Thursday, February 09, 2012

The things we do for our children

Daughter #2 has developed a rather keen interest in football over the last couple of years. She, God blesser, is a Giants fan. Just as I am when I'm not rooting for the Jets. And sometimes, if she knows we are watching the same game, she'll text or call with a question about some of the finer points of American Football.

Which is frequently a problem because my general technique for watching anything on television, including football, is to tape it, then delay my actual viewing of the thing for just enough time to allow me to fast forward through the commercials. In a vacuum, this is a perfect notion.
They can't hear you scream in space
I know. But we're talking my living room here.
Anyway, in a metaphorical vacuum, this is great. But more often than not, I find myself out of sync with D#2. To resolve this problem for the Super Bowl--a game I knew she was excited about (but not so excited as to keep her from watching the second half in a bar)--I chose to make the ultimate sacrifice and watch the thing in real time.
The things we do for our children.
Tell me about it. I mean, I love the kid ... but never again.
First of all, let me state categorically that the notion--now deeply ingrained in the American psyche by some company like Hill and Knowlton--that Super Bowl commercials are actually worth one iota more attention than any other commercials is a complete load of shit. A con job which we (I'm nice enough to include myself in the group but I don't actually belong) are stupid enough to buy into.

The two other social phenomena in the same group are the Sports Illustrated Swim Suit edition and the Victoria's Secret televised fashion show. It is hard to measure much difference in the utterly banal stupidity of both of these things, but were it a contest I would award the underwear people a nod over the swimsuit people. A friend of mine works for VS and she told me this year's show was good fun and I should watch. So I did.
The things we do for our friends.
I hope she doesn't read this blog.

Anyway, back to the SB. It was wonderful, as a game. D#2 and I had a lively back-and-forth. It was all good, although the physical toll of enduring the bullshit surrounding the game itself set me back several days and I am now just becoming myself again.

Since it was such a crackerjack of a game, and since the boys in Red and Blue, not to be confused with the 'Boys from Dallas, won it in the loveliest way, I'm going to watch the thing again tonight, with the controller in one hand for easy FFing and a glass of Talisker in the other.
Brief personal aside: The single best moment of the football season was watching, shortly after the Giants had rallied in the 4th quarter from, perhaps, twelve down to beat the Cowboys in Dallas, Jerry Jones leap out of his chair and storm out the door of his luxury box. Ha! Suck it, Jerry.

Today's final thought is this: One thing I can promise you I won't watch again is Madonna's painful excuse of a half-time show. Shit, I can dance better than she can. For a woman who's greatest claim to fame is her ability to constantly reinvent herself to maintain the relevancy required to craft a long, successful career, it seems sad to me that she appears stuck in some kind of mid-90s version of her former self--a persona she can no longer pull off. At 50 plus, I think she should consider putting on a slinky evening gown and standing in front of the microphone and just singing.
Like Cher.
Ouch. But sorta.

Somewhere, although I can't quite piece it together, is a joke with the words 'Like a geriatric' in it.


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