I like to get up early, really early. My day starts at 5:30 AM by putting some Prince on the LP (only the sound of vinyl will do for me on game days). I let that simmer and move from Prince record to prince record for a solid hour, hour and a half. Then I move it over to Marty Robbins at about 7:45. When 'Big Iron' is played, I get deep into meditation mode. I imagine Bo strolling through the tunnel in that iconic sweatshirt, and I just let the goosebumps roll.
Around 8:30 I start drinking. Scotch. But not Scotch by itself - I mix it up in a smoothie with kale, collard greens, eggs, and a bone broth made from organic, grass-fed animal marrow. Roughly six shots of Lagavulin 16 does really well with kale.
As soon as the smoothie has been delicately poured into my 'Das Boot' style glass (with a photo of Erin Andrews Scotch taped to it), I move the session over to my T.O. shrine in the garage. I kneel before His Great Perfection and offer burnt sacrifices on my George Foreman grill (that I painted with red finger nail polish, of course - love that glossy red shine).
I usually lose track of time in front of the shrine, and now we're talking probably, oh, 10:30. I switch to Cutty Sark about then. I pour it into a stadium cup I saved from the 1994 Pacific game. I start to really feel it. I'm a little tipsy, probably too tipsy to drive, but I get on the Vespa and head down to Elephant Hall. I just lay down under that big beast on the front steps and stare at those tusks, and imagine a thousand metaphors for the Husker glory days that were.
I don't have tickets, mind you, so I jet back home. I usually have to beg Mom to scoot over on the couch; it's Saturday morning, so she's hung over from Bingo night. I turn on the 15" Sanyo to channel 8 and get a bit of that sweet-to-the-taste local pre-game magic. Then I go with the foam dome hat, equipped with a couple Milwaukee's best, and slip into the ether as Ed Cunningham's voice slowly reels me in.
That's the usual.