Thursday Night in Gettysbu...I mean Eugene

Chip Kelly should take a lesson from history going into tomorrow nights battle with rival Oregon State. It would be irresponsible not to. There was World War I then there was World War II. Napoleon invaded Russia and froze his way to defeat, and Adolf Hitler self destructed the same way. Flanel. Aviators. Skinny ties. Pop stars in rehab. Cincinnati Bengals in court. Sluggers on steroids. Tragic coastal hurricanes. The French surrendering. American governors and extra marital affairs. If you aren't careful, history always repeats itself. 

Why would this apply to Chip Kelly? Three words, American Civil War. There has not been another one in the United States, and Kelly is leading his Oregon Ducks into a high-stakes, competitive "battle" that just so happens to be called the Civil War. And guess what---it's in America. 

So, why must Chip Kelly beware? After all, his team is the favorite and the North (the clear favorite in 1861) did win the war. It did not come without a scare though, and in football once the contest is close there's no telling what happens next. 

In fact, the easiest option may be to not name the game so aggressively. Perhaps, the Civil Town Hall Forum or the Civil Beer Summit (brought to you by Barack Obama) would be a milder name. 

But no one is looking for the easy way out. In all reality, the game deserves to be called the Civil War. I brainstormed the top things America should break out into Civil War over, and it came out looking something like this:

3. To save the Union

2. Slavery

1. The Rose Bowl

So, it looks like the Ducks and Beavers have it right on. As for Kelly's concerns, they should lie with the result of America's first major Civil War. Let me draw a few comparisons. The North struggled early to find a consistent general. The first was a passed his prime Winfield Scott. He was a great general, but it was time to hang it up. Oregon's version is current AD Mike Bellotti, a solid coach that just moved on. Then there was General George McClellan. He had the credentials, but he just underperformed. Sounds like one Jeremiah Masoli in a hideous early season loss to Boise State. Next, there was General Henry Halleck who showed a general lack of discipline in leading. Enter Lagarrette Blount. The star (more like a black hole now) running back lost his temper after that tough week one loss and struck a member of the Boise State team. 

This is where you have stepped in General Ulysse....I mean Chip Kelly. I'm not saying your counterpart Mike Reilly is Robert E. Lee. I am saying you better treat him like he is. In American Civil War history the upset has been prevalent on the battlefield, and in American football history the upset has been rampant on the playing field. All signs point to trouble for your Ducks tomorrow night. 

Don't be surprised at all if the spirit of Stonewall Jackson takes the form of a Beaver Thursday night. Just play your game and before you know it the spirit of William Tecumseh Sherman may come back to "march" you and your Ducks to Pasadena.

Girl's Basketball preview column

Friday I ventured to Alexander High School for a notoriously sloppy experience. I traveled to the land where optimism is unreasonably high and athleticism is unjustifiably low.  The land where mid range jump shots are as accurate as Dick Cheney birdshots. The land where 2-3 trapping zones are thinner than the Earth’s o-zone (that’s all you, Al Gore).  The place I speak of is the land of preseason basketball. In any form and at any level, it has its share of good, its share of bad, and most assuredly its share of ugly.

This time I found myself watching the TVC preview, an amalgamation of half games showcasing the ladies basketball teams in the Tri Valley Conference. I sat in on 100 minutes of the action and logged my experience from start to finish:

4:59- I scurry into the gym a minute before tip off. As I take a seat I noticed the evening’s officials simultaneously removing their matching OHSAA jackets and engaging in a brief period of uncoordinated calisthenics. Two things about this strike me:

1.     It is literally sunny and 65 degrees outside and at or above room temperature in the gym, so the refs needed jackets about as much as Billy Mays needed a microphone.

2.     This is preseason for the officials as well. They aren’t joking around. I’ll keep an eye on them from here on out.

5:00- The public address announcer halts tip off because we are waiting for “Randy.” Unless there is supposed to be an “i” on the end of that, and it’s a girl on one of the teams, I don’t see the need.

5:02- And we’re off. Trimble vs. Alexander. Trimble takes the tip and sinks a mid range jump shot. Dick Cheney? More like Annie Oakley.

5:05- We are a few minutes into this one, and I have heard no audible cheers from the crowd.

5:06- The first audible cheer I hear coming from a few feet away is, and I quote, “Kill that girl!” That might be a little heavy, especially for preseason. I begin to fear for my personal security.

5:07- Trimble hits their second three pointer of the game. Scoreless Alexander empties its entire bench. The only thing uglier than a basketball team playing its first exhibition game is a basketball team’s reserves playing its first exhibition game.

5:10- Alexander is down 9-0. The Trimble zone is eating at Alexander Coach Denton Guthrie. The imminent threat of the woman that yelled “Kill that girl!” is still eating at me.

5:12- The referees’ motions are crisp, unwarranted, and theatrical. At least someone is in midseason form.

5:13- Alexander lights up the scoreboard with a single made free throw with just over a minute remaining in the first of two quarters.

5:17- The first quarter tragically withers away with Trimble leading 13-1.

5:18 – While both teams strategize in their respective huddle the far side referee repeatedly murmurs “white ball” as if someone is listening to him.

5:18:30- I realize that, sadly, I am listening to him.

5:19- Perhaps struggling with transition from soccer season, a Trimble girl deliberately kicks the ball out of an opponent’s hand. I survey my surroundings hoping to make socially awkward eye contact with a fellow spectator and possibly even slightly raise my eyebrows in disapproval, but everyone seems to have just simply looked past the kick.

5:20- While looking for their first field goal of the game, an Alexander shot gets swatted like a domestic housefly.

5:22- Baffled by the Trimble zone, the Alexander point guard passes the ball to the back wall. It respectfully returns it.

5:23- The official assertively swings his elbow through a charging call. Phenomenal form.

5:25- Alexander has its first field goal………………midway through the second quarter.

5:32- While a Spartan is at the line shooting free throws, a Trimble girl trips over what appears to be nothing and falls flat on her back. As she gets up she is greeted with the loudest ovation of the night.

5:33- The girl’s face is beat red. This could be one of two things, I cheerfully conclude:

1.     1. The fluorescent lighting in the gym is emitting harmful UV rays, and she has acquired unnaturally quick sunburn.

2.     2. She’s simply embarrassed.

I’m stumped.

5:35- The ref playfully banters with a fan. If I were a ref I would stay as neutral as Switzerland.

5:39- Trimble wins 23-16. An inspirational mix of techno and rock serves as our interlude between games.

5:40- A fresh batch of jacket-clad referees saunter onto the court to officiate the second game. I guess in the preseason ref’s can only go half the game as well.

5:42- I use the lavatory.  The automatic sink sprays off my hands and into my face.

5:45- A woman enters the gym clutching a polka dot pillow.

5:46- The woman with the pillow exits the gym. All speculation regarding a conference-wide postgame slumber party abruptly ends.

5:48- Still mindful of my personal security I make the executive decision to stand in the vicinity of the event cop.

5:54- Belpre and Nelsonville York are locked up at 2 early. The refs look sluggish.

5:57- Federal Hocking coach Joe Butcher uncomfortably converses with a coach from Southern.

5:58- Conversation pauses.

5:59- After a painstaking minute, Butcher offers a relevant and witty conversation starter, and it resumes.

6:01- Nelsonville York coach Amanda Dalton calls a rare preseason timeout.

6:09- At the end of the first quarter, it is 9-7 Buckeyes. It has been a physical, scrappy game. The cop beside me has received about forty high fives.

6:10- 41. I’m now officially jealous.

6:18- After a couple Maria Martinez baskets, I decide to take a break from basketball and go outside for fresh air.

6:19- The first thing I encounter upon walking outside is a team of middle school girls playing basketball.

6:23- Back inside the gym, I partake in introductory small talk with a recent graduate of Alexander high school.

6:25- As my newly attained friend exits he initiates a mutual high five. Take that officer.

6:34- As I stand awkwardly in the middle of a conversation between two Federal Hocking coaches, the buckeyes ice the game at the free throw line winning 26-22.

6:36 - I decide that the real winners of the evening were the astute officials of the first game and the law enforcement agent that was more popular than a pot of coffee at an overnight pharmacy.

6:39- Thankfully unscathed and understandably indifferent, I depart Alexander.

