Boom Boom Duh! The Super Bowl 45 Halftime Show

First of all, the ads.

It’s strangely American to not only have interest in what the best in the NFL have to offer, but also Madison Avenue. Our marketing executives have us strangely walking towards Idiocracy as reality while we chuckle at silicone chicks (or G.I.L.F.s, if you found CGI Joan Rivers hot), nut shots, and trivializing the plight of Tibet, rain forests, or any other global issue that we’ve suddenly grown tired of.

It was embarrassing, and I count myself as one of those lazy misanthropes that genuinely enjoy watching the ads on the Super Bowl. But to watch them under the Roman Numerals 45 was like looking at yourself in a fun house mirror-the reality distorted enough to appear funny at first while recognizing that freaky looking dude in the mirror was really you.

I wanted to buy a German car, and I wanted to laugh at Eminem for trying to convince me to buy a car from a manufacturer that hasn’t had a decent ride since before the ’73 Oil Embargo. And I sure hope Chrysler got some funding from the City of Detroit, in what appears to be the tourism department simply giving up, pleading instead to book a trip to the Motor City to see the Salt of the Earth wax museum.

And of course, the halftime entertainment.

Note to Christina Aguilera first: it’s the National Anthem, not your American Idol audition. Little pitchy, dog, and way to fuck up the lyrics, sister. Do you want to know why you’ve been reduced to the in-and-out job of National Anthem performer? Because people are finally figuring out that you are a one trick pony. And when you can’t even memorize the lyrics to something that a third-grader can probably recite in their sleep, it doesn’t appear that you’re taking your gig or any chance at a career redemption seriously.

Of course, we knew what to expect when you first heard the words “Performing our National Anthem, Christina Aguilera!” just like we knew the halftime performance of the 45th Super Bowl would suck when it was announced that the Black Eyed Peas would be headlining.

My wife seemed a little surprised at how bad they were, and when I mentioned how lame Up With People used to be, I was met with a deer-in-the-headlights look that only reminded me of my age.

She got really feisty when Slash came on stage and helped Fergie belt out a rendition of “Sweet Child ‘O Mine” so godawful that you could easily have found a better replacement at some cover band in a Native American casino.

My boy, on the other hand, thought they were awesome. But he’s seven, and “I Gotta Feeling” is the only song he knows the lyrics too. That and Travie McCoy’s “Billionaire.” I vote that his opinion doesn’t count for anything.

“It’s like a scene from Tron!” I pointed out to my wife. Again, deer-in-the-headlights from my wife, even though I put the original Tron in our Netflix queue at least a year ago, struggling to remember why I didn’t hold on to any good memories from that movie when everyone else was saying how awesome it was in preparation for the remake.

You know what? The original Tron sucked, and by watching it again, I was in no mood to shell out a dime for the remake.

So Black Eyed Peas had some Tron cast members glowing around the stage while huge segments of their stage lighting neglected to light at all, leading me to ponder “Is that supposed to say ‘Love’ or ‘Lexus’?”

As the commercials had already shown me, you can never be too sure of product placement in this day and age.

And we’re too stupid to care anyway.

