Suckybowl Sunday

When I heard that Paul McCartney was the talent lined up for this year's Superbowl Half-Time Show, I knew I wouldn't be watching. Not just halftime, the whole game. I'm out about this now. Closeted-no-more! I don't care about football! Woo hoo! I mean, sometimes I do. I care if my friend's fiance makes a team he wants to be on so they can live a blissful life. Why do I care about this? Well, clearly I want somewhere nice to go when I need a break from my apartment, the year 2024, peopled only by dusty books and underfed ants and maybe Pele if he takes pity on me...

I took a moment to wonder today if I could be deported for not liking football. I mean, is my commentary about not caring about the Great American Sport (which is only such when baseball is not in season, conveniently) dangerous to my citizenship status? Could I be kicked out of the good ole U.S. of A for being "UnAmerican"? I mean, where does the insanity end? One day it's incendiary political words inciting action that can get you your own "1br/1bath with view; on the Bay" (of Guantanamo...), but with the Patriots taking it for the third time, were I to (in a fictional word, I assure you, Mr. Gonzales, but thanks for dropping by...) speak *against* His Royal Bradyness, would INS show up at my door?

Then I remembered I was born here. Phew.

Yeah, so the Superbowl doesn't really affect you if you don't want it to. I thought I'd go to Borders and sit and read, figuring it would be empty, but as I maneuvered my car in that direction (northward, for ye who are interested), I realized that the nerds would come out! It would not be empty and read-able, but rather, Borders would be overrun by fellow bookworms, losers, American misfits. I turned the car around and came back home.

Which would have been fine, but for the fact that my garage door opener expired this afternoon. It fucking broke, that's what I mean. And not just in a "please replace the battery" way, but in a "busted open completely unprovoked" way. I sat for 20 minutes behind the garage door, visualizing how happy I would be when it jumped back to life, but no dice. No dice and, as it were, no cars either. I sat in my car for 20 minutes watching nothing happen. Not one person ventured out in the time I sat there. OF COURSE. And the meters in the neighborhood? - Full. OF COURSE. Eventually, I parked a few streets away and made my way back home in a caravan of self-pity. When I came home, I immediately began wrestling with a mini-screwdriver (the real kind, although, in retrospect, a little OJ and vodka would have done the trick). I heard a little something or other clatter out of the opener and on to the kitchen floor, but I couldn't find it, not knowing what I was looking for. I got on my hands and knees and fished around, and coming up with only a handful of questionable food crumbs, I gave up.

Someone remind me to move my car in the morning?

So that's Superbowl Sunday over here. I checked the score from time to time on my laptop, hearing my upstairs neighbor (yes, THAT ONE) and his friends erupt into cheers with a 4 second delay. Then I went to work out and read about rappers who have been shot. Because if that didn't put me in a better mood, nothing would. A few fairy tales from the faraway kingdom of Compton later, perspective has been restored. I'm still annoyed, but, lacking caps to bust in negligent asses, I'm going to make myself a sandwich.