Convenient Myth of Pre-Destination, Egg Bowls and Thanksgiving

I wasn't born into this. As much as I play up my Ole Miss fandom as being some inevitable hereditary curse like Sickle Cell Anemia or clubbed feet, it's not the truth. Yes, both my parents and a considerable portion of various other wings of my family went to Ole Miss, but there are plenty more that attended college elsewhere (or not at all).

Joe Lee Dunn, Pregnant since 1994.

And yes, I lived with Ole Miss sports for 18 years of my life when I came to the point where it was time to make a decision about whether to re-buy in. Maybe my earliest Ole Miss memory was huddled around a Liberty Bowl bathroom heater with the rest of the frostbitten masses on New Years Eve 1992 listening to Billy Brewer, then-defensive genius Joe Lee Dunn (barely into his first trimester of a still-continuing male pregnancy) and Cassius Ware stumble through a 13-0 victory over Air Force. I made a "Cassius B-Ware" sign to hold that was discarded because it meant removing the shivering hands from my jacket.

In the previous year, Ole Miss had jumped to its first New Years Day bowl since 1970...and gotten absolutely destroyed by Michigan. The recruiting spree that brought in much of the talent responsible for that modest-by-national-standards success (including Cassius Ware) would, just two years later, land Ole Miss the harshest NCAA penalties since SMU got the chair. Chucky Mullins died and Brewer was fired. The next generation of the Manning legacy was derailed when Cooper's career ended with a spinal chord condition and Peyton decided national success on Rocky Top was more appealing than toiling away in non-televised obscurity.

I knew all this when it came time to decide whether to continue riding this roller coaster with Ole Miss as a choice for college, or take the one last legitimate road toward true fandom by throwing in with another alma mater with a higher ceiling and a lower trough. Or even choosing not to care at all. But, in the end, I doubled down on my home state and previous experience with four years in Oxford.

It's been a long season. There's only so many different ways to say losing sucks, so let's get all semi-seasonal and talk about the good things; the moments and people that, when remembered, reaffirm my commitment to the Rebels and move along from sport-to-sport, season-to-season.

Deuce McAllister running. People who only know him from his time as a Saint, sadly only think of Deuce as a bruising, hunched workhorse. But before he got beefed up and worn down in the NFL, Deuce was much less workhorse and more work-of-art. He returned kicks, lined up as a WR and ran with an extra gear that was astonishing. When he broke free, he strode...defiantly upright. A sailboat with a strong wind in a bay full of chugging tramp steamers. When Deuce got loose, it was beautiful. The only thing more beautiful was when Ole Miss got within 4 yards of the goal line. Everybody knew what the call was. There was no need for a secret hand signal or play name. Just scream from the sideline, "Deuce over the top." The only thing more beautiful than when Deuce ran was when he flew.

Against Auburn in 2000 in my first season as a full-fledged SEC student-fan, Ole Miss was struggling. The offense had sputtered and everyone was waiting for some kind of spark. The Rebels got a stop and Deuce stood at the 10 yard line awaiting the punt. He pointed at the student section, then pointed to the end zone. There are those who were there who say this didn't happen. Who say I, a perhaps over-served Freshman, simply imagined this. I say it happened. And after Deuce found a seam and sliced through the coverage, it rained whiskey and coke for a solid three minutes. We still lost the game (Rudi Johnson was a bad man and our defensive line averaged about 210 lbs.), but Deuce called his shot. It happened, and when I finally passed on my car six years later, the "Deuce For Heisman" bumper sticker was still proudly affixed.

The Tad Pad, 1997-2001. There was no basketball tradition. There was that thing with Sean Tuhoy in 1981, but that was a fluke. I vaguely remember seeing Gerald Glass play, but that was in the Jackson Coliseum. I love college basketball, and in need of a team to grab onto, I fell in with the Nolan Richardson 40-Minutes of Hell Razorbacks. Shortly after the 94 championship, I took the scariest flight of my life into Fayetteville in the middle of an ice storm to watch top notch college basketball in, what was then, a brand new, state-of-the-art arena filled to the rafters with 20,000 frenzied fans fresh off the red meat of back-to-back national championship appearances. It was comfortable and shiny and huge.

