Well, here it is. Another Super Bowl, another year where the best seats in the house are filled with the overstuffed bottoms of the glitterati. This year, it’s the tech whizzes of Silicon Valley, checking their Blackberries for updates on their FutureCorps stock while the finest QB of this generation, Peyton Manning, is right in front of their damn faces! And behind them, craning their necks to try to get any sort of view, are the good old American union men.
That’s just backwards.
You heard me right: the steelworkers, gravediggers, and all around powerful men (and the occasional female man) who helped build America are stuck behind the goofs and gizmos who helped build “Drawing Something”. Even the good old boys who built this claptrap of a stadium in Santa Clara are stuck in the cheap seats on their tiptoes while the tech billionaires purchase them and make them fight for sport. That’s not my Super Bowl!
To be honest with you, I never thought San Francisco was a real American city. The Super Bowl should only be played in three places: Dallas, New Orleans, or my old stickball field in Queens. Man, we had great times in that abandoned lot. Stretch, Weezy, Louie, Old Ron. The whole gang. We’d get off work at the Queens Coal Mine at 4:30, play one full game of stick, then hike back to the mine from 5:00 onward. Now that’s a day’s work. Old Ron eventually became a tech billionaire when he invented Apple, but that’s neither here nor there.
But this game shouldn’t be about which tech gadabout got the biggest Christmas bonus. It should be about real, brute American strength. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be watching at home, in my recliner, thinking up a way to get unbanned from Chili’s. And I won’t be worried about anyone blocking my view: I sent my wife out for tortilla chips and siphoned most of the gas from her Viper. She’ll be a while.