I'm dragging this morning thanks to the Colorado Buffaloes. I don't know why they schedule them for the viewing pleasure of insomniacs and night-shift workers on the East Coast. They were playing #14 Houston, and my plan was simple: give them a quarter, shake my head at whatever fresh disappointment awaited, and head to bed at a reasonable hour.
Well, the first quarter did its best to support that plan. It was ugly. Then Colorado scored. "I'll give them a few more minutes," I told myself, a phrase sports fans have been lying to themselves with since the invention of electricity. Then suddenly they're leading at halftime.
Now, Buffalo fans have seen this movie before. This season has featured enough late-game heartbreak to qualify as an elective course in emotional resilience. So I remained cautiously optimistic, which is another way of saying I expected disaster but wanted to be pleasantly surprised.
Long story short, the Buffs finally brought all three phases of their game. They played defense, they executed on offense, and they looked like the team many of us fans expected to see months ago. Against all odds, they knocked off Houston.
The downside? Victory tastes great at midnight but feels considerably less magical when your alarm clock goes off after only a few hours of sleep. So here I am, running on caffeine, stubbornness, and the lingering glow of a Colorado upset. The Buffaloes won. My sleep schedule, however, suffered a crushing defeat.
I have a Cryan’ Shames LP in the mancave that is on routine rotation. Of course, at this exact moment in time, the mancave looks like a cross between a record store after a tornado and a Hoarders casting call, so actually getting it onto the turntable would be nearly impossible. That situation will be rectified later today.
It’s going to be cold as a landlord’s heart outside, so I can only imagine how gruesome I’m going to feel once I attempt to assemble myself into something resembling a functioning adult.
The Cryan’ Shames never cracked the Top 40, and this little gem bubbled under at No. 127 on Billboard in 1967. If I were a truly dedicated music historian and not the internationally recognized “Mr. Unreliable,” I would tell you exactly what week it charted and what songs were sitting above it. I could probably even provide cultural context and fascinating chart analysis.
Instead, you’re getting witty banter, mild procrastination, and a man trying to locate a turntable beneath an archaeological dig of 45s and LPs.
Some days, that’s the best value-added service I can provide
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