Sunday, Cruddy Sunday
Feb. 6th, 2008 11:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
penfield"When I despair, I remember that all through history the way of truth and love has always won. There have been tyrants and murderers and for a time they seem invincible, but in the end, they always fall.. think of it, always."
- Mohandas Gandhi
As I said last week, I was not looking forward to Super Bowl Sunday 2008. The day seemed to recognize early on that I was holding a grudge against it, and returned the favor.
It began with the aftermath of an apocalyptically loud concert at 9:30 club late Saturday night, which led to a late bedtime, which practically overlapped with an early wake-up time, which resulted in a splitting headache that lasted nearly ten hours. My physical condition was certainly not improved by the Florida heat -- not oppressive heat, exactly, but definitely leaning toward fascism -- or the inability to find any food at either the Ft. Myers airport or the greater Naples area, aside from a precambrian-era Starbucks bagel and the uninspiring selection at the unabashedly pretentious hotel snack bar, where everything seemed to have either goat cheese or avocado (or both) in it, even the mineral water.
After some mandatory prelminary schmoozing with business meeting associates and an even more mandatory shower, I took an old-fashioned siesta in my hotel room. I woke up just in time to start a casual Super Bowl journal, transcribed here for the benefit of those who missed my usual Super Bowl Sunday presence and perspective. For those who missed the usual Super Bowl of Dip, you can only hope for a Pro Bowl Party invitation.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
6:00 My company is sponsoring a big Super Bowl Party in the ballroom downstairs, but I decide to stay in my room, with its surprisingly crisp HDTV set picture. Unfortunately, my Pavlovian football-related need to nosh on salty snacks is slowly causing my body to degenerate into a collection of nervous ticks and spasms.
6:25 p.m. The kickoff was supposed to be at 6:18, but here we are and I still have the TV on mute as the Parade of Faces continues. Maybe the 6:18 time referred to the "event kick-off," using the term "kick-off" as a figurative expression for the beginning of something, obviously borrowed from the actual practice of starting a football game with a literal kick-off. So what we have here is a kick-off being delayed by a kick-off, which is an obscure but valid penalty.
(To make the hand motion for Delayed Kick-Off as a Result of Pre-Game Activities: extend a fist with your right hand, palm up, keeping the wrist stiff, and move the fist in a short forward-backward-forward shaking motion.)
6:30 The Giants win the coin toss, so they won't be going home empty-handed. I think the team that wins the coin toss should get to keep the coin.
6:50 The Giants drive is finally over. Eli Manning takes off his helmet to reveal thick beard growth that wasn't there at kick-off. Somewhere, Jessica can finally pay attention to the TV set now that commercials are finally on.
7:00 Patriots score. Here we go. What are the odds that within the next year, "Brady" is going to be among the top five U.S. baby names for boys? (Top three, if you count any of Tom Brady's illegitimate children.)
That nearly seals the first quarter, and I am starving. I'll just go down to the official office Super Bowl party, grab some food, stay inconspicuous and leave at halftime when everyone is conducting a satellite-link autopsy of Tom Petty and the Grateful (not to mention Hirsute) Sextugenarians.
7:15 Manning intercepted, on a play that was at least half his receiver's fault. This seems to happen to the Manning brothers a lot. Does it have something to do with an unusually quick release, or the way they look-off their receivers, or do they just hate me?
Meanwhile, the party features a nice audio-visual set-up but the food is total crap. I was expecting something Super-Bowlish like pizza and chicken fingers, or even sandwiches and salad wraps, but all they have is your typical ostentatious, starch-based Hotel Food like "Lobster Macaroni and Cheese" (not as good as it sounds), "Salmon Piccata" and "Ginger Infused Leeks in a Rhubarb Reduction," which sounds like some sort of Arthur C. Clarke story. Never so much have I missed CKR's oatmeal chocolate chip cookies.
7:30 Every time Tom Brady gets sacked, a small part of me dies inside. (It's the part that doesn't believe in God.)
I don't know what these commercials are for but this one, about an Asian family, and the former one, about an East Indian family, seem kind of racist. Most of these commercials are disappointing. Even seeing Justin Timberlake get pounded in the nuts does little to excite me.
7:45 Sort of a wierd fumble play, not only during the action itself but also the officiating afterward. I admit to having no idea what the rules are on some of these plays, which is an unfortunate product of (a) the NFL modifying its rules and "points of emphasis" every six months, (b) having so many rules that some of them contradict some others, and (c) having such complex rules that reading the indications for "pass interference" is like cracking open Anna Karenina.
Imagine how tough it would be to be a Catholic if the pope was constantly changing his mind about fornication. Fun, maybe, but tough.
