Unedited Aggie Smack--Not For the Faint of Heart

It's a week before we beat the ever-living crap out of those inbred pyromaniacs in College Station. You'll notice I didn't say "the Longhorns." I said, Us. Every last one of Us that still remembers what happened in 1999. Every last one of Us that still remembers the cat calls after the Aggies won. All the calls in the College Station stands for a "renegade Bonfire." It wasn't a slap in the face. It wasn't a knife in the back. Hell, no. This was the Good Samitarian getting shot dead at point blank range. It was an unforgivable sin, a trangression without pardon. And every Thanksgiving we make sure that the Aggies never forget their stupidity and their senseless acts of martyrdom.

I was a student when It happened. You wanted to insert your smarmy Aggie joke and resume your moral superiority like nothing ever happened. But you couldn't. Parents of the dead were there and sobbing uncontrollably. Their children weren't coming home for Thanksgiving. No more Christmas's. Those parents would never get to see their kids graduate and get their first job or make their first million bucks. They were fleeced of their grandchildren and their memories permanently hijacked. And their children weren't dead b/c of something unpreventable like the Virginia Tech shootings. No, they were dead b/c a bunch of logs fell on them. And why did a bunch of logs fall on them? B/c they were improperly stacking the logs which would have been the Aggie Bonfire.

The Aggie Bonfire is supposed to symbolize the burning desire that they have to beat t.u. Great. First of all, they may have a burning desire to beat the crap out of us, but their record against the Longhorns suggests otherwise. Common sense would have dictated that rather than the students build a 57-foot high monument to inefficiency, they'd be better off just practicing harder and getting better recruits. Alas, that wasn't the case. So the students were committed to building, and burning, an effigy. They were going to build a 57-foot high monument to someone they didn't like very much, but weren't very good at beating either.

Meanwhile, the parents continued to sob.

**********************************************************************************

In Austin, we mobilized and started immediately raising money. White ribbons, our respective schools mutual color, were ubiquitous and inescapable on the 40 Acres. Nightly prayer vigils were held. We cried on campus w/ the Aggie Parents. Some of those fallen in the rubble were our friends, our brothers, our sisters. This wasn't another Aggie joke. We watched in horror as kids our age died. We weren't supposed to die. Not this young. And certainly not like this. Not for this.

And yet they did. And when we all went back to our respective homes over Thanksgiving break, we couldn't muster the proper enthusiasm for the Texas-Texas A&M rivalry. I know I couldn't. In fact, I even remember thinking that it would be nice for them to win it, if for no other reason than for them to have something to cheer about. And sure as hell, they did win. That would be the last time I would ever have anything positive or friendly to say about A&M ever again.

After the game, one of the brainwashed masses in the stands told ABC Sports that "we're gonna have a Renegade Bonfire next year b/c that's how much we hate t.u." The College Station faithful roared w/ approval at this remark and cheered him on while he babbled incoherently like a steroid-fueled pro wrestler. I remember sitting w/ my family, just about ready to puke, at these remarks. We raised money for you. We prayed for you. We sent our campus representatives to help you. We sent our best psychologists and grief counselors to your campus to care for you, so that the sadness and tragedy of the last week would not overwhelm you. We damn near helped you win a football game. And this is how you repay us. You verbally murdered us in front of a disbelieving national audience.

I'd like to believe that the student and the surrounding people in the stands were just hyped up on Jack Daniel's and stress. But Monday morning after the game, the Aggie faithful took to the morning talk shows and said that "tradition must continue in Aggieland." Really? A completely dangerous and pointless exercise of building a 57-foot high effigy of someone you apparently hate must go on? Your kids who just died for this idiocy must see to it that this continue? Over a football game? It's that important to you? Really?

This wasn't like Judas selling Jesus out for 30 pieces of silver. This was closer to Saddam Hussein gassing the Kurds. This was just an evil and pointless act that bordered on insanity. The Aggie Bonfire was apparently going to continue. The Texas A&M administration no longer sanctioned it, but wasn't going to stop it either. Robert Gates, now the man appointed to find Osama bin Laden, washed his hands like he was Pontius Pilate, and declared that he wasn't going to stop it.

