Blood in the Sink, Diamonds in the Drain

The smell of musk and deception.
Heel marks on the roof-line.
Bad music on the stereo.
All the seats in recline.

It was the same party, more or less, every year. The same drunks would show up, tell the same stories and the same jokes. Argue about the same things. Somebody would fight, but nothing more than an drunken, groping tumble to the floor. Lazy attempts at punches that burn out quickly and broken-up easily to half-hearted protests. The same lightweights would drink too much, too early and end up puking in the bushes. They’d pass out on the couch, get defaced with a magic marker, and weakly (but sincerely) apologize the next morning. Of course, the apology is accepted. You can’t stay angry at a guy when he’s got a large cock drawn down his cheek.

There would always be girls, but girls of a non-threatening caliber. Interesting enough to make you sit up straight and perhaps take a shot to calm the butterflies before you start in with the familiar pitch, the familiar tease and the familiar range of results. Maybe a shared cigarette and some PG-rated affection next to the Natty Light Keg, something a little more PG-13 in an out of the way corner or, if stars really align, a trip back to your room where you hope against hope that none of your roommates have raided your stash of condoms.

The morning would come with sunlight reflecting off the beer cans strewn in the yard and a house in disarray, but not disrepair. A pain in your head and a little weakness in the knees, but nothing some Gatorade and asprin can’t fix (or Pedialyte and Midol if the brown liquor pour was a little strong). Maybe the girl in your bed is a little more of a 6 in the light than the 7.5 you remembered from the dark, but she’s pleasant enough. More importantly, she’s pulling on her jeans and getting ready to go home. Maybe you pick up a McGriddles or two after you drop her off. Mmm. McGriddles.

It wasn’t exciting, but it was familiar and expected. It was comfortable. It’s not until you’re uncomfortable that you realize how overrated exciting can be.

Because this year, shit got uncomfortable. A bunch of high-flying carpetbaggers showed up, and the party spiraled out of hand. At first, it was exciting to have some new blood and a bigger crowd. The Polls, AP and Coach, showed up with some exciting new drugs, strange colors and weird highs. Phil, though a bit of a dork, brought some exciting new stories to the conversations and kept feeding Jager shots to anybody within arm’s length. SI was slick and old-school like the Dos Equis World’s Most Interesting Man and brought an exciting feeling of legitimacy. Some dude who called himself “World Wide” and his buddy Kirk busted in like a hurricane of lights and noise. And Kirk brought some girls that were, well, exciting.

Maybe too exciting. The girls that exert the gravitational force of exceptional beauty that brings on the paralyzing paranoia of being suddenly out of place (even in a familiar setting) that drives you to the bottom of the fifth. Worse than that, they bring on a distorted reality of what’s possible. You give up the dark-aided 7.5s that were previously satisfactory and join the slobbering, self-conscious hordes chasing the unhealthy high.

SI’s cool elegance of experience quickly deteriorated into mindless, repetitious babble. In the span of a few scotches, he went from respected elder to fucking creepy old dude who pissed himself on the couch. Kirk did bring the girls and then proceeded to have dirty, R. Kelly-style sex with every one of them on every padded surface in every room of the house.

AP: Dude, this place is destroyed. I think the only thing left to drink in his joint is Apple Pucker.

(Def Leopard starts blaring from the next room)

AP: Nevermind. Coach just took his shirt off, jumped on the coffee table and poured the whole bottle over his head.

COACH: (swinging his shirt and touching himself inappropriately): YEAH, BRO! STICKY SWEET!

AP: Well, nothing left to do now but take a shit in the shower and sketch out somewhere else.

ATTICUS: Wait, what? The shower?

AP: Yeah man, that dude Yancey is passed out, head first in the toilet. I think he might have Hendrix’d. I would check his pulse, but you know, plausible deniability and all that.

ATTICUS (pale and sweaty and fighting what feels like the beginning of a bad trip): What the fuck is that smell?

AP: What? No, I said I was going to shit. I haven’t yet. You alright, man? You don’t look so good.

ATTICUS (follows the smell into the kitchen): Jesus. Who put a condom in the toaster?

PHIL: Kirk told me if you warm it up first, it makes it more pleasurable, you know, for the chick.

