In media res

I woke up Thanksgiving morning hungover on a friend's couch.

His parents whispered when they put a turkey into the oven. They didn't want to wake me.

Under my film of cigarette stink, I was reminded that I liked New York's smoking ban. It isn't just the cigarette smell, it's the way the odor corrupts your pores and reminds you of terrible hangovers from the past. Post-ban, I still wake up in my apartment hungover and some mornings my throat is dry from last night's Marlboro Lights, but there isn't the blanket of bar stench, a smell that I associate with the ripest hangovers from college.

It was a little after 8 a.m. I heard the sounds of small kids upstairs. It was time to find my parents' car.

* * *

I take competition seriously, even when it's beer pong. Mike and I went 3-0 in beer pong at an afterbar, which played out in the basement of some guy who must have been 21 or 22. I hadn't played much beer pong since college, but Mike and I dominated. On game three everyone was running out of steam. It turned into one of those matches where you need 30 tries to finish off the final two cups, which we eventually did to close the night undefeated.

It was late. We were bombed in a basement full of strangers almost a decade younger than us, in a house in the redneck town where we grew up.

* * *

"I want you to go back to New York and carry a message to [Flop]," my friend Jeff said as we left this afterbar. "I want you to tell him that he could never cut it here."

"No way, dude," I said. "[Flop] sees weirder shit than this before lunch. If [Flop] were here, he'd be humping a fat girl in the corner of that basement."

Jeff and I have a running argument about whether, in a hypothetical fight between me and his younger brother, he would side with me. He insists that he would take his brother's side. I don't like this, so I tackled him. Catching him offguard, he landed in the front lawn before quickly regaining the upper hand.

"That's fine," I said. "You win."

I wanted breakfast. It was 4 a.m. We walked to a Coney Island place rumored to be open 24 hours. It was closed for Thanksgiving.

There were five of us. We were too drunk to drive. It was too far for any of us to walk home.

There's a girl in her mid-20s who grew up in this town and now lives in Williamsburg. She was with us. A few weeks earlier, some of us had met up for beers and dinner at Zum Schneider on Avenue C -- normal enough, but then I consider that growing up we perceived any town with a movie theater to be a major city, and Zum Schneider seems like a small victory.

"I'll call my dad," she said. "He'll take everybody home."

Waiting for her dad, we cajoled some of the restaurant's departing employees to give us cigarettes. I begged them to make me poached eggs. They politely declined.

The dad arrived. For a middle-aged man called at 4 a.m. to pick up his adult daughter and four strange, drunk guys, he was pretty nice about it.

My parents live far outside of town. It would have taken 20 minutes for them, round trip. Hence, I would crash at Jeff's parents' house.

* * *

As Mike observed, it used to be that when you came back to town and went to a bar, you couldn't walk 10 feet without running into someone who would buy you a drink. Wednesday was not one of those nights. There were three of us in the ballpark of 30 years old, in a bar full of 21- and 22-year-olds. There were no stray friends, and few younger siblings of friends. The generations had transitioned.

It was an ego blow that no one I spoke to had heard of me.

"Hi," said the beefcat. "I give great head. What do you do?"

The beefcat was 22 or 23. She was subtle, a little shy.

She directed her charms to several of us, not just me personally. After she established her bona fides (she graduated from a competitive private university in the mid-Atlantic, was a fan of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, and was studying for a Ph.D) the situation seemed less dangerous. Certain girls -- hardcore rural girls, who live in the area their whole lives, coping with all kinds of meanness, worn out and begging for attention -- who show up on townie nights get drunk and get angry. They are a threat. This girl was being funny.

"Hell, I'll let all three of you fuck me," she said.

I moved a few feet to buy a round. When I came back, Mike had driven her away.

"What the hell did you do that for?"

"She was annoying as hell," Mike said.

"Dude, it was funny," I said. "She likes Sir Gawain. Besides, compared to everyone else here, you're fucking old. You should be flattered that she was even interested."