Gridiron Glory West Muskingum Column

As time waned away in West Muskingum’s first round playoff loss Friday night, tears were rampant on the home sideline. What had been an utterly magical season was coming to an abrupt halt, and it was the end of an era for Tornado football. This is precisely why, amidst a slew of sobs, I did not expect to see a smile from anyone wearing blue with a futile minute left on the clock. In fact the scene was so morose (and rightfully so), that I considered stopping at Walmart on the way home and staring at the “rollback man” on the savings racks just to cheer myself up.

Todd Rhinehart has played football since the fifth grade. He has grown up in the West Muskingum system and maintained a close relationship with all the team’s seniors. The tight-knit group has a lot in common on and off the field, but there has been one glaring difference between Todd and many of his teammates—playing time.

Todd has participated in the same rigorous offseason workouts and brought an indelible work ethic to daily practices just like the rest of his teammates. The opportunities for his work to culminate on the grandest stage in high school sports have been minimal. While guys like Cade McCullough can hardly read a newspaper without finding their names, Rhinehart would be happy just to find his in the program.

Rhinehart spent his underclass years on the teams JV squad where he was as expendable as the Euro. “I played anywhere they wanted me to,” Rhinehart explained. He played everywhere from cornerback to quarterback and never thought twice about it. When his senior year rolled around, it became clear to him that he would see very limited action.

When he told me this, my mind instantly reverted to quitting. If I knew I had no chance of starting, I thought, I’d be out like than Sarah Palin in Alaska. I’d be gone like Richard Nixon after Watergate. I’d hit the road like Paula Abdul with a 30% raise.

That’s not what Todd Rhinehart is made of though. When some people hear that they immediately think: ‘replacement’ or ‘towel waiver’ or ‘benchwarmer.’ Todd Rhinehart thought: competitor, contributor, and champion.

I briefly inquired as to why he didn’t just hang up the spikes. He asserted that he knew the team was going to be special and he had to be a part of it. As we continued to converse he proclaimed, “I knew I wasn’t the best player on the team, but I knew I was on it (the team) for a reason whether for moral support or for making plays.”

Moral support? I thought. Cheerleaders give moral support.

He was ecstatic that his team made the playoffs and only heightened his commitment in week eleven practices. He epitomized diligence as he played on the scout team to give his team the best look possible for Friday night’s game. He knew it wasn’t likely that he would be called on Friday night, so he went out of his way to do his part during the week.

When Friday night came around, he found himself in a familiar place—the sideline. He was overwhelmed with various emotions throughout a raucous first half that found his team down three touchdowns after two quarters of unbridled scoring. As the fourth quarter winded down, he began crying the same tears as his teammates. These were the last moments he would spend with them as his quiet high school football career was coming to a dreary end.

Down 55-27, head coach Paul Perry inserted Rhinehart into the game for their final drive. It was an honorable gesture, but Rhinehart still found himself preoccupied with the heartache of the moment. The Tornadoes drove down the field easily and pulled star running back Cade McCullough in favor of senior starting linebacker Dakota Gutridge at the goal line. Gutridge would eventually plunge into the end zone from a yard out. Rhinehart watched from the slot with genuine appreciation for the moment that his senior teammate got his first high school touchdown, but sadness still overcame him.

It was when Rhinehart began jogging off the field that he realized they were going to attempt a two-point conversion. In the huddle, senior quarterback Austin Brock, a close friend of Rhinehart, instructed him to cut to the inside on the snap and informed him that he would throw the ball to him. Eight years of football. Gallons of sweat. No glory. Rhinehart had always dreamed of having a varsity catch. His team had always dreamed of making the playoffs. It was almost too perfect.

Rhinehart waited tensely as it seemed like it took hours for Brock to go through the snap count. The ball was snapped. He cut sharply behind the linebacker. Brock rocketed a pass right to Rhinehart’s chest. He grasped it and held tightly. A group of his senior teammates congregated around him, and for a brief, bittersweet moment he let out an authentic smile.

He later told me that the smile barely came out. He was still crushed for his team’s loss and focused on finishing the game strong.

Most people wouldn’t even think of the team in that situation. Most people would be smiling like a four year old at a Tickle Me Elmo factory. Most people would look happier than Barney after Botox.

Not Rhinehart. He stuck with football for the team, and the team was all he thought about.

So, Todd Rhinehart laid his body on the line day in and day out through four years of high school football. He watched encouragingly from the sideline as his friends led West Muskingum to a dream season. He worked tirelessly in practice to ensure the starters would be prepared for Friday nights. And in the last possible moment of his high school career, he made every ounce of work he put in come full circle.

Ha, I’d like to see a cheerleader do that.

Taste of the Town N-Ville York

I took my ingestive itinerary to Nelsonville Friday night to enjoy the Buckeye’s Senior Night festivities. I ambled up to the concession stand a full hour before kickoff and was astonished at its surroundings. The stand was cramped between the souvenir t-shirt shop and the Dippin’ Dots stand. I casually inspected the premises to see if the Garmin had accidentally steered me to Cedar Point or if I had simply ended up at the amusement park that Southeast Ohio doesn’t have. It was then that I realized that Nelsonville York was selling Dippin’ Dots and souvenirs at a division five high school football game, and no one was laughing about it.

Perplexed to find out that the elaborate vending setting was indeed not a joke, I turned my attention to the concession stand. What I walked in on would in some circles be considered sheer pandemonium. Band parents were hustling around fervently with an underlying diligence in preparing the night’s entrees. As I stood dumbfounded in the middle, I realized I was interrupting the flow of preparation. I proceeded to attempt to find a place where I would be out of the line of fire. I tried the front window and almost got leveled by a plate of nachos. I tried the back door by the grill and almost joined the hot dogs on the grill. I tried the corner of the storage room next to the reserve microwave and almost got jolted by a wayward elbow. It was impossible. I was like a middle-aged man at Macy’s on Black Friday. I was like an Enron executive at the New York Stock Exchange. I was like Kanye West at the VMAs. I was just in the way.

I managed to find the head of the stand, Angie Thompson, and she informed me that it would be a while until my food would be ready. So, I was at a stand still until I noticed that I didn’t fit in. I was the only person in the entire room not wearing tremendously practical and dreadfully unattractive plastic gloves. Obviously, I reached into the box and put on a pair. I was like a chameleon. I was finally fitting in. Four hours before October 31^st, I had discovered the most realistic Halloween costume. Just as I was championing my disguise, I was abruptly informed that my concealment had failed. I may have fit in physically, but I stuck out more than I had before. It was because I wasn’t working. Of course, Thompson put me to work. I was legitimately excited to lend a hand.

Apparently in the concession world you start at the bottom and work your way to the top because my task was unforgiving. I was given an onion. I was given a knife. What started as enticing took a turn toward dicing and it was not a pretty scene. I was bawling. The onion was Dr. Phil, and I was a broken relationship between two weathered workaholics. The onion was an Oscar, and I was Halle Berry. The onion was Katherine Heigl in 27 Dresses, and I was, well, myself.

By some miracle I got through it. There was a collective puddle below me. I was half an onion away from having to install a sump pump in the concession stand. I was a few slices away from taking in every animal two by two. It got so wet at one point that I took precautionary measures and called FEMA. They should be in Nelsonville in about four months.

After extensive recovery procedures, I was rewarded with an opportunity to eat:

Buckeyes- Their mascot is a buckeye so this was a fitting treat. They were provided in milk and white chocolate. Got to love diversity.

Hamburger- I ate this American classic like it was my job. In fact, this Friday night it was my job.

Bratwurst- I cremated the bratwurst. I was sitting in the back corner of the storage room hanging out with my friend from earlier (the reserve microwave) and ate this in about 30 seconds. The microwave congratulated me by doing absolutely nothing.

Sloppy Joe- A local favorite. It came in a frozen hunk and took forever to cook in the crock-pot. After I was done weeping from the onion, I actually did a considerable amount of work to prepare the sloppy joe. I also did a considerable amount of work to eat it.

After my marathon of eating, the fabulous people of Nelsonville were gracious enough to provide me with a bottle of water. And I was clumsy enough to spill it all over my shorts. That’s right. Whether I was mentally affected by everything I had eaten or simply still suffering from the onion slicing, I made a fool of myself. I looked like an untrained toddler who forgot to put on his pull-ups. I was Nelsonville’s unofficial Huggies representative. It looked like I had defied the depths of domestication. As I scurried out of Nelsonville, I drew an array of inquisitive looks. I am now likely known around town as the resident twenty-year-old who still isn’t housebroken.