So tradition has continued in Aggieland. They still every year about this time build their Monument of Hate. They light that Monument ablaze every November, and it hasn't mattered that the logs came tumbling down on that fateful day in 1999. The administration, the student body, the alumni never stopped to consider that, even in the name of tradition, some traditions must come to a close. Gladiator fighting was a tradition in ancient Rome. Burning witches at the stake was a tradition in medieval times. They both had to come to a close b/c they were stupid, killed many innocent people, and devalued the sanctity of human life.

The Aggie Bonfire cheapened human life on that day. It devalued the sanctity of human life. It was stupid. It was ignorant. It was, by their own admission, hateful. And still it continues.

A few years ago, I made the residential edict that no one would be allowed into my house wearing Texas A&M gear. My parents still think this is a strange proclamation. But I have no room in my house for someone that explicitly or implicitly encourages such behavior, such pointless martyrdom.

All I can hope for as a University of Texas graduate is that every year, we kick Texas A&M's ass to a point somewhere beyond embarrassment or shame. If the score is 200-0 in the third quarter in our favor, I would go for two. You see, it's gotten to a point where Texas-Texas A&M isn't like any other rivalry. Most schools hate each other because they are distinct geographical rivals. Oklahoma-Texas being a prime example. A&M chose to hate us for some strange reason, I'm not totally sure why. But on that day when they crossed the bounds of human decency over a football game, I want them to be reminded forever of what they said and what they did. I want them to be reminded that of all the Aggies jokes in the world, when they wake up in the morning and look in the mirror, they are the saddest, and perhaps cruelest, joke of all.

"I'll take: Things That are Awesome!"

Awesome. A word that just gets thrown around. Seems these days, people think EVERYTHING is awesome. But they are wrong. The brilliant, kick-ass, picture above proves my point.

Few things are awesome. Even fewer people are awesome. And guess what... I met a fellow blogger who is in the quest of proving her awesomeness. Meet T n’ Airre (yes, it’s a play on T&A) (http://tnairre.blogspot.com/). She has embarked in a yearlong journey to compete and win an international air guitar competition. I am honored to be part of her support & preparation crew and I’ll give y’all updates on her progress from time to time. I will no-doubt have great tales in the months to come, as she strives to achieve total greatness.

To become a true rock star, she’ll have to party like a rock star. She’ll have to live like a rock star. She’ll have to BE the rock star. She’s started off on the right foot by installing a stripper pole in her living room. Her parties have now gone up a notch.

She’s also agreed to teach class at my next party (details coming soon). The party can be thoroughly described by two words: Drunk Yoga. Did I mention she's a professional yoga instructor?

Well my faithful readers, it’s time for me to sign off. But… before I return to work, I’ll leave you yet another truly AWESOME picture….

late,
D

Lights Out is Finally Out

My sister recently married a Massachusetts native. My brother-in-law has been a lifelong and devoted Red Sox fan, and frankly, he's seen a pretty good run lately. I was at home watching the Sox polish off the Rockies a few weeks ago, and had him on the line when Terry Francona made the pitching change in Game 4 from the embattled Hideki Okajima to the practically immortal Jonathan Papelbon.

As soon as Papelbon was unleashed from the bullpen, I said to him: "Congratulations on your second World Series victory in four years."

Watching Papelbon pitch was like watching tag team pro wrestling when I was a kid. No matter how dire of shape the good guy was in, all it took was that tag to change the tide of the match. Papelbon played the role of Shawn Michaels or Ax or Jim "The Anvil" Neidhart perfectly. He'd come storming out of the corner, full-throttle, pistol whipping the opponent until no one was left in the ring. Like Hawk (or Animal), he was the perfect Cooler. The Human Victory Cigar if there ever was one.

While he poured beer on the World Series trophy, I remarked to my sister: "Man, wouldn't it be nice for the Astros to have a great closer again?" Maybe Houston doesn't have a Papelbon in wait right now, but as we go into the offseason of one of the most disappointing seasons in recent memory, at least it's nice to have a clean slate.

