The modern dentist now provides a menu of flavor options at your annual cleaning. They are listed on a little card, just like the dessert menu in America's finest restaurants. You can get mint (I always just get mint) or cinnamon, of course. But also things like tropical fruit and cherry. But my favorite was at the bottom of the list: chocolate. Chocolate-flavored toothpaste at a cleaning. Excellent. I guess, of course, that this is a culture that has already invented Olestra, but this strikes as particularly devious. What's next, I ask? Whiskey-flavored anesthetic at a liver biopsy?

Your life takes on a certain settled quality when you come to understand and appreciate the rhythms of your neighborhood grocery store. I like mine, the HEB just off of Far West Boulevard. It's not so huge as to require a Sherpa to negotiate the produce section, but big enough to stock everything I want. Even has a kosher deli-not that I am kosher, or even Jewish; I just think it makes the place more sophisticated. I like the people who work there. There's a wine guy I trust: Gianluca (although part of me suspects he's just an Italian major from Fort Worth and his real name is Harlon or Cleet). Denis the Russian butcher loves to talk seafood. It's a good crew, except for one woman, who must be the worst bagger in the grocery industry. I avoid her like teenagers avoid physical labor and meaningful conversation with their parents. That means, of course, I always end up on her aisle--usually there's a shift change when I least suspect it. I am careful about how I distribute my cart; I just ask that she exhibit the same care. I load the conveyor in exactly the order I intend to unload everything and put it away: produce first, meats next, frozen items together, then the pantry items...if you haven't guessed I am a bit Type A (INFJ and you can put the J in bold letters if you are a fan of Jungian psychology). She screws all this up. The items come off the conveyor, spill down toward her and she reacts like an incompetent Tetris player. Even when I try to help, she cheerfully waves me off. I should let this go. But I ask you.

I am now a member of the New Orleans Bourbon Society. Highly coveted, my admittance required an extensive vetting process: providing both my name and e-mail address. Typically in Louisiana, you pretty much just have to be tall enough to reach the bar, no e-mail address required. I joined the society on the urging of the guy who sat down next to us at the Brennan family's Bourbon House, the venerable institution on the corner of Bienville and Bourbon streets. He flashed his society card and asked for the pour of the month, which turned out to be a small batch called Michter's. He sipped, swallowed and proclaimed it mellow and smooth. He swore that he had just gotten up and had a "fresh palate." He looked to us like a man put up wet and in need of orthodonture, fresh palate notwithstanding. That didn't dissuade me from joining his club, which is somewhat disturbing, although not nearly as disturbing as what Michter's actually tastes like: a smoky, sharp start with lingering flavors of charcoal, caramel and, hmmmm, Listerine, near as I can figure. Whiskey boy left us after his free taster glass. Mrs. Jones Top Ten and I dived into a Reuben with fries and the company of an Alabama fan on one side and a river pilot from Natchez on the other, who alternately teased the Alabama fan and offered to buy him a beer. This was good-natured southern football fandom on a lazy afternoon, the best kind. Turns out I can be a permanent fixture at the Bourbon House simply by sampling 47 different Bourbons, then my name will be recorded for posterity on a brass plaque. I am guessing I can accomplish this feat in about 2028. That's about when South Carolina might actually win an SEC title. Or so I thought...

Eight pairs of shoes sit staggered up the stairs. They accomplished a lot today. They scored a flag football touchdown, several soccer goals, a personal best in a cross country meet, Mrs. Jones Top Ten's four miles at Lady Bird Lake on a perfect fall morning, took the dog for a walk. They look tired now. Except the Birkenstocks on the seventh step, they feel left out, disappointed that a global peace march or an old-fashioned environmental protest didn't erupt, which, in this town, is at least a 50/50 proposition on a Saturday. Nevertheless, shoes serve as a reminder that life is best for doing, not watching. Good reminder on yet another day when my team frustrated the bejeesus out of me. Night falls fast on this life. Gotta do stuff. Just watching is overrated.

We all love our antidotes. Throwing the ball around the front yard relieves me of television poisoning, self-loathing and general lethargy on a fall day that started just fine, proved incredibly frustrating through the afternoon, but will at least end with a September cold front, which will allow me the antidote of punishing myself on the middle school's running track in the morning. But for now the ball flies through the air and either Ben or Charlie are on the receiving end. They say life gets better when your youngest kid turns four because they can now communicate and you have a house full of little people, instead of toddlers. Maybe. But life gets better for dads when the youngest knows how to throw and catch. 

Pastor Hall really brought it on prayer this week. He pointed out that people used to pray all the time, whenever they wanted. Then, turns out, only certain people were allowed to pray. Then the powers that be decreed you would only pray in certain places and among certain other people. Then they designated the days. Of course, by then, nobody prayed any more. I get it-the church was basically acting like the east coast sportswriters who thought Larry Kelley was more deserving of the Heisman than Sammy Baugh back in 1936.

Being crushed by a 30-foot tall inflatable elephant did cross my mind, but it did not instill so much fear as to make me leave the very hospitable tent keeping me dry. As the wind and rain picked up, Jumbo (actually the faithful call him Big Al) was tilting backwards on his heels: one stiff gust and we would all be starring in an Allstate commercial. But that would be a small price to pay for not abandoning the ribs, the cold beer and the conversation. Right now I am talking to a man who is wearing his "undefeated clothes." The white polo and khaki shorts are worn every time he sees Alabama play in person. Then they go into a Ziploc bag-the same Ziploc bag each time-and emerge again for the next opponent. This includes the socks and underwear, he volunteers. His wife, the kind of southern woman whose sense of smell can discern the alcohol content of a red plastic solo cup from 20 paces, looks forward to the ceremonial burning. Actually not, now that she thinks about it. That means Alabama loses, and she's also the kind of southern woman for whom that just won't do at all.