Drink, Eat and Snow

You may have heard me mention once or twice that SEPTA sucks. And you'll be happy to know that SEPTA sucks more than ever.


… eventually

One hour. That's how long it took me to get to work today. One hour. A 15-minute (tops) commute took me one hour. How? Well, not sure if you heard, but 28.5 inches of snow blanketed Philadelphia this weekend. As in over two feet of snow. Naturally, with the roads still a mess and plenty of cars plowed in, just about everyone and their mother was going to be taking public transportation to work today. What does SEPTA do to account for, oh I don't know, double/triple the amount of people? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

As a result, I walk to the Girard Station only to see a mob of people milling around the platform — not a good sign. Then I proceed to wait 15 minutes for the first train to come … completely packed. 15 more minutes, another completely packed train. 10 minutes after that, another completely packed train. 40 minutes, and I'm still at fucking Girard. Great. Finally, about 5 minutes after that, a train mercifully comes and actually has room for passengers. And I make the 15-minute trip to work, getting there exactly 1 hour after I stepped foot on the platform at Girard. What a way to start the week.

Not the best of beginnings, but it was one hell of a weekend. Friday night was calm, as I just bummed around and watched the snow fall. But Saturday, well, we were scheduled to have a party and have a party we did, even if only a select few actually made it. We began the day by watching Georgetown absolutely house Villanova with a barrage of threes by Jason Clark and Austin Freeman and a great all-around game by Greg Monroe, while the Cats struggled all game long, with really only Scottie Reynolds (second half) and Corey Fisher (first half) showing any signs of life.

Then Temple got killed, the Flyers lost another close game in which they left points out there and the Sixers won. It was a crazy Saturday. Blame it on the snow. And it only got crazier with booze, booze and more booze. Oh, and a young lady lighting her hair on fire, only to be saved from terrible burns and scars and much, much more missing hair thanks to yours truly. I'm a good guy like that.



Word to the wise ladies, pay attention to your hair around open flames, like, say, a candle. Burnt hair is by far the worst smell on earth.

But that was all just a lead-up to Super Bowl Sunday. This year, I was actually really looking forward to the game. The two best teams all season were representing their conferences, the two best offenses going at it, and the two best quarterbacks during the year going head to (fetus) head.



To make it even more enjoyable, I had no real rooting interest. Besides Jeremy Shockey, there really isn't a hateable player on either team (maybe Dallas Clark, he did go to Iowa after all), and both teams are really fun to watch. We knew we were going to be treated to superb quarterback play, and everything was laid out for the makings of a great game. It was a stress-free Super Bowl.

Add to that the phenomenal cooking prowess of uncle jellyfish, who graciously cooked up meatball sandwiches (with chunks of sausage), homemade guacomole and wings, along with chips, salsa, brownies and beer, and it was shaping up to be the perfect day. That's pretty much what it was.

I woke up around 12:30, never left the house once, ate two meatball sandwiches and a handful of wings, drank beer all day and watched a great game.

Drew Brees put on one of the all-time great accuracy performances, completing 32 of 39 passes (82.1 percent) for 288 yards and two scores, including the go-ahead touchdown pass to Shockey, en route to the MVP.



Peyton laid in some of the most beautiful passes you will ever see … and then threw a crippling pick-six that sealed his fate.



The funny thing is, after the Saints scored and got the two-point conversion, uncle jellyfish asked who wanted to bet that the Colts would go down the field and score to tie it. That was just the feeling we had, that Peyton was going to march the Colts right back down the field and answer. But a mistimed throw to Reggie Wayne and an incredible read by Tracy Porter thwarted that.

But the game wasn't just exciting at the end. That was, without question, one of the gutsiest coached games, specifically by Sean Payton, that I've ever seen. With his team trailing 10-3 and facing a 4th and goal at the 1, Payton didn't do what most coaches would have done, what I would have done, which is kick the field goal, take the three points and make it a 10-6 game. No, Payton aggressively went for it … and didn't get it. At the time, we were all calling him stupid, and I still believe it was a stupid call —  after all, the Saints had held the Colts to just 10 points at the time — but man, you have to love a coach not holding anything back in the big game.

And he really showed balls opening up the second half with one of the biggest surprise onside kicks ever. A ballsy move that paid off, as the Saints recovered, thanks to a muff by none other than former Philadelphia Hank Baskett.



I love how Hank tried to catch it with his face. Man does he suck. It was one hell of an entertaining game, even if I didn't win a single block that I bought. But as good as the game was, and boy was it good, the highlight of the entire Super Bowl was this:



Keep your hands off my mama. Keep your hands off my Doritos.

And keep away from SEPTA.