There's a man down.
Feb. 8th, 2005 11:34 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
penfieldUsually, the two hours between the end of the Super Bowl and bedtime are the hardest two hours of my year.
For one thing, it is the time that is farthest away from more NFL football. (I do not count the Pro Bowl. On the sports continuum, the vanilla-flavored, good-spirited, watered-down-like-Bud-Light activity practiced at Aloha Stadium rests somewhere between touch football and backgammon.)
For another thing, it is the attendant beginning of my delivery pizza moratorium. I only allow myself to order pizza during the football season, and then only when a game is playing. Instituted as part of the Great Diet of 2003, during which I lost 25 pounds,[1] this moratorium is designed to prevent me from incessantly engorging myself on my favorite food, and to ensure that when I do indulge, I am at least distracted (and thereby somewhat slowed) from eating by something besides mild coronary discomfort.
But the hardest thing of all is the end of my annual Super Bowl Extravaganza, a tradition that in 2005 celebrated its fifth anniversary. It is the one big party I hold every year, the one event I start planning months in advance, the one time I actively gather all of my favorite people in my home and bask in their warm glow, while they bask in the warm glow of my immodestly sized home theater system.
It is no small effort squeezing all of my favorite people, my immodestly sized home theater system and copious snacks into my meager studio apartment. Besides safely storing my many large awards, trophies and citations, my bed has to be entirely disassembled, not just to create space for the necessary furniture but also to prevent any excessive swooning from the women in attendance.
Because space is at such a premium, invitations are extended with great deliberation and sanctity. Admission to my Super Bowl Extravaganza is a badge of true friendship, as valuable as a ticket to the Oscars, only better because you can wear comfortable attire and you don't have to worry about the temptation to punch the E! Network's on-air talent in the kidneys.
In addition to the ceremonial hollering at The Big Game and hooting at the obligatory beer commercials, the extravaganza also includes The Arlington Invitational, an annual touch football game pitting friend against friend in a fierce and fun-filled battle for recreational supremacy and bragging rights.
These schoolyard battles are usually blowouts, for some reason, no matter how we split the teams. This is a constant struggle for me as the game organizer as I try not only to distribute equally the skill and competitiveness of the combatants but also to arrange enough chemistry between teammates so that non-gameplay-related violence is held to a minimum.
Normally, selecting teams through the use of "captains" would meet these criteria. This is the same Darwinian technique used by physical education teachers to instill in their students their appropriate levels of societal self-worth. Under this format, two individuals of roughly equivalent skill pick take turns picking players until the only ones left are the weak and the meek. This ritual always seemed somewhat barbaric to me, an ill-coordinated, generally roundish young physical education student for whom participation in athletics was tantamount to a turkey's participation in Thanksgiving dinner.
Being sensitive to these societal pressures, I have taken to assigning the teams myself. On a purely selfish level, it's pretty fun, and would be more so if there you could draft incoming players or trade J.R. for a punter and a sandwich to be named later.
And even if the scores have been lopsided, the games have offered some memorable moments. Who can forget![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
instant_ethos's three-touchdown MVP romp even after a nearly gruesome car keys-related injury on the opening play in 2003? How can you top the Dairy Queen's no-look Hail-Mary reception in a snow-covered end zone in 2004? Sports fans, where were you when I broke my arm inexplicably trying to fly over D. for a game-tightening touchdown in 2002?
This year had all the makings of another fine contest, not the least of which was the astonishingly nice weather. At one point I was forced to remove my shirt entirely, thus exposing my extensive collection of jailhouse tattoos and appendectomy scars. Neighborhood folks in shirtsleeves were passing by with smiles on their faces. Birds chirped above us in a confused cadence. ("This is strange. Where the hell are we? I told you we should have made a right over Atlanta.") The sun was shining and I was as pumped up as my freshly inflated football.
The problem was, my players kept flaking out at the last minute. I suppose I shouldn't use the term "flaking," because that implies a cavalier or careless attitude, and everyone's excuse seemed reasonably legitimate, from the medical (broken arm, bad wrist) to the professional (paperwork, late nights) to the geographical (went to the wrong field). Nevertheless, I felt besieged by a lack of commitment and dedication to The Game. To be fair, very few people come close to matching my commitment and dedication to The Game. Perhaps I care too much about the game. If I had cared half as much about precalculus, I would be designing robots and rocketships right now.
