No. 188 - Poor Man’s Game Notes VII: UGA vs. Florida, 11/1/25

Florida as a state? Can’t say I’m a fan.

There are only two places I go: Steinhatchee, a tiny Gulf town where a buddy owns a bar and does fishing charters, and Juno Beach, home of Seminole Golf Club. Other than that, I’m perfectly fine never going any farther south of St. Simons.

If I had to pick between an evening in Aspen with John Denver or an afternoon of beachfront daiquiris with Jimmy Buffett, I’m going with the former. And don’t get me started on Florida sand – that sugary variety that finds its way into crevices where God didn’t intend it. Give me that hard-pack coastal Georgia stuff. Again – not a fan of Florida.

Coincidentally, I just got back from a road trip that had me in Aspen. But before I got there, I camped on the beach in Galveston, stayed in a meditation commune in Texas Hill Country, and crashed in a former miner’s boarding house outside of Telluride. All of this led to an afternoon in a little place called “Asssssssspen.”

As I sat on a park bench, debating between camping in the Rockies or driving to New Mexico, a gentleman named Caymus entered my life.

He introduced himself as the town drunk and the town poet. Appearing a bit disheveled and smelling of grain alcohol, I took him at his word. After getting to know one another, he read me two poems – one about the day Jerry Garcia died. Being a poet who likes to believe he can spot talent, I immediately realized that Caymus is a borderline savant.

Once he heard I was from Atlanta and went to UGA, he asked if The Globe was still around. I said it was. And then he asked about the Euclid Avenue Yacht Club in Atlanta. I said it too was still serving. As you can imagine, I was quickly falling for the guy.

Before we parted ways, we agreed to stay in touch. And to both of our credit, we have. In fact, I asked him who was going to win the Georgia–Florida game, and he answered in one word – GEORGIA. So, as far as I’m concerned, it’s a lock. It’s not every day you come across a drunken poet who confidently picks the Dawgs.