Top 10 Macaroons

The Crumpet Collection records a saloonin’ and macaroonin’ mash-up in Nashville this week.

Macaroon #1: After a few hours of scootin’ around boots with the spurs on honkey-tonkin’ Broadway, teatime with raspberry and pistachio butter cream macaroons at Provence spécialité patisserie francais in Hillsboro Village (circa Vanderbilt) is the order du jour. Fo sho.

Macaroon #2: A testament to the skills of the West End’s go-to organic eatery Fido’s: even after watching a local episode of “Hillbilly Handfishin’” (in which office-bound adventure seekers voluntarily splash about in mud pits whilst seeking catfish lairs from which to wrestle the manatee-sized bottom-feeders), Fido’s catfish tacos still taste superb.

Macaroon #3: Very few places in the South will one find solar-powered trash compactors. Which is why the one on the sidewalk in downtown Franklin (just outside of Nashville proper) is practically a tourist attraction in its own right. Yes. The solar-powered trash compactor is replacing those corny penny-squashing souvenir machines; why chip in a penny when you can throw in a few bits of rubbish from the bottom of your purse and get a similar result?

Macaroon #4: Unrelated to Nashville, but after a the better part of a midnight hour was spent attempting to blow up a British air mattress, sans pump, it should be permanently documented that: 1. All caps should be screwed in, save the stopper on the underside. 2. Using a hairdryer with cool setting, inflate the mattress from the underside opening. 3. Cap and sleep. Voila.

(There will likely be a certain seven former Europe-trekkers who probably thought they would never forget this handy trick after a certain British-Italian night of similar consternation at mattress assemblage, but rest-assured, the trick is heretofore recounted. Sleep easy).

Macaroon #5: With the plethora of used bookstores frequently rounding most corners of Nashville, one would think a prestigious university had parked itself nearby or something. A favorable causal relationship soon becomes evident. High-profile universities à used bookstores with high profile signatures, such as, eh, Lee Smith and Bill Bryson. In the same case. Not two of my favorite writers or anything.

Macaroon #6: There are in fact legal mechanisms for conjuring Puff-the-Magic-Dragon up from the mists of childhood play. A trip to the Dragon Park, for instance. It’s quality therapy to spend one’s afternoon clamoring about the Gaudi-esque dragon mosaic with all the kids at “Fannie Mae Dees Park,” affectionately known as the Dragon Park. Forget McDonald’s Playland. After such a thoroughly enriching experience at age 22, what every McDonald’s really needs is a height-limitless Dragon Park.

Macaroon #7: With its trendy shops and swanky boutiques, posh downtown Franklin shows few signs of suffering through one of the Civil War’s bloodiest battles in 1864—though the chipped hat (due to misadventured canon fire) on the little dude who is the towering monument in the centre of the square (which is most accurately a roundabout) does suggest otherwise.


We are young. For Bluegrass and Country we stand.

Just record bids and Opryland.

(But we know. . .)

Nashville’s a battlefield.

Macaroon #8: Despite the seemingly random undertaking of replicating the Greek Parthenon and housing a gargantuan Florence + the Machine lookalike rendition of Athena inside (bedecked in pure gold) the sculptor, Alan LeQuire, is coincidentally the very same sculptor of the (unassuming by Athena proportions) Women’s Suffrage Memorial in Market Square (Knoxville).

Macaroon #9: To adequately describe Nashville’s southern country roots blended with organic affluence, one must look no further than the surprising frequency with which fruit tea—a refreshing mix of fruit juice, tea, and a hint of mint—is served alongside the traditional lifeblood sweet tea. It is entirely plausible to consume more than a few gallons of fruit tea, also known as tea punch, in mere days.

Macaroon #10: For the discerning out-of-towner, particularly those acquainted in any capacity with the western half of the U.S., one of the signature draws of Nashville will inevitably be the Jack-in-the-Box fast food chain. Nashville is officially the closest franchise for fans from Atlanta to Knoxville who may be on pilgrimage for the 2 for 99-cent delicious taco deal. A ground rule for Nashville: if one sees a Jack-in-the-Box, one stops. If Jack should pop up at midnight on the way back from St. Patrick’s outings and one must order “four tacos, love” in an Irish accent through the drive-thru, so be it. The JITB code stands. Without exception.


