party of one: note on a phenomenon
So, every year for the last seven years I've spent much of Super Bowl Sunday cursing out various friends, associates, relatives, and random passers-by from the convenience of my cell phone. Those whose parties I could not make, would undoubtedly receive a call, several even, by the start of the second quarter, during which I'd curse them for throwing a party I couldn't make, curse them for the food they served, for wearing tennis shoes, for the sunshine in the sky or the cars on the road. I'd curse them for anything, really. As long as it made me laugh and confused those around me, I was happy. Unfortunately this became somewhat of a tradition, and soon people were expecting those calls, anticipating, hoping, conceptualizing, even. And then I found myself disgusted with the whole process
The last straw? Someone asked me to curse them out, on the phone, in person.
Sigh.
What follows are my notes from this year’s big game as I tried to ignore my terrible phone, and do some serious work on the phenomenon known as “Best Picture”:
The phone was ringing like crazy, but I didn't answer it. I was deep into a special brand of research. I was watching the game alone, butt-ass naked, sitting only inches from the television. My supplies were as follows:
- 1 Bowl of nuked Velveeta and Chi-Chi's salsa
- 18 "Boneless" wings with KFC's "Flavor Station" seasoning
- "Bowl' shaped tortilla chips for "dipping"
- 6 pack Michelob "Ultra"
- 6 pack Natty Light
- 1-pint vanilla rum w/ lime chunks and generic cola
I had been told that watching the game in this fashion would help me to understand why Brokeback Mountain will win best picture this year. It was an original enough theory so I thought I'd try it. Besides, I didn't believe it anyway and I figured it didn't make a difference if you watched the game naked or completely clothed.
The problems started with the generic cola. I should've bought name brand. All these Diet Pepsi commercials and I'm drinking generic. Fuck me. What's my malfunction? I try a rum and coke anyway and it tastes like piss. I reason that piss might taste like the undercarriage of Heath Ledger’s balls, but I'm not really sure. Anyway so, yeah... So, I connect rum and cokes, to generic cola, to piss, to Heath Ledger, who obviously drank lots of generic cola while preparing for the part of a pole smoking Romeo.
The next thing was the phone, of course. People just begging to curse me out. Begging like mad. Loud, virulent ring tones. Dirty words just dying to be released. Fuck my shoes? Yes, I'm sure. Fuck the Pope? Why not? Your sister shit in his socks! Okay. Sure. Well, no, I can't come over and give your mother a Dirty Sanchez, but I'd like to. Go fuck my cat? You bet. He is my editor, after all. And while I’m at it, I’ll season his meat! Down in the tiny sweet hole, just feel my beat! All for me. That's right! Yes, Yes, Yes...
I'm fairly impressed with the KFC wings, though I don't understand how they removed the tiny chicken arm bones. The sheer spectacle of this is double the excitement of anything that happens in the first quarter, and I miss all the commercials trying to tie the Pope, to Bill Cowher, to Ang Lee. None of it makes sense, and I'm beginning to think I should actually go see Brokeback Mountain before talking shit about it...
But the second quarter starts and I forget that bullshit completely when I realize I'm getting an erection. Alarmed, I fumble for the remote, trying to change to channel, discovering instead that my genitals have been sitting for sometime in the warm Velveeta. This is relief. I reason that resting your genitals in warm Velveeta and Chi-Chi's salsa is almost like resting your genitals in a warm vagina... and Chi-Chi's salsa. And then everything is okay. The second half ends with a pitiful score (7 to 3), but I'm able to link the Pope to Ang Lee when I remember that Ang Lee's second cousin invented Velveeta.
Halftime? Stones. Great. (shrug). Don't get me wrong. I like the Stones. But I pass half time playing Madden instead.
Start of the third. Drank the Michelob! Whoooooooooooooooo! You are goddamn right, my friends. This is the greatest marvel of the modern age! Super! Bowl! Sunday! I am on my way! Get up for work tomorrow? Who cares!!!??? Not me, friends! Not when I have research and theories and notes and boneless chicken wings!
Willie Parker breaks for a 75 yard run and the phone goes silent. No more rings. I get nervous. Why did it stop ringing? Is Willie a genius? Are they coming to get me? It’s a great run and I wonder why Capote isn’t so highly regarded. Is Brokeback that much better? Are you telling me Heath Ledger is a better actor than Phillip Seymour Hoffman? Has the world gone mad? Are the Seahawks really in the Super Bowl? The Natty Light tells me to put on some underwear, but I ignore it. Jeremy Stevens finally catches something and it’s a touchdown. So what.
