The greatest mystery of our modern age has long been what it would take to convince D Martin Austin to attend a Super Bowl party. Turns out, all it takes is a writing credit, because nearly 30 years as a starving artist has a way of stripping away excess baggage—like pride and integrity.
But this wasn’t just any Super Bowl party. It was a Justin Timberlake Super Bowl party, and who can deny the dreaminess of JT: my favorite artist to whom I never listen? Bonus: There wasn’t one legitimately sports-invested dude in the bunch, although we all agreed to root for the Philadelphia Eagles, which was fine by me, since I once called Pennsylvania home sweet home, and New England isn’t even a state.
I got my obligatory party fail out of the way early by arriving at the neighbor’s door, ruining their dog’s day, and taunting the bearded homeowner with a case of Miller High Life (the Champagne of Beers). Upon entering the correct home, I was greeted by images of Justin throughout the years, including a paper Justin taped precariously above the fireplace, which leaped from its stony perch, and nearly fell into the fire, cursing us all.
“No! Not Justin! Please God, take my hand instead,” I shouted, as I dove over an ottoman and a coffee table to reach into the mouth of the raging inferno.
Okay. Maybe I embellished that detail a bit.
A charming and abundantly hospitable trio called this dwelling home, along with two dogs: an aggressively friendly husky-wolf who would later swallow a whole chicken bone, and a skittish, shelter-rescued Chihuahua-Dachshund mix. What I’ve come to realize is that humans are the worst pack-mates a dog could have. We leave them alone, acquire large sums of food, eat it in front of them without sharing, and toss them a bowl of bullshit on the floor, like they’re supposed to be grateful. I’m talking to you, people. Be nicer to your goddamn dogs!
Two roommates were there when I arrived and the third (my favorite) arrived with pizza. Sadly, it’s much easier for people to see you’ve eaten more than your fair share of pizza when you’re the first guest, and the hosts are all running around making sure everything is perfect. Other cuisine included hot wings, biscuits and gravy, a splendid tequila Moscow mule—complete with a genuine copper cup—and vegan barbecue/jackfruit sliders with avocado slaw. Amazingly, jackfruit sliders taste exactly like pulled pork, except completely different.
Highest priority was guessing which eight songs Timberlake might sing during halftime, for a chance to win a bottle of Sauza 901 tequila, sparking conjecture over possible guests. Jay-Z? Timbaland? Creepy chick from the “Mirrors” maze?
Host: “We missed that song they sing before the game.”
Me: “The national anthem?”
Host: “Is this the first or second quarter?”
Me: “Large men running across a field?”
Clearly, our host knows as much about patriotism as I do about athletic timekeeping.
Game? 41-33, Eagles.
Party? 10 out of 10.
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