************************************************************************************

By all accounts, Brad "Lights Out" Lidge was a good guy, and yes, at one point perhaps the most dominant closer in baseball. He could overpower batters with 97 MPH heat, and break their will with a slider that darted faster than Adrian Peterson in the secondary. In 2004, and most of 2005, my favorite moment of being an Astros fan was watching, or more often, listening to Milo Hamilton orgasmically praise Lidge as he ruthlessly crushed another hapless chump in the 9th inning. Those years the Astros advanced to the NLCS and the World Series respectively.

But Lidge forever changed on That Night. Yes, I know the Astros made the World Series anyway. But That Night completely altered the course of a franchise that seemed on pace to be in baseball's upper-echelon of elites. This was a franchise that won the NL Central in 1997-1999 and 2001. This was a franchise with one of the leagues most dominant, and likeable, superstars in Lance Berkman. This was a franchise with two of baseball's best veterans, Craig Biggio and Jeff Bagwell, heading into the twilight of their Cooperstown-bound careers.

But as Albert Pujols, who shall forever on this website be known as the Antichrist, annihilated a hanging Brad Lidge slider, he sent the Astros into a funk that they haven't recovered from yet. Lidge gave up even more embarrassing bombs in the World Series, including one to Olsen Twin-skinny Scott Podsenik. The Astros were swept by the White Sox, and everyone was waiting for the Astros to trade Lidge. After all, once a closer loses it like that, he doesn't get it back, right? Mitch Williams, Donnie Moore, Byung Hung-Kim, Calvin Schiraldi...I mean, none of them got it back, right?

We waited for them to trade him during the 2006 season when we fell 1.5 games short of the Cardinals, and he blew seven saves that season, including two against them. If he saved three of the seven he blew, the Astros win the NL Central again. Instead, we watched the Antichrist and his teammates celebrate their championship.

We waited for the Astros to trade him at the mid-season mark when the Astros were floundering in what was easily the worst division in baseball. At this point, watching Lidge pitch and choke away leads to the Pittsburgh Friggin' Pirates was akin to watching your old and beloved, but completely decrepit dog take a crap right in the middle of the living room floor. Sure you were upset, but you also couldn't stay mad either. It was more pathetic than anything else as you watched him lose self-control right in front of you. It should have been just a matter of time that the Astros play the loving master, and take Ol' Pup Lidge to the vets to say Last Doggie Rites. But they didn't until now.

I know that the Astros got a lot of heat for hiring Ed Wade, the ex-Phillies GM. He had been accused of running the Phillies organization into the ground. You know, the same Phillies organization that just won the NL East? Tons of people jumped onto the chat boards in Houston and ripped Wade like he was the reincarnation of David Carr. And maybe he really is that incompetent. Starting in April, we'll have 162 games to see where he stands, and what moves he will make. He's already offered Roger Clemens the opportunity to work in the front office should he decide to stay retired. And he pulled off a coup by finally, mercifully, trading Lidge along with the infrequently used Eric Bruntlett to his old team, the Phillies, for five minor league prospects. Maybe none of the prospects pan out. Maybe they do. Who knows, and sometimes, it's nothing but a crapshoot anyway.

But regardless of what the Astros get from this trade, we acquired one thing that stands out above everything else: Hope. With Lidge gone, we can finally begin to clean up the stains off the carpets of season past, and begin with renewed vigor a chance at the NL Central title and beyond. We still have Roy Oswalt, we still have Lance, we still have a plethora of solid young talent that showed their mettle as September call-ups. Maybe our bullpen still sucks, maybe it doesn't, but at least on Opening Day, I won't be having flashbacks to That Night. Maybe we can still put those nightmares to bed, and begin anew.

But as we begin anew, I can't help but feel sorry for Brad Lidge. He should have done himself the favor and just retire after the Antichrist splintered his soul. But he forged ahead, and now he's pitching for perhaps the most unlikable city in America. A city where Santa gets booed, players with potentially broken necks are jeered and D-Cell batteries are thrown at the opposition. Philadelphia's so heartless even the Grinch thinks they need to cheer up. And now Lights Out has to pitch there. When he made a mess on the carpet, Ol' Pup Lidge was doing it on the carpet of the supportive suburban family of four with a heart of gold. Now when he makes a mess on the carpet, Lidge is doing it at Michael Vick's place.

I hope he makes it out of Philly alive. But like so many old dogs, I'm just not so sure he will.