If you haven't heard, quite possibly because you live under a rock, live someplace other than Baltimore, or simply don't give a tinker's damn about football, the underdog Raven's are going to the Superbowl next week.
As a boy from Shaker Heights, I am a die hard Cleveland Brown's fans. Art Modell be damned for stealing them away to Baltimore and creating the Ravens.
Anyhow, this past weekend we ventured back to the hinterlands to see our friends. And when we got back from Ohio tonight (Cousin is out of the coma and improving) I ran to the market to get something for dinner while husband walked the pups.
So I'm in the deli area of El Bandito, the market at the bottom of the hill that caters to the pampered and the pouty well-off families in the area, and while I'm waiting for my number (105) to get called, and there is a demo lady with her cart pushing bite sized pieces of subs fit for your Super Bowl party. I never eat samples in stores because they don't drive my shopping decisions.
Anyway, I am trying to avoid eye contact when this really good looking man comes in and I accidentally follow him with my eyes, and that leads to eye contact with the sample lady.
And in a sing songy voice she asks me if I'd "like a tasty taste of our famous subs made with Hog's Head Quality Meats and our crispy fresh produce?"
I smile, thank her, and say no thank you. I look away. This should be the end of it, right?
Nope. Verily, she is gunning for me.
"Say," she says to me with a chipperness saved for musicals - especially Nunsense! - presented by community theater groups, "what's this I'm hearing about a big game coming up?"
She has stopped being a sample lady, and she has morphed into a little theater actress. And we all know that I am not a theater fag.
"Well, we need to cheer on the team! And what better way to do it than serving our subs at your tailgate party!" She smiles at me.
This woman thinks I'm going to fall for this dog and pony show.
And the deli mercifully calls my number.
And the sample lady pouts, but goes after her next victims, a 40 something hot daddy couple waiting for their turn at the counter.
I mean, I don't mean to be a party pooper, but after four hours in airports, going through security (and there is something up because everyone was body scanned, patted down and wanded) and lugging luggage, all of that had worn my armor of pleasantness off from my aura.
But seriously, how is buying their subs going to do anything to "rah, rah, siss, boom, bah" the Ravines onto a victory?
As I'm going through the cashier, person 106 unloads his cart behind me. He too is good looking, and so is his husband. My eyes follow him and I make eye contact with the husband. We nod and smile. I say "I see you didn't buy a sub or twenty to cheer on the home team."
"I told her," he said, "that the only thing I needed to cheer on the team was a fifth of good vodka and some mixers."
So this Sunday, think of us, submarine and hoagy free, Cookie-tini (Vodka gibson, sweet vermouth - so smooth) trying very hard not to cheer on the home team.
Ah, what the heck, I'll watch as I am weak. Art Modell is dead, afterall.