8:00 The first half is over. The first 30 seconds of the halftime show makes me drowsy and I think about my comfortable hotel bed.[1]
I make my move to go back upstairs but I am cornered into a discussion about e-mail, Greek islands and Pete Townsend's daughter. (like the lobster mac and cheese, not as good as it sounds.) By the time I've extricated myself from the Schmooze vacuum, the third quarter begins and I decide I might as well stick around.
8:45 The Patriots are behaving very unpatriotically. Sure, they did get lucky when the Giants committed a truly stupid penalty, wiping out fourth down. But before that, Belichick was about to punt on fourth-and-two in opposition territory. They NEVER do that, preferring to break their opponent's will by converting fourth downs when most teams give up. (Odds generally favor going for it on short yardage in opposition territory; this is a situation in which New England is just smarter than everyone else.) Then, instead of punishing the Giants for their stupidity, as is their wont, they falter on the drive. Finally, they pass up a 48-yard field goal to go for it on fourth-and-13 -- which is totally different from fourth-and-two, especially if you're in field goal range.
The margin of victory of the Patriots' three Super Bowl wins, in each case, was three points. They had to make the Giants pay for that stupid penalty, and they didn't. Not only does this sequence fundamentally alter the strategy of the game, I think it profoundly affects the psychology of the players on the field, especially the Giants. It's the football equivalent of Prozac.
8:55 I am once engaged in conversation with coworkers when I look up to see a 16 yard gain on second-and-15 by Wes Welker. Welker seems like the kind of player I'd like. He's kind of short, he's good at "team things" like blocking and his name is Wesley. On the other hand, he's got creepy blue white-supremecist eyes and he's absolutely shredding the Giants' linebackers right now. So I hope he contracts syphillis, preferably before the fourth quarter.
Hmm, but the drive stalls. Another punt near midfield. And it's a crappy punt. What's going on here? Am I in bizarro world?
9:00 End of the third quarter, score still 3-7. Some lucky bastards are cleaning up on betting squares tonight. I hesitate to disrupt the mojo, but I have to get back upstairs before my drunk colleague tries to talk to me again.
9:10 Touchdown, Giants, after a killer play fake at the New England 5. I can't decide whether to celebrate or stay grounded. I hope my dad, a lifelong Giants fan, was still awake to see that. And I hope he falls asleep before the inevitable game-winning Brady drive.
9:30 And here it is. The inevitable rope-a-dope. The Giants defenders are passing out on the field as the Patriots is passing their way down the field. Aaaaaand... touchdown to America's Sweetheart, Randy Moss.
9:40 The score is 14-10, meaning the Giants need a touchdown, with a little more than two minutes left. Even with three timeouts, it's end zone or bust. No way can the Giants stop the Patriots if they get the ball back.
9:45 I'm pacing and screaming at the television. It's pretty cool that the game is even this close, this late.
Whoa. That was close.
Yikes. Yiiikes. Yiiiiiiikes.
Holy sh!t. How did he do that? And how did he do that? That play was historic.
Nice play, Steve Smith, but no one is ever going to remember it.
10:00 Touchdown, with 35 seconds left. This ought to adrenalize the Giants defense, although if my life depended on a 50-yard completion, I'd want Brady throwing it and Moss catching it. And then the CDC sterilizing it.
10:05 Where's the magic? Brady's poise, aura and dashing smile seem to have no effect on the downfield coverage. Clank. Sack. Clank. Clank.
Giants win.
10:10 four different people text message me with the same single word: "wow." I'm still pacing, for some reason.
10:15 consecutive phone calls with J.,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
village_twins and my dad keep me gliding on a breeze of satisfaction.
10:45 It doesn't even bother me that I'm missing the first part of House M.D.
10:50 But having it on in the background is making it sort of difficult to concentrate.
10:55 Phone calls over, I settle in for the rest of House. I remember when Mira Sorvino was the Next Big Thing. Now she's That Actress I Remember from Someplace, You Know, The One with the Cans.
11:45 House is over and I have to be up-and-at-'em at 7 a.m. tomorrow, so I ought to "hit the sack." Oh, Sorry, Tom Brady. Didn't mean to bring up bad memories. It's just that I need to get under the "cover" because I don't want to be in a "rush" tomorrow morning. Oops! There I go again. My apologies, Tom. But I really have to get some sleep, you "loser."
This Super Bowl Sunday could have been a real crumb-day -- it sure started out that way -- but it's nice to go to bed with a smile on my face.
- Mohandas Gandhi
As I said last week, I was not looking forward to Super Bowl Sunday 2008. The day seemed to recognize early on that I was holding a grudge against it, and returned the favor.
