Thanks to the resounding success of my first post(thanks Russ), M has asked me to give you all a regular dose of my own private dementia. And so in the tradition of, yet not quite exactly unlike, Tuesdays with Morrie,I give you Fridays With Joboo. Except that instead of a wise old man, stricken with a terminal disease, sharing the life wisdom that he has gained with a dear former student & friend; you get a potential genius bordering on lunacy, stricken with mental diarrhea, sharing whatever seems to form in his attention span challenged mind with you, the viewing public. But it’s free, and when I release the book of my writings, it becomes a best seller, & the movie wins universal critical praise, you’ll be able to say ‘They made a movie about that??? That guy’s nuts.’. Imagine the fulfillment you’ll recieve. Now on with the show.
For at least one more day, the Missouri Tigers are the #1 football team in the land. As a lifelong resident of Missouri, I’m excited. I’m proud to be a Missourian & as the ’state’ university they represent my home. So I want them to do well. But, I would never ever refer to myself as a Mizzou fan. My allegiance lies firmly with the University of Michigan. I know, I know. Just like Shaft, I’m a complicated man.
The problem lies with those that do call themselves Mizzou fans. I can’t stand the vast majority of them when it comes to their so called ‘love’ for the Tigers. It is rooted in smugness. Smugness over the superiority of their athletic teams who have accomplished exactly nothing of any real note. A 1954 national title in baseball, a 1965 title in indoor track, & a smattering of individual champions. That’s it. If they were smug about their academics, they would deserve a punch in the mouth, but they would be justified. U of Missouri is a truly fine academic school & has what many consider to be the best journalism school in the country. That’s something to be proud of. But uppity because of their athletics? No. That’s like Frank Sinatra Jr. thinking he’s a major ladies man because Ole Blue Eyes used to be married to Ava Gardner. But this is not a problem unique to Mizzou. Not by a long shot. So let’s point fingers here & identify some certain types of college fans, both good & bad, while I give examples of each. Every school has some of each, but certain types are more prolific at certain schools.
True blue - Their pride stems from their school & no amount of athletic victory or humiliation will make them desert it. They enjoy the highs & gladly take the sarcasm that comes with the lows. After this football season, I can say for sure I fit in this catagory for Michigan. Unfortunately, that’s not the majority of us. Ex: Baylor, Stanford, every Ivy League school.
Dressed for success - They like to be with a proven winner. Won’t run at the first sign of trouble, but can be deterred over time. Can often morph into a true blue, but can go the opposite way too. Ex: Michigan, Penn State, UCLA, Arizona basketball, North Carolina basketball.
Local pride - By golly their school choice is all about where they’re from. And because it’s their home school, it’s better than yours. And if you don’t like it, they don’t care. They’re gonna kick your butt anyway. While there is a lot of good to be said about being loyal to your home school, these folks can be obnoxious. Ex: Oklahoma, Nebraska, Texas, every SEC school.
Religious fervor - A special type of fan attracted to a school because of their denomination. Cheering for their team is nothing less than a mission from God, Allah, David Hasselhoff, etc. Ex: Notre Dame, BYU, & the school formerly known as SMU.
Silent minority - A rare breed who doesn’t show any outward signs of fandom. But if their team is brought up in conversation around them, they will leave you speechless with the depth of their knowledge. Which can result in total boredom, stunned silence, or annoyance on a level unseen before. Ex: That one guy at the party that one time who wouldn’t shut up after we brought up Illinois. I hope they never find the body.
Underdog lovers - America has a passion for the underdog. Especially ones that are playing for big stakes. And college fans are no different. This is a very transient group because the underdog doesn’t stay an underdog for long. They either lose & display for all to see exactly why they’re the underdog, or win & become a real force. Here today, gone tomorrow, but a fun group. Recent ex: Boise St., Gonzaga basketball, Kansas, Missouri.
Bandwagonners - Scum of the earth. OK, not that bad. But they’re indicitive of some of the worst traits present in humanity. Lack of loyalty, selfishness, short-sightedness, no dedication to anything, never looking beyond the external. They latch on when the good times start to roll, & when things go bad they jump off faster than Rosie O’Donnell can down a Christmas ham. Ex: Miami football, Ohio St., USC, Syracuse.
