Alabama Week

I had my first bama dream of the week last night.  I woke up anxious with the familiar feeling of sickness and excitement, as I always do before the Third Saturday in October.  The dreams will only get more vivid over the next couple of nights.  Horrible visions of David Palmer, Gene Stallings, 9-6, 6-3, and Terrence Cody.  But also shining memories of Peyton to Joey in '95, Clausen to Fayton in '03, and basically everything that happened between 1995 and 2006.  (Including the vacated win from 2005, which was no doubt, my worst moment at a live sporting event, ever.)

I've been reading a lot of articles about the rivalry between Tennessee and Alabama over the last few days, and the national media does give it a fair amount of press despite the fact the game doesn't promise to be a great one.  They discuss the rivalry, citing the historical implications, especially the players and coaches who have participated in the battle over the years.  And they all say that it is a bigger rivalry in the eyes of Vol fans, because, as everyone knows, Auburn is the Tide's ultimate nemesis.  

I, however disagree.  Throughout multiple conversations with Alabama fans, Tennessee Fans, and Auburn fans, I have realized that Tennessee/Alabama is a more blood boiling rivalry than anywhere in the country( Fuck you Big 10 losers.)

As far as In-State rivals, there is no more intense hatred that exists between foes as Auburn and Alabama.  Cousins, brothers, nieces, uncles, husbands, wives,  families are divided between the Tide and the Tigers all across the state of Alabama.  These differences are often set aside for the sake of family unity around holidays, church picnics and bar-mitzvahs.  For 364 days a year the state can get along.  Husbands and wives make babies, business is conducted, riots do not break out in the streets of Birmingham(at least not anymore.  Both schools have embraced segregation, especially on the football field.)  Until the Iron Bowl, the fans are relatively civil.  Not so with the relationship between the Vols and Tide.

If you look at history, it isn't hard to see the roots of hatred and distrust between these two border states.  Alabama was the fourth state to secede from the Union.  Tennessee was the last.  Knoxville was particulary pro-Union due its mountainous terrain that made slavery unnecessary.

It was Bear Bryant who told Huntsville native, Condredge Holloway, that he would never start a black quarterback at Alabama.  After his mother forbade him from taking offers from Major League baseball, Condredge came to Tennessee as the first black quarterback in the SEC. "The Artful Dodger" led the Vols to two SEC titles.

These are simply a couple of examples of how the states of Alabama and Tennessee have clashed.  Nevermind the ongoing ribbing that goes back and forth, over the border, between the rival factions.  Granted, they can't read/don't get most of our jokes about them, but isn't that what what makes this so fun.  HAHA.  Alabama is dumb.

You see, Tennessee fans and Alabama fans do not have to remain civil to one another throughout the year.  Our cooperation does not determine the welfare of an entire state, as it does with Bama/'Burn.  We are not family members that see each other every Sunday.  We do not go drinking together because we were friends in high school.  I didn't have any friends from high school that went to Bama.  If I did, then that's why we're not friends anymore.  I have a cousin that went to Bama.  He is a great, cool ass guy.  But we don't fucking talk.  We're not fucking buddies.  Because he went to Bama and I went to Tennessee.  I love him, but this week, he can go fuck himself.  And when we talk at Christmas, it will be about the Tennessee/Alabama game.  That is what makes this game so great.  There are people that I consider friends and family, that I only talk to once a year, and we talk about the Game.

After Arian Foster went over the top to conquer the Tide 16-13 in 2006, I was talking to a bammer at the BDT.  "Seriously, man.  What is the bigger rivalry for you guys, us or Auburn?" I asked him.
"Well, I'll tell you what.  We have to deal with Auburn all year long, constant shit talking.  But I can say this.  It really sucks getting beat by Auburn, but we all fucking hate losing to Tennessee."

