JESS DU JOUR: SUPER BOWL HOOPLA

It is mid-January and all the males in my family have contracted a highly contagious, dreadfully caloric, and extremely over-publicized Super Bowl neurosis. I use the phrase "highly contagious" because, inevitably, the moment that any red-blooded American male mentions the words "Super" and "Bowl" in a sentence, all males within an eight-mile radius will come galloping forth, chips in hand.

In the McCuan household, this happens quite frequently. My father, being the red-blooded American male that he is, will cordially invite every man that he ever knew to our house for the festivities. In preparation for the mucho-macho male testosterone gala, my mother treks to the store and buys enough junk food to own stock in the Frito-Lay company.

Returning to the spot where our house used to sit, my mother finds that, while she was at the grocery, someone has transformed her house into a used pick-up truck lot. She cruises down row after row of beat-up Fords and begins to recognize vehicles. "Hey, I live here!" she cries.

Mom parks down the street, walks a block, and rushes into the house with her loot.

By this time, our family room is filled with close to 20 partially inebriated, middle-aged men -- some of whom, I have known for life; others of whom have installed my cable, and still others whom I would not touch with a pair of plastic gloves.

I sigh, shake my head at them, and replenish their chip bowls. My mother and I give them specific locations and opening instructions for replacement bags of Tostitos and cans of dip.

With all the chips and dips safely stashed in the living room, (Sorry, Dad; okay -- chips and DIP safely stashed in the living room), we grab our rice cakes and sneak back to the back bedroom to watch the smaller TV. My mother and I are also Super Bowl fans, but we have a much different style -- instead of actually paying attention to the football game, we watch all the clever commercials and then channel-surf during the game.

Readers, do not misinterpret my poking fun at the Super Bowl hoopla. I, too, enjoy the commercials and the halftime shows and the pre-game quarterback record embellishments. In fact, male infatuation with the Super Bowl is almost justifiable when you consider the fact that the Super Bowl is the only sporting event that has more razzle-dazzle media hype than three OJ Simpson trials.

For example:

Super Bowl Announcer 1:

"... and that concludes our pre-game show which started at 5 p.m. yesterday and entailed stunning performances by Michael Jackson, Diana Ross, Madonna and Phil Collins, followed by a laser-light show and concluding with our first ever in-dome rocket launch!"

Super Bowl Announcer 2:

"And that's not all folks. Stay tuned -- after the commercial break, we'll reunite the Beatles, the Jackson Five, the Supremes, and eight dead presidents while the players warm up!"

... And so on. Which is not a bad thing if you are 1.) a male, 2.) you like chips and dip, and 3.) you enjoy watching the Dallas Cowboys win the Super Bowl AGAIN.

If you are, however, not a male and prefer rice cakes to beer and chili con queso, you can sit and make fun at all the males in your family.

They will stare agog at the television set for hour after Super Bowl hour. I suppose it actually works well for everyone -- the guys can spend a day eating chips and watching overpaid athletes play a violent sport, and I can eat rice cakes, watch commercials and make fun of them. Believe me, I will thank myself in the morning.