* * *

Earlier in the night, Mike, Jeff and I visited a girl we went to high school with. Wendy was one of the prettiest girls in our class -- she's still striking. Girls here look different than they do in New York. Most are worse for the wear, but the pretty ones seem cleaner and unaffected. Wendy's married now and lives near Detroit. She had her three-year-old son with her. We were at her parents' house. Her mom didn't recognize me at first.

I incited Wendy's kid. That's what I do. If a kid walks out with a ball, other people say to the little kid, "Wow! Where did you get that ball?" I say, "Cool ball, dude. Throw it at Grandma's head." Within 30 minutes the kid and I were throwing an inflated ball around the living room and knocking over candles.

Wendy talked about being a mom; her mom gave us cans of Labatt; her dad gave graphic descriptions of a recent check-up; Mike and I discussed buying investment property. Mike's real job involves the healthcare industry. He said something about how it seems like a lot of people in this town come down with cancer, and it's true, there seemed to be a lot of random death and illness here, more than I'm used to or hear about from other people. Growing up, there were too many fatal and near-fatal car accidents, and Mike's observation was right, there is a lot of cancer, although it's tough to guess whether it's something in the environment or just the side-effect of a region where there's not a lot of money and a low priority on healthy living.

People here get older faster. Most look older younger. They marry younger. They have young kids. They have a different kind of stress. It's stuff that shows up in peripheral vision, like the same game is playing out with different clocks, a dwindling number of us knocking around in prolonged adolescence while other people settled into premature maturity.

Wendy's dad talked about the burglary at a bar he used to own. Wendy talked about stealing liquor from that bar when she was 16.

It was getting late, and it seemed like her kid would have to go to sleep soon.

So we left that house at 11, with about five hours still to carry on.

Thanks

In the spirit of the Thursday holiday, I'm writing this quick thanks to everybody who's been reading and linking to us lately. It's flattering to be read by strangers.

This isn't any kind of set-up. It's nice to get e-mails and links from people we don't know. I mean that.

No, I'm not being sarcastic. Why do you think I'm being sarcastic every time I say something nice? Thanks for reading, and indulging the occasional arbitrary interest and inside joke. Whenever I'm tempted to hold back a little, it occurs to me that the fun of reading someone's blog is enjoying their idiosyncracies.

So if you think I'm being sarcastic, that reflects more on your insecurities than any attitude I've had in the past. I know I'm sarcastic, but I keep it in check. Really, I'm just trying to say something nice to you, but you're resisting. It speaks ill to your sense of self-worth -- you don't think you're worthy of compliments. I've told you before that I'm not out to get you.

I'm so grateful to be read that I'm leaving you with my favorite Thanksgiving knock-knock joke. It's my own adaptation of the celebrated Interrupting Cow cycle. It only makes sense if you tell all three parts in rapid succession.

Me: Knock knock.
You: Who's there?
Me: Interrupting turkey.
You: Interrupting turkey wh-
Me: GOBBLE GOBBLE GOBBLE.

Me: Knock knock.
You: Who's there?
Me: Interrupting Indian.
You: Interrupting Indi-
Me: STOP STEALING MY LAND!

Me: Knock knock.
You: Who's there?
Me: Interrupting corn.
You: Interrupting corn who?
[Stand motionless with hands at side in imitation of a cornstalk. Sway softly, as if blown by a gentle breeze.]

Home for the holidays

I'm en route to my parents' house today. It used to be that when I went back for Thanksgiving or Christmas, I expected a quiet few days of reading and napping, with some civilized beers with high school friends thrown into the mix.

That has changed in recent years.

Oh, sure, I'm carrying the new translation of The Aeneid, and I have every intention of getting some work done. My good intentions will be held prisoner by reality.

Take last Christmas. A night out at the bar segued into an afterparty at the empty home of some guy several years younger than the rest of us. The night ended with a mounted bass smashed to smithereens and a raid on the kitchen of our gullible host, who promptly flipped out and screamed for everyone to leave his house. That same trip, my sister's two dogs trashed my parents' bedroom: they shredded a mattress and boxsprings and nearly murdered three cats. My mother, who has watched Babe a few too many times, expressed dismay that the cats and dogs couldn't learn to get along.