Crump it Up List: “Save a Horse Ride a Cowboy”—Big & Rich, “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy”—Kenny Chesney, “Love Song”—Sara Bareilles, “Hiphopopotamus”—Flight of the Conchords ft. Rhymenocerus, and “E.T.”—Katy Perry ft. Kanye.

Most Wanted List: Super Pollo (an apparently infamous chicken eatery, which, we were devastated to never have found. Sadly, it is likely under new management and no longer flies the flag of. . .the Super Pollo).


Acknowledgments:

The Crumpet Collection : Nashville Edition is brought to you in part by:

Semanticz and her mad navigational, tour guiding, eatery-picking, banana-waffle-making skillz, Mr. & Mrs. Holt and their magnanimous hospitality including lavish dinners and most entertaining TV programming, Ommie for her exciting lacy thong travel stores from the 70s (and her almond brownies), the kindred spirit at the Goodlettesville Jack-in-the-Box who kindly took our photo with Jack, the quizzical Jack-in-the-Box drive-thru worker who deciphered our Irish-accented taco order, the patient wine store attendant who humored us on our Louisiana-inspired (though unsuccessful) quest for Shaide, Brandon from EyeMaster’s whose jovial over-the-counter flattery will live in infamy, “Carlton” the Demos server who delivered when it came to the soup coming with the salad, St. Patrick for a good excuse to down a Guinness, the Mercantile of Franklin for an idyllic St. Pat’s evening, and Maggie & Ringo for weenie-lickin’ snugglin’.



Thank you all for your contributions to cultural edification.



Peace out Brussels sprouts. Yo.

Top 10 Beignets

The Crumpet Collection goes carnivalesque with a visit to New Orleans for Mardi Gras; it’s no contest as to what delicacy is on par with the crumpet for communicating signature tidbits of local lore—the beignet.

Beignet #1: A hint the wait staff at historic 24/7 Café Du Monde Coffee Stand withhold upon serving one’s powdered sugar with a side of fried dough, known as the ‘beignet’—do not exhale whilst consuming.

Beignet #2: McDonald’s establishments near parade routes should offer a combo #1 meal around Mardi Gras time to include chicken nuggets, fries, and substitute toilet use for the fountain drink. Although, it’s hard to compete with daiquiri vendors offering similar combo deals near the Portas.

Beignet #3: It’s about time someone demystified the bead-earning experience and point out that there is, in fact, a perfectly classy method for beadin’ up. The secrets: game face, visibility, direct eye contact with a thrower, verbal cajoling and flattery helps, but spastically waving and jumpin’ on it generally are just as effective. However, be advised that one could be breakin’ it down to one of the marching bands doin’ the epileptic Mardi Gras innocently unawares to the passing double decker float, and such inattention may result in beads projectiled at high velocities, potentially causing cerebral damage. Another caution, old ladies can and will try to steal the beads off yo back.

Beignet #4: In Louisiana, medians—yes, between roadways—are known as “neutra-grounds.” Not to be confused with “no man’s lands,” “underground Neutria-rats,” nor “Neutri-grain rats.” A nutria-rat is, from what I ascertain, a wetland woodchuck, beaver, squirrel, amphibious mammal, groundhog substitute, though the nutria rat has no affiliation with the best parade vantage point—the neutra-ground. Despite my best efforts, no doubt I will still stand to be corrected.

Beignet #5: Levy. Is NOT a concrete interstate median blockade. Quite green, actually. Surprisingly natural and organic, if you will. Kind of like (or, unlike) advertisements for “organic window tinting.”

Beignet #6: When ordering a “muffaleta,” despite what one imagines to be a grand muffin stuffed with bruschetta, the resulting “sandwich” stuffed with pastrami, salami, and ham deftly puts imagination to shame.

Beignet #7: It may be Mardi Gras on the streetz, but the St. Louis Cathedral of New Orleans, boasting ‘oldest cathedral in the nation status’ dating back to 1793, is zero tolerance for beverages during Mass. Exposing that water bottle will get you an emphatic reverberating “NOoOOooOOOoooOOOoooO,” and you WILL be escorted out.