It began with the aftermath of an apocalyptically loud concert at 9:30 club late Saturday night, which led to a late bedtime, which practically overlapped with an early wake-up time, which resulted in a splitting headache that lasted nearly ten hours. My physical condition was certainly not improved by the Florida heat -- not oppressive heat, exactly, but definitely leaning toward fascism -- or the inability to find any food at either the Ft. Myers airport or the greater Naples area, aside from a precambrian-era Starbucks bagel and the uninspiring selection at the unabashedly pretentious hotel snack bar, where everything seemed to have either goat cheese or avocado (or both) in it, even the mineral water.
After some mandatory prelminary schmoozing with business meeting associates and an even more mandatory shower, I took an old-fashioned siesta in my hotel room. I woke up just in time to start a casual Super Bowl journal, transcribed here for the benefit of those who missed my usual Super Bowl Sunday presence and perspective. For those who missed the usual Super Bowl of Dip, you can only hope for a Pro Bowl Party invitation.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
6:00 My company is sponsoring a big Super Bowl Party in the ballroom downstairs, but I decide to stay in my room, with its surprisingly crisp HDTV set picture. Unfortunately, my Pavlovian football-related need to nosh on salty snacks is slowly causing my body to degenerate into a collection of nervous ticks and spasms.
6:25 p.m. The kickoff was supposed to be at 6:18, but here we are and I still have the TV on mute as the Parade of Faces continues. Maybe the 6:18 time referred to the "event kick-off," using the term "kick-off" as a figurative expression for the beginning of something, obviously borrowed from the actual practice of starting a football game with a literal kick-off. So what we have here is a kick-off being delayed by a kick-off, which is an obscure but valid penalty.
(To make the hand motion for Delayed Kick-Off as a Result of Pre-Game Activities: extend a fist with your right hand, palm up, keeping the wrist stiff, and move the fist in a short forward-backward-forward shaking motion.)
6:30 The Giants win the coin toss, so they won't be going home empty-handed. I think the team that wins the coin toss should get to keep the coin.
6:50 The Giants drive is finally over. Eli Manning takes off his helmet to reveal thick beard growth that wasn't there at kick-off. Somewhere, Jessica can finally pay attention to the TV set now that commercials are finally on.
7:00 Patriots score. Here we go. What are the odds that within the next year, "Brady" is going to be among the top five U.S. baby names for boys? (Top three, if you count any of Tom Brady's illegitimate children.)
That nearly seals the first quarter, and I am starving. I'll just go down to the official office Super Bowl party, grab some food, stay inconspicuous and leave at halftime when everyone is conducting a satellite-link autopsy of Tom Petty and the Grateful (not to mention Hirsute) Sextugenarians.
7:15 Manning intercepted, on a play that was at least half his receiver's fault. This seems to happen to the Manning brothers a lot. Does it have something to do with an unusually quick release, or the way they look-off their receivers, or do they just hate me?
Meanwhile, the party features a nice audio-visual set-up but the food is total crap. I was expecting something Super-Bowlish like pizza and chicken fingers, or even sandwiches and salad wraps, but all they have is your typical ostentatious, starch-based Hotel Food like "Lobster Macaroni and Cheese" (not as good as it sounds), "Salmon Piccata" and "Ginger Infused Leeks in a Rhubarb Reduction," which sounds like some sort of Arthur C. Clarke story. Never so much have I missed CKR's oatmeal chocolate chip cookies.
7:30 Every time Tom Brady gets sacked, a small part of me dies inside. (It's the part that doesn't believe in God.)
I don't know what these commercials are for but this one, about an Asian family, and the former one, about an East Indian family, seem kind of racist. Most of these commercials are disappointing. Even seeing Justin Timberlake get pounded in the nuts does little to excite me.
7:45 Sort of a wierd fumble play, not only during the action itself but also the officiating afterward. I admit to having no idea what the rules are on some of these plays, which is an unfortunate product of (a) the NFL modifying its rules and "points of emphasis" every six months, (b) having so many rules that some of them contradict some others, and (c) having such complex rules that reading the indications for "pass interference" is like cracking open Anna Karenina.
Imagine how tough it would be to be a Catholic if the pope was constantly changing his mind about fornication. Fun, maybe, but tough.
8:00 The first half is over. The first 30 seconds of the halftime show makes me drowsy and I think about my comfortable hotel bed.[1]
I make my move to go back upstairs but I am cornered into a discussion about e-mail, Greek islands and Pete Townsend's daughter. (like the lobster mac and cheese, not as good as it sounds.) By the time I've extricated myself from the Schmooze vacuum, the third quarter begins and I decide I might as well stick around.
