More salad, please

"These were the happy days, the salad days as they say..."
~ Raising Arizona

My typical January blahs lacked their usual bite this winter.  And I have a couple of theories as to why.

One is that the blahs are holding off until February when I turn that age which shall not be spoken, thus in all probability entering a mid-life crisis the likes of which the world has scarcely seen, at which point my usual winter depression will last indefinitely, or longer.

The other has to do with the fact that this particular January has included a beautiful 2-inch snow (school was out for two days) and yet another Bama national championship.  To slightly reword the song, those are but two of my favorite things.  So I spent a decent portion of the month on cloud ten.

The man most responsible for this -- the football, not the snow, well not as far as I know anyway -- is Nicholas Lou Saban.

I nearly titled this post, "Have you ever really, really really ever loved a man?"  Because I have.  I do.  I love this man.  And I'm not ashamed to admit it.

If I would've had a Nick Saban in my formative years... who knows where I'd be right now?  I'd probably own a small country.  Or at least an E-Trade account.

These are the new glory days.  Three national championships in four seasons.  Are you kidding me??  My life has never been better.  As a sports fan, I mean.  (Important caveat there.)  These are my salad days.

For better or for worse, folks around these parts place a fair amount of importance on our college football, and, more specifically, our Crimson Tide.  I would even go so far as to say that for a majority of people in this state, their top three priorities are God, family, and Alabama football.  And not always in that order.

I just assumed it was that way everywhere.  It's kinda like the first time you leave the South and discover they don't have sweet tea in other places.  But in my golden years, I've come to realize that for many, many people, football is nothing more than a dalliance. (You have no idea how long I've been trying to work "dalliance" into a post.)

Just as I never thought to write about the delights of sweet tea, I've not written about Bama football from this angle.  So allow me to tell you a few things about our organization.

"Roll, Tide" is our cheer.  Maybe you've heard of it.  If not, you can hear it from 100,000 fans inside Bryant-Denny Stadium on most Saturdays in the fall, or in a million living rooms across the state on those same Saturdays, where families gather around televisions, and sometimes radios, hoping for another Bama victory, high-fiving and yes, roll-tiding after every big play.

But it's not just a cheer.  It can be a greeting, a better way to say "goodbye," even a question.  Say you've had a minor misunderstanding with someone.  After talking things out, you might say, "Roll Tide?" instead of "We good?"  And they might respond with, "Roll Tide" instead of "Yeah, we're good."

You might hear it from someone you pass in a convenience store, or your postal carrier.  You hear it at school and at work, where people wear their Bama gear on Fridays during the season.  Every Friday.  Not saying we're superstitious or anything, but if you didn't wear your Bama shirt and they were to lose that weekend, well good luck reconciling with your family.

I've heard it from a hotel front-desk clerk in Cincinnati, Ohio, and a McDonald's drive-thru attendant in Nowhere, Tennessee.  I've even heard it from a pulpit on Sunday, several times. (Is it any wonder those faith and football priorities get muddled occasionally?)

Hear it from a stranger, and you've instantly made a lifelong friend.

It's an aura that hangs in the air of this state like the heavy blanket of humidity on a summer night.  A commonality.  And a source of pride.

You didn't have to attend the university to get it.  We get it from our mothers and our fathers, our uncles and aunts, or maybe our granddaddy, our older brother or sister.  One of my favorite all-time family photos is of my aunt as a teenager in the '60s, wearing a Bama t-shirt.  Some pick it up on their own, attend their first game, and fall in love.

However you get it, once it's in you, it's lifelong.  For better or for worse.  In sickness and in health.  Good seasons and bad.  'Til death do you part.

Is it too important?  That probably all depends on who you ask.  But is it important?  No question.

My Mom once loved a man who wasn't my father.  His name was Bear Bryant.  He became coach of the Crimson Tide when she was 8, and he retired and passed away when I was 9.  An entire generation.  He won a few championships, too. Six, to be exact.

So the morning after this year's Bama team had showed them northern boys from Notre Dame what real football was, I was talking to Mom and decided to ask her if this was how it was then.  If these glory days were as good as the old glory days.