                           

 So, this Saturday, the third in October, Alabama will come into Neyland Stadium, defending National Champions, with one loss, ready to extend their recent dominance over the Beloved.  However, as kickoff approaches, a large, orange moon will rise above the Appalachians as the Vols take the field.  The rest of the season is inconsequential now.  It's the Bama game.  Go Big Orange!

F**king Georgia

    After the Nashville run, I arrived back in Knoxville and spent Friday night with my stepfather John, at the State Veteran’s Home.    It is a very depressing place, but the nicest of its kind in the area, and I don’t really feel up to writing about it just yet.  At least not posting what I’ve written about it.  I spent the rest of the night on my couch, resting up for the early kickoff against the Dawgs.

    I felt pretty good about our chances against the 1-4 Dawgs as I showered and went to the grocery store with Brent in preparation for game viewing at his house.  We decided on barbecue tacos for the Gameday menu, and after a Kroger/Toddy’s run, we got to his place and started cooking.  The usual suspects were all there, Twon, D-Bo, Mandy, Good Neighbor and children, and various others.  The game started at 12:20pm and in time the Vols were down big.  Tennessee cold not do anything right, especially things like tackling and catching kicks.  The mood was lifted by a long Big Orange touchdown, but it was soon wiped out by yet another turnover.  I made my first whiskey at about 2.  The tacos were great, as was the company, but it could not stop the flood of whiskey that is brought on by terrible Tennessee defeat. 
   
    The Tennessee game over, the gang turned our attention and rage to the South Carolina-alabama game.  I am fairly sure there have never been so many orange-clad Gamecock fans in the history of football.  Our thinking was this; “If Tennessee loses, FUCK BAMA.  If Tennessee wins, FUCK BAMA.  Basically, FUCK BAMA.”

    As the Dickel wained, our cheers for Cocks waxed and we carried the Garnet and Black to victory over the number one team in the land.  Yes, bama lost to the Cocks.  The entire SEC, minus a million or so miserable, crooked assholes, rejoiced at the defeat of the Evil Empire.

    Memory fails me at this point, as indicated in the photo below.  I believe we went across the Pike to Greekfest.  I say this because there was a wine stain on my pants and dried yogurt in my beard.  The more I think about it, the more I hope we did, in fact go to Greekfest.  Otherwise, I’m pretty sure I was accosted by gypsies. 

    After who knows how much time and horrible behavior, I awoke in Brent’s sons’ room.  I believe it was around 11pm.  A look at my outgoing call log the next day would indicate that I was looking for feminine companionship.  Luckily, these calls went unanswered, and I went home to pass out for the night. 

    Sunday was very low-key, as it often is after horrible Large losses.  I watched football on the couch and porch with a couple friends and hit the hay early.

    Brent and Dixon, on the other hand did not.  In a truly brilliant display of Southern Decadence, they took Sunday Funday to a whole new level.  The bar has been set, the state of the art is now in place.  Reprinted, with permission, is the email I received from Brent on Monday morning.

“I am going to attempt to account for the absolute buffoonery that was yesterday, but it starts and ends with Dixon Greenwood.

The day started with a pull of Johnny Walker Blue out of the bottle at Dixon's urging.  It was 10:45 am.  While discussing lunch, I mixed a banana rum and OJ in a mason jar.  When we left, he was delighted to find out that his Showbiz Pizza tee had come in the mail along with his long-awaited documentary of the Rock-afire Explosion band.  (I'm not joking - http://www.amazon.com/Rock-afire-Explosion-Brett-Whitcomb/dp/B002QTL48A).

We then ran up a $68 tab at Sam and Andys West (a deli), before noon.  When we went to pay, the old man at the register asked "so what did yall have," to which Dixon replied "well, to start, 10 beers".  AK Vogel then asked to be taken home because she had not showered since Saturday and wanted to change clothes.  We declined her request, and instead I proposed that we take her to Burlington Coat Factory where she could purchase new clothing.  She consented to this idea, but also requested that she be allowed to shower at the Fort Sanders West healthclub.  This request was also declined. 

