Who could have birthed something this big?

There is only one Beer Bike. This fact is as undisputable as Dennis Rodman’s insanity and as well-renowned as my obsession with One Tree Hill. Its uniqueness stretches from the days of the rise of the crewcut, and its future looks as bright as Megan Fox’s…smile. So when I start a sentence with “ BLANK was the equivalent of Beer Bike,” you know I’m only pandering to hyperbole. After all, how many events can lay claim to 7 a.m. wake-up calls, 10 a.m. water balloon fights, and 1 p.m. bike races behind the football stadium, all the while hosting a school’s worth of intoxicated college students looking to blow off mid-semester steam? Not many.

So yes, there is only one Beer Bike.

But with that disclaimer in mind, it is without hesitation that I declare yesterday’s Conception Day the equivalent of Beer Bike.

Celebrating the “birth” of Macquarie some 39 years ago, I was not as interested in the specific event managing of the party as I was on the fact that I was rudely woken up at 6 a.m., car horns blasting outside my window, informing me to begin my day. I’d heard rumors, inklings, and suggestions about the goings-on — check out YouTube for many of those sources — so it wasn’t difficult to tell how the festivities would begin.

With the sun blasting through the ozone layer, I made my way outside, only to be bombarded with footballs and sights of pool-hopping college students. Everyone was awake, and everyone was, ahem, having a good time.

As I meandered through the neighborhood, I found sombreroed roommates, half-naked hosts, and a table full of all the breakfast brisket I could ask for.

After having my fill of ketchup and beef, I counted the hours until the actual festival opened, passing the time through conversations and, uh, constant hydration.

Finally, the time came to head into campus, throw open the doors of Conception Day, and revel in the brilliant day that lay ahead. Although I’d seen the construction going on in the previous few days, I hadn’t paid attention to the details until I could finally scan the innards of the grounds. Situated next to the gleaming Macquarie Lake, a bright blue fence enclosed an area soon to house some 10,000 students, and house them in style. In a setting bringing together fifth grade excursions and collegiate explorations of musical underworlds, a giant gurney-sack slide stood in juxtaposition to the all-black stage, which housed everything from Aussie rap-metal to a pair of keyboardists offering calls-returns in French. (I can’t tell if it was a dream or an effect of my inebriated state, but at some point yesterday I wanted nothing more than to start studying French again.) As if that weren’t enough, an inflatable obstacle course beckoned me on multiple occasions, and I have the latex burns and torn pants to prove it.

Unfortunately, with the sun wearing me and my friends down earlier than we would have liked, and the day was called by 4 p.m., and an evening of couch-lying, Collateral-watching, and 10 p.m. bedtimes was in store.

As for the day after, I’m fully recovered — save for the painful obstacle course injuries — and am counting down the hours until I leave for my Melbourne-Adelaide-Kangaroo Island-Alice Springs-Uluru-Darwin-Kakadu adventure. Since I probably won’t have internet for the next two weeks, here’s hoping I’ve trained you all well enough to find your own political thoughts (here’s a good start) and funny tidbits, such as:

— By the end of the 19th century, Sears was marketing a sewing machine for $1. Customers who responded to the ad received a needle and thread. (Ha! You got served, middling housewives!)
— After the escalators’ introduction, nurses were originally stationed at the top of to help customers with ‘light-headedness’
— ‘Chicago’ appears to be from an Indian word meaning ‘place that stinks of onions’ (and here I only thought the city stunk like the post-1908 Cubbies)
— However, the Windy City’s not as bad as ‘Idaho,’ which apparently has no meaning whatsoever — Congressmen just liked it
— The world’s largest streetcar track, peaking in size in 1922, was located in…(ironic drum-roll please)…Los Angeles!
— Charles Lindbergh was not only a super-socialist, but he also wasn’t all that he purported to be. In 1919, eight years before the Spirit of St. Louis touched down outside Paris, John Alcock and Arthur Brown of Great Britain flew from Newfoundland to Ireland non-stop. (Still, Lindbergh’s achievement shouldn’t be totally forgotten: Because a spare fuel take had been bolted on to the nose, Lindbergh had no forward visibility, so to see where he was going he had to put his head out the side window.)

Anyway, I’ll be back with pictures, notes, and battle-wounds in just over two weeks. So until then, go forth and procreate make the world a better place.

