Frustration and loathing are alive and well on Rocky Top this ragged, autumn Sunday.  I have had worse weekends, but I can’t remember exactly when.  My Vols, my apathy, and my sexual cowardice have made me rethink my entire existence.  What was lined up to be a great, if not athletically victorious weekend, was wasted due to what can only be explained by a peculiar sort of je nais se quoi.

    There is a girl in Nashville that I am quite fond of.  She is also seemingly fond of me.  We have been dancing a long distance waltz of text messages and phone calls but have not been able to act on our feelings due to a former conflict of interest(I may or may not have slept with her best friend; several times.)  However, this issue had been resolved to the best of our ability, and I was quite eager to see her when she arrived Friday morning. 
   
    After the standard OCI lunch with her and Twon, we went up to the Skybox.  As she and I had beers high above Shields-Watkins Field, we chatted and laughed about the palpable sexual tension between us.  After an innuendo laden conversation, we left the Stadium, ran a couple of Gameday related errands, and went to Happy Hour at Sidestreet.  We were joined on the patio by the aforementioned “conflict of interest,”  and what probably should have been an awkward situation, was not. *


    *At this point in the story, the narrator, who has grown weary with details, has decided, in the name of Southern Decency, self preservation, and sheer espionage, to leave this section of the story to you, fair reader.   Let your imagination run wild.  Sit back, enjoy a cocktail, and imagine the possibilities of the stooooooorrrrrrrrryyyyyyy.....

    Much later...


    Tennessee lost to Florida by a lot.  I then walked a lot, got a cab, went to Rooster’s, lost the girl, stayed up late, and then found the girl.  Sleeping soundly on my couch.  For the second night of the weekend.  I totally Stoerner’d the situation and crawled into my freshly changed bed alone. 

    Sunday....

    “I need to go back to Nashville now.” she said
    “You sure you don’t want to lay around in Big Orange Country for a bit.” I fished.
    “No, gotta get back.”  Strike ten, I thought.


    Then I got drunk at brunch and called my ex’s new boyfriend a “dork.”  Aren’t I cool?  I agree.  Not even a little. 

    After such a horrible display, I decided to punish myself by going to Rooster’s, intent on totally drowning what was left of my shattered self esteem, all the while encouraging acute consumption in the process.  Mission accomplished. 


“A long way from happiness, in a three hour away town.  Whiskey bottle over Jesus.  Not forever, but just for now.”-  Uncle Tupelo

    The weekend once again started on Thursday night.  Sushi and Negronis were the order of the day.  I met a friend at Nama in Bearden for half price rolls and bottles of wine.  Nama is a great little sushi bar not far from my house, and I especially like it because I know not only all of the bartenders, but the most of the chefs and the Management.  It makes for some very creative accounting.  

    The Negroni is a classic Italian cocktail that has recently gained my fancy due to my extreme love of mixology and classic cocktails.  It is a very old aperitif cocktail that has equal parts of gin, Campari, and sweet vermouth.  A simple orange wedge is its garnish.  It is a drink that starts sweet, rolls slowly through a pine bough lined mansion-way, and finishes with the subtle bitterness of a grapefruit pith.  It is not a drink for women or cowards, despite its rosy hue.  A recent test of several(read: one) subjects, implies that 3 Negronis will intoxicate a man of 200 lbs.  It took one subject as many as 5 to achieve self noticed intoxication.  I won’t tell you his name because that would be indiscreet.   

    After 6 of my seasonal cocktails,I decided to have a few Dixie beers, and a roll of sushi.  After some much needed carbs and salmon eggs, we decided to go Downtown to the Valerium to see a rock show.

    Dark Star Orchestra is a Grateful Dead tribute(not cover) band that plays nearly perfect renditions of Dead shows from throughout history.  Their former lead guitar player and singer, basically their Jerry, has now taken a job with the band Further.  Further is all of the members of the Grateful Dead, except for Jerry Garcia, who died some years ago.  Needless to say, this guy knows his shit, and his former band does too.  It was a great show, but we couldn’t stay till the end.  The sushi and gin made a dangerous stew that sat un-easily in my stomach.  After stirring renditions of “Mr. Charlie,” “Slipknot/Franklin’s,” and “I Know You RIder,”  I decided to go home.  My friend and I made it back to Tomache, and after a very raucous lesson in home cooking, I went to bed with a full stomach and a satisfied mind.

