-before-the game conversation. When we hung up I expected the usual post-conversation activities to occur. I would shower then eat dinner, settle down and cheer on my boy Brees and the Saints’ electric defense. But this Monday night was different, and as I prepared to shower my friend called me back. “I think you should come.”

He was talking about a fundraising event he had briefly mentioned earlier on in our little chat. Some “party” to raise money for lymphoma or something awful like that. Being the good-natured human that I am, I commended him for his actions but respectfully declined the initial offer, choosing lounging by the TV over speeches about fatal disease and tragic stories of actual victims. But when he called again and suggested I attend, I knew something was up. “Just pick up an envelope from my dad, meet me at my apartment and we’ll head down together.” I have to admit, like Karen from Goodfellas, I liked the secrecy of it all. It made me curious. Maybe I was getting into something way over my head, but I figured hey, a little risk never hurt anybody, right?

After I picked up the envelope I headed down to Hoboken, left the car in a convenient 20 minute parking spot, and snuck a peek inside. I thought about all the times I’ve dreamed about what I would do if I had a signed blank check in my hand. Now that I actually did, I referenced the movie for ideas: water slide from my bedroom to the pool, mini racetrack with mini formula 1 cars, giant Velcro bull’s-eye with Velcro jumpsuit and inflatable trampoline. My dreams are interrupted when I met my friend outside his apartment. “Let’s go.”

We headed to a bar on the waterfront towards the end of Hoboken. The streets were fairly empty, with only a few stragglers roaming around but no signs of a real scene worthy of the 15 minute ride and the hasty, potentially expensive parking decision I had just made. Then, as we walked over the small red carpet lain out on the sidewalk, we entered the bar and the night went from mundane to anything but.

We were greeted by 4 girls offering 3 hour open bar wrist bands, mini footballs, and raffle tickets. My buddy and I accepted all graciously and made our way over to his friend, our connection at this party. After brief introductions were made we checked our coats and made our way to the bar. 2 bud lights later the three of us wandered over to a table and met some other guests. “A.J. this is Demarcus, Demarcus, A.J.” My hand was engulfed by the massive paw that was Demarcus Ware’s hand, then again by the grasp of Osi Umenyiora. “I told you you should come,” my friend mumbled to me as we walked away and grabbed two more beers.

We looked left towards to the two flat screen TVs airing a game each (Yankees/Phillies in the far left corner, Saints/Falcons in the far right). Amongst the sea of pin-straight pony tails, fashionable dresses, and freshly pressed button downs we sniped a mop of dreadlocks in a mocha brown sweater filling up the space of two persons of normal width: Cedric Benson.

To his right, seated on the couch enjoying some red wine and steak, was a small, thick-set guy in a lifesavers candy-like sweater. “Is that?” “Yea, I think so. Ray Rice.” That’s correct; Ray is not opposed to a glass of red, so long as it’s for a good cause.

After some perusing around the prize tables and mingling with the other plebian guests, my buddy and I were in dire need of another drink. We could see most of the NFL players taking pictures and glad-handing other VIPs, but noticed Benson was missing from the group. “He’s probably at the bar with a girl or something,” we joked. We walked towards the bar. Sure, enough, with a drink in one hand and a brunette in the other, there was Ced, cool as ever watching Saints game. Phenomenal.

I was hesitant at first approach because his face was saying something along the lines of, “I’m watching the game, don’t bother me.” My friend’s bold brashness saw something different as he patted Cedric on the back and asked for a picture. When the blond selected to take the shot dropped the camera my heart jumped thinking we had lost all the pictures from the night. “Not really the ideal time to drop a camera,” I say to the girl and Benson breaks out a little chuckle. A friendship was born.

The drinks continued to flow from the open bar and the conversation got more and more intimate with each gleeful gulp. “You ‘gonna stiff arm Ray Lewis or what?” my buddy barks out referring to Benson’s upcoming game against the Ravens. A nervous pause…and we all burst into laughter. “Yea I got to,” Benson replies. I start to think, wow, this guy really is going to be playing against the Ray Lewis in six days. What will I be doing in six days? Watching him. That is my life. But for a night, it wasn’t. For a night I was “boys” with Cedric Benson. For one night, I was important enough for Tony Romo’s new favorite target receiver, Miles Austin to introduce himself to me!