N.B.: As you may have seen from my Facebook status yesterday, Conception Day just so happened to coincide with my parents’ 21st anniversary. There are some things that are eerie, there are some things that belong on the Twilight Zone, and then there’s that.

How did I end up there?

The worst decision I’ve ever made regarding Owl-themed restaurants

I don’t know why I did it. Honestly. I thought I had learned my lesson from the first experience, which had resulted in distended bowels, depression for society, and an exorbitant thinning of my wallet.

But for a reason that’s as unknown as the Tampa Bay Rays’ success, I decided to give Hooters another shot.

Ugh.

(That’s me, my stomach, and my determination-to-never-let-my-daughter-work-there speaking.)

I guess I can blame it on my friend Garrett, whose phone call jolted me out of a mid-day catnap and created a gnawing in my stomach. Or I could blame it on the emasculation I had incurred earlier yesterday, when, in yet another completely unfathomable move, I enrolled in a class called BodyJam. (For the sake of my remaining pride, I will spare you the gory details. Just think of any type of 20-person dance troupe, with mirrors, techno rap, and a coked-out instructor. Oh, and imagine it with only one guy.)

Ugh.

Whatever the reason, I realized that I couldn’t bail from Garrett’s invite. I couldn’t tell him that the last time I ate at Hooter’s, I was with a group of 10 testosterone-laced freshmen guys, all experiencing college in its fullness for the first time, all willing to go anywhere and do almost anything because, hey, that’s what college kids did, right? (Here’s lookin’ at you, Dad!) Plus, what red-blooded American male passes on the opportunity to relish scantily-clad women, hard at work to bring you, the ultimate chauvinist, a basket of delicious hot wings?

So with an hour-long bus- and train-ride under my belt, there were the doors of Hooters, glowing with televised sports and the waitresses’, uh, smiles. (In an ironic twist, we were actually seated by a Middle Eastern man. Not exactly to be expected, but I appreciate Hooters shaking things up a bit.) The bottomless pit on my gut, the relief of finally arriving at our destination, and the Cowboys-Eagles (replayed) game on the tube all convinced me that this time, gosh-darnit, I would actually enjoy Hooters. A taste of home, a friendly wait-staff, and some gullet-quenching wings would be the cure-all for the mid-week blues.

UGH.

Twenty grease packets (wings), two depressing conversations with the “waitress,” and one amazing moment where the Middle Eastern dude revealed he had no idea what Ranch dressing was later, I was wishing for nothing more than a stomach pump and a hit on the guys who started Hooters. I’m still recovering from the filth I shoveled into my mouth, and it disgusts me to know I have extras in my refrigerator.

And you know what the worst of all was?

I already knew the outcome of the football game.

Making the parents proud: Casey’s trip to court

I’m a good kid, right? I manage my time, juggling school, sleep, and showering, all while finding time to eat and update the blog, right? I would never do anything to end up on my Mom’s favorite show, “Judge Judy,” right? (Don’t ever call her cell phone from 5-6 p.m. on weeknights — check who’s on channel 12, and you’ll see why.)

If you answered “yes” to all of these questions, then, well, jeez, thanks, but those questions have no bearing on my recent court excursion. Yes, my knack for presenting misleading phrases got the best of me again — my field trip was for nothing more than a court report. Bet that’s not as exciting as thinking I mugged a guy, huh?

As I sat through the driveling and gavelling of the judge, the shrugs and shiftiness of the criminals, and the verbosity and (anti-)verisimilitude of the lawyers barristers, I couldn’t help but actually want to commit a crime, just to make things exciting.

But no, I sat dutifully by, jotting notes about “managing” versus “doing” justice. (All the while a bald, ’roided, shifty-eyed druggie kept looking over at my notes, and I was convinced he was going to knock me down just so he could have something to trade for cannabis.) The judge magistrate, red in the face, kept doling out sterner and sterner advice to the multiple drink-drivers (what they’re called in Australia), so much to the point that the final person to be heard broke down in tears while being sentenced.

...

Actually, that’s a lie, because that would have actually been something worth writing about. In reality, courts are little more than verbalized processors, doing in twenty minutes what my hard-drive could do in a half-second. All the Draconian stipulations, all the dour looks, and all the never-ending repetitiveness made me glad I never went into law.

Instead, I went into English, where I’m now writing about law.

UGH.

