I thought it would be nice to have the superbowl playing in the background while I was working this evening — I have good memories of my father and uncles enjoying the game when I was young, even if I never got into it myself. But I turned it on 15 minutes ago, and it was actually rather intolerable: the self-importance, the hyperbole, Bob Costas (that was Costas, right?) fellating the players and telling them how important their ball-catching and people-hitting abilities are, and going on and on about trivial statistics from past games. It’s all kind of icky.
It’s a game. The outcome is not going to elevate anyone to the “pantheon of greatness.” It might be fun if there weren’t all these loud people standing around trying to puff it up.
I talked to my family in the Pacific Northwest this afternoon. They’re OK with the hoopla, but they aren’t inflating it into cosmic importance like the loons on NBC — and they’re not looking forward to the fireworks that will be going off all around the neighborhood at the end of the game. I’m kind of sympathizing with Ophelia here — I wouldn’t want to live in a place saturated with the attendant narcissism.