woo woo texas woo

Four years ago I was on TV:

It was the last bit of sportswriting I did, just a few days after graduation, and a few weeks before wandering to New Orleans where everything changed. My roommates and I road tripped to LA in one last hurrah of Hunter S.-inspired christian debauchery, fully understanding, achingly, that we would never again live such a fun period of life.


I blogged about the trip and the game for the Houston Chronicle. And before the game, I {ahem} wrote that "I think Texas will score 40. I think USC might."

Final: Texas 41, USC 38.

Tomorrow? My prediction is that my bootlegged internet feed of the game will be choppy — forcing me to miss at least three critical plays (like the Hunter Lawrence kick in the Nebraska game) — but largely adequate. I'll complain about said choppiness and ignore the miracle of modern technology. I'll wear my lucky sarong. I'll eat green curry for lunch, regardless of the game's outcome, and my planned lychee wine bloody marys will be a hit only with myself.

If we lose, I'll dive into weightier reading about trafficking, North Korean and Tamil refugees reportedly streaming into Thailand, and war, well, just about everywhere — and I'll grumble about all you grown-ass adults who care more about gridiron silliness than shit that matters.

Everything's changed... unless we win.

Then you'll find me spitting and naked and doing a lewd Pecos Bill dance atop the stupa of the Buddhist temple next door. I might even sock a monk out of sheer glee.

jesus-in-cleats commanded it!

Texas (eh...) 23 — Bama (I guess..) 20