It is tough to match the excitement that surrounded Senior Night in Nelsonville. It is even tougher to match the excitement of Senior Night in the concession stand. I ate an insane amount of food, got put to work, and even got choked up a little bit. So, from souvenirs to onion tears Nelsonville gave me a good taste of the spirit of Friday night.

Taste of the Town Sheridan and a little bit more Fed Hock

With another grueling week of high school football on tap, I departed on a rigorous ruminative rendezvous to Sheridan. It was there that I found myself standing mundanely and glaring at the concession stand’s menu. I have shaken a few eight balls, read my fair share of horoscopes, and even peaked at the lines on my palm before. But when I was posted up in front of the stand, I realized I have never been able to simply read an accurate account of my fate. Of course it just laid out the available foods accompanied with their respective prices, but I, in all my delirium, saw it a little differently. At first glance, this is honestly what I read (or what I thought I did):

Dear Robert Guliano,

You will try our three best dishes and love them. They will linger on your tongue and leave you in a temporary and unrivaled state of bliss. Later, you’re stomach will begin releasing bizarre noises that are complemented by an assortment of irregular bodily dysfunctions including but not limited to: irregular heartbeat, irregular body temperature, and irregular behavior in standard social settings. Also, your next three meals will consist of a generous helping of Pepcid Complete with a side of Tums washed down with a refreshing Alka Seltzer littered glass of water. Just thought I’d run that by you, big guy.

Regards,

Life

Naturally, I started reevaluating my basic outlook on life and genuinely revising my purpose in the world. Just as I was finalizing my elaborate escape plan, I was summoned by a jovial group of volunteer concession workers. I was introduced to the head of concessions, Nancy Fox. She gave me a generic synopsis of the operations and had three fabulous foods in front of me within five minutes. I could tell already that we were going to get along well.

Shredded Chicken Sandwich- I’m in college. I don’t just get homemade food. I have been living off Apple Jacks and Spaghettios for two months. Real food doesn’t exist to me. My stomach has a periodic table of preservatives in it. So, this was outstanding. It lasted all of 20 seconds.

Ribeye Sandwich- If there is one thing I see less than homemade food it’s steak. It was so tender it melted in my mouth. If only it could melt in my stomach.

Nachos and Meat- I’ve become somewhat of an authority on concession stand nachos over the past few weeks.

FUN FACT #1: 3 out of my last 4 Taste of the Town trips have served me nachos.

FUN FACT #2: 3 out of those 3 times I have experienced inchestinal discomfort (a word I recently developed to explain the anguish and uneasiness I experience from my heart down to my stomach before, during, and after eating and/or being associated with someone eating nachos).

These ones had sloppy Joe meat on them. This combated the spicy nature of nachos and created a sweet variation of this marvelous treat.

I learned two valuable lessons from my trip to Sheridan.

1.     1. Eighteen inches. That is approximately what separates my brain from my stomach. However, when it comes to their functional rationale they are miles away. My brain thinks my stomach is a black hole. My stomach thinks my brain is an idiot.

2.     2.  The people I met were tremendous. When I go to these games I am a nobody. I’m as popular as Tom Cruise at the Vatican. My best friend is a microphone. I’m a sycamore fig tree away from being a modern day Zacchaeus the tax collector. So, the fact that these people take me in and feed me says a lot. Fox and I legitimately developed a friendship. She even introduced me to her daughter, who actually engaged in nonchalant banter about concession food with me. I felt at home.

As I meandered around the stand aimlessly reflecting on my consumption, a few ladies offered me some popcorn. I accepted with minimal hesitation. The popcorn was good, but the way they gave it to me was hilarious. They had me hold out two hands and dumped a meager portion into them. I felt like Oliver Twist. Not only did this show a general disregard for my dignity, it showed a disregard for my safety as well. The popcorn was scalding hot. Instantly, I suffered minor lacerations in my hand. The ladies were good about it though. We shared several laughs over the incident, and they apologized and gave me a whole box of popcorn. My hands hurt so bad that I couldn’t hold it.

I packed up and left, but the adventure wasn’t done yet. When I visited Federal Hocking in week 8, they invited me back for a special dish in week 9. I had a full stomach, but I still decided to go because I’m insane. The special dish was chili. Nothing solidifies the notion that my stomach hates my brain like chili. It was homemade and excellent. It had pinto beans, black beans, navy beans, kidney beans, and everything short of Mr. Beans.

Whether it was through laughing with the ladies of Sheridan’s concession stand, meeting Nancy Fox’s family, or being invited back to Fed Hock for more homemade food, I would have to be blind not to have seen the spirit of Friday night.

 

 

Taste Of The Town Federal Hocking

With my torso bellowing, I took off on another of my infamous esophageal excursions through the Gridiron Glory coverage area. I found myself in the heart of Stewart, Ohio at Federal Hocking’s week seven clash against Trimble. For some ungodly reason, I felt like a super hero.

            It may seem and/or be exceptionally unreasonable, but it still managed to dominate my thoughts and actions Friday leading up to my Taste of the Town trip. I developed a brief list of stark parallels between my caloric contingencies and the exhilarating adventures of your generic superhero. When called to duty, superheroes put on capes. I put on a wrinkled, black long sleeve tee. Superheroes have technologically superlative transportation devices. I have my operative rear wheel drive Buick LeSabre. Superheroes have ardent and cunning sidekicks. I have a durable and perverse appetite. The only place we really differ is our reason. Superheroes fight for a noble and redeeming cause. I fight for a pompous and ravenous meal.

            Armed with a growing misconception of my fundamental role in society, I arrived in Federal Hocking to a civilian’s welcoming. I instantly eyed the concession stand inside. Little to my knowledge I would not only be leaving the stadium with a full stomach but would enter with one as well.

            I was in the midst of ambling up to the ticket booth when I spotted a substantial assembly of perceptible loiterers hovering around the tailgate of a red pickup truck. As Gridiron Glory’s resident food expert, I sensed that this gathering involved a meal. Tossing my amateur status aside, I detoured abruptly over to the truck. I found a man. I found a grill. I found food. The story of the group was straightforward but cutting-edge. It was a peaceful pregame amalgamation of football parents. Each family contributed a dish, and they merged two of the most influential factors in my nutrient dependent life: tailgating and a potluck. A mere twenty feet from the truck was a table occupied with main dishes, side dishes, desserts, and assorted plastic cutlery. I felt like a pilgrim at the first Thanksgiving. I mumbled a few inarticulate sentences proclaiming everything I was thankful for and started eating like I was in Plymouth in 1621.

Potato Medley- I’m 25% Irish. Let’s just say there was no famine in Federal Hocking Friday night.

Macaroni Salad- A smorgasbord of macaroni, dressing, ham, shredded cheese, and likely a few other undisclosed items. I wouldn’t write home about it. Maybe call. Definitely not write.

Goat Milk Fudge- The moment I saw the word goat I was alarmed. I am generally uncomfortable with the notion that my milk is derived from a cow let alone a goat. In fact, I am unaware of how one would acquire “goat milk.” I must have missed that aisle on my last trip to Kroger. When I began eating it, however, I was made extremely comfortable. It was sensational.

Butterscotch Dessert Apparatus- It had marshmallow, caramel, chocolate, and butterscotch. It was an overwhelming sensation. I also got to taste it about five hours later because most of my slice stuck to the roof of my mouth.

Pumpkin Roll- It was a seasonal favorite. I felt like I was a participant of the autumn period. You could be a scarecrow wearing flannel while mindlessly assembling a cornucopia and sipping lightly on apple cider and you still wouldn’t be as festive as I was.

Jalapeno Sausage with Hot Garlic Butter Sauce- There’s the magic word again: jalapeno. It benched me in Ironton. It parked me in Trimble. And it would bury me in Fed Hock.

Pumpkin Roll- In the spirit of the season, I had another.

 

And THEN, I went to the concession stand.

Nachos Supreme- Ground Beef+cheese+nachos+salsa-self respect= a stomachache.

Breadsticks- From the cold weather, I lost feeling in my extremities. From the food, I lost feeling in my mid section. After a few rounds with the breadsticks, I effectively lost feeling in my taste buds.