There you go. Not a comprehesive list at all. And aimed only at the college fans out there. Nothing wrong with any of the types except bandwagon. It doesn’t matter if you’re loud, quiet, obnoxious, informed, or just like the colors of your school. But if you’re going to be a fan, be loyal. Stick with your team through thick & thin. The good & the bad. When you think they can do no wrong, & when you think they’re a bunch of morons. That’s life. A never ending roller coaster ride that can thrill, nauseate, exhilerate, & sometime even turn you upside down. But that’s what makes it fun. Holding onto your team while they do that same thing, can help you handle what life throws at you.
So good luck Mizzou. Win or lose, I hope you get some more true blue fans out of this. You deserve it.
When I was a kid, I really liked fire. Ok, I still do, but as far as the cops are concerned, I never said that. What’s germane to the topic at hand is that I once really liked fire. For the most part, we got along famously.
This all very nearly changed when I was in 7th grade. My sister and I were unsupervised, as usual. Note that I’m not bitter about this; it was an ideal situation for me. Had the internet been readily available to me at that time, I might have learned what a clit was in a more timely manner. Sorry Cathy.
On this day I was experimenting with the innards of a Roman Candle. Salvador was there doing his usual report card victory tour, which involved staying at friends’ houses until his dad was no longer so pissed that he’d beat the hell out of him. He was fortunate enough to witness the lunacy. I had disassembled the Roman Candle and had placed one of its donut-shaped powder charges into a pot. The pot was then covered and placed on a gas stove burner on high. We were sitting at the kitchen table to observe the proceedings from a “safe” distance.
The thing is, nothing happened. After about 15 minutes (ok, 3), we gingerly made our way to the stove and turned it off. Safety first. 10 minutes (ok, 3) of cooling later, we figured it was safe to look. Again we shuffled over to the pot, and very slowly lifted the lid. Have you ever seen Backdraft? It was like that, minus the flames. The air rushed into the pot and ignited the powder. This resulted in a very loud explosion 2 feet from our heads. My hearing was barely saved by the fact that I was staring into the pot. My eyes were saved by the lack of pyrotechnics.
Having been blown back to the table, we shook out the cobwebs and began the cleanup. The pot had a black char mark on the bottom. It had somehow escaped dent-free. In fact, Mom still uses that pot today, and it still has the mark. It was in the sink when Mom walked in, half full of bleach:
Mom: What was that?
Me(dazed): Nothing.
Mom: The big booming noise. In the kitchen.
Me: Didn’t hear it.
Mom: Is it safe to assume that it won’t happen again?
Me: Yep.
Mom: Good.
It turns out that she had been sitting in her boyfriend’s truck in front of the house when the explosion took place. I think she was happier not knowing what I’d done, allowing her the fantasy that I wasn’t a complete dumbass. She knows now.
They call me Joboo. Why? I have no idea. I in no way resemble (either physically, mentally, or spiritually) the fake voodoo god from the movie Major League. I don’t drink rum, I don’t smoke, & I’m married so I don’t need any hats for my bat if you know what I mean. I’m OK if you want to sacrifice a chicken to me as long as the ceremony includes some tasty side dishes. But that still doesn’t explain why I’m called Joboo. I’ve forgotten why my “friends” hung that moniker on me & I’m beyond caring. Joboo I am, & Joboo I shall ever be. And if you want to argue that it should be spelled Jobu, I’ll listen. But I accept you just the way you are without mentioning all your faults. So let’s just be happy the way we are. There. I feel so close to you now. Should we hug? Yeah, I didn’t think so.
For all of you who are confused now, and that includes me, I am your guest blogger. M has been a little preoccupied lately with his research into the aphrodesiatic properties of the secretions of certain South American insects. He told me that he’s had a breakthrough. This apparently consists of him spending most of his time licking the thorax of a certain species of rare beetle to maintain a constant state of arousal. But it’s for the good of humanity so more power to him. Due to this, he’s asked me to fill in for him & share with his readership my message of peace, hope, love, & joy. I can’t really imagine that anyone else will be interested since I achieve those things by sitting around in my underwear munching on a Philly cheese steak while destroying Will Ferrell movies, but if it works for you, I accept donations of gratitude.
Since this is my first post, let me give you a little about me so that, if I’m allowed to do this again, you’ll know where I’m coming from. A little dip into the pool of my mind if you will. Here are some tidbits in no particular order. Consider yourself warned, it’s a scary place.
- I am a loyal fan of the University of Michigan. This has resulted in me taking lots of crap over the years. Mostly from people who won’t stand behind any school.
