On gratitude

Okay, so obviously, this past week was the one for giving thanks, and I'm not going to bother going through all of the traditional dinner-table I'm-thankful-for stuff; nobody particularly cares, and anyone who does care just has to ask. But there were definitely a couple or three standouts over the long holiday weekend, and I wanted to shine a thankful spotlight on them.

Reggie Ball. Yeah, you saw that coming. Or, as we were chanting Saturday night, "Reggie Ball, Reggie Ball, Reggie Ball." Or, as 90,000-some-odd Georgia fans were chanting, "Reg-gie! Reg-gie! Reg-gie!" Or, as many of our fellow tailgaters were chanting, "Thank you Reg-gie!" (clap, clap, clap-clap). And for that variety in available cheers, I am also grateful.

Honestly, the sixth win in a row felt just as good as the first five (a fact on which I was meditating as I swung wildly from the Victory Bell following the game), but the whipped cream and sprinkles were added by the fact that, Georgia's own performance aside, we had the game handed to us by one of the biggest dickwads in the ACC. Yes, the victory was hard-won, and it was a nail-biter right down to the last thirty seconds, but after hearing so much crap about Reggie Ball and Calvin Johnson and the all-'round superiority of Tech's football program and the inevitable pounding we should have been preparing to receive, watching Paul Oliver make the entire Tech offense into his bitchez was unspeakably satisfying. Doug likes to say that this is a reminder of why we're Georgia and they're Georgia Tech.


(Concept blatantly ganked from Doug)

Daniel Craig's chest. I'll freely admit that I had my reservations about Casino Royale, particularly about Daniel Craig as the newest incarnation of James Bond. He was just so rough. So unrefined. So blond. But I am one to freely admit my mistakes, and I became eminently confident in his ability to fill those shoes the moment he emerged, glistening, from the ocean in nothing more than the briefest of swim trunks. And with Craig starring as the rough, raw, new-to-the-double-oh Bond, the movie rocked as hard as any I've seen. Stylistically, it was somewhat set aside from other Bond films, but it made for an excellent prequel and answered a lot of burning Bond questions. How did he get his start? What's up with the martinis? Where'd the Aston Martin come from? Why is he such a pimp? All will be answered.

My only complaint was that the title sequence lacked the writhing mudflap silhouettes so emblematic of the Bond oeuvre (not that the silhouettes themselves do anything for me, but c'mon, y'all, what would Nike be without the swoosh?) and that the theme song was the worst Bond theme evah. That's just personal preference, though; I think that any Bond theme that you can't imagine as sung by Shirley Bassey is inadequate. "The World Is Not Enough"? Sure. This'n? Not so much.


In a tux, out of a tux, I'm not picky

Mom's cheese grits. Recipe here. I have a fiery, passionate love affair with those grits, but it's also bittersweet, because every time I eat them, I think about the millions of people in the world who will go through life never knowing the joy of those grits. Make up a batch yourself and see if they aren't just the cat's pajamas; the trick is to let the grits thicken sufficiently before stirring in the rest of the ingredients and throwing the whole thing in the oven.

The watchful eye of the Almighty. That whubbada-whubbada-whubbada sound as headed north out of Montgomery was, in fact, a portent of things to come. There's actually a lot of gratitude here:

1. That the tire blew Sunday afternoon, not Saturday night in the cold and the pitch dark on the side of I-85.
2. That the car didn't flip over like, well, the Aston Martin in the most recent Bond flick when the tire shredded like George Allen's presidential hopes at 70 mph.
3. That Volkswagen equips its Jettas with full-sized spare tires, saving us the hassle of puttering 80 miles to Birmingham doing 55 in post-holiday traffic.
4. That I wasn't dragging said spare out of the trunk in my lovely, handmade, gleaming white boatneck sweater - oh, wait, check that; this massive smear of brake dust, grease, and assorted automotive filth on my sleeves seems to indicate otherwise.
5. That Jenna didn't pee herself waiting for Doug and me to get the tire changed.
6. That I didn't pee myself during that same time period.

Thou couldst also use an oil change, prolly, when thou gets the chance

The Washington Redskins. 17-13 over the Carolina Panthers, with n00b QB Jason Campbell calling his own play in the fourth quarter for 66 yards and a touchdown. I still don't know if I like him, but I sure love him.

Leftovers.

I hope everyone had an equally lovely weekend. Tuesday night's at my place for Nip/Tuck and plenty of Thanksgiving leftovers; everyone's welcome, but anyone showing up with that crappy canned cranberry sauce isn't coming through the door.