The Who's Halftime Super Bowl Performance

I had a strange feeling when I heard The Who would be halftime performers for this year’s Super Bowl. A band that presented diametrically different possibilities: on one hand, they were a band that at their prime would have utterly destroyed a gig like that one Sunday night. On the other hand, half of the band’s driving force is no longer with us, rendering the band as a brand name instead of a virile machine.
There is another factor to the equation of if they would be a worthy performer, and it was immediately pointed out by wife, who sat down on the couch next to me and went “Pfft! They’re old.”
They are indeed old. Daltry can no longer hit “the note,” Townshend’s windmill looks like he’s nursing a torn rotator cuff, and their credibility seems incredibly tiny as-like I stated before-over half of the band’s driving force is….
You get the idea.
I was immediately drawn to Zac Starkey. The dude is a handsome bastard and that kit he was playing-clear acrylic shells with Who bull’s-eye cymbals-was awesome eye candy.
And the light show was fantastic. I remembered a similar feeling when I saw this same line up a few years ago; how far have we come where the lighting/art director has become a critical component in the Who’s live attack?
Meet the new Boss.
Now meet his Technical Director.
The band didn’t embarrass themselves-they just embarrassed their heritage. This certainly wasn’t the band they originally envisioned, was it? And I have a strong feeling their younger selves would have shuddered at the thought of someone older than their parents would be singing about a teenage wasteland.
It was a tidy set, limited by design to allow for any danger. You don’t know how much I was gunning for a quick guitar smash from Pete at the end-just a quick acknowledgement of the chaos of their earlier years, the cherry on top to all of the Mod imagery swirling around the lights.
But it was not to be. A post performance rub down was not part of the contract terms, I guess.
As a spectacle-a successful halftime show-I’d give it a passing grade. It was well behind the stunning Prince performance from a few years ago, but ahead of Tom Petty’s tepid medley.
But as a fan, one who wants younger generations to understand that The Who for many years were the best band working, their halftime performance was an utter failure. It didn’t motivate anyone to examine the band long play statements, and it did nothing to hint at their live prowess.
I suppose it’s too much given their age, but you’d think that they’d want to retire in front of the biggest audience of their career the same way they entered it: dangerously.
Won’t get fooled again.

Thrilla In Manila

Leftsez beat me to it, but trust me, I was going to blog about the HBO documentary Thrilla In Manila anyway, a film that focuses on the relationship, fight, and aftermath of the Muhammad Ali – Joe Frazier fights.
I was too young to remember those fights-the Foreman fight too. By the time I was aware of Ali, the myth making was in full swing starting with the "Black Superman" song. It wasn’t until he lost to Spinks before I realized that he was human, particularly when Spinks was just supposed to be a toothless walk over. Sure, he came back to win against him, but even then you could tell that something was wrong. The swagger slowed. The speech was slurred. They were all symptoms created during those Frazier fights.
Without knowing the back-story, you immediately think about how hard Frazier must have hit to create that kind of long-term damage. You’re swayed by the Ali myth-that Frazier was a patsy for the white man, placed to shut the loudmouth up as he returned to the ring after being banned. The reality-as the film shows us-was much different.
Joe Frazier was the embodiment of overcoming adversity, something that was totally ignored while Ali berated him in the press. Frazier wasn’t the most intelligent fellow in the world, but he may have possessed the hardest punch-until Foreman came a year later and put him on the canvas. The talent level of the heavyweights was so awesome back then that any one of those three-Ali, Foreman, or Frazier-would be long standing champions today.
But regardless of how dumb Frazier may have been, he was smart enough to know that fighters should take care of each other, and when Ali was feeling the pinch of not being able to get fight money, Frazier dipped into his own pocket to help him out.
A year later, Ali was calling him a “gorilla” and pitting Joe as the white man’s champion.
Joe pummeled Ali in that first fight and did nearly the same thing in fight number two. Ali was ready to “cut the gloves” before Round 15 in the second fight, an indication that he couldn’t go on. Frazier, on the other hand, was ready to go the distance, even though his eye had completely swollen shut and a previous injury made him equally blind to Ali’s right hooks. Despite Frazier’s protests, his corner stopped the fight. Even Ali’s corner deemed the fight-specifically the last two rounds-as close as you could get to having to men kill each other.
We all know what happened to Ali, but we seldom hear about Frazier. The entire Ali drama apparently stuck with him-all of the verbal abuse lobbied at him took a toll to the point where even now he’s resentful of Ali and the notoriety afforded him. Even his voice mail message on his cell phone makes light of Ali’s condition and attributes it to the blows he gave the champ.
Thrilla In Manila is just as riveting as When We Were Kings, the documentary accounting the Ali-Foreman fight. The main difference is that Kings helps retain the Ali mystique while Thrilla nearly dismantles it.

