Tea: Mandarin Green
Music: "Wabash Cannonball"
Time: Night.
First round of the NCAA basketball tournament (my second-favorite sports spectacle, after the World Cup), and the good guys won.
Some friends of mine are celebrating Kansas State's victory over Southern California with burgers at the Hibachi Hut in Manhattan, which is also an excellent place to test out hot sauces. I'm having leftover fried crawfish. Oh, well. Whatever works.
The funny thing about all of this is that USC's star, O.J. Mayo, passed on going to Kansas State.
How's that working out for you, dude?
Showing posts with label Hibachi Hut. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hibachi Hut. Show all posts
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Cup XLII: Inside, Outside, KSU
Tea: Earl Grey
Music: "Wabash Cannonball," arranged for marching band
Time: Afternoon
Another football game finds me back in professional observer/chronicler mode. College this time: Baylor at Kansas State, on a gorgeous (if breezy) afternoon.
I went to school here, several lives ago. Didn't finish, but that's a long story for another time. Most of the football games I saw here, I saw from the pressbox. But for a while, before and after that, I was a fan.
Kansas State was pretty bad in those days, save for the 1982 season (a pressbox year for me). Empty seats abounded, and games were largely social (read: drinking) occasions.
The football team's better these days, but one thing hasn't changed. The tribal color on Saturdays in Manhattan is still purple.
I don't wear either team's colors when covering a game. It's a professionalism thing for me. It also marks me as an outsider to both tribes, putting me in the odd position of feeling out of place in a town I called home for years.
It's not that people are unfriendly. It's more my own sense of not belonging (and my tendency to slip into observation mode, which isn't always a bad thing).
It's okay, though. I have my havens here. Hibachi Hut. The Dusty Bookshelf. Radina's Coffeehouse. There are others, but those three are my haunts.
I go to see my friends Gary and Cheryl (and Hannah, their schnauzer, who loves me because I speak her language and throw a mean tennis ball for fetching). We drink diet soda and talk about sports, about theatre, about literature and music and ... and ... and ...
Before games, the three of us -- and others -- meet at the house of another friend, Jim. (I once mistook his voice for God's. Remind me to tell you the story sometime. It's kind of funny.)
We eat hamburgers, usually. Today, there were bratwursts, too. We talk, often about the upcoming game but just as often about whatever strikes our fancies.
Christians (in which number I both count myself and hope to be counted) are often told, "This world is not our home." That has some value in reminding us that we don't get to take all of our stuff with us when we move on to the next world.
But taken to an extreme, it can lead to clubbiness and clannishness and the idea that the simple pleasures of this life are to be avoided because they encourage "wordliness."
For my part, I'm grateful for a place at Jim's table, a spot on the pull-out sofa at Gary and Cheryl's, for a cup of coffee and a bowl of gumbo and a new old book of someone else's words.
Speaking of other people's words, here's tonight's ghost story:
A.C. Benson, "The Slype House"
Music: "Wabash Cannonball," arranged for marching band
Time: Afternoon
Another football game finds me back in professional observer/chronicler mode. College this time: Baylor at Kansas State, on a gorgeous (if breezy) afternoon.
I went to school here, several lives ago. Didn't finish, but that's a long story for another time. Most of the football games I saw here, I saw from the pressbox. But for a while, before and after that, I was a fan.
Kansas State was pretty bad in those days, save for the 1982 season (a pressbox year for me). Empty seats abounded, and games were largely social (read: drinking) occasions.
The football team's better these days, but one thing hasn't changed. The tribal color on Saturdays in Manhattan is still purple.
I don't wear either team's colors when covering a game. It's a professionalism thing for me. It also marks me as an outsider to both tribes, putting me in the odd position of feeling out of place in a town I called home for years.
It's not that people are unfriendly. It's more my own sense of not belonging (and my tendency to slip into observation mode, which isn't always a bad thing).
It's okay, though. I have my havens here. Hibachi Hut. The Dusty Bookshelf. Radina's Coffeehouse. There are others, but those three are my haunts.
I go to see my friends Gary and Cheryl (and Hannah, their schnauzer, who loves me because I speak her language and throw a mean tennis ball for fetching). We drink diet soda and talk about sports, about theatre, about literature and music and ... and ... and ...
Before games, the three of us -- and others -- meet at the house of another friend, Jim. (I once mistook his voice for God's. Remind me to tell you the story sometime. It's kind of funny.)
We eat hamburgers, usually. Today, there were bratwursts, too. We talk, often about the upcoming game but just as often about whatever strikes our fancies.
Christians (in which number I both count myself and hope to be counted) are often told, "This world is not our home." That has some value in reminding us that we don't get to take all of our stuff with us when we move on to the next world.
But taken to an extreme, it can lead to clubbiness and clannishness and the idea that the simple pleasures of this life are to be avoided because they encourage "wordliness."
For my part, I'm grateful for a place at Jim's table, a spot on the pull-out sofa at Gary and Cheryl's, for a cup of coffee and a bowl of gumbo and a new old book of someone else's words.
Speaking of other people's words, here's tonight's ghost story:
A.C. Benson, "The Slype House"
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