Finally...
A few notes about yesterday, the greatest day in the history of the universe:
-A number of people have emailed/texted/Twittered me today wanting to know how I feel. In doing that, perhaps it's best to share a moment I had earlier today.
This morning I woke up naked from the waist down, still wearing the booze-soaked Jonathan Vilma jersey I wore last night. I took the day off because I knew that, win or lose, I'd need the day to recover emotionally and physically, so after laying there for an hour or so reliving a few moments from last night in my head and, in doing so, bursting out into tears a few more times, I got up to go to the bathroom. When I did I noticed that every part of my body was sore and aching, which made me smile.
When I got to the bathroom, I decided that I should probably take something to help ease the pain a little, but when I went into the medicine cabinet I noticed that I was out of Advil and Excedrin, so I threw on some pants and walked down to the Duane Reade at the corner.
After standing in line for 5 minutes or so to make my purchases, I was headed toward the exit when the burly security man on duty said, "Man I want some of whatever it is you ate for breakfast." Sort of puzzled by his comment, I asked what he meant and he responded, "It's not often that I see people smiling and dancing when they're in line in here on a Monday morning." Apparently, I'd been bopping my head and gyrating a bit, without music mind you, while waiting to check out and hadn't even noticed it. After he brought it to my attention, I realized that I'd been doing the same sort of thing all day up to that point. I remembered dancing in the mirror as I brushed my teeth. I remembered that I did an impromptu version of the "Stanky Leg" in the shower after I brushed my teeth (If you don't know what the "Stanky Leg" is, here's a video of Bobby Hebert doing it in drag). I also recalled dancing while buying newspapers at the corner deli right before I went into Duane Reade. It's funny how not only did I not notice myself doing it, but how I didn't even notice other people watching me do it, undoubtably making judgments in their minds. I just didn't give a fuck. And that's how happy I am today.
-I think this photo may be my personal all-time favorite piece of photo journalism:
I'm not sure what I love about it more: the fact that Tracy Porter is pointing to the going-apeshit Who Dats in the endzone as he's running it in, or the fact that Peyton Manning is ON HIS ASS in the background. It's just beautiful. Also, as Bill Simmons noted today, a pick-six in a crucial moment of a football game is maybe the most exciting play in all of sports, and there was no more crucial moment in Saints football history than when Peyton Manning was driving his team down the field late in the fourth quarter to try to tie the game.
Speaking of this moment, Bar None came thisclose to spontaneously combusting when it happened and in the process there were many, ugh, liquid substances that went flying into the air, which caused the pocket of my pants that held my Blackberry to get soaked, which in turn caused my Blackberry to frizz out. It eventually un-fucked itself by 5am or so, just in time for me to drunkenly respond to the over 100 texts and emails I'd received after the game. A few of my friends told me that they woke up today with barely-readable messages from me, which I thought was kinda awesome.
-When asked by people not from the area to describe how much football means to Louisianians, one of the first things I mention is how back home even the girls and the gay men are obsessed with the sport. In fact, many of them out-knowledge and out-passion the “manly” football fans from other parts of the country.
My friend Tim is a perfect example of this. He’s a gay man from the New Orleans Westbank who’s the head of the LSU football fan gatherings in NYC. He also happens to be by far the loudest and most obnoxiously demonstrative fan at the LSU and Saints bars. And as is the case, stereotypically, with many gay men, Tim also has a keen eye for design and fashion. With that said, he put his considerable talents to use to make three of these second-line umbrellas, one of which he gave to me before the game with the thought that we’d break them out during the celebratory post-game second-line to “When the Saints Go Marching In.”
Unfortunately, someone appeared to make off with Tim’s umbrella later in the night, so I gave mine back to him because I thought he should have one, seeing as he was the guy who made them. But then later, after I’d finally packed up my stuff and was leaving Bar None at the end of the night (Yes, I was the last Saints fan to leave!), one of the bouncers handed me this umbrella, which he said one of the staffers had found it on the floor behind a booth. As you can probably imagine, I was elated. Recouping the lost second-line umbrella was the perfect ending to one of the greatest nights of my life. I’ll probably create some sort of ridiculously gaudy Saints Super Bowl shrine inside my apartment in the coming weeks, and this will surely be one of the centerpieces.
Thanks Tim. I love you man! :)
-Drew Brees and Sean Payton officially own the city of New Orleans. Like, if the area had a mountain, some drunk coonasses would have scaled it last night to carve the images of Payton and Brees into the side of it. They became local legends last night. Archie who?
Also, I've decided that I never want to meet Drew Brees because I would just embarrass myself if I did. I've met lots of famous people in my life and rarely does doing so faze me, but I'd probably drop to me knees in tears if I met Drew, kissing his feet and screaming "THANK YOU BRESSUS, THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING YOU'VE DONE FOR MY HOMELAND." I'm not shitting you. I'd just lose it. Hell, I'm getting a lump in my throat just thinking about it.
-Dear New York Post...That's not how we spell it!
-Last night, as the final seconds ticked off the clock, I tweeted that the Saints winning the Super Bowl was the happiest moment of my life. As I wrote it, my whole body was shaking and my eyes were shedding the most tears they've shed since my dog got run over by a truck when I was 9, so it's understandable that I got caught up in the moment a bit. With that said, upon further contemplation, I've decided that there's another moment that might actually be the happiest of my life...the moment Garrett Hartley's kick sailed through the uprights in the Dome to beat the Vikings two weeks ago and send us to the Super Bowl for the first time ever. Either way, the New Orleans Saints have provided me and thousands of other life-long fans with a sense of joy that was unimaginable until recently. Thanks fellas, from the bottom of our bruised but resilient hearts, thank you.
I can die now. My life feels oddly complete today. Everything good that ever happens to me from here on out is just lagniappe. WHO DAT!!!
Oh, and one last thing...Eat my ass Maya Angelou!