Beignet #8: The Two Cardinal Rules of Mardi Gras: 1) Use plastic cups. 2) Don’t talk back to the law enforcement. Though I’m not sure the latter applies so seamlessly for the hulking Ringwraith-like equine steeds the law enforcement rides upon.

Beignet #9: New Orleans. Pronounced New Orl-ens. Not leeeeans. And, heavens no, not the ghastly N’awlins.

Beignet #10: For the undiscerning and musically illiterate (I am brave enough to own this), ska music—a mixture of calypso, jazz, and R&B—goes shamefully unappreciated as dance music. Or at least, it goes unappreciated as dance music in the way it is intended to be appreciated. Reader, in your travels, if you should stumble upon a circumspect “dance” loosely known as “The Cassie” characterized by a bizarre amalgamation of window polishing, sandwich-making, tray-handling, nebulizing, and T-rexing, know that comes fresh from NOLA right out of a new dance genre known as ska-dapted.

Crump-It-Up List : “Tipitina,” “Mardi Gras”—Professor Longhair, “Annie (Don’t Wear No Panties)”—Erykah Badu, “No Hands”—Waka Flocka, “F---- You”—Cee Lo Green, “Right Above It”—Lil Wayne & Drake, to name only a few.

Most Wanted List: Rubber Ducky beads. But no sweat. The game’s afoot next time.

AckNOLAdgements:
The Crumpet Collection Krewe de Knox Edition brought to you by:
Mr. and Mrs. Smith who fueled the transport, T-Matt—master of the Taurus—who maneuvered a ballin’ 10-hour roadtrip there and back again, the monsooning rain which resulted in a historic double-feature-parade and historic Mardi Gras experience, Mr. Gassan whose gumbo culinary skillz belie comparison, Ms. V. Gassan and her spacious room, Ms. Bertha Gassan and her wheelin’ rollouts, a certain Aunt Sally who made parking expertly feasible, Mr. Gaston—driver, beat-dropper, navigator, tour guide, and cosmopolitan-maker extraordinaire, the enchanted Bird Mask and the vendor who sold it at a reasonable price, the owner of Jazz Daiquiri and Lounge who may have opened three hours ahead of schedule to accommodate our morning daiquiri run, Cassie—inspiration for many a dance routine, Ms. Chole—fearless naviGator of the 11-person hand grenade pilgrimage through swamped Bourbon Street, the masked floatsman and his bestowal of prized Fleur-de-Lis beads, and finally, Mr. and Mrs. Simmons for refreshing Co-Colas circa Kewanee, Mississippi. Thank you all for contributions to supporting cultural edification.



Peace out, Brussels sprouts.

Currently pre-heating the oven for Crumpets from the Nash. Stay steepin.'

Top 10 Yards of Flannel

The Crumpet Collection rings in its third year this 2011 with double dosage weekends to liminally-spaced Asheville, Carolina Northside.


Yard of Flannel #1: To succeed in fitting in wardrobe-wise on what is arguably universally the classiest occasion of the year most everywhere—New Year’s Eve—Asheville implicitly requires puffy vests, facial hair, cigs, dreads, and, most critically, flannel.

Flannel #2: Mecca of health foods and vegetarianism, Asheville’s dining cuisine is peculiarly tasty. . .one “wheat meat” burrito at a time. Even carnivores probably will have tastier luck at vegetarian establishments than, say, restaurants advertising the “BEST” Mexican cuisine, yet who, befuddlingly, seem to experience severe angst at fulfilling an order of queso and margaritas. Also, as a general public service announcement, if a flannelite native should ask for a “bowl,” s/he does not mean the piece of pottery one just purchased as a desk-deco paperclip holder.

Flannel #3: A rhetorically-significant tunnel—landmark for most anything immediately outside of downtown: past The Tunnel, just before The Tunnel, right after The Tunnel, 10 miles past The Tunnel—seems to separate the environmentally artsy vegan downtown core from the suburban Waffle House, Longhorn, Super 8, Wal-Mart culture. Such is life beyond and before The Tunnel.

