By Mike Gordon
Advertiser Staff Writer

The old roommate we call Blur sat in the corner of his living room and watched us run wild. It wasn't the first time.

We tossed a football past expensive-looking furniture. We struck Heismanesque poses next to his big-screen TV. We burped without having to say "excuse me."

And we didn't have to put coasters under our beer bottles.

We've done this for a few years now: a Super Bowl Sunday gathering of four 40-something men pretending to be college roommates for an afternoon.

We pick up where we stopped at the previous party, and a curious spell is cast. Sort of like "Brigadoon" meets "Animal House."

Ours is a running conversation held once a year. It's like we never stopped and the topics are usually the same.

Wives. Ex-wives. Girlfriends. Ex-girlfriends. The stunts we pulled. Sometimes we even watch the game.

For men, this is how real friendships have always been measured.

I've tried to explain that to Mrs. G., but she's never fully understood how men can remain friends without engaging in regular affirmation that they like each other.

This is probably because Mrs. G. is a student of what she calls the "Three Girls Syndrome." She maintains that no three women can be friends for longer than a month without one of them coughing up an emotional hairball because she feels left out of something.

Not men. Once we bond, we're over all that trivial stuff.

My old roommates are no different.

They taught me how to cook when I was in college using only a single can of cream of mushroom soup and a pound of ground beef. Those wacky gourmands.

They scooped me off the ground one morning after teaching me how to drink tequila the previous night.

They were there for last call at my wedding reception, drinking beer in my father-in-law's back yard in the dark.

None of our conversations are very deep. We're beyond that. This is what helps men maintain friendships. Get deep and someone gets lost. Get a beer instead.

This is another topic Mrs. G. doesn't understand, but I've given up trying to explain it. I'm not sure I have the words for it anyway.

Guys just don't want to know all that touchy-feeling stuff about each other. We'll take it as far as relationships, and all the miscues, misfortunes and missed opportunities we've encountered.

But no, no, no, we don't want to know about each other's prostate, failing eyesight or sore backs, thank you very much.

That's for old guys. That's not us.

So we watched the big game last month in Blur's living room.

We cheered for both teams and that guy at halftime. We ate most of the kal-bi ribs Mrs. G. made for us, drank all the beer and didn't break anything.

We said: You know, we should get together before next year.

Everyone laughed at that. That would change things, break the spell for sure.

Someone suggested we become roommates again. Blur didn't think that was funny, but I didn't catch all of his response.

Something about cream of mushroom soup and tequila.

Reach Mike Gordon at mgordon@honoluluadvertiser.com or 525-8012.