The Stadium After washing my banana down with the last drops of my citrus honey tea, I walked into the stadium which is bigger than the official Senators stadium here in Ottawa. I was stunned, partly due to the banana headache and also due to the sheer magnitude of this place.
One hundred thousand people and I was the third one to walk into the stadium. Fun Fact: University of Austin has an approximate student body of 50,000. Of these, 49,881 are Asian, whereas the other 119 – a mix of boys named Vondrell and Patrick – sit on the Longhorns’ football roster. (I did that without a calculator.)
Taking the half an hour stroll to my seat, I walked past the Longhorns’ mascot, a bull (or something similar to) named Bevo. I was too scared to go near it and so don’t know if it was in fact inside of its car. Surely this thing had bananas?
I arrived at my seat and noticed it was bare, whereas some other seats had these awesome and comfortable looking pumpkin orange leather cushions with backs. Naturally, I grappled with one in an effort to pull it over to my seat because I thought ‘First come, first served’. While struggling to move the comfy bum-cushion, I was told – rather gently – that these seats one had to purchase and so, in essence, what I was trying to do was steal someone else’s seat.
I could have been shot for doing this, because that’s what they do in Texas.
Anyway, the old man who told me was nice enough to take my picture, as a memento of this near-thieving occasion. I was trying to take one of the seats to my right, as you can see in the picture.
First the banana, and then a cold ass. Wicked.
But you know what’s more important than my cold ass? The GODZILLATRON. Texans are very creative and imaginative when it comes to the naming of things – like their children when they call them Colt, Cody, or my favorite? Hunter, because Texas is The Days of Our Lives and everyone within lives their realities in technicolor. And for those who don’t? There’s capital punishment.
Luckily, my ass didn’t stay cold for very long, because hello, college boys, all athletic and in tight clothes and without sleeves. This is Team Colorado or Denver – I’m actually not sure which and that’s how much attention I was paying. They are very smart, as you can see by their chosen outfits. GO SLEEVELESS!
Giddy and smiley I remembered I could take video. Notice what happens to my sense of focus at around the 25 second mark.
I was also quite nearly rendered deaf by the sound of techno music being blasted through the stadium. I dunno, but it must be something specific to Texas because the Denver boys were making fun of the music and dancing as though at a rave. (This very made me nearly scream TEAM DENVER! because they were so funny.)
But enough about the losing team, Denver, and instead, let’s next take a peek at the Longhorns warming up. (I almost video’d them praying before they crushed Denver, but thought it would just serve as another reason for me to have my ass shot off by a Texan.)
The Set-Up: Key Players Before ending this spazy commentary, I would like to introduce you to all key players who make the Longhorns the team that they are today.
Jesus, may peace and blessings be upon him. (As a Muslimah, I do not concur with the sandy-blonde and fair skinned fella many y’all pray to and so there shall be no image of this man on this site.)
Mack Brown, the legend himself as he appears on the GODZILLATRON: And then later in his angry headset: (COACH ERIC TAYLOR wears it better. HI!) Other important people milling about. Mostly, they run ahead of the team as the team gets on the field and they yell and scream and cheer them on. They say things like JESUS LOVES YOU! and WIN THIS FOR JESUS!: There was also this guy, who was just sort of an interesting guy because he didn’t yell or scream, but he did look like he belonged there and could crush Denver all by himself. Also, he’s very attractive, yes? Another Coach who, suspiciously, looks very much like Mack Brown and has the same skin coloring as Jesus (coincidence or conspiracy? You decide.): A supremely old dude who clearly refuses to use either a cane or a walker. I took his photo because he is so very old…and between you and I, I wonder if he is still living: One of the ESPN cameramen who bring you your pigskin and who stands on a zippy platform that…zips…at very high and aggressive speed: And two of the three young men who likely get the most action in the State of Texas and who carry the weight of the world on their shoulders…QB1 Colt McCoy, who didn’t impress me much: & WR Jordan Shipley, who impressed me to the point of jaw-dropping hurrah-ing (remember this kid’s name because very soon, he will become among the elite of the NFL): Missing from these pictures is the image of the third young man – RB Vondrell McGee – who works with the rest of the team to kick the shit out of every other football team in the Big 12. Vondrell also impressed me to the point of jaw dropping hurrah-ing, and I expect that he too will soon enough become among the elite of the NFL, and his is a name you should remember.