Then, something happened. Because while Arkansas and Nolan Richardson were playing on a national stage and recruiting players from across the country, Arkansas talent got overlooked and slipped downstream into the waiting arms of a relentless coach named Rob Evans. Keith Carter, Anthony Boone, Jason Flanigan, Jason Smith, Jason Harrison (later) joined North Carolinian Ansu Sesay and Michael White and pounded life into Ole Miss basketball. Through the back-to-back Western Division titles, NCAA appearances and into the beginning of the Rod Barnes era, the Rebels entered for the first time into true basketball fandom.

Where Bud Walton was leather, padding and video boards, Tad Smith was concrete, metal and a faded analogue Dr. Pepper scoreboard. The shoddy ventilation system was no match for the Mississippi humidity late in the season, and the court would sweat in the heat-- turning any attempt at a basketball game into a demolition derby. It had a chimney. And water fountains on the corners of the court.  It felt amateur, but also hands-on. A game at Bud Walton was like watching a professional fireworks display. Tad Smith was lighting a bottle rocket, holding it in your hand until the last second and then tossing it into the dark. It felt personal. A rowdy Tad Smith felt dangerous.

Yes, a chimney. You know, for the Christmas stockings.

That was the brilliance of it. It's the firecracker in a closed fist. You don't need nearly as much force if you can confine it into a tight space. The student section was right on top of the court. The "seats" were just numbers on a metal bench clearly not meant to accommodate the backsides of grown adults (much less the vast ass expanses of the deep South). It was only 8,000 people, but it was 8,000 people piled on top of each other and piled on top of you. It was a high school house party while the parents were out of town were 10 were invited, but 200 showed up.

After beating Ole Miss in the first round of the 1997 NCAA tournament, Temple made the trip to Oxford. From the moment they stepped onto the floor, they looked like a girl scout troop who'd taken a wrong turn on a dark road. The same team that had taken apart the Rebels just a few months previous got routed. Temple guard Pepe Sanchez still curls into the fetal position and pisses down his leg every time he passes a hub cap on the street. By the end, they just wanted to get the Hell out of that concrete asylum and back to Philly. And that's how it was, game after game, for the next 5 years. Nobody wanted to come play in the Tad Pad.

The thing about the high school house parties is that they're made to get broken up. Similarly, the atmosphere at the Tad Pad had to either adjust or die. It was born in 1996. It came to maturity in 1997. Started its decline with the embarrassing performance against UCLA in the 2002 NCAAs and then died at the hands of Mario Fucking Austin and Derrick Zimmerman in 2003 when a bullshit traveling call on Trey Pearson in the final seconds gave Mississippi State the win. Bottles where thrown and the only thing that stopped the student section from rushing the court and tearing a strutting Zimmerman apart like a zombie hoard was the recently-graduated Rahim Lockhart standing in front, holding them back with his 74" python arms. What's left is an empty shell, apathetic fans and a student section with all the danger and menace of a used party popper. But for one brief golden age, Ole Miss basketball at the Tad Pad was all that is right with college sports.

The Tuberville Reconstruction. It was a miracle. Anybody who says otherwise didn't see it. Before the infamous "pine box." Before he made his name on the national scene at Auburn, Tommy Tuberville took his first college head coaching job and pulled an Anne Sullivan-style miracle on an absolutely broken, betrayed football program. Ole Miss got popped with a four-year probation of 24 lost scholarships, a two-year bowl ban and a one-year television ban (Which was a service to everyone, really. The Joe Lee Dunn head coaching era is something that should never have been put to video tape-- like the video in The Ring, only with Lawrence Adams quarterbacking. I'm pretty sure Joe Lee was barefoot in a maternity gown on the sidelines. That's not a joke).

Just three years later, Tommy scraped together a program of misfits and rejects: walk-ons, over-looked small school stars, community college transfers, players generally seen as defective in some way by every other division one school. They were some of my favorite players. John Avery is still the gold standard for Ole Miss speed to the point where his name has become a unit of measurement.

"What does he run?"

"Oh, it's about a third-quarter Avery."

"That's not bad."

Meego sees you.