The phone starts ringing again and I instinctually reach for it. No. Don’t do it. Ignore the terrible confirmation that’s forming. Focus on the bowl shaped chips and that crazy-ass pizza from Pizza Hut. Yes, a pizza with fragmented cheese filled crust does make sense. Especially when Jessica Simpson’s breasts tell me so. I want to answer a call and hang-up immediately. No sense in teasing myself, but I can’t help it. Suddenly I’m screaming profanities at the television and the Natty Light vanishes in a haze of cheese-knots and flowing, golden strands of hair.
The fourth quarter! Almost there! All right, let’s see what we got: Generic Cola is to Heath Ledger what Velveeta is to Ang Lee. People want to scream “Fuck the Pope!” at me, and Bill Cowher likes anything with cheese, whether its crust-knots or Jessica’s breasts. This means that Brokeback will win best picture if the Steelers are able to pull a trick play. And guess what? They fucking do it! Big Ben, to Antwan Randle-El, to Hines Ward, to the motherfucking house!
Ringing, ringing, ringing! Still ringing!
Hand shaking, the Lombardi trophy hoisted, I feel cold and violated. There is a faint buzzing around me, a hollow, distant call. I get this way every time I let the phone vibrate on my testicles. The caller ID says yes. This is the one. This call is it. Just one for the Bus. One for Phillip-Seymour. Just one more for that chick from Dawson’s Creek. One little call won’t hurt, will it:
Drew: “Hello?”
Trevor: “Hello?”
Drew: “Yes?”
Trevor: “Dou you love it?”
Drew: “Shit yeah I love it! Mother fuck me goddamn it!”
Trevor: “Fuck you?”
Drew: “Fuck me!”
Trevor: “Fuck… wait, hold on a second. Drew, we need to talk. All of this animosity toward Brokeback Mountain is a bit ridiculous, don’t ya think?”
Drew: “Yeah, I guess. But…”
Trevor: “But nothing, really, come on. Capote won’t win best picture because it’s already had its moment. And besides, it was released rather early in the awards season and hasn’t made much money. It was wonderfully adapted, true. And it did stretch the notion of what a bio-pic can be. But did it leave people in tears? Did it turn people’s emotions into a tangled mess? Did it have Cowboys, let alone Gay Cowboys?”
Drew: “Well, no.”
Trevor: “There you go. So, next time, keep your opinion to yourself and drink more generic cola. Word to Big Bird. And, of course, go fuck the Pope’s socks.”
The final score was an eventful 21-10, which I witness from behind a deluge of oncoming phone calls. Everything and everyone says fuck me. Surprise. I’ve learned that watching the Super Bowl completely naked will help you to understand much about this world, especially the Academy Awards. This something I share with you now, from the Battle of the Curse Divine….
Go Steelers!
The last straw? Someone asked me to curse them out, on the phone, in person.
Sigh.
What follows are my notes from this year’s big game as I tried to ignore my terrible phone, and do some serious work on the phenomenon known as “Best Picture”:
The phone was ringing like crazy, but I didn't answer it. I was deep into a special brand of research. I was watching the game alone, butt-ass naked, sitting only inches from the television. My supplies were as follows:
- 1 Bowl of nuked Velveeta and Chi-Chi's salsa
- 18 "Boneless" wings with KFC's "Flavor Station" seasoning
- "Bowl' shaped tortilla chips for "dipping"
- 6 pack Michelob "Ultra"
- 6 pack Natty Light
- 1-pint vanilla rum w/ lime chunks and generic cola
I had been told that watching the game in this fashion would help me to understand why Brokeback Mountain will win best picture this year. It was an original enough theory so I thought I'd try it. Besides, I didn't believe it anyway and I figured it didn't make a difference if you watched the game naked or completely clothed.
The problems started with the generic cola. I should've bought name brand. All these Diet Pepsi commercials and I'm drinking generic. Fuck me. What's my malfunction? I try a rum and coke anyway and it tastes like piss. I reason that piss might taste like the undercarriage of Heath Ledger’s balls, but I'm not really sure. Anyway so, yeah... So, I connect rum and cokes, to generic cola, to piss, to Heath Ledger, who obviously drank lots of generic cola while preparing for the part of a pole smoking Romeo.
The next thing was the phone, of course. People just begging to curse me out. Begging like mad. Loud, virulent ring tones. Dirty words just dying to be released. Fuck my shoes? Yes, I'm sure. Fuck the Pope? Why not? Your sister shit in his socks! Okay. Sure. Well, no, I can't come over and give your mother a Dirty Sanchez, but I'd like to. Go fuck my cat? You bet. He is my editor, after all. And while I’m at it, I’ll season his meat! Down in the tiny sweet hole, just feel my beat! All for me. That's right! Yes, Yes, Yes...