Knowing that shopping was going to take awhile, Dixon and I bought Natty light tall boys at a gas station and tailgated on his truck bed in the B.C.F. parking lot.  At some point Dixon and I decided we wanted to shop, so we went in as well. 

While there, Dixon was scolded for trying to go into the women's changing area to make AK put on a peach colored jacket/skirt combo that was a size 14.  I decided that I was going to purchase and wear for the rest of the day a knock-off Affliction tee.  Dixon selected a woman's jacket that had the word "Seven" in rhinestones on it.  Amanda chose leopard jeans.  AK purchased an entire outfit that was too ridiculous to describe.

Dixon wore his jacket to the counter and demanded that they scan it while he was wearing it.  The fat tard sales lady and he had the following exchange:  "Is there any reason why you are purchasing a woman's jacket?" "Seven is my favorite number and I love rhinestones."  She shrugged, and scanned the jacket.  A problem arose, however.  This jacket had one of those clips that sets the alarms off when leaving the store, and it had to be removed via a magnetic square that is bolted to the counter top.  She asked that he remove the jacket so she could accomplish this task.  Dixon said he simply could not take the jacket off and proceeded to lay across the counter, trying to align the clip on his chest with the magnetic square.  His behavior prompted yet another scolding, this time from the horribly disfigured manager.

So we then went to Bailey's next door for the NFL games, all in our fresh new gear.  Anthony met us up there, and he was wearing a nice suit from church.  The suit sitting with the B.C.F. crew really threw off the patrons and staff.  Dixon proceeded to ice me by having a waitress bring a single bottle of Smirnoff in an enormous bucket of ice while wearing a towel draped over her arm, sommelier-style.  I iced Anthony by having the waitress cover a bottle with chips and serving it to him as "free chips and salsa".  The staff declared this the most sinister icing in Bailey's history.  After the first round of games, during which Dixon kept calling the guy behind him Steven Burroughs (local lawyer with his face all over billboards) and after testy exchange with a dickhead in a Bears jersey, it was off to Roosters.

Roosters is where the wheels came off.  Dixon could not sit still, and he kept throwing rolls of paper towels around the bar.  He was cutoff, and I was as well, I believe primarily because I was in his general vicinity.  He was then thrown out because he kept up his ridiculous behavior.  As he was leaving, he gave to double bird to both the patrons and the staff of Roosters, and apparently has been given the death sentence.  I was allowed to resume drinking once he left.

By this time we had put together a slightly bigger posse of 6 or 7.  We decided to go eat at Wasabi.  I feel deeply sorry for the two guys on my end of the table and the portly couple stuck on the other end.  I doubt they were anticipating the disaster that swooped in on them at 8 pm on a Sunday.  My memory of Wasabi is a bit hazy, mainly because Dixon ordered 4 bottles of sake.  I do recall AK getting the birthday drum from one of the employees and aimlessly walking around the dining room drumming for the other patrons in the restaurant.  I also recall Dixon getting behind the grill and looking around for something to cook.

After dinner and apologies for those caught in our wake, we left Wasabi.  I could no longer function.  The night definitely needed a big sendoff, however, as at this point I could only describe it as the 4th or 5th most ridiculous day in my drinking career.  But Dixon found a way to give it a proper send off.  You see, Wasabi has a goldfish pond...

All on a Sunday.”

Mid-Week, Mid-State Panic

    After the disaster of LSU week and the debauchery of the four previous, I decided that I needed to get out of town for a few days.  On Wednesday morning, I threw some shit in a bag and headed west to the State Capitol to see Southern rockers Widespread Panic at the world famous Ryman Auditorium.  I got online and booked a room downtown and in no time, I was posted up on Broadway, ready to rock and roll. 

