As an eagle-eyed spectator noticed (along with most of the UGA student section, apparently), yes, that young man was indeed peeing in that little room, and no, nobody has any idea what they did with his, er, leavings.

Kentucky, our apologies in advance.

Once upon a time, I was the world’s worst social worker, or at least felt like I was the world’s worst social worker. I knew for a fact this wasn’t true: in fact, I knew many others who were demonstrably worse, or spent their days wandering around the office setting the copier on fire, walking around on fire themselves, or driving company vans full of newly arrived refugees into poles and thus setting them on fire.

It was a good time in my life in some senses. I learned the exact length and degree of my own emotional crippledom, since working with refugees tests your ability to manage your emotions in a semi-healthy fashion. I’m somewhere between your average English person and a Swede in that sense: steady in crisis, but only because none of it really registers until the breakdown hits, and you burn down your house and run to the pub. I learned that if you want something done and done forcefully, you point an African woman at it, get behind her, and enjoy the crunching noise things in her way make as she runs roughshod over them. I learned that I was too hopelessly scattered and annoyed by people to ever succeed in the job I did, as I always lost the paperwork, and often found myself holding back screams in my throat when discussion of any topic went past the fifteen minute mark.

(This is not an exaggeration: I would go in the bathroom and scream into shirt out of sheer frustration in the middle of meetings. I’m sure someone heard this and assumed I was having some kind of intestinal Ragnarok in the bathroom. Apologies, random whomever–you didn’t have to hear that.)

I did manage not to screw up the program I ran too badly, an accomplishment of sorts in the non-profit world. I managed not to get fired, though not without management noting that I was “spending a lot of time doing something else.” (You’re looking at it.) I also inadvertently started the whole series of events leading to this:

Warren wrote the article, then the book, and now it’s two and a half years later and there’s three hundred-odd pages on my desk full of Clarkston, Georgia, refugees, and a community I dipped in and out of over a three and a half year span of my adult life. It must be good: I read it in a hammock on Cayman Brac, and I kept swearing I was late for a meeting with someone, or had forgotten to fax a report to the state, or that I was somehow failing someone in some way at that moment by not being good enough at my job–a job I hadn’t shown up for in over a year and a half at that point, and would never show up for again.

Paying a compliment to a book by saying “It induced a PTSD-like state in me when I read it” is for me the highest kind of praise, though it really shouldn’t have that effect on you. It’s a prime indicator that Warren got it right when the story could have gone wrong in so many ways: too mawkish, too cold, too one-sided, too soft. In the end, it’s ambiguous, complex, and very faithful to what I saw in the refugee community here, and with Luma herself, who’s neither the saint she could have been portrayed as nor the relentless drill sergeant she could have been, either. As with everyone else, she’s given the full chiarscuro effect, and fairly so.

It’s great. You’ll like it. Go buy it. I’d always wondered when that particular chapter of my life would end with a definite piece of punctuation, a moment when you could stand at point B and say, “There is point A, and it is most definitely not point B, where I currently am standing.” This rarely ever happens, which is why Clarice still hears the lambs screaming in the pen, or why you sometimes wake with a start in the night and wonder about that time in third grade when you were caught picking you nose by the entire class. Life is not big on defined narrative structure.

Every now and then, you get a coda, though. Seeing this book come out is one for me, a tangible bit of evidence that a slice of life I stumbled through won’t fall into the oblivion of unrecorded history and a mass of dusty copies of I-94 cards, citizenship applications, and government files with long, strange names typed on their tabs: “Besic; Ntyangyikika; Sayee; Sau U; Mohammad.” Someone who could write the story did, and wrote it well. I had some small part in helping that happen, and with that I feel like slightly less fraudulent of a person.

(Please note: slightly less fraudulent. The real people, after all, are in the book.)

First person plural re-engaged.

A clarification is needed for a quote in Wednesdays’ “Spring Practice Capsules.” We quoted Steve Spurrier improperly due to a typographical error. The quote should have read:

We just fiddle around the wishbone in practice. It’s not for game situations, just something for the guys. The wishbone is strictly for the guys.

We apologize for any offense the gay community may have taken at the implications of the typo as it originally appeared in the piece. The wishbone is a football offense open to both straight and gay football players, and has no preferences no matter how many dive penetration jokes you make. We regret the error.

In Wednesday’s Curious Index, we reported that Cincinnati’s Brian Kelly has no sensation of any kind on the entire left side of his face after an alleged one-night stand gone horribly wrong with ESPN’s Pam Ward. Coach Kelly’s agent informs us that Kelly only lost the ability to detect hot and cold sensations on his tongue, and that he and Ms. Ward remain on cordial terms. We regret the error.