And of course, for your viewing pleasure

With Tina Fey back in full force, here’s a little treat for those who missed it:



(If you haven't already gathered, I think Sarah Palin is a succubus who has entranced McCain and will devour his soul if they defeat Obama-Biden. Mike Murphy and Karl Rove wouldn't have it any other way.)

Statistics, Will Ferrell, and Banshees

— I’ve got an impending STAT 280 course awaiting my return to Rice, so, since I’m as ignorant in statistics as Sarah Palin is in foreign affairs, I’m going to request an answer from those in the know: How many high schools are there in the Portland city limits? How many schools are there in the US that are a 3.5-hour drive from one another? And lastly, how many schools are there in Australia that are the same distance apart? Now, with those numbers in mind, what are the odds that someone would attend the same Portland high school, US colleges 3.5 hours apart and universities in Australia the same distance, all at the same time as one of their best friends from high school?

I’m going to go out on a limb and say the chances of that happening are about as small as those particles the scientists just created Earth-consuming black holes with smashed together in Switzerland. (Hi Aunt Jeanne! Thanks for not ending the world! Roger Federer rules!)

Fortunately, in our century of globalization and insta-communication, the odds have grown to the point where such a miniscule occurrence can, and did, actually happen.

Yesterday, my good friend Kate made the 3.5 hours trek from Canberra — bastion of Aussie Parliament and, well, not much else — all the way to the heart of Sydney. Via texting and Facebook, I figured out her logistics, and sat patiently outside Town Hall to await her arrival. As usual, she nearly tackled me upon first sight — fortunately, she yelled out my name to make sure the guy turning her way was actually me — but I didn’t mind. To see someone from home so far away, in such a similar point in life, must have been one of the rarest occasions I’ve ever experienced. Originally, I thought it was mere stroke of luck that Kate and I would attend school so close together in the States (she at Trinity in San Antonio, me at Rice in Houston) — after all, how often two you find two Portlanders voluntarily spending four years of their life in Texas? (Following a San Antonio visit last spring at school, I can honestly say I got the raw end of the deal — I'm just happy I wasn’t in Houston to experience Ike’s flooding/wind damage/removal of showering privileges at Rice for the next few days. Ewww.)

Anyway, accompanied by her American and Australian friends, we ventured through downtown, buying gourmet cupcakes — $2! — and stumbling upon a Nepalese festival (have you ever tried busting a move to traditional Nepalese music?) before parting ways. It was great to reconnect, even for only a few hours. I promised I’d venture to Canberra — hopefully I’ll finally get the full story on that missing Prime Minister — so I’m sure it won’t be too long before me and Kate are hamming it up with Australian politicians over a pint of Toohey’s Extra Dry. And maybe if I’m lucky I can convince those politicos to give Americans monthly stipends, because I’m sure my Dad’s funding won’t last forever (because I just want to check out every seedy hostel I can!)

— Not too long ago I wrote about the atrocity known as Australian TV, ripping the Aussies’ best efforts to shreds and pining for the days of The Daily Show and its invalid offspring, The Colbert Report. Fortunately, I’ve since seen the error of my ways — literally. There’s a show here called Thank God You’re Here that, contrary to nearly everything else on the tube, Australia does better than America. It takes the set pieces of Who’s Line is it Anyway? but puts the comedians on a far bigger stage, with the actors completely ignorant to the situation into which they’re stepping. If that description doesn’t really paint the full picture, well, here you go.

Following TGYH comes a show which lambastes America, lampoons Kevin Rudd, and lampposts (?) everything else. The host goes by only Rove, and he is to Australia what Conan O’Brien, sans the red coif (did I really just use two French words?), is to the States. With Will Ferrell and John C. Reilly as guests tonight — as both actors and innovators of the two-man pole vaulting competition — Rove was the first Australian talk show host to actually make me smile rather than cringe. Although my slow-as-a-obese-tortoise internet won’t load it, here’s a clip I’m going to assume is funny:



— I’ve been bored by cricket, with its endless rounds and meaningless tea breaks. I’ve been thrilled by Australia Rules Football, with its intriguing rules and penchant for thrills. But in the nearly two months since I’ve been here, I’ve never seen the sport Australians actually foam at the mouth for.

But last night, finally, finally, I got to watch some rugby. And when I say rugby, I mean, of course, the biggest, baddest, most pressure-packed game Australia has hosted since 2003.

