Oktoberfest

At 31 days and 1 hour (thanks to the one-hour tilt back from Daylight Savings), October is the longest month of the year. It's a good thing, because I need that extra hour in this month more than ever. If September was for getting my feet wet in grad school, October is figuring out how to escape from quicksand. It's a bunch of little things, and a few big projects, that just add up to a weighty month. Mornings of distributing surveys to kids who don't want to take them, afternoons of catching up with this week's readings, evenings of attending classes, and nights of studying for midterms and writing papers. Somewhere in this I must find time for the bare essentials, like eating, sleeping, hanging out with chicks, and listening to The Shins.

And other essentials, like experiencing life, must fall in there as well. It is somewhat ironic that in the month that perhaps gives me the least wiggle room to have a life, I'm living a more rich and productive life than I would, say, during the dog days of summer. The month is 11 days old and I already have countless memories...

1) There's the time the NYC hobo stole a 20 right from my friend's hand, swallowed it, and remarked, "Call the cops, bitch!"

2) There's the time I locked myself out of my apartment, slept on a friend's pullout sofa, and walked over to the front office 10 hours later with morning breath and bed head, all so I could save the $65 they would have charged me for unlocking my door after hours.

3) There's the Saturday night I walked down Broadway with a friend I've known since I was 4, while we pinched our nostrils shut and loudly mocked the suckass nasal singing of the lead singer from New Found Glory.

Countless) There's the time I was on the phone with a girl I truly care about, as sick and nauseous as she could be, taking a brief break from our conversation to throw up in her bucket, but refusing to hang up because "I want to keep talking to you. It distracts me from the fact that I have a bucket of puke by my bed."

You can't make these things up, folks.

I don't know what will come of this month. My lack of terrible study habits could resurface, something I don't think I'd be able to overcome as a virgin to the grad school exam experience. I could write an incredible research proposal that leads to my name being published rather quickly. My bed could be replaced by a computer chair and a cup of espresso every other night. I could lock myself out of my apartment again.

There are some serious implications this month and some serious fun times (I'm flying down to Florida essentially for a party, the Florida-Georgia weekend). But what's actually in store, and what will actually happen, that's writing itself right now...

10 Count

I've always had favorites in every sport I watched. And out of all the favorites, I assumed my favorite of all favorites was the New York Yankees. I'd bask in the glory when the Pinstripes would snatch another pennant and have my Braves fan buddies waiting for the next year. People would roll their eyes and claim I was merely rooting for the team that would win and provide me flase vicarious glory, and then I'd show the cap I got from Yankee Stadium when I was a kid, or my framed card collection of the 1958 World Series champs. I thought the Yankees were my favorite of favorites.

I figured out a few weeks ago that I was wrong. I realized that in fact, the Florida Gators were my favorite of favorites. Rooting for them in a Seminole-dominated city, then attending the university and watching over 15 games in the greatest college football stadium in the world. From the pre-parties to the "It's great... to be... a Florida Gator!" chants, I discovered that the Florida Gators were my favorite of favorites.

But tonight I see that I've been wrong. I've overlooked my true favorite of favorites all along. I knew I was as big a fan as there could be, but we think of football, basketball, baseball when compiling lists in the world of sports. Sometimes it takes a devastating loss, the worst and most painful of defeats, to test your loyalty and fondness. And tonight I figured it out.

When it comes to sports, I can't imagine anyone I've followed and admired more than Roy Jones, Jr.

Roy was the hometown boy, the kid wonder who showed a talent in boxing like no other. You could drive down Quintette Road and catch Roy jogging down the street like a real life Balboa. He had a genuine smile, an awesomely approachable presence that allowed you to easily walk up to him and go, "Hey, Champ!" He'd say hey back, maybe chat for a bit. I saw him fight at the local Fairgrounds 10 years before he was filling Madison Square Garden. There's a signed glove hanging in my bedroom. My dad and I have played him in games of basketball. I've seen the myth, and I've seen the man.

For every Roy fight my family and friends would gather in a room to watch him display an unexplainable greatness. The uncomparable speed of his fists, the "swoosh" as his glove swirled through his opponent's jawline, the cocky flexing he would incorporate into actual boxing strategy. And after he'd throw the final hook that compelled the referee to spare his opponent from further punishment, we'd hoot and holler and then get quiet, because we knew it was coming. Before Roy would answer questions, he always paid 2 tributes. First to God, and then to the city of Pensacola. And then we'd shout in jubilation.

I honestly thought Roy would never lose a fight. I couldn't fathom someone being able to overcome his skill, speed, and elusiveness. But there is a reason I have been telling tales of Roy in the past tense (I didn't realize I was doing so). Not even Roy could escape the grip of Father Time. He creeps on all of us eventually, but it's never so obivious as in the case of an athlete who just can't reach to the heights he had once climbed.

I no longer have HBO and was unable to watch his fight tonight. It was the first Roy fight I can think of that I've missed since he moved beyond fighting at the Fairgrounds. But I feverishly refreshed boxing sites until I could read about the outcome. When I read who had won and who had lost, I thought I read a typo. But as I continued to read the words got worse and worse. Descriptions of my fighter looking suddenly stripped of his speed, struggling to fend off an opponent he would have been dancing around in his hey day, and finally receiving a punch to the head that sent his 35-year-old body down to the ground. He didn't get up. He couldn't get up.

I don't have children, but I honestly felt as though I had just heard that my child had been knocked out. I've rambled here now for over an hour because I just can't fathom that this incredible ride has reached a setting point. Roy has been an entity that united all of Pensacola. I feel a personal connection to his accomplishments. I sincerely care about the man. This is the second time he's been knocked out this year (and second time ever), and tonight will be the second night that I wake up in the middle of the night with an inescable vision of my hero, Pensacola's hero, crippled on the ground, his invincibility gone.

It took a horrible defeat like this to confirm how Roy is, and will most likely always be, my favorite of favorites in sports. I personally care about him, and that's why I can only hope Roy's career and legacy have reached their final count of 10.

Wonderings Only a Few Will Understand

Who scores higher on the Unintentional Comedy Scale: Flavor Flav or Charo?

At this point, you've gotta wonder if Dallas Baker beat up that referee's kid.

When did Troy Aikman lose his Elvis Voice?

I personally believe Dave Chapelle is more Wayne Brady (very good within his niche) than Eddie Murphy (all-around comedic genius).

All You Can Eat Wings is the most underrated meal ever.

I've always been fine with any nickname people call me, but that was before Last Comic Standing.

When I heard some MTV guy say, "I'm sure we all wish Britney the best with her new marriage," I couldn't help but do a half eye-roll, half chuckle.

There's no emotion to describe the feeling when you hear The Late Show band's choice of music for John Kerry, and it's "Sunglasses at Night".

The Ivan Emmys

The Taco Bell Award (for making me feel like I would vomit or crap my pants): CNN, for waking me up to an erroneuos report that my dad's hospital (and where my dad was during the hurricane) had been hit by a tornado.

The Nyquil Award (for helping put me to sleep): My dad, for calling me at 11 am with, "Yeah Ant, I just got back from home. Everybody's ok."

The W. Award (for helping me laugh with a mispronounciation): Orange Raincoat Guy, for reporting major damage in "Pensaloca."

The Amelia Earhart Award (for new milestones in travel): Ivan himself, for managing to flood schools from Florida to Pennsylvania (seriously, Penn State is closed tomorrow because of flooding!).