Hot Chocolate- Don’t ask me how it tasted.

I came into Federal Hocking with a superhero’s mentality. I left marred by my massive mastication. I stumbled upon new ground nonetheless. In a late season conference game for their kid’s faltering football squad, the parents of Fed Hock’s players still relish the fellowship of high school football. That is precisely how they showed me the spirit of Friday night.

 

Taste of the Town: Jackson, Ohio

My digestive digression continued Friday night as I traveled to Alumni Stadium in Jackson in pursuit of further fantastic football foods. I was instantly besieged with a sense of vast discouragement. It had been raining all day and was still persistently precipitating as I pulled up to the stadium. How would I be able to enjoy the food if I was stranded in the pouring down rain? I would be wetter than Michael Phelps in Beijing. I would be wetter than an earthworm in Seattle. I would be wetter than a bootlegger in the 1920’s. I would be wetter than R. Kelly’s sheets.

 I finally had to decide to dig deep. After all if I wanted to emerge as one of the premier eaters in Southeast Ohio, I would have to learn to overcome adversity. In a wave of good fortune, I discovered a tent located outside the stadium that appeared to contain some variation of a cooking device. I keenly approached the tent and was greeted by three diligent gentlemen and four intimidating deep fryers. Yes, it was that time of the week again. It was the time where my colon shudders in fear. It was the time my arteries begin voluntarily clogging in anticipation of what they are about to be exposed to. It was the time where I swallow my dignity and make a public spectacle of myself as I ravage through an assortment of unhealthful cuisine.

I spent an hour shooting the breeze with concession cookers Jerry Post and Steve Lorbach. Post and Lorbach seemed to have it made at their station. They were surrounded by good food, blaring old-fashioned rock-n-roll on a nearby stereo, and raving about Jackson’s 6-0 record. As I was bobbing my head to Springsteen’s “Glory Days,” I was introduced to a man named Dave Delay. Delay was wearing a wrinkled blue apron with his nickname embroidered on the front. His nickname is derived from the main dish that he prepares Friday nights for Jackson fans. I fully expected the nickname to be “Steak Man” or “Chicken Man” or even “Pork Man.” But contrary to my stubborn speculation, Dave Delay is frequently referred to as “Veal Man.”

 Yes, you read it correctly, veal. I just couldn’t get my mind across the concept of veal. I get a certain feeling about me when I eat meat. The meat I’m eating becomes an unwarranted determinant of my personality and self-image. When I’m in front of a steak I feel brute and manly. I often envision myself gritting my teeth, chopping down trees, and trimming a mane of chest hair. When I eat fish or chicken I feel elegant and classy. I see myself as an esteemed philanthropist, a charismatic businessman, and, at times, a mannerly 18th century duchess. However, as I stood in front of veal I felt wildly irrelevant and moderately monotonous. I envisioned myself crocheting scarves, regularly viewing C-SPAN, and examining ant colonies. It was new territory for me. Nevertheless, I started to eat.

Deep Fried Jackson County Veal Sandwich- This was a massive slice of veal teetering helplessly on a bun that fell dreadfully short of accommodating the meat. I plowed through the sandwich mindlessly. The breading was outstanding. I had gone from generally uncomfortable and passively unstable to mysteriously confident and undoubtedly nourished. I regretted ever harboring negative thoughts about veal. It had won me over. In fact, by the time I finished the sandwich (which was a very swift process) I had developed what I perceived to be the initial stages of an intimate relationship with veal.

EATING TIP- Put ketchup and pickles on it. I would highly recommend you eat this with your eyes close. It simply enhances the bliss.

Pizza- It was gone in 20 seconds. I actually don’t really recall tasting it. I’m sure it was good. Ultimately, it is pizza.

EATING TIP- Show no regard for your surroundings. Devour it. Pizza is amazing. You have every right to just demolish it.

Pizza Rolls- These were your typical snack-like pizza rolls. They did have a twist, though. Instead of the conventional oven baking, they just toss them in the deep fryer. This was awesome for my taste buds but devastating for my esophagus. I methodically finished these off in well under a minute.

EATING TIP- If you need guidance in eating pizza rolls, seek immediate psychological assistance.

Deep Fried Jackson County Veal Sandwich- It was so good I had to have it twice. Only this time there were upward to twelve people watching me put the sandwich away. I felt like Tiger woods on the first tee. I had a following, a gallery. Periodically, I would hear a cheer. People were in awe. You would have thought it was the penguin feeding at your local zoo. The “Veal Man” stood alongside me and offered a running commentary of my excursion. For the couple minutes I was eating that sandwich, I sensed an extraordinary time of fellowship around me. It was almost as if there was a collective bond over my improper eating habits. It was a genuine moment.

In the end, the “Veal Man” lauded me. He constantly exclaimed that I was a professional, and I started to believe it. I had separated myself from other eaters. For that short amount of time, I was the king of consumption. I was the duke of digestion. I was the emperor of eating. I was the chairman of chewing. I was the sultan of swallowing. I was the monarch of munching.  I was the god of gorging. And most importantly I was the viceroy of veal.

From jamming to ‘80s rock under the tent to feasting on fried veal sandwiches, I had been associated with some of the biggest traditions in Jackson. Lorbach, Post, and the “Veal Man” truly showed me a good time at Alumni Stadium, and you can bet your bottom dollar that they also showed me the spirit of Friday night.

TASTE OF THE TOWN NUMBER 3

Friday night it was time again to continue my coronary cruise through the concession stands of Southeast Ohio. Assignment number three would be a trip to Glouster Stadium for Trimble’s homecoming game against Eastern. The playing field was blanketed with an eerie evening fog, and my arteries would soon be blanketed with an eerie chain of fatty acids.

I sauntered up to the band concession stand which was a diminutive trailer sitting to the left of the visitor side of the stands. I promptly peaked in the concession stand and was met with a sight that turned my heart upside down. It was my opponent, a daunting row of six deep fryers that were merely taunting me with their unyielding heat and bubbling oil. My Friday night expeditions have gone from an innocent, mindless consumption to a rigorous, gruesome battle. It is my indelible intestines, consistent colon, and adamant arteries squaring off against spiteful saturated fats, cruel calories, and ferocious fibers. So, I found myself face to face with my newest foe. It was the pregame handshake. It was the coin toss. It was game time.

I teamed up with Gary and Laverne Humphrey as well as Angie Strock. The Humphrey’s, a happily married pair, and Strock take their concession role seriously, and well they should. After school funding was cut from their children’s band program, the now extracurricular band is funded by their concession stand and their concession stand only. The Humphrey’s daughter directs the band, so they know just how crucial the sales of the stand is. In a candid conversation about how passionate the people of the concession stand were about carrying the financial burden of the band (which includes funding trips to away games), Gary Humphrey told me exactly why they need to keep the band afloat, “Music is something you can do you’re entire life.”

While the words of Humphrey were compelling and true, I quickly realized that touring high school football stadiums and devouring their fan’s favorite foods isn’t something you can do you’re entire life. The talk was over. It was time to eat:

Chili Cheese Fries- This was a hefty half-pound plate of French fries doused with nacho cheese and warm chili. I had heartburn just looking at it. Gary had advised me to take this one on with my hands and finish it with a fork. I proceeded accordingly. Shockingly, this dish had little to no immediate detriments when it came to my digestive tract. I began to fantasize possibilities that I had finally defied the odds of indigestion. Perhaps, I had developed iron intestines, a steel stomach, and a copper colon. For that blissful moment of wishful thinking, I was invincible, a statue of a man. It was after I finally attempted to breathe at the end of the dish that I realized the reason my system felt so unconquerable. All I had just eaten, had not reached my GI tract yet. It was simply lodged in my already ailing chest. It wouldn’t be until my next dish began occupying this region that it would push through my system and render my seemingly untouchable system helplessly fragile.

CHILI CHEESE FRY EATING TIP- Try to consume this one inside or in close proximity to a shower. There is no neat way to eat these. I looked like a four year old eating a rack of ribs. It was embarrassing.

Jalapeno Poppers- There was the magic word again, jalapenos. Obviously, I was overwhelmed with a rush of nervousness. I was sweating like John Rocker in Times Square. I just plowed through these ones. They tasted phenomenal.

FUN FACT: There is cheese in jalapeno poppers. This was a pleasant surprise for my throat, but an unpleasant surprise for my dignity. It took away from the spiciness, but it added yet another splash of cheese to dump into my system.

