Guilty Pleasures: Virtual college football

Because confession is good for the soul. . .

Released in July 2006, I played this game ad nauseam — as in, two or three times a week, quite often by my standard — for over five years. Having officially retired the game several months ago, my PS2 now sits dormant as it collects dust, turned on only in the rare instance I get the gumption to play an older version of the Madden franchise (the one with Brett Favre on the cover). But this one will always be my favorite game.

Guilty Pleasures/Sunday's Quote: A different kind of fantasy

c/o Fantasy Sports Counselor

I have a confession of which I am neither proud nor ashamed: I play fantasy football.

This year marks my twelfth season in a league that's been around with the same core group of guys since 1998.  During our annual draft yesterday, I began to ponder why this otherwise trivial little event has become so important to so many millions (and growing by the year).  Perhaps the quote below offers a reason why:

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"Baseball is what we were.  Football is what we have become."

– Mary McGrory (1918–2004), a liberal journalist and columnist for The Washington Post who probably wasn’t paying homage to the game which, arguably, has replaced baseball as our new American pastime

Guilty Pleasures: A guy named RJ

c/o AV Club

Despite my protests to what this once-remarkable network has become, there is one program that sticks out amid the slew of trash for which MTV has become so closely identified.  This is not to say that The Hard Times of RJ Berger is good, clean family fun.  To be sure, the routine scenarios that stem from domestic absurdity and sex crazed foolishness are in abundance.  But RJ's story is somewhat different because it goes well beyond youthful indiscretions and the inevitable lessons learned of which we've seen aplenty on television and in movies for decades now.

Despite the initially unexpected little-guy-with-a-huge-penis backstory – by which many guys only wish they were so horribly burdened – RJ is generally levelheaded and manages to remain composed amid even the most ruthless nonsense.  You find yourself cheering for the guy.  You want him to finish on top.  You want him to pound the bully into unconsciousness.  And you absolutely want him to end up with the prettiest girl in school – who, on the show, is his tormentor's main squeeze, and, in reality, looks somewhere in the neighborhood of 30 years-old.

The show might be worth the time if you get a chance.

Guilty Pleasures: Woodchuck Amber

c/o Healthy and Sane

I'm not what you would call a drinker.  Sure, I was a lightweight "social drinker" during my early 20s amid most of my undergraduate days at the University of Memphis.  But it wasn't until I discovered one beverage in particular, barely a year ago, that my pious sensitivity concerning alcohol would face a mandatory overhaul.

Being of the Southern Baptist tradition means eschewing secular entrapments that frequently lead to a path that nobody ever intends to take.  Although I've made my share of idiotic gaffes from which a wealth of knowledge has been brutally acquired, the requisite trials of life have, on occasion, steered me toward several pleasant twists of fate.

One momentous evening, almost by accident (for lack of a better way of describing it), I took a sip of something called Woodchuck Draft Cider.  A few minutes later, I was enthusiastically on to my second ice cold bottle of the Amber-flavored beverage.  I've been a devotee of the Vermont-based independent brewery ever since.

These fine northeasterners include a list of "mixables" on their website; a list of suggestions intended to enhance one's Woodchuck experience by which my own unpretentious concoction ultimately evolved.  The recipe for those interested, which I have branded Amber Max, is as follows:

Step 1 – Allow a bottle of Woodchuck to chill in the refrigerator for 24 hours.
Step 2 – When ready to consume, place said bottle in the freezer for an additional 15-20 minutes.
Step 3 – Remove from freezer when liquid is partially frozen.
Step 4 – Pour half the contents, which should be somewhat slushed, into a glass.
Step 5 – Take a Pepsi Max from the fridge and pour half the contents into the aforementioned glass.
Step 6 – Repeat steps 4 & 5 until both swills combine into one brew.
Step 7 – Drink, enjoy, and thank me later.

Because the Woodchuck is partially frozen, you will notice the carbonated drink does not mix thoroughly at first, which is why Step 6 is crucial.  So be sure to follow the seven-step process methodically for maximum enjoyment.

Some people drink for the sole purpose of getting trashed, but not me.  In fact my preferences have never been hardcore.  I simply don't find most beverages that flavorsome.  But this one is.  Indeed I think I might've created a new classic.

Guilty Pleasures: Liberal websites

Unlike many of my Left Wing counterparts, I don't believe insults and condescension denote intelligence.  Yet I'm a glutton for punishment, and it never hurts to know what the other side really thinks when the gloves are off.

