Superbowl Five Zero

Did I forget to rant last year?  It’s possible. I didn’t even know which teams were involved this year until the game was well underway. The giveaway Facebook remark evolved into a discussion of the relative strengths of two natural enemies, the bronco and the panther, with a leading authority attesting that panthers would be dispatched by healthy adult broncos, but enfeebled broncos could be catfood.
The cacophonous halftime show drew the ire of a former NYC mayor, who called a costuming nod to a 1960’s black rights group an “insult to the police”. Thanks Rudy, for going worldwide with your nonsense and luring me into watching the benignly trashy Beyonce act.

It was only at the diner on Tuesday that I heard reference made to the Superbowl singing of the national anthem. Frank had had a bunion carved from his foot on Friday, and Tuesday was his first day out of the house. He dismissed questions about his plastic bag wrapped left foot and got straight to his main concern.

“Did you hear that bitch sing the national anthem on Sunday?”

Alice, who had, said she approved of the singing, others demurred, and I vowed to watch it and report an opinion. My report of approval on Wednesday was rebutted with “Somebody should have shot the bitch.”

I’m gonna give Gaga an “oh hell no” on the hairstyle and an “oh shit yes” for the rest. An interesting piece of timing, I understand the Blue Angels had her performance on headset, along with instructions from a flight coordinator. A couple seconds off? Go to coda.



3 responses to this post.

  1. If it occurred early in 1966 I (theoretically) watched the first superbowl on a TV that had a wholly unadjustable V-antenna; it may have snowed or not, who could have told? I’d only been in the US a coupla weeks and didn’t know the rules; these ghostly figures could have been performing some sort of Inuit ballet for all I knew. In any case I had bigger fish to fry. I was the guest of two guys who were sharing an apartment, they’d given me a meal and I had volunteered to wash up; neither objected. But later one of them went over to the sink, fiddled around and dug a teaspoon – wondrously contorted – out of the garbage disposal unit. Whoops! I realised I was into a new form of life.

    Later I knew all the rules (except intentional grounding) and could bore natives – especially the women – rigid with my didadicticism. I quickly learned to regard the half-time show as an opportunity rather than a curse. I would go out and assemble a CKD shed, write a chapter of my novel (Breaking Out), or advance a new political theory in a bar and return to see the Packers trooping back on to the field.

    Beyoncé made The Guardian with her Black Panther sympathies. Come to think of it, I remember the BPs too but didn’t take much note until I read Tom Wolfe’s essay “Radical Chic”. American football is presently trying to woo the UK into forming a team as a way of widening the sport’s somewhat parochial remit. Each year two teams come to London to play one of their regular season’s games and there is, I believe, good attendance. Two decades ago I used to watch the live coverage of the superbowl on British TV but, even by assiduous use of the mute button, I eventually became exhausted by the frequency of the commercials and by now the superbowl for me is as dead as I Love Lucy.

    Why didn’t someone video the bunion being carved from Frank’s foot? A few Coors (better still still a few Sam Adams) and that would have looked like cinéma verité, a huge advance on the world’s greatest sporting spectacle. The Denver Brocos, them I’ve heard of; but the Carolina Panthers have got to be bush league. Where’s Bart Starr? The Fridge? Jim Brown? YC Tittle? Dandy Don? And someone called Jeter? No doubt they’re all in care homes, their battered bodies having turned to jelly during the passage of time.


    • Sam Adams is only halfway on the continuum between Cur’s and, well, Uintas Hop Nosh or any other top notch craft brew. More later. It’s -33C here this am with power outages.


  2. As to Lady Gaga: “wa-a-a-tched” and “ga-a-ll-a-ntly” could have been me; they’re the sort of problems I’m having except she does it intentionally while I am caught (involuntarily) in a gravitational wave machine. I’ve heard far worse, far more disrespectful. In fact it was OK. Next time bring back Jessye Norman who should be able to do it without a mike.


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