Wisconsin vs Nebraska - Fear and Loathing in Madison...

After a week of work travel in Dallas, I wrangle out of bed scarcely after 5AM on a Saturday morning, groggily drive to DFW airport and catch the red eye flight into Madison. What follows is 16 hours of drinking and depravity by four dudes with some Wisconsin football peppered in. Stop me if you’ve heard this one before…

Dan and Maxwell greet me at the airport smiling. A few quick handshakes and backslaps later, I toss my gear into the back of Dan’s silver Tacoma and we purposefully navigate our way into downtown Madison. The leaves are just starting to show shades of color, and hordes of joggers navigate uprooted concrete sidewalks beneath the hardwood canopy overhead. Crisp and clear, it’s a pristine fall morning in Wisconsin. The spirit of Big 10 football hangs in the air over Lake Mendota like a mist.

We circle the block once near a parking garage, looking for the fourth and final member of our squad; Alex. A strange figure hobbles to the corner of the sidewalk and flags the truck down, it’s Alex, sporting a wispy punters mustache, garbed in some kind of Payne Stewart inspired outfit. He had suggested over email to dress in something red and outlandish, but a red cardigan and flat cap are well beyond my sartorial inventory. Admiring his outfit, we park the truck in the adjacent garage and get the day underway.

Scarcely fifteen feet away from the truck Alex stops us as if we’ve forgotten something important. I pat down my pockets, reassured I have the essentials, and look around perplexed. Alex disappears between two parked cars and emerges moments later with four bottles of Smirnoff Ice and a mustachioed grin. We’ve just been Iced. Well before noon.

“Icing” as it’s known in the parlance of our times, requires those who have been presented with an unexpected Smirnoff Ice, to guzzle the entire offering in a single sip. The three of us are obligated, and though technically not required, Alex joins us for sport. Clanking them together, we hoist the bottles and start choking down the sugary liquid. At 11am the lemony malt liquor swallows like battery acid. I finish mine first, but I’ve got a few years experience on these whippersnappers, and it’s a dubious race to win.

It’s going to be a beautiful mess of a day, I note to myself.

The first stop of the day brings us to a local pub in the shadow of the State Capitol called the Old Fashioned. Featuring some inspired locally sourced foods and an impressive selection of microbrews, I opt for a classic choice instead; Schlitz. Despite a love for beer, microbrews are not conducive to all day drinking, and I know I have a long shift in front of me.

A few others bravely order Bloody Mary’s. In true Wisconsin fashion they are heavily ornamented with a eclectic selection of pickles, eggs, cheese curds, beef jerky and accompanied by a beer chaser. As I’ve learned before, Bloody Mary’s are an art form in Wisconsin, the goal of which seems to be to amass as large and random a pile of crap onto your glass as possible. The taste for which I have yet to acquire. But the Schlitzes are going down smooth and the waitress keeps them fresh.

What follows for the next couple of hours is an increasingly hazy string of bars, pubs and porch parties, each stop taking us on a winding route progressively closer to Camp Randall Stadium. Our crew swells to fifteen or so friends, acquaintances, brothers, cousins and wives. After frequenting the bar upstairs, we tumble into the Church Key Liquor store and grab a few thirty packs to tote along, paired with a flask of Vodka for good measure. Opting for the local brew, Milwaukee’s Best Light proves an economical choice at ten bucks a rack. We’re hauling enough booze down the sidewalk for an entire platoon, but on a football Saturday in Madison this hardly draws a raised eyebrow. A few Nebraska fan hurl insults out the windows of a bus, a couple of polite Badger “cheers” are exchanged back.

Around 5:30 or so, we make our way over to Camp Randall to start hunting for tickets. We’re targeting an area known as Breeze Terrace, a street bordering the western edge of the Stadium lined with three story party houses straight out of Animal House. The ramshackle houses are bursting with throngs of inebriated undegrads, parking lots flooded with a sea of red outfits. These should be the most fertile hunting grounds for cheap student tickets.

We comb the backyards, porches and patios asking around for tickets, targeting the tipsiest scholars we can find like lions pouncing on wounded gazelles. Passing through a few dank basements we continue our search. Black lights illuminate glowing beer pong tables surrounded by teetering coeds, the shadowy caverns and smell of rancid beer reminds me of my wilder days. I’m five years too old to be here. Okay, maybe ten.