    I made a few calls to touch base with my Nashville crew, secured my ticket to the show, then walked down the street to Jack’s BBQ to meet up with some of my Panic buddies.  I met Christy and a couple of her “tour buddies” and we got some ‘cue and a table.  One of Christy’s friends, who went only by some lame nickname that I can’t remember, was sporting an Alabama hat.  I glared at Christy across the table as he sat next to me and discussed the previous night’s show.  He was a nice enough guy, but since I hate all bammers, I wasn’t very amicable.  Probably not very nice of me, but fuck that guy.  Some people are able to set aside petty football differences for the sake of concerts and an overall peaceful, hippy vibe.  I am not one of these people.  I want to kill anyone I see wearing a “Roll Todd” shirt.  The only thing worse than a dumb hippie, is a dumb hippie in bammer gear.  Fuck, I hate them!

    After lunch, we strolled a bit further down Broadway to the Broadway Brew House.  It is a large establishment, that unlike most in this part of downtown, is not a touristy “Honky-Tonk.”  It is big room, divided down the middle by tables, with two bars and approximately 7,000 beers on tap.  The owner used to work for Panic, and we have several mutual friends.  Panic was playing through the speakers, and we soon bellied up to the bar.  I ran into some friends who were also in town for the show, and we shot the shit over several whiskeys and ice cold High Lifes.  The bar was soon packed with Panic folks, and the mood was good.  So good in fact for one patron, that he excitedly pumped his fists into the air while doing a strange barstool dance(pun intended.)  He looked like he was having a seizure, but the drunken grin across his face laid these fears to rest.  He got really excited about songs from the album, “Til the Medicine Takes.”  These songs are a bit older, and considered by most Panic fans to be very run of the mill.  We openly mocked the dancing nerd at the bar until he was escorted out by a couple of the bartenders for being obviously drunk on beer.
   
     For most of my friends, this was the third night of a 3-day run, and they were running on fumes.  I was raring to go, but their tired attitudes were bringing me down.  This was soon cured by some help from Dr. Bruce and his bubble hash.  My Nashville crew soon arrived, and we made our way the few blocks to the Ryman.
   
    The line into the Ryman was 7-10 people wide and stretched nearly a block down the street.  We stood around for a bit before I realized what was causing the hold-up.  Security was checking ID’s and giving out wristbands at the front door.  This caused a ridiculous bottleneck that the crowd did not like.  I got a very uneasy vibe from the restless, drunken mass, and then realized that if I didn’t get a wristband, I could avoid the miserable line, and what was sure to soon become a raging mob of furious drunks and scalawags.  I figured with everyone I knew in the venue, that surely I could drink beer that my friends bought for me.  With a beard and plenty of cash, this was not a problem.

    My seats were fantastic, center balcony about 6 rows back, and I was sitting with three of my best friends, Mac, Tuna, and Eugene(pronounces Ooo-Dean.)  Beers in hand, we found our seats and waited for the lights to fall.  They soon did and the band ripped into their set, lights blazing and guitars soaring around the small, historic room.  I looked at my friends and realized that their earlier plans of remaining drug-free had apparently been scrapped.  The Tuna had his usual “Widespread eyes,” half open, slightly darkened, sagging over a huge, toothy grin.  I asked him what he’d taken.  He laughed hysterically and gave me a touchdown worthy high-five.  Eugene leaned over to inform that they’s both had a few bites of mushrooms.  I assumed that he wasn’t referring to shittakes.  “You got anymore?” I inquired at the top of my lungs over the music.
    “Sorry, Fat!  They’re all gone!  I was like the Cookie Monster on those bastards!  NOM NOM NOM!!!  Ahahahahaha!!”  he guffawed.  More high-fiving and hugs.  “So glad you’re here, buddy!!”  Eugene was a-rockin.’ 

    The show continued this way, beers coming one after another, more hand slapping, hugging, and small baggies and capsules being passed to and fro.  The show was fantastic, and everyone around us, the entire venue in fact, was in a great Music City state of mind.  The set break came and everyone shuffled outside to smoke cigarettes and shake hands with friends from days of hippie yore.
   