Flannel #4: The Biltmore Super 8 (past The Tunnel), for all its wobbly toilets, towel shortages, frozen biscuits, and the occasional scent of illegal substances, actually has quite friendly customer service. Having stayed there twice in successive weekends, the clerk will kindly grant one’s request for the same room and, upon checkout recalls, “Oh yes. Ms. Hoover. I spoke to you on the phone about your room request. I’m so glad we made such a good impression on you!”
AKA: Should you need assistance in society, drop my name at the Biltmore Super 8, and you will be well-attended. (Though I highly recommend Sweet Peas Hostel, walkable in the heart of downtown—the crème-de-la-crème of hostel accommodation and reasonably-priced at $30/night/person.)


Flannel #5: Asheville’s River Arts District is a fascinating slice of warehouses-turned-art-studios with eclectic art and fortuitous conversation. One such artisan, Joey the Potter, self-proclaimed maker of “pots and empty beer cans,” helpfully recommended his friend’s Sirius.B band as New Year’s Eve entertainment. With hits such as “Monkey Robot Soldier,” it shouldn’t be a surprise we found ourselves raucously heralding the new year to a vamped version of “Auld Lang Syne,” followed by amoeba absorption in a flannel mosh pit cheering the new decade.

Flannel #6: Perhaps as is the case for most cities, Asheville is wholly ill-equipped for the barrages of taxi requests supplying the hoards of pilgrims gravitating to the city from far-reaching mountain hamlets in search of grog on New Year’s Eve. After 40-some-odd calls to taxi busy signals between 3 and 4 a.m. and much wandering of the perilously icy streets, we caught a ride with sober Anne—a kind soul whose grandparents, coincidentally, met and married at our alma mater.

Flannel #7: Even a cursory perusal through the many art vendors’ shops, particularly the famed Woolworth Walk (venue for selling local crafts and art), yields speculation as to the cosmic leanings of the greater Ashevillain populous. Recurring themes in the artistic renderings of this city include, but are not limited to: robots, flying saucers, alien renderings, spaceships, and general other-worldliness.

Flannel #8: The surrounding mountain beauty hugging the city is truly moving; however, the seductively accessible tendrils of roads creeping up steep mountain slopes are rather deceptive in their propensity to cause motion sickness, especially on gloomy, rainy days where the visibility from “scenic” overlooks is…zero. If such a scenic drive is attempted, it would be of considerable worth to all passengers involved to check to see of the Blue Ridge Parkway is indeed open and accessible BEFORE winding upward, up, and up to reach a only a roadblock…and an adequate space for passengers to be ill if (likely) necessary.

Flannel #9: After rainy climbs up random mountain peaks in the driving rain, there is nothing more rewarding than snagging some world-famous truffles from the Chocolate Fetish (official chocolatier to the Biltmore family) and moseying over to Double D’s for afternoon tea. The (stationary) London-style double-decker bus turned Atlanta party bus turned Asheville landmark is a two-story coffee shop: sipping coffee from the second floor watching the always-interesting Asheville clientele go by is a memorable afternoon, guaranteed.

Flannel #10: Asheville is certainly the eyeball’s playcourt with vibrant and striking stimulation converging from all sides—so much so that it’s rare to ever look down at one’s feet. And so it may not be until the end of an unnoticeably long day or perhaps upon returning home and unpacking that the foot-traveler notices a dusty, shimmering sheen coating her shoes. The glittery flakes of mica rock so common to Asheville are welcome complimentary souvenirs to take home and disperse. The aliens most likely had this in mind when they left it behind.

Most Wanted List: Meat?

Crump it Up List: “OK It’s Alright With Me”—Eric Hutchinson, “Little Lion Man”—Mumford and Sons, “Auld Lang Syne”—Robert Burns (feat. Sirius.B), “Monkey Robot Soldier”—Sirius.B, “Sick Tonight (Dr. P remix)”—dan le sac Vs scroobius Pip

Peace out Brussels Sprouts.

