LouLife

On the day of Super Party, a young Candyce Clifft came to cover the event.  I think to this day, most of us feel a tinge of guilt over the treatment Clifft received.  Not that anyone was mean or inappropriate, but because she had to endure so much ridiculousness and utter bullsh*t.

The piece, which I still have on videotape, consists of my boozed up brother, his face unnecessarily accented with eye black, making ridiculous statements about physically abusing Green Bay Packer fans.  Clifft also spent a good ten minutes interviewing our Scottish friend T-Bone about his reactions to the strange phenomenon known as the Super Bowl.  Little did Clifft know, T-Bone was actually my friend Justin from New Jersey, who if he had enough beer could pull off a reasonable Scottish brogue.  Unfortunately that interview never made it on TV, as someone at the party decided to rat us out to Clifft.  That chode was never invited to Super Party again. (Incidentally, Fox 41's Elizabeth Woolsey would call me personally the following year to decline our invitation to again cover Super Party.  I'm pretty sure it's still her greatest regret in life.)

Eventually, my brother got married, had kids, and moved and as a result, Super Party faded away, another victim of life’s downhill progress.  For a few years, I tried to keep the magic alive, twice constructing a fully operational casino in my basement.  But as fun as it was, it never felt like anything more than an imitation.  If Super Party was Three’s Company, then my party was The Ropers.  Decent enough, but lacking all the sexuality and crazy misunderstandings.

Last year, I threw away the seven foot wooden helmets that were a staple of Super Party.  For years they had been rotting away in my garage and they needed to be put out of their misery.  Damn if I didn't want to cry as the garbage men loaded them in the back of their truck that morning.

Super Party was special.  I guarantee you that 100% of the people who ever attended a Super Party will tell you definitively that it was the greatest Super Bowl party ever.  It worked because my brother not only knew how to make the experience a complete event, but because he knew how to fill his house with fun and interesting people who genuinely wanted to share the day together.  It wasn’t about seeing how drunk you could get or trying to get laid or even about the game itself.  It was about laughing and foolishness, all made possible by a good guy who has always spent his life treating people well.

So I won’t go to work this Monday and it won’t be because I have a hangover.  In fact, for the third year in a row, I’ll be attending my daughter’s volleyball tournament instead of a Super Bowl party.

For years, I spent the Monday after recovering from Super Party, which then morphed into recovering from just…a party.  Then staying home sort of became a sad tradition.  Super Party is dead.  Long live Super Party.

Photos courtesy of the Fawcett Family Archives