Postmortem: Football in the Desert

My football season is over.

In a soul-crushing span of 24 hours, both of my teams flopped around on national television and stomped my ardor back into the turf.

I admit it: After years of following Texas A&M and the New Orleans Saints, one would think I’d be satisfied with a Super Bowl victory and defeats of ranked Oklahoma and Nebraska teams in the same year… but like Icarus, we always want more – and when the bright light of expectation (and national television) shines upon us, we can bask briefly in its glory (maybe for a quarter) before we come crashing back to reality.

And this is the reality of a football fan in Arizona: Thank God that’s over, now I can go outside and do something worthwhile with my time.

As the rest of our nation suffers under the gray cloud of winter, the sun shines on our desert playground. With lows in the mid-40s, highs in the upper-60s, every Sunday is battle between the Red Zone Channel and the better angels of our natural environment: Our hiking boots, our mountain bikes, our endless skies. Now I don’t have to fret that dilemma – now my Sundays will be free from disappointment (the Arizona Cardinals, the Cleveland Browns, the Seattle 7-9 Seahawks? REALLY?) as I bask in the life-affirming goodness of tending my vegetable garden, reading books on my patio, or passing an afternoon accruing much-needed Vitamin D beside a swimming pool.

And if I keep telling myself that, I might actually believe it – because every summer, when the mercury scoots past 110, I long for the air-conditioned goodness of a TiVO’d early-season game (TiVO for 30 minutes, then watch football commercial-free). I also pine for the rare overcast day in the mid-50s (WINTER!) when we can make gumbo during the early game, taste it during the afternoon game, and eat it during the night game.

Damn you, football gods! I raise my fist in rage… and I resort to that sad balm of sportswriters everywhere – the 2010 Season Postmortem aka Closure for the Defeated. Bear with me, I’m a little rusty on this one. Continue reading Postmortem: Football in the Desert

Westboro Baptist Hate-Mongers

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances. First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States

This same First Amendment that allows us to gather on the National Lawn, or criticize our elected officials, or even take our government to court, also allows jackasses at the Westboro Baptass Church to protest the funerals of dead servicemen and women with signs that say, “GOD HATES FAGS” and “THANK GOD FOR DEAD SOLDIERS”  … Or at least it does right now: The Supreme Court is considering the case of Snyder vs. Phelps, where Albert Snyder, the father of a fallen marine, sued Westboro Imperial Wizard Fred Phelps for harassing his family at his son’s funeral.  There are some limits to free speech: The First Amendment does not allow us to yell “FIRE!” in a crowded theater, and so the Roberts Court gets to decide whether “GOD SENT THE SHOOTER” is appropriate to shout at a memorial service.

I am torn in this regard because I am a true believer in the First Amendment, having been employed as a sportswriter (pseudo-journalist) for seven years. I may not like what the Klan has to say, but I defend their right to say it. And in that spirit, I’d like to exercise my right to free speech in regards to the Supreme Grand Cyclops of Westboro and his klavern…

Continue reading Westboro Baptist Hate-Mongers

Day of Stacy, Chapter 39 – Shortness of Arms

Rockin' the prescription eyewear in my 39th year

Today I am 39 – entering the final year of my fourth decade – and I’m falling apart. It’s enough to have the antenna-field of gray sprouting from my noggin, but now I’m faced with a life-altering diagnosis: Shortness of Arms.

So I’m rocking the prescriptive eyewear for the official affliction of Presbyopia. I thought it only happened to Presbyterians, but apparently it strikes lapsed Methodists as well. The heartbreak of farsightedness, caused by loss of elasticity in the eye with onset in middle age, knows no religious bounds. It strikes with random fury. Now I’m wondering what other parts may fail before the 40-year warranty expires.

Actually, 39 is a cool birthday – not as momentous as most of the decade-markers, but beating all the speed-limit birthdays ending in 5 and coming in a close third or fourth to 21 and 18. 39 beats 20, but shares with it the thrill of anticipation: There’s something cool to look forward to next year – the big 40-ounce year of awesomeness.

I revel in 39ness – as 38 carried with it no cachet – it was just another number, a milepost on the highway of age. 39 is the product of two prime numbers and it is the reverse of my anniversary date 9/3, as well as the reverse of my Texas A&M graduation class ’93 and Pat’s racing number #93. 39 is also the last exit before the Year of Reckoning. 39 is the year where I say, ” Well, I only have 365 days to achieve everything I said I was going to do before I turned 40 – TIME TO GET BUSY!”

So among those things still on the list…

Continue reading Day of Stacy, Chapter 39 – Shortness of Arms

Thanksgiving Day Turkey Gumbo – Now, with Bacon Grease

Behold, Pat's Triple-X Death Batch: Spicy

Keep stirring.

One hour and 45 minutes after I began stirring one cup of flour into one cup of bacon drippings on medium-low heat, we finally dumped the holy trinity of onion, bell pepper and celery into our roux. Today we made our annual Thanksgiving Day Turkey Gumbo – it’s a once-in-a-year gumbo of epic proportion, and really, it’s the only way to properly dispose of the leftovers. As Hank Williams Jr. would say, “It’s a family tradition.”

I think our Thanksgiving guests prefer the leftovers to the actual feast – though Pat’s turkey is heralded far and wide as the best. In fact, he has usurped my own father as the official roaster of the official turkey when we’re back home in Louisiana. He brines it overnight and then flips the bird four times during the roasting process to keep it from drying out.

The result is succulent on the Thanksgiving Day table – and epic in the gumbo thereafter.

Continue reading Thanksgiving Day Turkey Gumbo – Now, with Bacon Grease

Los Verdaderos Hombres de Genio

What would you do for $5?

My 27-year-old cousin Ross is, well, 27… and Saturday, he drank Bud Light Chelada, 24 fluid ounces of Bud Light and Clamato with Salt and Lime – The Perfect Combination™.

Pat had called to say he was stopping by the store on his way home and asked if we needed anything for our weekend entertainment? Ross asked him to pick up some beer, which we now understand (but have always known) to be anything but a giant, soulless, corporate brew. Ross prefers something in a bottle and derived from an earnest microbrewer toiling in service to his precious craft – something that usually costs $5 per bottle instead of $5 per six-pack… and that’s $5 he doesn’t really have right now as a lowly advertising intern.

Pat showed up with a can of Chelada – a 24-ounce tallboy of Bud Light Beer with Natural Flavor and Certified Color.

Continue reading Los Verdaderos Hombres de Genio