A quiet night, a stack of books, a tuna melt on rye

So the Saints won.  Now I wonder when all the horns honking and fireworks are going to stop.  Looks like it will be an ear-plug night tonight. 

One of the things I love about New Orleans is how it seems that everyone and their mother plays a brass instrument.  The game had not been over for a minute before there were people out on the street playing the trumpet and second lineing.  We got a couple of renditions of Saints (When the Saints Go Marching In), one of Second Line, and then one of a WHO DAT? cheer, then the impromptu mini parade went back inside. 

When I called my mother earlier she said that the news in Philadelphia was reporting that New Orleans had already closed the schools for tomorrow.  That may be a little overboard.  Of course, if my company decided to cancel work tomorrow that would not be over board at all.  Not one little bit. 

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Well based on my post of two weeks ago when the Saints made it to the Super Bowl, you can probably guess that I'm going to watch it.  The part you might not guess, is that this is the first Super Bowl in recent memory that I will watch (and really ABC Family is showing The Sound of Music tonight and a large part of me kind of wants to watch that instead).  I have a hard time watching sports unless I am invested in one of the teams.  I can't just watch a sport for the enjoyment of the sport, or to see how this one game will effect my favorite team later, or because one particular game is THE GAME TO WATCH.  I have to care about the outcome.  (I also find watching the Super Bowl for the commercials ridiculous.)

As for favorite teams, I am a big believer in sticking with the local team.  Therefore teams I support include Tulane (my university), the Eagles and Sixers (because I grew up outside of Philadelphia), and the Saints (since I now live in New Orleans).  Nothing annoys me more than fair weather fans, particularly the ones who just support the winning team regardless of where they are from and then switch to a new winning team as soon as the first one gets bad.  It is one thing to only care about sport when the local team is winning, and another to need to win so badly that you will attach yourself to whoever is in the winning position.  (And that is a large bit of my problem with the Dallas Cowboys stemming from that period in the 90s when they were calling themselves America's team.  No, just no.)

I do allow a few exceptions to the local team rule.  Obviously, if you have moved you can still support a former team.  If your family all roots for a certain team (say the local team to where your parents grew up) you may root with them.  Also, if a friend or family member is actually a professional (or university level) player, you should support them and their team.  There may be other reasons I will entertain, but I haven't come across them yet. 

You know what is not a fun message to come home to?  The we've turned off your gas to do maintenance but we can't turn it back on with out someone being home message.  I got that yesterday, but between crappy phone menus that wont let you talk to a person, so you can't tell then that it is a 'red card' like the door knob hanger told you to, and commitments that had me away from the apartment I couldn't get it taken care of until tonight.  Turns out the gas wasn't off so much as the pilot lights were no longer lit.  I probably could have taken care of that myself. 

Anyway, the commitment that had me away from the house this afternoon was the Tulane homecoming game which we lost miserably (31-10).  It was the first time this year that I got to see the band, and I will only have one more opportunity (if that, depending on what work rotation I get put on) which is rather disappointing.  I really want someone to explain to me the thought processes of the large group of girls in front of me.  Now I like wearing dresses as much as the next person (often more that the next person since I did refuse to wear pants until I was 10 or so) but it would never occur to me to wear a short little sundress to a football game.  Certainly not to a football game held indoors in a stadium notorious for its over use of air-conditioning.  I suppose it is a seeing a being seen thing, but really I don't think anyone is fooled.  I would think the guys they are trying to attract are also sitting there wonder why someone would wear a dress to a football game.  Not to mention I'm sure all the girls would look just as cute in a well fitting pair of jeans and school shirt.  So, I'm left saying WHY?

On to Thursday in the great list of catchup entries. 

I've determined that fall if my favorite time in New Orleans.  The air suddenly gets crisper and it's no longer unbearably hot.  Add a great breeze and it's just lovely to spend time outside.  Since I prefer to spend my weekends forgetting that I have the ability to drive, great outdoor weather makes me happy.  Thursday and Friday were the first fall like days of the season. Yeah!

I also realized that in many ways I'm not the city girl I've always wanted to be.  I mentioned in the last entry that Letter form New York is my favorite book.  It is a compilation of transcripts from short talks Helene Hanff gave on the BBC's Women's Hour radio show in the late seventies and early eighties about her life in New York.  From the time I found the book in my high school years I've wanted to live that life.  I've wanted to hang out on the stoop with the building's dogs and their owners each night, to attend a democratic block party, and to know what church does the best rendition of Handel's Messiah in the run-up to the Christmas season.  I don't have quite that life, but I do have my little neighborhood with it's shops, restaurants, and park.  And I occasionally get the sense, when walking down a street with people streaming by on either side, that I am in the establishing city shot of some movie or tv show (see the opening moments of Secret Diary of a Call Girl).  I got that sense while downing the quarter getting the yarn to finish my first fandom knitting project.  For future reference, a skein of organic cotton is enough for a wrist warmer and a half. 
Thursday night I attended the Tulane football game, which we won!  Many members of the crew that I work with are fans of professional football which I an not particularly.  I much prefer football at the high school or college level.  I think this boils down to my love of marching bands.  Games are just not the same with out the rousing music and something to look forward to at half time.  When I go to Tulane games I always sit with the band because Arynne used to work for them.  So I always get up close and personal with the peppy music.  Don't even get me started on my love of cadence and quad drums.  Finally, despite my general indifference to professional football I do have a rather ridged routing structure which goes:

1. The Philadelphia Eagles
2. The New Orleans Saints
3. Everyone Else
4. The Dallas Cowboys

That may reflect my upbringing in that you route for the team from where you live no matter how horrible they might be.  And you never ever call yourself America's team unless you are in fact playing against teams from other countries.  Even then, none of the teams should be from countries within the Americas, so there is really no reason to ever call your self America's team. 

    So, I have a football question.  How do they determine if a playing is infact in the end zone and has therefore scored a touch down.  My reason is this.  Today was Tulane's home comming - the first time I have ever attended any school's home comming as an alumna.  We  seem to have been robbed ( final  score 28-27 them.)

    Any way the touchdown which tied the game up was achieved with the player in question in the endzone from the waist down, but out of the end-zone from the waist up including his hands which were clutching the ball.  Now, my immediate reaction would be, the ball never reached the end-zone, so no score.  Apparently, I am incorrect.  Then  later they left the clock running when they shouldn't have and we ran out of time to score.  Grrr.