Mozzarella Sticks- As if I hadn’t already had enough cheese, I was presented with these. And they were fantastic. In fact, next time you go to a football game get these. It’s an incredible combination. If your concession stand doesn’t have them, it may even be a marketable idea to order them as take out at your local steakhouse and bring them to the game with you. Okay, maybe that’s a little extreme, but the point is they’re good, real good.

The grub guzzling was over, and I, once again, had several clinical symptoms. The most notable of these was my body temperature. I was inordinately cold. I was colder than Walt Disney. I was colder than Napoleon in Russia. As I waddled out of the stadium, I was a documentary film crew away from March of the Penguins. There was no explaining it. I began eating at a comfortable body temperature, and I ended my meal chilled to the bone.

Friday night I realized just how crazy my voyages have been. They get more enjoyable and subsequently more dangerous each time. My immense indulgences are as dangerous as hunting with Dick Cheney but as enjoyable as New Year’s with Dick Clark. After a weekend of repeatedly reading Dan Marino Nutri-System testimonials, I realized that each time I travel to a concession stand on Friday night I walk away humbled. I walk away not humbled by my ever expanding mid-section but by the people I meet. The dedication of Angie Strock, the Humphrey’s, and all the other workers of the stand to keep their beloved band alive had once again shown me the spirit of Friday night.

 

A Special Top Five!

 

Prominent public figures with Chicago roots (Barack and Michelle Obama and Oprah Winfrey) made a trip to Copenhagen to lobby for their hometown to host the 2016 Summer Olympics. In the build up to their trip, there was a bit of a controversy about another emblematic Chicago figure's refusal to go. This figure was championship athlete and tow-time Olympic gold medalist Michael Jordan. Jordan, who has been under recent scrutiny for a narrow-minded Hall of Fame acceptance speech, refused to tag along on the trip to sell Chicago to the highly critical Olympic Committee.

In light of this, I decided to create a list of alternative Chicago athletes that could have been sent to Copenhagen. Here are the Top 5 athletes that Chicago was wise NOT to send in front of the Olympic Committee:

5. Cedric Benson- Benson used to be the feature running back for the Chicago Bears. His lofty resume includes a DUI and a BUI (Boating Under the Influence). The unique thing about these instances is that they occurred in the same offseason. I would just hope he wouldn't try to fly himself to Copenhagen, or we could be looking at the first misdemeanor hat trick in Chicago sports history.

4. Lou Piniella- "Sweet Lou" is the animated manager of the wayward Cubs. Piniella is notorious for his abusive and oppressive treatments of umpires. He often resorts to catapulting bases, kicking dirt, and engaging in saliva discharging arguments with no regard for the umpire's or his own personal space. I would just hate to see what would happen if he was in attendance for a decision that doesn't go Chicago's way.

3. Dennis Rodman- Rodman was a versatile defender and extraordinary rebounder. His hustle play and no holds bar approach to the game of basketball truly captured the Olympic spirit. If his several body piercings, an intoxicated marriage with an American sex goddess, and the on-court assault of an innocent camera man captured that same spirit, Rodman would be the perfect man to send.

2. Rex Grossman- Grossman was the quarterback of a Bear's team that made it all the way to the Super Bowl. However, something tells me that when trying to sell Chicago to the Olympic Committee he'd find a way to "drop the ball."

1. Steve Bartman- I think he's done enough damage in the Windy City.

Gridiron Glory Taste of the Town Round Two

Another Friday arrived and I knew what was in store. As Gridiron Glory’s resident food expert, it was time to depart on another pancreatic pursuit to discover the tastiest tailgate treats in Southeast Ohio. This week’s assignment was a quest to “The Tank” in Ironton where the Tigers took on SEOAL powerhouse Logan.

            I began the day with an open mind. I finished the day with a closed stomach. I began the day at a comfortable body temperature. I finished the day in a cold sweat. I began the day with a general disregard for my personal well-being. I finished the day with a two-year subscription to Men’s Health. Needless to say, it was a successful trip.

            Naturally, when I arrived I sniffed out the concession stand. I went around to the back and assertively asked for an interview and sampling of their unique foods. The reaction I got was startling. My inquiry was met with laughter. The workers of the Band Booster concession stand harmoniously cackled. I briefly surveyed the area to see if Dane Cook or Will Ferrell were behind me telling jokes. It was at this time that I realized that they were laughing at my ambitious request. For a painstaking moment I felt about as awkward as Kim Jong-Il in front of the U.N. Security Council. Finally, the lively concession workers warmed up to me and offered a few of their most distinct dishes.

            Band Booster president Dru Pack was agonizingly short of shy about her intentions. She jokingly (I think) told me that if I didn’t like her food there would be consequences to pay. She proceeded to briefly outline the consequences, but I did not understand what she was saying because my thoughts were drowned in fear of my personal security. From her facial expressions and gestures I gathered that it would be a morally debatable form of corporal punishment that would require me to seek urgent counseling and vigorous physical rehabilitation. Little did I know, liking her food would not be an issue.

So, feeling about as safe as a share of K-Mart stock, I moved on to the eating.  Dru had four treats for me to try:

Hot Dog doused in Nacho Cheese- This one is pretty self explanatory. Your everyday hot dog just smothered in rich nacho cheese. This one is a fan favorite at Ironton. And I’ll tell you first hand it definitely isn’t an intestine favorite. Nevertheless, I absolutely parked it and enjoyed every bite.

Tiger in a Bag- This is Ironton’s version of a walking taco. It is taco meat, jalapenos, lettuce, tomatoes, Fritos, and sour cream all stuffed into a Frito bag.. This was outstanding. It also benched me. After I took a hearty bite of it, Dru cordially informed me that she thought it would be cute to sneak an inordinate amount of jalapeno sauce in it. I had heard of slipping drugs or laxatives in drinks as a practical (well, not very practical) joke. I had even heard of putting a small child’s pill in one of their favorite foods to get them to take it. But sneaking jalapeno sauce in my Frito bag? This was unprecedented. My larynx was trembling. My large intestine was quivering. My colon was shuddering. I instantly lost all fundamental feeling and sensation in the majority of my respiratory organs.

Sauce on a Bun- Still not over the jalapeno massacre, I pressed on to what Dru called the “redneck sloppy joe.” It was a unique sauce and I thoroughly enjoyed it.

GASTROINTESTINAL UPDATE: Remember earlier in the story when I was concerned for my personal safety? At this point my vital organs were concerned for their personal safety.

Pickle on a Stick- What a phenomenal idea. After indulging in an assortment of heavy and spicy foods, this pickle was a refreshing change of pace. We aren’t talking about your little dainty Vlasic pickles that you sprinkle on your hamburger either. These are monstrosities. These are juicy. These are crisp. These are delicious.

            I had eaten all these foods in less than three minutes. The rest of my Friday night was bittersweet. The extraordinary taste of the evening’s treats lingered on my tongue for hours. However, the extraordinary contents of what I ate lingered in my G.I. tract. On Friday nights in Athens many students can be found chugging beers. This Friday I could be found chugging Pepto Bismol. My trip to Ironton was overall rewarding. After joking around with Dru Pack and watching a rowdy group of band parents truly enjoy serving their community, I had realized that through their unbelievable cuisine and incredible attitude the Ironton band parent’s have embraced the spirit of Friday night.

 

Kanye's Mistake

By now we all know what Kanye West did at the 2009 VMA awards. Sure it was disgraceful. I understand it was unfair to Taylor Swift. It easily would have been best if Kanye just kept his mouth shut, and I can think of a few songs where that is the case as well. But all of these glaring reviews of Kanye's reprehensible rant are really missing the point. The right idea is that Kanye shouldn't have done it, but it is why he shouldn't have done it that is tragically misconceived. 

His flailing fallacy came when he forgot to account for who was in the running for the award. Sure his beloved Beyonce video, which he seemed to like a little too much, was a finalist, but one of his perennial enemy's was a part of the group as well. I speak of punky pop princess Pink. Kanye and Pink have quarreled over some issues in the past, including a summer tiff that involved Kanye's excessive support of the fur industry. This set off avid environmentalist Pink.