AP: What chicks? All the ones SI didn’t creep off are locked in one of the rooms with Kirk..

ATTICUS: Which room? I sleep back there.

AP: I don’t know. Whichever one the “Ignition” re-mix is blaring out of.

WORLD WIDE (walks into the kitchen): Well, boys, it’s been fun, but this place is played. I just got a text that there’s a deal over at Bama’s house that’s just raging– like they used to do back in the old days. Y’all in?

AP: Yeah, let me hit the bathroom real quick. Then, I’ll grab Coach and we’ll be good to go. Where is Coach?

WORLD WIDE: Last I saw, he was rubbing one out in the recliner.

AP: Best just to let him finish.

PHIL: Do you think they have a toaster over there?

AP: Hey, Atticus, you need to come with us. Get out of this fucking Hell hole.

ATTICUS: I think I can feel my kidneys bleeding.

WORLD WIDE: Yeah, I know the feeling, man. But you really should bail with us. I donkey punched a hooker earlier, and you don’t want to still be around when she comes to.

ATTICUS: Donkey punch?

WORLD WIDE: Half way through I realized I didn’t have any cash. Seemed easier this way.

KIRK (struts in shirtless, humming to himself): Man, that’s a mess back there. Smells like Corso’s trailer. Atticus, let’s roll out of here, man. I hear shit is hoppin’ over in Gainesville.

WORLD WIDE: We just got back from Gainesville.

PHIL: I say we go to Boise.

AP: You would. Dork.

KIRK: I do hear they’ve got some thick girls there, though.

ATTICUS: You don’t understand. I live here. I’ve got nowhere else to go.

#4

What is number 4? Just a taller ledge to fall from.

A small town coverboy quarterback with a modest approach to his newfound fame. A veteran coach with a history of steady success, but still searching for a defining achievement to fill out his legacy. A promising would-be king assistant coach with an alumni pedigree. Odd, home-grown musical tributes with a cult following. A lazy national press stroking high expectations on little more than what can be found in the first 10 pages of a media guide-- returning starters, an home-heavy schedule without any big names and a pleasant pre-packaged narrative around a coach and quarterback. Around the forbidden pleasures of contraband beer in the Grove, there are even casual whispers of a young basketball phenom who might open a second front in an all-out Rebel assault on the national sports scene. It’s 1970 and the Rebels are finally going to rise again. Of course they are. Look, even the slick Yankee media types think so.

On October 12, 1970, William F. Reed sang the refrain of the first verse of the Manning legend for Sports Illustrated. In it, he retells a story about a guy in Tupelo who was about to jump off a bridge.

“Wait,” said a friend. “Think about your family and your religion.”

“Don’t have any family,” the jumper said. “And I don’t believe in religion.”

“Well,” said his friend desperately. “Then think about Archie.”

“Archie who?”

“Jump, you S.O.B. Jump.”

Even if he doesn’t jump, the story ends well before a four-count. If the intervention on the bridge is success, the missionary friend no doubt will go on to indoctrinate our jumper into the legend of Archie and the glory of Ole Miss. The convert, now fully stocked with both Archie and religion all in one neat, focused package marked “reasons to live,” will go onto witness what is, by now, four decades of heartburn no sweaty hangover can produce. Archie breaks his arm on the Astro-Turf of Hemmingway stadium. Johnny Vaught suffers a heart attack. And after but a short 4 month reprieve, our jumper finds himself back on the bridge in Tupelo. Only this time, he’s got to fight for space on the guardrail with his missionary and the other converts.

Ole Miss is destined to lose. We’re a fanbase living through a cruel curse of false idol, looking only for comfort inside a red cup. The sports gods will crush the bones and squeeze the hearts of our saviors to punish us for daring to consider success. Abandon hope and spare yourself the pain of the letdown.

Of course, this is all little more than Mormon archeology; backing up your preconceived beliefs with a shotgun marriage of past and present. Even so, I’ve been confusing the Mayans with the Israelites since the final whistle blew in Dallas in January. It’s a self-defense mechanism to temper against the off-season’s extrapolation of hype. It’s a shitty way to live, it’s a backwards-ass way to tell a story and the time for temperance is over.