Now this is a woman who, before and during many a football game, has been known to utter the statement, "Please look down on us today, Bear," as if soliciting some divine intervention.  The same mother who apparently trained me so that when a Sunday school teacher showed me a picture that was supposed to be Jesus walking on water and asked who it was, I replied, "That's Bear Bryant.  My Momma says he is the only person who can walk on water."

So when I asked her, "Is this how it was in the old days?" the answer I got was not the answer I expected.

After first scolding me for intimating she was old, she kind of laughed as she said, "No.  We never won like this."

Roll Tide?

Roll. Tide.

"I'm feelin' pretty good and that's the truth / It's neither drink nor drug induced, no / I'm just doin' alright / And it's a great day to be alive..."

I got ninety-nine blog ideas, but Groundhog Day ain't one

(That title made a lot more sense yesterday.  Trust me.)

Some people do a New Year's post on the last day of the year.  Some wait until the first day of the new year.  But I, I have taken the road less traveled by -- and by less traveled by, I mean probably not traveled by at all.  For I have chosen this early February spring day for my obligatory New Year's post.

I rang in the new year at Axl's.  The night was replete with old school Nelly, multiple complaints from the neighbor, and chopping wood.  The latter is not a euphemism.  Oh, how I wish it were.

Axl had recently reconnected with a high school classmate of ours, and she was on hand for the chopping of the wood, er... party.  At some point, Axl disappeared upstairs, returning a few minutes later with several of his high school yearbooks -- En Retrospect, they were always titled.  I believe it's Latin, meaning "to commiserate over wasted years."  And so the three of us spent entirely too much time doing just that.

At first it was interesting, as we discussed what we remembered about each other.  "I remember Bone always used to sit in the back of the class.  And you were always drawing or writing something."  That was news to me, as I didn't realize I was writing, even then.  And after all, surely there is some value to knowing how others view you.

But then it got to be a bit much.  "Even though H won Most Likely To Succeed, I voted for you."  "I still think you're the most likely to succeed, Bone."

See, I don't need to hear that.  What good does that do me?  For me, New Year's isn't about remembering and learning from past mistakes or thinking about the ways you can do better, it's all about forgetting.  Actually, that's not just New Year's, that's kinda how I view every day: I don't want to think too much about the past, and I sure don't want to ponder the future.

Beyond that, it was a bit of a backwards year for me.  The Januarys arrived in November.  And December was just a lot of days.  I had six weeks of the blahs.  For the first time in my life, I found myself dreading Christmas.  And usually, I'm Mister Christmas.  No, really, I actually had someone say to me, "What's wrong with you?  You're usually Mister Christmas."  Although I'm not sure how official any of these titles really are.

Nothing very devastating happened.  I was just going through some things, stuff was weighing on my mind, and that definitely contributed to a lack of blogging.  But then January was nothing like itself.  There was another Bama national championship to celebrate, and re-watch multiple times.  I saw Gordon Lightfoot in concert.  And the weather has felt more like April. 

So a most belated Happy New Year to you.  And there's reason to believe, maybe this year...



"I guess the winter makes you laugh a little slower, makes you talk a little lower, about the things you could not show her..."

Dreaming in color, living in black and white

To say I'm not doing much these days would be a gross understatement. Or should it be overstatement? Whichever, it's definitely gross. The Januarys are in full force around here. I do feel inspired sometimes. But if I wait an hour, it usually passes.

Meanwhile, I've been having wildly vivid dreams lately. One of my very recurring dreams is that I'm golfing but I can never quite get the ball teed up just right. It's too close to me, then too far away, then it falls off the tee, and on and on. It's extremely frustrating.

So then I try and think what am I frustrated about. Life? Love? Writing? That Matchbox Twenty won't put out a new album? Probably the last one.

I have been thinking a bit about turning thirty-eight next month. And I have decided I'm going to go ahead and do it. I mean, when I considered the other options, the choice was pretty clear.

Seriously though, at first glance, thirty-eight seems so benign. Then I think about the whole thirty-nine-and-holding thing, and suddenly thirty-eight feels like the last year of... something. But I am fairly certain no one wants me to get into any sort of deep self-analysis on these feelings, least of all me.

Meanwhile, the wildly vivid dreams continue -- about golf, ex-girlfriends, even Family Feud, though not all in the same dream. In the Family Feud dream, the entire facade of the house across the street was one gigantic Family Feud board. And the guy who lives there was asking me survey questions. Unfortunately, Richard Dawson wasn't in the dream, so that was a little disappointing as you might expect.