Linebacker Meego Spearman is an Oxford folk legend just short of Faulkner and Willie Morris. Nate Wayne was Patrick Willis if P-Willy shrunk in the dryer. A young Dulymus McAllister was starting to get some attention. Ken Lucas, a converted WR, became a shut-down CB. The Heard brothers. Rufus French was the unrealized prodigy. Matt Luke with the Jake Taylor knees at center. Tutan (pronounced "Two Ton") Reyes. Comone (pronounced Come On) Fisher. Boyd T. Kitchens at tackle. Walker Jones would have been considered the whitest player on the 1959 squad.

And of course, the legendary connection of 5'0 QB Stewart Patridge and Cory Peterson when Tuberville the Riverboat Gambler rolled the dice and went for 2 to beat Mississippi State in 1997. Taking home the golden egg and taking Ole Miss, still in their last year of probation, to a bowl game. It was pure joy and there was the feeling that this was only the beginning of something truly epic.

Tuberville and the foundation he laid was so strong it propped up even David Cutcliffe's droopy-eyed incompetence for four years. If Tuberville stays, Ole Miss wins its first modern SEC championship. He didn't. And so we wait. But still, he oversaw the rebirth of the program and everything good that has happened since has at least partial root in the Tuberville reconstruction.

There's more to this list, and maybe I'll come back and supplement if the darkness continues. But it's good to look back. It reminds you why you keep believing and why you bought in the first place. It's not that I don't have any where else to go. There's just no where else that feels quite so much like home.

Rust Belt Angst: Two Cow Garage and "Sweet Saint Me"

It was a Monday night. It's a hard sell. Relegated to the small back bar of a larger venue, about 30 people put down the $10 cover to see Two Cow Garage.

Finding bands at their beginnings is one of the joys of live music. Seeing them in their raw state and then watching them file, shave and shape down into something that makes sense. The workshop is always more interesting than the museum. The first time somebody experiences a finished work, it begins to die. And it dies a little more with every new viewer.

Two Cow Garage at a show in NC from brand new kind of photography

But Two Cow Garage is not a block of stone in search of a pile of dust. They've been at this for the better part of a decade and just released their fifth album. It's time for someone to let them out of the workshop. Because if you don't, the shavings start to overtake the product and the block is whittled down to a nub. It's great for the select few who got to see the process, but it doesn't work out too well for the block.

Their new album, "Sweet Saint Me," is very good. In a fair and God-fearing world, "Lydia" would be pouring out of radios. It's a song made to be an A-side single. The second best song, "Lucy and the Butcher Knife" is a quirky story song that was made to be a cultishly beloved B-side. The album alternates from orgran-juiced, double lead vocal jump rock to stripped-down, single voice in a room with an unelectric instrument. But from the first time I heard a Two Cow Garage album, I knew this was a band that needed to be seen live. Something wasn't translating from the studio. Like the other albums, "Sweet Saint Me" is very good. The live Two Cow Garage experience, however, is amazing.

"We really appreciate yall coming out tonight. We were in Alabama last night and, well, we're just really happy to be here. Thanks again for coming."

I'm not sure what happened the night before in Jacksonville, Alabama. But for what could not have been much more than the cost of the gas to get to the next show, a grateful rock band took the stage and put on a big Saturday night show in a shitty back room on a Monday. They ran through most of the new album with a vengence, drilling the unfamiliar songs into your head so deep you wonder if they hadn't been there all along. They obliged shouted requests for songs from the crowd and made songs from the back catalogue of my iPod stand up like they had a life of their own. A Replacements cover closed things out on the perfect night of music for a frustrated Fall.

Walking out of the show, the first temptation is to describe them as raw, and that's mostly due to Micah Schnabel's voice. It's all gaps and crackles and strained threads popping out of a V-neck collar and working a clenched jaw. The stage antics are erratic and the instruments swing and shake sometimes with the beat and sometimes exactly offbeat. If there's a "look" of the band, it's like a animated ball of laundry that was wadded under the back seat of a conversion van.

But raw is lazy. The obvious surface parts are raw. The full sound, the full experience is not. This is a mature rock band that puts out a sound that is exactly what it is meant to be. Shane Sweeney slaps the bass like a Stax session player and sings like a truck driver on the 35th hour of a 36-hour haul, too tired for anything but hard, weary truth. When Sweeney's bass and voice meet Micah's, it's tar finding the gaps in gravel and everything else just rolls on top of it. It's those moments when the two come together that Two Cow Garage really finds its sound. It's something that shows up more in the shows than the albums.