In our piece Messin’ With the BCS, we misidentified Orrin Hatch as “Representative Hatch.” Hatch is in fact the senior Senator from the Great State of Utah, serving alongside junior Senator Elder Creepy Meltyface. Also, Orrin Hatch was not the inspiration for the film Crank, though he has had sex in public with Amy Smart to save someone’s life. We regret the error.

Yesterday’s feature, “Ron Franklin: The Man, The Myth, The Monotone” contained a quote from a coordinating producer at ESPN that was misinterpreted by our editorial staff. When Franklin’s unnamed colleague remarked that talking to Franklin was “like talking to the internet”, she meant to imply that Franklin made his coworkers laugh out loud, not that Franklin is a sexual predator. We regret the error.

Tuesday’s Block-Rockin’ Eats recipe for “Rich Rodriguez’s Wampus Burgers” read 8 pounds cat meat as printed. This was not specific enough, according both to dissatisfied readers who tried the recipe and to Michigan SID Steve Trackett. Trackett called after the piece was published and clarified,

For the gamey but delicious tang of prime cat, you should use nothing but 2-4 year old overweight tabby, as the marbling is what matters most. Enjoy!

Happy grilling! We regret the error.

Tuesday’s “Better Know An Androgynous ACC Coach” reported that Boston College’s Frank Spaziani was born with both male and female genitalia, and was raised as a girl until the age of twelve, winning four consecutive Little Miss crowns at the New Jersey State Fair. Coach Spaziani actually competed in the pageant’s Junior Miss division. We regret the error.

In Monday’s Curious Index, we cited a source identifying this as a video of [NAME REDACTED] getting his penis stuck in a metal park bench in Taipei, Taiwan.

The man has since been identified as Wei-Chuan Yang, a 38 year old programmer from Taoyuan, Taiwan. [NAME REDACTED] could not possibly have been in Taipei, as he has been coaching spring practice in Champaign-Urbana with his penis stuck in particularly sexy plastic deck chair for the past week, something he says he is “excited about” and is “showing real signs of getting better and better.” He has no plans to remove it in the foreseeable future.

We regret the error.

On Thursday, we reported that Steve Kragthorpe was excommunicated by the Catholic Church for the abortion he’s committed at Louisville. This was in error, as Kragthorpe is not a Catholic, and therefore not subject to the Vatican’s spiritual oversight. Louisville Bishop Thomas Kelly did clarify though by saying that if Kragthorpe were Catholic he would be excommunicated, because getting owned by Syracuse really is an unforgivable abortion under anyone’s laws, and that he’s likely due for a retro style smiting any second now.

Last Friday’s article “IT CAME FROM CORAL GABLES” misidentified a photo as University of Miami president Donna Shalala.

The image in question is in fact a poster from the 1958 horror classic starring Christopher Lee, and should have been captioned Count Dracula. We regret the error.

Best Actress in a Supporting Role: Sarah Jessica Parker Tripp Thornton Oh God Why The Fuck Do Southern Bourgeoisie Insist On Giving Their Children Eight Thousand Names John Parker Wilson. Naked, exposed, and vulnerable: all the things an actor fears, but must embrace in a role. In him, we see our own demise, but gorier and more painful than could possibly be imagined.

Best Animated Short. Jeff Demps in Le Waterbug.

Best Animated Feature Film. Mack Brown’s All-Singing, All-Dancing, All-Shillling Extravaganza, playing for two straight months in December and January to sold-out audiences on ESPN, with a cast of thousands of shrieking wronged Texas fans.

Best Performance By An Actor in a Supporting Role. Percy Harvin in Braveheart Two (You Can Rip Out My Intestines But That Just Makes Me Faster, Fuckers.)

Best Score. Ohio State fanbase and the original compositions “Screams,” “Screams Again,” and “Continued Din of Communal Screaming Ending in Silent Weeping (aka “Boeckman’s Theme”).

Best Visual Effects. Knowshon Moreno in Die Hard 5 Splayed Out In Midair (But Still Lost To Georgia Tech).

Foreign Language Film – Bowl Winner Notre Dame. Critics say: ACCLAIMED! BELOVED! INCOMPREHENISIBLE!

Best Director: Jeremiah Masoli for the production Sit, Bitch.

Best Documentary Short: My Football Career, By Jonathan Crompton.

Best Makeup: Texas Tech’s Brandon Carter in his stirring role in Attention Whore.

Achievement in Sound Editing: Eric Berry in the zany musical “You Didn’t Need Math and Empathy, Anyway.”

Best Actor in a Leading Role Bill Stewart in I Am A Division I Football Coach.

Best Documentary Feature. The Sun Bowl. Irrefutable proof that documentaries are boring.