I'm fairly impressed with the KFC wings, though I don't understand how they removed the tiny chicken arm bones. The sheer spectacle of this is double the excitement of anything that happens in the first quarter, and I miss all the commercials trying to tie the Pope, to Bill Cowher, to Ang Lee. None of it makes sense, and I'm beginning to think I should actually go see Brokeback Mountain before talking shit about it...
But the second quarter starts and I forget that bullshit completely when I realize I'm getting an erection. Alarmed, I fumble for the remote, trying to change to channel, discovering instead that my genitals have been sitting for sometime in the warm Velveeta. This is relief. I reason that resting your genitals in warm Velveeta and Chi-Chi's salsa is almost like resting your genitals in a warm vagina... and Chi-Chi's salsa. And then everything is okay. The second half ends with a pitiful score (7 to 3), but I'm able to link the Pope to Ang Lee when I remember that Ang Lee's second cousin invented Velveeta.
Halftime? Stones. Great. (shrug). Don't get me wrong. I like the Stones. But I pass half time playing Madden instead.
Start of the third. Drank the Michelob! Whoooooooooooooooo! You are goddamn right, my friends. This is the greatest marvel of the modern age! Super! Bowl! Sunday! I am on my way! Get up for work tomorrow? Who cares!!!??? Not me, friends! Not when I have research and theories and notes and boneless chicken wings!
Willie Parker breaks for a 75 yard run and the phone goes silent. No more rings. I get nervous. Why did it stop ringing? Is Willie a genius? Are they coming to get me? It’s a great run and I wonder why Capote isn’t so highly regarded. Is Brokeback that much better? Are you telling me Heath Ledger is a better actor than Phillip Seymour Hoffman? Has the world gone mad? Are the Seahawks really in the Super Bowl? The Natty Light tells me to put on some underwear, but I ignore it. Jeremy Stevens finally catches something and it’s a touchdown. So what.
The phone starts ringing again and I instinctually reach for it. No. Don’t do it. Ignore the terrible confirmation that’s forming. Focus on the bowl shaped chips and that crazy-ass pizza from Pizza Hut. Yes, a pizza with fragmented cheese filled crust does make sense. Especially when Jessica Simpson’s breasts tell me so. I want to answer a call and hang-up immediately. No sense in teasing myself, but I can’t help it. Suddenly I’m screaming profanities at the television and the Natty Light vanishes in a haze of cheese-knots and flowing, golden strands of hair.
The fourth quarter! Almost there! All right, let’s see what we got: Generic Cola is to Heath Ledger what Velveeta is to Ang Lee. People want to scream “Fuck the Pope!” at me, and Bill Cowher likes anything with cheese, whether its crust-knots or Jessica’s breasts. This means that Brokeback will win best picture if the Steelers are able to pull a trick play. And guess what? They fucking do it! Big Ben, to Antwan Randle-El, to Hines Ward, to the motherfucking house!
Ringing, ringing, ringing! Still ringing!
Hand shaking, the Lombardi trophy hoisted, I feel cold and violated. There is a faint buzzing around me, a hollow, distant call. I get this way every time I let the phone vibrate on my testicles. The caller ID says yes. This is the one. This call is it. Just one for the Bus. One for Phillip-Seymour. Just one more for that chick from Dawson’s Creek. One little call won’t hurt, will it:
Drew: “Hello?”
Trevor: “Hello?”
Drew: “Yes?”
Trevor: “Dou you love it?”
Drew: “Shit yeah I love it! Mother fuck me goddamn it!”
Trevor: “Fuck you?”
Drew: “Fuck me!”
Trevor: “Fuck… wait, hold on a second. Drew, we need to talk. All of this animosity toward Brokeback Mountain is a bit ridiculous, don’t ya think?”
Drew: “Yeah, I guess. But…”
Trevor: “But nothing, really, come on. Capote won’t win best picture because it’s already had its moment. And besides, it was released rather early in the awards season and hasn’t made much money. It was wonderfully adapted, true. And it did stretch the notion of what a bio-pic can be. But did it leave people in tears? Did it turn people’s emotions into a tangled mess? Did it have Cowboys, let alone Gay Cowboys?”
Drew: “Well, no.”
Trevor: “There you go. So, next time, keep your opinion to yourself and drink more generic cola. Word to Big Bird. And, of course, go fuck the Pope’s socks.”
The final score was an eventful 21-10, which I witness from behind a deluge of oncoming phone calls. Everything and everyone says fuck me. Surprise. I’ve learned that watching the Super Bowl completely naked will help you to understand much about this world, especially the Academy Awards. This something I share with you now, from the Battle of the Curse Divine….
Go Steelers!