Barking Carnival

The only shining, warming, benevolent sun in North America beams above the crowd in Southern California. Now I remember why people live here. Even better to visit, as long as you don’t establish residency. The taxes could kill a goat.

Melbourne. The new wife and I sit and drink in a pub by the train station. We share a table with two young Aussies and an old Irishman, whom everyone simply refers to as “Paddy.”

The LSU fans prepare the food in heaven. The Texas fans host the parties. The Nebraska fans handle logistics; the Alabama fans make the travel arrangements and the Florida fans bring the liquor. I am certain of these things. I am fairly, but not entirely, confident that the Virginia fans determine the dress code, the Georgia Tech fans fix anything that gets broken, the Stanford fans write your kid a letter of recommendation and the

25 - 1 over the last two years, the best in the nation (TCU is second at 24 - 1). Longest win streak in the nation. Seconds from being 26 - 0. On to Pasadena to settle this.

Two attractive women sit on a porch drinking beer. They wear sunglasses and Snuggies, the revolutionary new blanket with sleeves; the Snuggie frees the wearer’s hands to handle the television remote, read, talk on the phone or drink beer on a crisp November afternoon without giving up the comfort of being wrapped in a blanket.

My house sits on a corner lot, which has no real prestige value, but does afford an extra long expanse of lawn for football games. I have long aspired to own the house where the neighborhood kids play. Mission accomplished. Now I need to talk Mrs. Jones Top Ten into installing the sport court and I will host the basketball games, as well. But today, I have football action. Well, actually, I have organized a

The photographer arrived early. Team picture day for four-year-olds presents a degree of difficulty somewhere between landing a triple salchow and performing open-heart surgery on a Meerkat. Irish weddings are easier to choreograph. We have the 8:10 slot, which means we start promptly at 8:37. I have already dropped Son One off for an 8:00 basketball game. Son Two hit the soccer field at 8:30 and I coach Son Three’s kinderhoops game at 9:00.The home

My Uncle Jim Silcott, at 19-years-old, piloted landing craft in the Pacific, one of the more dangerous jobs during World War II. When I was 19, I served as a camp counselor. That’s the big difference between Jim’s generation and mine, but, more to the point, it is the big difference between me and thousands of men and women my own age. They are the ones who guarantee that the rest of us work in

Consider the duck: a beautiful animal, regularly shot for the amusement, and dining pleasure, of the American people. In orange sauce in Chinatown, on tiny plates with toast points in fine restaurants, stuffed unceremoniously with chicken and then jammed, even less ceremoniously, into a turkey for a New Orleans Thanksgiving, our nation needs ducks. We have an entire conservation society founded on the premise that we require a limitless supply, so that we can continue

Fishing out a last cold beer, Freezing my hands diggin’ round in here, I know better than to be behind a wheel, Hangin’ in the back tryin’ to get the feel Cotton flyin’ past on the passenger side, Moving fast and passing wide Settlin’ in and thinkin’ ‘bout you I got me the too drunk to drive to Snyder blues Low hung moon, guiding a path An hour to go, doing the math Rosanne Cash on the stereo, Her daddy’s proud, and she must know Music’s

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