First off, I was wrong. I admit that freely. Nothing new, really.
I wonder how many folks even noticed though, amidst all the operatic grandeur and professional posturing. And speaking of music’s untimely demise, I’ll diagram the half-time show momentarily…
Far as the game goes, just like the Ravens on 1/15/11, the Pack were up a couple scores before Pitt heard the whistle blow for kickoff. Such absence of tone-setting intensity is not what one would expect from the veteran team in this situation. Indeed, Green Bay got into rhythm quickly, built momentum with their opportunistic defense, and kept their eyes on the prize straight through to the final gun, despite several key injuries and the Steelers valiant attempts at redemption.
A friend of a friend’s girlfriend was part of the large group with whom I watched the game. Our first meeting was colored by genially contrarian commentary concerning the stability of Israel balanced by recognition of Palestinian sovereignty and basic humanity. When I lived in D.C., I was fund-raising for the likes of Senator Leahy of Vermont, and Congresswoman Linda Sanchez of California; when she lived in D.C., she worked for Joe Lieberman, then in the office of First Lady Laura Bush. Anyway, her comment, before the game started was, approximately: “If you rape several women, God doesn’t let you win the Super Bowl…”
Someone else mentioned how he has two rings already, but that is entirely beside the point. Turns out she was right.
Then later, Scotty and I were making jokes about manifestation, how “God helps those who help themselves…” Because by this logic, stealing is okay — damn-near encouraged. God doesn’t just buy you a bike, or a Mercedes-Benz; no, you need to get off the couch, stop staring at idiotic commercials and get out there and pursue your personal glory. Just like Arjuna, perform your duty, be bold in action yet detached from its fruits, knowing that you deserve that bike way more than the punk upper-middle class ‘tweener you just claimed it from. You are simply providing him with a lesson he had karmically requested and in any case had coming to him. You are a mere instrument of the Divine. Bless you for your service, sir.
I give, for bad or often worse, my NFL allegiance to the Minnesota Vikings. At the same time, the California McConaghay side of my family is primarily comprised by Steeler fans. I am a hypocritical vegetarian.
Given that context, I will now share the text I sent my favorite ex-girlfriend, a born-and-bred Cheesehead from Bonduel, Wisconsin. After the game, I told her: “Your joy brings me joy. [But] it’s like last week when I was offered crispy bacon, and was not in the least bit tempted. It looked almost gross. And that made me sad. That’s how I feel about the Packers winning the super bowl.”
What I mean is, I am: painfully glad knowing this victory is for the greater good (as if Big Ben might learn his lesson); in mourning for the beautiful portion of my self that has been patiently withering (goodbye, butter bacon!); conflicted, as loyalties intermingle and fateful times arise; and strangely tranquil, content with underlying detachment from any superficial allegiances while simultaneously contending with some essential shame of existence.
At this time, I am humbled, disappointed, but somehow unsurprised to announce that popular music in America is over. It became official when Fergie tried to channel Cher when “singing” ‘Sweet Child o’ Mine.’ Nevermind the writhing rigor mortis that continued for 12 minutes after that; those were just the death throes.
I recognized the elemental patterns of entertainment present in this year’s spectacle — microphones, a stage, bright lights, shiny clothes — but the constituents were in the style of high-fructose corn-syrup: a performance sparkling with stimuli but empty of any true nutritional value. In fact, closer to poison than food. The industry that peddles this mangled concoction of organized noise is a cruel apothecary indeed, and in my opinion, should tag along with the treasonous UFO cover-up, and just stop.
There was little attempt to disguise this ever-more obscenely hollow show on Sunday night. Tron-wannabe, disco-soldier industrial-chic costumes adorned neon future-porn people thickly covered in glow-sticks who were presumably paid to thrust in concert to big, choreographed bumps and licks composed by a computer. Borrrinngg. Special guests Slash and Usher were, if not predictable, then plain (except for when Usher jumped over Will.I.Am.A.Sellout and did the splits. That was totally sick. Wicked gnar-gnar brodeo.)
We DVR’d the Puppy Bowl and watched it post-game. How great!?
We watched parts of BASEketball and Half-Baked (classics) until I’d chugged enough water to go back to the other house where I don’t live. In the car, CPR broadcast the BBC commentary on Obama’s pregame FOXNews interview. I thought Obama spoke openly, but not without tact; O’Reilly was ostentatiously casual, and almost too curt in cutting off the last syllable of every sentence spoken by the President. Bill was always quick to shift the subject after Obama had made any type of solid statement.
The other question that comes to mind is: how many big-budget, alien-themed movies are coming out this year? CinemaSoldier counts 16 such projects either recently released or in the works, several of which involve the invasion of Los Angeles. Like Flavor Flav said, Don’t believe the hype! Pretty sure this is COINTELPRO hard at work, funding simplistic big budget movies (2012, anyone?) that are meant to establish a base layer of fear in the public consciousness, while at the same time undermining the legitimate features of the perspective they oppose.
“Cowboys and Aliens!” Of course!…
Fun fact: Roland Emmerich produced both “2012” and “Independence Day,” two prime examples of blockbuster films performing the role of propaganda. (“The Day After Tomorrow,” too!). I’m not sayin’ anything; I’m just sayin’…
And that, my friends, is what I got out of the Super Bowl. Honestly, I wrote most of this in a stupor late Sunday night, but did not trust myself to publish it. I’ve since slept on 4 different couches, and have finally gotten around to casting a sober eye on this rant. Good enough, I guess.
You tell me… what did you do for the game? What jumped out at you?
David Telfer McConaghay was born on planet Earth. Since that fateful first day of Spring in ’86, he has wandered across its surface in search of something which, when found, kindly insists that he continue searching. His immediate family lives in Minneapolis, MN, though he also feels at home in Washington D.C.; Grass Valley, CA; Bogotá, Colombia; and now, almost Denver, CO. He completed his B.A. in English & Creative Writing at The George Washington University in 2008. The Sivananda Ashram Yoga Farm (Vrindavan of the West) is the primary source of any yogic inspiration David aka Sri Nivasa may express. He plays on Facebook HERE.
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