When the Saints had won their seventh straight, we debated their strength of schedule, grabbed our last few drinks and parted ways. Ced left with his girl of the night, a tradition he said started at the University of Texas and never stopped. We of course didn’t doubt him in the slightest. My friend and I watched in awe as one of the leading rushers in the NFL walked away from what was arguably one of the best hour-or-so long conversations the two of us had ever had. “You think he’ll remember us?” my friend asks. “You did tell him to stiff arm Ray Lewis and to do Lewis’ signature dance in the end zone if he scores.” True. If you see number 32 throw the stiff arm out there and do the dance, let it be known, he did it per request of two drunken fools he met at a lymphoma benefit party.

We walked out of the bar changed men. We had lived our respective dream lives for 3 glorious hours.

“Told you you should come.”

“Yes you did. And goddamn you were right.”

It's Only A Matter of Time

I opened my eyes to a world an hour behind where it once was, and I too felt my mind an hour behind my body. What time was it? What were the implications of that time? I had no natural inclination of an idea. From what I could reason it was Sunday, morning, felt like 10, actually 9, wanted to keep sleeping, had to get home. I dragged my body off the fake leather couch (how and why I always find myself sleeping on these instead of a bed I'll never know), collected my thoughts and began to make my way to the car. November 1st, the morning after Halloween. Rough.

I took off the remains of a costume that lost its luster after drink number 11, tossed on some normal street clothes and hit the road. City driving while hung over, half asleep, and in pain can be challenging, especially when the FDR is blocked off by police barricades and you continually find yourself redirected deeper and deeper into Harlem. Nonetheless, I put on some Phoenix as loud as possible to stay awake, sang as many broken phrases of the lyrics I could muster, and made my way across the bridge. I pulled into my drive way half an hour later, 9:30 a.m., now feeling like it's almost 11 but tired enough to pass out on the kitchen floor. I elect for my bed instead, 1: because the hardwood floor is a downgrade from the leather couch, and 2: my mom might get suspicious of drug use if she found my close-to-lifeless body in front of her refrigerator when she came down to make breakfast and coffee.

As I nestled into the cold sheets, gripping my pillow for warmth like a 7 year old on his father's leg at a family party, I recapped the night and laughed at the crippling effects of alcohol on the human body. What did I drink to make me feel this terrible? I guess the real question would be, what did Billy Madison drink to make me feel this terrible? Ah, well that's a different story. Whatever Billy had, it must have been strong. I distinctly remember talking with Audrey Hepburn for awhile and perhaps the kid from E.T.? Or maybe it was E.T. himself. It was then I realized the true beauty of Halloween. It's the only night of the year you get to take on a whole new identity, however crazy it may be, and just roll with it. You lose all responsibility for your actions. I didn't follow shots of tequila with shots of vodka, then take the conditioner and shampoo bottles and clank them together as if they were fighting, Billy did. Or, I didn't make out with a blond flapper at the bar, my nerdy-professor alter ego did.

When reveling in the phenomenon that is the adult-Halloween wore off, I passed out, feeling like it was 11, actually 10, knowing there's some time commitment in my near future, thinking what it could be, not remembering, not caring, falling asleep, sleeping. I wake up to the sound of my dad opening my bedroom door. Oh the joys of living at home after 4 glorious years of freedom. "A.J. wake up, we have to go to the wedding party." The last thing I want to hear on any day off was the first thing I heard the day after Halloween, and on one of the biggest days in sports ever.
There I was, sitting at a table filled with my parent's and my sister's friends, hours before what was to be (and I believe was in fact) FOX sports' saving grace- the ultimate lineup: Giants/Eagles at 1, Favre's return to Lambeau Field at 4, Yankees/Phillies, Game 4 of the World Series at 8. Every sports fan in the country would be watching...except for me. I was locked up in a restaurant from 12 to 4 at some kind of post-wedding, post-reception wedding party, an introduction of the bride to the groom's family friends. Given my physical and mental state at the time, a warm basement couch accompanied by food and a 60" flat screen TV with the Giants and Jets games on simultaneously would have been, well absolute Heaven. But, alas I was stuck. 12 now felt like 12, with four hours more to go...four hours. It was like the time I was forced to go see Sense and Sensibility with my mom and sister when I was 10, except now I was expected to act civil and polite instead of whining.

Here are some statistics from those four hours. Number of, "I haven't seen you since you with THIS tall"'s I had to engage in conversation: 3. Number of "So, how's work"'s I had to lie to: 21. Number of points my fantasy team fell behind after Steve Slaton (or is that Satan?) was benched due to his 7th fumble of the season: 18. Overall, morale was low, especially after I got wind via ESPN mobile that Ted Ginn, Jr. returned his second kickoff for a touchdown against the Jets. 2 now felt like 1 and this party was not showing any signs of ending at on time.