I'm not somebody who dislikes genres on their face. It can be helpful to have a mental context for something, and thoughtful genre assignments can provide that. But let's not try to drill too deep or over-think things just to avoid the obvious. Two Cow Garage is not Alt Country, and I don't think they fit into the newly fashionable "Cowpunk" label either. There's not much twang to this music outside of the livestock in their name, the sideburns on Shane's face and their occasional use of a cowbell. It's rust belt angst with the literacy to be able to express it. It's just straight forward rock and roll, and beautifully so.

There are a handful of bands that I will openly proselytize for, bands you may not know, but you should. Bands that, in a fair and just world of meritocracy, would be packing out five-figure venues and filling the airwaves. Glossary, The Felice Brothers, The Dexateens, Blue Mountain...and now Two Cow Garage is proudly on that list. If they come by, pardon the sawdust and the inconvienent show time, and go be saved.

Life In Central Time, And Other Moments Of Joy In a Lost Season

Central Time is God's time. Just spending time in the comfortable daylight where early isn't so bad and dark loses just a touch of its edge makes me feel like a more balanced soul. It's proof that the Lord resides somewhere in the strip of America between Chicago and New Orleans, riding his circuit in an '86 Fleetwood Fiesta with blue Astroturf flooring and a peeling "Eat a Peach" decal from the previous owner. Doin' deeds and eating gas station breakfast biscuits.

It gets a little white knuckle in the Fiesta on the Pig Trail, but I have no doubt he wheels it into Fayetteville on occasion. Once you peel back the ever-growing layers of four-laned strip mall build-up, you've got a core that is one of America's under-rated college towns. Aside from Ole Miss bringing along our Golden Flake early morning kick-off curse, this is the kind of weekend you should use to experience a gameday road environment for the first time. There's not an awful lot on the line, so nobody's chewing glass in anticipation. But, it's still an SEC West game, which  brings with it a certain level of intrigue and an enjoyable level of excitement. Energy without spilling over into meltdown.

Ole Miss/Arkansas games have a weird rhythm to them. It's a series that has a hard time finding its beat. Before the Houston Nutt shotgun rivalry was born, it was more like being set-up on a date with a girl who's lived across the street from you your entire life. We've got sort of parallel history, and it seems like there should be some kind of spark between us. It just never seems to catch. Even the Houston Nutt fire has started to dampen, and we've fallen back into our routine of nodding politely on the walk out to grab the morning paper.

Arkansas is a team with deflated aspirations of making the jump (they got double-bounced by Auburn, it appears) and is coming to terms with non-BCS success. Ole Miss is a team trying to find a foundation for whatever's coming next in moral victories and pride. What happens when they get together? A five hour teenage grope fest with Crimson and Clover playing in the background. The threat of electricity hanging in the air without a lighting strike ever actually finding the ground.

Other programs have rings of honor where they remember the greats from their championship teams. Ole Miss is quickly developing quite a ring of martyrdom. Great players who played their asses off stuck on bad teams. Upon induction, they will receive a pastel Vineyard Vines hairshirt and have their names engraved on the train tracks outside of campus. Jerrell Powe is earning his place in this illustrious grouping with his play this year, trying to pull whatever he can out of an underachieving defensive unit that was supposed to carry the team. However, being in the backfield on every down only means so much when there's no containment on any other part of the field. I don't know that Jeremiah Masioli will qualify with only one season. But as Rick Cleveland points out,  running for his life behind an offensive line of walk-ons while watching his former team compete for a championship is the steepest punishment for petty theft this side of Saudi Arabia.

But like I said, this was a day for small victories, including good timing to avoid the rain and the generosity of friends with shelter, whiskey and televisions. And a good Saturday night college town band with no cover charge at Grub's playing Gillian Welch's "Miss Ohio" featuring a male singer and a 3/4 time pace. And $2.50 beers and greasy late night food. And feeling amused superiority at the young novice drinkers puking doubled over trashcans with exposed undergarments...only to end up in the same position yourself later in the night.



And one guy in a studded black leather jacket, a portable amp and a worn guitar on the street banging out Ronnie James Dio solos, non-ironic mullet flowing in the wind, while drunken frat boys cheer and toss dollars in his case.