A couple years earlier I assumed afterparty responsiblities. I brought a crew home for some 2 a.m. ice skating, waking my future brother-in-law by jumping on his bed, and then rousing my sister with a chorus of taunts shouted from the living room.

My father was not amused, but none of our fathers are amused. Earlier this century there was an infamous hot tub party at a friend's house that precipitated another pissed-off dad to come downstairs and throw everyone out.

On quiet nights, we have bicycle thievery, snowball fighting, and a flirtatious hillbilly psychic who tries to read palms. One evening, 30 of us showed up in a redneck bar to enjoy some fiddling. We shut the place down. Another morning I woke up on a couch with my wristwatch torn apart.

People will hook up with former classmates. Married girls will hit on single boys. Housepets will run wild. Fathers will storm and mothers will weep.

It should be an interesting week.

Ohio State 42, Michigan 39

I don't know where I'm goin'.

But I sure know where I've been.

Hanging on the promises in songs of yesterday.

And I've made up my mind.

I ain't wasting no more time.

But here I go again.

Here I go again.

Whitesnake, "Here I Go Again"

We lost, and sure, that sucks. But almost every second of today's game was pure pleasure. It would have made Bo proud.

I'm looking forward to the re-match in Glendale.

1929-2006

"Bo Schembechler reduces me to tears."

-My throwaway line in a post from Monday.

Some of my friends occasionally point out that I didn't care very much about Michigan football until after I left college. It always stings a little.

On the day of Michigan's win against Penn State in 1997, I had what would, in other circumstances, be known as a come-to-Jesus moment. Like a lost soul who wandered into a revival tent, I immediately converted. We shouted in the Law Library and packed into the president's house. We got drunk at the Brown Jug and went home happy.

I still had time at Michigan. Enough to celebrate the 1997 Ohio State win and spend that night wandering Ann Arbor. Enough to be there on that night in November '97 when a friend -- a freshman at the time -- made a poorly timed jump, cut his head, and went to the hospital for stitches.

Enough to get season tickets for the next year.

"I debated it, as you know, longer than I thought I would, and I came to the conclusion, that there are things that are more important to me, and one of them's Michigan. With that in mind I'm staying where I belong, right here"

--Bo, when offered a then-unprecedented $1 million contract from Texas A&M.

When I left Ann Arbor it started to mean something different. I lived in a city that I didn't like. A few good friends were around, but I was away from Ann Arbor and everything I loved so much. Unlike college, the Michigan games weren't just about scores. Instead, you knew that everyone you missed, all over the country, was sitting in bars with strangers doing the same thing that you were. It stopped being a game and became a touchstone.

That first year away, one of my roommates was a college friend. On game days she would cook up huge breakfasts and we would spend the afternoon watching football. That first fall, I looked forward to every Saturday, because I knew that it would remind me of what it was like in Ann Arbor.

This is part of why I hate to talk trash about other teams or other schools. You don't want to step on something that might mean as much to them as it does to you.

Well, you could be one of those people who went to Tufts or Bryn Mawr or Williams or something. And tonight you'd feed the baby, pay some bills, maybe watch some TV, and then spend your Saturday shopping or running errands or maybe getting in some crocheting.

Instead, there's revenge in your heart and blood in your eyes. Sure, this isn't easier, but it lets you know you're alive.

--An e-mail that co-blogger "Flop" wrote to a friend earlier this week

On September 8, 2001, I was in Seattle with about 15 of my college friends. We were there to watch Michigan lose to Washington. We had great seats, low and near mid-field. Lee Bollinger was president of Michigan at the time. He walked past us and said hello. For my friend Erin and I, it was like a brush with celebrity.

I'm not going to get too maudlin about what happened three days later, but I remember thinking about how we'd all been on cross-country flights right before it happened. I promised that I'd abstain from my favorite post-Michigan loss outburst -- "I hate my life!" -- and that I'd take these things less seriously.

None of that happened, of course. Shortly thereafter we had the Spartan Bob game, an event so agonizing that twice that week I woke up with nightmares about that last second. Michigan football never felt so good.

Think of all the glorious victories this team has given us (and the defeats, too). Then think of all the people you shared those moments with over the course of your lifetimes.....