University of Nothing's Impossible

Fuck it. I wore my UNI “Road To Detroit” t-shirt for casual day even though they lost. There were a few Panther supporters at work so we all played hooky from our normal duties and hung out in front of one of the big screens in the cafeteria. I thought for sure during the last two minutes that they’d be able to take the game.
Understand: I’m in Hawkeye country. Everyone around here is. It’s only when you get to around Des Moines that you start seeing any evidence of the Iowa State Cyclones. But underneath Eastern Iowa’s yellow and black contingency is a substantial amount of Northern Iowa graduates. The school breeds a lot of teacher and accountants, and then you had the likes of me that was neither. It’s cool that they’ve got a football and basketball program that consistently puts together winning seasons and that it’s getting even more recognized. When I was there, the UNI dome was barely half-full, even when they were posting wins. Now, it’s not uncommon for the dome to sell out their games. And their basketball team has a new facility; they too were in the dome for their games until a few years ago. I haven’t been to the new place. The last game I saw was when they beat Iowa in the dome. It was about ¾ full for that game.
There is one reason why I went to UNI. They were the first one to accept me. A small private school called Morningside College pursued me before them-the result of an Episcopal priest calling his alma matter to advise them that I was interested in their theology program-but I balked after learning how much tuition would be. Yes, there was a moment in which I considered going into the priesthood but I couldn’t work my young mind around the entire notion of the faith required for that path. I was still questioning God at that time, and I enjoyed having pre-marital sex and smoking pot.
I then got cold feet to the point where I went to community college immediately after high school. I got really baked the night before my ACT test and totally bombed the pre-college assessment. Even though I clepped out of my English and social studies courses, I was an average math student. My shitty ACT scores affirmed this and my state of mind actually contributed to poorer showings in areas that I was supposedly good in. The experience left me a little shell shocked; I didn’t want to go off to school and immediately flunk out and have to move back home. I decided just to stay home, go to community college and get all of my math and science shit out of the way before dropping a bunch of money at a four-year institution. I got my prerequisites out of the way and in the spring, I began to send off letters of interest to four schools: UNI, Iowa, Western Illinois University, and Northeast Missouri State (now Truman University). I got a response back from UNI first, WIU second, Iowa third, and not a goddamn thing back from those fucks in Missouri.
I learned a lot at UNI…mostly off campus…and for that, I’m incredibly indebted. Not in a financial way, mind you, they received a substantial amount of money, so monetary rewards are not an option. At one time, there was a large contingency of original music coming out of Cedar Falls. Nowadays? Not so much. Instead, I lend my support behind the university’s football/basketball program, a final nod to the institution that helped shaped where I am today.

It's March Madness, Fuckholes

...And for the fourth time since 2004, Northern Iowa is in the tournament. Need I remind you that none of the other two Iowa universities are in? Should I mention that they beat those fags at Illinois State to get into the dance? Is it understood that my cousin graduated from Illinois State which makes him gay by default? Go Panthers! I spent $18 on a fucking shirt, so you'd better win at least one game.

