Section 30

(AP) SAN DIEGO. A terrorist plot was foiled this morning by what eye-witnesses called a ‘superhero.’

Around 10:30 AM drivers along San Diego’s Interstate 5 noticed a black helicopter circling the downtown area. Witnesses at first believed it to be a news helicopter, but after getting a closer look, it was clear that the helicopter was solid black with what appeared to be rockets mounted on the side. Then, the unthinkable occurred.

According to witness accounts, there was a loud humming sound, followed by a trail of smoke moving away from the helicopter. The suspicious vehicle had launched a rocket directly into the downtown area. Just as the rocket was about to strike a building, an unidentified fly object hurled towards the rocket and seemingly caught it in mid-air. Based on interviews with witnesses, the unidentified flying object appeared to be human-like.

The super-human form carried the rocket out to see where it could be detonated safely. He then flew back into the city, snatched the helicopter and began to devour it along with the terrorists inside. The entire event lasted no longer than a minute.

After the threat had been averted, the figure then flew back out to sea and performed CPR on the marine animals that were injured during the detonation of the rocket. Police say the casualties are at 2 terrorists, 1 porpoise, and 4 starfish, but could have been much worse.

“It was the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen,” said Tyler Durden, a witness to this morning’s events. When asked what the person looked like, Durden replied “He was at least 15 feet tall” and was wearing powder blue cape with the #17 printed on it.

More details to follow.

I’d like to announce that I’m officially changing my name. From this moment on I will be simply known as “Wagon.” If you cannot simply call me “Wagon” please feel free to substitute the article “The” for “Chuck.”

I feel it is necessary for me to drop “Chuck,” and all variations of said name, after the events that transpired this past weekend. I no longer wish to share the same name as, or be associated in any way with, The Clown Coach, who also goes by the name of “Chuck.” I’m sure you’ve seen him on Saturdays wielding around his prized Circus Monkey in front “you people.”

I am a State fan. There is a plausible sincerity to these words, an earnestness that rings poetic.

To mention these words is to seemingly reveal your character, the very essence of your soul. It is shameless and self-affirming, an unabashed sense of pride about whom you are, even somewhat arrogant, while devoid of elitism. To state these words is to affirm that your loyalty is absolute and unwavering; you have laid claim to a title that commands respect because you are genuine – a flailing sense of dedication is not tolerated. There is a subtle swagger in the way you say it, a bluster that only another State fan can ever entirely comprehend.

And still yet, as a State fan, you are not exactly teeming with bliss, but rather a desperate longing for satisfaction, appeasement. There exists within you an undeniable complexity, a dichotomy to your nature, common among the State culture.You are patient and forgiving and generally loyal to a fault, but you are marked by a looming forlornness of unfulfilled expectations and dashed hopes. Yet somehow you are decidedly resilient, having borne the stigma of the 90s and shunned any accompanying shame.

And of course, you hate Carolina. Right? It’s a black and white issue. It is inherent: You cannot be a true State fan and have even the slightest inkling of any tolerance for the team O’er the Hill. That is undeniable, scientific fact.

(I’d like to state right now for the record, before I go any further, that I think Emily Crawford is the Greatest Person Ever and in no way do my ensuing statements indicate anything less than total admiration and respect for her, as a proud alum of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.)

I hate Carolina. There’s a solemn sincerity in these words as well, although they are not quite as poetic. I hate them with such a fiery passion that while I’ll leave at halftime of a blowout game against Eastern Kentucky, I’ll be stricken with delightful giddiness for every last second of a blowout against Carolina. I so despise losing to them, that when we do, it ruins my week and takes days off my life. My vengefulness is so deep that I like to see them lose as much as I like to see State win.

But do I even know why I hate them so much?

I don’t hate Carolina because they’re perpetual media darlings or because everyone gushes over their storied and hallowed tradition or because they have a legendary coach that unified them for decades or because they have won five (still counting) national championships and countless ACC titles.

I don’t hate the Well or the Bell or the magnificent beauty of picturesque Kenan Stadium.

I don’t despise the fact that even when we are better than them they usually beat us or that Ishua Benjamin always seems to get bumped out of bounds with less than a minute to play leading to a puzzling jump ball call or that there’s always a Jim Knight around to take points off the scoreboard at a crucial moment.

