Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Book reviews and Franklin Street revelry

Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil is phenomenal. I visited Savannah awhile ago, but I should have read the book before I went. This nonfiction novel is Southern, objective, mysterious and entertaining. A subsequent trip to Savannah will not betray the book's setting. It is a beautiful, isolated, tranquil town.

Now I'm reading Tucker Max's memoir I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell. Any young guy who frequents Borders or Barnes and Noble knows about this book and perhaps its premise: drunken assholes. I could only recommend this one to men between the ages of 18 and 28. Let me put it this way; my girlfriend tries to read over my shoulder when I laugh, but I close the book when she does.

"You're embarrassed by your reading," she said. Everyone is embarrassed by something he likes. It's a guilty pleasure in the first place but more so since Max is a Dukie. If you are female or a conservative male, skip this one.

I posted on this blog a picture of two friends and I celebrating the national championship on Franklin Street, but I took it down five minutes later. I forgot that this blog needs to remain publicly anonymous right now.

My girlfriend took the picture a minute after we jumped over a Franklin Street bonfire, which was not as dangerous as it sounds. The flame was less than a foot tall. Even though I told my kids that I would climb on top of the DON'T WALK signal, I just let the crowd mosh me around Franklin and Columbia since I'm not 21 anymore. It was my running of the bulls.

"Were you on Franklin last night?" my kids asked the next day. Please. I will never graduate. Don't let this thinning hair and insurance salesman physique fool you.

I wanted a Carolina logo tattoo when I commenced in 2006. A friend advised me to wait a year before I married myself to the idea. I unofficially agreed with another friend that we would brand ourselves the next time we won a national championship. I, of course, was talking about football, but basketball brought the tattoo back to the surface of discussion one night at Linda's. The tattoo friend's girlfriend gave me a disturbing visual image that I cannot put out of mind.

"When he gets old, I'll have to dig through his back fur to find the tattoo," she said while doing the breaststroke with her hands. Worried about the same problem, I went home that night and did the double mirror. What's going on with those upper back hairs I see when I wake up with my head bent to the side? I can't tell.

The Tar Heels did their part. I suppose I will eventually do mine.

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