The internal combustion engine sucks! (and other happy thoughts)

Ok, so I've been getting a lot of shit for my end-of-the-world blog posts lately. In order to fend off further inquiries about my mental state, here's a brief glimpse at my current positive reality:

• It's Saturday morning on a three-day weekend.
• Vandy and Northwestern are going for 6-0 today. Bring it.
  
• I received a tax refund yesterday. From 2004. Nice delay, Massachusetts.
  
• The internal combustion engine is finally headed towards extinction. I hate that thing. Really. It pollutes, it hasn't evolved, and its dependence on gasoline (which, by the way, has actually increased since its invention almost 100 years ago) dictates and dominates American governmental policy at almost every level. (Oh, sorry. There I go again. Ranting.)
  
• I finally got my Masters degree.
• It's no longer humid in Nashville. It's still hot. Still late-August by normal standards. But dry.
• I saved at least two of the mums in our dilapidated garden. Who knew they needed water?
  

So, things are looking up. Seriously. As long as I don't turn on the television or read a newspaper, I won't have to face the fact that people are shouting for Obama's head, or that the stock market is down 40% from its record high just one year ago last Thursday. No, instead its just a quiet Saturday morning here in Nashville, and all I have to worry about is how much cinnamon to put on my french toast. Oh! Cinnamon french toast! I'm adding that to the list.

•  Cinnamon french toast
  

The Presidential Debate in my back yard

Just one mile from tonight's Presidential Debate is our small, unimpressive garden. Neither candidate would be particularly interested in the garden, but we're proud of it. We've pulled weeds, turned the soil, planted mums, and added fertilizer. We had a plan for growth, and we put it into action. We have hope for our new garden.

But as proud as we are, the garden is failing, and our flowers continue to wilt under the blazing Nashville sun. We need more than a plan. We need more than hope. We need more.

We're trying to look at the garden with hopeful eyes, but it's dried up, and no matter what we say to the contrary, it isn't getting better. Sure, we can plant new flowers and lay down some attractive mulch, and talk about how great our garden is... but the flowers aren't growing. We can talk about how they'll grow, and we can add more fertilizer to the soil... but the flowers still aren't growing. We can debate why the garden fails, and discuss ways to fix it.. but its just talk. And talk never made anything grow.

Just one mile from our ailing mums, the candidates are talking. And like the soil just beneath the surface of our garden, the candidates are full of shit. They're talking about the economy and the environment, and they're trying to convince our skeptical nation that America will rise again. But its not enough. The talking, the debating, the arguing... it's just not enough. Like the rain that fell in Nashville today, it's just not enough.

About that, there is no debate.

Live from Dudley Field!

I'm blogging live from Dudley Field in Nashville (seriously, that's what it's called), where Vanderbilt and Auburn are facing off on ESPN. Vandy needs to win. I just couldn't help myself, but I probably shouldn't have worn my Cubs jersey. I'm bad mojo.


EDIT @ 9:30PM: Victory!! Unbelievable. Vandy held on for a one-point victory against the #12 team in the country. The Dores (Seriously?? the Vanderbilt Commodores? Embarrassing. You should see the mascot...) are 5-0 for the first time since 1943. They're 3-0 in the conference for the first time since 1950.  It's going to be a fun fall at Dudley Field.

I seem to bring this good luck with me when I move. When I arrived at football-inept Northwestern University in 1995, the team went 8-0 in the Big Ten, and ended the season as the #3 team in the country. I can't take credit for that, per say, but I did do a fair amount of shouting and marshmallow-throwing, and I think it helped.

Not surprisingly, when I leave a place, franchises go to hell. I moved out of New York City in 2002, and the Yankees have sucked ever since. I left Chicago this past summer, and the Cubs and White Sox are both on the brink of embarrassing playoff-elimination. Heck, even the Pittsfield Dukes, a collegiate league baseball team in Western Massachusetts, finished at a league-worst 11-31 in 2005, shortly after I left the area for good.

How do I hold such sway over the sports world? Its tough to say. But I'll let you know where I'm moving next. In the meantime, I'm going to throw some marshmallows at my television. Maybe it will help the Cubs.

Where the fuck is fall?

Seriously. I'm having some major withdrawal. I need my seasons. I need my foliage. I need my lightweight jacket.

Sure, sure. There's dew on my car in the morning. And I saw a black cat yesterday, which made it feel like Halloween. But it wasn't prowling through the fallen leaves, and ducking behind pumpkins. It was trying to avoid the 85-degree sunshine, and keep from melting into the sidewalk.

Is this how it is down here? Huh, Tennessee? Is it always this hot in September? What say you, my native sons? Fess up, Lamar Alexander! Speak of the heat, Miley Cyrus! Tell me about the seasons, Al Gore! No wonder you're so concerned about global warming! It's fucking hot down here!

I'm just gonna pretend. I'm gonna buy a big ol' pumpkin this weekend and stick it outside my front door. Shelter for the black cat, and fodder for the seasonal lie I'm living in my head. Good enough.

Dear Yankee Stadium

Man, we had some good times.

