I'm all for social intercourse whenever it happens, but I'm chuckling right now as I think about something a friend said the other day over coffee. He commented that the Super Bowl is like St. Patrick's Day, a U.S sanctified amateur hour.
The reference is of course to how people who don't have the slightest interest in either the Irish or football pour out of the woodwork on the appointed day and take over out of sheer numbers--bold in their ineptitude and suddenly inspired interest in the proceedings at hand.
Confronted with the mass mind you're overwhelmed and you lose your sense of pleasure and control of whatever space you're in at the time.
I'm glad I'm home alone watching the Stupor Bowl with Chris Collinsworth and the dependable Al Michaels broadcasting the game.
Next up, my dinner of Chicken Alfredo, followed by a little more work on my next book. I'll skip the halftime show, thanks.
TS
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