I understand that you are removing Matthew Saracen from Dillon.
So help me God if you asshats kill off Granmaw Saracen.
The end, Maha
Dear COACH ERIC TAYLOR,
HI! How are you? I am so very very good because you’re back tomorrow.
HI!
I hope you will be wearing your angry man shorts and your angry eyebrows. Also, I hope that Buddy Garrity will defect from the Dillon Panthers and love the East Dillon Giraffes instead.
GO EAST DILLON!
Love, Maha
Dear Principal Tami Taylor,
Hi, how are you? I have missed our long conversations. So much so that earlier today? I sent an email to Baby Jane in which – and among other things, of course, Tami – I wrote out TAMI TAYLOR’S BOOBS! in 36 size bold violet font. I was communicating to Baby Jane how excited I am to see you tomorrow.
She misses you too, Tami.
I hope you wear them high and proud, sister.
Hugs and kisses, Maha P.S. Remember how a while back I told you that we were thinking of going somewhere and we’d love for you to come with us? Well, we’ve decided to go kayaking in the Pacific, zip-lining through the rain-forest and hiking up volcanoes in Costa Rica over Christmas. WANNA COME?
Dear Taylor Kitsch,
For tomorrow night’s Season 4 premiere, I bought a new dress in your honor. It is plaid and with snap buttons and clearly shows how big my brain is.
I really hope you like it.
Love, Maha
Are you watching Friday Night Lights yet, kittens?
Note: This is entry no 1 of 2, as the story is too long for one spell.
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Fascist Blogger thought my original title was too long and so forced me to cut it short. This should have been called ‘Longhorns crush Denver & a Canuck learns the secret handshake, becomes an honorary Austinite (& yet manages to remain clueless re Football, unless associated with Taylor Kitsch’s Riggins and Kyle Chandler’s COACH ERIC TAYLOR), part 1 of 2′.
I do hope that changing its name at the last minute hasn’t given this entry an identity crisis which will land her in the beds of strangers when she is a young teen, begging for love in all of the wrong ways.
Whatever. FOOTBALL! Pigskin football in all its fanatic-fueled glory.
The Tailgate There was, originally, the intent to head over and crash tailgate parties in the main UT parking lots. Unfortunately, that day was the day I was (wonderfully) lost in the streets of Austin for six hours, and so my little feet weren’t excited about the prospect of propping my ass up for anything beyond critical mass. Rather than spending 2 hours experiencing the ‘tailgate’, I instead managed 30 minutes cruisin’ for a bruisin’, only without the bruising.
Interesting this tailgate phenomenon, the likes of which exist minimally in Canada. As we are a nation of hockey lovers, and hockey is played on the ice, and a hockey season spans 18 of the 12 months of the year, Canadians tend to drunk inside of the arena, rather than in its parking lot. They may do things differently in the Country of Calgary, but that’s their problem, readers. (Re ‘drunk’, I did not use the incorrect vowel; re ’18′, I did not use the wrong number.)
Tailgate is the celebration pre and often post game. Wandering around, I was offered at least seven beers from random strangers. Certainly, they felt sorry for my sad state of citrus honey tea in a Jo’s cup, but I was sick and so sinning against my Islam would have to wait until post antibiotic completion. (I may or may not be lying.)
To them, I was an obvious out-of-towner, which struck me as strange because I was in jeans and leather boots, waving and smiling at everyone, which in my limited understanding of Texans, is precisely what they do. As soon as someone caught site of me, I was asked “Where you from? Come have a drink.” I would chalk this up to drunk folks waiting for a game, but in all honesty, I believe it attributed more to Texas warmth and generosity.
Because of this warmth, I felt awkward about my camera and didn’t take too many pictures. Amazing this, as I am usually completely oblivious to the social graces of picture taking. During my first trip to Vancouver, I asked a homeless man – with whom I was sharing my lunch and his bench – if he would mind smiling while we had our picture taken. (I may or may not be lying.)
Apart from the bar-b-ques in the lots and the massive tents, there was everything ranging from little picnics on blankets to corporate parties fully catered with a serving staff. The one thing everybody had in common was the Longhorns color of pumpkin orange. It was a sea of pumpkin pie as far as the eye could see and if I could have, I would have been hanging out in the handstand position so as to ensure that my own pumpkin leather colored boots were added to the top of that sea. As I am a weakling, I couldn’t do this, so instead walked while inconspicuously kicking up my legs as high as possible. (I may or may not be lying.)