Given the lack of enthusiasm and bodies, I was about to cancel the whole Invitational altogether until D. -- my one true stalwart, the Brett Favre of the Arlington Invitational -- managed to lasso two passersby into our pick-up game: William, a loud but personable joe, and Fritz, a quiet football-shaped man who reminded me a lot of a turkey at Thanksgiving dinner.
Eventually we obtained a quorum and played a cute little game, perhaps short on spectacle but long on grass stains. Teamed with the wily D., the lanky J.R. and the divine Ms. M., we laid the righteous smack down on the E-Train, Mr. BALCO and the Passersby. When the game was over, William invited us all up to his building's sun deck for Gatorade and beer. (Separately.)
I had to head back to my place, though, to prepare my apartment and the Dip. The Dip is a proper noun, because it is not merely dip. It is a living entity: an insouciant party spirit spreading good cheer and festivity throughout the room. The mere aroma of salsa, black beans, pinto beans and six different kinds of cheese wafting through the air so livens the atmosphere that nearby Amish individuals commonly begin dancing uncontrollably. And not only is it a delicious snack treat, it also serves as a soothing balm, an energy-efficient insulant, a luxurious hair conditioner and a low-grade industrial solvent. Certain clinical trials have demonstrated its effectiveness in curing certain types of joint pain. One particular tribe in Borneo has made it the basis of their belief structure. Verily, when poured into a semicircular serving dish, it is the very embodiment of a Super Bowl of Dip.
It is served with chips.
Of course, man cannot live on Dip alone, even the hardiest of souls with the heartiest of dips. So I order pizzas as well, which allows me one final pepperoni fix. I personally favor New York style pizza, the floppier the better. Pizza Hut's "Big New Yorker" was a natural fit for the previous year's party, but by autumn 2004 the monolithic franchise had capriciously discontinued this menu favorite. In its absence, I managed to find a parlor that served even more authentic New York style pies. In true New York style, however, their pizzas were prohibitively expensive and delivered by surly immigrants.
So I fell back on Pizza Boli's, a local chain providing an acceptable synthesis of quality and bargain pricing. The catch is, Boli's business model is predicated on an inscrutable series of value deals. Two large cheese pizzas for $16.99. Two larges with two toppings each for $17.99. Two mediums with two toppings each for $14.99. Three mediums with one topping each for $19.59. Seven larges with three toppings each for $100. Two larges with two mediums each for $25.79. Three toppings with four toppings each for $12.64. I'm pretty sure the woman on the phone mentioned something about subs and buffalo wings but I was distracted because my graphing calculator caught on fire.
Anyway, I ordered plenty of pizza -- too much, naturally, partly because there were several people who didn't show up and partly because I foolishly always expect everyone to suck down pizza like I do. Additionally, the homemakers among us brought additional food: Mrs. X brought some delicious oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, while Ms. M brought broccoli, crackers and Jarlsburg cheese.
Incidentally, we're talking about a lot of broccoli. In that bag was probably more broccoli than I had consumed during my entire childhood. I'm not entirely sure how M. was planning on selling the broccoli to the Super Bowl crowd. To get me to eat it, she would have had to conceal it entirely in the Jarlsburg cheese.
After what seemed like an eternity of pregame rituals ("The Bud Light pre-toss coin-polishing ceremony will be followed after this by the annual virgin sacrifice, as brought to you by Ameriquest, in conjunction with Fox's American Idol and Loki, the ancient god of mischief"), the game finally started. I won't delve into a detailed play-by-play or analysis of the game, because there are other Web sites you can go to for that sort of thing. Also, thinking about it would only make me want to throw up.
The room was divided pretty evenly between Eagles and Patriots fans. The Eagles fans were easily identifiable by their slack posture and wincing faces. The Patriots fans were distinguishable by the fact that they had no souls. Tensions were high, which is not always a bad thing. But it was a palpable, uncomfortable tension rather than a tingly, first-date kind of tension. So it felt a little like a room full of cats and dogs nervously watching TV together. Fortunately, my Super Bowl of Dip acted as a powerful social emollient, bringing adversaries together in a spirit of harmony and peace, much as it did during the historic Camp David accords of 1978.