4:45, that's when the party ended. As the sun dipped below the New Jersey tree line the earliest it had all year, I broke free from my family-shackles, went home, showered (again) in an attempt to subject my body to something pleasurable as opposed to the past 20-some-odd hours of pain, and headed over to my girlfriend's house for dinner away from my family. Though she doesn't have HD TV, her mom is head-and-shoulders above mine in terms of cooking, so although reheated pizza has its place in my heart and diet, filet of sol in a cream sauce with potatoes and broccoli followed by fresh strawberries and ice cream, all away from anyone present at that dreaded party, sounded pretty good. And it was.

By the time 8:20 rolled around, Favre had defeated his old team again, my fantasy team had fallen behind by 54 points (thanks again Slaton), and I had a full, warm stomach, happily awaiting the first pitch of game 4. I'm certainly not a Yankees fan, but as any good politician knows, the best way to unite people is to create a common enemy, so bound by my pure hatred for the Philadelphia Phillies, I watched with pleasure as the other New York team took care of business. One more win and the city of Philadelphia can forget about its hopes of dynasty. That’s a win for the Mets no matter how bad our season was.

11:30 felt like 3 a.m. as I closed my eyes on the first day of November. Another October had come and gone, another Halloween success was over. The days are shorter now for another few months, and although that can be a tough pill to swallow, the longer nights always seem to offer a feeling of mischievous fun. I look forward to the end of fall, the last few falling yellow leaves, Thanksgiving and the NFL playoffs. I put my head down, defeated by time once again but assured in the fact that it keeps on ticking.

Somehow my alarm this morning didn’t seem to feel any later. 6:55 is still simply too early.

Two Times, Too Many?

Well, it's here. Homecoming. My homecoming. The real one. And on the eve of what should be my grand weekend, I'm feeling a little bit like my favorite ESPN columnist, Bill Simmons, when he went to Vegas with his fantasy football buddies for their league's 20th year celebration: old.

I'm tired. My original plan of loading my October weekends with substitution homecomings may now be coming back to haunt me. I mean, it's not like "back in the day" when my time during the week was consumed by 15 to 20 sober hours of work, tops, the rest spent prepping for the weekend with practice games of beer pong, mooseknuckle, flip cup and other various cardiovascular fitness activities. I work now, and the working man's body, although very much sober, is weak. Think about it, 40 hours a week I sit in front of a computer, staring at the screen thinking, "What happened?" The most exercise I do during the day is probably laughing at the "I loved College" Asher Roth spoof that my friend sent me the other day.

But, to quote my idol Bill Simmons, "[will this] stop [my friends and I from] putting on a throwback 48-hour show of...drinking, smoking, ball-busting, eating and (fill in every other verb that ends with "ing" except for the ones that would get us divorced)? Of course not." OK, so we're not that old that we need to worry about divorce, but some of us have girlfriends that would probably want those "ing's" left out of the list as well.

Tomorrow night at 9 my friends and I will embark on a mission to overcome the awkward second homecoming since our graduation. Are we too old to go back and still feel cool? Probably. Are we going anyway? Obviously. But as was push the envelope of what's socially acceptable in terms of the college comeback, I have to wonder, when will we finally be over the whole thing?

Maybe when I'm settled into a job, one that I'm truly happy with, where I'm writing and actually using the skills I learned while in school, will I begin to put to rest my memories of fondness towards college. But then again, maybe not. I've never heard anybody say, "Man, remember those middle years of our careers, when we were 35 and working for someone else, living on our own, with serious girlfriends/potential wives, hitting the hay at 9 pm, waking up at 6 (chipper and refreshed)...man those were really the best times ever!" Something tells me, for the most part, these middle memories humble in comparison to the glory days of college.

But alas, they're coming, and although the college years are closer to where I stand now on the time-line of life, unfortunately, the 30-somethings are (iceberg!) dead ahead.

So where does this leave my friends and me as we wait at the gates like worn out thoroughbreds about to sprint another tired lap- our awkward return, our mustered attempt to relive a life we enjoyed together...for the second time? Well, who knows? I don't have the answers. I'm just "in it to win it" as they say, praying I don't tweak an ankle along the way and, well, you saw the Kentucky Derby, you know what happens to injured race horses.

A Day in Dixie

Another weekend has come and gone, and yet another story to tell. My second replacement homecoming event took place in Charlottesville, Virginia. It involved a white dress, smiling friends and family, and an exchange of rings. That's right, a wedding. Ah the Holy union of young love, sealed beneath the arching boughs of two ancient Virginia oaks. What better reason to suit up in seersucker as if it were college game day, take it slow, and soak in some southern comfort?

