Timestamp it.

I want to get this on the record.

I think the New York Giants will win Super Bowl XLII.

I don't know why, but I do.

Shutter

I've been taking photos for the section.









If your wedding is sports-themed, I might be your guy.

All photos ©ABigCompanyThatWillSueYou

His favorite songwriter? You guessed it: Randy Newman.

I marked "see Art Garfunkel" off my bucket list tonight.

He sang the hits, talked down to the crowd a bit, did two encores, read some poetry and mentioned the venue's name ... wait for it ... twice. A solid outing by a half-legend.

Not sure if he understood the demographic of Highlands County, however.

If we were making a list, Art was probably the 13th youngest person in the venue. Out of 2000.

This crowd was older than the line at the voting booth. And Arty got a little peeved when the sea of retirees before him produced a few emphysema coughs. He tried to be nice while kindly asking for the sound of silence (zing!) ... but he also mentioned the lobby. Nicely done.

Sarah, the sixth youngest person in the crowd, was immediately offended by the comment, though nobody else seemed to mind. They were all still wondering where Paul Simon was.

QUOTE OF THE NIGHT: "This next song is an anti-war song. Nobody plays anti-war songs any more. War is really big right now."

HI, ME 5¢

Returned today from a getaway to Gainesville ... Hemson country.

I combed the local cemeteries for Tom Petty's grave, wrestled Tim Tebow, enjoyed some delicious cold pizza, and otherwise kicked back Gator-style with Ben and Lyndsay.

Attention: Mustachioed. I've found your messiah. He wore a powder blue polo shirt and favored clear dixie cups of light beer.

Attention: Self. Whiskey sours? Really?

Ben made sure I saw the sights; The Swamp and the O-Dome — two places where national championships, I'm reminded repeatedly, are cultivated. When Ben and Lydsay make their way south, I'll be sure to show them the raceway and Firemen's Field ... and then pretend not to notice the inevitable pity in their eyes.

On the recruiting trail

I was interviewing our offensive player of the year today (our paper has a thing called 'The All-Heartland Team,' which profiles a POY and runs down other standouts in each sport, each season), who happened to be a stud running back for one of our local schools.

I was talking to him about his college plans, asking him where he was planning to go.

"Anywhere they like to run the ball," he said. "Florida, Auburn, Oregon ..."

I stopped him dead in his tracks. "Dude, you need to go to Oregon State, man. Don't go to Oregon."

Not sure if it will change his mind, or even if the kid is D-I material (I can see him catching on somewhere), but I'll be damned if he goes to Oregon without hearing my opinion on the matter.

Mike Riley, you're welcome.

Indy Rocks!

So I registered to vote in late November, when I got my official Florida drivers license.

Since my first exercise in democracy in 2000, I've never registered with a party, mainly because I think the two-party system is a joke. Also, as a journalist, I tend to live by the notion that aligning oneself with a party could allow people to question your neutrality — even if you are just covering sports.

Who knows, I thought, maybe I'll work in news some day (or run for office), so I better play it safe and keep bumper stickers off my truck, my signature off partisan petitions and my vote out of the primaries.

Then I moved to Florida. When I got my license, the DMV lady asked me what party I'd like to register with. "I'm an Indpendent," I replied.

I got my registration card a few weeks later, and, low and behold, I'm registered with the Independence Party of Florida.

Long story short, I called the election office today and asked them to change my status to "unaffiliated with a party," though because the elections books are officially closed as of Dec. 31, for the rest of time, when my future enemies look back at my voting record, I will officially have been a member of the Independent Party for a month.

Please vote for me anyway in 2036.

Huckabama

Like everyone else who's been mentally ready to move on from the Bush regime since the first Wednesday of Nov. 2004, I've been giddy with anticipation for the political season and impending presidential election.

It fascinates me, the future of our country.

The recent Iowa caucuses have only fed this feeling, especially with the relative-upset victories of Barry Obama and Big Mike Huckabee (maybe it's the sports writer in me that appreciates the game actually having a level of unpredictability).

I read the following on a message board I frequent, posted by one of the more respected members of said board. It was a view I hadn't heard — or thought of, for that matter — which, to me is WHAT THIS SHIT IS ALL ABOUT.