Best Achievement in Editing. ESPN, who artfully used the 7 second delay to edit out numerous ethnic slurs, profanities, and incoherent tics from the speech of Lou Holtz, who appeared to be only a borderline personality not in fact kept tied to his desk and at arm’s length from his fellow hosts with a webbing of leather restraints. (Also nominated for visual effects.)

Best art direction. The surreal artwork and ghostly minimalism of the Michigan offense.

Best Screenplay Based On Actual Material. Andre Smith’s It Had Nothing To Do With An Agent, Y’all!

Best Screenplay, Fiction. Collected college football writers of the universe for Georgia: 2008 MNC Champions With Ease And Flair.

Best Picture of the Year. Slumdog Millionaire, by Houston Nutt.

[hit play, then read on for maximum effect]

If you’re of orange-and-white extraction and a relative young’un like me, you’ve enjoyed respectable if not notable football success for most of your cognizant life. You are also threatened by change, and you may not know what to make of this young whippersnapper Kiffykins strolling the sacred halls of Neyland. He’s arrogant; he’s got a funny accent; he delivers his addresses like an under-prepared sixth-grader giving a book report, and oooohweeee, has he ever stirred up a hornets’ nest in the papers.

But here’s a fun little test. On one side of an argument are Paul Finebaum and Gregg “Greg” Doyel; on the other, Bruce Feldman and Matt Hinton. Who would you rather have in your corner?

Finebaum:
I flipped on ESPN over the weekend and heard a national commentator refer to UT’s 33-year-old football coach as “Insane Lane.” Certainly that had to make an impression on upcoming high school seniors who might be considering UT in a few months.

Doyel:
A sharper coach, one with a better feel for himself and his business, wouldn’t go out of his way to tick off the one guy in the SEC who has the players, the style and the cruelty to get even on the field.

Feldman:
…do people really think because of this, Florida is going to REALLY try and rub it in UT’s face? Meyer was going to try to blow up the scoreboard regardless.

Hinton:
So even though I have no idea how many games Kiffin’s going to win this year at Tennessee (well, I have some idea), on some level I have to think anyone able to cause rival scribes to spill this much ink and drive a usually sensible Alabaman into the arms of Al Davis before his first spring game at a school that just went 5-7 with a loss to Wyoming must be doing something right.

Look, it’s February. We’re all hurting for content. But Finebaum is clearly set on ginning up pageviews in the lean months, and Doyel is flat acting the fool. The idea that the Florida-Tennessee rivalry, in particular, isn’t operating at a full-time haterade zenith already is frankly preposterous, and while I don’t expect more from Doyel, his readers should.

And what if they’re right? I have often said that, were I not born into a through-and-through Tennessee family, I’d like to be an LSU fan. I admire their joie de vivre, their willingness to bodily threaten women and children of opposing fanbases, their sheer cussedness that is never altered by numbers on a scoreboard. We orange faithful could stand to learn from the fine example of Baton Rouge. Too long have we meandered along in (relative) gentility, content to cheer lustily when games go our way and fall dead silent when down more than a touchdown.

No more.

Brothers and sisters, it’s time to relinquish the mantle of “the Michigan of the SEC”. Let’s see some hustle in here. Let’s see some fire in those dead eyes. Let’s see us trailing the Gators, the Tide, the Dawgs by thirty or more and screaming, “THAT ALL YEW GOT??” at their nearest fans. And in the meantime, let us laugh long and proud at all the ruffled petticoats Kiffykins is leaving in his wake. His apology to Meyer was deemed half-assed and disingenuous by everyone with a hot mic? GOOD. The man is fantastic television, and for this bounty of offseason entertainment, at least, we owe him our allegiance.

He’s young. He’s inexperienced. He’s running into walls left and right, but bless his heart, he’s doing it at full speed. Would we really want it any other way? Kiffykins may very well get run out of town on a rail, but if he goes down he’s going Cossack-style, and in the meantime he’s ours. Think for a moment and name the most hated men in the SEC: Meyer. Saban. Miles. Anyone sensing a pattern here? Now rejoice, damn you, Knoxville—we done got our very own prince of darkness. Freshly hatched though he may be, I f’ing love him for it.

Vawls, our path diverges. From here on out, I’m gonna have some fun with this. (To wit: I just compared Lane Kiffin to the head coaches of Florida, Alabama, and LSU; it was not an accident, and you can go to hell and die if you think we’re not beating them all a billionty to three (and Georgia, too) at the very next opportunity. See?  I’m telling you, this is the only way to live.) I hope to see many of you spitting and hollering and damning the torpedoes from here to August and beyond. The rest of you—well, if y’all like being pantywaists so damn much, I’m sure Vandy’s bandwagon can spare a few seats by now.