What ensued was nothing too short of my expectations. After we got through the whole "I do," "I do" part, the mass of 300 people (a modest size for any proper Southern wedding) began to herd towards the cocktail pavilion, a small stone-laden out cove carved into the country hill. The wedding took place at James Monroe's house, a 17th century estate nestled in the hills of the Blue Ridge mountains. It was incredible. A real Southern gem. You could feel the power of the Southern elite while standing on top of the cascading hilltop, overlooking the "land of cotton," in total control of your surroundings. It must have been nice for all that to be a sustained reality...

Drink of the evening: Bourbon, what else? Especially since there weren't any other options. Bourbon was served for the men, vodka and wine for the ladies. There were no restrictions, of course, seeing as we live in a Northern-governed, post-women's rights movement era, but let's just say I wouldn't be caught dead with anything that was wasn't a stiff shade of brown in my clear cup.

Is it bad that as I stood around in my fancy clothes, chatting with the other guests in a newly acquired Southern accent and soft demeanor, I wondered what it would be like to be a plantation owner in the 17th century? I mean aside from the whole slavery thing, and possibly killing other humans, it seems like a pretty sweet deal. No overhead. No payroll. 100% profit. Incredible. It's probably about the closest thing to being royalty we Americans can conceive, so I rationalized that as justification for feeling almighty in conversation- a rolled up procession sheet, my scepter, a glass of whiskey, my orb. I am a Southern king...from New Jersey.

We stood, and ate, and drank- a sea of white faces discussing the phenomenon of the Southern business model. "How did these guys ever pull it off," we wondered. These inquiries were quickly washed away by more bourbon and more wine as we floated up the knoll to the reception area, and the party continued.

The next order of business after even more food and still more drinks, was mingling with the Southern belles. Mingle I did, or tried, but most of the Southern belles weren't ringing. Let me just say this: I'm no longer sold on the allure of the Southern girl. Blond hair, sweet manners, proper speech. I didn't find any of these assets to outweigh the utter bore most of them were. On the whole, they had little to say and offered even less to do, as they spent most of their time huddled around table 12 in the back corner of the room. Maybe they could smell the toxic New York air pouring from my clothes. I don't know, and I don't care.

So when the one bridesmaid came over to chat towards the end of the night, she got the cold shoulder. Denied for the mindless, yet far more entertaining banter of a Northern brunette I've known since I was about 10. United States: 1, Confederacy: 0. Nice try dollface, but my New York capitalist sense of reason has taught me to take the path of least resistance. I know where that lilting conversation is headed. A friendly handshake or an introduction to a UVA boyfriend? No thanks.

Overall, I'd say my Virginia homecoming was a positive experience. The scenery and overwhelming feeling of encouraged entitlement made up for the death of my notion that Southern women are like Stepford wives with great accents. I'm sure there are some fun ones out there, but the search continues. Maybe I need to head further South. After all, Virginia does still get cold in the winter, making it curiously Northern by my standards. Next up on the homecoming trips list: Birmingham, Alabama where I and two friends will road trip to Tuscaloosa to see the Crimson Tide take on the LSU Tigers in football. It's time to venture into the real south, the deep south, where the Civil War (I'm sorry, the war of Northern agression) is still an on-going battle. This should be fun. Ramma' Jamma' Yellow Hammer.

Giving Credit Where Credit is Due

Here's a familiar scene. I open my eyes to a picture of bliss strewn about the floor in front of me. The self-assembled wooden Ikea coffee table is filled with empty beer bottles. Two XBOX 360 remotes like huge boulders anchored in the ocean shallows, create small gaps amidst the sea of glass. An old sock that looks strangely like one of my own, lays next to a flannel shirt, definitely not mine, on the floor. Drinking shoes (yes, the timbs made it) weigh my feet down like two cinder blocks as I peel my face off the leather arm of the couch in an attempt to get the day started. It's 8:30 am Sunday morning. Time to get to the Pats' tailgate.

Rewind 24 hours. I've just woken up with a terrible, or should I say "wicked bad" hang over. My head is pounding. The drive that started with a few Irish coffees while sitting shotgun of my buddy's Pontiac, moved quickly (as 3 1/2 hours tends to do while drinking Irish coffees) into a night of what can only be described as absurd overindulgence. Upon arrival in Boston we went straight to [insert Irish last name here]'s Pub, where the men were men and the women were too. And, thus, the buckets of beer were only $10! Needless to say we rode the euphoric high of seeing old friends, reaching our weekend destination, and a little bit of whiskey to the vertical limits of a prolonged adrenaline rush.

