3 Down, 8 to Go

This'll be a long one...

I'm back from Bloomington, feeling more alive than ever before. The Hoosiers laid a beating on Kentucky, to the tune of 38-14. 3-0 and IU haven't been in the same sentence since 1994. I know you're all wondering, so I'll lay it down for you: IU hasn't been 4-0 since 1990, and no coach has started his career at IU 4-0. Blake "Danger" Powers now has 11 TD passes. With 3 more, he will surpass Matt "Huh?" LoVecchio's total from last year, and with 7 more TD passes, Powers will surpass IU's combined total for the past 2 years and will break IU's single season record for TD passes.

Since it was a 5:45pm start, I just went over to B-town on Saturday morning. I arrived at approximately 10:20am, with the smell of freshly cut limestone still in the air. Morgan "Crazy Legs" Hirst joined me about a half hour later, and then it was off to the rolling hills and jean mini-skirts of the tailgating fields. We set up shop under a cluster of a couple trees, hence shielding us from the harsh, undiscriminating rays of the sun. Between the hours of 11 and 5:45, at least 4 of the following things happened: drinking, grilling, football throwing, lots of sitting, and everyone totally got laid. If you haven't been to an early fall tailgate in Bloomington, you should make an effort to do so. The only slight downside was the line for the port-a-potties (which all have coat hooks on the inside--if I'm ever at a point in my life where I need to use the coat hook in a tailgate port-a-potty, something has gone horribly wrong). I did see Jeff "Struve" Strauss in line at the shitters, so that was fun. He looks healthy and full of life.

Andy "Spawn" Southard showed up about 45 minutes before kick-off, along with a handle of Captain, a 2-liter of Diet Coke, and Mike Estridge, who I've always felt resembles a white Pedro Martinez. Interestingly, Estridge used to use my ID to get into bars. I'm not sure how to take that. Tommy "Gun" McClelland also stopped by the tailgate long enough to buy my extra ticket (and not use it).

Morgan and I joined Bruce "Bruiser" LeMar at the game. As the sun set on Memorial Stadium, Assembly Hall was lit up, as if God was trying to give everyone on the West side of the stadium a subtle hint as to which sport these two schools should really be playing. On this day, the big man was at least half right. Kentucky's offense was about as beautiful and reliable as a Dodge Shadow. Aside from one fluke 79-yard pass where the IU defender fell down, IU held Kentucky under 140 total yards. While I'm not exactly sure how a team that gives up 409 rushing yards to a 1-AA team one week can hold an SEC team to 77 rushing yards the next week, I'll take it. Two idiots wearing blue were sitting next to us (one of which looked like Garcia from "Reno 911"). Luckily there was never a point in the game where I felt the need to openly taunt them. There were no Ashley Judd sightings.

The rest of the night can only be described as a series of good decisions. After the game, we went back to the hotel and I took the fastest shower I've taken since my 36-second masterpiece on February 8, 1989. Then Bruiser, Crazy Legs, and I went to Nick's for some dinner and drinking. The first good decision was to order a pitcher of Bass, which was the heaviest and most alcoholic beer on tap. After a pitcher, Bruiser retired. The next great decision came after Spawn and Estridge arrived, when we start playing Sink the Bismark. Despite my pleas and my contention that playing Sink would get me drunker than an Irishman on [insert any day here], the other 3 ordered that I play. There was a point in the game where I looked at the 2 full pitchers sitting on our table and I realized that I needed to play Sink like I've never played before in order to avoid puking. I managed to salvage some brain cells, although by the time Sink ended, I was drunk enough to go up to the guy at the table next to us that went to Purdue and tell him "good luck with your degree" as I walked out. What an idiot, but then again he did graduate from the state of Indiana's closest equivalent to ITT Tech.

Morgan went back to the hotel after Nick's, since he had to wake up around 6:30 to drive up to go to the Bears game (and tailgate beforehand). Spawn, Estridge, and I then went to a cheerleading party (Spawn and Estridge used to be cheerleaders at IU--yes, they're both straight) a few blocks south of campus, where I nursed a beer while watching Spawn and Estridge get their asses kicked at beer pong. There was some dude there straight-up chain smoking who I tried my damnedest to convince to quit smoking and play semi-pro football in Northwest Indiana. The impact I made on his life will be immeasurable.

The best decision of the night was to go to LaBamba for burritos as big as our respective heads. So we head out of the cheerleading party. It was at this point that Spawn went all Admiral Stockdale on us. First, he inexplicably starts running away from Estridge and me, taking turns down streets that were not on our way to Bambas. While I didn't want to, I once again had to drunkenly showcase my dazzling foot speed. I chased Spawn into a dark back yard, where he was cornered in some thick brush. I was confused as to how or why it had gotten to this point, but I asked him to kindly join us back in reality, mentioning that the homeowner will likely call the cops when he/she sees the two of us hanging out behind his/her tool shed. I felt like Tommy Lee Jones in The Fugitive, except my fugitive was acting more like Margot Kidder than a one-armed doctor. I gave up and went back to the main road, and a couple minutes (and blocks) later, Spawn rejoined us.

We happened to walk through the back parking lot of Acacia, who was obviously having a party. A group of girls walked out, followed by some guy who was hammered and yelling at his girlfriend (who was in the group). Several guys, including Spawn and Estridge, held the guy back, since it looked like he was about become the Jackson Brown to her Darryl Hannah. She left, and a few seconds later, the dude punches in a car window. I scream, "Oh my God, I'm calling 911." Some sober Acacian (although he was probably stoned), who I assume was a pledge, starts freaking out and asking me not to call 911. I of course look at him and say, "This is something the cops need to know about," and then I start walking away and pretend to dial 911. I start speaking very loudly into the phone, "You need to send someone to Acacia's parking lot right away. Some guy just almost beat up his girlfriend and then he punched out a car window. I think they're having a party and everyone is drunk. I think there are some underage kids drinking too." At this point, the pledge is really freaking out, gathering everyone in the parking lot to go inside before the cops come. I just laughed and kept on walking toward Bambas with my phone to my ear. Later in the night I would leave a flaming bag of poop on their porch.

At Bambas, rather than wait in the 10-person line, Spawn tries to just go straight to the cash register and order from there. The morbidly obese man working the cash register explained that there was a line, and that he didn't take orders anyway, but just worked the register. I told Spawn I would get him whatever he wanted, but he foolishly decided against anything, and went to the table by the door and sulked. Estridge and I enjoyed our burritos outside (so as to prevent any possible incidents between Spawn and the fat man), and Spawn just kind of stood there watching us. While his mouth didn't speak, his eyes said "man I fucked up." We then trudged back to the hotel, and by the time I woke up the next morning, no one else was in the room.

On the drive back to Sunny D, I got to listen to the Bears drop 31 on the Lions in the first half, the most first-half points for the Bears since a certain team did it in a certain year on their way to a certain game that they won 46-10. With a 1-1 record, the Bears are now atop the NFC Norris, holding the tiebreaker over the 1-1 Lions. With the way the 4 teams in the division have played the first 2 weeks, it's a distinct possibility that a 7-9 record will win the division.

Once I got back to D-town, Jessie and I spent the afternoon watching Breakfast Club and Sixteen Candles on AMC, and then getting a betta, which we named Todd after the creepy gay son in Wedding Crashers. It made sense at the time.

White Sox Magic Number: 11 (a shaky 11, but 11 nonetheless)