- I honestly think the world would be much better off if we came up with a common sense test & used it to eliminate the most idiotic 99.99% of the world’s population.
- I’ve seen, & continue to see, a lot of movies. I enjoy all kinds. Comedy, suspense, foreign, musical, drama. Except any movie that has Will Ferrell in it.
- Speaking of Will, he is a giant pimple on the butt of comedy. The prime example of how we have lowered the standards of comedy in this country over the last 20 years. More Lewis Black is the antidote.
- I enjoy just about every sport know unto man. Including soccer, rugby, cricket, Australian rules football, & Turkish olive oil wrestling.
- I believe every person should go visit Alaska once.
- I can prance like nobodies business.
- I believe Americans need to stop being so selfish & lazy, start thinking again, & turn our country back around. All it takes is for people to care enough to actually do something.
- I like screen-savers that make me feel hypnotized.
- I believe the word great is so overused that it’s lost any real meaning in society.
- Because people are too lazy to find things out for themselves, the media has become the most powerful force in the US.
- No really. My prancing is hilarious.
- God grant me a 1970 Plymouth Barracuda before I die.
- I once gave a viking funeral to a dried orange. That means something but I haven’t figured out what yet.
- I am sure that if I was granted 2 months of solitude to escape all the things of the world that clutter my mind, I could think of a way to become stinking, filthy rich. And then I’d take care of gettin’ the Barracuda.
- I might not get rich, but I’m confident that if someone would give M & I our own radio show, we’d be famous in no time.
- I will try any food at least once. And probably will like it. Rooster fries, sushi, chitlins, crab brain stew. Bring it on. I am a culinary adventurer.
- I don’t curse anymore. Not even in print. I slipped up once & I don’t think M will ever forget it.
- To paraphrase Gloria from White Men Can’t Jump, I feel like I’m filled with more useless information than any human being on this planet! Although I can’t give you 7 foods that start with the letter Q.
OK, that’s probably more than enough for now. I think you get the picture. Or you’ve fled from your computer in horror. Either way you’ve had a memorable experience. Good for you. Please watch your step as you exit the blog entry. Remember, items may have shifted during reading. Objects may be closer than they appear. Hopefully we’ll meet again. Mainly because I don’t think I can get fired from a job I don’t get paid for. But until then, as my mentor Red Green says, keep your stick on the ice. And M, if you’re taking a break from your research to read this, I encourage you to keep it up.
Living in the Texas Hill Country, the changing leaves and brisk 80-degree afternoons signal a shift in our attentions. The days of weekly(hah!) lawn mowing, lazy summer afternoons watching baseball, weekends at the Gulf coast, and barbecue have given way to the days of raking, football, weekends at kids’ soccer games, and hunting.
However, as you rascally title readers may have inferred, I don’t hunt. It’s not that I have some deep-seated love for animals or the sanctity of life. I’m like every other red-blooded Texan in that regard. In the immortal words of Denis Leary, meat tastes like murder, and murder tastes pretty goddamn good. I have no compunction about eating an animal, whether it be cow, deer, rabbit, squid, lamb, dolphin, or baby seal. I just won’t shoot ‘em.
When I was five, my dad came home from work one day and asked me I’d like to go with him to kill a deer he’d found caught in a fence. Considering that attention from my dad usually ranged from exasperation to rarely-concealed rage, this was a pretty sweet deal. I broke land speed records enroute to the truck. A short drive later, we encountered the unfortunate beast. It was a medium-sized doe stuck in a barbed-wire fence. As soon as she caught sight of my dad, she started kicking furiously. It seems that word gets around. Dad headed over to the tool box in the bed of his truck. I knew that he kept a pistol in there, and didn’t give it a second thought.
Only he came back with a hammer. Yeah, a hammer. A few brief moments of struggling and screaming (the deer, not me) later, Dad was tossing the carcass over his shoulder and carrying it back to the truck. On the way home, I didn’t say a word. Back at the house, he hung it up in the garage and began to clean it. Mom, who was a little perturbed, watched as I took it all in. It was then that I made my only comment on the matter:
“Now you’re just being mean to it.”
Mom was satisfied that he hadn’t completely transformed me into a serial killer. Dad was satisfied that mom was done yelling at him, and hey, free deer. I had brought peace to the household. That’s right; I’m the chosen one.
![[del.icio.us]](http://images.del.icio.us/static/img/delicious.small.gif){kind=small}
