Light and hearty observations from a fat and ugly guy. Home of hackneyed drivel and ersatz-existentialist effluence. Choleric biliousness a specialty, since 1958.

Yesterday, in hell. Er, I mean, Tuscaloosa

"Oh, oh Alabama...the devil fools with the best laid plans".

The opening lines from Neil Young's "Alabama", which of course is the song referenced in Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Sweet Home Alabama"; these lyrics never rang more true than for your humble Nigel, who spent yesterday fucking around like an idiot in Tuscaloosa. All...bloody...day.

Why was I in Tuscaloosa, you may ask? My elderly mother's new elderly husband is an Alabama Crimson Tide alum and also a for-real war hero, and he was to be honored in pre-game festivities that were to include a reception at the University president's home followed by some mid-field hoopla climaxing in a combined Mustang P51 and F-16 formation flyover (he was a fighter pilot in WW 2, Korea, and Vietnam, among other amazing accomplishments, and has to wear rocks in his right suit coat pocket to counter-balance all the medals he wears on the left when dressed for these sorts of occasions--one day I'll post a separate, serious thing about him. His resume is scary, and includes stints with NASA, the CIA, and as a White House pentagon liaison. And he's a super nice guy, fully in his head at the age of 84, with a killer sense of humor).

But enough of the niceness--this is ME, here, so naturally I was pissed and full of vitriol by the time the day was done.

Starting with picking up Nigel Jr. at his house, we set off on the interminable drive taking us past the mobile home parks and Cracker Barrel Restaurant billboards that constitute a tour through the Georgia countryside. Crossing the Alabama state line, we gained an hour moving into the Central Time zone while simultaneously losing all semblance of what passes for the 21st century in these here parts.

Mercifully, we were able to bypass Birmingham. Birmingham, once famous for nasty ol' sheriff Bull Connor (he of the firehoses and German Shepherds), has now settled into its current role as the birthplace and now avid promoter of childhood diseases, such as whooping cough. You bring your kid here if you want them to get sick and die. But since I love Nigel Jr. with all my heart, and not coincidentally since I don't as yet have a life insurance policy on the kid, we skirted the "city" and hied our way forthwith to the booming metropolis that is Tuscaloosa.

Breathless with excitement, we arrived at the lunch my mother and husband had planned. Tuscaloosa, being famous for its seafood (who the fuck knew that?) -- our intrepid elders had of course chosen a fish place. Real conversation with the waitress: my mother asked her what the "fish of the day" was and the waitress said that she didn't know, she'd have to check to see what was "left over from Thursday". This, my loyal shlubbies, was an omen. An omen, I say.

Tuscaloosa is to seafood as, say, New York is to grits and black eyed peas.

So I'm sitting next to some Tuscaloosa native at the table who's a friend of my step-dads. I spent the next 90 minutes being regaled by tales of storied 'Bama football heroes, coaches, cheerleaders, the history of the practice field, the practice squads, the team uniforms, their national championships, some stupid tower that somebody named Bear Bryant used to stand on, and what an asshole somebody named Ray Perkins was for tearing it down, blah blah blah. Ad infinitum. Realizing I needed something drastic to shut up ol' Cletus, and at about a point where he finally stopped and took a breath about 87 minutes into this diatribe, I turned to him and told him that:

• I didn't like football; I much preferred ballet
• I was a homo
• I liked to take it up the ass from well-hung black guys

The black guys comment was what did it, thankfully, and we were able to leave to "go to the hotel" where my parents were going to "change and get ready" for the festivities to come.

I have previously posted about the Hampton Inn chain, so I won't bother repeating my bile and spew relative to that here. Let's just say that spending three hours sitting around a Hampton Inn room in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, could be the single greatest experience of my life. When I die, and everything I've done flashes before my eyes, I just know that this one moment will stick out. Stick out, as in one of those 4 hour erections the Cialis ads warn you about: seek immediate medical attention. Because by this point, I needed a psychiatrist, really.

The real dilemma attending a 'Bama football game is parking your car, anywhere, somewhere, relatively close to Bryant Denny stadium. Worried about this, and completely underwhelmed by the diversions of the Hampton Inn, about four hours before gametime Nigel Jr. and I skipped the hotel and began the Lewis and Clark expedition that would hopefully result in a place to leave the car within close walking distance of the stadium. See, I was only there to see the pre-game stuff, and could care less about this game--so the plan was, get seated, watch the festivities and the fly-by, maybe take in the first quarter, and then head back to the car. But there's no shuttle buses once the game starts, so being close by was important. The parking map I used, pictured above left, was as helpful as sandpaper at a Peparation H sales demonstration.

Lemme tell ya, these rednecks like to plant themselves and their fat, pimple laden 'Bama butts EARLY near the stadium. There wasn't a single open public parking space anywhere within 3 miles, and we're talking four hours before the kickoff. Not one. So, 90 minutes of fruitless searching and me mumbling under my breath later, here comes Nigel Jr. from the backseat: "Dad, if you don't fucking quit with the goddamm swearing, I'm gonna tell mom, and she won't let me come visit your sorry ass anymore. So, shut the fuck up, will you, and can we just call it a day and go fucking home?" Nigel is 11.

Suitably chastised, I agreed, and throwing the tickets out the window, we turned our backs on Tuscaloosa and jumped on the freeway to head back to Georgia. So we never made it to the stadium, never saw the flyover, never got our seats, nothing. Oh, but there was a silver lining to all this. On the way home, about 160 miles out, my "check engine" light came on.

"...What are you doing Alabama? You got the rest of the union, to help you along....what's going wrong?"

posted by Nigel St.John Regina Smegmatica Howle-Raines @ 5:59 AM