The Super Bowl is not a game. It’s a national holiday from moderation, offering sanctuary from dieting, sobriety, and sense. It’s a celebration of all the things foreigners despise, and secretly envy, about Americans: extravagance, overindulgence, consumerism, and idiocy. So, when you hoist your Natural Ice and Stuffed Jalapeno popper as a reality star sings the national anthem before kick off, you are saluting all those Americans who died so that you can enjoy yourself without feeling guilty about getting drunk mid-afternoon on a work night.

This past Super Bowl I was confronted with the difficulty of being surrounded by a group of friends unmotivated to drink beer and watch football. Considering that I didn’t have enough time to report these communists to homeland security agents, I had to motivate them. Some I was able to convince with promises of miniature Kegs of Coors Light, borracho nachos, and football shaped cakes. Others I had give up on as David-Beckham-loving-soccer-fan-bastards. And still others required something more, a themed Super Bowl party.

You people looked good this week! Here are some photos from the Surge after party at Czar (part of the CLIP film festival) and also

Dreaming of being a rock star is as American as dreaming about having sex with a rock star. I’ve read countless interviews with performers who describe how they were always putting on “shows” when they were younger. They use these anecdotes as evidence that performing is in their blood. What these talented, or just plain lucky, bastards don’t realize is that most every American kid puts on “shows” as a way to get attention. I used to chase my parents around the house while strumming a plastic guitar in my underwear and singing the same verse to “Old McDonald” repeatedly. And yes, I too won a talent contest for a rap I wrote and performed with a group of four white boys at camp.

You could say that being a rock star is in my blood. So why the hell am I not on TRL or dating Miley Cyrus. The problem is that though performing maybe in my blood, musical talent isn’t. I was born with an impaired sense of rhythm. Five separate times I attempted to teach myself the guitar and failed. When I was older, I attempted the bass thinking it would be easier to learn considering it only has four strings. My highlight from this venture was being asked to play bass on an intentionally horrendous, mock hard-rock song called “Sewer of Ass Piss.” Since playing an instrument was out of the question, I did what any talentless performer does: I decided to become a singer. I did in fact write and record a few songs with my sexually explicit boy band, 2 Sr. Real, but hearing my recorded voice was painful even for someone as self-obsessed as me.

The fact that I will never be a rock star has been particularly difficult to accept considering that I have so many other attributes that make me overqualified: I can switch leotards within a matter of seconds, play air guitar against the carefully formed bulge in my tight pants, and underage women eat me up. Unfortunately the world will never know my talents, and I will never seduce as many women as the grungiest of rock stars.  I am reminded of this sad fact every time I go to a rock show. I will never be a rock star and so my only hope is to try and sleep with one.  

I had a long week. I spent it training to be an instructor in Rhetoric at USF. The course work and mandatory sports coat with leather elbow patches didn’t intimidate me. What worried me was that I was expected to be a role model for over 40 incoming freshman.  This is a particularly daunting task considering that my Google identity includes videos of me chugging beer at CL’s Beer Club and an extensive online account of my attempts to pick up women. Let’s just hope that the pictures of me at that bachelorette party don’t emerge. 

After a week of training, one thing was certain: I needed a disguise. Something that would make me look tough. Naturally my mind wandered to actors, whose job it is to obscure their perverse lifestyles in order to appear tough on screen; maybe I needed a six-shooter or one of those mean-looking bandolier belts strapped across my chest. Or maybe I should be a little more subtle.  From experience I know I look particularly threatening in a wig and a fake mustache that would put Charles Bronson to shame.

I thought over these foolproof schemes to appear as a respectable member of society as I drank heavily at Limey’s Friday during this month’s beer club.