From: Michael Barnes e-mail me

It's simple: They lost 65-13 to an overwhelmingly superior team. There's a reason the Sooners are ranked No. 1 while the Longhorns joined 11 other Top 25 teams in failing to score more points than their opponents the same weekend. Statistically, good teams lose some games.

(Writing about sports begs the obvious.)

The only damage — other than the dip in civic self-confidence felt 200 miles to the south — was to the expectations loaded on the Longhorns, mostly by the same sportswriters who lambasted them later.

They build up teams, then knock 'em when they're down.

It's well known that pundits do the same thing with political candidates. And business reporters almost seem to relish a downturn and bankruptcies as much as an uptick and healthy profit reports.

I suppose arts writers are no different. Local critics lavished praise on Austin Lyric Opera as the most accomplished and admired Austin arts group. We were just as quick to bash the company when its board of directors fumbled the firing of longtime director Joseph McClain last year.

Perhaps, deep down, we overreact to the bad news because we contribute to the irrationally inflated expectations.

Anyway, I'm a sore loser. Ask anyone who grew up near the West University corner of Amherst and Annapolis streets during the 1960s. Gracious in streetball victory, vicious, screaming meemie in defeat.

And I'm also somewhat of a fair-weather fan.

The first team to earn my wavering loyalty as an adult was the University of Houston's "Phi Slamma Jamma" basketball team that was beaten at the buzzer by still-despised North Carolina State University. Why, oh why, every March Madness season, do they replay that awful moment when NCS coach Jim Valvano swept onto the court after his team's last-minute victory? Don't they know it still hurts?

It was easy enough to transfer allegiance to the Houston Rockets when Akeem Olajuwon moved over from the U of H Cougars. And I could cheer the hometown team as it won successive major national championships for the first time. Sports skeptics have no idea how transformative that kind of conquest can be on a self-doubting city like Houston.

The Houston Oilers raised my hopes, only to dash them in famously heartbreaking playoff games. Still, Earl Campbell and Warren Moon glamorized football. While I never owned a stitch of Columbia "Luv Ya" Blue, I hated to see them suffer. My geographic loyalty is slowly switching to the Texans and I even cheered for the Dallas Cowboys — one game only — when they shook off their losing ways to beat the New York Giants earlier this season.

In general, however, professional sports repel me. The salaries and egos inflate in direct proportion to the decline in passion and honor. So moving to a town where college sports ruled was just another reason Austin was bound to be a good fit for me.

The first burnt orange to attract my regular attention belonged to the women's basketball program during the mid- to late '80s. As is often observed, women play a classical version of the game, below the basket, paying attention to basics, without the typical male showboating. The crowds also seem less drunk and nasty, although I don't want to stereotype.

Oh, and the Lady Longhorns were No. 1 back then.

I'd get anxious if their score wasn't double the opposing team's, especially in Southwest Conference play, and I made friends among the regulars who shared our micro-section each week. I even took a few round-ball road trips. Later, I let the season tickets lapse once Coach Jody Conradt got distracted by her duties as director of women's athletics, but have recently climbed back into the fan's seat now that she has dropped the other duties and returned the women's team to winning ways.

I like what Rick Barnes (no relation) has done with the men's basketball program as much as I admire Brown's transformation of football. They win and win regularly. They may not be No. 1, but they play fairly, cleanly — as far as I know. They confer honor on the school, the city and the state. While fervent, they do not project that mean-mouthed, redneck bully image so dear to some sportswriters.

That brings me back to younger days. I'd swallow my pride if we lost honorably, waiting until the bedroom door had slammed to unleash my disappointment. But if an opponent acted unfairly, if they bullied a weaker player or ran up the score on a losing team, nothing could contain my public rage.

I think the Longhorns are winners. And, almost every week of the season, they define the best sportsmanship. I'd rather win, but losing ain't so bad when you cheer for the good guys.

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From: Omar Gallaga e-mail me

When it comes to periodicals, it helps to have a passion. I missed the Laddie Mag trend by a few years when I gave up any magazines whose subscription cards included gift offers of nudie videos.

So what do I drool over now?

PC Gamer magazine. I love the previews, the reviews, the back-of-the-book "Hardstuff" articles of gamer-centric items like the latest video cards, PC speaker systems and flight sim joysticks. In between are huge ads for heavily modified desktop systems, the most popular of which now come in bright colors, with menacing grills on the front, see-through acrylic windows and glowing cathode tubes inside. If you want the inside of your computer to look like a lightswitch rave, this is where you shop.