In Friday’s “POOF! There it is: Coaching Magic Tricks in 5 Minutes” piece, we incorrectly identified a simple card illusion performed by new coach Lane Kiffin as “How to Shove Twelve and a Half Inches of Blustery Overexcitement Up Your Own Rectum So Far You Taste The Foretip fo the Cock Of Failure in The Back Of Your Throat In Just 45 Easy Seconds.”

The actual name of the illusion is the “Elmsley Pass.” Also, Kiffin’s representatives were adamant that we refer to it not as a “trick” but instead as “an illusion.” We regret both errors.

Last night’s You’ve Got To Be Fucking Kidding Me Thursday lead item failed to suggest that Google News headline “Nutt picks up huge commit in Cotton” carried with it any sort of hideously inappropriate sexual connotation. We regret the error.

Tuesday’s Fidgeting Digits Column misapplied the laws of genetics in working out a hypothetical blood type problem using Bobby Petrino. We listed Petrino’s hypothetical children as having AB-, when in fact the various combinations of both parents would in fact lead to a child with O+ blood. (Thanks to Dr. Meltzer at Vanderbilt Children’s Hospital for clearing this up.) Also, we would stress the hypothetical portion of this piece, as it is commonly acknowedged that Bobby Petrino’s veins contain not blood, but an acidic solvent capable of liquefying human skin in seconds.

On Monday, sister site Every Day Should Be Sunday’s Super Bowl Notebook reported that a Comcast affiliate in Arizona had accidentally aired several minutes of a hard-core pornographic film, in which an unsimulated oral sex act took place, during Super Bowl XLIII. In fact, the program that they accidentally switched to was ‘College Recruiting Update with Tom Lemming: Where Are They Now?,’ and the sex act in question was merely Lemming engaging in a very graphic sex act with Notre Dame quarterback Jimmy Clausen. We congratulate Clausen, and regret the error.

On Wednesday, we referred to Coach Rich Rodriguez’s hobbies as “spelunking, raffle-crashing, and collecting miniatures.” Michigan representatives clarified two points:

1. That should have read “miniature running backs.”

2. Coach Rodriguez is also fond of the art and science of metal detecting.

Per the release: “Mrs. Rodriguez is proud of the weight Coach Rodriguez has lost following a stressful recruiting season, and especially proud of the massive, $35K engagement ring he found for her on a drifter’s long-abandoned corpse.” We regret the error, and congratulate Coach Rodriguez on the weight loss and the purchase of his metal detector.

Wednesday’s profile of blue-chip recruit Barkevious Mingo contained the following erroneous paragraph: “He was sent to the Chesterfield School in 1741 and in 1750 became a student at St John’s College, Cambridge, where he studied classics and mathematics. He held the Exeter scholarship there and wrote a poem on the death of Frederick, prince of Wales, in 1751 (which was published in the European Magazine in 1795). While a student at Cambridge he travelled to London to attend the lectures of the surgeon William Hunter. From 1753 to 1756 he studied medicine in Edinburgh which was, at that time, a major centre for medical education in Europe. He took his MB degree from Cambridge in 1755.”  This passage should have included reference to Mingo’s fondness for trout fishing, kite flying, and raising purebred white tigers in the halcyon days of his youth. We regret the error.

A Signing Day Liveblog misidentified an anonymous recruit from Albany, Georgia as being “Mongolian.” We meant to type “Mongoloid,” and stand by our scouts’ estimates of his intelligence. We regret the error, even though he can’t read this.

During our Signing Day Liveblog Impromptu Pop Quiz, we mistakenly indicated that Dre Kirkpatrick mistook his Texas cap for an Alabama cap because he’s an arrogant little dicksmack. Dre Kirkpatrick mistook his Texas cap for an Alabama cap because he cannot read. We regret the error.

Thursday’s Final EDSBS HOT 172 1/2 listed the bottom ten in the incorrect order. The corrected order follows:

163. Buffalo
164. Ezell Road First Baptist Church and 15 Minute Embroidery Shop
165. Air Force (The actual Air Force)
166. Army (The Football team.)
167. Bun B’s Green Milers, High Stylers, and Billion Dolla Bitchez.
168. The Gays (publicly reported; real totals estimated to be much higher.)
169. Army (The actual Army)
170. Al-Qaeda
171. Lupus
172. Syracuse
172 1/2. Shreveport, Louisiana.

We regret the error.