The Entry They frisk you before letting you into the stadium and coaching you on The Secret Handshake of The Longhorns, which, by the way, I refused to use until the very end, choosing to instead use The Maha Longhorns Secret Handshake comprised of index fingers by the temples, wiggling. More on this later.
So, they frisk you to ensure you’re not carrying alcohol or anything illegal (and off of which they can’t make more money inside of the stadium, such as food). I wasn’t allowed to take in either my tea or my banana. You read that right – my banana, which is not code for anything sexual, but rather the same sustenance enjoyed by our simian brothers and sisters.
Bananas were working for my sore throat, and even though they did not sell bananas inside of the stadium, I wasn’t allowed to take it in with me.
I attempted the tried, tested and true “I’m Canadian”, but still, the Longhorns Stadium Police weren’t allowed to let me in. In their defense, they were very nice about it and apologized for their entirely money-driven rules.
Because 95,000 seats and 95,000 t-shirts and 95,000 leather attachment seats, and 95,000 beers, and 95,000 pretzels, and 95,000 water bottles and ESPN paying to film per game doesn’t generate the same cash flow as the absence of one banana and citrus honey Jo’s tea. So…before I was granted entry in to the infamous Longhorns stadium which seats 95,000 fanatics and serves as home to one of America’s greatest football teams, I stood to the side and defiantly and with much pride and honor, ate that banana while declaring “YUM-ME” to every passerby.
Maintaining my Texans Behave Like This focus, I also kept up my spirited waving and smiling at all while declaring “I’m Canadian and don’t know shit about football. I’ll see you inside! OH, wait! Have you seen COACH ERIC TAYLOR? YUM-ME!”.
********** Part 2: The Stadium & The Game, coming next…and then, Friday Night Lights with Lisa. I will leave you with this preview of the first of many…most of which I can not recall anymore…goose-bump raising moments on the field – the entry of Denver to techno rave music.
Also, download Revelry by Kings of Leon. This song, like Friday Night Lights, breaks my heart every time. It’s also one of the very few songs that makes me wish for a boy with whom to dance.
So. Naomi and I have known one another since university – she was completing her undergraduate and I my M.A. and we both lived at the graduate pub on campus called Mike’s Place. As she so eloquently put it last evening, ‘there was one table that was always there with the same people. THAT WAS US!’…when excited, Naomi and I tend to overheat and speak more loudly than usual.
Although this amazing woman and I were friendly in university, we did not have the sort of friendship considered deep or even long-lasting. In fact, I think it safe to say that were you to have asked either of us if we could see one another in each others’ lives years down the line, we would have both shrugged and offered a response of non-committal in order to avoid the possibility of responding with “uhm. No?”
Interestingly, and almost-to-the-day exactly two years back, I was hit with a trauma the likes of which I had not encountered prior. Naomi was one of the three women who pulled me through. (Her, C and the amazing and brilliant BB.) She was relentless in her kindness and understanding, staunchly protective of and committed to my well-being. It was amazing; she is amazing, and she remains a woman whose compassion breaks my heart. Last summer, I wrote: I went to visit Na.oh.mi in Edmonton and realized that there’s few people with whom we can share so much of ourselves so easily. Na.oh.mi is one such friend., and I am always reminded of this truth.
(It is important to here note that Na.OH.Mi has one of the most amazing and infectious laughs in the world. It is carefree, honest and innocent, three qualities reflected in her huge eyes and perfectly round-curled red locks.)
Tomorrow at 11.30 a.m., she will be standing beneath a hupa and wedding JASON (HI!). I am not one for weddings, and never have been. But tomorrow will be different and not only because I plan on sticking to Oma, Na.OH.mi’s nana, and keeping a watchful eye out for her glasses, but because of the hundreds of people in my life, there are only a handful I love and cherish. The people I plan on keeping in my life as I scoot across the floor with the help of a walker?, she is one of them, and I am honored to be a part of her day tomorrow.
P.S. Neither Na.OH.mi nor I have ever attended a Jewish wedding. Mama tells me they are as fun and as rowdy as our own Palestinian ones. Both Na.OH.mi and I are excited by this new experience.
