...Hut Two

I was going to write this detailed account of our Super Bowl trip but after watching the game, I've decided that I can't do it. The loss by the Patriots was just too much to bear. After suffering through three quarters of agony and questioning every offensive play call, I spent most of the fourth quarter jumping around like a loon -- convinced that the Patriots would win if I could get sufficiently excited. Alas, Eli and the Giants knocked off Goliath and made me sit there in stupefied silence for the next thirty minutes. So, Eli not only killed the perfect season, he also killed my Super Bowl trip diary. I hate Eli.

I'm not even a Patriots fan. I mean, I admire Tom Brady but really, I'm a Falcons fan. Not that this is a good time to be one, but still. I'm all about sticking to your guns when cheering for sports teams -- weather the bad, enjoy the good. I kept an eye out for Vick jerseys this weekend. Surprisingly, I saw one worn by this little kid. Must've been a cat person.

Still, it's not fair to ruin an admittedly interesting weekend with talk about an event, however "super," that had nothing to do with the preceding three days. So, a brief summary and review. Because I'm currently unemployed and in traction with the book, James (Okapix) was kind enough to let me tag along to his Super Bowl gig. This meant that I would be the first person allowed into his super secret operation. Little did he know that I would expose it all for the world to see. Little did he know that I'm awesome with a lint roller and excellent at boring repetitive tasks.

I worked the line soldering flutes for a few months, remember?

The moblog pictures will tell a much better story of exactly what we did but in sum, we made personalized trading cards for anyone who was willing to bear the hour wait in line. The cards James produces are of a high quality and certainly superior to the competition. Thus, people waited forever to get a few minutes in front of the camera and a drool worthy memento.

The most exciting part of working the Super Bowl was keeping a sharp eye out for celebrities, especially and obviously, athletes. Anybody even slightly bigger than normal -- and black -- was immediately pegged as a football player. "Who is that?" "Looks like a football player." "Yeah, probably a running back or something." Occasionally we just nodded and silently agreed. "Offensive line." More fun was guessing girlfriend, wife, or "it's complicated."

The biggest name we saw all weekend? Probably Marcus Allen. At one point, I was two feet away from Marcus Allen and Eric Dickerson, watching them take a photo together. Two of the greatest running backs of all time posing just a few feet away. Priceless.

The bulk of our successful celebrity spotting was done at the private players only party sponsored by UD. There, a boatload of "talent" (event jargon for hot girls paid to show up) kept both of our eyes wide open -- and our heads spinning. Another post will probably come at some point about that experience. Nothing like walking around a room filled with hulking specimens of alpha males interacting with beautiful ladies who are paid to ignore you. And yes, by "you," I mean exactly "you."

The only real downside of working the Super Bowl was not having an exclusive worker's pass. I was registered for the event too late so had to suffer the indignity of mingling with the commoners. The first day, I couldn't even get out of the vendor parking lot because security was tight and I wasn't properly credentialed. I had to take the long way around the stadium on foot -- strangely, encountering a cow farm located just a few hundred yards away -- while cursing my plebian status. I was forced to buy general attendance tickets and couldn't even get in to work until the rest of the humanity showed up at the front gates.

Then again, that did mean I skipped out on a lot of hours and I essentially got to watch movies and visit the McFarlane store on Friday. It's hard to complain about anything when my flight, food, and room were all paid for. But dammit, I wanted to have a laminated permit to the Super Bowl; declaring my superiority, if only for a few days. I also wanted a perfect season. Maybe next year.