SuperThoughts will be the only post this evening thanks in part to The Office. The hour-long spectacle cut my writing time, well, an hour short tonight, but it was well worth it: what an episode, eh?
But I did want to take a moment and thank my loyal readers. The two of you have meant so much to me.
Seriously, though, I do appreciate anyone who reads these posts, and I hope that occasionally these digressive arrangements muster a smirk (I am not nearly conceited enough to think they warrant much more, but if a laugh is occasionally loosed, well, all the better . . .)
I would especially like to note that one reader, a fellow I attended high school with, recently got a hold of me with a request for a story. This request will be released in a few weeks to coincide with baseball spring training, as it is a tale about a notorious ballplayer.
I welcome his suggestion and look forward to the fine-tuning of that piece, and likewise would appreciate any other feedback regarding future posts. Now I know most of you could care less what you read, but in the same manner that you might request a song or dish at a restaurant I am offering the same luxury: a chance to have someone else report back on a subject of your choosing. Free reporting and writing to any subject you choose . . . what a deal. Please realize that any journalistic merits regarding truth will not be upheld, and I will not complete high school or college writing assignments (without a fee . . . kidding . . . but seriously).
And that is it for this week. Hope you have a good one, and again, thanks.
Happy reading . . .
01 February 2009
SuperThoughts
Well, the game is over, and now, while they hand out awards and before The Office, I am going to, in no specific manner, jot some of my impressions from the big night.
Before even a single snap, I had to laugh at the world in which we live. The NFL wanted to really bring out its PLAY 60 initiative, one whose aim is to encourage young people toward 60 minutes of physical activity per day. Ironic. They chose to have several reminders of this lofty* endeavor and even had a youthful representative take out the game ball before the opening kick. This all taking place on a day which pregame begins at 3 pm, the game itself lasts a hearty four hours, and one is forbidden from diverting his eyes even during the commercials for fear of missing something (and this is valid: if I would have missed that Koala getting punched I would have been upset). I have been sitting on the couch for a quarter of a full earthly day, and I have an hour or so to go thanks to The Office’s special episode. But sure kids go play. If you get hurt just whimper quietly and we can nip over to the ER just as soon as the programming is over or maybe first thing in the morning. Okay? Thankfully I have no children for which to be a horrid example. And it is sort of a Catch-22 because to have any little ones I will have to get off the couch . . . a tall order. Perhaps, I could start small, say, 60 minutes a day.
Next point: 3D Glasses. Do many people keep these just lying about? What about folks at large gatherings, are there enough for everyone? They told me to get mine ready, gave me like six seconds, and then plunged into a worthless 3 minutes of visual commercial splendor, all shapes and colors, and I sat there void an entire demension and suitably irate. So tomorrow I am buying a pair of 3D glasses—nay goggles—and I am going to have them available at all times: just in case. I’ll squeeze that into my 60 minutes just after meeting and marrying a woman and prior to our procreation. No problem.
On to the next observation: Was that first Doritos commercial made in a tech savvy employees basement and then vaulted until its first playing tonight? In case you were at the fridge, it involved an annoying guy with a snow globe pretending the snow globe is a Magic 8 Ball: yeah, already stupid, right? Well, the annoying guy shows his annoying friend and then chucks the thing through a vending machine that only contains Doritos chips (nice realism, guys!) Then annoying guy B (sorry but another adjective really won’t do) throws said globe—which is wondrously back in one piece after its encounter with the vending machine—at his boss’s crouch. Worst add ever simply because it tried so hard and failed so miserably. I now officially hate Doritos and will not eat a single chip of that name for at least XLIII days (or a week, whichever comes first).
And we must talk about BRUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCE!!!! As much as the black guy from the E Street Band tried to dress like Janet Jackson a few years ago—I mean it was the precise get-up—no boobs were shown in the making of this halftime show. But a few other things did stand out or slide across the stage on knees. Did anyone else catch this priceless moment? After belting, “Tramps like us, Baby, we were born to RUN . . .” The Boss slid toward the wing of the stage and provided a more forcible hit than any the first half had seen. He obviously over slid, maybe it was Superbowl adrenaline or steroids or something, but I guarantee the cameraman is worse for wear on Monday morning. It didn’t show the afflicted party, but a close-up of Bruce’s face showed a wry grin as if to say: “Boy, did I over slide. HA, sorry, Man!” The only guy who almost had a worse fate was the stagehand responsible for catching the guitar Springsteen let fly his way upon taking the stage. The poor guy, terror in his face, wrestled the axe into control, but it was a near fumble and awkward as catching a greased pig in the snow.
So that was awesome, and just when the Band was really rocking the house The Boss, his band mate, Steve, and The Ref had perhaps the corniest moment since Cat Stevens sang “Peace Train” with a calico kitten nestled in his Capri panted lap. Two legendary musicians talking nonsense about ‘extra time’, and just when the viewer is thinking: Hey, this conversation seems pretty phony . . . a goofy guy in officiating garb spazzes onto the stage and throws a flag for delay of game. At this point I threw a white flag, noting that I will hopefully visit Bruce during one of his four hour jam-fests and steer clear of him in short spurts.