With both the Tri-Nations Cup and the Bledisloe Cup on the line, Australia was playing the one team everyone, even Americans, know of.

The All-Blacks.

The love-child of lions and banshees. The most terrifying force known to man.

I shudder just thinking of them.

Is it too late to trade my Wallabies jacket in?

I’ll write more on the topic later, but I just want to let you all know I have a newfound appreciation for anyone willing to face down a group scarier than the ring-wraiths that terrorized Frodo. Pardon me while I go change my underpants. Yeesh, those guys are going give me nightmares.

For those wondering, the All-Blacks sent the Wallabies packing, maintaining their dominance that has stretched, I believe, since the beginning of time.

Boy, would I not want to be the Wallabies' therapist this week.

Can't Lance just stay retired? Please?

And now, for your reading pleasure, a scene from Lance Armstrong’s recent therapy session in which the chatty, highly-critical shrink dissects Lance’s recent decision to rejoin the Tour de France.

Tell me, Lance — who do you think you are? Michael Jordan?

Sure, you were both the greatest of your sport, bringing fans to their feet and royalty to their knees. And your names are both synonymous with complete success, although you never stuck your tongue out when crossing under L’Arc de Triomph. Your dedication to such a unique craft was unequaled and rewarded with the highest accolades Tony Kornheiser and Michael Wilbon could ever bestow.

But MJ had it easy, Lance. He had actual teammates, not those punks you have out shoving rival riders to the side. He had Pippen, Horry, Kukoc, and the Worm. You have, what, Floyd Landis? The guy who blamed Jack Daniels on his failed drug test? Now, now, I’m not implying you doped too — you offered to post your lab results online, which is only fair — but to come back on a “team” sponsored by a city in Kazakhstan? Is this the sequel to Borat or something?

I know he got three more rings during the first comeback, but you gotta remember that MJ stayed in shape as a season-long promotion for the Birmingham Barons. You’ve merely toured the country (including Rice!) as a spokesperson for cancer research. Not exactly the most physically-exerting task, if you ask me.

And I don’t even need to remind you of MJ’s Washington Wizards campaign — although in fairness, at least you won’t have to team up with Kwame Brown.

Still, Lance, who do you think you are? Brett Favre?

Again, I see the resemblance — you’re both grizzled, you’ve both fought back from terrible adversity (you had testicular cancer, he’s from Mississippi), and you can both draw crowds bigger crowds than Woodstock.

But Favre’s decision to come back wasn’t without its share of problems, Lance. The guy’s return was more divisive than the Iraq War and Sarah Palin’s new haircut combined. There were cries of treason heard from the flowing hills of Appleton, Wisc., to the snow-covered cherry trees of Oshkosh, Wisc. And all the while the New York Jets, a team more forgotten than Roseanne Barr, were put back on the map. You’re not saying you want Roseanne back, are you, Lance?

Good.

But really Lance, who do you think you are? The premise for the show 90210?

Sure, you dabbled with Sheryl Crow, who seems pretty Californian. And you kinda look like Kirk Douglas, in the right light.

But you are a gunslinger from the Lone Star state, taking over the Texan throne that Roger Clemens vacated when he decided to let dudes stick needles in his butt. You and Beverly Hills go together as well as Shannon Doherty and the 21st century. (At least she’ll always have Scare Tactics to fall back on. Nope, wait, that’s hosted by Tracy Morgan now. Dang, things really aren’t looking up for ShanDo.)

So c’mon Lance, who do you think you are? Batman?

It’s been argued that the greatest graphic novel of all-time is Frank Miller’s The Dark Knight Returns. Are you telling that you could be a retired, mid-50s Batman, still reeling from Robin’s demise but forcing yourself to face the Joker one last time? Actually, that may work — you’ve vanquished the French seven times now, so what harm is there in going for an eighth?

But here’s the thing, Lance — in TDKR, Batman’s hand is forced, and the Joker doesn’t quite make it. Are you implying you’d like to go mano-a-mano with French president Nicolas Sarkozy? I’m no bookie, but when a guy like Sarkozy can bed Carla Bruni —hi-yo! — he probably has a few tricks up his sleeve.

I’ll ask you one last time, Lance: Who do you think you are? Georgian territorial integrity?

