Go ahead, scream
I‘M TRYING TO CUT my caffeine a little.
“I’m a little jumpy sometimes,” I explain to my wife.
“I never noticed,” she says.
“Well, I can be a little jumpy.”
That’s an understatement. I’m sort of self-caffeinating. My tiny heart is like an internal Starbucks, pumping double-lattes into my bloodstream.
Of course, the world we live in doesn’t help. Or this “she-loves-me, she-loves-me-not” marriage. I feel like a puppet on a string sometimes -- at the mercy of the kids, the dogs, my lovely-yet-distant bride.
Then there’s the instability at work. I’m very, very bullish on newspapers. To me, they’re the future. But just in case I’m wrong, I’ve been updating my resume. Here’s what I’ve put together so far:
* Age: 23
* Interests: Football, TV, Amanda Peet
* Professional awards: None
* Goals: None
* Education: Spotty
* Leadership skills: A passion for leading diverse teams of professionals to new levels of success
* References: None
Not bad, huh? I didn’t even mention the time I caught a purse snatcher. Or that I can assemble a new backyard grill in, like, 5 seconds.
I also didn’t mention my considerable cooking skills, which would enliven any business setting. In fact, right at this moment I’m stirring a big vat of Super Bowl chowder. Got my game face on, sipping a nice cold beer.
“What’s wrong with Dad?” my lovely and patient older daughter asks.
“He’s got his game face on,” explains the little girl.
“He does?”
“Don’t bother your father,” their mother says. “He’s drinking.”
By the way, new rule for the New Year (with apologies to Bill “New Rule” Maher).
New rule: “I got there first.” If I’m talking to you on the phone, don’t put me on hold to take a call from someone else. Let them leave a message. Because I GOT THERE FIRST!
Once upon a time, America had certain standards of decency, and all the decent people seemed to understand that if you got there first, no one else should butt in. No more.
So, if I’m standing in line at the Gap to pay you for a new pair of jeans, don’t take the phone call from your boyfriend, or some customer wanting directions from Rancho Cucamonga. I have cash in my hand. I braved the traffic and the cruddy parking. I got there first, OK?
Phew, I feel better just getting that off my chest. Less jumpy. Now I can concentrate on the Big Game and the chowder. It’s a grilled fish chowder, full of shrimp and other treasures of the sea. Or is it a chili? Hmmm, I can’t really tell. I think I’ll let people taste it and decide for themselves.
“Why,” my older daughter asks, “is Daddy dumping shrimp heads in the chili?”
“That’s not chili,” the boy says.
“It’s not?”
“It’s more of a shrimp Creole,” he explains.
Whatever. The great thing about a Super Bowl party is that people will eat almost anything. In my experience, they won’t even look at what they’re ingesting, they’ll just shovel it in their mouths -- gasp for air as if dying -- then reach for more.
The average American eats more on Super Bowl Sunday than some nations consume all year. It’s the best possible day for a chef like me, whose secret is quantity, not quality.
Still, the pressure is on to produce something special. In a few days, we’ll all be surrounding the TV, yelling at Rex Grossman, wishing Mike Ditka were his coach.
How rich would that be, the world’s most mercurial coach overseeing the world’s most unsteady quarterback? Consider the possibilities: Ditka stalking the sidelines ready to explode, like football’s Man of La Mancha. He’d be barking at the refs and screaming at his assistants. Ditka, our surrogate madman.
As the world gets a little crazier every day, the Super Bowl remains our great collective release, our Mardi Gras down Main Street. I can’t yell at Bill Gates for his clunky stupid software or at the current crop of politicians who don’t have a populist bone in their bodies -- even now, when we need a good populist more than ever. (Hello, God? Is Huey Long up there? No?)
I can’t go one-on-one with those rich young stockbrokers who are raking in bonuses at the expense of the rank and file. Or pop Simon Cowell in the schnozzle for being snappish with some defenseless kid. Though I’d like to. Seriously, I’m no Joe Louis, but I’ve never met a Brit I couldn’t whup.
But this Sunday, I can yell like hell at a game that warms us like chowder -- the last thing we Americans seem to all have in common anymore.
The Super Bowl -- three days and counting. I think I’m getting butterflies.
Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com. His MySpace address is myspace.com/chriserskine.