My biggest disappointment in the game was not Kurt Warner’s loss or his oldest daughter’s wedding ring, but the ref that got nailed in the first half. It was the back judge, I think, the one who later called the safety on Pittsburgh. Anyway, he got dealt with at one point, the best part of any game, and he jolted right back up after the briefest of visits with the turf. It was nearly respectable and totally unfunny. Typically the ref has a way of comically rolling or losing flags and his hat or stumbling back to his feet like one coming up from a too-long spell underwater. Nope, this guy just bounced right back up like Keanu Reeves taking a punch in The Matrix.
And, of course, they brought out “Sully” and his flight crew before the game; the birds were watching (if you are lost on this visit an earlier post, or let me save you some time: Don't).
It was a spectacle. It was the Superbowl. And now, finally, I can visit the restroom. I will set my timer and add the duration spent there to my daily off-couch allotment.
*(by lofty I intend lackluster and slothful)
Before even a single snap, I had to laugh at the world in which we live. The NFL wanted to really bring out its PLAY 60 initiative, one whose aim is to encourage young people toward 60 minutes of physical activity per day. Ironic. They chose to have several reminders of this lofty* endeavor and even had a youthful representative take out the game ball before the opening kick. This all taking place on a day which pregame begins at 3 pm, the game itself lasts a hearty four hours, and one is forbidden from diverting his eyes even during the commercials for fear of missing something (and this is valid: if I would have missed that Koala getting punched I would have been upset). I have been sitting on the couch for a quarter of a full earthly day, and I have an hour or so to go thanks to The Office’s special episode. But sure kids go play. If you get hurt just whimper quietly and we can nip over to the ER just as soon as the programming is over or maybe first thing in the morning. Okay? Thankfully I have no children for which to be a horrid example. And it is sort of a Catch-22 because to have any little ones I will have to get off the couch . . . a tall order. Perhaps, I could start small, say, 60 minutes a day.
Next point: 3D Glasses. Do many people keep these just lying about? What about folks at large gatherings, are there enough for everyone? They told me to get mine ready, gave me like six seconds, and then plunged into a worthless 3 minutes of visual commercial splendor, all shapes and colors, and I sat there void an entire demension and suitably irate. So tomorrow I am buying a pair of 3D glasses—nay goggles—and I am going to have them available at all times: just in case. I’ll squeeze that into my 60 minutes just after meeting and marrying a woman and prior to our procreation. No problem.
On to the next observation: Was that first Doritos commercial made in a tech savvy employees basement and then vaulted until its first playing tonight? In case you were at the fridge, it involved an annoying guy with a snow globe pretending the snow globe is a Magic 8 Ball: yeah, already stupid, right? Well, the annoying guy shows his annoying friend and then chucks the thing through a vending machine that only contains Doritos chips (nice realism, guys!) Then annoying guy B (sorry but another adjective really won’t do) throws said globe—which is wondrously back in one piece after its encounter with the vending machine—at his boss’s crouch. Worst add ever simply because it tried so hard and failed so miserably. I now officially hate Doritos and will not eat a single chip of that name for at least XLIII days (or a week, whichever comes first).
And we must talk about BRUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCE!!!! As much as the black guy from the E Street Band tried to dress like Janet Jackson a few years ago—I mean it was the precise get-up—no boobs were shown in the making of this halftime show. But a few other things did stand out or slide across the stage on knees. Did anyone else catch this priceless moment? After belting, “Tramps like us, Baby, we were born to RUN . . .” The Boss slid toward the wing of the stage and provided a more forcible hit than any the first half had seen. He obviously over slid, maybe it was Superbowl adrenaline or steroids or something, but I guarantee the cameraman is worse for wear on Monday morning. It didn’t show the afflicted party, but a close-up of Bruce’s face showed a wry grin as if to say: “Boy, did I over slide. HA, sorry, Man!” The only guy who almost had a worse fate was the stagehand responsible for catching the guitar Springsteen let fly his way upon taking the stage. The poor guy, terror in his face, wrestled the axe into control, but it was a near fumble and awkward as catching a greased pig in the snow.
So that was awesome, and just when the Band was really rocking the house The Boss, his band mate, Steve, and The Ref had perhaps the corniest moment since Cat Stevens sang “Peace Train” with a calico kitten nestled in his Capri panted lap. Two legendary musicians talking nonsense about ‘extra time’, and just when the viewer is thinking: Hey, this conversation seems pretty phony . . . a goofy guy in officiating garb spazzes onto the stage and throws a flag for delay of game. At this point I threw a white flag, noting that I will hopefully visit Bruce during one of his four hour jam-fests and steer clear of him in short spurts.
My biggest disappointment in the game was not Kurt Warner’s loss or his oldest daughter’s wedding ring, but the ref that got nailed in the first half. It was the back judge, I think, the one who later called the safety on Pittsburgh. Anyway, he got dealt with at one point, the best part of any game, and he jolted right back up after the briefest of visits with the turf. It was nearly respectable and totally unfunny. Typically the ref has a way of comically rolling or losing flags and his hat or stumbling back to his feet like one coming up from a too-long spell underwater. Nope, this guy just bounced right back up like Keanu Reeves taking a punch in The Matrix.
And, of course, they brought out “Sully” and his flight crew before the game; the birds were watching (if you are lost on this visit an earlier post, or let me save you some time: Don't).
It was a spectacle. It was the Superbowl. And now, finally, I can visit the restroom. I will set my timer and add the duration spent there to my daily off-couch allotment.
*(by lofty I intend lackluster and slothful)
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