A couple of nights ago I had a bit of a different golf dream. The Darryls and I were three holes from the end of our round when one of the course workers rode up on a golf cart and said all the carts had to be in immediately because they were going home for the evening. After much discussion, I finally convinced him to take my cart and my bag and just let me keep 3 or 4 clubs out so I could finish the round, and I would pick up my bag at his house later.

However, the Darryls had continued playing and were now a couple of holes ahead of me. And when I started trying to play again, I was back to the recurring dream situation and couldn't get my ball to stay on the tee.

OK, so they weren't very wild, but they were vivid, darn it! I'm open to interpretation. And interpretations. Other than I suck at golf and play way too much Family Feud online. I already know this.

I have surmised that my subconscious self is living the life my January conscious self can't. Well, note to subconscious Bone: Enjoy it while you can, buddy boy. February's coming, and conscious me will be back to normal, whatever that is.

I may even attempt to socialize with the other humans.

"Don't tell me how to be, 'cause I like some suffering. Don't ask me what I need. I'm just fine here finding me..."

Seven degrees... of something

It is 19 degrees here at the moment. That's one of two reasons I'd rather be in Pasadena. The low Friday night is supposed to be seven.

Seven.

Seven is a lot of things -- how old you are when you're in the second grade, the number of abominable sins, what George Costanza wanted to name his firstborn. It should never be a temperature.

I have the intention to do some sort of year-end post, eventually. Of course, the road to sparse blogging is paved with good intentions. I'll be the only person to do a decade retrospective in March. Apparently, I've resolved to procrastinate even more in 2010. And be even less productive. Sort of anti-resolutions, I guess you could say.

In the meantime, the new decade got off to a rousing start with the Trans-Siberian Orchestra concert in Birmingham Saturday night. Great balls of fire! No, I mean there literally were balls of fire shooting up from the stage, along with smoke, lasers, fireworks -- it was like a rock concert.

The best part of all? There was no opening act. TSO played the whole time! Two-and-a-half hours of auditory and visual delight. I wish more artists would take a cue from them. The ticket prices were reasonable. Granted, we had to duck to avoid hitting our heads on the ceiling of the arena, but still.

The only minor disappointment of the evening was that there was no "guest maestro" segment where they let a member of the audience come on stage and conduct a song. Is there any doubt I would have turned that mutha out on Mad Russian's Christmas?

Next up, we have the national championship game on Thursday night--the "other" reason I wish I was in Pasadena. I don't want to say anything else about that for fear of jinxing something. But combine those two events with the fact that I have signed up to run a 5K at the Nashville Zoo later this month, and I'm hopeful I may have finally found the formula to ward off the Januarys this year.

If that doesn't work, I'll just revert to my usual hibernatory self.

Also, I should probably take down my Christmas tree at some point. Ah, but those pesky anti-resolutions doth preclude me.

"I'd be safe and warm if I was in L.A. California dreamin' on such a winter's day..."

Here comes the sun

Riddle me this: Somewhere in Alabama today, a three-week-old child asks, "What's that in the sky, Dad?" "That's the sun," is the reply. The child had never seen it. Smart kid? Well, he was talking at three weeks. On the other hand, he didn't know what the sun was. Also, the dad was the child's mother. So maybe not so smart after all.

The sun finally came out here today, for the first time in three weeks. Thank goodness, too, because the constant cloudiness and gray was starting to fool my body into thinking it was winter. Which would have put me in danger of catching a case of the non-seasonal Januarys. Which is rare, not to mention more resistant than the regular Januarys.

How bad has it been? During a recent performance of Annie, when they got to the line "The sun will come out tomorrow" an angry audience member stood up and yelled, "You lie!"

Twenty-two consecutive days with rain combined with the Darryls each somehow acquiring a girlfriend has also cut into my already less-than-sterling golf game, er, social life. And when you add to that the fact that football is now on TV every night of the week but Tuesday and Wednesday, well let's just say that I don't get out much.

