Oil Can

#51
#51
The Path to Sports Fan Enlightenment

My own journey towards sports fan enlightenment earnestly began when a years-long correspondence with sportswriter, Stewart Mandel led me to join FanNation. Sports Illustrated's parent company, Time Warner had acquired FN and added links to it on SI's Web site. Stew was my first FN friend. After joining, he never frequented the site. I did.

On FN, I came to know some of the CFB regulars. They invited me to join their private threads and annual braggin' rights CFB pick 'em. Though many of us still frequented the public CFB forum, eventually, we retreated into the "civility" of the private threads (ribbing and friendly smack talk abounded, but calloused trolling was verboten). A number of the virtual friendships led to real life encounters and bonds which still endure, years after FN message boards were no more.

Among these varied and scattered CFB fans, I began a discourse about the enlightened sports fan. This discussion was never ending. Repeatedly, I was asked where I was on the path to sports fan enlightenment. I professed to having attended as a casual observer a few CFB games that did not involve the Volunteers, but I had yet to have a fully immersive experience with the fans of a "foreign" university. Everyone agreed that such was not possible within the conference of our beloved teams. Explanation was not needed. Among the contingent of Buckeye fans who were my peers in age, an invitation was issued to me. Would I accept the "honor" of being a Bucknut for a day?

Given that my cousin lived in Columbus (her husband is a physics professor at tOSU), I had additional incentive to accept. A former Buckeye player offered his seats to the 2012 home game with UAB to GTH, a Buckeye fan living in Las Cruces, NM who also had family in Columbus. GTH graciously offered me the other ticket. When I accepted, he conspired with local Columbus fans to create my fully immersive experience.

I stayed with my cousin at her lovely home overlooking the Scioto River. We had breakfast and evenings together, as my Bucknut hosts had a full days' agenda planned for both Friday and game day. GTH & I visited the graves of Chic Harley and Woody Hayes, laying buckeyes and carnations on each. We had lunch at the Varsity Club. We shopped for Buckeye swag at Conrad's (I bought a tOSU Synchronized Swim Team shirt, a buckeye necklace & shot glass). Thanks to Alex, a local whose company are terrazzo artisans that designed and installed custom floors in several campus buildings, I enjoyed private tours of The Schott, the Ohio Union, and Ohio Stadium (where I met the sousaphone player who would dot the "i" for TBDBITL on game day).

Game day began early. We visited with the tailgaters, including numerous band alumni there for the annual reunion. We entered St. John Arena for the pregame rally. We made it to our seats in time to witness TBDBITL's entrance down the ramp. The former Buckeye players with whom we were seated welcomed us warmly. When the student section started O-H-I-O rolling 'round the stadium, I dutifully made the "I," extending my hands, palms together over my head.

The Buckeyes were sluggish at the outset of play. UAB scored, first returning a blocked punt for a TD, then making a long field goal (UAB's kicker would nail both a 47 yarder and 54 yarder that day). Finally, tOSU scored a TD. The tension of the crowd was relieved somewhat. UAB extended their lead with another FG before the Buckeyes found their groove, scoring two unanswered TDs before the half.

Halftime was awesome. The alumni band was 600 strong, dwarfing TBDBITL. Performers included members from the 1940s up to recent grads. Four script Ohios were formed at once on the field.

The third quarter was lethargic and scoreless. Squads of current and alumni band members and cheerleaders roamed the stands, putting on brief performances to keep the spirits of the fans from flagging. Once again, I met the sousaphone player who had dotted the "i."

UAB opened the 4th quarter with an 80-yard drive, settling for a field goal when the Buckeye's made a critical stop. Back and forth scoreless play followed until the Buckeyes scored a clinching TD with 5 minutes to go.

At the end of the game, we headed to a Tilted Kilt for a celebratory beer. Afterwards, wind and a brief rain shower greeted us as we walked back to the cars. I thanked GTH for a grand time. We said our goodbyes and parted ways. Did I leave a more enlightened sports fan?

It did broaden my perspective. Emersion in another university's fan experience did make me acutely aware and even more appreciative of our own. Go Big Orange rings as true to me as the sleigh bell of The Polar Express.

I've stayed in touch with GTH. We talk and text and occasionally send each other things via the mail. FN's demise didn't end our friendship. GTH went on to join Eleven Warriors tOSU fan site. It was he who suggested I check out VolNation.
 
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#52
#52
Good read Tin Man. Ill have to work my way back towrds the front of the thread. I have a neighbor that is from ohio and a huge tOSU fan.(I don't hold it against him).
 