I do admit to being somewhat concerned, at least initially, thatinstant_ethos, a Philadelphia native, would throw something near or perhaps even through my highly valued television set. That worry eventually faded and was replaced by the fear that he would throw something near or perhaps even through J.R., a Boston native.
In the five years I have hosted my Super Bowl Extravaganza, my teams of choice have gone 0-5, thereby demonstrating the limitations of the Dip's power. To be honest, I was fully prepared for an Eagles loss this year. But I thought there was at least the distinct possibility of Tom Brady suffering a debilitating groin injury. No such luck.
With the Super Bowl over – "At least I don't have to sweep up all that confetti," I thought to myself as I watched the postgame celebration and pondered my own cleanup – my guests headed home to get some sleep in before Monday morning.
This is the moment when sadness typically sets in, when all my friends go away and leave me with an apartment that looks like it's been hit by a nacho-flavored hurricane. It is as if all the neurotransmitters in my brain leave with them, leaving all these dopamine and epinephrine receptors with nothing to do except whine about washing dishes. By the time I am finished putting my bed and my apartment back together, I am usually so drained and depressed that I need to watch a few episodes of Sports Night just to feel human again.
A funny thing happened this year, though. Strangely, I didn't mind so much when people started going home. Maybe it was because the actual game was so thoroughly irritating, or because I was frustrated by the assorted no-shows at the touch football game and the party, or because it just didn't live up to the expectations forged by previous years and last year in particular.
And therefore, the two hours after the Super Bowl weren't too much of a come-down after all. (Though I have to admit that the dirty dishes are still sitting in my sink.) It just makes me wonder if maybe the Extravaganza peaked a year ago, and it's a good time to let someone else carry the rock. It makes me think that maybe K.C. might not be so bad. It makes me think that maybe I just need to provide more beer.
And then I hear from the ever-stalwart D., who writes, "Thank you … for hosting the 5th Annual Arlington Invitational Classic and Super Bowl Extravaganza. There's no place I'd rather be for the big game."
Wait 'till next year.
For one thing, it is the time that is farthest away from more NFL football. (I do not count the Pro Bowl. On the sports continuum, the vanilla-flavored, good-spirited, watered-down-like-Bud-Light activity practiced at Aloha Stadium rests somewhere between touch football and backgammon.)
For another thing, it is the attendant beginning of my delivery pizza moratorium. I only allow myself to order pizza during the football season, and then only when a game is playing. Instituted as part of the Great Diet of 2003, during which I lost 25 pounds,[1] this moratorium is designed to prevent me from incessantly engorging myself on my favorite food, and to ensure that when I do indulge, I am at least distracted (and thereby somewhat slowed) from eating by something besides mild coronary discomfort.
But the hardest thing of all is the end of my annual Super Bowl Extravaganza, a tradition that in 2005 celebrated its fifth anniversary. It is the one big party I hold every year, the one event I start planning months in advance, the one time I actively gather all of my favorite people in my home and bask in their warm glow, while they bask in the warm glow of my immodestly sized home theater system.
It is no small effort squeezing all of my favorite people, my immodestly sized home theater system and copious snacks into my meager studio apartment. Besides safely storing my many large awards, trophies and citations, my bed has to be entirely disassembled, not just to create space for the necessary furniture but also to prevent any excessive swooning from the women in attendance.
Because space is at such a premium, invitations are extended with great deliberation and sanctity. Admission to my Super Bowl Extravaganza is a badge of true friendship, as valuable as a ticket to the Oscars, only better because you can wear comfortable attire and you don't have to worry about the temptation to punch the E! Network's on-air talent in the kidneys.
In addition to the ceremonial hollering at The Big Game and hooting at the obligatory beer commercials, the extravaganza also includes The Arlington Invitational, an annual touch football game pitting friend against friend in a fierce and fun-filled battle for recreational supremacy and bragging rights.
These schoolyard battles are usually blowouts, for some reason, no matter how we split the teams. This is a constant struggle for me as the game organizer as I try not only to distribute equally the skill and competitiveness of the combatants but also to arrange enough chemistry between teammates so that non-gameplay-related violence is held to a minimum.