(This issue of “The Crumpet Collection” is brought to you in part by: Melissa, Nicole, Danae, Kimmy, Kelli, Joey the Potter, Alex the Dread, “Put Your Pants On” Reid, Sirius.B, Anne, Sweet Peas Hostel, Martha—reservations specialist at the Biltmore Super 8, the Mellow Mushroom TV coordinator, the hazelnut latte maker at Double D’s, the yarn shop alpacas, and the dapper mystery gentleman who smoothly bequeathed his parking stub. Until we meet again, Happy Trails!)

Keep it flashy, Ashy.

Top 10 Trips to Walgreens

In this non-traditional format, the Crumpet Collection soaks up a rare look inward to the dialogic ingredients of genius Christmas card-making.

Yes, Christmas card-making.

This you must remember, or nothing that follows will seem wondrous.

Trip to Walgreens #1. On Christmas Eve’s eve, the Hoover parentals, on account of helping Santa scour East Tennessee for a highly rare sonorous gift, commissioned their daughters to design the family Christmas card—thought to be most expediently achieved at the neighborhood Walgreens. The guidelines: folding photo card (with blank writing space on the inside!), just generic “happy holidays” (NO references to “Christmas” or “New Year!”—seeing as how the greeting will likely be late for both), NO snowflakes (it will clash with the beach in the photo!), NO designs you wouldn’t send to a 90-year –old (nothing too “modern!”), and for goodness sake NO corny REINDEER (Tara!).

Trip to Walgreens #2. NO problem. Enter Walgreens Online greeting card design and begin customizing for all the above criteria. Endless, customizable options? Oh, joy:

“FINE. You’re taking over this entire thing. Why don’t you just crop yourself a little photo of you, by YOURself, with a lone palm tree and make your own card. And write ‘have a warm, spicy Christmas’ inside.’”

“I’m NOT ‘taking over.’ I’m just editing. Over my dead body will there be a typo in OUR Christmas card. And it wasn’t ‘spicy Christmas.’ It was ‘warm wishes and spiced seasonings.’”

“We’re NOT writing that! Whatever. Just make your own. Here. Here’s your crop.”

Trip to WG #3. After hours of heated deliberation as to how “happy holidays” should/could be expressed most eloquently and in which font style, the in-store photo kiosk defaults begin looking more peaceful. There, whilst waiting in the eternal line, one might ruminate upon the Evolution of the Bow: 1) Handmade ribbon bows, 2) pre-made tape-on bows, and finally 3) the 2010 model—the 1-dimensional adhesive sticker bow. And still, after all that, shockingly, the line remains.

Trip to WG #4. The line, coupled with the out-of-stock status on York Peppermint Patties suspends the mission to a later hour. How any institution worth their pepper can afford to be out of stock on peppermint patties at Christmas is beyond comprehension.

Trip to WG #5. And so, back to the online drawing board to the unfortunate strains of “Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters,” which apparently got erroneously dragged into the Christmas playlist, much to widespread consternation and mounting frustration.
“Shut UP E-J!”
[Gasp] “You CANNOT call him B-J!! It’s WRONG.”
“I didn’t say B-J. I said Eeeee-J. This is Elton John. Not Billy Joel. Why can you never keep them straight?!”
“I can. Only one of them is straight, actually. But it doesn’t help that they each have two first names. We need some Kenny G.”

Trip to WG #6: And since one is wondering and online anyway, it may be discovered that G stands for “Gorelick.”

Trip to WG #7. Final product still elusive, and again, hours later, Walgreens beckons in the night. On the way out the back door, navigating through some sort of routine home-maintenance project worthy of power tools, Dad warns:
“Tools by the backdoor. Don’t kill yourself on the way out.”
“Bite me.”
[Gasp!] “You can’t SAY that!”
“It was a PUN! We just stepped in a pile of drill bits. It was a PUN!”
“Your puns AREN’T funny.”

Trip to WG #8. While in line—again—one might this time ruminate upon members of the NRA as the new pagans of the millennium. They are, after all, perhaps the most seasonally-inclined of humanity today (farmers excepted). Happy Festivus.

