First of all, Bill de Blasio dropped the groundhog today. He couldn’t move to see his shadow, so apparently in six weeks we’re having the apocalypse.
Anyway, on Friday night, there was a Bronco at my job. Not the animal, although that, to me, would have been far more interesting, but a member of the football team. He was having a moderately-sized gathering with his oversized loved ones and some cheerleaders; these two categories may or may not overlap.
Now ordinarily, this wouldn’t have turned heads, but on this particular night, the majority of diners happened to be out-of-towners in New York for the Super Bowl. When the football player and his entourage, who were dining in a private room, made their way to the door, the entire dining room erupted with joy and excitement. Shouts, cries, clinking glasses, flashing iPhones, general chaos. My co-workers, men AND women, were swept up in this groupthink frenzy. “Man, this is why I moved to New York!” “A Bronco!” “The Super Bowl!” “This is amazing!” “The energy! The energy!”
The horror, the horror. If I had more than $32.94 in my bank account, I would have walked right out the door.
God damn do I hate the Super Bowl. A multi-billion dollar industry devoted to a single game played in a stadium nowhere near the home of the teams involved. An industry that promotes gluttony, steroids and violence, that hates homosexuals, and imports teen prostitutes for the big game.
When I started seeing headlines about the Broncos and the Seahawks, I assumed an excess of CO2 was causing strange zoological migration patterns. Oh, I’m sorry – was I supposed to be intimidated by a seahawk? Is that even a real bird?
Does anyone else realize that the same people who buy $12,000 tickets to these games are the same people who can’t wrangle up a couple hundred bucks a month for Obamacare? Imagine if people cared even .03% as much about, oh, anything social/racial/political issue as they did about the outcome of this one game.
What about this Super Bowl Boulevard they’ve set up in Times Square? They can clear out the heart of the city, make it sparkly for the cash-laden sports-fans heading to Ruby Foo’s and Sizzler, but making the A train express after 11 pm is fiscally impossible.
And I’m sorry, but WE are not going to win. YOU are not going to win. THEY, meaning the patrolled members of the two teams in question, are going to win, or lose, for that matter.
When I asked around about why this night was different than all other nights, I was told that a large part of it is the commercials. Um, what? So you’re telling me that with fast forward, TiVo, commercial-free Hulu, and Netflix, after all these commercial-free innovations, people are sitting through a game to watch someone convince them to buy something?
Whatever. Kickoff’s long passed, and I’m lucky enough to know people who also think this is the dumbest event of the year. Unless, since the mayor dropped the groundhog, we all die in March.