The reason this was a mistake for Kanye is simple. Pink is scary as hell. We're talking about a girl who changes her hair more than R. Kelly changes his sheets. Her body is pierced more often than a dart board. I mean she is the Louvre of female body art. And Kanye had the audacity to put her already unstable emotions in a position where they could easily implode. Reports have it that Pink showed visual displeasure and was escorted away from Kanye after the incident. 

I don't think Kanye realizes what could have happened to him. Has he ever seen Pink's newest hit video, "Please Don't Leave Me?" Pink deceptively sings the words 'please don't leave me' to a well-groomed, trendsetting guy. As she does this she proceeds to find innovative and twisted ways to make his life physically, mentally, psychologically, and emotionally torturous. There is even a scene in the video eerily reminiscent of The Shining where the no longer gorgeous, tattered gentleman is fearfully locked in a sequestered bathroom, and Pink, with a demented smile on her face, is casually attempting to open the door with an ax. In the end of the video, the man overcomes Pink by spraying her in the eyes with an unknown substance that causes her to fall helplessly to the ground of the mansion's foyer a floor below. The conclusion of the video shows the man, generally appalled at the  notion of life, being carted off by paramedics. It then focuses attention to an apparently unconscious Pink who promptly wakes up and looks over at the petrified man as she pants, "please, please don't leave me." Pink does two things to round out the video:

1. Blows a kiss to the camera.

2. Scares the shit out of me.

Let's put it this way, Kanye. You sing "Amazing." Pink sings "Trouble." You sing "Good Life." Pink sings "Long Way To Happy." You sing "Gold Digger." Pink sings "Just Like a Pill." Your hit video "Jesus Walks" denounces violence. Pink's hit video "Please Don't Leave Me" harbors violence. In life you have to pick and choose your battles. I think it's safe to say you wouldn't win this one big guy.

Gridiron Glory Taste of the Town

            Friday night I embarked on a journey. I ventured across the winding roads of Route 13 to West Muskingum in search of their most delectable game day dishes. The unpredictability of this voyage was frightening, but its success was legendary. Lance Armstrong conquered the Tour de France with an unforgettable will and a swift bicycle. Christopher Columbus tackled the Atlantic Ocean with a faulty map and a massive ship. And I took on a Friday night in Tornado country with a 2002 Buick LeSabre and a relentless esophagus.

            After an unsettling trek to the stadium, I arrived keen to discover the taste of West M. I strolled eagerly into the confines and immediately began sniffing around the concession area. My initial behavior drew several inquisitive looks from an assortment of spectators. I was a Rottweiler outside an Outback Steakhouse. I was a seagull hovering over the Atlantic Ocean. I was Al Roker at a Ponderosa ten years ago. I was carnivorous. I was ravenous. I was ready to go.

            I proceeded to meander around the concession area for a while longer before I found the source of West Muskingum’s tasty tailgate. I first spotted a huge Traeger grill. A grill that was so big you could cook enough of three different meats to stock the entire concession stand. When I first saw the grill, I stood in awe of it at one point pausing for a moment of silence in appreciation of it. As I slowly raised my head to see who was operating it, I expected to see several brute men standing and staring at the grill with admirable approval. Instead, I found two assiduous ladies. Michelle Gutridge and Barb Wolfe were adding meat to the grill diligently. I approached them and introduced myself. It was clear that they were in the zone. I made small talk with Michelle. She agreed to allow me to taste some of their unique foods and promptly resumed working. So, I took a step back and observed. What I watched was music in motion.  I never thought the smoothest most operative offense I would see this year would be that of the West Muskingum High School Band Boosters. Michelle grilled the dishes to perfection, constantly checking the meat to ensure it was of the highest quality. But it was after the meat was cooked that impressed me the most. Barb Wolfe, a volunteer band mother, would receive a perpetually clean handoff from Gutridge and dart into the concession stand, where Band Booster president Paula Moore would await enthusiastically to prepare it to be served. It was a beautiful thing. Offensive coordinators around the area should take a lesson from these astute women.

Finally, I was given an opportunity to taste the foods. Here they are in order:

8 oz steak on a stick- This was a straight succulent steak cooked medium well on a stick. I was utterly baffled by this. I stood before it and marveled at the immense wonders of innovation. Then, I punctually devoured it. You may ask: ‘did you use A1 sauce?’ No need ladies and gentlemen. This cut of meat is almost as spectacular as the way Michelle Gutridge cooks it.

Pulled Pork Sandwich with apricot barbeque sauce- Gutridge doesn’t mess around with her pulled pork. She began cooking it Thursday night. She smokes it on the grill for an astonishing 18 hours. At first I was skeptical about this. After all, in 18 hours I could make Easy Mac 308 times. I questioned whether it was worth it or not and was instructed to taste for myself. That was before I started thinking about the combination of apricot and barbeque. I felt like I was compromising between a tea party and a hog roast. So, I cautiously went on with it. The results were phenomenal. Eighteen hours and three bites later, I appreciated every second that went into making that pork.

Sweet Potato with Cinnamon Butter- Once again, I was in heaven. It just blows my mind that they would think to bake sweet potatoes at a football game. I ate this so fast I almost didn’t taste it. It was so rich and decadent that it melted in my mouth. I absolutely mauled the poor potato in my hands, utterly disregarding the two forks that they had so thoughtfully provided for me.

I had been eating for four and a half minutes and had already tasted everything. I, also, had developed a considerable amount of intestinal discomfort (not due to the quality of the food, but more or less the manner in which I ate it) and a mild case of heartburn. That’s when Paula Moore suggested that I go to the other side of the stands and try out the Athletic Booster’s rib eye sandwiches. This was a classic example of my head telling me yes and my heart (as well as a host of major organs) telling me no. Naturally, I treaded over to the other side and began blubbering around again.

I found the same massive grill and held another ceremonial moment of silence. This time, however, I found a group of men holding down the grill. I met with Jack Brady, a volunteer Athletic Booster. He presented me with a sandwich. I queasily observed it. It consisted of a large, sebaceous slab of meat doused in yellow nacho cheese. My small intestine was quivering. Needless to say I took one bite and loved it. The meat was gloriously tender, and the cheese just added to its succulence and to my developing digestive disorder. In fact, I don’t recall there being more than one bite. I believe I just kept on trucking right through the whole sandwich.

I arrived in West Muskingum Friday night with a selfish appetite for the finest foods. I left humbled by the people I encountered, and the food I ate. The concession experience in West M is phenomenal. They have it all going for them: tremendous football, tremendous food, and tremendous people. That, to me, is the spirit of Friday night.

The Art of Snacking Taken to a Curious Level

The year 2009 has included several historical landmarks ranging from the inauguration of our first black president to the 40th anniversary of the United States landing on the moon to the Hall of fame induction of Michael Jordan to the memorialization of Michael Jackson. And yet, we as society have still managed to carelessly neglect one of the most prolific landmarks of our time. I speak of the tenth anniversary of Yoplait's snack sensation, Gogurt. 

Never have we seen such a moronic concept turn into an international phenomenon. What should have been a parent's nightmare has drastically turned into a child's savior. With its downright senseless layout, its utterly dangerous advertising strategy, and its contorted consistency, Gogurt appeared headed for a swift and inevitable decimation. But Yoplait, through all its determination, turned it into the most aesthetically attractive and  notoriously nourishing yogurt on the planet.

Allow me to outline just why this extraordinary product line ought to have, for all intents and purposes, failed.

First of all, we need to examine the general idea that General Mills had when they created this product. It just baffles me to imagine the thought process behind such a unique product. I often envision a knock down, drag out board meeting with sophisticated professionals dressed sharply in formal attire. I like to think one of these very executives was a somewhat paranoid mother who had recently made a frantic call to poison control because her small child had recently consumed an inordinate amount of toothpaste mistaking it for an edible entity. While briefly sharing the anecdote with the confounded council, she offered a trivially tragic attempt at a joke that went something like this: "I sure wish our Yoplait yogurt was in that moderately unsanitary plastic tube." It was then that her discouraged disciples perked up and announced their intent to make her humiliating humor into a gluttonous reality. 

I recently decided that this is the only logical explanation I will accept for Yoplait's initiation of putting yogurt, a spoil-some and rich dairy creation, into a long plastic tube. This, to me, borders on revolutionary. The beautiful thing about it is that it worked. It took out the need for the most tedious aspect of the yogurt eating process, the spoon. It amazes me that one of the most radical ideas in modern existence (up there with bagged milk, which made for some unforgiving indigestion throughout my early education years) has become a staple in snacking society.