I think it's safe to say that without Bo, Michigan football would have been "less than." As a result, our lives would have somehow been "less than."

Thanks, Bo...just... thanks for everything, I guess....

--Comment left on MGoBlog

It's true that, in college, I didn't spend a lot of time on football. There were approximately 8,456 other things that I loved. It's possible that if I started my years in Ann Arbor as a football nut, that list would be shorter, and that my life would be blander. That's not an overstatement.

But I also grew up in a Michigan family. A now-deceased great uncle was a fan. He wore Michigan ballcaps. Sometimes we watched games at his house.

A cousin 13 years older than me went to Michigan and got an engineering degree. I must have been 9 or 10 when I made my first trips to Ann Arbor for his graduation and later to go to his wedding at a church on campus. (When I was in college, I probably walked past that church on the corner of State and William more than a thousand times.)

It was all enough influence that, as a little kid, I liked Michigan the way that I liked the Tigers, even though I didn't understand either. I remember crying in rage before a Rose Bowl -- the Michigan-UCLA game in 1983 -- because the pre-game pundits predicted a Michigan loss.

And I knew about Bo Schembechler. I knew that Bo coached Michigan football and was to be taken seriously. People talked about him like they knew him, and it's funny when I think about it now, but I always had this vague assumption that my grandparents and people of their generation were friends with the famous people their age. Later, I wore a shirt that had a cartoon Bo face on the front and assorted Michigan bragging rights on the back.

What did I know about Bo? You know what you know about any distant authority figure. From roughly age three to nine, he was as omnipresent and respected as the president or Sparky Anderson. You didn't know anything about him, but you knew enough to venerate.

When your team is winning, be ready to be tough, because winning can make you soft. On the other hand, when your team is losing, stick by them. Keep believing.

-Bo Schembechler

I ended up in New York at least in part because so many of my college friends live here. Now I watch the games with people I've known for 10 years. There's still the fondness of knowing that my parents are sitting in a house on a lake watching the game, or driving around Michigan with the game on the radio. I think about friends in Ann Arbor, Chicago and L.A., and like the idea that they're all doing the same thing that I am.

Still, the games are different now. I work a brutal job. I don't congratulate myself when things go right because I don't want to get lazy; I don't worry when something goes wrong because, like a relief pitcher or a quarterback, chastising yourself over screw-ups will take you someplace bad. I'm not going to get emotional over work, so it comes out in these games instead. I can celebrate without being self-conscious, or brood without worrying that it's going to carry over tomorrow.

It occurs that at some point the Michigan program acquired the traits you hold dear -- loyalty, honesty, tradition, victory. And you wonder: if you were a different person who valued other things would you care so much? It occurs that at some point the Michigan program acquired other traits you share but do not hold particularly dear -- cantankerousness, stubbornness, an inability to suffer fools gladly. And you wonder: do I like Michigan because of the way I am, or am I the way I am because I like Michigan?

The answer seems clear.

Now the man who took that rudderless program and gave it -- gave you -- all the things you like and don't like is dead. In 1969, it all started with a victory over #1 Ohio State.

--Brian from MGoBlog

I was in the office this morning when news came that Bo had been rushed to the hospital because he collapsed before a television interview.

He'd had a scare like this about a month ago. Really, it was a miracle that he lived this long. Famously, at age 40, he had a heart attack on the eve of Michigan's 1970 Rose Bowl game.

With the upcoming Michigan-Ohio State game, he'd been in the media all this week. Every quote was fierce and principled. At a Monday press conference, he brought up an incident two years ago when Buckeye security -- under the guise of anti-terrorism precautions -- inspected the Michigan team's bags: "If they embarrass the Michigan team like they did two years ago, somebody ought to do something about it," Schembechler said. "They didn't do it to any other team, and they haven't done it to any other team this year. By God, they better not do it to Michigan -- and you can take that back to them."

I savored every quote from him this week. This was my man. My chest and my eyes swelled with pride. He was the living embodiment of the University of Michigan; he was sport itself.

He was dead by noon today.

