This past Super Bowl I was confronted with the difficulty of being surrounded by a group of friends unmotivated to drink beer and watch football. Considering that I didn’t have enough time to report these communists to homeland security agents, I had to motivate them. Some I was able to convince with promises of miniature Kegs of Coors Light, borracho nachos, and football shaped cakes. Others I had give up on as David-Beckham-loving-soccer-fan-bastards. And still others required something more, a themed Super Bowl party.

I realized I was helping throw such a Super Bowl party when none of my graduate student friends had any plans for the game. They were all too busy pretending to study to waste their Sunday night watching football.

Any party in which guests are expected to participate generally requires at least three weeks warning. I had three days. I had to make my theme simple. After several rejected theme ideas (Bring your own hooker themed was a close second), I settled on a tried and true idea: A Pants-Less Super Bowl Blowout.

True, no-pants may not be directly related to football, but just imagine how much more entertaining the sport would be if the cheerleaders, and perhaps coaches, couldn’t wear leggings.

This theme has several advantages. First off, it implies no children. Secondly, it guarantees that a large percentage of guests will arrive already well on their way to inebriation. And, it also gives you an excuse to check out various female legs that don’t belong to your fiancée, provided girls actually show up. It helps when said fiancée and her friends take pole dancing lessons as an aerobic class.

If you wanted to add a little flavor to your party, possibly see what street crazies you can lure in, post a poster to your street corner advertising, P.Diddy and Nick Lachey’s No-Pants Super Bowl Extravaganza.

Expect at least one awkward older guy to come thirty minutes early in a trench coat with nothing underneath. Accept him. He always comes baring expensive liquor. Then you’ll have your token Asian friend who is cool enough to have his hair spiked like a Japanimation ninja, but who pretends he didn’t understand the theme. Pity him. He is used to an oppressive government with constrictive trouser laws. You’ll also get a few girls in extra large jersey with butt hugging shorts beneath that read: Juicy.

If your friends are still not excited about the game, improvise a football drinking game. Drink every time there is an ass slap. Drink for as long as the cheerleaders appear on screen. Every time your token Asian friend pretends like he doesn’t know what’s going on. Chug a beer during the halftime show when the Boss sings “Put your hands on my engine.”

If that is still not enough to rally the troops, take a group photo on the bed of your absent roommate. Instigate a pillow fight. Accidentally grab a boob. Get creative.

Most importantly, remember that although the Super Bowl comes but once a year, No-Pants parties can be a year round occurrence. Think pants-less Groundhog Day. Think Commando Flag Day.

Email Alfie at shawn.alff@creativeloafing.com

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I did not make this resolution after waking from a long night of drinking to find that my bed was spinning like a merry-go-round. No, this was a sober decision brought on by another choice to finally end my equally expensive relationship with my shitty Korean car. Sure it was cheap in the beginning and reasonable with gas, but the time and money I’ve wasted on repairs inevitably drove me to end the relationship. I should have walked away from it the first time it gave up on me at a rest stop in the New Mexico desert, but I thought I could work it out. I thought that if I showed the car enough attention, it would give me the same kind of respect. I was wrong. What I’ve learned is that a shitty car will always be a shitty car.

In its place, I bought a ‘94 Ford Ranger to cart my ass across the bay every day. You may be wondering why I’d buy a truck if I was hurting for money. I thought the same thing until I realized the possibilities of the truck’s camper. Why commute back and forth across the bay when I can spend some nights on a futon mattress in my truck bed? The Ford also gives me a mobile place to crash when I get wasted in Tampa thinking that the Hyde Park girl I’d been buying drinks for all night would invite me over. And let’s not forget that if a lovely girl would rather go to my place than back to the apartment she shares with her boyfriend, we need only walk a block or two to the sketchy park I’ve parked my truck across from. I know that it may not be the easiest trick convincing ladies to accompany me into the bed of an aquamarine-shit-green pleasure palace, but I just need to concentrate on the type of girls who’d be in to that sort of thing: the desperate, the crazy, and the drunk.

The problem was that in acquiring this mobile love machine, I knew I’d have to give up a few amenities to pay it off. My choices were either food or alcohol. To solidify my decision, after the awards ceremony I polished off a 32oz bottle of Mickey’s and rode my six speed iron-stallion Huffy to the State Theater for the latest installment of CL in Concert.     

The State Theater was loaded from the front sidewalk to the back alley with scruffy band members and severely underage rockers sharing Red Bulls and cigarettes with multiple friends.

As I walked in, Joran bought me a beer to aid my appreciation of win win Winter. The band was blasting through what sounded like Death Cab for Cutie songs on uppers: more energy and less pretense. 

Tides of Man were next with songs that flipped between slow and fast rhythms before the crowd had a chance to catch their breath. The intricate changes and wailing vocals brought to mind The Mars Volta and Tool, though the band was noticeably missing a significantly deranged singer to set the crowd on edge.

Fresh off the Warped Tour, Automatic Loveletter hit the stage with two members from win win Winter. They had all the ingredients to be the next big thing, most important of which was an attractive, heroin-thin she-singer backed by an impressive sound. In a Harley Davidson shirt ripped down the sides, a bikini top, grungy accessories dangling from every limb, tight pants, and motorcycle boots, the singer jumped off the amps and emoted to the crowd with the sound and look that Ashley Simpson was trying for when she first came out.    