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#53
#53
@OneManGang, I eagerly await the return of your maxims threads for the forthcoming season. If you've the time and inclination to read my Oil Can thread, I'd appreciate your critique. With a tip of the hat,
Tin Man
 
#54
#54
Denominations of Gumbo

Emmylou Harris sang, "Jambalaya, a-crawfish pie and a fillet gumbo." Jambalya is comfort food, can hardly fail to satisfy. Now, as far as crawfish go, I prefer peel 'n' eat or etoufee. I fancy Chukar pie. None of these spark contentious conversations like Gumbo does. I gar-on-tee! Let the arguments ensue...

Gumbo 101 is roux. One contingent swears that anything paler than a dirty copper penny is not worthy. Whatever gumbo you are making, the roux must be the color of a dirty copper penny or it's not ready. These are the "Catholics" of creole cooking. Yes, there is the holy trinity of celery, peppers, and onions, but the only way to gumbo is through the dirty copper penny roux.

I am among the heretics who believe the appropriate color of the roux is determined by the other ingredients. The makings dictate the color. For example, shrimp gumbo made with shrimp-head stock should begin with an almond colored roux. Dirty copper penny roux will over power the subtleties of the key ingredients, create an imbalance which will foil the perfect presentation of the dish. On the other hand, dirty copper penny roux is fine for wild game gumbo. The dirty copper penny crowd may let me sup at their table, but they pray for my errant soul each time I set foot in a kitchen.

Another topic of varied convictions is okra vs file. The okra crowd spans every conceivable use, from those who cook red okra into a goo before adding it to the gumbo to those who expect green wheels of okra resplendent in every spoonful. Okra is easy to grow, cheap, and plentiful. Sassafras is not so. Once, wild sassafras could be found on almost any acre of land. Now, it is scarcer, even cultivated for those who desire it. The file adherents are considered a dwindling orthodoxy by the okra crowd.

I'm a file aficionado, myself. My Midwestern Yankee wife has no truck with okra (whereas, I like it, especially pickled or fried). She approves of my proclivity for file. Gumbo from my kitchen will be okra-free and finished with file.

Spices and/or prepared condiments is yet another source of contention. Purists will season only with herbs and spices, blended to taste and greedily guarded with proprietary hold. The Sunday supper crowd is more likely to bend to the use of store-bought prepared sauces, a dash of this and a tablespoon of that. I am among the profane, adding spices and herbs just so during the cooking, but not averse to hitting it with a splash of Worcestershire and or Tabasco sauce to bring the flavor balance to where I wish it to be.

When it comes down to it, I fall back upon the canticle, whatever you got goes in the pot. Gumbo is what you make it.
 
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#57
#57
Though I admire Hank as a songwriter and performer, I did not have a crush on Hank in college. Emmylou for the fond memories.
 
#59
#59
jhen713 said:
An old man once told me the best way to get rid of crabs is to drop your pants and bend over in front of a mirror. They'll jump from 1 sorry ass to the next.
Click to expand...
Shave one side. Set the other side on fire. Stab them with a fork as they jump out.
 
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#66
#66
The Fourth of July

In the Spring of 1977, I took a business law class. Our instructor was a freshly minted Phd, a first-time Associate Professor. She was personable and pretty and friendly with me outside of the classroom. At the end of term, she told me that she would Summer in DC and invited me to visit her, giving me her address and phone number.

My circumstances were tenuous that Summer (another story). I was temporarily lodged in the dining room of a house full of students, with all of my possessions stored in the dirt floor basement. I was cash poor. Feeling that I had little to lose, I elected to accept the pretty Associate Professor's invitation and hitchhiked to D.C. for the 4th of July.

Arriving in the gloaming, I made it to her address just before supper time. Entering the building, I was politely accosted by a matronly woman asking my purpose. I gave her the name of the Associate Professor. She escorted me to an alcove in the lobby and bade me wait.

A few minutes later, she informed me that I could speak with the Associate Professor via a house phone. Following her to the phone, I noticed the preponderance of young women in the building. There was but one other male besides me, and he was seated in the lobby in the company of a young woman.

When I dialed up the Associate Professor, she was uncomfortable. When I asked to come up to her apartment, she replied that I couldn't do that. The building was a residence for single young ladies, and men were not allowed beyond the lobby. I was flabbergasted, stammering, but why did you invite me to visit you for the holiday if you're unable to give me hospitality? She sheepishly lamented that she didn't think that I'd really come. When I asked rhetorically where I might stay, she answered that she didn't know, said goodbye, and hung up. On cue, the matronly woman came to escort me out of the building.

It's dark in DC, I've no place to stay, and the cops stop me repeatedly to ask about my lodgings and tell me to leave the district. One sympathetic young cop directs me towards Green Belt Park in Maryland. I hitch a ride there and bed down in deep needles under a conifer.

The next day, I hitch a ride back into D.C. Grabbing a modest breakfast at a crowded diner, I allow two others to join me at my table. After hearing my story, they offer me the couch at their nearby apartment. We hang out at there apartment for awhile, then set out to enjoy the 4th.