Trip to WG #9: Miraculously, a card is born—approximately 40, in fact—matching nearly all specified criteria. Sisters confide in Christmas wishes of yore over two bags of York Peppermint Patties (miraculously now re-stocked):
“I used to want to be a member of the E.L.F.S. emergency rescue squad, you know, with the elfish jetpack and jail-breakin’ tinsel (see Tim Allen’s “The Santa Clause”). [Who knew?]
“That reminds me, I used to want to date Rory Buck.”
“Rory Buck?”
“Yeah, you know. The fatherless, bad-boy snowboarding kid from “Jack Frost.”

Trip to Walgreens #10. In the end, Santa sure knows how to keep this family occupied while calling every Walgreens, Target, and Wal-Mart from Knoxville to Chattanooga to Asheville to track down the last remaining boxed set of the 45th Anniversary Edition of “The Sound of Music” complete with Blu-Ray, 2-disc special features (including karaoke sing-along setting), a “Meet the Cast” book, an Edelweiss music box, and my treasured favorite, a glossy letter addressed to “Film Enthusiast.” Not to mention, Alps that really pop. Digital remastery at its finest this Christmas.

Oh, and warm wishes and spiced seasonings from The Crumpet Collection. :)

Top 10 Crimson Letter A's

The Crumpet Collection tides itself over with a visit to Pamela in Tuscaloosa.

Crimson Letter A #1: One wonders how Hester Prynne lost to an elephant for Alabama’s mascot; Hess comes complete with a crimson enough A.

Crimson Letter A #2: The checkered Houndstooth blazer is a must-have for masquerading as a local Tuscaloosan. And, they’re versatile for church, a stroll in the park, in 30-degree weather, in 70-degree weather, and they’re even sold at sporting goods stores.

Crimson Letter A #3: If a Tide fan is faced with the game on TV next to a giant hotdog in a hula skirt, she will see have no problem seeing the forest for the tree; even an entire forest of hula-ing hotdogs probably wouldn’t deter attention from the game.

Crimson Letter A #4: Jack’s, a fast food chain apparently indigenous only to Alabama, should not be confused with Jack-in-the-Box—a southern rarity with the best fast food tacos.

Crimson Letter A #5: After a series of restaurant mishaps in which one orderer repeatedly gets forgotten, brought the wrong order, and given the wrong change all at different establishments in the span of two weeks, maybe there’s some sort of breakdown happening on the part of the orderer and not the service. Enlightenment courtesy of Jason’s Deli in Tuscaloosa.

Crimson Letter A #6: When one sees auspiciously-pillared mansions complete with gated front lawns and “brothers” sipping what is likely mint juleps as they lazily rock on front porch chairs passing the Saturday afternoon, fraternity housing isn’t exactly the first assumption that comes to mind. All that’s missing for an Antebellum South re-enactment are waves of cotton.

Crimson Letter A #7: What surpasses TCBY self-serve ice cream are walnuts in honey self-served and oozing atop said ice cream.

Crimson Letter A #8: Catholics visiting other Christian denominations should remember to tote a Bible to service (Catholics are used to finding each Sunday’s readings printed in the missal) to get full prepared-for-class credit. :)

Crimson Letter A #9: If one hears “Les Miles” on ESPN, no, football yardage has not been converted to mileage, this is merely the name of LSU head coach.

Crimson Letter A #10: For those drivers who are too preoccupied trying to figure out the math of crossing the central/eastern time zone line on a daylight savings time change weekend, therefore losing track of how low the fuel tank is, never fear. Despite the sparse exits around said time boundary, Exit Rising Fawn rises out of the mists as a truck stop oasis just across the Georgia line, equipped with high-speed fuel pumps and the accurate time.

Most Wanted List: “High School Musical 2”—that first one, I tell ya, Cliff. Hanger.

Up Next: Crumpets from Nash & Grad-School Crumpets

Much thanks to Pamela Harris for her local expertise and cultural adventure-seeking in Tuscaloosa! Love and best wishes to her and Alex!

Top 10 Iced Vanilla Lattes

It's about time the Crumpet Collection sticks around to chill in Knoxville.

Iced Vanilla Latte #1: Fountain City McDonald’s baristas at windows one and two know to start up that iced vanilla latte when the Corolla rolls up at least three times a week. As shameful as it is to admit, this is actually more cost/time efficient than a) getting up 10 minutes earlier to make one’s own and/or b) standing in the Great Wall of China-length queue at the neighborhood library Starbucks.