My limbs tingle a little when I read that a simple Windows memory fix can bump up your 3DMARK03 benchmark scores. (PC gamers are nothing if not hogs for the tiniest gradation of performance improvement.) I quiver at the thought of a new hot-rod system with a sizable Serial ATA hard drive (IDE is so 2001), dual-channel DDR memory and Gigabit Ethernet on the motherboard. The page in the latest PC Gamer with a review of systems carrying the new Athlon 64 processor were simply too much. I turned the page in a panic, the way you might at an especially naughty lingerie ad in an otherwise reputable magazine, fearful that others might catch the look of lust in your eyes. . .

As I mentioned before, I had a slightly different take on the Film Fest than Chris Garcia, but then I didn't see as many films as he did and only got to visit the Governor's Mansion event briefly before getting Beeneyed (new term for meeting a quasi-celebrity like Erica Beeney and being quickly brushed off). At least I made away with a belly full of Dos Equis and Rudy's barbecue.

Most of my weekend was spent mourning the fact that because of a time crunch and the festival films I did see, I didn't have time to check out "Kill Bill" and "Intolerable Cruelty." And forget about DVDs. Everything new on my shelf, from "Scarface" to "The Lion King," is collecting dust. . .

For about the third time in two weeks, I had someone tell me that they don't get "Scrubs." In fact, the person I talked to counts "Friends" as one of their favorite shows, yet finds "Scrubs" mystifying in its approach. This seems to support the general notion that "Scrubs" may be too clever for its own good. Last season, the show never quite got the audience critics felt it deserved and even the Emmys didn't see fit to include it in its nominations for Best Comedy, despite the fact that the show boasts the best comedy ensemble on TV. (Yes, including "Friends" and "Curb Your Enthusiasm.")

The same split apparently happens at my parents' house, where my mom (likes dark comedies and dramas) enjoys the show and my dad (favorite movies "Top Gun" and "All of Me") would rather watch old home videos than sit through "Scrubs."

As the initial rush of publicity for the last season of "Friends" begins to die down, it's becoming clear after a few new episodes that the show is still funny, but really not great. It's certainly not "Seinfeld" great, and unless there's a rush of quality on the backend, this season may not even end up being "Three's Company" great. That goes as well for the no-longer-sparkly "Will & Grace," and the U.S. adaptation of BBC's "Coupling," which I can't watch all the way through. NBC has never treated "Scrubs" with the respect it deserves. The show debuted late, making room for the bloated premieres of the rest of its Thursday night lineup, and the show hasn't been promoted as heavily as, say, "Miss Match."

Soon, "Friends" will depart, and NBC will finally acknowledge what I already know: "Scrubs" is its sharpest, funniest comedy . . .

Speaking of "Scrubs": One quibble I do have with the show is that it recently recycled an almost-unprintable joke that was first used on "The Sopranos" and later cribbed on "Saturday Night Live" in a bad Jimmy Fallon/Horatio Sanz skit (is there any other kind)? If you remember it, it has to do with Uncle Junior complaining that he had federal agents so far up a certain orifice that he could taste Brylcreem. Dr. Cox on "Scrubs" used a variation on the line recently, and it was so jarring to hear the usually ace-written show pull out something so musty that I missed about five minutes of the show as my mind reeled with disappointment.

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From: Chris Garcia e-mail me

The crisis: Young's film had drawn a feeble 250 people, filling about a fifth of the Paramount, and organizers ached for an impressive crowd when the lights went up for Young's Q-and-A, not just a sprinkle of Young look-alikes.

Instead, they were losing people in clumps. There were about 20 walkouts during the movie, fest workers told me right as two women fled the theater. "That was painful, and I like Neil Young," said one, grimacing.

"About half who left had that look on their face," an organizer sighed.

"Greendale" is a movie-length music video by someone whose idea of a music video evidently comes from Country Music Television. Bad actors play out badly staged scenes as they lip-sync the words of Young's middling old-man rock. There's a story in there somewhere, larded with hoarse political screeds and fuzzy idealism ("A little love and affection/In everything you do/Will make the world a better place." I hope this is biting satire.)

When the movie ended, Young took the stage with some of the actors and his garrulous producer, whose name escaped me. With gray mutton chops the size of national forests, Young mostly deflected questions to the producer guy, who chortled a lot.

Young finally stirred when the discussion veered to Super 8, the grainy film stock on which he shot "Greendale." He said he was inspired by indie maverick Jim Jarmusch, whose film "Dead Man" Young scored.

"Nothing to it," Young said about the miracle of Super 8. "Just shoot and try to keep the lens clean."

Yeah, "Greendale" makes it look that easy. . . .

