It's 9pm on Sunday night. Super Bowl XLII is over and I'm home. I watched the game in a huge bar in Vancouver, partly because I had to, since I also work for Sports Radio 1080 The FAN, but mostly because I wanted to see the Tom Petty Halftime Show on a TV the size of my apartment.
When it comes to sports, I'm well versed enough to be able to tell you who was playing and what the big deal was, but I don't care enough about football to actually have an opinion. When people asked me who I was for, I said Tom Petty.
Watching football, especially tonight with Troy Aikman commentating, brought back many happy memories of my first ex-husband and the other woman in his life, the other woman that hogged his attention the duration of our entire 18 month marriage: The Dallas Cowboys.
This boy ate, slept and breathed the Dallas Cowboys. He wrote frenzied letters to the team, hung Cowboys ornaments on our Christmas tree, collected every team pennant from the time he was 13 years old (which I accidentally threw away once when we moved), and wanted to name our first born son Troy Aikman. (I am happy to report that I never procreated with this man).
I remember the Thanksgiving Day game in 1994 when Leon Lett touched the ball wrong or something and lost the game for the Cowboys. What I remember more distinctly is my husband locking himself in our bedroom, pouting and drafting yet another angry letter to the team. He didn't come out of the room the remainder of the night and I was left to entertain our holiday guests on my own.
(After our divorce, it was my own cheap thrill when I stomped on all those Cowboys ornaments, slipped the glass shards into a large envelope and mailed them to his new house in Florida. I digress.)
I got to the bar nice and early, taped the banners to the wall, and put out the yard signs.
When the game started, there really wasn't much to do but watch the endless commercials, drink beer and eat. Now, I'm not one of those uber-consumers who oooohh and awww at all the cutesy little 2.5 million dollar spots that run during the game. I hate, no LOATHE television. I hate every sitcom and night soap. I hate 'Lost' and 'Family Guy' and 'House.' I even hate Jack Bauer. I have no authority to hate these shows, I've never even seen them. I just hate TV in general. Yes, there is a television in my household, but for the sole purpose of watching movies, which I quite enjoy. The TV is not plugged into the cable thingy so we have no access in my house. Yes, my children hate me.
I did have to make sure our Fan Girls were occupied, handing out pens and playing trivia games. This is us enjoying ourselves immensely.
Um, this picture reminds me of that old Sesame Street song, "One of these things is not like the other!" That would be me. I'm the one stuffing cheese nachos down my face, burping and farting, while the Fan Girls are daintily pecking at crisp spinach salads and water. The conversation was enjoyable. "So, where do you get your hair done? I get all my facials and massages at Salon Nyla. They are the best!" And, "Now that I broke up with my boyfriend, all I do is work out." And, "Do they make these pants in a double extra small, or maybe a minus zero, because these extra smalls are just too big!"
I'm waiting and waiting for halftime. The game was incredibly boring up until the last five minutes, am I right?
Finally, halftime comes around and the bar patrons swarm our table for prizes. Meanwhile, I'm elbowing old ladies, trying to get people out of my way so I can see the bigscreen. And wouldn't you know it, the bar manager turns the volume down. I was beside myself. I snuck behind the bar and turned it back up when he wasn't looking. By the time I got back to my table, it was turned down again and a big "DO NOT TOUCH" sign was hung across the volume dial. Shit!
Darkness on the field and then the familiar chords of his opening song, "American Girl." Oh happy me! I gazed upon my idol with lovelust in my eyes, swaying and mouthing the words in rapture. Just as I'm thinking to myself, "Man, Tom's lookin' kinda old," Big Suke pipes up from the next table and shouts, "Man, he's some old balls!"
Old balls? OLD BALLS??? This man is classic rock and roll, an American Icon, genious, GENIOUS! No Britney nonsense, no rehab, no drunken rampages, just classic. CLASSIC! I'm gonna put that Big Suke bastard in a headlock if he doesn't watch his mouth, and I'll do it right in front of his gorgeous Lucy Liu lookalike wife! Ya hear me? I've seen old balls, Sir, and Mr. Tom Petty is NOT OLD BALLS!
Tom went from "American Girl" right into "Runnin' Down a Dream," and followed that nicely with "Free Fallin." The man has perfect pitch. He sings on key every time, never misses a note, just like my other idol, John Denver. He ended the way-too-short set with "Won't Back Down." I figured it would be a perfect medley of Tom songs and I was right. The only thing left was the possibility of a wardrobe malfunction, where one of those old balls might accidently slip out. Didn't happen.
After Tom was done, I was done. I ordered a Bailey's and Coffee, which was way too heavy on the coffee and way too light on the Bailey's, so I added my own from the extra stash I keep in my purse for emergencies just like this.
Then I got really bored and rested for a while.
Then I was no longer the "Insider," but more the "Outsider," as I sat by myself. That's LK's back to me. She's in the Giants jersey, still gloating. She's sitting with all the uppers from the station: Karin, Isaac and Suke and their hot women, Dennis, the Program Director for the Fan, and some hangers on.
Then the game was over and it was time to take down banners we had taped to the wall. Hmmm. Wall. Tape. Careful now. Oops.
That's the gigantic patch of paint I ripped off the wall on accident. And, as I'm taking a picture for your enjoyment, the manager curiously wanders over, the same manager that taped the DO NOT TOUCH sign over the volume dial. Great, not only does he hate me, but he will hate my radio station now too. It's all a part of the glamorous promotions job that is alllll mine.
I sheepishly tell him that I accidently pulled a little too hard and removed some paint. He was super sweet, not pissed at all, and told me no worries, maintenance would handle it. Yay. (Relax, Cooley)
All in all, I needed a little less football and a little more Petty. Maybe if I needed more Petty and less football, I should have gone to a rock concert instead of watched the Super Bowl. By the way, tickets to his show in August at the Gorge went on sale yesterday. I bought mine- lawn on Friday and row 24 on Saturday. Yay.
If you also hate the Dallas Cowboys, or perhaps your ex-husband, email me- alinford@entercom.com
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