I emptied my wallet ordering the cheapest beers in St. Pete, which was still too pricey for me. I saw my happy, golden reflections looking up at me from the suds swishing gently in the plastic cup. Drinking that last beer was like leaving a girlfriend for an extended period. Sure, beer has let me down plenty of times, but ultimately we have had more good times than bad. I told my beer it was not her it was me. I told her not to take it personally. I told her I just needed to take a break. I couldn’t afford to treat her like I wanted to, taking her to fancy places and sharing long nights alone in my apartment. 

When the beer was empty, I got on my Huffy and rode the long way home. Along the road around Mirror Lake, I saw two homeless men sitting on a bench with nothing but 32oz bottles gift-wrapped in brown paper bags. Maybe I didn’t need to give up alcohol after all. When the going got rough, these men did not give up on alcohol. I just needed to trade my apartment for a bench overlooking a midnight view of the water where I could share endless romantic evenings with my true love. But alas, until that day, alcohol, I must say goodbye.

Email Alfie at shawn.alff@creativeloafing.com 

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But hurry, the deadline is Monday, September 8.

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You could say that being a rock star is in my blood. So why the hell am I not on TRL or dating Miley Cyrus. The problem is that though performing maybe in my blood, musical talent isn’t. I was born with an impaired sense of rhythm. Five separate times I attempted to teach myself the guitar and failed. When I was older, I attempted the bass thinking it would be easier to learn considering it only has four strings. My highlight from this venture was being asked to play bass on an intentionally horrendous, mock hard-rock song called “Sewer of Ass Piss.” Since playing an instrument was out of the question, I did what any talentless performer does: I decided to become a singer. I did in fact write and record a few songs with my sexually explicit boy band, 2 Sr. Real, but hearing my recorded voice was painful even for someone as self-obsessed as me.

The fact that I will never be a rock star has been particularly difficult to accept considering that I have so many other attributes that make me overqualified: I can switch leotards within a matter of seconds, play air guitar against the carefully formed bulge in my tight pants, and underage women eat me up. Unfortunately the world will never know my talents, and I will never seduce as many women as the grungiest of rock stars.  I am reminded of this sad fact every time I go to a rock show. I will never be a rock star and so my only hope is to try and sleep with one.  

For a show titled, “In the Raw,” one would think that I might at least get to see a few rockers naked, if not find a way to hide in the greenroom in wait. Despite my perverse suspicions, the show’s title referred to the rock musicians stripping down their songs to the essentials. In most cases, this meant that acts performed without the benefit of electric frills or the heart-reviving pulse of amplified drums. There were no wardrobe changes or flamboyant dance moves. In most cases, a lone songwriter sat on stage with an acoustic and a microphone. The intent was to see how well these local songwriters’ material held up without the distractions of light and noise that often overwhelms the senses at concerts. Imagine MTV’s Unplugged without the commercials, elaborate stages, camera tricks, or bated audiences. The likes of Ronny Elliot, Will Quinlan of the Diviners, Katherine Kelly, Mikey Bostinto of Tres Bien, Shawn Kyle of The Beauvilles, Geri X, and Hat Trick Heroes took part in this experiment beneath the stark red light of The State Theater. 

Even the State Theatre had to clean up its act to accommodate the unplugged show. The place looked like a shadow of the theater it once was. Rows of chairs lined the floor that is usually covered in beer and roughnecks slam dancing. Cocktail tables flickered with candles in red glass holders. It felt like a beat poetry reading or a swanky variety show from the early-’60s with a ventriloquist, jugglers, dry comics and a classy audience lingering over cigarettes and cocktails.Rock shows are known for the energy reverberating off the crowd, which at points can reach the levels of a sweaty religious experience. In general, the wilder crowds are, the better the music sounds. At first it seems like a risky move introducing chairs to this type of concert, but in practice it worked. The introduction of chairs eliminated the problem of the audience lining the sides and back of the venue, standing clear of the dance floor’s no-man’s land. The audience had no problem getting close to the stage with chairs available up front.  Also, with the quick turnaround time of an acoustic show, more acts were fit on the bill, and audience members stayed seated for performers they hadn’t planned to hear. 

Rock revivalists and prodigy musicians Hat Trick Heroes headlined the event. While most of the acts shed band members for the acoustic sets, all three band members sat on stage with Led Zeppelin hair pumping out songs reminiscent of Alice in Chains.  

As is her tendency, Geri X stole the show. She had a leg up on fellow acts as many of her songs were written to be performed with just her acoustic and a microphone. Of course it didn’t hurt that she has the full rock star package: subtly green hair, tattoos wrapping around thin limbs, giving an excuse to stare, and songs that outshined the polished and produced sound of her recordings. I am always amazed with the range and clarity with which her voice swells to fill any space with how much she smokes, drinks and talks shit between sets. A capo chocked-up on the neck of her guitar gave her songs a ukulele sound.  Her performance did not go unnoticed. She was petitioned for an encore and played a foot stomping version of “Kiss on Both Eyelids.”  The crowd started to clap along and so did I. My enthusiasm was soon checked when a friend clasped my hands against my chest for fear that I would throw Geri X off. This is the power of good music. It makes the rhythm-less think they’ve found the beat, it gives the voiceless a voice, it makes the uninspired see the world through a poet’s eyes, and it makes the untalented forget, if only for a moment, that they are not the rock stars, nor do they have the talent to sleep with any.  

E-mail Alfie at shawn.alff@creativeloafing.com

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