It doesn't matter if nobody's listening. Or if the people who are listening don't get it. It's all about keeping the faith. And that's easier to do in a good, Christian time zone.

Post-Puberty Defeat And The Valor of Polish Calvary

The light of Monday morning broke through the windows of the Tuscaloosa Chuck E. Cheese to find a lone figure asleep in the ball pit. Mouth open, a half-eaten piece of rock candy stuck to his auburn hair hanging over a freckled face, he clutches a wad of ski ball prize tickets to his chest. Jefferson Davis Bryant (J-Bear to his friends), owner of the establishment, found him while closing up shop the night before.

Coming to grips with defeat through balloons.

"You want wake him?" asked the Ecuadorian cleaning staff.

"No, Consevella. Let him be. Just clean around him. The little guy's had a rough day."

Loss was unfamiliar to Greg McElroy. Undefeated since puberty, he coped in the only way he knew how-- the same way he had the last time a Greg McElroy quarterbacked team came up short. He binged on rock candy, ski ball and then cried himself to sleep in a corner of the ball pit while animatronic bears serenaded him with happy songs from a better time. 

Like Greg, the Alabama Crimson Tide are not a group that really knows a lot about losing, and that includes how to get the taste out of your mouth and move on. More likely than not, they're going to take the same route of frustrated English soccer fans and just take out their frustration by mercilessly beating the sense out of someone who can't really defend themselves. That's obviously the thinking of whoever set the kickoff for 8:00 pm CST. Some things aren't fit for the light of day, and Mark Ingram against the Ole Miss linebacking corps is likely going to be one of those.

But maybe...just maybe, they won't know how to bounce back. Like Drago in Rocky IV, the rest of the world has seen them bleed. With the unfamiliar taste of blood in their mouth, Alabama might come to the revelation for the first time that they are, in fact, mortal. With that lesson learned, they lose the edge, the swagger that previously drove their team. Sometimes loss metastasizes in more loss.

Ole Miss knows loss to the point where coping has become part of our unofficial motto of never losing the party. When you wake up on Sunday morning with that taste in your mouth, the best Listerine is the melted ice in last night's rocks glass. Gargle, swish, spit and get ready for the week to come. 

One of the great overlooked quirks of the invasion of Poland is that when the Nazi tanks rolled across the border, the Poles sent horseback calvary to meet them. These poor bastards straightened their uniforms, took a strong swig of vodka and actually charged tanks with horses. Not because they wanted to or even thought they had a chance of success; they charged because when it comes time for a fight, you're pride-bound to do the best with what you have. It's a Hell of a mentality, and it's one that you're going to need if you're going to be on the Ole Miss side of things tonight...along with a little good vodka and maybe a lance. Jerrell Powe didn't drive his moped all this way just to lay down. He's going to a club a fucker or two, and I'm riding with him. 

As for little Greg in the ball pit, play him home, boys.

A Circular Motion, Week 7: Columbus, Caminos and Cubans

Because if you stare into the great abyss looking for the future, what you're really seeing is the past, we preview this weekends games by looking back through History.com's "This Week in History."

McNeese St. at LSU (6:00 pm CST)/Columbus Stumbles Into The Bahamas (Rum Drinks O'Clock EST)

Relying simply on pure balls and blessed ignorance, funny-hatted captain with poor clock management narrowly staves off mutiny and desertion with unexpected success and exotic spices. Scholars debate whether he was ahead of his time or clinically insane.

MSU at Florida (7:00 pm EST)/Rommel Commits Suicide By Cyanide (3:35 pm Fuhrer Time)
A struggling superpower looks for a fall guy outside of the infalliable dear leader, who is genius and cannot possibly be the cause of the downward trend. A close assistant is singled out and done away with.


Iowa at Michigan (11:00 am CST)/Blind Man, Terrified Co-Pilot Set Land Speed Record (8:45 am CET)
Full of bravado, a man in the dark puts the pedal down. He has no idea where he's going, but he knows he's going to get there fast...and probably with his shoelaces untied. Beside him, a very nervous man holding a clip board screams encrouagement, because his life depends on this success.