    The discussion outside during the set break was centered around rumors that there were going to some special guests coming out to play with Panic.  The big name floating around was Charlie Daniels.  This definitely excited the predominantly Southern fan-base of Widespread Panic.  I was skeptical about this rumor, as it has been my experience that rumors in the “lot” are usually bullshit.  However, on this fall night in Nashville, the rumors were true.  As the band came out for the second set, frontman John Bell, croaked, “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Charlie Daniels!!”  The crowd went nuts.  The near perfect acoustics of the legendary Ryman roared with the ecstatic voices of 1,500 bleary eyed Spreadnecks as band ripped into “Ain’t Life Grand,” JB on mandolin, Charlie Daniels sawing on his epic fiddle.  The devil in Georgia was wishing he was in Nashville tonight.  They then went into the Bloodkin song, “Who Do You Belong To?” and then the blues standard “Fixin’ to Die.”  JB’s soulful vocals turned to a near growl as  he, Jimmy Herring, JoJo, and Charlie traded licks on their respective instruments.  Charlie was pounding on his fiddle with such authority that his bow looked like a skinny, blonde chick headbanging on his shoulder.  His 40 gallon cowboy hat covered his face and his enormous belt buckle shot flashes of reflecting light all around the auditorium. 
     
    Charlie Daniels left the stage to more screams from the crowd and the band continued through a really good set.  The boys soon slowed the pace and moved into their usual second set “Drums,” as I noticed keyboardist JoJo exiting the stage.  I assumed he was going to take a piss or a line, as the rest of the band remained onstage.  A few minutes passed, and the band, save for Sonny and Todd(drummers), left the stage and the drum solo commenced.  Normally, I go pee during this interlude, but tonight I stayed because the lines for the men’s room were unconquerable.  Three rows in front of us was a guy in a ball cap, who seemed to be really enjoying drums.  Mac soon pointed out to me that it was JoJo.  JoJo lives in Nashville, and had come into the crowd to dance with his wife.  He seemed to be having quite a time and the surrounding crowd soon realized who was dancing with us.  After a couple of minutes he went back downstairs to the applause of the balcony, and resumed his position behind the keyboards and finished out the show. 

    I walked back to the Brew House after the show and sucked down a few more beers while waiting for my friends to rendezvous once again.  Around 2 o’clock, I hopped in the car with Christy and Bruce to go over towards Vanderbilt.  Some friends of ours from Knoxville had rented a house that was allegedly full of booze and nitrous oxide.  There was indeed ample booze, but thankfully there was no hippie gas.  It tends to give me a headache.  This doesn’t usually stop me, but I was glad it wasn’t around, nonetheless.  There was also a lot of good grass and a tire swing.  And lots of rolled-up dollar bills.  The owners of the house must have had some kind of new vending machine.

     As 4am rolled around, I decided to all a cab and go back to the hotel.  Nashville is a great taxi town, unlike Knoxville, and the cab arrived about 15 minutes after I called it.  The fair was ten bucks, including tip, which pleased me to no end.  I staggered up to my room, kicked of my boots and fell asleep immediately.  I didn’t even watch any internet porn.  I swear.

    I extended my stay another night about thirty seconds before check-out on Thursday.  You see, I had decided to stay in town another night in order to spend some time with the Nashville girl of earlier installments.  Also, one of my new favorite bands, Band of Horses, was playing a free concert in downtown Nashville, in front of the Davidson County Courthouse. 
   
    I decided to continue my slumber for a couple more hours.  I got up and showered, made a few calls looking for someone to have beers with, all to no avail.  I talked to Mac, who somehow had my sunglasses, and headed over to his house.  He was feeling horrible after three nights of debauchery and when I arrived, he wasn’t here.  He pulled in behind me after a few minutes, having just finished a solo lunch at Cracker Barrel.  Hungover decadence indeed.