I guess you’ve both been in the news recently, but really, how could you possibly compare yourself to a former Soviet Bloc? I don’t see you being trampled by Russian tanks. I don’t see Russian troops giving illegal passports or non-native currency to your breakaway provinces. And while you both have a fierce independent streak, I don’t think Georgian president Mikheil Saakashvili’s eyes are nearly as blue as yours.

So Lance, even after all these comparisons, you’re telling me you still want to come out of retirement, crushing the dreams of those who thought a superstar might, for once, actually stay retired?

Well, that’s just nuts.

(Oh, sorry — nut.)

Something I wish I'd thought of

Who needs Spark Notes when you have Facebook?

HAMLET
(FACEBOOK NEWS
FEED EDITION).
BY SARAH SCHMELLING

- - - -

Horatio thinks he saw a ghost.

Hamlet thinks it's annoying when your uncle marries your mother right after your dad dies.

The king thinks Hamlet's annoying.

Laertes thinks Ophelia can do better.

Hamlet's father is now a zombie.

- - - -

The king poked the queen.

The queen poked the king back.

Hamlet and the queen are no longer friends.

Marcellus is pretty sure something's rotten around here.

Hamlet became a fan of daggers.

- - - -

Polonius says Hamlet's crazy ... crazy in love!

Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and Hamlet are now friends.

Hamlet wonders if he should continue to exist. Or not.

Hamlet thinks Ophelia might be happier in a convent.

Ophelia removed "moody princes" from her interests.

Hamlet posted an event: A Play That's Totally Fictional and In No Way About My Family

The king commented on Hamlet's play: "What is wrong with you?"

Polonius thinks this curtain looks like a good thing to hide behind.

Polonius is no longer online.

- - - -

Hamlet added England to the Places I've Been application.

The queen is worried about Ophelia.

Ophelia loves flowers. Flowers flowers flowers flowers flowers. Oh, look, a river.

Ophelia joined the group Maidens Who Don't Float.

Laertes wonders what the hell happened while he was gone.

- - - -

The king sent Hamlet a goblet of wine.

The queen likes wine!

The king likes ... oh crap.

The queen, the king, Laertes, and Hamlet are now zombies.

Horatio says well that was tragic.

Fortinbras, Prince of Norway, says yes, tragic. We'll take it from here.

Denmark is now Norwegian.

My new best friend: GameCast

[Since I’ve hit a drag stretch in the last few weeks, caught between trips and, for whatever reason, focusing concertedly on homework - at least, more so than I’ve ever done at Rice - I’m going to go ahead and comment on a rather Americanized subject: football. I’m not the biggest pigskin fan out there - I can’t say I’m eagerly waiting to gain 400 lbs. and drink Miller Lite at 17-below in Lambeau Field - but, as an American, I feel it’s my red-blooded duty to have some sort of opinion on the king of sports. Here goes:]

Are you ready for some football?

Because I am. And so far, I’ve been about as satisfied as [insert some off-color comment about frequenters of the Amsterdam red light district, which is undergoing decentralization after numerous parents complained about the neighbors of their chosen day-care centers]. I know I’m in a different hemisphere, but 8 a.m. for the NFL Opening Day? Has anti-Americanism truly come to this?

No, I didn’t wake up. Not now, not before my trip, not once I return home (where I’ll find that I really, really like it when my parents take me out to eat, because that ‘stir fry’ I made tonight? Yeah, probably going to be buying Hot Pockets from here on out).

Getting up early is my own personal kryptonite. That’s the one reason I’m never running for president, never becoming a superhero, and never finding religion. The only thing I love more than sleep is fondue, but only in small doses. (Oops, let’s hope the girlfriend isn’t reading this.)*

So no, I’m not waking up at 8 a.m. for a dag-gum game of foosball.

But I will sit in front of a computer screen for three hours, watching lines appear ever thirty seconds with accompanying words and numbers running through the barebones details of the play. That’s right - I’ll GameCast it. Doesn’t that just sound deliciously mind-numbing?

Well, it is. But at least I can do it at noon, instead of the crack of 10:30 a.m.

The last two weekends I’ve partaken in this exercise in monotony, gaping at the molasses action happening on my screen. GameCast has a tendency for tedium - there are only so many plays in football, after all - but I’d never realized just how much of a leech the program is when it comes to football.