So, here we go. It’s time; there’s absolutely no arguing that, but for a city and a team threatened by the remotest hint of change the balance of the season looms dark and our natural pessimism has finally found purchase.  Even with both feet in the FIRE HIS ASS YESTERDAY camp, I was never going to be entirely comfortable when this day came.  He’s the coach of my childhood, the devil I know.  Six weeks ago, I wrote,  “It’s our time at the edge, and the stay will be neither brief nor pleasant.”  I had no idea.

But if there’s anything to celebrate here with complete joyful abandon (for me, campers, for me), it’s that Chris Low scooped the living hell out of the Knoxville News-Sentinel, a terrible paper with a simpering buffoon of a sports editor in John Adams.  Save your preening, sir—you’ve had a public, exhausting vendetta against the guy for years and today you got beat.  ABIGAIL Adams would’ve had that story first, and that bitch has been dead almost 200 years.

ORSON (JAX):
WLOCP, Live
Texas @ Texas Tech, via some manner of bar television

HOLLY (undisclosed South Carolina-ish beach location):
WFV @ UConn
Florida vs. Georgia
Oregon @ Cal
Tennessee @ South Carolina
Texas @ Texas Tech
Arizona State @ Oregon State

Ron Paul:  Orbiting the Cocktail Party in his trusty dirigible nouveau, and wondering who, exactly, is PAYING for all these cocktails?  THE AMERICAN PEOPLE DESERVE THE TRUTH. And a return to the gold standard. This message approved by Ron Paul, who thinks you should have to pay for air.

And you, sirs?  Agendas, empty threats from actual Ron Paul voters (I know you exist), and preliminary smack talk below.  Happy Halloween.

And what do Americans do when we’re demonstrably out of ideas, as Texas fans may be on their third GameDay appearance in a month?  Sequels.  May we humbly suggest:

LEE CORSO IS A PENIS WITH A VENGEANCE
LEE CORSO IS A PENIS HAVANA NIGHTS
LEE CORSO IS WILLY KORN’S PENIS
LEE CORSO IS A PENIS WILD WILD WEST
LEE CORSO’S PENIS ATTACKS THE CLONES
LEE CORSO IS A PENIS AND THE CRYSTAL SKULL

Many, many, many more after the jump:

LEE CORSO’S PENIS ANOTHER 48 HOURS
LEEE CORSO’S PENIS 28 WEEKS LATER
LEE CORSO IS A PENIS AND WANT TO TURN AMERICA INTO A SOCIALIST VAGINA
LEE CORSO’S PENIS WHEN NATURE CALLS
LEE CORSO IS A PENIS VS. PREDATOR
LEE CORSO IS A PENIS MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD
LEE CORSO’S PENIS: THE DARK KNIGHT
LEE CORSO IS A PENIS SUPREMACY
LEE CORSO IS A PENIS 2 FAST 2 FURIOUS
SON OF LEE CORSO IS A PENIS
LEE CORSO IS A PENIS AT BIG MOMMA’S HOUSE
LEE CORSO IS A PENIS ELECTRIC BOOGALOO
LEE CORSO IS  A PENIS WITH CHIPS AND DRINK FOR 5.99
LEE CORSO IS A PENIS RETURN OF THE KING
LEE CORSO IS A PENIS AND ONE CUP
LEE CORSO IS A PENIS RELOADED
LEE CORSO’S PENIS IS THE NEXT KARATE KID
LEE CORSO’S PENIS HAS THE HOUSEWIVES OF ATLANTA TALKING
LEE CORSO IS A PENIS BATTLE FOR THE PLANET OF THE APES
LEE CORSO’S PENIS JUST BROKE THEIR FACES WITH A HOBNAILED BOOT
LEE CORSO IS A PENIS DUMB AND DUMBERER
LEE CORSO IS A PENIS TECHNOLOGIC TECHNOLOGIC
LEE CORSO IS A PENIS CRUISE CONTROL
THE GREAT LEE CORSO’S PENIS CAPER
LEE CORSO IS A PENIS TAKES MANHATTAN
LEE CORSO IS A PENIS’S JUG BAND
LEE CORSO IS A PENIS FRIDAY AFTER NEXT
LEE CORSO IS A PENIS STAYING ALIVE
LEE CORSO IS A PENIS THIS WOMAN’S WORK
LEE CORSO IS A PENIS FOR A FEW DOLLARS MORE
LEE CORSO IS A PENIS ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE WEST
LEE CORSO’S PENIS THANKS YOU FOR SMOKING
LEE CORSO IS A PENIS MAGNUM FORCE
LEE CORSO IS A PENIS BEFORE SUNSET
LEE CORSO IS A PENIS: JUDGMENT DAY
LEE CORSO IS A PENIS: THE RECKONING
LEE CORSO IS A PENIS AT WORLD’S END
LEE CORSO IS A PENIS IN THE TIME OF CHOLERA
LEE CORSO’S PENIS WILL NOW PRAISE FAMOUS MEN

We’re sure you can take it from there.