This alone would explain the throbbing head, but after some investigative work I see there's more to this picture. I look down and see some blood on the elbow of my thermal undershirt. I inspect my actual elbow and see it's scraped open and gravel infested. It is then I realize that my head is pounding not only from the booze, but also from the sizable lump on the back of it, most likely caused by falling onto pavement. Pavement + fall = pain + gravel in the wound. I'm no Sherlock Holmes, but I went to college. The pain quickly turns to inspiration when I realize I'm actually not that hung over. There's hope yet that this, my only Saturday in Boston, will rise above the temptation of peaceful sleep and will lead me to Harpoonfest.

After a hot breakfast at a local dive we wasted no time making our way down to the Harpoon brewery for their Oktoberfest party, Harpoonfest. $20 got us in the door and a "free" beer. An additional $20 bought 4 more tickets for beers. The price wasn't foreign to a healthy Manhattan drinker like myself, although it was brought up as a negative factor of the festival by some of the Boston locals. The redeeming quality for the "outlandish" price: the alcohol content of Harpoon beers (nearly always around 5%). Our four tickets, plus a few we picked up off of some lowly stragglers no longer willing to entertain the idea of another Hefeweizen, predictably ended with a circle of clanking glasses and celebratory wasteful pours to the late, great Boston god: Teddy Williams.

Saturday night was better summed up Sunday morning in a Hangover-like photo reel recapping the events. Shots (or is that just one shot?) of Patron, some unknown dark, iced concoctions in pint-sized glasses, card games, me in a blue flannel shirt which I still don't believe is mine but nonetheless, and finally some late night bagels with assorted condiments.

Overall, Boston went above and beyond my expectations. South Boston especially felt like a home away from home. Or more like a college away from college. Could I do it every weekend? Probably not. Do I respect the men and women that do do it every weekend? Absolutely. Boston is like a young drinker's paradise: lots of bars, not much else to do, the drinking starts so early you forget that 2 am is absurdly early to close a bar...It works. I'm not saying it's a last great place or anything, but it works. So to all those I visited this past weekend, this one's for you.

Teddy Williams

Getting My October Fix

Ah to be young again. To be able to pick up and go on a whim. Skip class on Thursday and head down to your friend's school for some more of the same: partying, collegiate sporting events, sleeping (around, if you're lucky), and other such leisure activities, just with different people and different colored beer-pong tables at the party. Every October, when the various college homecoming weekends begin to kick off, I find myself getting nostalgic. How I long for the moldy carpeting and exposed pipes of my old fraternity house. Forget the lavish decadence of New York nightlife. It's October. Give me kegs-and-eggs in the morning and a theme party at night.

If only it were so every weekend.

I may be over the proverbial (college) hill, but this year, my second year as a post-grad in homecoming season, I'm taking a stand. I'm getting creative. Merely going to my own homecoming wont be enough. So I've planned a few trips to satiate my needs.

First up: Boston

This weekend I, and my road-soldier ex-roommate, hit the road after a long, grueling week and head north to "the smallest big-name city in the country." I'm not a Yankee fan, so the city of Boston doesn't make me cringe with deep-seeded rivalry, but I will say I disapprove of their unworthy sense of arrogance. Especially since their bars close at 2. What's the deal with that? Even bars in Jersey don't close at 2. Come on Boston, time to step it up. (Maybe this is for a different posting when I get back).

With that said, there is a stellar crew of dark-beer-chugging, NHL '10 playing, wake-you-up-from-your-Sunday-coma-with-a-bloody-Mary-type people up there I'm excited to knock a few back with while sharing college glory-stories. And to top it off, it's the Harpoon Brewery's version of Oktoberfest (Harpoonfest) this weekend- a perfect substitute as my homecoming pregame. How does this sound: Harpoon beers, German food, massive crowds of day-drinkers all huddled under one giant tent? Ah, just like college (or is that Heaven?).

Don't get me wrong, life after school is great. Nothing beats the freedom of having your own money to spend. But when that cold October air comes seeping through my bedroom window, it's like my biological alarm clock starts ringing....

BUZZZZZ

Alarm clock: "Dude"

Me: "Yah"

Alarm clock: "Dude"

Me: "Really? Already?"

Alarm clock: "Dude"

The Dude abides. I know it's time to lace up the drinking boots (a roughed-up pair of high-top timbs most likely) and hit the road. There's nothing like getting out of the city that has become your new campus, and exploring the wonders of someone else's, right? No strings, no worries, just a weekend wholesome fun. Mark me down for one.

HarpoonFest

http://www.harpoonbrewery.com/index.cfm/pid/28569/page/Octoberfest-Boston