(Aside: She is a brilliant novelist. Her first book, Cricket In A Fist, is published and it receives the highest recommendation I can muster. Had it been shit, I would have left out this short paragraph. Stop fkn around; put down Twilight and support excellent literature. Pick up Cricket In A Fist, please & thank you.)
Last I was in Austin, I had decided to purchase a piece of local art that I would keep forever and ever, and as an ode to the fact that Austin seems to be my ‘magical place’ (thank you Baby Jane!). I chatted with one local artist – from whom each piece which interested me was sold out. I saw one lovely piece of art work and never found the time to return to the shop to purchase it; a little piece I have thought about regularly since my initial return to Ottawa.
One of my first stops in Austin was to seek out the later, and to my luck, it was the last one left and the one I had hoped to find. This is a handmade protection packet, a part of the religious culture in Latin America. See the Saint in the middle? I don’t know who that is, but s/he’s pretty. Also, s/he’s surrounded by money and seeds ensuring fertility (hurrah!), protection, increase of funds, repelling of evil, seeking of patience & longevity, transformation for protection & complete cleanse (a direct middle finger to LA’s master cleanse, I am certain). I love it, and it’s already up adorning one of my walls. Like the weirdo I truly am, I am scared to pull her / him out from her / his safe plastic covering and so s/he is currently like one too many sofas, covered, protected, sterile. Soon, I’ll manage the courage to free her / him from this particular confine. Also, I will find the courage to peek beneath and locate her / his gender, as this is most important.
Magical place, why? Because magic happens there for me – Austin is filled rich with amazing, eclectic and wonderful folk, each of whom I miss already. All of whom made fun of my Maha-unique Longhorns secret handshake (the wiggly fingers @ temples), one of whom called me ‘tatonka’ for it (Native American for ‘Buffalo’), two of whom posed for this picture in celebration of it. Magical because on my first morning at my hotel, I woke up to find that someone had pinned the poem Morning next to my door. Magical because I went for a walk and lost my way for six glorious hours where I met Baby Jesus and his peeps hanging atop the Little Mexico‘s patio roof and of whom no one stopped to cock a brow or take a photo or yell ‘REALLY? SERIOUSLY? OK, HI!’. Magical because I stopped to eat the fresh figs I discovered…I am renaming myself Christopher Tatonka Columbus…growing on the front lawn of the home of an old woman who waved at me through her window whilst melodramatically cocking her shotgun…I’m Canadian. Magical because the Resistencia bookstore is kitty corner to the man who creates art from iron and steel and it’s so huge, that it makes Quentin Tarantino’s head look relatively tiny (HEY TARANTINO! You need to stop. Go to Austin. Visit Roadhouse Relics. Purchase. You are welcome.) Magical because it is filled not with coffee shops or cafés, or pretentious…as I for adding the accent to the word ‘café’…and annoying genetic and generic Starbucks and Timothy’s etc. ad infinitum, but rather Caffeine Dealers, to each and every one of whom I proposed marriage on hand and knee right before I stole half of their honey for the ailing throat and sinus sl*t still killing my body. Mostly magical, because at near the end of my 6 hour walking ordeal, I realized I was not lost at all, but rather surrounded by signs that pointed the way to the one thing that keeps us all found and at home.
Love? REALLY? SERIOUSLY? Well…no, not really. I just thought it was a pretty picture and wanted to simply end this fkn entry already. Do you have any idea how long it takes to upload pics? No? Then how about: I’m Canadian. Or, maybe, Love = the Magical Places that belong to us and only us?…stop laughing at me; I’m sleep deprived.
**********
Still to come: Saturday Night Football (Longhorns kick the shit out of Colorado or maybe it was Denver) & Friday Night Lights – a special day with Austin Lisa (I love you Coach Eric Taylor!).
Apparently, the wiggling index fingers by the temples is not the Longhorns secret handshake. I won’t share with you what the actual secret handshake is because it is unimaginative and boring. Actually, I’m lying – I will share it when writing about the massively unbelievable theatrical production that is College Football (angry headsets and all).
I have, however, discovered the Secret American Handshake, that is code for all things stupid and / or inexplicable. It is “I’m Canadian”, words golden to my ears and interestingly explicative of most anything an American doesn’t understand.