An hour and several beers later, we’re approached by a girl offering her student ticket up for $100 bucks. I fork the cash over quickly, it’s the first ticket we’ve found for less than two hundred and I don’t want some Cornhusker to swoop in during a negotiation. A few minutes later, Maxwell snags one from a girl wearing a tiara barely able to stand. He talked her out of it for eighty bucks, evidently those MBA negotiation skills classes paid off. With the clock closing in on kickoff, we press on as dusk settles, scouring every corner of Breeze Terrace for two more tickets.

I’ve traveled to many college football games, and I’ve never seen tickets this sparse, especially student tickets. Remarkably, the streets are picked clean. Some presumably snatched up by Nebraska fans, but most were simply being used by students wanting to witness one of the biggest games ever hosted in Camp Randall. I couldn’t fault them for that.

A few minutes after kickoff and still empty handed on the street, we decide to part ways with Alex and Dan. Maxwell and I head into the stadium while they continue the search for a few straggling ticket holders, promising to meet up with us once they get inside. Unfortunately, we wouldn’t see them again until after the game, and they would never get in.

Though our tickets issued at the gate read Row 65, I wedge us in somewhere around Row 30 directly behind the endzone. When the student section is this jammed, you need to make your own space, and jostling a few wispy sophomores proves an easy task. On a brisk Saturday night the crucible of Camp Randall boils with excitement, students frenzied and screaming around us, a few Nebraska fans dressed in black quietly scattered about.

Energized by the home crowd, the Badgers make quick work of the Huskers, the game all but decided by the time “Jump Around” blares through the loudspeakers at the start of the 4^th quarter. The stands quivering under the weight of 20,000 bodies rhythmically bobbing, the House of Pain classic may be the most exciting two minutes in any College Football stadium. Much has been said about Wisconsin claiming the best student section experience in the country (which I wrote about extensively two years ago HERE) After the chaos of the Nebraska game on this night, I wholeheartedly concur.

Following the game, we meet Alex and Dan and pick right up where we left off, but their lead is visible. Cracking a few fresh cans at Union Terrace, we gradually wander our way back over to State Street wobbling along the sidewalks. Stashing our beer under an unoccupied porch, we duck into Ian’s Pizza, a Madison landmark. Braving the 20 minute line, our group cues up for a couple slices of their signature macaroni and cheese pizza. We chew through the greasy delight hurriedly, heading out back to finish our dwindling beer supply. A handful of fireman show up in a wail of sirens, dousing the remnants of a dumpster fire while we mill around like King of the Hill characters, guzzling the final watery Milwaukee’s Best cans in an alley.

Capping off the night we stumble into the last bar, the name lost to memory, but chosen because it had the shortest line and the strongest cocktails. Gin ends up in my hand, a horrible decision most times, and especially now. My stomach groans with every sip, fortunately the others look just as rough. Eventually, we call it quits and stumble our way out a few minutes before closing to beat the cab lines, the yellow chariots prove hard to wrangle in these parts.

Staggering along the sidewalk, we circle the monolithic State Capitol, the polished Bethel White Vermont granite ghostly bathed in chalky under lighting. Occasionally propping each other up, the night ends there in Madison in the early morning hours. Almost time for for a fresh round of Bloody Mary’s…

Special thanks to Alex W. and Tori for graciously allowing us to crash at your place. It takes some fortitude to let our crew into your house in such a state, but I really appreciate the hospitality.

Thanks to Alex S., Maxwell and Dan for yet another turbulent adventure. I’m already excited for whatever we have on the calendar next, but this one will be tough to top. Alex especially for playing tour guide on the day despite a limp, and arranging such a phenomenal experience in Madison!

Washington vs Cal – I’m on A Boat!

Crossing West over the Evergreen Floating Bridge on Route 520, the silhouette of Husky Stadium emerges in the distance cloaked in a light morning fog. Rising out of Lake Washington like two coiled cobras, the hulking steel grandstands gleam with flecks of early morning sunlight. I’m on my way to Husky Stadium, home of the Washington Huskies, a venue reputed to be one of the loudest in the country. Given the massive flanking metal roofs, the reflective acoustics would support this claim. In a 1992 night game against Nebraska, the crowd noise reached 130 decibels, officially the loudest college football game on record - a level above the threshold for pain.

