The other night at the city recreation center, I ran into a friend of mine who also happens to be the person who hosted the Super Bowl party I attended (and blogged about) this year. He was visibly upset. At first, I thought it had something to do with the fact that he had witnessed something seen less often than a yeti in Texas -- me working out. Well, I wasn't actually working out. I was preparing to work out. Preparing to work out is almost as taxing as the actual workout. Sometimes I win by convincing myself that I'm too sick or too tired to put myself through such physical torture. Sometimes I lose when the small amount of common sense I still have left swims its way to the top of my stream of consciousness. Last night went into the loss column.
But my friend Ron was angry about something much more important than seeing me self-induce a heart attack on the treadmill. I should have prefaced all of this by saying Ron has lost like 40 pounds in the last few months. He's in very good shape and he happened to be wearing a tank top during this particular verbal confrontation which helped accentuate his new-found upper arm muscles. Hey, if you're going to go through all the effort of working out and eating right and taking all those illegal steroids and human growth hormone, you may as well let people see the results. How many woman do you know with fresh boob jobs that hide behind a ski parka or baggy sweatshirt? See. You can't blame him.
As soon as he saw me, his testosterone kicked into high gear. "Hey, I read your blog. What the hell?"
This wasn't the reader reaction I was looking for, but at least he read it. "What are you talking about?" I asked.
"You didn't even talk about the host of the Super Bowl party."
"You're right", I agreed. "I apologiz. I'll edit it tonight and mention what a great job your wife did with it."
I hadn't used up my daily allowance of sarcasm, so I felt the need to unload whatever was left in the tank on him.
"Listen", I tried to calm him by using a soothing manner of speaking. "I did have a whole section about you during the rough draft stage." Two lies in one sentence. First, I didn't right a think about him. Second, there's never a rough draft stage -- it's like live television, I type it and hit send. Who has time to edit?
"Go ahead, I'm listening." Great, buying signals.
At this very moment I decided to adopt a new policy as it relates to my blog. If anyone sees me at the rec center and wants to talk about PierogiLogic, I'll give you free mention in the next article. Keep in mind I have trouble with facts and keeping them straight. I embellish and flat out make stuff up quite a bit so what I write may not be completely accurate. You've been warned. Finding me at the rec center will not be hard, if I'm there. The "if I'm there" part is the key. But, if I'm there, it'll be like playing a fairly obvious version of "Where's Waldo." I'm not too tough to spot.
"I feel bad," I continued. "But somehow that entire section was removed. Since it's virtually impossible to deal with the little blog fairies who obviously messed with the article in the middle of the night and deleted all the extremely complimentary stuff about you, I'll dedicate and entire blog entry to just you."
Ron's threatening demeanor softened.
"So, you're going to tell everyone what a great host I was?"
"Not only that, but if you play your cards right, I may even tell them what a great job you did with the hardwood floors in the kitchen and foyer. I'm impressed."
For whatever reason, that didn't seem to matter to Ron. But, the thought of me at least mentioning what an amazing host he was caused him to ease the pressure from around my neck. The blood vessels in his neck and head weren't as bulgy either at this point.
"Hey, thanks," he said.
"No," I said. "Thank you."
So, here's my tribute to Ron, the world's greatest Super Bowl party host...
Ron, you're an awesome host. Thank you for inviting me and my family. We had a great time and hope to do it again next year. And, speaking of next year, can you please, please, please stash a couple of Super Bowl squares away for me and the kids? I'm feeling lucky. Also, please tell whoever made the amazing sausage sandwiches that I love them. I love the sausage sandwiches and I love the person who made them. And, by the way, that hardwood floor is killer.