And remember kids...

Guilty Pleasures: TMZ & White people

Maybe it's the wacky announcer or the office dynamic among your colleagues, or perhaps you're just a likable guy.  But either way, your hour-long weekend show grabs my attention in a manner that causes me to halfway care about things (celebrities) over which I wouldn't otherwise give a crap.  And that, my friend, is a gift.

"When a white person offers you wine, you take a small sip and say 'Ooh, that's nice.  What country is it from?'  Then they will say the name of the country and you say, 'I love wines from that country, I would love to get a villa in the wine region there.'  White people will nod in agreement as they all want to have a second home in a wine region like Napa, Tuscany or Santa Barbara."

Profound, funny, and very true.

Guilty Pleasures: The 80's

If you weren't there, you wouldn't understand.

Guilty Pleasures: Stanford University

So why is one of the world's most prestigious institutions of higher learning a "guilty pleasure"?  I'll explain.

My mother and I flew from Memphis to visit my father and his side of the family in San Francisco during the spring of 1985.  Seeing Alcatraz, Fisherman's Wharf, the Golden Gate Bridge (and Park), Lombard Street and the Santa Cruz mountains exceeded any expectations that a nine-year-old could have, but visiting the campus of Stanford University in nearby Palo Alto remains my most vivid memory.

Over the years I have read about the centuries-old colleges of the northeast, and I've come to appreciate schools such as Amherst, Dartmouth, Hamilton, Middlebury and Williams, just as the academic citadels of the Southland -- College of Charleston, Duke, Emory, Vanderbilt, and Washington & Lee -- also stir no small sense of regional fervor in this unabashed Southern boy.  Yet a little something extra has persisted in my psyche from the day I visited the Leland Stanford, Jr. University a quarter-century ago.

Whether or not my obeisance to Stanford remains from a sense that I failed to make the most of my college experience is debatable.  But my post last December about Heisman Trophy voters snubbing a certain running back who just happened to lead the nation in rushing yards (1,871) and touchdowns (28) is directly attributable to having been a deeply closeted SU fan since adolescence.  Heck, I even follow head football coach Jim Harbaugh on Twitter.

I knew early in my high school years that Stanford's 3.7 GPA and 1400 SAT requirements, not to mention their 10% acceptance rate, put this fine institution well beyond my grasp.  Still I use Stanford's hex triplet [#990000] wherever red is seen on this blog.  (The Dartmouth green [#00693e] is also included as a subtle nod.)  It's just my little way of saying, I wish I could've been there.  Indeed it would have been nice to experience something like "Full Moon on the Quad," but I'll remain a devoted regardless, no matter how quixotic it might be.

Guilty Pleasures: Proletariat theatre

Decades before professional wrestling grew into the multi-billion dollar conglomerate it is today, the territorial outfits of yesteryear -- a kind of mid-major league system -- such as the AWA, the CWA, and the resulting USWA flourished for generations in heartland areas throughout Indiana, Kentucky, Missouri, Arkansas, Tennessee, Mississippi and Texas.  Indeed these men, who ravaged their bodies for next to nothing, were iconic figures to middle Americans that lived vicariously through these heroes of the squared circle who routinely did what few ever dared.

I was parked in front of the television every Saturday morning for God-knows how many years to marvel at 90 minutes of live wrestling from WMC-TV studios at 1960 Union Ave. in midtown Memphis, just a block or two from the Cooper-Young district.  And just as enthralling were highlights from the previous Monday night shows at the Mid-South Coliseum.

Long before the WWE was "Raw" on Monday nights, nothing could hold a candle to what rasslin' fans from the tri-state area witnessed in the same arena that Elvis Presley, The Beatles, Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, KISS, AC/DC, Lynyrd Skynyrd, The Rolling Stones, Eric Clapton, ZZ Top, Black Sabbath, Aerosmith, The Eagles, Bruce Springsteen, Van Halen, Metallica and a slew of others once performed.

If you're not familiar with the Mid-South Coliseum, that's where Jerry "The King" Lawler pounded Andy Kaufman into unconsciousness (or so it seemed) just two years before the eccentric comedian passed away.  Surely you remember.

Many of the all-time greats came though Memphis with noticeable regularity.  Harley Race, Nick Bockwinkel (above left), Terry Funk, Ken Patera, The Road Warriors (above), the Von Erichs and Rick Martel made their mark in the Bluff City, as did Hulk Hogan, Jesse "The Body" Ventura, "Nature Boy" Ric Flair, "Macho Man" Randy Savage, Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson and "Stone Cold" Steve Austin.