I split my time Saturday night toggling between "Greendale" and John Dullaghan's documentary "Bukowski: Born Into This," which was showing around the corner at the Driskill Hotel. J.J. Villard's sulfurously beautiful animated short "Son of Satan" preceded the feature. It's based on a Charles Bukowski short story and bristles with the sadistic and profane — "South Park" without the safety padding of parody.

"Born Into This" is an engaging compendium of archival footage, interviews and readings with the late writer. What you see in Bukowski, who looked like Sam Fuller after a welding accident, is a growling pirate whose body and soul have been ravaged by anger and booze. Soused and pugnacious, Bukowski was one of those creative saints whose multiple sins were pardoned by artistic dispensation. He could do almost anything and get a hardy laugh or patronizing nod. He shrugged at his hardships and distilled life to the libido and liquor. His grave plate reads simply, "Don't try." . . .

Eric Stoltz starred in two festival films — "Happy Hour," which showed Thursday, and the Austin-made "When Zachary Beaver Came to Town," which played Friday at a Paramount Theatre stuffed with cast and crew and what seemed like every one of their friends and relatives. It was one of those increasingly familiar Austin love-ins, where every credit down to production accountant is met with hoots and hollers. The family movie co-stars some pleasant child actors, including Jonathan Lipnicki, the bespectacled squirt from "Jerry Maguire."

Stoltz joined Lipnicki and fellow actors and director John Schultz for a post-show Q-and-A. Lipnicki tilted to the hammy side and wore a weirdly outmoded ensemble — black mesh tank top, '80s new wave sunglasses, a peroxided spiky mini-mohawk and baggy jeans. When Lipnicki, 12, was asked what he's working on, Schultz quipped, " 'The Vanilla Ice Story.'" . . .

Back to Stoltz: Look out for his movie "Happy Hour," a sympathetic, well-acted tragicomedy starring Anthony LaPaglia as a writer who's drinking himself to death and Stoltz as his best friend. It became a festival buzz film after its Friday showing. Even cooler, Richard Levine's script was a finalist at the Austin Film Festival Screenplay Competition in 2001.

A funny conversation I had with screenwriter Brian Helgeland ("Mystic River," "L.A. Confidential") on the way to the festival's opening party Friday at the Governor's Mansion concerned how lousy "Saving Private Ryan" was. We both agreed the film is exactly the opposite — pro-war — of what it purports to be — anti-war.

Helgeland suggested that Spielberg should have made Matt Damon's Private Ryan an insufferable jerk. Then, all the guys die except Tom Hanks' character, who does his duty and returns Ryan to base. "So he's got little Private Ryan with him, and when he gets back to base to deliver him he says, 'Here he is,' " Helgeland said. "Then he takes his gun out and blows Ryan's brains out. Then it's an anti-war movie." . . .

Erica Beeney, the tyro screenwriter who suffered for her art so valiantly on this season's "Project Greenlight," was getting a lot of attention from strangers over the weekend. At the Governor's Mansion shindig, a pair of my filmmaker friends panted as they asked me where they could find her. (I pointed to the bathroom.) Beeney's appeal is understandable: She's just famous enough to emanate some star charisma, but just enough of a sad sack to be attainable. . . .

On Sunday I saw the coming-next-month Will Ferrell comedy "Elf" at the Paramount. The crowd roared at its limp, risk-free gags and embraced its hackneyed formula. I left after an hour of the common-denominator beating. Not that it was dreadful, but by then the festival had eaten a chunk of my life and I needed groceries.

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From: Jeanne Claire van Ryzin e-mail me

Like a sailing ship, the Lake Austin Boat Dock appears to float gently next to a steep wooded bluff, not hunker on the shore like a beached whale the way so many waterfront structures do. Not only does it have slip space for two boats and storage for watercraft (nicely hidden behind a screen of steel tubes), it's topped by a gracious deck, part of which is covered with a white sail-like canopy that's held aloft by a delicate system of white masts, tensioning cable and stainless steel. Cool.

The New York AIA award is just one of many the project has received. I wrote about the project in July when it won highest honors from the Austin Chapter of the AIA. Shortly thereafter, Rivera's firm took home a 2003 American Architecture Award from the Chicago Atheneum. Earlier this year, the project netted an award from the American Institute of Steel (engineers liked it too!). Last year the Texas Society of Architects also gave it a design award.

I can't think of another recently built project in Austin that's won so many architecture design accolades, especially national ones. So congrats to Rivera and company. And now that we've mastered buildings that sit on water, perhaps Austin will get a little better at designing the ones that sit on land . . .

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