Even a man who is pure in heart ...

hollow confession

I’m sitting here two hours before U of L’s bid for its first berth to the NCAA Final Four in 19 years, gnawing on almond M & M’s (chilled, of course) and patting my upset stomach in nervous anticipation.

This is, obviously, pathetic. I am 37 years old, and I am half sick over the possible outcome of a game between kids who could be my own children. Well, only in a temporal sense, of course – I don’t have the genes to whip up a Larry O’Bannon, even if I were able to trick Lisa Leslie into letting me make a deposit, as it were.

I’m increasingly embarrassed about my antics while watching U of L basketball. Today, for this momentous game (and it really is a big deal 'round here), I’m just going to sit here by myself and scream insanely at the T.V. I’m resigned to it – I feel like Oliver Reed in Curse of the Werewolf, locking himself into a jail cell as the crimson moon looms.

And we all know how much good that did.