Oh, sure the site’s cute and all, right down to the story of how they met and how the future Mrs. Dick’s “ear fetish” drew her irresistibly toward the Arkansas quarterback like some kind of fleshy wrinkled tractor beam.

…but don’t do it. You know about as much about yourself at 22 as you do about the nation of Namibia: it’s there, you’ve seen pictures of it and perhaps a few maps, and you imagine that it probably exists and has a few odd beasts in it. In your twenties, you’ll actually go to Nambia, and discover that it is full of beasts, has very few resources, and is mostly empty space. If you’re married, surprise! You get to share that disappointment with someone else discovering much the same thing at the same time, only with the omnipresent pressure of keeping the lights on simultaneously bearing down on you or, should you have a career crisis or mental breakdown of sorts, on your spouse.

(That is a statement made by someone who’s somehow still married to the person they married at a young age, a feat made possible through the patience and accomplishments of the author’s spouse, and most definitely not the author.)

So, to review: don’t get married before 25 at the least, kids. It’s dumb, even if you are second in the SEC in passing yardage.

UConn @ Loovll

HOLLY, IRRATIONAL: Connecticut, based on absolutely nothing but fresh affection for the Huskies, owed entirely to this. Let this be the first of a trend. Let player blogs sprout across the land. (Let Jonathan Crompton’s be titled “Alone (in the pocket) Again, Naturally.”)

ORSON, IRRATIONAL. When Baylor almost pantses you, you deserve to lose said pants to someone in need of a fine pair of pants. Like Steve Kragthorpe, who wandered sad and pantsless through most of 2007 and for the first game of 2008, but lo! Kragthorpe and competence are not speaking, but they’re texting, keeping tabs on each other on IM, you know…just feeling each other out. And in search of pants. [/noideajustguessing.]

UNC @ Miami

ORSON, TOTALLY RATIONAL. UNC would have been an underdog here with T.J. Yates at qb, but with redshirt freshman Mike Paulus starting the ‘Canes beastly line and Blulk (Allen “Black Hulk” Bailey) ripping through the offensive line, the beleaguered Paulus only hope is to take ample dives in the pocket just like his brother would. Did. Whatever.

Blulk. Move, get out the way.

HOLLY, QUASI-RATIONAL: ‘Canes. They haven’t beat anybody, not really, but can Rutgers really be counted as a quality win for UNC? Until I’m proven wrong by a scoreboard I’m going to believe Miami’s finally onto something here.

Ole Miss @ #4 Florida

HOLLY, QUASI-RATIONAL: Florida’s offense and the Tebow Child haven’t exactly been themselves, but it’s everyone else’s job to stop then and no one’s managed. Ole Miss held Vandy to just over 200 total yards last week, but only scored 17 points of their own. It wasn’t enough then, and it won’t be enough tomorrow.

Orson, IRRATIONAL. Because Urban Meyer has done nothing all week but talk about his team not scoring points, meaning he’s had them locked up in cages with minions tossing lit Black Cats and Screaming Chasers at them for days now. When they emerge, look for a period of sluggish play as they adjust, possibly even giving up a long TD to one of Ole Miss’s speedy receivers Mike Wallace or Dexter McCluster(fuck). Then, once their eyes adjust to the sun, well, it’s Flower of Alachua County singin’ time.

“Bold hearts and nodding plumes wave o’er their bloody tombs,
Deepeyed in gore is the green orange and blue tartan’s wave,
Shivering are the ranks of steel dire is the horseman’s wheel,
Victorious in battlefield Scotland Florida the brave”

Tennessee @ #15 Auburn

ORSON, QUASI-RATIONAL. It would be nice to ape the theory that Phil Fulmer always brings his team back from the brink of disaster, but experience tells us that sometimes they’ll just lay there and pant heavily. (See: 2005.) The better math is to use a different theory: that Daniel Cobb, Brandon Cox, and Chris Todd are all the same person, a theory proposed by Cuddles Swindle that we believe is one hundred percent true, and that like them their rag-armed passes will get thrown into the waiting arms of Eric Berry, and that this is even more likely considering Tony Franklin has said he’ll call even more passes this week than against LSU.

I’ll kill you for telling my secrets, Swindle! KILL, I SAY!

HOLLY, QUASI-RATIONAL: Tennessee has an oddly consistent history of outperforming expectations, but it’s accompanied by a history of competent quarterbacking and playcalling, so pretty safe to say we’re breaking new ground here. It’s a dark day when I’m not looking forward to an SEC matchup in the melodious care of Uncles Verne And Gary, but an afternoon of them shaking their heads in disappointment in the booth as boys in orange are picking their teeth out of the grass at Jordan-Hare? No, thank you kindly. Don’t let them see us this way. Give this game to Raycom and let us focus on mocking the camera work instead of Tennessee’s “offense”. (Auburn, obvs.)

