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Fourteen years ago, in April 1992, I was in seventh grade, twelve years old. George H. W. Bush was the President of the United States, and Malcolm David Kelley (who plays Walt on "Lost") was just about to be born. That was also the last time I vomited, for any reason, sickness or otherwise. Between that day and this, I have encountered:

All of these occasions were times when heavy drinking would have normally ensued... and aside from all that, I have been sick countless times since then: sinus colds, strep throat, the flu... and still, no vomiting.

What was it that finally did me in? Was it a crazy wedding? Was it a massive party? Did I try running 15 miles after eating 3lbs of week-old crab meat? Nope. It was one night in Nashville, and a man named Kevin that did me in... Tardio's roommate Kevin, to be exact. Kevin who I met once, the last time I went to Nashville. Kevin who likes to buy other people drinks. Kevin who likes Jager bombs. Kevin who likes to buy other people Jager bombs. Kevin who has the alcohol tolerance of Andre the Giant. That Kevin. It was Kevin, and a random football game in the middle of the deep South, that did me in.

As we have mentioned on the site before, Clay is in the middle of his Dixieland Delight Tour of the 12 SEC stadiums, where he is writing game diaries for each stop on the trip. In order to fully realize the ridiculousness potential for this trip, Clay thought it would only be appropriate to have a group of his college friends come with him to the most obscure of the games, Auburn at Mississippi State, in Starkville, a place that even Clay agreed would be essentially the backwoods. We complied with his wishes, and converged on Nashville from all over the US: Shaw from Maryland, Shekhar from Philadelphia, Krishna from Albuquerque, and CWiens from San Francisco. We arrived at the airport and got directly into Clay's car (pictured above), which, if you're not aware, was won by Clay at a Titans game, for a 5 hour drive all night.

The game itself was not interesting. Nor, I think, was the car ride. Then again, I was asleep the whole time. Clay managed to capture the spirit of the forward trip in his column for Sportsline. But somehow, all of the odd miscalculations and deviating directions for driving to Starkville ended up resolving themselves, and the trip there didn't seem so long to the people who were awake either. And maybe it's because we left the game halfway through the third quarter, or maybe Clay's archaic 6th grade memories about how long it took him to drive to Starkville were more accurate than we expected them to be, but for some reason we got back to Nashville at about 7pm, when my expert mathematical figuring had originally put us in Nashville at 1am. Again, I can't explain this, because I have the constitution of a four year old and I can't stay awake in a moving vehicle if I am not driving it. Suffice it to say, we decided to take full advantage of our extra time in the city.

Back in Nashville, we began the first leg of our going out experience at Dan McGuinness in Nashville. I don't understand the name of that bar--at the very least, you might say I am skeptical about there actually being someone with that name behind the bar in any sense. But at the same time, if they are going to name themselves after Guinness, you would think they might sell it at every bar inside the building. This is not the case at the upstairs bar... but they do sell Miller Lite, though, and Jager bombs. And, as Clay's favorite drink is Miller Lite and Kevin's is the Jager bomb, that was the bar for us. In fact, the last time I went to Nashville, we visited Dan McGuinness as well... only this time, the cover band was not screaming renditions of Foreigner and Journey songs; instead the musical selection was... well, this column has just gone to hell, hasn't it. No one gives a shit about what music was playing at the bar. In fact the last 20 or so sentences have been complete and utter babbling nonsense. If I didn't have a self-imposed need to make this column longer than two paragraphs, I would delete every word in this column up to this point, even these right here.

The point of this story--well, let's be honest, there isn't one--e.g. the only interesting thing I remember, is that at some point, Clay and his friend Kevin, goddamn, awful, stinking, wonderful Kevin, mentioned that there was an incredible ratio at the bar, maybe 3:1 girls to guys, but that none of us would take advantage: Clay because he's married, Shaw because he has a girlfriend, and the rest, well, they just plumb weren't drunk enough. That challenge didn't resonate with Shekhar, Krishna, or CWiens... not enough to spur them into action in any case. Of course, Shekhar has yet to own a copy of Maniquette, so it's clear that he can't be expected to be in touch with his inner man... but Krishna and CWiens? No excuse. So in my sudden state of Jager-tastic, I found Shekhar a friend. And shit, that isn't even interesting... if I didn't have a picture of it.

Later that night, my Krystal hamburgers sitting uneaten on the dinner table of Clay's house, in between bursts of vomit, all I could think about was, "Where are the angels? It's been 14 years, why are no magical bells ringing, tolling my arrival into the club of adulthood?" I thought my life would be noticeably and immediately changed. For the better? Maybe not. Just different.

But a few minutes later, with Clay's porch somewhat cleaned off by my cursory efforts with a 24 oz. soda cup full of water, without even realizing it, I quoted my friend Smells, who in 10th grade, on New Year's Eve, had the flu, and was awful sick all night. The first thing I said when I entered the house was what Smells famously said to all of us on that horrible disgusting evening: "Sorry about that, guys. I feel so much fucking better."

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