Go HAWKS!
Today was the day. The day of the BIG GAME. THE HUGE GAME!
Homecoming.
Which means that the town does odd things. The town adorns its face with thick, dry, crusty paint, and the town wears exclusively yellow and black. The town parks on both sides of the street and then the town gets drunk and wanders around looking for the car in the jampacked streets.
It's upsetting, and weird, because the part of the town wandering around drunkenly looking for its car, bedecked in think yellow sweatshirts and facepaint... that part of the town is the part I DON"T LIKE.
And no amount of chastising myself, and no amount of reverse-logic... will make me feel good about it. I want to like everyone, but I can't. Those people are irritating, and loud, and tacky. No matter how gloriously authentic, American, human.
I can get down with the idea of crisp fall air and football lights at the big high school game, proud parents cheering and drinking coffee from a thermos in the dusk.
I can get down with the teenagers smoking under the bleachers at the pep rally.
And I can get down with the sportsfans at home, or in a bar watching with bated breath.
But I cannot get down with the tailgating-homecoming-facepainting crowd. Call me a snob...
but once I went to "The Game" because some friends were playing at a strange thing called the "Magic Bus" and it was AWFUL!
And there was a rugby team in a bus, and my friends were on top of the bus making music, and a throng (truly a throng) of pretty blond girls was thronging around the bus, drunk, shnockered, plastered as can be...
And the rugby team was yelling to the throng, asking the throng to show some skin, some tits.
But when the throng did as the (ugly) team asked, the rugby guys WITHHELD their damn beads, and yelled out, "NO FAT CHICKS!"
Those poor girls, crossing their arms over their perfectly adorable breasts... not at all fat.
And so what if they had been?
It was terrible. I felt terrible.
I felt so sad for the pretty girls, who drunkenly and ashamedly (and incorrectly)) felt fat. And I wanted to kill the rugby team. But I couldn't.
Because the cowards were safely on a bus. A magic one.
And that is why I don't understand football.
Homecoming.
Which means that the town does odd things. The town adorns its face with thick, dry, crusty paint, and the town wears exclusively yellow and black. The town parks on both sides of the street and then the town gets drunk and wanders around looking for the car in the jampacked streets.
It's upsetting, and weird, because the part of the town wandering around drunkenly looking for its car, bedecked in think yellow sweatshirts and facepaint... that part of the town is the part I DON"T LIKE.
And no amount of chastising myself, and no amount of reverse-logic... will make me feel good about it. I want to like everyone, but I can't. Those people are irritating, and loud, and tacky. No matter how gloriously authentic, American, human.
I can get down with the idea of crisp fall air and football lights at the big high school game, proud parents cheering and drinking coffee from a thermos in the dusk.
I can get down with the teenagers smoking under the bleachers at the pep rally.
And I can get down with the sportsfans at home, or in a bar watching with bated breath.
But I cannot get down with the tailgating-homecoming-facepainting crowd. Call me a snob...
but once I went to "The Game" because some friends were playing at a strange thing called the "Magic Bus" and it was AWFUL!
And there was a rugby team in a bus, and my friends were on top of the bus making music, and a throng (truly a throng) of pretty blond girls was thronging around the bus, drunk, shnockered, plastered as can be...
And the rugby team was yelling to the throng, asking the throng to show some skin, some tits.
But when the throng did as the (ugly) team asked, the rugby guys WITHHELD their damn beads, and yelled out, "NO FAT CHICKS!"
Those poor girls, crossing their arms over their perfectly adorable breasts... not at all fat.
And so what if they had been?
It was terrible. I felt terrible.
I felt so sad for the pretty girls, who drunkenly and ashamedly (and incorrectly)) felt fat. And I wanted to kill the rugby team. But I couldn't.
Because the cowards were safely on a bus. A magic one.
And that is why I don't understand football.
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