#25 Fresno State @ UCLA

HOLLY, QUASI-RATIONAL: Bad for the resume: Fresno State gave a real fight to Wisconsin and then sleepwalked (sleptwalk?) through Toledo. Bad for humanity: UCLA allowed Mike Stoops to win a football game. Like, convincingly. This one’s not rocket surgery.

ORSON, IRRATIONAL: Because Rick Neuheisel was beginning to tug at the heartstrings a bit, and fate won’t let us feel pity for him that long. Also, because we sort of suspect Fresno State isn’t that great.

Colorado @ Florida State

ORSON, IRRATIONAL: Florida State, but only because we imagine another boomlet of “here’s the Seminole Comeback!” before they inevitably choke in three or four more games down the line. At least that’s what the sadist in me wants, since it’s so much more delicious when they think they’re hope.

HOLLY, IRRATIONAL: Colorado, on account of unpleasant flashbacks at the thought of Florida State being a contender again coupled with extreme fondness for typing THE MAJESTIC BUFFALO in all caps, all the time.

Purdue @ Notre Dame

HOLLY, IRRATIONAL: A guy in my history class junior year once interrupted a lecture to ask about the origins of Purdue’s mascot. The legendary Dr. Wheeler replied, “You should know what a Boilermaker is, son. You consumed enough of them before entering my classroom.”

ORSON, QUASI-RATIONAL: Someone pointed out to us that Notre Dame is just running the Jeff Bowden offense now. If you didn’t die at the cutting shiv of truth contained in that, Notre Dame fan, then nothing may kill you. Purrrrrdue.

Missy State @ #5 LSU

ORSON, QUASI-RATIONAL: [EXTREMELY ACCURATE DEPICTION OF GORE CONTAINED WITHIN CENSORED DUE TO BEING FOUL AND REVOLTING ENOUGH TO CAUSE SPONTANEOUS TONGUE-SWALLOWING AND AUTOGOUGING OF THE EYEBALLS.] LSU.

HOLLY, QUASI-RATIONAL: The SEC West is kinda scrummier than usual, innit? There are few constants in college football, fewer still this year, but Death Valley holds fast.

#22 Illinois @ #12 Penn State

HOLLY, IRRATIONAL: Penn State. Watching Zook’s hewn jaw clench and unclench on the sidelines is good clean fun. Watching JoePa lose a game is kinda the same as watching him win a game—wincing on his behalf with every motion of every limb. Hard to enjoy.

ORSON, IRRATIONAL: Revival redacted: the loss of Rashard Mendenhall has all but ended any consideration Illinois really had as a Big Ten contender. Now, they’re basically Indiana with a bit more talent on defense, and a slightly less accurate quarterback under center.

#8 Alabama @ #3 Georgia

ORSON, QUASI-RATIONAL: Georgia, if only because of their consistency and the three to four terrifying moments in the game when John Parker Wilson will be asked to do something.

HOLLY, IRRATIONAL: Georgia. Please. In the name of interesting television, let that black-shirted defense force Das Saban to put this game in the hands of John Parker Wilson, and let nature take its course.

SWINDLE:  Atlanta, watching Jacksonville State @ Georgia Tech live and NC State @ South Carolina via ESPN360.

HOLLY: Los Angeles, watching Troy @ Middle Tennessee State via GamePlan and NC State @ South Carolina on ESPN.*

Neither, regrettably, will be in Denver wooing Ana Marie Cox…although I’m closer, Swindle.  Just saying.

Were we That Sort Of Blog, this is the point at which we’d call you some sort of collective brotherhoodish nickname (”Rampant and Unapologetic SEC Bias Nation, PUTCHA HANDS IN THE AAAYYYYR!!!1!!”) and offer to race you to the comments for the commencement of geographic roll-call, drink choices du soir, and unseemly insinuations about your relationships with your mothers.  We remain, however, cool and aloof as jungle cats (and just as shiny), and will merely inform you, as any well-bred hostess would, that the open thread below is available for any and all of the above needs.  Go on, now.

*Also on the agenda: Frequent and vehement cursing of Time Warner SoCal for appalling nonexistence of ESPN360 availability in LA, denying me the Return of El Perrilloux.  Get bent, sirs.

First person plural: off. Blame this on cold medicine.