IVL #2: One of the surprising “comforts” of moving back home is that, somehow after four years of one’s room lying dormant as the beastly West Wing of the house, the urge to convene family pow-wows increases when the resident moves back in.
Most often said pow-wows involve the resident minding her own business being generally studious whilst a raging conversation ensues regarding college applications, the latest high school sports drama, chemistry grades, and kitchen renovations.

IVL #3: The 1-month kitchen renovation project is now nearing its fourth month, though the enterprising do-it-them-selfers said they hope to finish the overhaul by Thanksgiving. The recent addition of a new stove and sink in an otherwise gutted kitchen has certainly aided the family dining experience by enabling “family dinner” to occur in the family’s own home as opposed to cooking and eating in the vacant (but furnished) house next door.

IVL #4: To be kicked off the university tennis courts, commute to the nearby Tyson Park courts, shove a bike half way in the car trunk on account of a court fee, and commute to the Sequoyah Hills court, which by this time is now dominated by senior citizens, would be a demoralizing experience to undergraduates. But to grad students, it is an opportunity to practice convincing bullying techniques in staking court claims.

IVL #5: If one is lucky enough to get DJ Rain for her pedicurist, she gets VIP invites to the Valarium Halloween Party. Pedicurist by day, DJ by night. Why isn’t that more widely considered as a career choice?

IVL #6: It is possible to live 18 years in Knox-Vegas without ever spending quality time in “The Fort” just off “The Strip,” but as a student at the grand University of Tennessee a visit to The Fort is an unavoidable cultural experience. Don’t miss out on the swingin’ porch life: hammocks strung across creaky railings, faulty porches, body shots, hookah gone awry, 1,629 guests-confirmed-house-parties, pumpkin carving with the pitbulls, stolen stereos, unlocked cars, “wait, this isn’t my car,” dark streets, paradise.

IVL #7: For all the horrors of commuting (gasp 25 minutes), it’s hard to top the spectacular October view of the mountains on I-275 whilst listening to the soothing nerdiness of NPR (nerds public radio).

IVL #8: Blessed be the 3 a.m. Krystal’s workers on The Strip, who multitask the drive-thru AND the rowdy walk-up window. Whilst in the 35-minute drive-thru line, one has a proffered vantage point for the costumed comings and goings and roof-climbers. Late night snack and a show.

IVL #9: As a native Knoxvillain, one finds it amusing to observe non-natives acclimate to East Tennessee quirks, such as stinkbug infestations and “that chili-in-a-cup stuff” (aka, the one and only Petro, courtesy of the World’s Fair).

IVL #10: Paying a first-time visit to local hangout Sassy Ann’s is probably not wise the Saturday of fall break weekend. But perhaps worse is implementing the “talk to three people you don’t know” rule on that Saturday of fall break weekend. Amid breaks of surreal techno dance moves, expect to enforce the challenge on upstanding gentlemen who introduce themselves as “I’m an Indian—last of the Mohicans,” “I’m an architect . . . from India,” and the nameless third who buys shots of expectorant “your grandma drank yesterday.” Grand additions to one’s soiree. Indeed.

Most Wanted List: late-night lattes with the roomies

Crump it Up List: “Cooler than Me”—Mike Posner; “Heartless”—Kanye; “Mine”(this is listed for deep analysis of a very disturbing music video)—T-Swift; whatever opus NPR happens to be playing

Top 10 Vodka Sonics

The Crumpet Collection kicks off from Athens and Knoxville with faithful anecdotes of the gluttonous football traditions I have witnessed in this the most active footballin’ season of my life (by active, I mean attending 2 games).

Vodka Sonic #1: When visiting a dry campus (as an alumna of one, who are we kidding?), hit 2-4 “happy hour” cherry slushies at Sonic, liquor store, voila. You’ve got yourself a Vodka Sonic complete with discreet thermal cup.

Vodka Sonic #2: Bargaining a football ticket on the street must be the closest equivalent to participating in the drug trade. I shall put this skill on my vitae.