 

Also, the very basis of their advertising campaign is preposterous. It not only portrays their product as ideal for consuming "on-the-go," but through several print, television, and product illustrations they display and encourage the digestion of their relatively thick, inscrutably textured dairy product during vigorous physical activity. Here is a list of activities the pretentiously contemporary Gogurt cartoon character is participating in while holding not one but two open Gogurt tubes:

Playing Soccer- I couldn't dribble the ball for five seconds as a kid. I also couldn't efficiently eat yogurt out of a tube. There is no way I could do both.

Riding a Scooter- First things first. The scooter fad was short-lived and is long gone. So, not only is this impractical, but it is ineffective.

Riding a Bike- I rather enjoy this illustration because they were sure to send a strict safety message to the impressionable children they advertise for by showing a helmet on the cartoon character. Little did they realize that their diplomatic display is all but negated by the two tubes of Gogurt the child is holding while navigating his bicycle that's front wheel is shown turning unstably to the right.

Roller Blading- Because nothing helps an undeveloped child balance like two open tubes of grimy Gogurt.

Skateboarding- I've watched ten X-Games competitions and not once have the professional role model skaters pulled out a tube of yogurt in mid air to stay nourished.

Hockey- This is one of the grittiest and toughest sports on the planet, and Gogurt has marginalized it by showing their disproportional animated representative eating a quaint and fruity snack out of a colorful and optimistic tube.

Snowboarding- Chances are if you try this one you'll be wearing the Gogurt.

My final point as to why Gogurt should have failed is when they entered the endorsement world of professional sports they went to one of the most irrelevant athletes in the world. You would think this extreme, active snack would choose one of the above mentioned sports to expand their name. Instead, they drifted to the most ridiculous sport around, Nascar. That's right, did you know Gogurt was featured on a car for one Nascar race? I didn't think so. Maybe that's because they sponsored Bobby Labonte's car. Do you know who Bobby Labonte is? Exactly. He raced the car in the 2006 Coca-Cola 600. For some reason I get the impression that their target audience of active elementary schoolers weren't watching the Coca-Cola 600. And if, for some ungodly reason they were, they probably didn't notice and were not enlightened by the Gogurt logo on Labonte's Dodge. This may be due to the fact that the children watching didn't care, or it might have something to do with the fact that the mediocre Labonte finished a fitting 17th place and likely saw little airtime en route to his passable performance.

The evolution of Gogurt has been inquisitive at best, but through a variety of luscious flavors and numerous relevant promotions (including a Scooby Doo edition that was called "Rogurt") Yoplait has prevailed in a constantly amended munching world. So, today I commemorate the makers of Gogurt. For ten years ago you implemented the wonders of innovation and today you are legends.

Was it worth it, Osama?

On the anniversary of September 11, I decided to write a cordial letter to Osama Bin Laden. 

Dear Osama Bin Laden,

Was it really worth it? Eight years ago you and your jackass jihads decided to spark an al-Qaeda uprising by hijacking commercial planes and attacking the World Trade Center buildings. That really worked out for you didn't it, chief? 

You didn't think that a nation built from principles like resilience and independence, a nation built by some of the classiest, most dynamic individuals to ever walk this earth could overcome your amateur antics? 

Not only did we overcome, but we shoved your perspective "holy war" with America up your cave-dwelling and rarely wiped behind. Instead of your envisioned glorious rise to international power, you find yourself scrambling around the musty mounds of the Middle East wondering if you are going to live to see the next day. This might be a complex concept for you, but I have a suggestion for you. Next time you want to dismantle, or even scathe, an international superpower, try industrializing first. You know, developing a stable economy, a global reputation, and militaristic competence. That might just be a helpful tidbit coming from a citizen of a nation that got that out of the way a couple centuries ago. But hey, Western civilization is clueless, right? 

As for you, I just wanted to check up on you. I mean it must be nice living the dream over there in the homeland. I mean you're probably hairier than an alpaca on Rogaine and about as clean as a domestic hog at a county fair. Not that you would know what any of that is since you sit on your gradually decaying ass all day and stare at rock formations. 

Oh and as for the above picture, that's your buddy Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, you know one of the dudes that helped you pull this whole thing off. Yeah, we found him about five and a half years ago. I thought you'd like to see a photo of him. He always was a looker! I mean naturally the cave life will wear on him a little, so don't be too discouraged by the ruffled mustache, the mane of chest hair, and the seven chins he has. 

Also, just so you know, if you are ever in America, we have some great salons and killer (haha, oh the irony) clean public water that you could use to groom up a bit. Oh wait! Everyone in America hates you! Better luck next time, buddy!

In closing, I wanted to address another issue that has arose in the past eight years. I have heard there is a possibility that you are dead. If that is the case, it's probably for the best big guy :).

Love (because that's what we do to our enemies here),

Robert N. Guliano

Person of the Day Wednesday September 10, 2009

Yesterday on the campus of Ohio University all girls involved in a sorority could be spotted exhibiting a straight black tee shirt that read "I Am Greek" on the front. This was likely intended to serve as an early method of recruitment that displayed sorority members as a large, united group of young women who were relatively proud of their involvement in their respective campus organizations.

I will now fast forward to today. As I exited my first class of the day and began my brief journey across the south side of campus I couldn't help but be alarmed by a shocking sight. What I saw was a seemingly alert and functional blonde girl parading across the South Green lawn with what appeared to be a customary astuteness. The only thing that set me off about her was the fact that she dawned the very shirt that a whole category of people had systematically worn the previous day.

Naturally, I began brainstorming explanations for this, and I decided that there was no possible way that her wearing the "I Am Greek" shirt today was not completely embarrassing. I developed three approximated scenarios, all of which render today's Person of the Day socially unacceptable:

1. Her confident stride across campus was actually a "walk of shame" from a Wednesday night hook up. 

Trivia: What is more inglorious than a drunk hookup at Ohio University?

Answer: A WEDNESDAY NIGHT drunk hookup at Ohio University.

2. She was simply still wearing the shirt from yesterday. 

Perhaps she was simply attempting to heighten her status within the organization  by attempting to advertise Greek Life for an extra day. However, strength in numbers was the point of the campaign, and if I were an impressionable college girl and I saw today's Person of the Day wearing that shirt today, I would tend to shy away from Greek recruitment. This is primarily because this girl was literally the only one wearing the shirt today, making the Greeks look like a pretty lonely group on campus. Not to be overshadowed, scenario #2 would also indicate that this girl did not wash her shirt after a day's wear on Wednesday leaving it marginally sweaty, inelegantly wrinkled, and principally disgusting.

3. She missed the memo.

This possibility would mean that she is the uninformed sorority member. The one that defies the odds of intimate sisterhood and fundamental affiliation with her respective organization. The member that remains blissfully oblivious to all the latest group news/events, but still puts forth the front of an involved and loyal member of her respective organization.

So, tardy t-shirt toter, you may not be the sorority sister of the year, but, today, you are Person of the Day.

How Crazy Will Corporate Endorsements Get?

Corporate endorsements are rampant in sports. Big companies buy naming rights to stadiums, contract top athletes for advertising, and stake their claim on everything from what an athlete wears to what broadcasters announce on air. My question is, just how far will this go?

 

Will Lebron James' chalk toss be sponsored by gold bond? Will Rafael Nadal trophy ceremonies be sponsored by Fixodent? Will John Daly's practice rounds at major golf tournaments be sponsored by Busch Light? Will Brandon Marshall's contract signing be sponsored by the Denver County Prosecutors Office? Will Miguel Tejada's baseball bat read "US Immigration Services?" Will Orajel take over the running of the Stanley Cup Playoffs? 

 

In a sporting world where advertising is finding new ways to appear on your television screen the possibilities are not only endless but scary. Small market professional sports teams are already pressed for money, but big market teams in big cities are making matters worse by spending immeasurable sums to try to win. As this aggregates down the road, things could get ugly in small market professional sports cities. 

Imagine the Orlando Magic wearing Mickey Mouse ears for home games to make some extra money. Perhaps the Seattle Mariners will turn to sipping on Frappucinos between innings in the dugout. I mean the Oregon Ducks are already test dummies for Nike. Does this mean the Arkansas Razorbacks will become test dummies for Walmart? Nothing would intimidate SEC foes more than 11 guys coming at you full speed wearing Faded Glory and Athletic Works apparel. Not to mention, when they go to the sidelines and snack on Great Value mixed nuts and RC Cola. 

