Super Bowl Sunday is always a challenge for me, I think it is my annual opportunity to grasp the nature of outsiderness, the permanent sense of not really belonging to any group anywhere. I don’t sneer at the Super Bowl or belittle the people who love it – there are many.  The day is much more than a game, it is a celebration of friendship and family, it is a new and deeply entrenched American ritual, and I have seen it grow over my lifetime and weave itself into the national consciousness.

Every my good friend George Forss is into it, he is throwing a Super Bowl party at the George Forss Theater of the Arts offering pizza and popcorn and the Super Bowl in two screens and Surround Sound. He invited me, but I just couldn’t go, I would have brought them all down, I can’t quite focus on the Denver  Broncos or the Seattle Seahawks, I don’t understand the difference between the two, my mind cannot grasp the many complexities of the game, being outlined day and night by large genial and handsome men and beautiful and smart women who exude the kind of cameraderie and insiderness that has always eluded me. I will, as I always do, watch the beginning of the game, until I just can’t watch it anymore. I imagine it would be great fun to know about all of the plays and strategies, I’ll give it a shot, I do love the ads (although I’ve seen most of them online already.)

I am happy to think of my many friends who are gathered with other friends eating wings and soup and popcorn, the Super Bowl seems to be one of those things that is so uniquely American, that unites the country. I am heating up a bowl of pea coup and a multi-grain baguette from the Round House.  Good luck with the game, Maria is off spending the afternoon with her sister, Red is at my feet, Flo is in my lap. Somebody asked me who I am rooting for, I can’t say I am rooting for anyone. I wish everyone watching and loving it good luck, I have come to accept it is sometimes better to accept life outside of the tent than in.