It didn't feel as much like losing a beloved coach as it did like losing the patriarch. It was the passing of generations: of being a little kid who didn't know any better, of the pre-ESPN, regional, parochial sports world, where the post-War generation of Bear and Woody and Bo never had to worry about sportstalk radio or vile message boards.

I closed the door to my office and left it that way most of the day because I found myself choking up at odd moments. Nobody needed to see that.

Walking down the street to pick up a sandwich for lunch, I passed a stranger my age in a Michigan cap. "Go Blue!" I said to him. A few steps later, I turned around and said, "Did you hear Bo died this morning?"

Bo dying on the eve of this year's Michigan-Ohio State game: the best comparison I could think of was John Adams and Thomas Jefferson dying on July 4, 1826.

What happens tomorrow changed completely.

Before, I would have been content with an 11-1 season. A victory would have been a nice ending to a miraculous year. This old-fashioned team -- this Bo-like team -- with its sturdy, relentless running game and a defense that leaves shattered quarterbacks in its wake had given me so much joy that I couldn't feel disappointed.

I don't care about the BCS or any other ranking.

I don't care about being undefeated for the sake of being undefeated.

All I want is this last win -- for Bo and for everything else.

24 hours until kickoff: A restrained Woo!

Desmond says: Let's win it for Bo, guys.

I was originally going to post something about Ohio State fans tendency to either run around bellowing about the concept of ownership like a confused, yet precocious, seventh-grader who just read The Fountainhead. But then it occurred to me that trying to reason with Ohio State fans always makes me feel like Tim Canterbury whenever he had to interact with Gareth. So instead, I'll just offer my most fervent hopes that we can put Ohio State's stapler in the jelly.

LaMarr Woodley: Office prankster.

We got wars going down in the Middle West

We got douchelords comin' 'round the back in the sweater vest ...

Perhaps you've heard of this game happening Saturday? It's always been big to me, but not for the reasons you might think.

I grew up in Cleveland. And I was obsessed with football. But only pro football. And it pretty much stayed that way until I actually became a student at Michigan.

I owned an actual Cleveland Browns helmet. I thought Brian Sipe was the best football player who ever lived. Saturdays were for cartoons; Sundays were for football. I was dimly aware that there was college football, too. But I lived for Sunday.

And I never liked Ohio State.

I think it started when I'd turn the TV knob to channel 3 on Sunday mornings, looking for the pre-pregame show, and come across Earle Bruce burping up excuses after a loss to to Purdue or Minnesota. BOR-ring! I just wanted my NFL films recap, bitch.

My Saturdays were spent actually outside, actually playing football, pretending to be Reggie Rucker, Rickey Feacher or Matt Bahr until it got dark and cold out. The sight of college football on TV just made me want it to be Sunday that much more.

I only watched Michigan-Ohio State every year because my mom went to Michigan. Between that and stupid ol' Earle, guess which team I supported.

My childhood college football experience as a kid consisted almost entirely of watching Michigan play Ohio State every year, then watching Michigan play in the Rose Bowl.

But ever since I became a student, it's become a much bigger deal. A big reason for all the passion in college football is because so many fans have such an intimate connection with their team. It's more than a shared city or state. It's our own identity.

So yeah, this is big. I'd love to go on and on for thousands of words here about all that, but I'm too excited to think straight.

This week has been draining. The slightest provocation makes me think of the game. I watch DVR-ed episodes of "Scrubs" and wonder if Dr. Cox would be a Michigan fan because he wears a Red Wings jersey.

I'm sure I'm not alone. I've been explaining to my non-college-football-fan friends that this game, in this rivalry, is like waiting for Christmas, only there's a decent chance that Santa comes down the chimney with a flame-thrower. It's like getting ready for your wedding, at which it's possible your beloved will run off with your worst enemy.

I've always enjoyed beating Ohio State, but I can't imagine circumstances in which I'd enjoy beating them more.

Awesomeness awaits us. And possibly hooting.

Fun with mascots (non-college-football content)

For some reason, I've decided to put together a list of the worst imaginable mascots. I have no idea why I thought of this, but here you go. Clearly, this is the work of a mind with extra-spazzy synapses this week.