“I am not speaking English.” “Huh?” “I am from Tanzania.” “Whu’d'ya say?” “I am not America.” “Who’d'ya mean?” “I am speaking in Swahili, stupid man.” “Whu’d'at?” “I’m Canadian.” “Oh. Alright then. We love Canadians.”
Moving on. Night before last, I ate 1/4 pound of Texas bar-b-que beef brisket. I also ordered, though didn’t eat, 1/2 pound of smoked turkey. I had no idea what either of the portions was going to look like, as I usually order by the plate rather than the weight (“I’m Canadian”) and so was pleasantly surprised to discover that one could eat 1/2 pound of meat rather easily and without a feeling of gorging. Actually, I would opt for something in between 1/4 and 1/2 pound, but seeing as how I am no longer in high school, I honestly don’t know what that fraction would look like. I tried to Google, only stopped because Google was making me feel exceptionally stupid.
I also ate pickles, potato salad, and white doughy bread because Texans have yet to discover the toaster. And God said, let there be bread! But no toaster oven! Thou shalt choke on the doughy parts and wear stupid pants other parts of thy nation shall mock: Wrangler jeans! And the angel doves sang… At the end of the evening, when I asked for any kind of flavored tea, I was told – rather gently – that they only serve ice tea at Salt Licks. Following up on that reality, the waitress asked me if I know where she could find her some ‘nettle’ tea. Refraining from asking if nettle was a sort of bug, I instead merely pretended to live here…and then eventually ended up saying “I’m Canadian” when I didn’t have an answer.
FYI: Nettle tea is good for thinning hair, ladies.
Drink it, don’t pour it on your head. (Thanks, JayDub.)
Having the choice to either succumb to food comma or head out, we went to the meat-packing district, only that’s not at all what it’s called. My friends told me the name, but I haven’t a clue what it is, and I don’t think the area should be called anything but the meat-packing district. Consider it christened as such. And the angel doves sang…
We went to J. Black’s, a joint owned by the same man who owns my favorite spot in Austin – Shakespeare’s Pub (before the 22nd hour of the day, when all of the dummies come out to play). J. Black’s was quite a treat as it is the sort of place where most of the men wear fedoras and p’leather, and the women wear tans and breasts.
My favorite conversation overhead was between Moron Tom and Moron Bitty: “I can’t marry you.” Moron Bitty giggled. Moron Tom knew he was getting a piece of that fake-breasted, over-tanned, over-made up ass. And the angel doves sang… In addition, a few choice quotes from the evening, none of which I will attribute to anyone:
“See the girl in the green bubble skirt? I wanna take a pin, stick it in her bum and see what happens.” “Is he Asian? Or Mexican? He’s Asiacan! Nice.” “To your right. Donatella Versace and her mini-mi.” “To your right, again. Do you think she put that on and looked in the mirror and imagined the thought: YES. Maybe she started drinking before she got dressed?” “That’s p’leather. WOW. And his jeans have massive white stitching on them.” “They’re from Dallas.” “She’s eating garlic riddled asparagus at the bar. I know what you’re pee’s gonna smell like.” “Look – It’s the Crypt Keeper. She totally picked up Tim McGraw.” “O! Fedora alert – and…it’s on a little to the left. HEY! IT HAS A FRIEND in a crocheted knit hat. Wonder if his mom made that for him to keep him warm?” “That guy keeps flashing his rolex. And his very bright yellow tie.”
J. Black’s is the place where people go to see and be seen. I was in a sweater and jeans and was getting stared at because I stuck out like a sore thumb…”Where are her breasts? Dude. I’m totally confused. Is she a guy?”…nah man, I’m Canadian… It’s where men pull up on their scooters and drink martinis and think that’s acceptable in public. It is where the Metrosexual race hangs, damn them each and every one of them who plucks his brows.
Desperately, I was willing a boy, any boy, to walk in wearing a clean t-shirt and a pair of normal jeans. Any boy who would just order a beer and drink it from the bottle. A boy without enough gel in his hair to cobble an entire brick wall. But nothin’…and so my evening ended in dreams of a boy named Cracker, riding a Hog and slapping down very pretty Metrosexuals as he rode off into the sunset with a beer bottle peeking out of his jacket’s pocket. He was Canadian. And the angel doves sang…
I’m typing this while seated at Austin’s best coffee ‘house’ – which is, in fact, more like an open air wooden wanna-be-bar. Really, Jo’s looks as though it has the dream of being a bar when it grows up, only its growth (lucky for all of us) has somehow and somewhere along the line been emotionally stunted. Instead of being a bar, it sits as The Place That Serves The Greatest Fkn Chai Latte Ever But Has High Hopes It Will One Day Spike That Damn Chai.
