We learn much from airline magazines, all in neat digestible 300-word bites. The ads interest me more than the articles, vitally informing us of America's finest steakhouses and the rolling carry-on that will, indeed, completely change the way you feel about business travel. But the vacation ads rock the hardest. Yes, I am convinced that there is much to do in Shreveport that the casual observer would miss; now what's the number for Independence Bowl tickets again? The best of the year comes from the new Hilton in Santa Fe, which boasts the "untamed energy of Las Vegas" combined with the "magic and mysticism of Native American culture." True, academics regularly cite the Anasazis' remarkably advanced architecture, the Hopi's artistic influences on modern culture and the Pueblo's invention of free drinks and removing all the clocks from the casinos.  

The bitterness fades with each bite of jambalaya. This version comes from a seventh-generation and self-described coonass from Slidell. He throws in some outrageous venison sausage-the herd's got to be thinned out right?-and I washed it down appropriately. I've already lost one bet to the Florida fan in attendance: Alabama plus ten losing by eleven equals Jones minus one fifth divided by whatever friends the winner invites over to imbibe away my largesse. Get all of that?

I'm now watching the Oklahoma Sooners slowly torture Chase Daniel and Wazzu. Check that, Mizzou, although it is hard to tell the difference. How about you Show Me something else Missouri? Defense, perhaps.

At least the BCS renewed my passion for AM radio. The Jones family took in Missouri/Kansas through the magic of the internet, with the 30-second refresh adding intensity and anticipation to a game that was exciting enough in real time for those who actually saw it. We made due with Zach's call from the back seat. The kid's got a future at ESPN. We listened to Zach's BlackBerry call of Texas Tech/Baylor for a quarter and a half before Mrs. Jones Top Ten, in a pure "eureka" moment, noted that we were only about 40 miles northeast of Waco, which meant the 13-year-old could relinquish the stage to the Baylor Bears radio network. The Bears were doing their damndest to upset Tech, a result that would give our boys a clear path to the Big 12 title game. By the time we left Hubbard, Mrs. JTT started referring to the Bears as "we." Just outside of Bellmead, she noted that, were this game in Waco and not Lubbock, we would be driving straight to Floyd Casey Stadium and watching the second-half as a family, tired three-year-old or not. No one disputed this. Ah, the euphoria of a 28-14 lead for "us." 

We improve things far beyond their utility in this country. That's my thought while I watch a vending machine slowly engage an elevator device, moving both horizontally and vertically, carefully select a 16 ounce bottle of Dasani water and gently bring it down to the vending window. Heaven forbid a bottled water drop too violently in our modern culture. Heaven forbid we drink tap water, for that matter.

My car won't allow me to reset the clock for daylight savings time. The owner's manual explains that this is unnecessary; the onboard computer does it for me. No need for me to override it (which I can't), well, until my 2002 car does not realize that the federal government moved the time change back a couple of weeks. I'll just pretend to live in Denver for a fortnight.

Miserable. My word for Sunday morning described not any result on the field-my team won easily-but rather that run-over-by-a-truck, what-did-I-do-to-deserve-this?, I'd-rather-be-strapped-to-a-chair-watching-Hee-Haw-reruns feeling. This may have happened because I missed the flu shot clinic at work a couple of weeks ago because, naturally, one of my kids was sick. Feeling a little better on a Monday morning, I look back over the results and find...nothing to write about.

The best football game of the day? Probably this one:

Oregon State 34

California 21

The Beavers stayed on course for a Rose Bowl finish in an exciting game that could have ended 27-21 if not for a bizarre ending. Cal, trying to rally, threw a pick six in their own territory, which was called off because of an illegal procedure penalty against the Bears. The very next play, Cal quarterback Kevin Riley did it again, leading to the final margin. I've never seen anything like it.

"The new president wants to end the BCS."

This from the backseat, offered up by the thirteen-year-old future constitutional law scholar.

"Yeah, well that is what he said." No denying this, at half-time of Monday Night Football, for the love of Pete, the junior Senator from Illinois was asked the most pressing problem in sports. His opponent prattled on about steroids or something. The younger man got straight to the point. I am convinced it sealed the election the next night. At the very least it might even lead me to forgive him for his stance on NAFTA. Settling matters on the field shows a competitive American spirit.

Too much red wine, that's the epigram for November 1, 2008 in the Jones household. Serves a variety of purposes, red wine. Purpose one was relaxation on this Saturday night. Then we moved to stress relief, then local anesthetic. The second half brought out the joyful qualities. It even fueled buoyant celebration, the kind brought about by relief at a remarkably kind outcome we didn't expect. 

Then it simply became a sedative, relieving a terrible turn of events we didn't foresee.  

I can't tell you, readers and aficionados, of any particular quality of the evening's grape. Don't know much about nose or bouquet or drinkability (well, I guess I can vouch pretty good for the drinkability). Can't tell you the region or the reputation of the vintner. Don't know what to pair it with or its level of pretension. But I do know one thing.

My grandfather loved Shakespeare. Grandad was convinced that psychology, a discipline he actually taught at the college level, was unnecessary; Shakespeare had already figured it all out. The conflicts between children and parents, the battle of id and ego, the reviled among us speaking the most eloquent truths, the dangers of pride (and women), tragedy, comedy, nonsense, elation, depression, dysfunction, redemption...it's all in there.

We used to sit around his kitchen table and talk Shakespeare. The other topic was always football. Grandad, who went by "Bulldog" once upon a time, was a nasty and undersized guard in the 1920s, later a disciplinarian, but innovative, coach who won lots of high school football games he had no business winning. He then returned to his alma mater and becoming a gentleman professor and dean of men.

Enchiladas y Mas used to be a Mexican joint; that's when it was in the tiny brick building at Dean Keeton and I-35, adjacent to the Roadway Inn, which was one of the places folks stayed for college football weekends back when folks stayed in motels and could easily afford tickets for a family of six during parent's weekend. Had it been a few blocks to the east, Enchiladas y Mas would have been a dive instead of a joint. Now that it sits on Anderson Lane, it's a restaurant. This newfound status thankfully hasn't changed the food quality. EyM serves up great classic Tex-Mex, the kind that food critics snobbishly disdain because it contains no organic goat cheese or pumpkin seeds. Pure comfort food made by a family that shuts the whole place down for a week every summer so that they can vacation together. This irritates me because I never put their vacation on my schedule and always bring the family to a closed restaurant once each June. Then I remember why: a) I live in Austin and b) don't eat at Applebee's.

"I dreamed I felt the presence of God last night."

"You probably were in the presence of God."

"No, it was just a dream; it wasn't real life."

"Dreams are real life. They belong to you."

The voice says East Texas. The vocabulary says Vanderbilt. No wonder I fell in love. She ordered a Bass Ale on our first date. She suggested we buy Longhorn season tickets together. She loved Truman, the Brittany rescued from the Town Lake Animal Shelter. Her friends threw an engagement party for us at Dart Bowl. She bought me a Martin guitar as a wedding gift. She was far angrier at Mack Brown for the 2002 Oklahoma game than even I was, seething over post-game margaritas at the Blue Goose on Greenville.