It’s a pristine morning in Seattle, the sun breaks through quickly and a light breeze rolls in off the bay. Despite the ample side streets surrounding the Washington campus, I’m forced to pay for parking. The neighborhoods are canvassed with parking ordinances for game days, a clever money making scheme for the University. After reluctantly forking over my $15 parking donation, I wander through a few of the larger stadium lots, the smell of tailgate wafting through the morning air. It’s a robust atmosphere in the lots, the usual flood of purple tents, smoking grills and spreads, but that’s not what I’m looking for.

The real tailgating scene Washington is famous for occurs on the water behind the stadium in Lake Washington. The Huskies are host to a unique college football experience known as “Sailgating”. Scores of boats motor in before games, lashing themselves together to form a giant tailgating flotilla of fiberglass and chrome. Grill smoke wafts between the rows of boats, and satellite TV’s pump out a few east coast games. Cops donned in orange life jackets patrol the docks, making sure nobody gets out of control, but it’s a pretty relaxed scene. A few of them munch on some burgers, sounds like a pretty choice detail to me.

I chatted up the owner of the “Big Dawg”, an impressive 60 footer, and one of the largest yachts in the fleet. Owned by a local excavating company mogul, we exchanged a few stories as they grilled up some fresh pacific oysters. Not your average meager bites, these oysters were huge meaty offerings, served with traditional cocktail sauce. I shamelessly downed a handful of them.

After my fill on the docks, I circled around the stadium and snapped up a quick ticket on the 50 yard line for forty bucks or so. I opted for the upper deck this time, strategically positioned in the middle of the acoustic throng that Husky Stadium is known for. With a pristine sunny afternoon, and gentle breeze coming in off the water there was an overt calm in the stands.

The game turned out a bit quieter than I had hoped for. Though Cal is a premier PAC 12 opponent, the place never quite filled up, and endzone seats were nearly barren except for the band. It’s been that way for the last ten years or so from what I gather, as the Huskies struggle to recapture their former grandeur. The noise pumped up a few times on key plays, booming off the corrugated metal roof, but it still wasn’t the ear splitting hubbub that I came to hear. The game was actually a rather exciting one, coming down to the last drive where the Huskies held on for a hard fought 31-23 win amidst a rather aloof crowd.

True to form, however, Husky Stadium is a magnificent backdrop for college football. Sailgating on the water, an imposing facility and tradition rich program are all the right ingredients for a true Saturday classic. I’d love to return one day for a few more oysters on the half-shell, and a night game against a premier opponent when the grandstands really start shaking…

Beth's Cafe - Quantity vs. Quality

“Beth’s Café, happiest place on earth” the waiter snapped into the phone. Tattoos crawled up the sides of his arms and the phone sunk into a haggard beard as he spoke. The short order cook was similarly ink adorned, although clean shaven, sporting a few extra facial piercings as he slapped away on the cook top.

If you’re looking for a hygienic, sterilized breakfast joint with cute accoutrements and a delicate brunch - keep looking. The service here is gruff but efficient, and the walls are plastered with crayon drawings. The portions, however, are epic. In the eternal struggle between quantity versus quality, Beth’s Café has thrust their chips firmly into the quantity ring, which naturally landed them a feature on Man vs. Food. Dishing out breakfast classics to Seattle's finest 24 hours a day, 7 days a week since 1954, it’s an equally cherished favorite among the late night drunk and early morning work crowds.

I opted for a booth, glanced over the menu and settled on one of their legendary omelettes. A check to the ego, I opted for some corned beef hash and the “small” omelette, prepared with a meager six eggs. The large comes with twelve, and according to the menu, and there is no prize for finishing it.

The food was dropped on the table a few minutes later, a giant pile of quivering eggs atop a layer of hash browns. True to its reputation, the portions are simply massive. The hash browns are even “all you can eat”, but I didn’t have the fortitude to consider more than one round. The food itself is fair at best. While the portions are ample, the hash browns are straight out of the freezer, the hash dropped from a can, and there is a generous dousing with the butter ladle atop all the food that made it excessively greasy. It’s also not that cheap, as my total bill came in over fifteen bucks.

But if you’re a man of large appetite, or coming off an all night bender looking for a greasy mess at 3AM, Beth’s Café would indeed be the “happiest place on Earth” for you…