Author: Compton, Cliff

Super Bowl Sunday

Superbowl Sunday yesterday. They figure about a billion people were tuned into that game. Itís true, a large percentage were there for the guacamole and cheese dip, some for the commercials, and some for the halftime show, which as I understand it, has something to do with old, gray haired pop stars and females with well conditioned hair who walk like leopards and sing like American idol contestants and certainly there were more people involved in eating the pig than in throwing or catching the pig skin. Put hey, itís a good reason for a party in the middle of the day and Iím a fan of the 49íers, as long as theyíre winning. If theyíre losing, Iím off the bus and onto the next bandwagon.

But to me, superbowl Sunday is Armando Garcia. Armando knows how to throw a party and for some reason or another, he always invites me. Iíve never been to a party at Armandoís that didnít have music. He invites a great bunch of musicians and we start playing early and play late. This year it was Larry and Caroline Kuhn, Robert Crowder, Riverbendís Ron Wilburne, my bandmate Dave Reitz, a couple of other guitars and a bass player I didnít know, and the irrepressible Armando Garcia, who floats in and out of a jam like a whirlwind of mandolin, guitar, harmonica or whatever.

And we play, right up to kick-off, and then they continue to play, but they move outside so that the people who want to watch the game can do so without having to listen to the music that we canít get enough of.

Itís funny, if you think about it. All those people in football jerseys, millions of dollars spent on entertainment, the media interviewing everyone from the mother of the quarterbacks third neighbor on the cul-de-sac, to the janitor at his grade school. People flying to New Orleans, buying fifteen dollar beers, and hundred dollar, five block taxi rides to watch this spectacle, that we mostly ignore because weíre listening to Ron Wilburn playing ďColleen MaloneĒ, and thinking how much he sounds like Glen Yarborough.
But anyhowÖ

The game started, and I went inside to watch, and it didnít look promising, the 49íers were four and out on the first possession, and I had a hard time staying focused because the jalapeno jelly and the chocolate covered strawberries kept calling me from the other room, and every time I got up I could see the musicians through the double doors under the gazebo and I could hear Dave Reitz and Caroline double fiddlingí, and man, oh man, after all, itís only football, and dang it, thereís music going on.

And I left at half time. My church bluegrass band was playing that night and I had obligations. I personally donít like to explain to God why football is more important than an invitation to his house, but I did consider it.

One of the last things I saw before I left Armandoís, was that group of musicians under the Gazebo, and my guess is that they were still there after the game was over and Armando dipping the last chip and beginning to sweep the floor.

But I know they wonít be there tomorrow, because me and Dave have a band practice.

Hope you had fun!

Posted:  2/8/2013

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