The Daily Aztec

Fall is my favorite time of year. The days are getting shorter, leaves are turning a brilliant shade of spray- tan orange and the country is once again inundated with a familiar pack of rabid beasts. I’m talking, of course, about football fans.

Do you have to be depressed to write a sad song? Do you have to be in love to write a love song?” Such were the words of William Miller in the movie “Almost Famous” as his character asked Russell Hammond what it was like to be in a band. Judging from my own personal experience of being in a rock band, it was a lot like the movie … in that they both lasted about two hours.

I grew up in a mobile home. No, I don’t mean my parents were constantly on their cell phones. I mean my house was delivered already assembled on the back of a flatbed truck.

With all of this madness surrounding March, I can’t help but be reminded of my unsuccessful venture into the world of basketball. Although the result wasn’t exactly what I had hoped for, I taught myself to use it as a learning experience.

What happened to men?

Golf is a crazy sport. The idea of the game seems so elementary: Hit a tiny ball into a shallow hole using as few strokes as possible.

Posers. They’re everywhere. Go to Starbucks: They’re writing screenplays on their laptops.

The dulcet tones of a country guitar pluck their way through my ears.

“Come on, Speed Racer, either step on the gas or get out of the fast lane.” Chances are, you’ve uttered this phrase, or at least a profane version of it, more than once while driving on these San Diego roads.

For the past eight months, there has been something missing in my life.

The running shoes go on my feet. The plates go on the bar. I lay down on the padded bench. I ready myself to start my workout, and then it happens: The grunter lets loose.