Phew. The weekend provided courtesy of junk food and alcohol and hype and American excess is over, encapsulated in the different reactions to Post Malone’s rending of America the Beautiful, and Reba’s spirited version of the national anthem.
Everything about the Super Bowl is high octane, manufactured drama, over-the-top patriotism and pornographic commercialism. I’m glad we’re done with it for another year. For me, it’s basically an excuse to gather with friends and family and strap on the feedbag. I barely made it to the end of the first half.
Anyway, the pundits and sportscasters and opinionated loudmouths can now feast, eviscerate the carcass, evaluate and critique and get loud and unduly emotional over who sucked and who played out of their minds– on the field or in the broadcast booth, during the halftime show, or in the $7 million-per-half-minute advertisements.
It’s nice to have the Phoenix Open and this master class in Sports As Religion over and done in the same weekend.
3 Cents' 