A flipped coin lands on heads 100 times in a row. On the 101th flip, the chances of heads versus tails is exactly the same as on the first, because what happened before has absolutely no bearing on what happens now. And as Ole Miss football spins in the air for the 116th time, how it comes down has nothing to with what came before, despite the desperate need for context of those of us looking-on. The outcome of the 1970 Rebels has as much to do with our season this year as the 1987 Kent State Schockers or the 1956 Austrailian National Cricket Team.

Houston Nutt and Johnny Vaught have about as much in common as half-crazed weasels and the burlap sack they came in. Jevan Snead ain’t Archie Manning any more than the other current 100 players bear similarities to their positional counterparts. If only there was another part-time stationary designer defensive end with the power of flight (and the power to move you) that has somehow gone overlooked in Ole Miss lore. And what this contrived history leaves out is that before either the heart attack or the broken golden arm, Ole Miss lost to Southern Miss due to a twist of fate no more sinister than they simply didn’t play well that day, which leaves open the heretical possibility that even with Manning and Vaught at full capacity, the team might not have been all that good to begin with.

That’s certainly not to say that we can’t learn anything from the past. When the freshman from Carrolton, Texas with the Neilson’s tags still dangling from his Nantucket red dress pants pulls over his Tahoe to tell me to come off the bridge and grab a Nutt Rag because The South Will Rise Again, I’ll still step back from the edge. It won’t be to follow young Kingsley to the Right Reverand's Revival tent, but to find a taller launching point.

Because I know what Kingsley hasn’t figured out yet in his 11 months of Rebel religion—Butch Cassidy was wrong. It isn’t the fall that kills you. It’s the impact. The fall is actually the fun part, especially when you've waited this long to climb this high. Know that it’s coming, then instantly forget it and enjoy the ride as long as it goes with no expectations otherwise. Face to the sky, spread wide and eyes wide open, enjoying the view. So far, Memphis and Southeastern Louisiana have blown past like ugly couples having sex in an 82nd floor apartment. Not much to look at, but in the end, little more than benign mileage markers on what is sure to be a long, strange journey that will last as long as there’s still wind rushing by. Oh look, somebody lost a visor...

"Jump back down to the rooftops, look out over the town. Think about all those strange things circling round."

Weekend Wrapup

• Neither Notre Dame nor Michigan is really all that good. Seriously. I watched it. Was it good football game? No. It was a close football game. There’s a difference. Those two teams are pretty evenly matched and that has to be scary for alums of both. At some point early on, a stat flashed by showing that on average, ND’s O-line outweighed Michigan’s D-line by a large margin, at least 60 pounds. So if you’re Michigan, who seemed to start most plays directly in front of Jimmy Clausen, what do you take from this? You’re really that badass? Maybe so, but I didn’t see it. Tate Forcier; let’s see you in a year. That kid has some moxie. Still, pulling it down and taking off on a play early in the first half, it was clear that he’s still learning what he can and cannot get away with at the college level. He was caught from behind and dropped for a loss. Expect a whole lot more of that in conference play.