I’ve enjoyed GameCasting Mariners games in the past, seeing just how much Jose Lopez’s knees would have buckled on that 14” drop from Joe Nathan or just how fat that Carlos Silva changeup was that Dustin Pedroia parked over the Green Monster (let’s hope the Otts read this post!) Of course, baseball - like cricket, I’ve learned - is packed to the rafters with game-time numbers: ERA, pitch speed, contract extensions, number of fans eating hot dogs, number of fans eating hot dogs without mustard. You name it, there’s a number for it. (Not that that’s a good thing, as someone far wiser than I wrote last semester .)

But with GameCasted football, there’s a play, there’s a gain-loss, and then there’s a single line that goes on the field. No info on the tackle, or on the route, or even on the coach’s (hopefully maniacal) reaction. It’s like Ebenezer Scrooge is running the GameCast, and I’m a member of the Tiny Tim brigade hoping for one of Mr. Scrooge’s half-pence. And now I know I’ve become too engrossed in my Victorian Lit course, because I just made a Dickens reference in a sports commentary. Whoa.

‘Ah, silly Casey,’ you may think. ‘You simply fail to understand how economical a policy this is! That GameCast wants to save energy during this era of uncertainty should be lauded, not derided!’

Yeah, and Colonel Sanders actually served in the military. Sorry to burst your bubble, but GameCast, just like the Chicken King himself, is only interested in shortcuts and shortchanging the viewer/chicken sandwich muncher.

Anyway, after all this ranting about GameCast, there’s gotta be some reason I kept my eyes glued, mouth agape, and voice clutched these past couple weekends, right?

Right.

Rice football.

No, not the grain version of America’s No. 1 sport. I’m talking Rice University, the land of Beer Bike and the home of the Buckyball. And, for the past few decades, a school where the only time a Rice student stumbled across the team was when (s)he was searching for a punchline.

From 1962-2006, Rice didn’t make a single bowl game. Not one. From the year Kennedy announced we were heading to the moon (which, as any Rice administrator is happy to point out, was proclaimed at Rice’s football stadium**) to the year that I dove onto a tarp of oatmeal during O-Week, Rice’s postseason hopes were as serious as Ralph Nader’s presidential campaign.

Little did I understand the team’s abject failure before my oatmeal swan dive, but I certainly saw the implications firsthand when I cheered Rice on to the 2006 New Orleans Bowl against Troy. Looks like I was the good-luck charm. (Or was it the fact that I was forced to chug lukewarm, hair-filled water under the Houston moonlight only a few weeks? See, there’s a reason why I now refuse to chug anything.)

After being trumped by then-coach Todd Graham - only two days after signing a contract extension, the two-timer bolted for the Tulsa head coaching vacancy - Rice regressed to the mean during 2007. A 3-9 campaign was not what either the players or the new coach, the amiable, over-stuffed David Bailiff, had in mind.

Expectations were middling heading into this year. A bowl game was hoped for, but by no means anticipated. We had a gunslinger on wheels in quarterback Chase Clement - the guy led the team in rushing yards last year, for cripes sake - and the miniscule marauder of miraculous mitts, 5’9” receiver Jarett Dillard, who very nearly broke the record for consecutive games with a touchdown (and if that’s not enough, was the valedictorian of his high school). Although we don’t have a running game to speak of, Chase and Dillard are enough offense for the entire Bayou City - the two have combined for 36 touchdowns over their career, good for fifth (!!!) all-time in the NCAA. These two were tied to Rice from early on: Only the Owls recruited Dillard, while Army and Rice fought for Chase, a San Antonio native. Rumor has it that one take at the cold of the Northeast brought him scampering back to Houston. (Right, because I’m sure he loved the humidity. Whatever you say.)

Chase and JD have become something of campus legends these past couple years, leading Rice back to a place that only the geriatrics remember. They were joined last year by a He-Man of epic proportions, whose biceps could rival my gut for girth and yet who, as a freshman, found himself with a wife, a legal drinking age, and a fastball in the lower-mid ’90s. James Casey, or ‘Thor’ to those in the know, wasn’t exactly your typical frosh. At 23, Casey had spent the past five years playing professional baseball, but never cracking into the Bigs. With a body based on Hercules but no real football past - baseball had been his life, after all - Rice was going out on a limb when they gave him a shot.

And he hasn’t disappointed. As a “utility back,” the monster is a goal-line favorite at running back, the backup quarterback, and, as a receiver, the Conference USA Player of the Week.

This isn’t his first accolade, but the fact that he ended up with the award brings me squarely back to GameCast.

