Entry #28: February 6, 2006

Atlanta, Georgia

Super Bowl Sunday. Few things are as quintessentially American as the Super Bowl. It’s a football game highlighted by commercials. Sports and business. Yup, definitely American.

I hustled my way up to Atlanta from Jacksonville in a rented white Mazda 3 series, eluding State Patrol speed traps in a manner only a guy who’s been through south Georgia several dozen times can. The secret is kinda opposite of what to do when you encounter a bear. You don’t have to be the fastest, just don’t be the slowest. However, when it comes to speed traps, you also don’t want to be the fastest, but rather, the second fastest. They’ll get the fast guy. Remember those No Fear shirts that said “Second Place is the First Loser”. Not so with eluding speed traps. Second place gets by without a ticket and points and laughs at the so called “winner” while he gets to endure Georgia’s Finest saunter up to his driver side window and ask, “Cun ah cee yahr driben lycens?”

One of my best friends, Kevin Jeselnik recently moved into a house in Atlanta that rivals my own bachelor pad in Germany. I think he has the edge. He has a hot tub. Unfortunately, when you have three guys starting out in their careers, heating the hot tub in the dead of winter puts a serious dent in the heating bill. Anyways, Kevin’s Playboy Mansion, Atlanta version, was the site for the Super Bowl party I went to. Tremendous attendance, good quality of individuals, not to mention some of the South’s most treasured possessions, sweet Georgia Peaches--females. I had fun. Course, my buddy Mark of the Maker’s in Kentucky helped a little bit.

One thing I like about Super Bowl parties is the sheer number of dips available in the spread of snacks that takes over a table like kudzu along I-20. I’ll be honest, I missed the whole first half sampling the various concoctions placed in my midst. That and the gay dog fiasco contributed. The girlfriend of one of Kevin’s housemates (she happens to be another old friend of mine) has a mutt that looks exactly like Santa’s Little Helper from The Simpsons TV show. It’s male. Kevin also had his step-dog, Owen, from a previous relationship, in attendance, another mutt, large and docile, also a male. Well, to be succinct, Santa’s Little Helper is as queer as a football bat. I won’t go into details, but Owen was not a happy camper. There was growling. There were attempts made. Luckily, Owen escaped unscathed. He’d do well in prison.

Oh, and just for the record, the sheep streaker in the Budweiser commercial was my favorite, hands down. I still like my “Party til the cows come home” idea, though. And so the Soldier’s life continues…