Subjy, Objy and Preds, Grammar Ambassadors: These adorable scamps in western gear are present at every National Grammar Foundation grammar rodeo. Giant, fuzzy cowboys, except Objy is a horse. Occasionally appear with rodeo clowns wearing prepositions, modifiers and the coveted who/whom lasso.

Casey Clawsen, One-Crab Crustacean: Giant blue crab (Callinectes sapidus) who represents the Chesapeake Bay Area Crabbers Association. Rigid adherence to biologically correct details makes for big laffs when kids step on his "swimming legs." Rejected names for this character included: Thomas Pinchon, Claws von Bulow, Bitey.

Bospy and DarDanielle, The Twins of Turkey: They represent shipping and trade for the Port of Istanbul. The two colorful, jauntily-costumed, nautically themed characters have occasionally sat for Turkish diplomats at EU accession talks. Oddly enough, the mascots resemble large, flightless birds, but representatives are adamant that they are NOT turkeys. Or repurposed Hokie Bird costumes.

The Houston Eulers, Math-Savvy Punsters: Not so much a mascot as an intramural flag-football team made up of grad students from the University of Houston's math department. There are plans, however, to dress up one of their girlfriends in a giant, fuzzy, lowercase e. Just as soon as they can locate both a costume and a willing girlfriend.

Chingy, Anthropomorphization of the I Ching: Giant fuzzy 經 character deployed by the Chinese government to help with outreach after seemingly random and unpleasant events.

Whenever a bus plunges off an unfinished road, a train derails due to poorly maintained rails or, say, a dam is built, flooding ancient cities, Chingy is there to explain and console upset citizens that it's all part of the order in the universe, and has absolutely nothing to do with corruption, greed or a totalitarian government which totally loves its people. Currently cannot appear in western world due to possible copyright infringments.

Limey, The Scurvy-Awareness Lime: Pretty self explanatory, actually. Bring citrus fruits on those long sea voyages, kids. You don't want the scurvy.

It's early Thursday morning and 63 hours to kickoff

LaMarr Woodley says hello. (Photo from the Daily.)

It's the first thing I think about when I wake up. I listen to the ESPNU podcast on the subway -- more annoyance than it's worth, but it gets the juices flowing. At my desk, it's time for MZone, MGoBlog, EDSBS, SMQ, the Daily, and the Free Press. Four cups of coffee and it's time for work, which is little more than a veil of tears that comes between me and my precious.

I'm a basketcase at the office.

A co-worker is so obsessed that his wife might divorce him.

What are your excuses, fuckers?

Thought so.

We interrupt this tsunami of anticipation to bring you something completely different

As the owner of precisely zero working computers since April, my music appreciation has stagnated. CrimeNotes was kind enough to burn me a CD (I know: so 20022) of The Hold Steady's "Boys and Girls in America" and my reaction to it was similar in amplitude to his. Had he not already published multiple excellent treatises on the matter, I would have happily added my two cents. It's made me giddy with glee ever since CrimeNotes slapped his headphones over my ears and pressed play, Marty McFly-style, while we were drinking on my roof late one night after a cookout.

Strangely enough, that's how I first came across the song "O Valencia!" from The Decemberists' latest album The Crane Wife, although the circumstances were different. My co-blogger was not present. Instead of 3 a.m. on a Saturday morning, it was more like 11 p.m. on a Sunday night. And although my friend and I were plenty drunk, I had been having a monumentally shitty day (never you mind the reasons why). My friend handed me his iPod, cued up to the song.

I sat there, nursing my beer, contemplating my life and listening to Colin Meloy's rollicking and tragic tale of star-crossed lovers. It's story of thwarted happiness resonated with me, although for the wrong reasons. Whatever ill fate had befallen me that day, at least I hadn't just had the love of my life shot to death in my arms.


The lyrics are arresting:

Oh Valencia!
With your blood still warm on the ground
Valencia!
And I swear to the stars
I'll burn this whole city down

I've since been listening to it nonstop on the Decemberists' website. If this song doesn't make you want to shed a tear for every missed opportunity at happiness in your life, you either have a dusty opening where your soul should be, or need to take more risks in your life.