    I hung out with Mr. & Mrs. Mac and their son in their lovely home.  “Can you say, “Hey, Fat,’ buddy?” 
    “Hey, Fat.  Knuck, knuck..” his son said as he gave me the fist bump.  Mrs. Mac and the baby soon left for a play date.  “You wanna check out my deck?” Mac asked as he pulled out his mason jar.
    “You know that I do.”  I said.  We hung out on the patio for a bit before my hunger got the best of me.  “I need some grease and alcohol if I’m going to pull it together.  Where is a good spot.?”  Mac told me about the Sportsman’s Grill, across the road from his house.  “Great.  Let’s roll.  You can drink one beer.  By the way can I borrow a shirt.  I have a date tonight, but I didn’t plan on staying so it’s t-shirt with smoke smell of t-shirt with beer smell.”
    “Sure, Fat.  Goddamn.  Let’s go.” said Mac.

    Clean, collared shirt on, we went to the Sportsman Grill for a cheeseburger and beer.  The cheeseburger and Fat Tire’s were great and Mac and I got caught up about life, music, his fatherhood, and the sorry state of UT athetlics.  After Mac finished his beer, I took him home.  “I feel fucking awful, my wife thinks that I’m pitiful and I’m pretty sure my two year old is now smarter than me.  Take me the fuck home.”  I did, then went back to my hotel to get ready for Band of Horses.

    Two hours later, Leslie came to the hotel to meet me and we headed back to the Brew House.  We chatted for a bit over some cocktails and grabbed a cab up to the Band of Horses show.  The cab ride cost about three bucks.  But it was an uphill three bucks, so fuck it.  There was a large crowd on the courthouse lawn and we were near the back.  The volume was lacking, but the show good.  They played a good mix of their albums, and the crowd was quite receptive.  Before they finished, Leslie and I walked down to 2nd Ave. To get some more drinks and listen to some music.  We found a small palce with a rock-n-roll cover band, deciding that shots were the best play.  The band was pretty good, “Sweet Child of Mine” was a highlight, and the crowd was great people watching.  It was some girl’s twenty-first birthday, and she and her hammered friends were quite a spectacle.  Regrets were definitely in their futures.  An hour or so later, Leslie ran out of steam and we started walking back to the hotel. 

    It was slow going up Broadway, what with the booze intake and all of the statues of Elvis, all of which Leslie demanded to be photographed next to.  We finally got back to the hotel where I made a very gallant attempt to get Leslie back to my room.  She declined, stating very convincing points, which I accepted, and walked her to her car.  After a very long overdue kiss, I bid her adieu, sulking back to my room, shirt untucked, head hung.  Back in the room, I ordered a disgusting pizza and wings(don’t order Sicilian Pizza) and went to sleep.  I drove back to Knoxville the next day in gastrointestinal agony.  Overall, good trip.  I only had one day to prepare for Georgia...

LSU-Death, Hallucinations, and a few too many Vols

Emmon Love and Coach Dooley

    LSU week started with such terrible news that the game seemed inconsequential.  I got a call, early Monday morning, that Emmon Love had died suddenly of a heart attack in his office.  He was 58.

    He was not only a great on the field Vol, but also a great father, philanthropist and friend to my family.  I feel like I knew Emmon rather well.  I saw him every Friday while stocking the Skyboxes( his box is next door to my uncle’s) and his sons are both close personal friends of mine.
     I remember the first time I met him.  I was in the Skybox, circa 2000.  His oldest son, Mark, was coming through rush at Tennessee.  I was the Rush Chairman for Sigma Chi at the time, and after talking briefly to the young rushee, Mark, I sauntered over to Emmon and said,  “Hello, Mr. Love.  I’m Chris Howard, and l am rushing your son’s balls off!”
    “Hi Chris... Emmon Love.  It’s great to meet you.  Can I get you a drink?”
    “Yessir, thank you.” I said.  He handed me a cold beer and we proceeded to shoot the shit about football, college, and the general goodness of all things Tennessee.

