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Copyrights reserved by the author. If you are in doubt, please click on 'Copyrights' and read the details. Real men don't eat pate' by J. G. Fabiano This is definitely one of my favorite times of year. I just cut my lawn for the last time this year and the leaves are now totally off the trees. Most important of all, we are in the midst of a Patriots football schedule that has the boys of red, white, and blue hold hope for all of us in New England that they could possibly make it into the playoffs this year. Tradition has it that every Sunday afternoon my friends and relatives meet in my basement, which I call "the hole" to eat chips and drink beer as we watch our mighty team beat up the best the National Football League has to offer. At least it used to be that way until the wives of my friends and relatives started to show up to enjoy the festivities. Actually they started to show us the way the festivities should be enjoyed. In the midst of cheese trays, pate balls, and vegetable trays, I used to remember a time when watching a football game was not as civil as it has become today. The boys used to show up around 11:00 in order to watch the pre-pre-pre-game reports on the upcoming game. Everyone brought a six-pack, or two, in a cooler that was always topped off with plenty of melted ice. My primary responsibility, at that time, was to make sure the old and rotted trashcan, from years gone by, was empty, and that I had plenty of potato chips and onion dip on hand. This food was never placed in a bowl. The bags were just thrown in the middle of the room so that anyone who needed a salt rush could find them. The dips were also placed next to the potato chip bags, waiting to be opened by anyone finding them. Napkins and small paper plates were not important back then. Today, no one is allowed to come over before 12:45, because it would be unfair to the women of the group to interrupt their preparation time. Plus the downstairs recreation room, that once was the hole, had to be cleaned and vacuumed. It is also very important that I make sure that I have enough chardonnay chilled. In fact, it became my responsibility to fill the ice buckets so, that if anyone's wine, or aperitif, were not cold enough, it would have easy access to the ice. I also had to make sure that the recycling bin was empty, and that it had a new plastic liner in it, to make sure that not a drop of beverage fell on the rug. The football games of yesterday had a bunch of frustrated athletes scream at the television, attempting to have the inept coaches of the game hear that, any of us sitting in the hole, could manage the team toward victory. Adjectives, adverbs, and some other parts of speech were used frequently and without hesitation. In fact, I remember some words being screamed at the officials that I still have no idea what they meant. Today, language is kept in tow. It is also impolite to raise one's voice above a normal speaking level, because that would show that we did not respect our wives. Children are now allowed to join us in our weekly tradition. Some of them are much too young to enjoy what is going on in front of them. Many are now seen in front of the television playing some sort of board game, as the rest of us pray that they don't have to stand up and thus block our view. I sincerely believe that many of our blood pressures are higher than they were a few years back, because we are no longer allowed to blow out any of the hot air that most of us, at our age, seem to possess. Bodily gases are now also kept in tow because they are no longer allowed to infiltrate what used to be called the hole. I also notice that the attire of my friends has changed appreciably during the past couple of years. Years ago my friends and relatives used to arrive in old dingy jeans and sweatshirts, many of which were stained in oil or grass cuttings. I believe that the dirtier one arrived the more respected they were. Many of my friends actually smelled of the chores they had completed during the first part of their weekend. Some even smelled of the greasy breakfast they just enjoyed over at Rick's. Needless to say, the smellier the better. Today my friends arrive well-groomed and in their casual best. Jeans are rarely seen, except for those who purchased dress jeans for this type of an occasion. The women are also in their Sunday best with their children still dressed from church, or Sunday school. Most of my friends now smell of cologne, or some soap that their wives make them use. As for the smellier the better, it no longer mattered, because, if you smelled too good, you were relegated to the folding chair at the back of the room. The seating arrangement was never important when my Sunday's were filled with a bunch of guys just trying to blow off some steam, and basically make a fool out of each other. I used to call it the, "cute, cute, cute in a stupid ass way mode." Back then, we found the best seat in front of the television, or planted ourselves on the floor, in order to lean on the pole that was there to hold up my house. The front row was important here, because one could see the best, and one could yell directly at the officials who perpetually screwed our Patriots. Today I am told to set up specific chairs for specific areas. I am also told to set up certain tables to be dispersed throughout the room so that the food can be easily tasted and enjoyed. Certain-sized bowls were color coordinated, so that their contents would not clash. The dips, or, I should now say, spreads were decorated the side of the bowls and they all had small highly-decorated knives on them so that one could spread, instead of dip. Most of the decorated knives had sculptures of little cats, or dogs, on the end of their handles. Every now and then I yearn for the good old days, when a fart or belch was followed by a cheer, instead of an insult by a wife, who asked what barn one was brought up in. I tend to yearn for the taste of the inside of a bag of greasy chips, instead of the aftertaste of a selected pate. I guess that is why progress is said to make us all better. I also have to admit that I look forward to a time, when my friends and I can get together, in our walkers and wheelchairs, rooting for a team that could not possibly win, and release gas that our years of life allows us to release, without any thought that we could have held it in. The End
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