Monday, February 06, 2012
Hey, How About that Super Bowl, Huh?
I love the day after the Super Bowl because it is so easy to anticipate what all of the awkward elevator conversation is going to be about. You just don't get that degree of predictability with the Oscars, an unusual weather event, or some horrific local news story -- there's still always the chance that someone's going to want to talk about their granddaughter's dance recital instead. Although to be fair, I can make conversational mince meat out of that dance recital. The point, however, is just that the Super Bowl is pretty much universal. Even if, like me, you are utterly uninterested in it, you are going to look in the general direction of the television and talk about Teen Mom with a bunch of girls while eating some dip, goddamnit.
As Super Bowls go, this one was pretty good for me, I guess. There were these really good pigs in blankets and I had a two liter of Diet Coke all to my self. Neither of the teams was one that people in this area have a huge rooting interest in as a general matter, so I could get away with feigning only mild interest. Kelly Clarkson looked mysteriously thin (I'm guessing she's limited herself to one ham hock a day now) and had some of her best ever hair (America fell in love with her despite and not because of those really aggressive highlights). Madonna looked slightly drugged but made it through the halftime show alive, which is saying a lot for a gal of her age. And the game was over before 9 PM, getting me home and in bed before 11. It turns out that I am the new national champion.
I love the day after the Super Bowl because it is so easy to anticipate what all of the awkward elevator conversation is going to be about. You just don't get that degree of predictability with the Oscars, an unusual weather event, or some horrific local news story -- there's still always the chance that someone's going to want to talk about their granddaughter's dance recital instead. Although to be fair, I can make conversational mince meat out of that dance recital. The point, however, is just that the Super Bowl is pretty much universal. Even if, like me, you are utterly uninterested in it, you are going to look in the general direction of the television and talk about Teen Mom with a bunch of girls while eating some dip, goddamnit.
As Super Bowls go, this one was pretty good for me, I guess. There were these really good pigs in blankets and I had a two liter of Diet Coke all to my self. Neither of the teams was one that people in this area have a huge rooting interest in as a general matter, so I could get away with feigning only mild interest. Kelly Clarkson looked mysteriously thin (I'm guessing she's limited herself to one ham hock a day now) and had some of her best ever hair (America fell in love with her despite and not because of those really aggressive highlights). Madonna looked slightly drugged but made it through the halftime show alive, which is saying a lot for a gal of her age. And the game was over before 9 PM, getting me home and in bed before 11. It turns out that I am the new national champion.