10th Avenue Sell Out

I have no idea what the fuck is going on inside my body, but I began vomiting like a champion about thirty minutes after the Super Bowl ended on Sunday. And then, when there was nothing left to vomit, my body advised me that I needed to vomit some more. How strange it is when you can literally make the most unholy of noises and have nothing to show for it. One could theoretically walk down the street dry-heaving and have your clothes remain dutifully in tact and soil free.
Not that I was in any shape to walk around, mind you.
The next morning I called in sick…puke free, thank God…but with the soreness of Apollo Creed after facing the Rocky Balboa.
“Hit ‘em with the body punches, Rock!” said Mick.
And my body felt like it had witnessed a flurry of body punches per Mick’s grizzled yells from the corner, as it hurt to laugh, cough, or sneeze.
“Ain’t gonna be no rematch!” said
Don’t want one. But then the poopsy daises stopped by which led me to begin reading a book about The Night Stalker. After chapter seven, things had calmed downstairs enough for me to crawl to bed, secretly wishing that I was old enough to get a Depends “undergarment” and have someone else deal with my exploding diarrhea.
Too much information?
It’s a great Police song!
I recently did a review of the new Bruce Springsteen album and then checked out some of the other reviews of it. I don’t like reading reviews of albums before I start writing one of my own. Typically, I’ll wait until afterwards and then I’ll get paranoid that what I’ve written is too similar to what I’ve read, forcing me to contemplate a re-write. Fuck it though, if what I’ve written is fresh and what I feel then it should stay, no matter if someone else feels the same way or sites similar passages.
The new Bruce album sucks balls. It’s really bad, trust me. Not awful, but piss poor in a “what the fuck were you thinking” kind of way for someone like Bruce Springsteen. Anyone who feels that his best work is behind him need only listen to Working On A Dream once to determine that it’s true.
I see that Rolling Stone magazine gave the album five stars. I know it’s funny that something from Rolling Stone would work me up to a lather, but I have to tell you that there has to be some kind of shenanigans afoot here because, unless there’s something wrong with your auditory functions, there is nothing on this album that would warrant a five-star rating.
Nothing.
The only thing I can figure is that the editors of Rolling Stone don’t want to offend the boss to the point where he won’t speak to them any more, which is hilarious because the magazine’s teen base doesn’t give a fuck that Bruce Springsteen is anyway.
I began reading the review to get some kind of insight into what could possibly warrant such a great rating. I mean, there is a ton of what I would consider “five-star” albums out there, but I have to acknowledge that some of them are great because I think they are. It doesn’t mean that it is something that has to be in your collection, unconditionally. Those are the undisputed ones…the Pet Sounds or Never Mind The Bullocks…the ones that you have to have. The ones that I think are vital, but aren’t universally necessary, I’m going to give 4.5 stars.
And believe me, Working On A Dream is nowhere fucking near a 4.5 star album.
On top of all this, I was genuinely excited about the Boss performing at halftime at the Super Bowl. True to form, Bruce gave a capable performance that, like the new album, was far from fucking memorable.
Do I remember the songs?
Some kind of truncated medley, wasnit?
Freeze Out>Born To Run>Shitty New Song>Glory Days? Right?
Maybe it was my fever dream, but I can’t remember shit about the actual quality of the songs other that Bruce shoved his wing-wang towards the camera, told me to put down the guacamole, and shot the shit with Little Steven at the end.
Oh yeah, and he’s going to Disneyland. Like anyone goes to Disneyland. It’s Disneyworld boss, and you made enough to pay for the upgrade.
And they didn’t even have to really work at it.
Yes, apparently performing live at the Super Bowl is such a chore now that they essentially had the band play along to a backing track with the only “live” part of the festivities being Bruce’s vocals. That’s fine, I suppose, but don’t advertise it at “Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band performing live at halftime.” Call it “Bruce Springsteen singing live at halftime with the E Street Band on stage, acting like they’re playing but not really.”
More distressing than a by-the-numbers performance where most of the band wasn’t even really playing or than an overly-hyped shitty album is Springsteen’s recent transformation into a money-grubbing caricature of his former self. He’s made more than enough from album sales and successful touring to secure himself and his children. Why the need to secure a deal with Wal-Mart for yet another greatest hits compilation? Why alienate your fan base…the same ones that will be forking over large sums of money on nonsensical convenience fee and service charges…by letting them flounder in shady Ticketmaster offshoots that require even more money?
This isn’t the Bruce I remember.
This won’t be the Bruce that I support.