8:45 The Patriots are behaving very unpatriotically. Sure, they did get lucky when the Giants committed a truly stupid penalty, wiping out fourth down. But before that, Belichick was about to punt on fourth-and-two in opposition territory. They NEVER do that, preferring to break their opponent's will by converting fourth downs when most teams give up. (Odds generally favor going for it on short yardage in opposition territory; this is a situation in which New England is just smarter than everyone else.) Then, instead of punishing the Giants for their stupidity, as is their wont, they falter on the drive. Finally, they pass up a 48-yard field goal to go for it on fourth-and-13 -- which is totally different from fourth-and-two, especially if you're in field goal range.
The margin of victory of the Patriots' three Super Bowl wins, in each case, was three points. They had to make the Giants pay for that stupid penalty, and they didn't. Not only does this sequence fundamentally alter the strategy of the game, I think it profoundly affects the psychology of the players on the field, especially the Giants. It's the football equivalent of Prozac.
8:55 I am once engaged in conversation with coworkers when I look up to see a 16 yard gain on second-and-15 by Wes Welker. Welker seems like the kind of player I'd like. He's kind of short, he's good at "team things" like blocking and his name is Wesley. On the other hand, he's got creepy blue white-supremecist eyes and he's absolutely shredding the Giants' linebackers right now. So I hope he contracts syphillis, preferably before the fourth quarter.
Hmm, but the drive stalls. Another punt near midfield. And it's a crappy punt. What's going on here? Am I in bizarro world?
9:00 End of the third quarter, score still 3-7. Some lucky bastards are cleaning up on betting squares tonight. I hesitate to disrupt the mojo, but I have to get back upstairs before my drunk colleague tries to talk to me again.
9:10 Touchdown, Giants, after a killer play fake at the New England 5. I can't decide whether to celebrate or stay grounded. I hope my dad, a lifelong Giants fan, was still awake to see that. And I hope he falls asleep before the inevitable game-winning Brady drive.
9:30 And here it is. The inevitable rope-a-dope. The Giants defenders are passing out on the field as the Patriots is passing their way down the field. Aaaaaand... touchdown to America's Sweetheart, Randy Moss.
9:40 The score is 14-10, meaning the Giants need a touchdown, with a little more than two minutes left. Even with three timeouts, it's end zone or bust. No way can the Giants stop the Patriots if they get the ball back.
9:45 I'm pacing and screaming at the television. It's pretty cool that the game is even this close, this late.
Whoa. That was close.
Yikes. Yiiikes. Yiiiiiiikes.
Holy sh!t. How did he do that? And how did he do that? That play was historic.
Nice play, Steve Smith, but no one is ever going to remember it.
10:00 Touchdown, with 35 seconds left. This ought to adrenalize the Giants defense, although if my life depended on a 50-yard completion, I'd want Brady throwing it and Moss catching it. And then the CDC sterilizing it.
10:05 Where's the magic? Brady's poise, aura and dashing smile seem to have no effect on the downfield coverage. Clank. Sack. Clank. Clank.
Giants win.
10:10 four different people text message me with the same single word: "wow." I'm still pacing, for some reason.
10:15 consecutive phone calls with J.,
village_twins and my dad keep me gliding on a breeze of satisfaction. 10:45 It doesn't even bother me that I'm missing the first part of House M.D.
10:50 But having it on in the background is making it sort of difficult to concentrate.
10:55 Phone calls over, I settle in for the rest of House. I remember when Mira Sorvino was the Next Big Thing. Now she's That Actress I Remember from Someplace, You Know, The One with the Cans.
11:45 House is over and I have to be up-and-at-'em at 7 a.m. tomorrow, so I ought to "hit the sack." Oh, Sorry, Tom Brady. Didn't mean to bring up bad memories. It's just that I need to get under the "cover" because I don't want to be in a "rush" tomorrow morning. Oops! There I go again. My apologies, Tom. But I really have to get some sleep, you "loser."
This Super Bowl Sunday could have been a real crumb-day -- it sure started out that way -- but it's nice to go to bed with a smile on my face.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
[1]
Date: 2008-02-07 04:31 am (UTC)I liken it to this decade's revision of the "Batman" franchise after the retina-searing, post-modernist version of the 1990s. It was still boring and self-conscious, only now the audio-visual assault was more of a dull and steady roar rather than an assortment of dissonant clanging noises.
(Some of you are saying, "Yeah, but what about Prince?" Prince was only a half-aberration, with his irrepressible sexuality at least nominally tempered by his personal religious reformation. Sort of like Morgan Freeman in "Batman Begins," he lent gravitas and credibility to the whole affair but still failed to leave any kind of artistic impression.)