Lesser known stars whose place in history is no less diminished include "Handsome" Jimmy Valiant, "Hot Stuff" Eddie Gilbert, "Wildfire" Tommy Rich, Lord Humongous (originally fronted by my 10th grade gym teacher, Mike Stark), The Moondogs, Koko B. Ware and Tracy Smothers.

Others who have their face etched on the Mount Rushmore of local rasslin' lore include Dutch Mantel, "Superstar" Bill Dundee, the Rock 'n' Roll Express, Jeff Jarrett, The Fabulous Ones (right), Austin Idol, and the man who appeared in every main at "The Roundhouse" for over 15 years, Jerry "The King" Lawler (below).

Past-their-prime venues and a lack of appealing talent to even the most loyal and hardcore ultimately led to the demise of heartland-based promotions.  So far reaching was the impact of corporate wrestling (the WWE, who now signs Lawler's paychecks, is the proverbial last man standing) that even the best nostalgia shows are now fortunate to bring in 2,000 fans.

I, myself, lost interest long ago.  Yet "real" or not, the entertainment value of senseless, predetermined violence was always in question, but never in doubt.

Guilty Pleasures: The most awesomest ride ever

There was a time, not that long ago, when a mullet, a Motley Crue cut-off, and this "caruck" was your ticket in -- a proverbial backstage pass -- to whatever you wanted.  My how times have changed.

Guilty Pleasures: Rush Limbaugh & Howard Stern

Though it wasn't my intention to feature any of the Guilty Pleasures so close together, the twelfth of January marks the shared birthday of the two men who are chiefly responsible for re-shaping the radio medium.

Known as firebrands of their own accord, Rush Limbaugh and Howard Stern are provocative, charismatic, largely unconventional, and unapologetically opinionated, which is where their similarities end. And yes, I'm a modest listener of both.

Critics pass similar judgments on each conversationalist, and sometimes even the most cutting analysis is legitimate. The difference, however, arises from varying forms of fascination with each provocateur.

Stern is perceived as an entertainer, and thus allowed more leeway for mischief. But to hear Stern tell his side of the story, the self-proclaimed "King of All Media" was terrestrial radio's version of Nelson Mandela because station managers, Infinity Broadcasting, many listeners, and the FCC frowned upon his lowbrow witticisms, phony phone calls, and features such as Bestiality Dial-a-Date, the Homeless Game, Lesbian Dial-a-Date, the Mexican Delivery Guy Game, the Tickle Chair, and the Wheel of Sex. Oh the oppression!

"There were some really good-looking girls running with their hands over their heads. Did those kids try to have sex with any of those good-looking girls? They didn't even do that? At least if you're going to kill yourself and kill the kids, why wouldn't you have some sex? If I was going to kill some people, I'd take them out with sex."
-- Stern, commenting on the Columbine High School massacre; April 21, 1999

Limbaugh, on the other hand, carries the banner of Conservatism by taking it upon himself to challenge even the most hardcore Left Wing ideologues. However imperfect, Conservatives are held to a higher standard by their antagonists because the Right dares to endorse, and endeavor to maintain, their convictions without apology. Rush Limbaugh is among those at the forefront of this faction, and some people (who have never been the majority) hate that.

Stern has been with Sirius XM since January '06 after being all but forced to part ways with mainstream radio, while Limbaugh owns the AM side of the dial like never before. Both are rolling in similar amounts of cash thanks to audiences that still numbers in the seven- and eight-digit range, and just like those millions I'll be listening, however reluctantly, to both for years to come.

Note: To see a bit more about Stern, check out a post from last November.

Guilty Pleasures: Charles Barkley

Sometimes right. Oftentimes wrong. Ever outspoken. He always fascinates with a perspective that can be as contorted as his legendary golf swing, but should I be preoccupied with the perspective of a guy who once put a leather ball through an iron hoop for a living?

Guilty Pleasures: Memphis, Tennessee

I love you, and I don't love you. You're good for me, but you drain me. You're home, and you are foreign. But I just can't quit you. Not yet.

Guilty Pleasures: Kim Kardashian

I don't care about your promiscuity, or that you're extravagantly pretentious and overexposed. I'd marry you tomorrow.

Of course, I would have the nuptials annulled a few days later, and getting checked for some insidious disease that you might've transmitted to me is a given. But still...