SUPER BOWL SUNDAY A LONELY TIME IN L.A.

Byline: JANE ROBISON

TODAY as millions carefully and fastidiously prepare President Clinton's famous ``Super Surprise, Pig in a Poke Bean Dip,'' let us pause and give thanks to the historic and important contributions of the National Football League.

The NFL has turned a little post-season modest rivalry into THE SPORTING EVENT OF THE CENTURY.

But it's more. So much more.

Since 1966, Americans have suffered through wars and rumors of wars; inflation and recession; unemployment and downsizing; Watergate and Irangate; presidents and their peccadilloes; Paula Jones and now, Monica Lewinsky.

And what's the one constant in those 32 years?

The Super Bowl, a day of irrational exuberance.

The universal day Americans everywhere can leave their troubles outside and revel in the festival. The national social soiree of the season.

It's like Christmas, only better because you don't have to buy presents. You just have to show up at a friend's house with a bag of chips and a tattoo of your favorite team covering your body.

At least, that's what I hear from friends around the country who have something to root for.

As Americans from sea to shining sea prepare to hoot and holler till the clones come in, I am experiencing a crisis of unconnectedness.

I think I'm feeling team envy.

How can living large in Los Angeles hold any meaning? How can you live up to your full potential when your city let not one, but TWO, pro football teams slip through its tawdry little fingers?

OK. So most people breathed the air for the first time in Los Angeles when the Raiders moved back to Oakland.

Still.

I have a yearning to celebrate, to rejoice with the victors, feel the pain of the vanquished, wallow in the guacamole.

I want to live, dammit. I want share in the now with the rest of the nation.

Instead, I'm living in L.A., isolated from the real world where sports matters and commercial success counts for something - about $2.6 million a minute something.

Feeling isolated and depressed, I contacted Dr. Robert R. Butterworth, with Contemporary Psychology Associates Inc. in Los Angeles, to try and sort this out.

He assured me, I'm not alone.

``L.A. needs every reason it can to root for itself,'' he said in a kind, gentle reassuring voice. ``We've been beaten up by the rest of country for a long time now. L.A. use to be great place to live. Now L.A. gets slammed.

``If we did have team, it would help our self-esteem, especially if we won.''

So I asked him, point-blank, who does he root for on this most special of occasions?

``I don't really like football. I enjoy the commercials.''

That's what's so great about the Super Bowl. There's something for every one of the 42 million Americans who will be glued to their sets. Like hoping to see David Brinkley in a Foster Farms chicken suit pitching Archer Daniels Midland, food processor to the world.

I want to root my lungs out. I want to paint my house in team colors. I want to smash my TV when my favorite quarterback throws an interception with two minutes to go.

But who to pick?

Do I put my $2 office lottery pick on the cheese whiz team because I want the stock market to go up?

Do I go with the cheese factor? California's the cheese. Wisconsin's the wedge.

Or, being that I grew up in Colorado, do I go with Denver and the Val connection? Bronco's quarterback John Elway, as we all know, played for Granada Hills when he was in high school.

Of course, the Broncos and I have history. I pulled for them against all odds when they were the Cinderella team, three Super Bowls running. Each time, they lost by a worse margin than the time before. Each time, I vowed never to support them again.

Somehow, I owe them.

But more than that, I want a hero. I want a winner. I want clean resolution.

Now more than ever, I want someone to score with his pants on.