• What the sam hell is going on at Georgia? They’re supposed to be at the point where they don’t rebuild; they reload. As a Hog fan, I have no idea what to expect next weekend. Oklahoma State handled them. I mean, handled them, like a Hell’s Angel deals with a drunk frat boy. And the Cowboys lose to Houston? As someone who saw many a Southwest Conference game up close and personal, let me assure you, Houston’s football tradition is not rich. Andre Ware, David Klingler and… (if you want to see team love at its finest, check out http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Houston_Cougars_football; highlight: “Dissolution, Disappointment, Renovation - The Helton Era”) Oklahoma State was basically playing for the national title game. If they win out, which was by no means impossible given their talent, they’re the sacrificial lamb that Tebow has demanded. You can come to me with your letdown, “hard to get up for this game” hoosafudge, blah blah blah, your coach is a man! He’s 40! And by God, he cannot seem to put together a season in which he does not shit the bed at least once! This year it happened early! But I don’t give damn about Eskimo Joe’s; what does this say about the Dawgs? The Cocks scored 30 more points on Georgia than they did on NC State. Once again, as a resident of the Triangle, let me assure you, NC State is a miserable football team. Of course, Arkansas being Arkansas, we’re doomed next week. That could be when UGA puts all together, but they sure as shit haven’t so far.
• Lane Kiffin: Asshole, no. In fact, pussy. Wow. 4^th and goal from the 2. Hey, if we can’t make two yards on the ground, then we don’t deserve to win. Well sir, the football Gods agreed, because you got beat by a UCLA team that is not all that good at Neyland. These are the types of playcalls that drive me insane. Yes, if you put the ball in the air three things can happen and two of them are bad, but what a gutless call as a coach. Run it. It’s on ya’ll. No, I don’t really know of a play that would beat their defense from this spot, even though it’s two yards and any type of quick hitter has a better than 50% shot of working. And UT fans, the cupboard ain’t bare. I’ve bled Razorback Red since birth; trust me, I’ve seen teams without talent. Further, look to your own staff. Orgeron stockpiled talent at Ole Miss and lost like a son of a bitch. Talent will not make your coach grow some balls or a brain. What a spectacle, though. His dad is making that defense in to something unholy. It was almost like Kiffykins was happy to blow it by the goal line just to turn it over to Monte and Eric Berry to pull this thing out. For the train wreck enthusiasts out there, may I put in an early word for the Tennessee Volunteers, 2009 edition.

• Joy! And Pain! Sunshine! And Rain! Pain is watching Damian Williams trot out as a captain for USC and call the coin toss. Pain is watching the starting lineups scroll by and seeing, “WR- Damian Williams, Springdale, Arkansas”. Pain is hearing Kirk Herbstreit say that Williams was an afterthought when he transferred to USC along with Mitch Mustain. Joy? Joy is when you start explaining to your wife that Matt Barkley is a lot like Mitch Mustain was at Arkansas, a young quarterback making his way in the world. You then tell your wife, “and Mustain was undefeated as a college quarterback.” She pauses, takes a sip of wine, and questions Mustain’s sexuality. Joy personified.

• Bye week. My fellow Brothers of the Caine have a lot more to play for this year, being the trendy dark horse National Title contenders. For the Hawgs, the early bye was probably a good thing, giving us more time to prepare for the most important game of our season. If we win this one, off we go; a loss and we’re scrapping and clawing the rest of the way. The Rebels, though, they’ve got a long road to that Georgia Dome, and not exactly an ideal situation in regard to depth. The piper plays his song and we all dance to his tune, but that piper, he’s a real son of bitch, and so help me, he will get his due. The piper looks a lot like Omar Little. Come week 11, the training rooms in Oxford and Fayetteville may well ring with some crazy ass mofo whistling the “Farmer in the Dell”.

Fight the Fuzz (A call to arms)

Sit in the dark with the spasm of the lights across your face. It’s not white, it’s just empty of color. Dirty and jumpy. You can’t tell how long since the regularly-scheduled broadcasting has ended. Then you realize that the nonsense disruption of the late night is not all that different from the nonsense disruption of the waking hours. At least this is naked, honest nonsense, without pretense otherwise.

 

You know the fan is spinning above you in the dark, disturbing the air just enough to prove that it’s turning, but not enough to do any good in the fight against the staleness. Yet, despite the cynical proof of life simply for life’s sake exhibited by the blades, something stirs.

 

The leather of the chair has slowly worn and given way to an increasing composition of ad hoc duct tape attempting to contain what’s left of the padding. Both tape and hide cling as you lean to grab the round stem of the square bottle on the floor with Zevon’s words rolling in your head, shouting down the buzz from the television. The bottle is brought to bear, a swallow to fuel the fuzz from within and the bottle to fight the fuzz from without.

“I’d rather feel bad. I’d rather feel bad. I’d rather feel bad, than not feel anything at all.”

 

Glass on glass is a clean kind of violence; the violence of the fragile rage. Rise and stride past the bottle embedded in the screen. The room smells of well-used whiskey and fresh ozone, like a lighting strike at Tiger stadium in the darkness after a game. You’ve suffered the external fuzz long enough. It’s time to create a little nonsense of your own.

 

The Sons of Caine is once again open for business.