I encounter a group of protesters at Lafayette Park. Each has a joint, and they all plan to be arrested. The authorities herd them around until they become exasperated. Figuring that they are not going to be arrested in mass, they break out onto the mall and light up. The odor is pungent.

I wander about, visit monuments, listen to street musicians, and have a good time. Toward the end of the evening, I return to the apartment, am welcomed inside, and crash on the couch. The following morning, we return to the diner, where I spend the last of my cash on coffee and fresh blueberries in creme. I thank my hosts, bid them goodbye, and set out for Knoxville.

Hitching a ride, I get lucky just outside of D.C. A young soldier picks me up. He's headed home, and his route passes through Knoxville. We take turns driving his 50s pickup. The steering chain is loose. It's slow going, and driving requires concentration. We try to nap when we're not behind the wheel.

Arriving in Knoxville, I offer him a modest meal and a chance to rest before moving on. He declines, saying that he's good for a few more miles and eager to get home. We part ways, wishing each other well.

Making it back to the house, my roommates inform me that the Copper Cellar called while I was gone. I've got a job washing dishes.
 
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#74
#74
Laurel Avenue Blues

For Fall term, 1976, I rented a little cottage towards the western end of Laurel Avenue in Fort Sanders, 2308. It had 2 bedrooms, 1 bathroom, a living room, dining room, and tunnel kitchen across the back. You can look it up on Google Maps. It's pretty much the same as it was. A little tidier, I expect.

Our landlord ran a food distribution business off 17th, near I40. Everything seemed OK. We could mail in the rent or walk it over.

If there was a draw back, it was the proximity to the railroad tracks. Neither my housemate nor I minded trains, but when the long overnight freight would be headed into the yard just before dawn on Sunday mornings, the engineer would lay on the horn repeatedly as he passed. There's no sleeping through that, not even after Saturday night's debaucheries. Sometimes, we would dash out the back to the end of the alley to applaud and gesticulate as the engine passed by.

For awhile, it seemed as if we were never going to be allowed to sleep in on the weekends. I took an aviator's aptitude test at the Navy recruiting office near campus. The recruiters advised me that I had scored the highest of any recruit in the history of that office. I attributed this to growing up in airplanes as the son of a pilot. One recruiter, a former A7 pilot was determined to get me to sign up. He woke me knocking on the door at the crack of dawn for days on end. Finally, he desisted when I told him that I knew he wasn't offering me the opportunity to sign up for ACS and that I wasn't going to sign up for OCS and be a purser for 5 to 7 years just so he could make quota.

During January and February of 1977, we had a visitor of a different sort. An attractive realtor in her forties kept dropping by the house. We told her we were renters, had a lease for a year, and the house was not for sale. She replied that she was going to buy the house. When our landlord didn't answer or return our calls, we began to worry.

One evening, when my housemate was out, the realtor came to the house. She seemed euphoric, and she was flirtatious. She advised me that she was closing on the purchase of the house the following week and if I was nice, she would let us stay in the house through the end of the school year. I responded that I was very nice. Looking me in the eyes, she reached out her hand and unbuttoned my blue jeans. I took her into my bedroom and we had sex in the manner she preferred. I was a young man, and she was experienced and particular about what she wanted.

I did not see her or hear from her again until later that summer. However, just before the start of Spring quarter, a professor showed up at our door. He explained that he was the husband of the realtor who had bought the home. They were in the midst of divorce. He was going to move in. We could stay and pay two-thirds of the rent we had been paying, or we could move out. Neither my housemate nor I were in a position to move. I surrendered my bedroom to the professor and moved into the dining room. Though a curtain was hung between the dining and living rooms, I had no privacy. After all, everyone had to move through my room going to and from the kitchen.

At the end of Spring term, my housemate packed up and went home to his parents in Memphis. I carried my possession two blocks down the street where friends had agreed to let me stay in their dining room until I found a new place to rent. The professor stayed in the house at 2308 Laurel Avenue until his divorce was final, then, he moved out and she moved in.

Late that summer, I rented the ground floor of 2301 Laurel Ave. My pal moved in when he returned for Fall term. Yes, I did cross the street and tryst with the realtor once more, but she had also entertained the married man across the street. To save his marriage, he bought the house and the realtor moved away. He made a show of inviting me over to see the improvements he'd made. He pointed out the prior improvements that I had made which he had left in place, complimenting me on them. There was a moment in which I looked into his wife's eyes. I believe she knew the real impetus of his desire to purchase 2308 Laurel Avenue.

I would have other adventures at 2301 and eventual wind up moving into a bedroom of the house a block away, 2202 Laurel Avenue, the one in which I'd occupied my second dining room in a row. There, I would compose The Laurel Avenue Blues for vocals and blues orchestra.
 
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