This makes it all the more difficult to understand how I missed the season premiere of The Office last week. Fortunately, you can watch everything online now, which precludes any need that I might have had to purchase one of those newfangled DVR players, for now anyway. Is this a good time to admit that I may or may not still use a VCR to record things on occasion?

It's hard for me to commit to very many TV shows at one time. They're like girls. I can only handle so many. There's a long-term obligation involved, not to mention the emotional strain some of these shows put on me. I watch Mad Men and Burn Notice when I remember, which usually winds up being about once every three weeks. Always The Office. And then parts of General Hospital during the day. I can't commit to any more. Pretty soon I've spread myself too thin and no one's happy.

Getting back to the Darryls, what is up with the girlfriends? I watched the Newhart series finale. I don't recall the Darryls ever getting married. Did I miss something?

Maybe it's time for me to spread my wings, move to Seattle and have my own show, a la Frasier Crane. It would be a spin-off--a reality series about Larry trying to make it on his own, sans the Darryls. It could be called Just Larry.

Is this the end of life as I know it...with the Darryls? Would you cry? Will I?

Stay tuned.

"Little darling, it seems like years since it's been clear. Here comes the sun. Here comes the sun. And I say it's all right..."

I remember January

I remember January
The cold and the gray
The fight we had
The sky so sad
It cried for us that day

I remember angry words
And no thing left unsaid
The icy stares
The way it tears
When you know love is dead

I remember January
Like it was yesterday
Praying for death
Gasping for breath
Watching you walk away

I remember darkness
I thought would never end
My cursed pride
Our last goodbye
Losing my only friend

I remember January
The loss and the regret
I remember
January
Because I can't forget

Bone snores on

Hello, you've reached Bone's blog. Bone is unable to blog right now because, well, it's January. You know the drill.

BEEP!

I tried to ward off the Januarys this year. I really did. The trip to New Orleans helped, for a few days. But alas, the Januarys have returned, as they invariably do.

Jan. You. Wary.

It gets dark too early for me to golf. College football is over. The Hills is over. And I didn't get a New Year's kiss for the second year in a row. But mostly, The Hills is over.

Plus, it's freaking cold. I don't want to get out of bed in the morning. And all I want to do after work is come home and crawl under the covers where it's warm. I have, however, been running most any day that the temperature gets above forty. That's because I somehow managed to gain eight pounds over the holidays. And I would like to maintain my 33 waist so that I don't have to start buying 34's, rubbing off the 34 and writing in 33.

A typical January day for me goes something like this: Work. Come home. Put on pajama pants. Crawl into bed or lie on the couch and watch TV or a DVD. Go running. Shower. Fix supper. Crawl back into bed or lie on the couch and watch TV or a DVD.

How is that different from my routine the rest of the year? Well I'm glad you asked. My typical non-January day goes something like this: (And to make it easier for you, I've bolded any significant differences.) Work. Come home. Lounge in boxer shorts. Get on the computer. Go running. Shower. Fix supper. Get back on the computer.

So as you can see, it's quite different. I have a very full life. It's very full. Last night alone, I watched four episodes of The Office. I also used my iTunes gift card to purchase the timeless classic "Push It" by Salt-n-Pepa. I know, I couldn't believe I didn't already have it either!

The return of 24 has helped a little to ease the discontent of my winter. Jack Bauer is back. And having Tony Almeida return from being presumed dead was an unexpected bonus this season. I kinda miss doing my 24 recaps. I thought of so many hilarious (to me) asides while watching this week. Maybe I'll start live blogging it. Then again, that's kinda tough to do without a laptop, and without leaving the couch.

But don't cry for me. For January is but February's eve. And February brings Groundhog Day, my birthday and of course, Valentine's Day. No, I don't like Valentine's Day but it's something to blog about at least. Besides, not having a date on New Year's Eve is kind of a bummer. Not having a date on Valentine's Day is almost a relief.

Sure, February is still cold, but it's short. It's only like twenty days or something. After that is March (you know, in case you forgot the order of the months). And from there, it shant be long until I have warmth, I have fun, I have seasons in the sun.

For now, January doth toil on. I think it's safe to say that I would hibernate the entire month of January, if I were a bear. Also if I didn't have to pee every three to eight hours.

"All the leaves are brown and the sky is gray. I've been for a walk on a winter's day. I'd be safe and warm, if I was in L.A."