I don’t deplore them for hanging the jersey of anyone who ever plopped his sweaty ass on the bench in the rafters and I could care less if they have a storied rivalry with Duke and act indifferent towards State.

I don’t hate their pseudo-elitist personas and I don’t hate the media-bias in favor of them from Manteo to Murphy.

I don’t hate that anywhere I’ve ever been I could find a Carolina hat or that people that move to North Carolina always cheer for them because of “how good they are.”

I don’t despise the fact that I cringe whenever someone says “Tar Heel State” and that when I’m governor I’ll have to pretend I’m excited that they won a championship when they visit the mansion.

I don’t hate that Carolina fans have no idea what it’s like to endure true frustration because after two years of mediocrity they solve the problem.

I don’t hate them because we’ll never be close to where they are in basketball and will never consistently dominate them in football.

I don’t hate Carolina for any of the aforementioned trivial reasons.

Wait, yes I do.

Hokie, Hokie, Hokie, Hi fellow tailgaters!

You can finally feel the winds of Dixie softly blow o’er the fields of Caroline, which means the 2005 season is finally upon us. And if we’ve learned a single thing since the Football Jesus bid Raleigh adieux and made His way to sunny San Diego where he holds a clipboard on the sideline better than any other NFL backup quarterback, it is this: change is, indeed, quite inevitable.

The TX-Lot experiment of 2004 is over and we wait eagerly – anxiously rather – to see whether or not Peacock Amato and his circus monkey quarterback can lead us back into Tangerine Bowl – now the Champs Sports Bowl – greatness.

But not all of the changes have been on the field. As a whole, this tailgating group has grown and matured over the years, collectively as well as individually.

Emily is now a Crawford; Ben will soon be a Miller. Matt is now a homeowner; Ben now is not. Jacob and Emily hope to soon be; Worm hopes to soon not be. Worm, Matt, Jacob, and Shawn all have new and exciting jobs as they solidify young and promising careers.

These changes are ongoing and dynamic, lending credence to the indubitable maturation of the group. Like it or not, we are reluctantly establishing our inherent place in responsible adulthood.
Even so, there remains a certain predictable and comfortable consistency that keeps us grounded, true to our roots. Worm still eats a burrito and drinks a milkshake every day, Emily still gives The Look, and Matt continues to salute the Maple Leaf. And, of course, anchoring this consistency with an undaunted recklessness is the anti-change himself: Lucas.

At twenty-six, he has no career, no ambition, and no direction in life whatsoever. He has gained much wisdom through experience, and his decision-making processes tend to be more deliberate now, rather than whimsical as in the past, but nonetheless he has really not progressed any further in life.

Even still, he has fostered certain changes. His hair is longer and he doesn’t go out drinking four times a week anymore. So there are signs of progress.

Thus, in an attempt to honor the process of collective and individual growth, the Tailgating Newsletter, the most-groundbreaking independent tailgating publication in east-central North Carolina, will begin a transition towards maturity as well.

Gone are the adolescent quips, uninspired anecdotes, and contrived spoofs. Cast away is the irrelevant, the asinine, and the ridiculous. Shoddy and ineloquent banter is brandished to the past, forgotten to posterity.

Through my own wood-chopping process of acquiring wisdom, I’ve discovered that reality doesn’t need to be spoofed or embellished to be entertaining. Life’s unprompted humor is much too genuine to sensationalize.

After all, we are a group brought together through no certain ties. Our backgrounds and interests are as diverse as any cross-section of society: three come from places called Iron Station, Elm City, and Wilkes-by-God-County; two are from Richmond; one from the affluent mountain-town of Asheville; another from the murder capital of the South. There is even a Cannuck.

We listen to different types of music, subscribe to different political ideas, and foster varying moral values. We like different recreational activities and have different aspirations.

And yet, somehow, we make it work. Because in the end, we all went to NC State – yes, even Chic and the self-proclaimed Greatest Person Ever, Her Easiness; they have more than put in their time.

So in light of this, this publication will become the story of this ragtag group and the others that join up along the way. More importantly, it will become the story of those times when you can’t help but think to yourself, “You can’t make this stuff up.”

R.L.