Ernest Hemingway Blogs About March Madness, SXSW and Rebounding

It truly was utter chaos in the nights of South by Southwest and I feel like death, nay like six feet of pummeled lump flesh that is yielded after tracking and shooting bear in the Great Smoky Mountains of North Carolina.

Cheers, South by Southwest. Hazy you were, but nonetheless jolly. I can't say the same for my NCAA tournament bracket though. Coming off the heels of SXSW and jumping into more March Madness of a different ilk is making my noggin spin.

It is fair to say that my blog writing shall be characterized by economy and understatement, so keep that in mind, chaps. SXSW has drained me, and typically I am the stoical man who exhibits grace under pressure, but I am gelatin today.

Of men and glory. Let's talk basketball.



Alas, I wish for you all loyal readers to know that my intentions to write another great American classic novel have been sullied, marred and capsized by moderate drinking habits that are nothing to write home about. But I am writing a short basketball review for the Penny Press Courant, where I analyze basketball teams.

North Carolina Tar Heels

What say you North Carlina Tar Heels? Roy Williams is soft. His hands look manicured. They have never pulled tobacco from the dirt. He has never gutted a fish fresh from the sea. Soldiers shoot soft men in the back rather than follow them into battle. Williams should look out. He should watch his back. But junior forward Tyler Hansbrough is a 2-ton bull in baby-blue shorts. When he broke his nose last year, he saw red. He charged. His horns went down and gored opposing players. I would fight with this man. I would die for him. If a bullet met him, I would cradle his head till he left this earth. After the platoon's soldiers shoot Roy Williams in the back, they'll follow Sergeant Hansbrough into combat. Hansbrough and UNC charge to the Elite Eight.

Kansas Jayhawks

As for my ultimate sleeper team of drunken, hung over death. The Kansas Jayhawks.



I do not trust men from the plains. They have no beasts to hunt. They have no stormy seas to tame. They have no mountains to climb. There is nothing in their lives that tests their constitutions. Men without tests are not men. Coach Bill Self has shown this. In two of the last three years, he has been pistol-whipped by teams in the first round. That does not happen to real men. I have no strong opinion of there poultry mascot, but I doubt he could juke a marlin with his dribble. This team is left without honor in the second round.

Duke Blue Devils

Coach K is a platoon captain. He can lead men to war. Men would gladly die for him. They would run over barbed wire. They would charge into a battery of machine guns. They would limp toward a field of death on his word. In this game, they shoot for him. They press for him. They pick and roll for him. Coach K harnesses the manly terror that only mad men from advertising agencies inflict on competitors from the roaring 1920s. These men are gifted. These men are winners. These men will be the champions.

It is tough for me to write, struggling to bounce back from violent debauchery, but I will say this, the key to winning championships is not defense, or teamwork. It's REBOUNDING!



In my experiences, chronicles, travels and epiphanies, I have discovered that there are seven stages of drunk.

1. Subject's face begins to stretch, as if struggling to keep eyes open, while neck and goiter of subject seems to visually expand and quiver unattractively.

2. Subject begins to threaten loved ones with shoes, staple guns, other unconventional weapons.

3. Small racist man appears out of subject's pants, begins to tell impolite "jokes".

4. Falling violently to the floor, subject begins to bleed from knees, already scabbed over from previous drunk.

5. Subject insists on making a tortilla with beans and lots of mustard.

6. Tarot cards are revealed. Subject insists on reading stranger's cards.

7. Ignoring the concept of time, subject begins calling old friends who live three time zones ahead of them. While trying to form reasonable sentences, subject passes out on couch with head tilted back, mouth open in underwear only.