The Superbowl (Bah, Humbug)
Wow, that was some rainy, miserable, football. I'd rather have watched Dwight Schrute give a power-point presentation on the merits of Dunder-Mifflin paper, than have to sit through that thing again. Hell, I'd rather watch an episode of CBS flagship 2 and 1/2 men than spend 2 and a half hours wondering how much the Bears' quarterback got mocked for having the last name, "Gross-man" at 9 years old.
Basically, if you weren't from Indianapolis or Chicago, (okay, maybe just Indianapolis) this was one of the most dull and listless spectacles in recent memory. Yeah, yeah, it proved that Peyton Manning can finally win a Super Bowl. He also has the personality of a bowl of grape nuts, dull, flavorless but surprisingly efficient. Not exactly the stuff of Joe Namath or even Bret Farv....ruh. Y'know you're suffering when one of the key media backstories of the game is how quiet Marvin Harrison is. Fantastic, news segments devoted to the fact that the star wide receiver is a mute.
I guess Prince doing the Super Bowl was okay. Although, next time maybe someone could pass NFL headquarters the memo that this isn't the year 1985. Prince isn't edgy. My grandmother likes Prince (and Benny Goodman). The most interesting side story behind the game was the fact that the Bears' coach is named Lovie Smith. What the fuck is he, a care bear? A character on Gilligan's Island? If I were named Lovie Smith, I would change my name to Nails. Something tough. Mean. Maybe if the Bears were coached by a man named Nails Smith they would've won (or at least limited Gross-man to like, 14 turnovers).
Don't even get me started on the commercials. Maybe I'm not 12 years old anymore but I could've sworn that the commercials used to be funny. Now they're just weird for the sake of being weird. Like that Snickers commercial where the two mechanics were making out? What the fuck was that and why am I supposed to find that funny? Like two grease monkeys swapping spit will make me yearn for a delicious peanut and caramel treat. (Unless of course, it was a commentary on Karl Rove's deepest darkest fears behind legalizing gay marriage, in which case, it's genius.)
Congratulations to the city of Indianapolis. If I were in Indianapolis I'm sure I'd be pretty stoked right about now. I suppose they've suffered long enough in Super Bowl purgatory (inevitably, God's punishment for having produced Dan Quayle). But it does mark a new low in NFL history, that the quarterback of a Super Bowl winning team is named after a soap opera-novel about the lives of three lonely and repressed women.
Oh well. Another year, another Super Bowl. This one, stunningly more unspectacular than the last. And as much as I rue the appallingly bad alchemy of football, advertising and bland broadcasting, the irony is, of course, that I'll tune in again next year, like everybody else. Why? Because I'm a sucker for any holiday that involves beer, chips, pizza and guacamole. Even if Dwight Schrute probably can play quarterback better than Gross....man.