California at USC (12:30 pm PT)/Charlie Rich Presents CMA Entertainer of the Year Award to John Denver, Lights It On Fire (8:38 pm CST)
A former winner on the decline looks around at where the industry is going. Instead of passing the torch, instead decides just to set the whole thing on fire by incincerating an award of questionable relevance. Then, goes to hang out with a monkey at a truck stop.

Arkansas at Auburn (2:30 pm CST)/William Jefferson Clinton and Hillary Rodhman Are Married (4:00 pm CST)

A marriage of shotgun convience erupts into turbulance/betrayal/lies/strange sexual advances/world domination.

BYU at TCU (3:00 pm CST)/The Republic of Texas Joins United States (2:15 am TEXAS TIME)

After breaking away from a small-time, dysfunctional association, a pissy group of white guys with inflated opinions of themselves come to the painful realization that maybe independence is not quite all it's cracked up to be.

Baylor at Colorado (5:00 pm MT)/In 1943, Italy Declares War On Germany (Sometime After Brunch CET) 
A weak ally with a deposed maniacal leadership jumps from a clearly sinking ship to join up with former rivals. They prove to be as worthless to their new friends as they were their old ones.

Ohio State at Wisconsin (6:00 pm CST)/The Cuban Missle Crisis Begins (8:30 pm Rum Drinks O'Clock)
Two beheamoths have a staring contest for what seems like weeks. Big talk and anxious build-up drags on into fatigue and resignation to death. By the end, everybody's just tired of watching and not particularly concerned if the world ends or not.

Ole Miss at Alabama (8:00 pm CST)/Young Hitler Survives Gas Attack In WW1 (11:42 CET)
Evil takes a knock from the old Empire, but is not finished off. Left alive, he later goes on a rampage through lesser horse-calvary states leaving bombed out cities, smoldering ashes and bitter defeat in the wake.

Iowa State at Oklahoma (6:00 pm CST)/Western Movie Star Killed By "Suitcase of Death"(8:45 pm CST)
Cruising the roads of victory, a successful Okie puts it into the ditch and is unexpectedly knocked off from behind by a blunt object projectile. Mourning Oklahomans agree the loss, while tragic, probably prevented what they foresaw as a slow, messy decline into booze, whores and dice games in the desert.




Oregon State at Washington (7:15 pm PT)/Car-Truck Hybrid 'El Camino' Rolls Off The Line (9:00 am CST)
Once with high hopes as the ushering in a new era of a struggling national brand, the hybrid struggles to live up to the hype. Once billled as "the most beautiful thing that ever shouldered a load," the stock keeps sliding into an object of ridicule and pity.

A Circular Motion: Looking Back to Look Forward At Week 6

Because if you stare into the great abyss looking for the future, what you're really seeing is the past, we preview this weekends games by looking back through History.com's "This Week in History."

Baylor at Texas Tech (12 pm EST)/Lincoln Observes Military Balloon Demonstration (11:22 am EST)

Controversial new aerial technology is demonsrated before big-eared executive, who is dubious of its actual worth in battlefield conditions. Decision is made to stick to Naploeonic formation tactics with the occasional calvary/wildcat charge.

Minnesota at Wisconsin (12 pm EST)/Minnesotan Circles The Globe On Foot (10:45 pm GMT)
Disenchanted Minnesota natives hit the road. When asked why they've decided to subject themselves to the pain of a journey that's going to inevitably bring them to exactly where they started, said "I was tired of Waseca, tired of my job, tired of a lot of little people who don't want to think, and tired of my wife."

Tennessee at Georgia (12:21 EST)/Chief Joselph Surrenders, Still Screwed (5:30 MST)
After attempting to lead honorably in the face of a dishonest world, a tired chief tries in vein once more for a victory for his people. After failing, he declares, "Hear me, my chiefs: My heart is sick and sad. From where the sun now stands, I will fight no more forever." Then, limps to Canada.

UCLA at California (12:30 pm PT)/90210 Premieres on Fox (8:00 PT)
Counting on drama and sensantionalism to bring them into competition with more staid industry stalwarts, a network under edgy new leadership brings the bad boy with the dark past to lay wreck to any notions of academia, scholarly pursuit or free love with illicit substances, unplanned pregnancies and cutthroat tactics. On the way out, a tree burns and a nation embraces its guilty pleasures.