    Emmon never asked me my name again.  That was the kind of man he was.  If you shook his hand, he knew your name.  Always.

    Emmon’s death was a shock that resonated through Knoxville like a terrible thunder clasp of sick reality.  His funeral and the subsequent gatherings in his honor reminded everyone of mortality and the sheer randomness of death.  We drank lots of Scotch, embraced his family, and did our best to try and understand the unfairness that God deals us all.  The entire town of Knoxville, it felt, was under a dark cloud after his passing.  It wasn’t just those of us that knew him that were affected.  It was the entire Vol Nation.  The outpouring of sympathy, and even more so, respect, was evident by not only the discussions of those of us that knew him, but by the comments in the Knoxville News Sentinel, VolQuest and even USA Today.  Emmon Love was a great Vol and an even better human being.  His legacy will be felt in this part of the country for generations to come and I feel very privileged to have known him.

    There is no need to discuss the other things that went down during that awful week.  Let’s just say that it was a very dark time for all Vols.  The football team will pull it together, but the program lost a great friend.  Godspeed, Emmon.  You are loved more than you know.


    The Friday before LSU was a ridiculous example of extreme drunkenness  as always.  Normally, the OCI lunch is reserved for home games.  Not the case this week.  I got three calls about our Swamp lunch, and I couldn’t deny my public.  I went to OCI and met friends, all of whom are not on the usual roster of decadence.  I met D-BO, Harry and Watt in the back booth and we all ordered very large vodka drinks.  Harry and Watt left after lunch, while D-Bo and I bunkered in.  I had to be talked out of getting violent with our waitress, Hard Jess.  She owes me money for a bag of “seasoning,” but seems to feel that her financial woes are an excuse for not paying me.  Apparently, because of our friendly patron/help relationship, she thinks that this is acceptable.  It is not. 

    Which brings me to another point of contention...

    I love the Old College Inn.  My friends also love the Old College Inn.  We have all been eating and drinking there for longer than anyone on staff has even known of the place.  It is a Knoxville institution, and it is rapidly going to the fucking birds.  The fucking birds of laziness, distain and overall apathy. 

    The decline started a few years ago when it was purchased by what I can only imagine is a band of buffoonish gypsies.  The new regime wasted little time in overtaking the neighboring space(a tanning salon,) and adding large televisions, more seating and more tables.  By doing so, the new owners doubled the size of our beloved campus haven.  However, the expansion was not met with more staff or kitchen space.  Essentially, they doubled the seating, while leaving the capabilities of service the same.  Little did they know that by expansion, they killed the brilliant aura of what was once one of the most renowned college bars of the SEC.  In no time, the service and general ambiance was destroyed.  With expansion in mind, the bar expanded even further to take over the last bastion of Big Orange “hole-intha-wall” bar by swallowing the Tap Room.  The service and general quality of all things has declined at such a rapid pace that long time patrons, such as myself, have decided to draft a letter to the owners.  This letter will address the fact that, though we know the staff, love the bar, and will continue to patronize the establishment, the state of things in the Godfather booth are unacceptable.  Not to mention the fact that our usual waitress, Hard Jess, still owes me money for pot.  I am not a drug dealer by any means, but when you owe me money and don’t pay.....well, you may have to fall.  WWOD?( what would Omar do?)


