Cooperstown Reprise First of all, let me preface this review in order to negate any appearance of redundancy regarding the previously published column of my distinguished colleague, Alex Neth, whom I am in regretful opposition with in this matter. Although it is a given that my arms are the size of Alex's head and I could suplex him without taking my hands out of my pockets, it is also a given that the pen is mightier than the sword. And I am sure that with his journalistic prowess he could easily pencil whip me into a quivering mass of babbling inanity. Therefore, although I do in fact contribute cognizance to the eclectic cerebration that invoked said article and the scholarly deliverance thereof, I, in fact, must humbly disagree with its conclusive findings. The story begins innocently enough: I was out with one of my buddies doing the Lodo thing when he gets this 'oh my God I forgot to unzip my pants before I took a leak' look on his face and starts screaming "The game! The game!" then runs off down the street. I ended up following him into the restaurant in question, the already infamous Alice Cooper's Cooperstown. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was end up at a sports bar but that's where I was nonetheless. You could put everything I know about sports under your eyelid and it wouldn't make you blink. I bought an S. U. V. from John Elway and I owned it for three months before I realized the reason for all the football stuff in the dealership. This wasn't your average sports barŠ this was the Mecca of sports bars. TVs lined every wall, big screens lined the stage, all with one game or another in progress. I made an attempt at watching the only TV that was tuned to something that didn't have to do with a ball. The problem was that there was a huge boar's head hanging next to it (one of Ted Nugent's trophies, I guess) and it kept staring at me. I decided to bury my head in the menu to avoid both the sports onslaught and the baleful pig glare. While perusing my various culinary options I came across a few real gems. Some of the finer points of the menu were Billion Dollar baby backs (how good can ribs be?), Cheech and Chong's lettuce wraps (sounds like a potential felony to me), Wayne and Garth's excellent burger (I am so not worthy), Soprano's Portobello pasta (pasta with murderous intent), and Meatloaf's meatloaf (probably why he looks like he does). My eyes finally came to rest on a glimpse of BBQ heaven, 'The BBQ feast. ' This plate of carnivorous indulgence consisted of pork ribs, pulled (not to be confused with pushed) pork, hot link, half a chicken, smoked turkey, beef brisket, and fries! The steaming platter o' meat was delivered from the kitchen in prompt order by one of the various lovely lolitas that scurried about the place. All of which, by the way, were wearing Alice Cooper eye make-up lending a very 70s continuation school vibe to the twisted fantasies clouding my vision. It smelled so good that I dug in to the mass of BBQ-laden meat like a man who hadn't eaten in months. It was all beyond belief, ribs that fell off the bone, chicken so tender (where was that waitress anyway?) The brisket was so tender that it pulled apart like some bizarre meat pastry. I didn't even look up until there was nothing but bones and stained napkins left. After such a feast I felt like a true carnivore, a man among men. Suddenly I felt as though I was among my people, I was even considering buying a baseball hat with a sports logo on it! I decided to join the whooping and hollering of my new found brothers and offered up a "GO BRONCOS" at the top of my lungs. Although I later discovered that the Broncos weren't even playing, I was, after all, in Denver so I was still met with a rallying "YEAH!" and offered a few obligatory high fives. After much animated sports merriment I settled back into my chair and began to bask in the afterglow of gluttony, picking my teeth and belching in true sports spectator fashion. I was fairly convinced that I couldn't eat another bite when our waitress came back and offered us dessert. I was still suffering from continuation school fantasies and was now almost in a testosterone stupor. I couldn't refuse her offer so instead I told her to bring me the biggest thing on the menu. It turns out that it was a chocolate baseball glove that consisted of brownies, ice cream, syrup and various other sucrose-laden vehicles. I don't have much memory of what happened after the first few bites. When I woke up the next morning my shirt was missing, I had some team logo painted on my chest, I was wearing one of those beverage helmets and a huge foam number-one-glove-thing. And now no matter where I go somebody comes up to me talking about some sort of sporting event they want me to show up at. Although I try to be friendly and say I'll try to make it, the truth is simply this: Now that the endorphins have worn off and my testosterone and glucose levels are back to normal I have realized I am still not, nor will I ever be a sports fan. So for those of you that I inadvertently bonded with that night during our high five fest, when you stop me on the street please stop with the sports talk because: I DON'T HAVE A CLUE WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT! All Rights Reserved © 2001 Go-Go Media, LLC