Vodka Sonic #3: The charm of Athens, Ga., lies in toting a bottle of wine around in one’s purse during a shopping expedition and being allowed to bust it open in a restaurant at dinner. With the full consent of the manager. And free birthday cake to boot.

Vodka Sonic #4: Playing “I Spy” with the moveable camera-on-a-cable suspended from the tops of football stadiums whizzing over the fields is a sporting way to keep entertained. In the rare event this should fail, people-watching is also a fascinating study (mostly fascinating, sometimes just disturbing).

Vodka Sonic #5: One is contentedly occupied watching the field cam zoom about the stadium on its invisible cables when shouts of “Helllllll yeeeeah, I’m just masqueradin’” get progressively louder. And louder. And loud enough that a heavy-set gentleman feels he has attracted enough attention to take off his orange shirt to reveal a heinous Alabama “A” and beam, “Hellll yeeeeah, I’m just masqueradin’. Lost a bet!” If this be the modern Hester Prynne, save us.

Vodka Sonic #6: When choosing between a fried coney or a fried funnel cake at concession stands, be sure to align yourself in the appropriate line: “FOOD” or “DESSERTS.” Should the dessert line be shorter, do not assume to be allowed to order “food” in the “dessert” line. Take note, this rule is enforced; if you break line, the queue of ravenous fans behind you will become unruly.

Vodka Sonic #7: When reading bus timetables, it is vital to note the a.m. / p.m. time distinctions. In some cases, as in the Athens bus stop a few blocks from the shady part of town, p.m. does not exist on the timetable.

Vodka Sonic #8: Whilst waiting on a p.m. bus that will never arrive, it is always comforting for the neighborhood police cruiser to stop and ensure one is “ok.” After explaining it is not within their jurisdiction to offer a ride downtown, the helpful officers said they would be happy to arrange for boys on scooters as alternative means of transport.

Vodka Sonic #9: One may have crawled into sweet slumber at 3 a.m., but OF COURSE it is positively reasonable to awaken at 6:30 a.m. for the thrill of pepping up for a rousing four hours frying in the sun watching America channel its aggression in a spectacle of confusing yardage and rules no one likely fully understands. And despite one’s moral opposition to drinking at such an ungodly hour, it is the cultural thing to do in such situations. Who needs Wheaties for breakfast when Strongbow and Chex Mix are on hand? At least the cider consistency of Strongbow is close enough to apple juice. When in Athens, apples to apples.

Vodka Sonic #10: The drive from Athens, Ga., to Knoxville is a stunning one through a slice of North Carolina mountains, but at 10 p.m. on a hungry stomach, the drive is rather starved of inspiration until one happens upon an oasis consisting of a lone eatery (KFC) and a Wal-Mart. Unfamiliar with the menu, one orders a chicken sandwich only to drive up and see a tottering Col.-Sanders-smiling bucket maneuvering its way through the tiny window into one’s low-rider vehicle.

One sputters around the chicken bucket to the faceless attendant, “Oh, d-d-dear, is, is, this a chicken sandwich?”

But the attendant cannot hear on account of the significant sound barrier. Despite the echoing, feeble attempts to deny the weighty bucket, one rolls her car window down further to accommodate the inevitability of the monstrosity.

“I think I just ordered a sandwich,” one says to a Kentucky Fried Chicken visor.
“That’s the 8-piece Saturday Special. Did you not want the Saturday Special?”
“Um, no, just a sandwich” [pushing the bucket back through the car window].
“Oh hun, just keep it” [disappears and returns with a bagged sandwich.]

And for the remainder of the drive through the mountains, one feasts one-handed on drumsticks and biscuits out of the sustaining chicken bucket. Truly, gross.

Most Wanted List: Agua

Crump it Up List: “Fly like a G6,”—Far East Movement; “Lollipop”—Lil’ Wayne; “Banana Pancakes”—Jack Johnson; “Only the Good Die Young”—Billy Joel

(footnote: No worries, I’m NOT an alcoholic. It’s simply that some cultural situations [read: football games] need something a wee bit stronger than a slushy for one to survive in an amiable manner.)