A friend called this week and said we should go watch the Super Bowl somewhere.
I agreed.
Best part, he says he's buying, which means I can save all of my pennies toward the gas-guzzling motor home I'll need to pull off this number-one item on my bucket list.
Ah, the lure of the road! I view it as a way to finish what Kerouac started--in style.
My friend, the serious artist, is one of those guys who eschews football all year only to recover in time to watch the Super Bowl annually.
He's like the teetotaler on St. Patrick's Day, being suddenly more Irish than thou. Pure amateur. ( He could not tell you that Jack played football at Columbia and hated communists.)
Watch him become an instant expert! He won't know which Harbaugh is which, but it won't matter because both of them will botch every play call. Or so he will proclaim because, after all, he has boned up on football for one day.
My friend will curse the television screen and scream, "Harbaugh, you idiot!" He has a one-hundred percent chance of being right this year.
A Harbaugh will make an apparent horrendous coaching error and my friend will notice and curse him. He will lament modernity and proclaim that football was best when Joe Montana quarterbacked the 49ers, a solid point and homage to our younger years.
He will also seize the opportunity to mock the new ads at every commercial break, which will be too frequently.
I'll listen to him and cast my own aspersions.
And when the game is over I shall return to my daydream, my mad plot to escape all of this and find another way to live without the menace of society as I unfortunately see it.
Who knows, maybe I'll be at next year's Super Bowl tailgating out of my new motor home with Philadelphia Eagles fans.
Fat chance...
TS
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