I should mention that my Dad is the oddest person I’ve ever met. He is and has always been a quantum person: blip! he’s here, joking, laughing, fully engaged and charismatic in the way men who claim membership in the “Smiling Irish Bastard Hall of Fame” can be. (I have next to no idea where my family actually hails from, it’s just the phrase and the similarity that matter most here, not the documented truth.)

Then, in a minute–blip! Gone. He still stands in front of you, or next to you, but in an instant his mind has gone somewhere completely alien and unreachable to you. Someone once wrote of Dean Martin that he must be either the deepest soul on the planet, so elusive was he, or that he was the shallowest. I’m never really sure of either, but the two do share an ethos of being phenomenally elusive people as hard to hit square on as Linnie Patrick coming through the hole. Years can pass without any real, substantive information being exchanged in conversation, and I have, on occasion, written down what I know about my dad using notebook pad. I don’t get past the second page. There is not enough information to fill the pages, thus saving the world from the 3,923,918th anguished daddy-issues bildungsroman.

(You all owe him a note of thanks. I forward them on for you happily.)

Linnie Patrick is a deliberate reference here: Linnie played for Alabama and was quicksilver in cleats when Bear Bryant coached at the University of Alabama. My father met Bryant once–possibly more, but again, information here is scarce–through the equally vaguely defined relationship my grandfather claimed with Bryant. All I know is my grandfather, a horse-trainer who shuttled around the country from track to track, knew Bryant in some degree and had enough of a connection to wangle a visit and (apocryphally) a scholarship offer for my aunt. I’d love to elaborate, but I can’t. That is all I know, leading to the endless stream of qualifiers, parentheses, and limiting modifiers. I don’t know much, and like 99.9 percent of history, it has evaporated into an oblivion of forgetting, half-memory, or denial.

Bryant, like my grandfather, had a lifelong partnership with liquor. It explains why my father spent his adolescence wondering where my grandfather went, since grandmother had enough with the whiskey rollercoaster and filed for divorce. That same fruitful but ultimately destructive partnership also hastened Bryant’s death 28 days after his retirement. Chesterfields and country boy eating didn’t help, either, just as in my grandfather’s death. Before he died, the noise of his coughing started in his chest and then went down a murky obstructed drain before emanating from his lipless mouth, wending its way through the tar-encrusted tree branches of his ruined lungs.

I used to think Bryant had to have the same cough. He just had to: the cigarettes, atrophied lungs, the fluid buildup from circulatory problem. My grandfather died the kind of massive, sudden, and decisive death people who drive their bodies like they stole them do: heart failure, brain death, all in a matter of minutes, at about the same age as Bryant, followed by his live-in girlfriend a few minutes later whose heart also, seeing what was happened, tried to cash in on a two-for-one deal with the paramedics on the scene and stopped a few minutes later.

We’re a day past the 25th anniversary of Bryant’s death. There is no special hold for Bryant on me personally: he was undoubtedly the most dominant coach of his time, he had a colorful personality, and he really did wrestle a bear, all things where credit is due. Other than that, Bryant is another respected ghost of a time I did not experience, and will not pretend to channel in any way. That belongs to those who were there.

I do owe Bryant for one full, well-lit exposure of my father’s otherwise clandestine soul. Bryant dies. I’m sitting there in my pajamas, all of six years old and fully awake at 6:00 a.m. when the news came on and announced when Bear Bryant dies. I don’t notice my father waking up an hour later and surfacing from the bedroom, but in a second my eyebrows moved a bit as they do when you’re listening really, really hard trying to see whether someone is behind you or not.

I turned around and saw a man who had the look of someone who had been run through with something sharp, decisive, and final. I can only speculate what the moment meant to him. Perhaps a brick had been removed from the fundaments of his semantic universe; perhaps it was the shock only sudden, unanticipated bad news can send shooting through your nervous system. Maybe he was envisioning the future death of his father with a clarity and horror he could touch, taste, and feel for the first time. Again, I don’t know.

But the death of Bear Bryant let me get one of the few clear shots I ever saw, and perhaps will ever see of my mercurial dad. And for giving me that, I do have a connection with Bear Bryant, and owe him thanks. He served as the proxy for people busy with the endless miserable details of existence to project feelings–exult, pain, the difficulty of ever loving anyone conditionally–that got put on the back burner for more pressing things like mortgages, feeding the kids, and squeezing sleep in between waking, working, and eating. He seemed more than human in that moment and more deserving of something–a hug, a word, a nod, than anyone I’d ever seen in my life.

I owe Bear Bryant for that glimpse of the slippery thing known as my father. So: thank you, sir. Without you, I would not have the snapshot of one of the two times I ever saw my father in tears, something he will deny to this day before–blip!–changing the subject and going wherever it is he goes when he’s not here.

First person singular off.