Normally, selecting teams through the use of "captains" would meet these criteria. This is the same Darwinian technique used by physical education teachers to instill in their students their appropriate levels of societal self-worth. Under this format, two individuals of roughly equivalent skill pick take turns picking players until the only ones left are the weak and the meek. This ritual always seemed somewhat barbaric to me, an ill-coordinated, generally roundish young physical education student for whom participation in athletics was tantamount to a turkey's participation in Thanksgiving dinner.
Being sensitive to these societal pressures, I have taken to assigning the teams myself. On a purely selfish level, it's pretty fun, and would be more so if there you could draft incoming players or trade J.R. for a punter and a sandwich to be named later.
And even if the scores have been lopsided, the games have offered some memorable moments. Who can forget
instant_ethos's three-touchdown MVP romp even after a nearly gruesome car keys-related injury on the opening play in 2003? How can you top the Dairy Queen's no-look Hail-Mary reception in a snow-covered end zone in 2004? Sports fans, where were you when I broke my arm inexplicably trying to fly over D. for a game-tightening touchdown in 2002?This year had all the makings of another fine contest, not the least of which was the astonishingly nice weather. At one point I was forced to remove my shirt entirely, thus exposing my extensive collection of jailhouse tattoos and appendectomy scars. Neighborhood folks in shirtsleeves were passing by with smiles on their faces. Birds chirped above us in a confused cadence. ("This is strange. Where the hell are we? I told you we should have made a right over Atlanta.") The sun was shining and I was as pumped up as my freshly inflated football.
The problem was, my players kept flaking out at the last minute. I suppose I shouldn't use the term "flaking," because that implies a cavalier or careless attitude, and everyone's excuse seemed reasonably legitimate, from the medical (broken arm, bad wrist) to the professional (paperwork, late nights) to the geographical (went to the wrong field). Nevertheless, I felt besieged by a lack of commitment and dedication to The Game. To be fair, very few people come close to matching my commitment and dedication to The Game. Perhaps I care too much about the game. If I had cared half as much about precalculus, I would be designing robots and rocketships right now.
Given the lack of enthusiasm and bodies, I was about to cancel the whole Invitational altogether until D. -- my one true stalwart, the Brett Favre of the Arlington Invitational -- managed to lasso two passersby into our pick-up game: William, a loud but personable joe, and Fritz, a quiet football-shaped man who reminded me a lot of a turkey at Thanksgiving dinner.
Eventually we obtained a quorum and played a cute little game, perhaps short on spectacle but long on grass stains. Teamed with the wily D., the lanky J.R. and the divine Ms. M., we laid the righteous smack down on the E-Train, Mr. BALCO and the Passersby. When the game was over, William invited us all up to his building's sun deck for Gatorade and beer. (Separately.)
I had to head back to my place, though, to prepare my apartment and the Dip. The Dip is a proper noun, because it is not merely dip. It is a living entity: an insouciant party spirit spreading good cheer and festivity throughout the room. The mere aroma of salsa, black beans, pinto beans and six different kinds of cheese wafting through the air so livens the atmosphere that nearby Amish individuals commonly begin dancing uncontrollably. And not only is it a delicious snack treat, it also serves as a soothing balm, an energy-efficient insulant, a luxurious hair conditioner and a low-grade industrial solvent. Certain clinical trials have demonstrated its effectiveness in curing certain types of joint pain. One particular tribe in Borneo has made it the basis of their belief structure. Verily, when poured into a semicircular serving dish, it is the very embodiment of a Super Bowl of Dip.
It is served with chips.
Of course, man cannot live on Dip alone, even the hardiest of souls with the heartiest of dips. So I order pizzas as well, which allows me one final pepperoni fix. I personally favor New York style pizza, the floppier the better. Pizza Hut's "Big New Yorker" was a natural fit for the previous year's party, but by autumn 2004 the monolithic franchise had capriciously discontinued this menu favorite. In its absence, I managed to find a parlor that served even more authentic New York style pies. In true New York style, however, their pizzas were prohibitively expensive and delivered by surly immigrants.
So I fell back on Pizza Boli's, a local chain providing an acceptable synthesis of quality and bargain pricing. The catch is, Boli's business model is predicated on an inscrutable series of value deals. Two large cheese pizzas for $16.99. Two larges with two toppings each for $17.99. Two mediums with two toppings each for $14.99. Three mediums with one topping each for $19.59. Seven larges with three toppings each for $100. Two larges with two mediums each for $25.79. Three toppings with four toppings each for $12.64. I'm pretty sure the woman on the phone mentioned something about subs and buffalo wings but I was distracted because my graphing calculator caught on fire.