    After my usual 4 mile jog on Friday morning, I showered and went to meet Tom at OCI for lunch.  The catfish sandwich that I ordered was not quite what my belly was ready for, but I pressed forward and managed to hold it down.  However, when I went into the bathroom to blow my nose, I nearly lost it all.  All over the floor.  I don’t know what was going on in there, but I can say that it made me gag.  Once the horrible wafted to the table, it was time to go.  Tom has a notoriously weak stomach.  It’s actually kind of funny.  Hey, Tom.  Remember the smell in the bathroom at OCI?

      Haha.  He literally just gagged.  I swear.

    We proceeded to go down to/up in the Skybox.  We didn’t really have anything to stock, so we just shuffled some beers around and drank a few.  It really never gets old.  I just love sitting there with my Vol brothers and taking it all in.  Sitting in silence while nursing a bloody beer, and watching the Orange stay Orange is so fantastic that I can’t even begin to put into words.  Forget words, think Homer Simpson.  It is that great.
    From the Skybox, I got a ride back to OCI, where Brent and Twon were having a late lunch.  The three of sat there, “eating lunch” for a few more hours until more of our friends started trickling in.  Around 5, we had a serious crew of fun-havers and the proverbial flood gates had opened. 

    I went outside to smoke a cigarette with Twon and Dylan, while our friend Kent, literally blew us away with his versions of “Down the Field” and “Rocky Top” played to honkin’ perfection on his duck call.  Sometimes camo is cool.
   
    More of the same entailed, and I closed and opened my third and fourth tabs of the day at The Old College Inn.  My friend Dixon, soon arrived, in his full Space Ghost regalia and we all walked up to the Copper Cellar for the Big Orange Roundtable.  I assure you, it sounds way cooler than it actually was. And I wasn’t really invited.  I drank several martinis, and was later told about an incident with a gropey homosexual.  I allegedly had him thrown out of Copper Cellar.  On his way out, he poured a glass of water on me from above, and I didn’t take it very well.  A few seconds later, his hard ridden, middle aged, beard came down and proceeded to spit obscenities at me in her Kentucky Gentleman scented whore breath.  Luckily, at this point , she was escorted out of the restaurant by my friends from the kitchen.  It is good to occasionally smoke pot with the cooks at your favorite restaurants.  They will become loyal in times of need.

    After what I’m told were several slobbery pronounced affronts on the university of alabama(lower case is not a mistake), many of which contained the words “fuck” “boog” “mooley” and the word that rhymes with the seldom used baseball play, it was decided that I should leave the Roundtable.

    Haziness ensued, and now I was a Rooster’s.  I will wave the Rooster’s commentary for a later date, but let me assure you, fair reader, that I fucking hate that place.  I love the staff, but I hate the crowd and I said before, we will discuss this later.

    Upon the decision to exit the cock shop, I ran into a friend from Nashville who was in need of place to stay. After a very questionable drive, during which I was assured pro-bono legal representation should things go wrong, we came tearing onto Tomache like a German tornado. After, I’m sure a few more beers, I decided to call it a night.  My compatriot spend the night in my bathroom and was gone by the time I awoke to the torrential downpours of Saturday morning.

    Actually more like Biblical down pours.  I honestly thought at one point that the Vol Navy might be in my front yard, but by the time we made our way to the tailgate, the sun was shining down on the Vol faithful.  I met my friend Paul and some of his buddies in from Nashville and we walked up to our standard tailgating spot.  It was a great spot, with a great crowd, but unfortunately the rednecks next to us had set speakers worthy of the State Fair and insisted on blaring everything from Skynard to Sevendust( I don’t know any Sevendust songs, I just use their name to describe all bad music of that genre.)  At one point a David Allen Coe song came on, and Brent exclaimed, “Jesus, just leave this on.  It’s terrible but at least it’s familiar.”  No such luck.  Eventually the whisky kicked in and the music became nothing more than background noise.

