A few weeks ago Gabby overheard the wife and I discussing a possible summer trip to the beach. Even though she had no idea what we were talking about, she let us know she wanted in – “I wanna go to the beach.”
“We’ll go to the beach later.”
“I wanna go to beach now!”
“Well, what’s at the beach. Gabby? Do you know what’s at the beach?”
“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh … water at the beach!”
“Good girl! There is water at the beach! What else?”
“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhh .. no.” (Shakes head)
Seeking to fulfill her thirst for knowledge, I did what any parent would do – fire up the these thar internets (I got the idea from Little House).
I pulled up some beach webcams, including a neat one in Hawaii, then headed over to YouTube. I also did a google images search, and downloaded some nice wallpaper. (Ah! Parenting in the 2000s … Geeks rule).
Before last week, the name Tim Hardaway inspired great memories of the RUN TMC era of Golden State basketball. The acronym bonded together the on-court excitment and power which was Tim, Mitch Richmond and Chris Mullins. Consider it “Showtime” in the minor leagues (Single A, actually). They couldn’t win as much as LA, but they could pretend they could.
That nice sweet memory of NBA lore was cracked a bit last week when Tim went public with how he really feels about gay people. The comments inspired the expected uproar, complete with calls for therapy, threats of banishment and desperate pleas of attention fom George Takei.
My alma mater heads down the mountain Saturday to resume its annual role in the mightily awesome Battle for the Ole Mountain Jug. Appalachian versus Western Carolina. It’s like Michigan versus Ohio State, but less so. (Really less so, actually).
Better yet, it’s like the Yankees-Red Sox, which for years was as much a rivalry as hammer and nail. There are Western jerseys with permanent, giant bootsteps etched forever on the back. They’ve been beaten more than David Gest. If Yosef smoked cigarettes, he’d puff on Catamount Menthols (You’ve been beat down a long time, baby!)
As if an 0-6 league record wasn’t insult-inspiring enough, the WCU athletic department unveiled this season a new marketing slogan – Get In The Whee. As in Cullowhee, not .. well … let your imagination run wild.
In fact, a friend and I did. I have to admit, my PS effort (above) is sheepishly sad compared to his (after the jump).
Appalachian’s Homecoming is Saturday. I know exactly where I’m going to be – with my buddy japs at the world’s greatest and cheapest tailgate.
Here’s how he set it up:
I’ve already reserved a spot, but there’s not going to be a lot of room. It’s the small place in front of Newland (toward the Rivers St. side). As a matter of fact, the spot just so happens to be the monument of Daniel Boone and his two hunting dogs (who I have, for no real reason, named Catfish and Cornbread). There, you can find me with a 2 liter of Sun Drop and a half gallon of Jim Beam, probably half conscious, half-clothed, and half-way in a conversation…with Catfish and/or Cornbread. Come on by and sit by the fake fire (bring appropriate pants, because it may require some Indian-styled sitting), and feel free to take all the pictures that you want, cause I’m pretty sure I won’t remember them. Food is another issue….or I should say non-issue. You might want to bring your own food to Tailgate Casa de Japs, that is unless you will be interested in the half-eaten pack of Lance Crackers and possible corn dog or two that may be jammed in my pockets. Anything else in my pockets is off limits.
Or so I thought.
Thanks to my buddy japs, who could not get enough of that liquor photo.
My buddy japs guessed the horror movie to which I refered to Friday, and did his best to further creep me out:
That inspired me to place Gabby is a much sillier movie scene: