I can recall only one time that I attended any type of event related to the American holiday known as Super Bowl Sunday. I am sure my father watched the games when he was around, but I would have made it a point to be out of the house, so who knows. Having successfully avoided this shit for most of my life, you can imagine my surprise when I found myself smack dab in the middle of one of these testosterone-fueled events.
At the time I owned a tattoo shop and was married to my business partner. We had been in our location for more than two years when our new landlord came into the picture. This was pre reality TV days, so tattooing was a bit coarser around the edges than it is now. Two of our loyal customers were this biker dude and his old lady. The guy also happened to own a commercial construction company. When our building went up for sale, they decided to buy it, “for investment reasons.”
As I have already mentioned he was a biker who had an old lady, and to those of you who watch Sons of Anarchy that probably sounds super cool. Well, in reality, it wasn’t too bad I suppose. The guy was not a patch holder, but was a “known associate” of a notorious biker gang that reigns in my state. There was a big patch over a while back, but that’s another story for another time. That element has always been around within the tattoo industry. I was familiar with it from working in shops that were “known affiliates” of various gangs. It was pretty much the same: you could expect the owner to have a fucking Napoleon complex and lose his shit at least once a month. He typically also had an old lady who used to be a stripper/tweaker who thought she ran the place and showed up with black eyes frequently. Guess he had to tell her the same thing a few times.
I liked them; they were funny and honest, which are two key factors in making me happy. We did a lot of couple type shit together, which sort of made me an old lady, which was whatever. I was a bit too mouthy for the landlord’s liking, but he and I maintained a status quo that I often liked to shake up. He eventually accepted that I was the brains behind the business and talked to me about the contracts his company secured.
Over a period of several years we watched this man grow his business to become quite successful. Another perk of being a “known associate.” We went to a lot of corporate events as guests of his company. Pretty sure that is the only way in hell I would have ever gone to a NASCAR event- nestled amongst the corporate trailers.
Eventually he and his old lady bought a custom home on five acres and remodeled it from top to bottom. He also filled it with trophies from his hunting trips. This dude had a dead elephant in his house. I once asked him why he felt the need to trophy hunt and he plainly told me because he “needed to kill things.” Again, I am a sucker for honesty, and believe in personal freedoms. Would I live in a house that had dead lions and zebras and giraffes on the walls? Absolutely not, but that dude can do whatever the fuck makes him happy. It was creepy housesitting for them, but we did it.
I should also mention that the guy liked to run a Nazi flag up the flagpole just to piss of his neighbors. I also learned that money cannot buy class because the dude was blatant Aryan, another biker stereotype that is a reality. Learned that nifty fact during my formative years tattooing as well.
It was to this den of masculinity that I was called to on a Sunday to prepare dinner. Somehow my brainiac of a husband had volunteered me to cook a meal of hot and sour soup. What I did not know was that it was Super Bowl Sunday. You can imagine my horror when I realized that I was making Asian food on what is assuredly one of the manliest of manly high fucking holy days in this country. We were clueless because, duh, we don’t follow football.
After many cocktails were made, games of pool shot in the basement game room, joints rolled and smoked on the expansive patios overlooking the national forest, it was eventually time to eat. I don’t remember much of how that evening ended, other than in complete disaster for me because what kind of old lady serves hot and sour soup on Super Bowl Fucking Sunday?! Good thing the guy kept Percocet and Xanax in the candy dishes at his house; right next to the dead, but tastefully preserved bodies of endangered animals.