Well, crap. And up until the last eight or so minutes of the game, you could believe that this time, it was going to happen. But now for the team, it's off to the Holiday Bowl; for the legions of Old Blues out there, it's another year (or forty-eight) of waiting for a Rose Bowl to come around.
At least this saves Shelby from having to listen to me whistle Cal fight songs until January 1st. And maybe by the time Berkeley finally does make it back into the Rose Bowl, I'll have had the time to build up the equity position that'll be necessary to purchase a pair of tickets — decades of pent-up demand aren't going to be pretty.
And with Stanford's record this season, we can be damn certain that our team is going to win the Big Game this year. Go Bears! Beat Stanford!
(Bicycle racing and Cal football are the two sports that I half-heartedly follow. Despite being a geek, I had season football tickets for all four years that I was at Berkeley. The idea of being 'loyal' to a professional football or baseball team confuses me, because they're certainly not going to be loyal to you, at least not in the modern era. Pro sports' only reason for being is to turn you and your city upside down and shake out all of the money that they can — and when the pennies stop falling [or stop falling fast enough], they'll leave you in a heartbeat to chase a different city or demographic [witness the 49ers or the 'Los Angeles' Angels]. But with a college team, your 'tribe' actually does have something all in common, you know the team's never going anywhere else, the players are exalted but not multi-million-earning superhumans, and the tickets are [mostly] cheap. There's a connection there with me that the NFL is never going to make. I've had "Go Bears!" moments in Europe, in airplanes, and in the mountains of New Mexico.)
Why I love the Orange County Register, our local paper: Its letters page is an endless source of free entertainment. Every day you've got a cross-section of Orange County's population of stalwarts and true believers writing deadly earnest letters like this one (emphasis in the excerpt mine):
Despite what the Register editors believe, the war in Iraq has been an unmitigated success. [...] My only criticism of Bush's prosecution of the war is that he has been overly sensitive to the prospect of civilian casualties at the expense of defeating the insurgency. Our military must take off the kid gloves and use tactical nuclear weapons to utterly demoralize and defeat the enemy. This will also reduce American casualties, as it did with Japan during World War II.
George — his only problem is that he's too sensitive! I've often thought of combing the letters page daily and collecting the most noteworthy gems into some kind of "greatest hits" file.
(But are these people really deadly earnest? Or how many letters are written by pranksters, who, after years of reading letters about the perfidy of the Democrats, the evils of fluoridation, and the unfairness of being taxed to pay for things like mass transit and a public university system [damn thing's just turning out more liberals anyways!], have decided to test whether or not there are any limits to what the Register's editors will accept and publish?)
Democracy update: while others elsewhere in Orange County may be reporting problems with voting at their polling places, I know that there was at least one precinct in downtown Anaheim where everything went without a hitch, because I ran things ... WITH AN IRON FIST.
Our voting machines ran singingly. It didn't matter how many paper ballots we had, because nobody asked for one. The most unusual issue was a large number of people who were listed as voting absentee, but who showed up at the polling place claiming to have never asked for or received an absentee ballot. (These people voted "provisionally" — meaning that their ballots are held back from the counting until the Registrar of Voters determines that there aren't also completed absentee ballots with their names on them floating around somewhere out there.)
My biggest problem? The bonehead little old lady who was one of the two people working with me at the polls. Rather than being a harmless old sweetheart who spent the day yammering on about her medical maladies (like my election co-workers from last year), this woman had two big problems going for her: a) she'd been a poll worker for twenty-nine years in various locales across the country, which meant that she had a deeply ingrained (and wildly wrong) sense of The Way Things Should Be Done; and b) she was an unabashed racist of the "dear god, I hope that great-grandma doesn't start running off her mouth during dinner" variety.
I knew that we were in trouble right from the start when she filled out the "I speak:" area of her poll worker's nametag with "American".
No amount of theatric throat-clearing, "that's enough, let's move on", or even more overt correction on my part was enough to stop this woman from stumbling into yet another minefield of ethnic-offense-and-intimidation faux-pas.
But even if she'd had the ethnic sensitivity of a lifelong Berkeley liberal, her other faults were enough to sink her. She had her own particular way of doing things, backed by her twenty-nine years of working at the polls — I've worked at the polls in New York State, the San Francisco area, and here in Orange County — and nothing was going to interfere with her perception of how things should be.
I'd have cut this lady loose and told her to go home, but with only three of us working the polls (and no hope of reinforcements), we really did need her in order to get through the day. When my supervisor from the RoV showed up to check on how things at our polling place were going, I gave her an earful; it only took the briefest sketch of events to have her agreeing that this woman should be stricken from the volunteer roll forever.
Later on in the evening, someone (who'd dared to try to sign the register with her own pen) stormed up to me, asking for the little old lady's name. I cheerfully gave her the name, our precinct number, and the RoV's phone number. Good to know that I wasn't the only one to say anything.
At the end of the night, little old lady bid me goodbye with a chirpy "thanks for everything, Kevin — see you next year!" My good breeding won the day, but it took some effort to keep from responding with " ... in hell!"
They want to increase younger peoples' involvement in the democratic process? They'd better start by clearing out some of the older people first ...