city sidewalks

Not knowing where I’d rather end up on Super Bowl Sunday (it usually doesn’t make a difference as the evening’s historically been queerly tepid in my case) I decided to head uptown deep into the heart of Harlem.  A friend of mine has a gorgeous place there and was having a little low-key get together.  Nothing fancy – wings, beer, pizza – and I was more than alright with grease and grog; must be the country boy in me. 

Little did I know that afternoon I would be attending Manhattan’s gayest Super Bowl gala to date.  Though it was rather intimate – 8 of us in total (including a straight couple, poor things) – the spread not only consisted of the standards, but we showed up with tomato & mozzarella salad, homemade guacamole (with extra cilantro for garnish) and New England-themed beer, as our ill-fated host was from Maine and had to cheer for the enemy.  “Stovepipe Porter” and “Vermont Lager” as one might imagine, tasted accordingly; the porter tasted like you were licking an iron skillet. 

Though it started off rather blandly, (we all missed the kickoff and not one attendee seemed to notice, or care for that matter) as the Vermont Lager’s above average alcohol content seeped into our bloodstreams, the party grew, well, rowdy.  Having 90% of our party supporting the Giants, the loud taunts and jabs escalated into an all-out war, but not without some hilarious interludes….

“Fuck the football; I can’t wait for the commercials!”

“I haven’t even seen the cheerleaders yet.”
“Yeah, where are the cheerleaders? They’re the only reason why I’m here watching this shit!”

“Oooh now THAT’S a hot angle.  ”

I could go on….

Now I don’t know how many of you red-blooded Americans out there who have time to read this actually witnessed the game, but if you did you most definitely saw a fumbled play, executed by a guy who’s last name apparently is “Gay” judging by the back of his jersey.  Well, the party erupted. 

 “Of course he’s gonna be wide open!”

 “Ooooh big mystery play, throw it to the gay guy, have him fuck it all up.  You know he isn’t going to catch it!”

Victorious and pleasantly inebriated, I ventured back downtown to digest what was easily a 9,000 calorie afternoon in the solitude of my own home, where I could comfortably emit whatever rancid noises were the inevitable aftermath of a successful Super Bowl shindig.