Best Super Bowl ever? Tell that to Madison Avenue, whose Super Bowl commercials were—let's see, how to maintain a tone in keeping with our nation's newfound proud nobility?—crap. They're giving us reruns? At least AT&T tried, with mLife, its terribly transparent attempt to repackage its cell phones as something new and necessary—heartwarming delivery-room scene, lots of navels not singing. But the cutting of an umbilical cord as an analogy for our wireless lives is the kind of bizarre stretch that leaves people scratching their heads and/or hooting in derision. And was it not our tax dollars—$3.5 million worth of our tax dollars going straight into Fox's eager pockets—that produced those execrable (that means “crappy”) ads that claimed that our dope smoking is supporting terrorism? Sure, if you were shooting horse last year, you were paying off the Taliban—but shoot now and you're supporting freedom! And even last year, you weren't paying off the Taliban any more than the Bushadministration was, unless you've recently spent $43 million on junk. And since you're probably not Robert Downey Jr., you probably haven't. (Special thanks to our local Libertarians, who called the ads “Super Bowloney.”) And Colombia? Yes, your coke habit produces more than blathering and nasal drip; it is getting kids massacred in village drive-bys—though it's a bit hard to take the government lecturing us on the subject of our collective drug habit propping up terrorists when it was the Reaganadministration that was allegedly illegally running coke with the express purpose of propping up both the contras and the Iranian despots that had kidnapped our own citizens. (See Jim Washburn's excellent “Not Too Late for a War Crimes Trial” in the Feb. 1 issue for a refresher.) Anyway, coke's not good for you. You should probably stick to the weed.
Aside from the stupid and/or infuriating ads, though, the Super Bowl itself was stupid and ugly; I don't care how exciting you thought it was. The passing was ugly. Sir Paul McCartney was ugly (and stupid, and he jabbered mindlessly). And the refs? Just as bad as ever! First, there was that bizarre call in the Steelers/Patriots game, where a Steeler leapt into the air for a beautiful catch and landed on his back, the ball still on his chest and no one within feet of him. The refs ruled it incomplete because the ball had bobbled in his hands (still on his chest) when he hit the ground on his back. It was a made-up call; the ground can't cause a fumble, so how can landing on it cause an incomplete? (Despite the unfairness of that call, I did switch teams midgame on that one from the Steelers to the Patriots because I didn't think it was nice for the Steelers to tackle Tom Brady at the knees. Knees are important!) Before that, there was the Raiders/Patriots, where Brady's fumble wasn't a fumble; it was “incomplete.” And this time out? Well, for once, the Patriots got the stupid end of the referees' stick: a gorgeous recovered fumble run for a TD—that wasn't a TD because someone on the line had been holding, even though the guy he was holding was holding him right back like it was prom night and he was trying to get the first guy's bra off.
Two playoff games with the Patriots enthroned by the refs' decisions. Since when did the zebras become the Supreme Court? You know what I say? Bring back the scabs!
It was probably more scabies than scabs at the Super Diamond show at the Mouse House of Blues Saturday night—at least if I correctly remember the parasites one can pick up in a frat house. Super Diamond? Utterly fab, though I was nonplussed to realize I didn't know half the songs. The Surreal Neil? He could have been Memorex(lip-synching like Britney Spears) he sounded so much like the real thing—and he's far younger and cuter (especially in that lace-up shirt!) than the real Neil Diamond. Diamond, after all, never was that sweet-lookin' to begin with, and he's now less so—though at least he doesn't look like Sir Paul McCartney, the Uncoolest Beatle, whose face-lift seems to be sagging.
But back to the House of Blues! Please! What is it about Neil Diamond (or the surreal version thereof) that brings out hundreds of frat boys and sorority girls in sparkly shirts? (My homegirl Arrissia pointed out that the madding crowd comprised only mortgage brokers and girls named Stacy.) We watched in awe as the gangs of boys and gaggles of girls goofily made one another's acquaintance, with their guts sucked in and shoulders thrown back. Mating! How delightful!
Our hats are off to the tireless security woman working the VIP balcony. Some food-challenged girls had very nicely asked tall drink of water Cher Greenleaf if she thought there would be a problem if they stood at the railing. (The VIP balcony has two rows: benches in the front at the railing, and a row of stools behind that.) Cher told them she thought security might not let them, but they should go right ahead and try! (I was all set to smile fakely and then go tattle on security myself.) But the second the lights went down, the bouncer lady was at their side telling them what was what. They pointed to another bouncer across the way, telling the lady he had said it would be just fine, but they were lying. Did that bouncer lady fall for it? No, she did not. Give this woman $44,000 per season and make her a zebra! And the poor Tri-Delts had to go away, dragging their very bony tails behind them.
Co**********@ho*****.com. Join the rush!