Two weeks ago, Rice squashed Southern Methodist University and their new savior coach, June Jones, Hawaii’s former offensive mastermind, by a score of 56-27. Somehow, Chase found the endzone with six throws, three of which JD corralled. I didn’t actually see the catches, per se, but I’d witnessed enough of their connections in the past to have a pretty solid picture.

But that was easy. That was in front of our home crowd, under the lights of ESPN, against a team in the throes of transition.

Memphis, on the other hand, is a different story. With a huge crowd at the Liberty Bowl, a formidable offense and a penchant for breaking the heart of the Owls’ faithful, Rice had its work cut out.

So when I turned on my computer at noon, I wasn’t surprised to find Rice down 35-20 in the middle of the second half. Disappointed, but not surprised.

No, the surprise came later. There was Rice, down 35-28 with only minutes left, the ball icon on their side but pinned deep in their own territory. There were a couple small bars, denoting Rice’s meager gains. And then there was a bar of three inches - three inches - with James Casey’s name attached.

Whoa. A 47-yard reception. Casey just broke the record for total receiving yards in a game, with 208. We’re back in the game. And, as you can imagine, the script wrote itself, as Chase, a few plays later, scrambled into the endzone with 1:15 left.

All tied up, according to the ‘scoreboard’ at the top of GameCast. Let’s hope this program is trustworthy.

Memphis got the ball back with less than a minute left, and, in what’s been an Achilles heel since the days of Troy (oh snap, that’s a double-reference: Rice’s bowl game opponent and the mythical home of Achilles), Rice gave up yardage. Lots of it. Lots of it. Memphis was within smelling distance of field goal range with under 20 seconds left.

And then, when I least expected it GameCast rewarded my hours of patient staring, intelligence-murdering weariness, and desperate yearning for actually video footage. There was a blue bar, but it wasn’t three inches, like Casey’s. No, this one was four inches.

Chris Jammer had intercepted a pass. And. He. Went. All. The. Way. (69 yards for the touchdown. 11 seconds left. The game was over.)

Thank you, GameCast. You broke down the game in ways that analysts can only imagine. You parsed the superfluous, picked out the unnecessary, and left me with what the game was about.

Rice 42, Memphis 35.

I’ll never chide GameCast again.

*Actually, I just realized there is one way I’d roll myself out of bed in the morning: In addition to an all-u-can-eat buffet of fondue, I would be willing to watch Tom Brady suffer a season-ending injury, just like he did last Sunday. Now that I would wake up to see. After all, Gisele’s not going to want to stay with a cripple, is she?

Now I really hope the girlfriend isn’t reading this.

**Kennedy propped up his argument with this quip: “Why does Rice play Texas? Not because it is easy, but because it is hard.” And that, my friends, is why Rice football will never enjoy an undefeated season. Unless I watch it all on GameCast…?

Timing is everything

I chose a bad semester to take off for my Australian adventure. (If you can't tell, these are all links. Make sure to check out the poll on the Facebook page. You'll understand. It looks like Gavin Degraw is may be coming to Rice, and I'm not going to be there. This is a guy who is arguably my favorite musician of all time, a guy whose music my girlfriend transcribed for piano as a birthday gift, and I'm not going to get to meet him. Arg.)

Or did I?

Monkeys, Doughy Heads, and Papa Bear

Unlike my American counterparts, the Aussie students here at Macquarie have the fortune of a free TV set in every common room. And with that comes the added bonus of Australian TV, right?

Well, not so much. As my Aussie housemate opined, "Aussie TV is shit."

You know that old adage that if a million monkeys were given enough time, they could write The Da Vinci Code? It seems that those monkeys have escaped and invaded the Australia TV studios. Whether the "Deal or No Deal" host tries to lighten things up with a fart joke or the CSI wannabes talk oh-so-frivolously about cooking class - while a murderer is on the loose! - it seems that the Aussies should really stick to kangaroo hunting.

Fortunately, we get our fair share of American TV populating the airwaves. Not only does Law & Order give everyone a great impression of my home (Direct, semi-joking quote: "Dude, Casey, how can you live there?" My response: "You buy a gun."), but all those great Fox comedies, starring heavy hitters like Brad Garrett and, uh, that other guy whose show got canceled after one season, well, they really just make me feel like I'm home.