Like Halloween, 2001. With our Yankees down two runs in the ninth inning of Game 4 of the World Series, Tino Martinez belted a two-out home run to tie the game. Remember that? Derek Jeter won it with a solo shot an inning later. My dad and I witnessed it all from your right field bleachers. Awesome.

Remember how New York City buzzed for twenty-four hours straight after that, until the Yankees found themselves down, once again, with two outs in the bottom of the ninth inning of Game 5? You didn't panic, though! This time it was Scott Brosius who hit the game-tying home run to deafening cheers, and the Yankees won the game in 12 innings.

Thanks for not collapsing when the crowd went nuts that night. You and I survived the thunderous outburst, hysterical and exhausted. Tier Reserved section 30 felt like it was going to collapse into the seats below - but it didn't! Thanks for that! Those are terrible seats, by the way. No offense.

Ok, yeah, it's true. You weren't perfect. Your seats were uncomfortable, your restrooms were too few, and you really could have used more parking. But I don't hold it against you. I'm going to miss you. I may even buy a urinal.

Those games in 2001 sealed my love for you. Still reeling from September 11, we needed the Yankees to win those games. And though they didn't win the Series, it almost didn't matter. Your walls had housed two unforgettably electric nights. We needed you. And you delivered.

That's how I'll remember you. So I just wanted to say thanks. I'm gonna miss you.

We've run out of gas, America

Two days ago, I pulled into my local gas station to fill up, but the station was closed. No signs, no notice, just dirty plastic bags on the nozzles, and an ominous chain securing the front door. The station down the street - same thing. And the station around the block. This week, for no apparent reason, Nashville entered crisis mode, and ran out of gas.

We're not the only city in crisis mode, either. Just a few weeks ago, New Orleans flushed its population to higher ground in advance of a devastating storm. Houston and Galveston are still reeling from Hurricane Ike. Even Louisville, Kentucky, had to shut down its public school system this week.

And then there's New York City. Our modern-day Rome; the capital of Western Civilization. It's falling apart. Wall Street is a joke. Buildings are crumbling to the streets below. Taxi cabs are crashing into one another. And, maybe worst of all, the Yankees are going to miss the playoffs for the first time since 1993.

This nation is on the precipice of its own demise, and, Yankees jokes aside, big cities like New York are leading the way. Rather than being a country of industry and prosperity, we've become a country of crisis. Cities in turmoil, poverty in the countryside, abominable foreign policy, the laughable state of the dollar, freakishly violent weather that occurs with unsettling regularity... it seems that little is going right for the Unites States.

We're witnessing the fall of the American empire. As a country, we'd better get used to the idea that we're no longer the world's leading super power. We'd better stock up on humility. And, apparently, gas. We're gonna need it.

I was made for 12-year-olds

... maybe it's because they make me laugh...

... maybe it's because adults are so much more annoying...

... maybe it's because I'm really a twelve-year-old on the inside...

... maybe its because they didn't flip our raft...

...but man... I love my students.

If you can't beat 'em...

I've resigned myself to the fact that Barack Obama will never win here in Tennessee. Nashville is a blue grain in a red sandpit, and no matter how many Barack bumper stickers I see here in Music City, the statewide race is a sure bet for McCain.

So I was glad to learn today that a Tennessean is at the center of an investigation into the hacking of Sarah Palin's Yahoo email account. That's the spirit. It's like losing a game of chess, and then bitch-slapping your opponent in the face. If you can't beat 'em, read their spam, I always say.

Two names - accent = real southerner?

"There's a southern accent where I come from... the youngins call it country, the Yankees call it dumb."

Yeah, I hear you, Tom Petty. I don't know what to make of this place. I'm a New England Yankee, and I'm never going to pass for a real Southerner. I walk too fast, talk too much, and I only have one first name. Here in the Southland, that just won't cut it.

My students, on the other hand... well, they are authentically southern. They've got two first names, and manipulative Southern-belle smiles (see photo)... they're the real deal.

Or are they? None of my students have a southern accent. They've got no drawl. They don't utter typically southern absurdities like, "We goin' ashootin', y'all." Yeah, that's how people talk here. But not my students. They were born and raised in a sea of Southern drawl, but they somehow escaped unscathed, sounding just like their Connecticut-born teacher. We're more alike than I care to acknowledge in front of them.

So... what does it mean to be truly Southern? Am I a Southerner simply because I live in the South? Are my students Southerners simply because they were born here? What about that Wendy's-turned-fast-food-BBQ-joint down the street? That's not authentic. I'm more authentic than that. Right?

An initial reflection...

A month into my southern defection, and a blog seemed like a good idea. A place to share thoughts, stories, and photos of life in the Southland, from the perspective of a New Englander with Chicago on his mind.

First things first - Nashville is a city worthy of praise. The people are friendly, the pace is just right, and there's personality at every turn. I'm writing this inaugural post from a coffee shop called The Frothy Monkey, just a few hundred feet from an unmarked popsicle joint with flavors like pineapple-chili, wasabi-chocolate and avacado - a menu as unexpected as the way in which my thighs stick together in the Tennessee humidity.

It's going to be a year full of... well, who knows what. I hope you'll follow along and subscribe to my blog. More tomorrow, y'all.