    My buddy Wes arrived at the tailgate, and we made our way to Tom’s spot and off to the game.  The sky was getting very dark and the forecast was less than promising.  Not far into the first quarter, after a pretty impressive opening drive from the Vols, both teams cleared the sidelines and headed for the locker rooms. For a brief moment I thought that ducks had forfeited as they were too terrified to continue against such a mighty SEC foe.  This was not the case.  Soon a voice came over the PA telling us to take shelter and that we could re-enter after the storm.  We left the seats and decided to go have a drink at Tom’s truck.  Right as I mixed a healthy dose of vodka into my Sprite, the skies opened up as thunder roared and lighting flashed all around us.  WE managed to stay pretty dry, and after a 90 minute delay, we went back to the seats and watch Oregon systematically kick the shit of the Beloved.  Downtrodden, Wes and I left the game and he drove me home.  Hurricane McCord came blowing in a few hours later and after a late night, red-eyed trip to Kroger, we had a feast of crab legs, italian sausage and peppers, and kabobs.  Decadence reigned.


Next Week-Florida

    As the temperatures wain in the hills of East Tennessee, and the leaves begin their slow chameleon change, I am reminded of a fall night in 1998.  I was a first year student at the University of Tennessee, and our beloved Vols had just won their first game of what was to be a National Championship season.  Some friends and I were hanging out in my Fort Sanders apartment drinking beer and reveling in the victory.  My cousin Tom and some of his friends stopped by on their way out to the bars.  Being only 18, and having not yet acquired a fake ID, my friends and I had to settle for getting shit-faced in my apartment.  Tom (who has always, for all intents and purposes been my big brother) is about 7 years older than me and I always looked up to him growing up, as it was he who took me rolling for the first time, who showed me my first Playboy, and who bought me my first beer.  His friend, Todd, was with him, and he and I seemed(still do) to have very similar senses of humor.  As we sat on the patio of the apartment, we chatted about football, booze, college girls, and various topics familiar with the 18-25 demographic.  At some point in the night after a particularly rousing conversation, the topic of which escapes me, Todd looked over at me and said,  “You know what, dude?  You are the fucking poster child of Southern Decadence.”  This was the greatest compliment that I have ever received.
     It is now several years later and I am still great friends with everyone from that fateful night.  (Well, maybe not everyone.  There were some girls there, but I don’t remember their names.)  I ran into Todd a few months ago and we were discussing the actual definition of Southern Decadence.  After some initial brainstorming and way too many Budweisers, we decided to try and make a list of characteristics that embody the spirit of SoDec.  Well, this list has been in the works for months now and I have realized that it is an impossible task to even try to make a list of SoDec.  Can you make a list of why the sun is good?  Me neither.  So in lieu of trying to describe the phenomena that is Southern Decadence, I have decided to try a more hands on approach.  Since football season started last week, I have decided to use this special time in the South as a sort of canvas if you will.  I have decided to document my experiences this autumn as a bearded, often charming, slightly overweight Tennessee gentleman.  There will be some facts, some fiction and of course, some names will be changed to protect the guilty.  You know who you are.  I hope you enjoy this as much as I plan to.
   

UT-Martin, Boomsday

Football season has always been my favorite time of year.  As I get older, I feel like the dawn of football is like Christmas Eve, my birthday, and my first(insert sexual experience) all rolled into one. 
    This year has been no different.  The weekend started, as it always does this time of year, on Thursday night.  My friend Brent had a buddy coming through town who, like Brent and I, is a connoisseur of all things gastronomical.  I met Brent and his girlfriend, Amanda, at their house around 6, and we enjoyed a cocktail.  Gin, white grape juice, and fresh basil has been our go-to summer cocktail, and we decided to have one last round before the leaves change.  Brent’s friend, Scruggs, arrived from Memphis, and we went to the Crown & Goose in the Old City.  After a few beers at the bar, we ordered dinner.  Venison and blueberry sausage with mashed potatoes and braised chard was my dinner.  It was fantastic.  Go there and get it.
    After dinner we went to Preservation Pub for a few beers and then to our “on the way home” spot, Sidestreet Tavern.  Being Thursday, it was karaoke night at Sidestreet.   This actually means that there is a karaoke machine, complete with DJ and his girlfriend, singing the newest Nashville hits back and forth to themselves.  We decided to give it a go.  Scruggs sang about Memphis, Brent wowed the crowd of 7 with “Gin & Juice”(quite fitting) and I belted the song that made Bret Michaels famous to great acclaim and gusto.
    It gets a bit hazy here, but the night ended up with Scruggs and I playing guitar on my back porch and cooking something.  I think pork bellies were involved.
   