Still, there is one thing I miss. I may not be, as Bill O'Reilly once said, a member of the "lazy, pot-smoking, Doritos-crunching demographic that keeps the show on air," but boy, do I love The Daily Show. It's not aired Down Under - I don't think the Aussies would appreciate Supreme Court nude photos - but with the invention of the interwebs, I'm not without some home-grown funny.

Anyway, the point of this post is what The Daily Show does best. Enjoy!

Cricket: Sport of Kings, King of Boredom

Before I came to Australia, I’ve never wanted to chug vegemite, punt a joey, or jump naked into a pool of hammerheads.

Then again, before I came to Australia I’d never watched cricket, either.

But after a cricket-filled afternoon last weekend, I’m sure I’d do anything to avoid watching it again, including snorting a funnel-web spider. Because, my friends, the rumors are true — cricket is really that mind-numbingly, tear-jerkingly, face-cringingly boring.

And trust me, I know boring sports. I got plenty of flak in high school for being a baseball fan. “After all,” they would say, “isn’t baseball just a dreary ol’ ‘pastime,’ brimming with fatsos and unathletic dimwits? Can any game where Marshmallow Man-ny Ramirez thrives really be considered a ‘sport?’

Since I wasn’t on the debate team, my responses generally utilized the phrase “your mom” (and if you’ve met me, you know that still rings true). But if I had better prepared my insult-ability, I would have simply carried the rulebook for the “sport” of cricket, doling it out to those who considered baseball tedious and tiresome.

Actually, on second thought, I probably would have brought someone who knows the rules, because to a layman like myself, cricket is about as understandable as a drunk Nigerian discussing quantum physics.

Through TV sessions and those random grad students on the IM Fields — who show up, unfailingly, every Saturday afternoon — I’ve pieced together a couple things about cricket, but you’ll have to bear with me. It looks like a batter, wielding a spanking paddle and a fencer’s helmet, takes a swing at a speeding, bounding ball, which is thrown by the pitcher. Actually, thrown isn’t the right term; “windmilled” is more like it. These pitchers, affectionately called “bowlers,” look like they belong in a ballet troupe as they contort their bodies into all kinds of artistic, unnatural poses.

So this batter, standing in front of some broken sticks, spanks the ball, sending it anywhere on the field — in front, behind, it doesn’t really matter — and runs about twenty feet away to some more broken sticks. The teams rinse, lather and repeat for days on end, until for some reason they switch sides. Once the squads have had enough naptimes, they count their “overs,” “runs,” and, I’m assuming, gallons of tea consumed, to determine which side came out on top.

Got that? Nope, neither do I.

But the Aussies sure do.

Since the land Down Under is a Commonwealth country, cricket has reigned supreme since the first convicts murdered and pillaged their way here 200 years ago. The Australia national “Test” cricket team is tied with Britain for the oldest in the world, dating back to 1877.

In the subsequent 130 years, the Aussies have become the most dominant force this side of RoboCop. They’ve taken the last three Cricket World Cups and, in a streak the Redeem Team can barely fathom, have won 29 straight World Cup matches.

But their success isn’t a recent phenomenon. The greatest batsman of all time, Donald Bradman, received a massive 100th birthday celebration a couple weeks ago, including the minting of a commemorative $5 Australian coin. The only downside? Bradman died seven years ago. Still, that didn’t stop 400 people from eating his cake.

With a position in the national spotlight, you’d think Australians would be proud to claim the best cricket team in the world, right? Eh, not so much. In fact, it’s the one thing all the travel brochures seem to skim over. There are the pictures of the rough-and-tumble rugby players, the cute koalas, and the picturesque Opera House, but nothing of the white-clothed cricketers and their spanking sticks. Could it be that the Aussies are finally coming around to how much this sport makes its audience want to tear its hair out?

Perhaps not, because as an Aussie TV commentator decreed the other day, “A nation isn’t civilized until it plays cricket.” Ouch. But, by golly, if me and my fellow Americans aren’t civilized, then so be it. In comparison to its Australian cousin, our game of baseball is like a sport-gasm, as exciting as Christmas morning and as exhilarating as your first kiss. There’s no way a country like ours will ever deign to the boredom, tedium, and monotony of cricket, nor will we ever approach that level with any of our other homegrown sports.

Oh wait, we still have NASCAR, don’t we.

Dang.

Now that makes me want to chug some vegemite.