Anyway, I ordered plenty of pizza -- too much, naturally, partly because there were several people who didn't show up and partly because I foolishly always expect everyone to suck down pizza like I do. Additionally, the homemakers among us brought additional food: Mrs. X brought some delicious oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, while Ms. M brought broccoli, crackers and Jarlsburg cheese.
Incidentally, we're talking about a lot of broccoli. In that bag was probably more broccoli than I had consumed during my entire childhood. I'm not entirely sure how M. was planning on selling the broccoli to the Super Bowl crowd. To get me to eat it, she would have had to conceal it entirely in the Jarlsburg cheese.
After what seemed like an eternity of pregame rituals ("The Bud Light pre-toss coin-polishing ceremony will be followed after this by the annual virgin sacrifice, as brought to you by Ameriquest, in conjunction with Fox's American Idol and Loki, the ancient god of mischief"), the game finally started. I won't delve into a detailed play-by-play or analysis of the game, because there are other Web sites you can go to for that sort of thing. Also, thinking about it would only make me want to throw up.
The room was divided pretty evenly between Eagles and Patriots fans. The Eagles fans were easily identifiable by their slack posture and wincing faces. The Patriots fans were distinguishable by the fact that they had no souls. Tensions were high, which is not always a bad thing. But it was a palpable, uncomfortable tension rather than a tingly, first-date kind of tension. So it felt a little like a room full of cats and dogs nervously watching TV together. Fortunately, my Super Bowl of Dip acted as a powerful social emollient, bringing adversaries together in a spirit of harmony and peace, much as it did during the historic Camp David accords of 1978.
I do admit to being somewhat concerned, at least initially, that
instant_ethos, a Philadelphia native, would throw something near or perhaps even through my highly valued television set. That worry eventually faded and was replaced by the fear that he would throw something near or perhaps even through J.R., a Boston native.In the five years I have hosted my Super Bowl Extravaganza, my teams of choice have gone 0-5, thereby demonstrating the limitations of the Dip's power. To be honest, I was fully prepared for an Eagles loss this year. But I thought there was at least the distinct possibility of Tom Brady suffering a debilitating groin injury. No such luck.
With the Super Bowl over – "At least I don't have to sweep up all that confetti," I thought to myself as I watched the postgame celebration and pondered my own cleanup – my guests headed home to get some sleep in before Monday morning.
This is the moment when sadness typically sets in, when all my friends go away and leave me with an apartment that looks like it's been hit by a nacho-flavored hurricane. It is as if all the neurotransmitters in my brain leave with them, leaving all these dopamine and epinephrine receptors with nothing to do except whine about washing dishes. By the time I am finished putting my bed and my apartment back together, I am usually so drained and depressed that I need to watch a few episodes of Sports Night just to feel human again.
A funny thing happened this year, though. Strangely, I didn't mind so much when people started going home. Maybe it was because the actual game was so thoroughly irritating, or because I was frustrated by the assorted no-shows at the touch football game and the party, or because it just didn't live up to the expectations forged by previous years and last year in particular.
And therefore, the two hours after the Super Bowl weren't too much of a come-down after all. (Though I have to admit that the dirty dishes are still sitting in my sink.) It just makes me wonder if maybe the Extravaganza peaked a year ago, and it's a good time to let someone else carry the rock. It makes me think that maybe K.C. might not be so bad. It makes me think that maybe I just need to provide more beer.
And then I hear from the ever-stalwart D., who writes, "Thank you … for hosting the 5th Annual Arlington Invitational Classic and Super Bowl Extravaganza. There's no place I'd rather be for the big game."
Wait 'till next year.
Re: Broccoli
Date: 2005-02-09 03:09 pm (UTC)Re: Broccoli
Date: 2005-02-09 03:22 pm (UTC)Just save the broccoli for a veg stir-fry when you need a post-bender detox.
Re: Broccoli
Date: 2005-02-09 03:29 pm (UTC)Re: Broccoli
Date: 2005-02-09 07:33 pm (UTC)