It's about the possibility of Iowa's choices taking it past the conventions and onto the national ticket. I figured I'd post it here:

I think what would be most intriguing about a Huck-Obama match-up is that both represent parts of the party that the establishment expects votes from, but doesn't really want as a candidate. The Bush family represents the perfect GOP candidate: a faux-redneck who is really a wealthy elite with an Ivy League education and blue-blood connections. Huck is the opposite. He really is a redneck. For years, the Repubs have wanted the salt-of-the-earth vote for their blue blood candidates, and now a salt-of-the-earth guy has suddenly hijacked their party. I suspect it's making a lot of people nervous.

But the same is true of Obama, in a way. The Dems have come to simply expect the African American vote -- (I know for a fact that Kathleen Kennedy Towsend once told a black leader, "Who else are you going to vote for?" which shows how stupid she truly was) -- but they didn't exactly run to get in line to support someone like Jesse Jackson. His campaign, from most Democratic establishment types, got a nice pat on the head. Thanks for playing. Now run along and drum up support for us. But with Obama the Dems are actually looking at the possibility that an African American could be the top guy on the ticket. I suspect it's making a lot of people nervous on the Blue Team as well, regardless of what they say in public.
—— posted by 'Double Down'

Interesting take. More to come.

Beijing 2008!

Can't wait!

Vegas

I might be mistaken, but I believe the last time I was at McCarran International Airport was following the Insight Bowl (an OSU victory over Notre Dame, no less).

The memories came flooding back as I walked past the bar where Raju and I decided to drink a few cold ones pre-flight. Raju, in all his glory, joined me in a yard-long Budweiser, afterwhich his already pronounced limp, slurred speech and crazy eyes were in full effect. How he got on the flight home, I'll never know.

Ah, the glory days.

You know what? I am mistaken. I think I've been here a few times since then. But I like the way this story goes.

Also:

T-Minus

I have a shit-ton of work to do tomorrow.

I should re-phrase: I need to do a shit-ton of work tomorrow in order to alleviate any stress from my four-day PacNW romp.

No problem.

My impending flight should make said work bearable, since I know that the light at the end of the tunnel is the dark, gloomy pseudo-sunlight of Oregon. Yes!

I'll be home the 24th-28th; ample opportunity to be with family, see some old chums, drink some good beer and explain 67 times why I moved to Florida, of all places. I'm really looking forward to all of it, and my mustache is ready for just about anything.

Find me.

Buy me a drink. Sing me a song. Take me as I come, 'cause I can't stay long.

Cold skull

I shaved my head yesterday.

No reason, really, but it felt good to shed a few ounces up top.

Anyway, I walk into the office today, and a couple folks drop the obligatory "nice haircut" or "hey, soldier" on me.

Then, my boss walks by, looks at up me and quips, "You don't have a thing for a young Jodie Foster, do you?"



Solid.

I was going to title this post "Beaver withdrawls," but on second thought, I'll go with "East Coast Bias."

College football is big here.

On my humble cable package alone, there are eight stations showing six games right now, including a fine, spirited contest between Hampton and Princeton.

Needless to say, I've got my eye on the MLB playoffs, though I'll admit, if I could watch the Oregon State-Arizona game right now (or listen to Mike Parker's sweet tenor inflection describe the ensuing action), I'd certainly be getting my fair share of Beaver.

Football.

Nation Trekker

Wilsonville, Ore.

Centerville, Utah.

North Platte, Neb.

Webb City, Mo.

Macon, Georgia

... and finally, sunny Sebring, Fla.

Clocking in at 3,400 miles of asphalt and true grit, my harrowing journey across these United States ended Wednesday evening with touchdown in Sebring. I literally crossed city limits as a Queen double-play of "We Will Rock You/We are the Champions" blared from the stock moving-truck radio, while my weary, road-worn eyes scanned my new digs.

Say, I didn't notice that Circuit City when I came out for the interview. Oh, look — a Books-A-Million. Sarah will like that. Man, I'm definitely hitting that Red Lobster tomorrow night.

But back to the trip.

Podcasts helped. Tremendously. The "This American Life" and "Radio Lab" episodes I've purposefully not listened to over the past few months melted the miles away, and the occasional full-album listening (and passionate singing/drumming along with) between shows have made the gradual change in scenery somewhat bearable.

After 14 hours and 831 miles on the first day, I landed in Centerville, Utah (Salt Lake suburb) and met up with my long-lost buddy Jared, who graciously welcomed me into his home for the night, despite the fact that I haven't seen him for seven years. Chinese food and beers with he and his wife, some catching up, then on the road again.