One of my favorite things about football time is Friday afternoon. Tom and I have a long tradition of having lunch on Friday, and then going to stock liquor in my uncle’s Skybox.  It’s really just an excuse to sit in an empty Neyland Stadium, have a day drink, and listen to the whispers of Volunteers past.  Normally, we have dined at Hooter’s, but this year have decided to change venues to OCI.  Tom ended up getting a case of the Friday stomach flu, so he couldn’t join me for lunch.  I met a couple of liked minded Vol fans and they joined me in the Box.  It was beautiful as always.
    Dinner was braised pork tacos at my house.  I had some friends coming in town and we hung out on my porch while enjoying cocktails, beers, and pork fat.  We decided to not to go out Friday so that we could be fresh for Gameday.  Two hours later, after returning from Rooster’s, my friend, Leslie and I decided to watch “Arthur,” my favorite movie.  If you haven’t seen it recently, watch it.  The first 45 minutes are some of the best one liners in cinema.
    I woke up furious at 10 am on Gameday.  Furious that I had slept so late, and furious that I woke up to Nick Saban’s voice on ESPN.  After a quick shower, some power claps, and a Mexican coke, I was ready to go.  After I got dressed, my friends Clay and Josh arrived from Nashville.  Clay is one of the biggest Vol fans I know; Josh is one of the funniest people I know; together they are the perfect storm. I refer to them as Hurricane McCord, since Clay usually drives.  After Hurricane McCord made landfall at Tomache, we loaded up and headed to the tailgate.
    We have friends with great parking passes that give us access to the best tailgating spots on campus.  Four tents set up on a lovely grassy knoll, under hundred year trees, two blocks from the Stadium.  We dropped off our cooler and went to park the car.  As Leslie and I walked out of parking garage, I looked up and saw the back of the Jumbotron.  I gaze up and the power T and Eric Berry’s lovely eyes.  As I stood there in splendor, I smelled hickory smoke wafting on the first cool breeze in over 4 months.  I cried.
    Upon arrival at the tailgate, I shook hands with the 30 people that I will spend the next 6 home weekends with and grabbed an ice cold High Life.  Ribs and venison jerky were on the food table along with an assortment of dips and snacks.  The requisite contribution form the wives and girlfriends.  The meat is always prepared by men.  It is the SoDec way.  I soon walked down to Tom’s tailgate, closer to the stadium, and discussed the upcoming season with my father and cousin.  I am more optimistic than they.
    As kickoff approached, we made our way in to the cathedral that is Neyland Stadium.  Long story short, Vols win.
    After the 50-0 win, we made our way to the Clay’s truck only to find that Hurricane McCord had blown back to Nashville, leaving Leslie and I stranded on campus.  Luckily, I have a lot of friends in this fair city.  After a couple of phone calls, I had secured us not only a ride home, but several beers and pizza rolls in the mean time. Thanks, Spurge. Go Big Orange. 
    Leftover tacos, High Life, Negronis, hammock, sleep.

    Sunday started with the usual post game sluggishness, but I still managed to pull up my boot straps and I went to meet some friends at Barley’s.  I soon realized that sitting at a bar on Sunday afternoon was not what I wanted to do.  I ordered Chandler’s delivery to my house and returned to Tomache.  In no time I was elbow deep in ribs and fried chicken.  Fried okra flew about face like birdseed at a wedding.  I think I actually snorted some mac & cheese.
    A few minutes later I received a text from Brent telling me that I should bring the croquet set to Twon’s house.  Twon has a great porch and back yard.  Nearly as decadent as mine, but better suited for the type of blue blood games that we enjoy so much.  Being fully satisfied on the best blick food in town, I loaded up the mallets and headed west.  Before long we were engulfed in a very intense croquet match, followed by several more.  Twon decided to dawn white pants, white Polo, and briefly a white sweater vest.  This is a fantastic of example of SoDec. 
    After a few hours of croquet, it was time to make a move.  It was Boomsday after all.  I made my way downtown to Spurge’s houseboat to watch the fireworks from the water.  I was late.  I watched the fireworks as I tried to find a way down to the marina.  Most of the streets were blocked or turned into one-ways.  My trek was illuminated by the bright flashes of the nation’s largest firework show, and the deafening report was similar to Dunkirk, I imagined.  I finally found my way down to the river, having only broken one traffic law( I think.)  There was a good crew on the Moonspinner and a good time was had by all until the early morning.  After a lift home, I went to bed with a heavy head. 

Next Week: Oregon