Taste gracious as that may be, I’m not drinking chai. Instead, I am drowning myself in chamomile citrus tea and a truckload of honey because today is the first in four days where I have started recovering from some perverted disease that began as a throat / ear infection, then took its gloves off and quickly became a chest / sinus motherfkr. Also, I’m eating a jalapeno pepper cheddar cheese scone, which tastes as great as anything can taste when one’s sinuses are taking a nap at the bottom of their feet. Point is, I made it to Austin. I am here. Hurrah. (And tomorrow I will be seated at the FORTY YARD LINE SECOND ROW. Have I mentioned this yet?)
On the trip here, I was witness to some of the…fanaticism?…which will surround me tomorrow at the FORTY YARD LINE SECOND ROW. There was a couple on my flight – they were in head to toe matching Longhorns gear (Longhorns have foot gear, made of – can you guess, ma? – leather). For those of you living under a rock, or just in Canada, the Longhorns ‘color’ is pumpkin orange. These two were completely and conspicuously geeking it out in their pumpkin gear. They were seated directly across from me in the wait lounge and I thought to perform my own secret Longhorns-specific handshake, but boarding started (I place my index fingers next to my temples and pretend I have longhorns – I plan on doing this every time someone looks at me during the game tomorrow).
But what comes after boarding, kids? That’s right! It’s The Plane Ride Of Death At The End of Which Your Ears Might Explode Off Your Head. (Dear Mr. Pilot –
You’re an asshole.
Fk you, Maha)
In preparation for tomorrow, I took it upon myself to learn some interesting facts about Football. They are: the game is played on a field with white lines; there is a ref or two; at least two coaches – one of whom is Coach Eric Taylor married to Tami Taylor; there is a booster named Brad Leland pretending to be Buddy Garrity, only I am uncertain as to how he spells his last name and too damn lazy to Google (I’m sick!); here in Austin, people dress as pumpkins; I know the secret Longhorns handshake; and, People like me.
No doubt these facts are enough to get me through the few hours seated next to strangers staring at a field of men in tights with huge helmets that make them look like bobble-heads. Tonight, we’re off to The Salt Lick Bar-B-Que Restaurant for some seriously traditional Texas (can you guess, ma?) Bar-B-QUE.
I am excited, as equally as the cows would be my guess.
********** .1. A few choice pics from my Hotel San Jose and Jo’s. .2. I will do my best to update daily, but considering how lazy I am, don’t bet your first born on that actually happening. .3. Comments are still on moderation so will show up either late at night or early in the morning, only (Berry’s off and internet only at the hotel or Jo’s).
As Americans, you need to understand that while you are being pushed into economic trauma, your tax dollars are being sent to support the Israeli population. You also need to understand the dangerous influence of the Zi*nist lobby on American foreign policy.
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After washing my banana down with the last drops of my citrus honey tea, I walked into the stadium which is bigger than the official Senators stadium here in Ottawa. I was stunned, partly due to the banana headache and also due to the sheer magnitude of this place.
Taking the half an hour stroll to my seat, I walked past the Longhorns’ mascot, a bull (or something similar to) named Bevo. I was too scared to go near it and so don’t know if it was in fact inside of its car. Surely this thing had bananas?
I arrived at my seat and noticed it was bare, whereas some other seats had these awesome and comfortable looking pumpkin orange leather cushions with backs. Naturally, I grappled with one in an effort to pull it over to my seat because I thought ‘First come, first served’. While struggling to move the comfy bum-cushion, I was told – rather gently – that these seats one had to purchase and so, in essence, what I was trying to do was steal someone else’s seat.
But you know what’s more important than my cold ass? The GODZILLATRON. Texans are very creative and imaginative when it comes to the naming of things – like their children when they call them Colt, Cody, or my favorite? Hunter, because Texas is The Days of Our Lives and everyone within lives their realities in technicolor. And for those who don’t? There’s capital punishment.
