The cacophony of wildlife immune to summer's weight is suddenly replaced by the uproar of brass and wind and percussion, the plaintive re-stashing of luggage in the closet rotates with the ritual of undraping team-branded accessories denoting the flagrant barbarism of the Longhorns.
Fall is also high season for inebriation, shouting at an uninfluenced television screen, fretting too much about a 4-4 defense vs. the rush attack. It this season that makes the entire region -- hell, the entire country -- come alive with anticipation and passion and pride, for the school colors represent affirmation in ourselves and those who wear the colors with us. Not only can college football impact our generational genes for eons, but alter our very internal biological fluid. The goal is orange blood, identifying with similarly-minded braggarts and assholes; flashers of a manual steer head.
Most of all, Fall is represented by hymnals of tradition; music written for the grand colosseums of physical theatre -- which, ironically, is played in majority by small instruments for the sole purpose of motivation as if summonsing the cavalry. It is the musical composition to a story of battle, art narrating combat; piquing intense emotions from the disciples and acrimony from the rivals.
Despite that, these traditionals represent something enjoyed by both children and pensioners alike, creating a rights-to-passage sent down through the generations. Such is the timeless message of the Horns: Texas Fight, Hook 'em, and The Eyes of Texas are Upon You.
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.. and ou sucks.
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