Bowled Over

Saddam’s Spider Hole” would be a great name for a gay bar in Baghdad. That million-dinar idea occurred to me while trying to think of a way to describe my apartment after my Super Bowl party, because even a week after the fact, there are some startling similarities between my place and Saddam’s hidey-hovel: both are underground, both are filled with dirty dishes and both smell like raunchy unwashed dictator armpit. But there’s one major difference: Saddam didn’t throw the most kick-ass Super Bowl party ever, and I did.

The planning and preparation that went into my Super Bowl party might have been rivaled only by the actual Super Bowl. I had to get a keg and a bunch of 30-packs, plus fixins for bloody Marys; go grocery shopping for snacks, grilling items and ingredients for my famously delicious chili; drive to my parents’ house to get an extra TV to accommodate overspill out of the main living room area; borrow extra chairs and stools from various friends around the city; and write an e-mail rallying the faithful. Some other ideas for enhancing the party were also given a shot, such as creating Green Monster–like stadium seating by moving the couch forward and placing a row of stools behind it. Other schemes—like my plan to take the tailgate off my father’s truck and somehow affix it to a wall so that we could tailgate in my apartment—remain unfulfilled, damn great ideas.

The e-mail apparently worked, because at one point I counted 30 people in my crib, including one girl dressed in full Mardi Gras regalia with a towering feather headdress, fishnet stockings and a bustier. I still have no idea who she was, but you know what they say: A party ain’t a party till a Mardi Gras dancer girl shows up and eats chili. Perhaps she was an apparition conjured by seven-layer dip and too many cups of Bud Light.

By halftime, someone who was really drunk got the idea to order the Lingerie Bowl on pay-per-view (his name rhymes with “Pez”), but that notion was abandoned because the Lingerie Bowl is sophomoric, objectifies women and promotes eating disorders and the pursuit of unrealistic body images. Also I couldn’t figure out how to order it. So we watched the Super Bowl halftime show, which, as everyone on the planet now knows, had a major surprise in store: P. Diddy! I couldn’t believe it when he rose up out of the stage and sang “Mo’ money, mo’ problems.” After that I went to the bathroom.

During the second half the tension mounted. Touchdowns flew back and forth as I struggled to pay attention to the game and not fall off my stool. By the fourth quarter, my friend Andy looked like a man experiencing a ball-removal operation without anesthesia. He just sat there on the floor, hugging a 30-pack, grimacing and pulling his hair. But when the winning field goal split the uprights, Andy joined the rest of the room in doing what happy Patriots fans do best: breaking stuff. People sprayed each other with beer. The coffee table got knocked over, propelling the aforementioned tasty seven-layer dip onto the rug (people reading this who happen to be my building manager should know that it cleaned up easily and didn’t leave a spot). Somehow my floor lamp got broken in such a way that the wiring leads are exposed (yes, I need to throw it away before I become tempted to piece it back together with duct tape and eventually electrocute myself).

But it was worth it. After all the energy I’ve invested in this team this season (and, for that matter, over the course of my life), they rewarded me with another championship. Sure, Roommate Scott and I spent about $500 on supplies, my apartment was destroyed and I had the regular misery of Monday morning compounded by a hangover that hung over until about Wednesday. And instead of being merely insanely jealous of Tom Brady, I’m now Mike Tyson–level insanely jealous of Tom Brady. Would Blue Cross/Blue Shield cover a chin dimple implant? Sure, two Super Bowl MVP trophies and having every woman under the age of 90 want to bone you might be priceless, but maybe my MasterCard can buy me a cute chimple. That’s something to think about while I look for a good spot to mount that tailgate for next year. ∂