I left Centerville via some of the nicest scenery on the trip, for about an hour at least. Then came the rolllllllling hills of Wyoming, which, for my moving truck's sake at least, gave way to the flatlands of Nebraska. 75 mph and loving it, I rolled into North Platte for an evening, stopping specifically at the hotel nearest food and drink ... and promptly passed out as soon as I got in my room.

After 11 more hours on the road, I stopped in Webb City, Mo. for two days for a visit with the Ogden family. Two hours after my 11 p.m. arrival, the big man rolls in, and we're off for poker, booze and mingling with his co-wokers. We finish second and third in the tournament, roll in, and, seeing as it takes a full day to cook a brisket, decide to wait out the grocery store's opening to buy the meat.

Marination ensued. Followed by sleep. All day.

I woke up to the smell of the smoked meat and more smoked meat. There were garlic cheese potatoes. Bread. A new two-liter of Coca-Cola.

Followed by more sleep.

The next day or so was spent mainly drinking the namesake drink, playing softball with the girls, and shooting cans with a Daisy rifle. It was the intermission of my journey, and really, the best part.

I headed out the next morning with a belly full of home-cooked goodness and a mind full of sports journalism knowledge and rolled through Kansas, Mississippi, Alabama Tennessee and to Georgia, where I rolled through Atlanta and called it a night at the Ramada Inn in Macon Georgia. I resisted the siren's call of the Waffle House next door and promptly passed out, waking the next day with just one more political border to cross: the Florida state line.

I hit the FLA a few hours into the day, and, mind you, having driven through the deep south already, was somewhat surprised to see the largest Confederate flag I'd ever laid my eyes on waving just off the highway, in all its ... err... glory?

Hours later, I reached Highway 27, Highlands County, Avon Park (home of Hal McRae) and finally, Sebring. I was home.

But not quite.

Final dispatch from the 219

This will be the last post from my apartment, which is now an empty shell of its former self. Sitting on the floor, back uncomfortably rested against the baseboard heater, I'm reminded of my first day in this place, when it was empty expect for me and my computer ... and, like today, it was hot as fuck.

A 16-foot truck turned out to be the exact size Sarah and I needed. Pretty much filled to the brim, but with enough free space for everything to breathe comfortably ... or shift during transit and shatter.

I still have a few errands to run, namely chatting with Comcast, the power company and the post office, but then I'll be on the road, stopping in Wilsonville for an afternoon/early evening of sleep, then hitting road in the wee hours of the night. I'm actually getting excited for the trip, though I know that feeling will undoubtedly wear off before I cross the Oregon border (I'm looking at you, Baker City).

Anyway, there's no way we'd have gotten to this point without a lot of help, especially from Mr. Hammett and both sets of parents (Dan and Justine, Tom and Betsy, Ryan — take a bow), and I can't wait for reward them with free room, board and meals when they come visit.

And yes, I said "when."

So yeah, that's it from 97128. Nice town, nice people — a nice step.

I'll miss it, sure, but as of now, the road is my only home.

Man, I have a lot of shit

Loading your possessions into french-fry boxes bound for the back of a UHaul has a funny way of making you question this whole capitalism thing. I love my things, of course, but I'll be a lot happier with they're all neatly stacked in my new Florida apartment. Or condo. Or house.

Speaking of Florida, that's where Sarah and Adam are going on their honeymoon. It was a lovely wedding with two lovely folks set in an Independence barn with stringy lights. A beautiful bride, a dancing toddler, a sort-of drunk Cutty and unadvertised open bar made for a great evening.

My take-home moment: It's just after the ceremony, when guests were filing into the adjacent barn for drinks, and the fire alarm goes off. Chef comes out with a dumb look on his face, staff are scrambling and Sunday-best-clad children have their fingers firmly pressed against their eardrums. A minute or two into the madness, I look over to the crowd and notice the groom, Mr. Adam (it's not hard, he's tall) calmly sipping a beer, having a chat and looking like the piercing wailing of the siren was music to his ears.

Great guy. And he's got a great lady. They're going to have average-sized children.

Take-home moments, honorable mention: Sarah dancing to "Footloose," meeting a truly savage Christian rock star and watching James Brown WORK HIS MAGIC.

OK. Enough blogging. Back to heavy lifting.

F L O R I D A

The buzz on the Internets is true: I'm moving to Florida.

And, figuring a life-altering surroundings shift will spur some worthwhile reflection, I've decided to document my move, arrival and experiences in and around The Sunshine State here, on my once sort-of-thriving, but now completely-defunct blog.

This should last for all of about four posts.