There is no end in sight in this frenzied advertising atmosphere. So far it has had a marginal effect, but in the blink of an Acuvue contact lens, it can turn the sporting world upside down.

Person of the Day Wednesday September 9, 2009

It is the dawn of a new quarter at Ohio University and an ample opportunity to resurrect my infamous Person of the Day. 

Philosophy Grad student, logic guru, and "Principles of Reasoning" instructor Maria Behnke all but jumped at the chance to claim the initial crown of the 2009-2010 school year. The manner in which she opened Wednesday's class could be considered unprecedented, ill-advised, and implausible. She strode masterfully to the chalkboard and assiduously wrote down her traditionally wayward quote of the day. It read:

"Without logic, reason is useless, with it, you can win arguments and alinenate multitudes."

Now I'm sure this quote is inspirational to someone, but I found a brief grievance with it. Unless the original orator of this quote had a futile lapse in articulation and distorted vocal delivery, the word "alienate" is spelled wrong. This effectively takes all wit, inspiration, and resourcefulness out of the quote immediately, rendering her dismal attempt at motivation painfully short of fulfilling.

However, this would not be the end of her quarrel with fundamental phonics. She moved on to the class example portion of the class. Here is what she scribbled on the board next:

"All film stars are celebraties. Halle Berry is a film star. Therefore, Halle Berry is a celebrity."

After viewing this train wreck I instantly attempted to justify the obvious flaw in my head. She spelled celebrity wrong in the first sentence but spelled it correctly in the second. Perhaps she thought that the entire root of the word changes when it is pluralized. Perhaps she was unclear of the correct spelling so she tried two different formats hoping that she could cut her losses and spell one the right way. Or perhaps she shows a general disregard for her post secondary education by displaying an unabashed ignorance to the content she was writing, reading aloud, and analyzing.

Her downright historic collapse continued to play its way into Person of the Day lore as she wrote her third passage down on the board:

"Some film stars are men. Camron Diaz is a film star. Carmon Diaz is a man."

This curious example was intended to show the class an unreasonable pattern of logic. However, Behnke's lurid linguistics managed to change the course of the whole problem. For all the naive audience of primarily uncomfortable freshman know "Camron" and "Carmon" could be two different people. And the name Carmon, although hardly (if ever) spelled like that, seems to be a realistically masculine name, which would make the example a reasonable pattern of logic. That is all negating the fact that the accurate name of the actress, as known by most people who can pronounce, spell, or define pop culture, is "Cameron Diaz."

Finally, Maria turned to the class after repeating the example and exclaimed the next passage that she would inevitably post on he chalkboard. In my drove of discouragement, I only caught a few of the words she barked. One of them was "inhibitions." I immediately began imagining the ways she could find to screw up this word:

"Young teenagers should never use drugs or alcohol because it lowers inhabitions and blurs judgement."

Just as I suspected, I gave her the hype, and she promptly delivered. She would proceed to avoid the chalkboard the remainder of the class period going an astonishing 0 for 4 at the board in her first complete Philosophy 120 class. So, Maria Behnke, while some teachers command the chalkboard, you have trouble spelling chalkboard, and that is why you are today's person of the day.

Obama Complaints Welcomed But Not On This Issue

After a controversial week at the White House, President Barack Obama delivered his formal address to American students as scheduled. In the days leading up to this speech there has been a national uproar about the speech. Assorted critics and Obama opponents have swarmed the media with  exaggerated complaints and  oblivious grievances that have ranged from calling the speech a part of a Communist agenda to comparing it to actions of Sadaam Hussein.

 

Aside from pretentious triviality and recreational buffoonery, I don't understand why anyone would express such mindless disapproval of a virtually harmless act. In a time when our economy is still floundering, our country is nowhere close to being on the same page with health care, and we still have soldiers dying every week overseas, It is thoroughly unreasonable for politicians and citizens to waste their constitutional voice on a merely passable matter.

As for the speech itself, I took the time to read the script on the White House website and view speech highlights. And not surprisingly, I, as a still impressionable 19-year old, am not brainwashed and am not plotting to spark a Red Party uprising. Something tells me that the K-12 audience of which maybe 5% are registered voters aren't going to use the governmental voices that they don't yet have, and the educated political mentality that they have yet to develop to band together and start an anti-democratic regime in America. In fact, the target audience of this speech is basically all dependents whose number one influences mentally, emotionally, and psychologically are likely their parents/guardians who they see every day in person as opposed to a half hour of seeing Obama on the television. That is without accounting for the lackluster attention span of most children in this age group. Even if the President was spraying these innocent pupils with subliminal propaganda, they probably didn't even process half of it.

 

With that settled, what else could be wrong with this speech. Did his personal anecdotes and friendly introduction relate to his audience too much? Were the success stories of impoverished and sick children across America too inspiring? Was his message of taking responsibility and staying in school too reasonable? Were his points on education's role in the occupational framework of society too honest? It's time for American's to take a message from today's Obama speech and be responsible. We need to be responsible for the voice we are so lucky to have in the United States and use it in reasonable manner.

Easy on the Offense Oregon

I write to you at halftime of ESPN's coverage of the season opening Oregon at Boise State game. I write to warn potential second half viewers to not view the second half of this football game.

The Oregon offense has amassed an astonishing 14 yards in the first half and a bewildering zero first downs. To put this unsightly performance in perspective for you, the Ducks have lost almost three times more penalty yards then gained offensive yards. 

Not only are their stats dreadful, but they look atrocious. Their new offense is about as electric as an Amish stove. Their running game is easier to read than a digital clock.  This offense is about as alive as the Cuban Revolution. They look as lost as Ashley Olsen at a Ponderosa. They've scored less than a math major at a sorority party. They are about as organized as a health care reform town hall meeting. 

This was embarrassing to watch. That goes without even mentioning they are sporting their not-as-bad-as-last-year-but-still-ugly-as-hell jerseys tonight.  Best of luck to the Ducks in the second half because they could capture Osama Bin Laden, turn around the stock market and gain more than fifty yards as a team in the second half, and I would still be embarrassed for them.

The Real Issue

(cnn.com)

CNN Headline News offers a variety of entertaining and informative talk programs ranging from the ever so intense Nancy Grace to the ever so irrelevant Showbiz Tonight. What I write to talk about is a different show, one that is simple in nature but complex in structure. The show is called "Issues," a fundamental title that leaves no question as to what its motif is. A qualified and outspoken journalist speaks out on selected societal issues. 

The basic principles and overall idea of this show disgruntle me. It isn't so much the show as the person hosting it. Meet Jane Velez-Mitchell, a recovered alcoholic, open homosexual, and active vegan that rose to reporting prominence during her coverage of the Michael Jackson child abuse trial. I have two questions for the executive staff of CNN Headline News. Can you find a better person for this job? And if not, Can she find better hair for her head?

Yes, CNN, the real "issue" in society is Velez-Mitchell's hair. It is confusing, revolting, and painstaking. It is wayward, distracting, and suffocating. When viewing the show, I have a tendency to miss the main concepts and topics discussed on the show as well as the general message anyone on or involved in the show intends to get across because I am too busy trying to figure out what is on Jane Velez-Mitchell's head. You could give me a compass, a Garmin, and Ponce de Leon, and I still wouldn't be able to figure out which way her hair is supposed to fall. The first seven times I saw this show on TV I thought it was a Saturday Night Live skit. I would actually be a few hearty chuckles in before I realized that this lady is being serious and that her hair is SUPPOSED to look like an inglorious combination of Joe Dirt and Halle Berry. There was one time last week, that I flipped by Headline News and saw her talking in passing and almost thought her hair looked good. Whether it did or not is up for debate, but five seconds later when I flipped back to check it was back to looking like hell again. 

So what, you may ask, do I suggest CNN do about this? Well, I honestly couldn't tell you exactly. I do know that the hair stylist (that she hopefully doesn't have) that does her hair is a brave, brave individual. However, what needs to be done needs to be done. So no matter what it takes (a machete, weed whacker, assorted kitchen knives, etc.) and how many people (not ruling out casualties with this one), you need to fix her hair and fix it fast.