It scarcely needs mentioning that I anticipated last year's Super Bowl far more than this year's. However, I bear no ill will towards the AFC Champions, the Pittsburgh Steelers. As a rule, I almost never support the NFC team in the Super Bowl, unless their name starts with an E and ends with an A-G-L-E-S. Superpal Beth has been supportive of me in the past Philly-less weeks, and has invited me to her own Pittsburgh-affiliated haunt-- the Pour House on Capitol Hill -- to watch some football. So naturally, I watched the Super Bowl with Beth to feed off the vicarious joy of watching somebody else's team win.
Because seating in the Steelers bar was so very precious, I felt it imperative not to advertise the fact that I was an outsider. A sympathetic outsider, but nonetheless, I was taking up prime barstool space. So I did my best to blend in. I wore black and gold eye makeup and nail polish, and did my best to expunge any Seahawks-oriented blue and green from my person. At Beth's behest, I arrived at the Pour House at noon. So I held my perch at the bar for ten. bloody. hours. They played a Steelers fight song album ad nauseum. Aye, there is enough material for an album. Much of it has a polka theme. I now know every word, and probably will for all my days. One day there will be a very tiny, shriveled old woman tucked into the corner of some assisted living center emphatically yelling "Polamalu! Doo-Dooooo-da-doo-doo!"
Anyway, I wouldn't care to make this a yearly activity, but it was nice to feed off the crowd's energy. Beth shed a tear or two. Very nice.
Next year, I hope to host Beth at the Rhino in Georgetown, where Eagles fans gather. There she can compare the Pour House's relative civility to the drunken staff and patrons throwing empty pitchers at each other, abusing opposing supporters, and singing our ONE drunken fight song.
I later got an update from on-the-spot reporter/student teacher/brother Bobby, who told me that he saw many a couch set alight in the streets of Pittsburgh after the victory. I myself have experienced dizzying euphoria on occassion. I have been moved to sing, dance, laugh, cry, holler, yelp, spout nonsense syllables, and moo like a cow -- but never have I been compelled to express my delight by setting anything ablaze, let alone something so precious as a couch. Do people stockpile rank old couches just in case? Just wondering. 'Cuz I really like mine, and utilize it quite a bit. I'd be lost without it, really, and can't pictures torching it in a fit of joy. It's also quite heavy, and rather difficult to get into the elevator. The logistics alone would be enough to kill my buzz. I'm all for new experiences, but I'm fairly comfortable with maintaining an arson-free existence.
Robyn
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