"Remember no man is a failure who has friends."
Clarence Odbody, Angel Second Class, to George Bailey in "A Wonderful Life"
It wasn't exactly on my "bucket list," but one thing I managed to accomplish over the holidays was seeing at exceedingly long last Frank Capra's classic 1946 film "It's a Wonderful Life." I do not mean for even a second to suggest comparisons between the Ol' Bloviator and George Bailey, the staggeringly decent and selfless protagonist of the story, who has helped and in some cases actually saved or salvaged the lives of so many of his fellow citizens of the town of Bedford Falls. Still, like most people, I suspect, I could definitely relate to George's depression and sense of worthlessness when it appeared that he had not only failed in keeping the family business afloat, but in adequately providing for his children and long-suffering wife, Mary, played by Donna Reed, who was surely the most beautiful actress of her generation. Would that for all of us in times like these there would be a guardian angel, like good old Clarence, who could get us untracked at times like these and help us to see there are always good reasons to grab ourselves by the seat of our pants (taking great care, of course, to avoid self-inflicted wedgies), get back on our feet, and resume the business of doing the best we can to keep on keeping on, etc.
In this case, the immediate cause for George's feeling that it would've been better for all concerned if he had never been born was the careless misplacement of some $8,000 by his absent-minded Uncle Billy (played by Thomas Mitchell, best remembered as Gerald O'Hara in GWTW), leading to a crisis in which George and the Bailey Building and Loan Association run afoul of federal bank examiners. In a brilliant move that ultimately wins him his wings and a promotion to Angel First Class, Clarence shows the individual and community desolation that would have prevailed had George not been around to help so many people in so many ways. Meanwhile, good old Mary has put the word out that George is in major financial trouble, leading to a veritable stampede of donors who rush in to literally fill a basket with what amounts to a community bailout for the man who has done so much for so many. In the end, proclaims his younger brother Harry (whom George had saved from drowning as a child), this outpouring of friendship shows that George is actually "the richest man in town."
Though, unlike George, I have done little to deserve them, I have always felt blessed in the number of good friends that I have acquired over the years, dating back to my childhood and progressing through my truly "wonderful life" with Ms. O.B. There is some truth in the words of my old mentor who advised me many years ago that "by the time they're 40 years old, most people have all the friends they want." Yet, as academic vagabonds of sorts, we have managed to form new friendships wherever I have been fortunate to hang my mortarboard over the years.
In my case certainly, the degree of my friendship with anyone is likely to be registered in the extent to which we give each other unmerciful hell. In fact, the unmerciful hell part of it may be my very favorite thing about friendship. Nothing gives me a warmer, fuzzier feeling inside than to be ridiculed and berated for my appearance, politics, profession, etc. In this regard, I have been extraordinarily fortunate in the last few years to become part of "EFD" (Don't Ask), an aggregation that gathers every morning, rain or shine, tornado or blizzard, at 6:30 a.m. and runs various and strictly proscribed routes in and around Athens. Within this group, failure to show up for any reason is tantamount to desertion or treason. When I was out roughly three months with a broken ankle, queries about when I was going to stop babying myself and get back on the road began before the plaster on my cast had completely set. My rather laid-back sartorial style often earns me considerable abuse from certain members of the group so that when it was learned that I would be recognized by my august employer on the field at the last home football game this year, there was no shortage of critiques for any ensemble of clothing that I might propose for this occasion. This, of course, fueled my determination to attire myself in a fashion as contrary as possible to the suggestions of my "running buddies." Much to their relief, however, a serious cold snap dashed my plans to wear shorts and my beloved, if admittedly a little ragged and a lot dirty, Sanuks.
There was still some mumbling about what would transpire, but I was not able to discern what conspiracy might be afoot to embarrass me on this exalted occasion. As it turned out, there was a conspiracy of sorts, but it turned out to be a delightful one indeed.
As Ms. O.B. and I prepared to trek over to our normal pre-game group tailgate, we learned that there would be no walking for us that night. Instead, we were to be chauffeured in decidedly regal fashion by our friend Al, pictured above with yours very truly, in his trusty (but definitely not rusty) and appropriately red Oldsmobile convertible. Lest anyone along the route fail to pick up on our VIP status, subtle signage attached to the car should have made this abundantly clear, although some of the people along the route seemed puzzled as to why we both kept turning to one side and then the other to dispense our best stylized celebrity wave.
It was quite an evening all the way
around. Certainly there was nothing in
my previous experience to compare with standing out on the field in the midst
of 92,000 or so of my closest friends. (Take that, George Bailey!) 
Regrettably, I was not the only celebrity in
attendance that evening, and I couldn't help but feel a little sorry for Samuel
L Jackson, in that my presence doubtless overshadowed his to a great extent. 
When all is said and done, however, I think the best part of the whole business was knowing that my fellow EFD'ers had gone to the trouble of putting our group's special stamp on the occasion.
So, just let me say, "Thanks, Guys." This will help to make up for some--though certainly not all--of the times when I feel like the 29th president of the United States and the Patron Saint of Cobbloviate, Warren Gamaliel Harding, who, upon realizing that the gaggle of old pals he had appointed to high office were repaying his kindness by stealing the country blind, was heard to remark: "I can take care of my enemies in a fight. But my friends, my goddamned friends, they're the ones who keep me walking the floor at night."