    After the OCI lunch, D-Bo eyed me from across the copper table.
    “Fat, what’s the plan?  I kinda want to go re-fuel on my couch for a bit.”
    “That is unacceptable, D.  We both have large glasses of vodka and sweet tea.  If we rest, we die.” I told him.
    “ Then what do we do, Fat?” his hesitancy was palpable. 
    “Shit, dude.  It’s beautiful out.  Let’s go to Aubrey’s and suck back some pints on the patio.”  I told him with peer-pressure-esque suggestivity. 
    Thirty minutes later, we were on the porch at Aubrey’s.  After several vodkas, beers and jeers about the stinky girl that we both fucked, we decide to go to Roosters for Happy Hour. 
    I don’t remember the next two hours.  Fast forward to Nama, where, after meeting/dancing with the child of friends, I was driven home by Will at 11.30. 
    I came crashing into my house, fed the dogs(dumped the bag of dog food on the floor) and proceeded to pass out on the couch.  All before midnight.  On a Friday.

    I slept soundly. Briefly.

    Wake up motherfucker!!!!!!!  What are you talking about?  Where am I?  You’re on your couch you fucking idiot.  Where the fuck did you come from?  Fuck you man, wake up.  But I don’t want to.  I’m on the moon, I mean my couch. Here, eat these. What?  WhatishtisImeanwhatarethese??? Open up bitch.  Just put em on your tongue.  OkI’m gottapissanddrinksomewaterandpee.  Cool, man.  Let’s go.  You’re coming with me.  Let’s ride. Wherearewegoing? We’re going downtown.  Wasthatacid?ittastedlikeacidwasthatacid?  Yes.

    I soon found myself in the front seat of a tinted window Cavalier, barreling through Sequoyah Hills, Camel Light betwixt my lips, Natural Light between my shivering, khaki clad knees.  We pulled into an apartment complex that I was unaware of even existing.  One quarter mile from the most wealthy family homes in Knoxville, I sat down on a couch and looked towards the TV.  It took me a bit to realize that the TV was nothing more than a flat computer monitor, and I also realized that my hosts were all very pale, with deep, purple eyes, and rings on their pointer fingers and around their hollow eyes.  The only girl had a color of red hair that has never appeared in nature and her eyes belayed an agony that could only be brought on by self disgust and horrible addictions.  I needed to pee, but after realizing that the only bathroom probably held syringes, spoons, and rubber tubing, I decided to step outside for a smoke.  The acid was in full effect by this point, but the idea of people actually doing heroin, here in my hometown, was too much for me to handle.  I went to the car and waited on my friend to come out.  It wasn’t a long wait, as he too was rattled by the opiated scene inside.  We smoked the last of a joint and for headed the Preservation Pub. 

    My fear soon turned to aggressive wanting as we made our way downtown.  I did cartwheels through the parking garage on Market Square, and charged into the Pub with the fervor of a badger doing battle with a room full of rabid coons. 
    I went to the bar, where I was handed a cold High Life without ordering.  I love knowing my bartenders.  Especially when they are beautiful blondes, with which I have eaten disgusting Tri-City fast food burgers with and openly mocked JC-er’s at a wedding.  The band was a folksy group that made my intense tripping brain feel at home.  As I mentally spun about the narrow bar, I ran into a beautiful girl with whom I’d shared a great week, 18 months prior.  She and I danced about in front of the stage and her Polish accent once again made my trousers lift.  After the band concluded with a Merle Haggard song, I invited her back to the house. 
   
    The drunken crew from the bar was at my house when I returned.  We listened to  a lot of loud music and eventually burned all of the beer boxes that had accumulated at my house.  After several drinks and bong hits, I was pulled into a kiss from my Pollack beauty.  “I am going to get in your bed and go to sleep.” she told me.
    “Perfect.  I’m right behind you.” I said with decadence on my mind.
    “We are not going to have sex, by the way.” she said with a coy, formerly communist grin. As it turned out she was right. Her beautiful back tattoo was not splattered with my drunken orgasm on this particular night much to my chagrin. 
   
    I slept late on Saturday and watched the first half of the game on my back porch.  At halftime, I was overcome by violent nausea and crawled into my bed to listen to the second half on the radio.  I got up to watch the final plays, and after the game’s sickening conclusion, I returned to bed where I stayed until Monday morning.