XLIII

Is there anything more neutering than having to stay at home with the kids on Super Bowl Sunday while the wife is at work? I’m exaggerating as the wife will be home around the time of kickoff, which means that I can at least focus on the game somewhat as there will be another adult in the house that the kids can bug.
Since my wife is not a football fan, she usually draws the short end of the stick every year on this date. All of her male co-workers put in their time off requests well in advance and a few actually ask for the following Monday off to recuperate from the ensuing hangover.
I tried not to go overboard in terms of the preparation of shit for today. I’ve learned from years past that it’s not worth cooking a bunch of wings and throwing together a bunch of nachos because nobody will help eat it. I live with a bunch of pussies who think anything beyond mild salsa is too hot and, unless it’s barbeque, the sauce for the wings is too spicy.
Silly rabbit, that’s what the beer is for.
So I’ve opted for a plethora of cheeses and pickled herring…the latter of which I’m proud to say that the boy has developed a taste for. Call it the remnants of those Swedish genes floating around in my bloodstream. Everyone else just looks at those raw fishy cuts and goes “Ew!”
It’ll be the Steelers by 9 this year and, as a Cleveland Browns fan that pains me. What makes it worse is that I know many Pittsburg fans, so I will be forced to acknowledge them when they win tonight.
Actually, there’s a weird division going on in this state at the moment. On the Eastern side, the Steelers fans are fueled by an admitted impressive past as Pittsburg was often a worthy foe to the even worse Cowboys during the 70’s. And if the Super Bowl featured the Steelers against Dallas then I would be forced to lend a weak nod in Pittsburg’s favor.
There are also a lot of Pittsburg fans around here that draw a connection between them and the Iowa Hawkeyes as retired Hawk coach Hayden Fry lifted the design of Iowa’s uniforms from the Steelers. At that time, the Hawkeyes were on a decades long losing streak while the Steelers were in their heyday. Fry wanted to get people to associate the Hawkeyes with something that visually resembled positive.
It worked and it provided people with an extensive wardrobe of yellow and black to continue wearing those colors long after the collegiate post season ended.
My resentment towards the Steelers started during those glory days. I was an Oakland Raiders fan, and the Steelers always proved to be worthy spoilers. I loved Ken Stabler’s laid back style compared to the cocky shenanigans of one Terry Bradshaw.
Fuck that dude. He annoys the piss out of me.
When Al Davis uprooted the Raiders to L.A., I stopped supporting them. It was then that I started to pay attention to that NFL team with no logo on their helmet in a crumbling city next to Lake Erie. Ironically, similar circumstances befouled the Browns as the cocksucking owner moved them to Baltimore even in the face of enormous fan support and strong ticket sales.
It has been a trying time during my support of this team. I’ve endured “The Drive,” “The Fumble,” and a 10-6 record from two years ago which prompted no post-season opportunity and high expectations for this past season, which true to Cleveland form, provided nothing but another losing season.
Probably the only other team that has had it worse than Cleveland is the Arizona Cardinals. They have a substantial amount of support this year as Kurt Warner hails from Burlington, Iowa, a town just up the road from my hometown. He also played for my alma mater, the University of Northern Iowa, but didn’t really take off until two years after I graduated.
After graduating, he played for the Iowa Barnstormers and his success there led to a shot in the NFL. Since St. Louis is right next door to us, Warner’s success with the Rams was pretty big news around here.
The only drawback is that Warner is nice…too nice in some respects. He makes regular visits around here, usually speaking at church events and offering endless praise of the “Heavenly Father.” Iowa may be proportionally more religious than other states, but I can assure you that most of us aren’t religious to a point where we’re obnoxious about it. Like good Midwesterners, we tend to shut up about it and let others decide for themselves. Warner seems like the type of guy that goes out of his way to wax on about faith, providing a big role model for like-minded bible beaters and the need for additional clarification from the rest of us. Clarification as in: “Hey, most of us aren’t that obsessive about Christ here in Iowa.”
Nonetheless, because of his lineage, locale and the fact that I have relatives that reside and/or own homes in Arizona, I’ll be rooting for the Cardinals this year.
And with a little help from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, they’ll beat those fucksticks Steelers.