Alabama at South Carolina (3:30 pm EST)/Stalin Demands the Liberation of Stalingrad (6:12 am MSK)
The humbled once-brash dictator stares down the new, seemingly irresitable darkness on his doorstep and perpares for a final, depserate push to turn them back. Meanwhile, the rest of the free world watches and waits to meet their new overlord.

Clemson at UNC (3:30 PM EST)/Dalton Gang Gets Greedy, Ambushed, Decimated (1:15 pm MST)
Pushing their luck in an effort to take a shortcut to long-term prosperity, well-known outlaws are caught in a firefight that results in severe attrition. Those who survived offer only solemn warnings to others who think about challenging the law: "The biggest fool on earth is the one who thinks he can beat the law, that crime can be made to pay. It never paid and it never will and that was the one big lesson of the Coffeyville raid/Miami Yacht Party."

LSU at Florida (7:30 pm EST)/Sputnik Launched Into Space (10:29 pm MSK)
Supposedly less technically-advanced nation under leadership of questionable sanity continues to shock and confound the world with feats of success that seem to far outstrip their perceived abilities or performance in basic functions.

Auburn at Kentucky (7:30 pm CST)/James Bakker Indicted, Jessica Hahn Cashes In (8:30 am EST)
A fraudulent faith healer's scam finally gets exposed, while the underling he screwed over on his way out of the door makes the most of a bad situation to pad the wallet and build notoriety.

USC at Stanford (5:00 pm PT)/Liz Taylor Marries Construction Worker (8:30 pm PT)
Legendary Hollywood institution, tired from scandal and battered from the spotlight, goes slumming in rehab with the first swinging dick with a full head of hair who winks and slaps the ass. Everyone involved assumes it will end in either divorce or matricide, possibly by arsenic.

MSU at Houston (7:00 pm CST)/Work Begins On Mount Rushmore (6:15 am CST)
An ambitious visionary struggles to manipulate hard, formless nature into a lasting work of art in a desolate landscape. Little does he know, he will never live long enough to see his efforts come to fruition.

Menomena: West Coast Cool and the Value of Desperation

I need some desperation in my music. We are going to crack this symbol, bleed these fingers, break these strings, pound these keys, strangle this mic stand until you get it.

And that was what was missing from the Menomena show. By all accounts, they're comers. A rising West Coast rock band that's about ready to break out. They brought three racks of pedals, one and a half keyboards, two laptops, baritone sax, windpipe, a variety of guitars and two plastic baby doll heads. And they played them all. Yeah, the guy played the bass line with his feet while blowing out some rough bursts on the baritone sax. That was impressive. But did it actually do anything for the song? Eh.

They are all very talented musicians, and they know it. There are two great varieties of performers. The first are the self-concious who go over the top to compensate for their perceived (real or otherwise) shortcomings with pure sweat equity. The second are the cocksure geniuses of their own mind who believe they are actually the second coming of the Christ, and doesn't think you fully appreciate the greatness. But they're about to convert you.

The drummer, Danny Seim, brought it. There's no doubt. On a stage of electronics, style and technology, he brought the lo-fi wood, brass and bare feet that drove the show. The highlight of the set was a song called "Dirty Cartoons," with vocals by Seim. As the rest of the band joined in for the final build-up harmony, it was one of the few earnest moments of the night. The kind that made you sit up and see what could be with a little less primp and a little more madness.

For the rest, they were too sure of their own talent and the crowd's appreciation of it. The bass, either played by pedal or string, was steady and interesting. The keys were everything an accent should be. The guitar was strong. Even the three and four part harmonies were flawless. But that was the problem. They had nothing to prove. It was like watching the smart kid in the class solve an equation. It's the difference between a rock show and a recital.

Every show should be a revival. You have a message and crowd of non-believers. If you don't convert them, they'll spend the rest of their lives wandering hopeless and lost. It's that simple. There's somebody out there tonight who doesn't believe. And we're going to beat on their chests until either their eyes open or their ribs crack.

The band picked up energy as it went along. Looking back, it was a solid effort and certainly worth 3 beers and a $15 cover. But it was very California in the assumption of cool and appreciation. It was beauty without heartbreak, which is just kind of empty. If you like Menomena, you should check out Centro-Matic/South San Gabriel. All of the genius, a little more offbeat and a whole handful of desperation...because what else is there in Denton, Texas if not desperation?