I confess I’ve never been an NFL fan–I’m an NHL fanatic, and football is too damn slow–but when I realized that I had completely forgotten about the Super Bowl and was watching Auntie Mame I grew concerned. Rosalind Russell prancing about in a feather boa, all butch and bitchy… You go girl, I said, give it to that babbitty Fred Clark. I laughed every time the servant giggled, laughed at all the Irishman’s poetic allusions, was delighted at all the witty repartee at her soirees. Gosh, I thought, how I would have loved to attend one of her parties. Then I checked out Twitter and thought that the young trumpet player’s jazz speak was even harder to understand than usual. Arcane references to players and playbooks and plays and he totally lost me. Way too metaphorical, whatever it was. Suddenly it hit me: those aren’t metaphors, he’s talking about football. The Superbowl. I had completely forgotten and here I was watching Auntie Mame. I shuddered. Is this what living in Silverlake for thirty years will do to a man? Feather boas instead of a football game? What’s next, The Music Man? Actually the Music Man was next, with Robert Preston prancing around in a shiny uniform, all red and fringe and leather. Seventy six trombones he sang, dancing and high kicking, and the townspeople followed him, singing and dancing and high kicking. I watched, petrified, wondering if I liked this now. I didn’t. Relieved, I changed the channel to a documentary on the Salton Sea. It was narrated by John Waters. Everybody looked like Divine.
Anyway, the game must be over. I heard drunks cheering. Not me, however. I sit in dark room, the television off, wondering if anyone will know I missed the big game. And for what.
Did I mention the trailer for Cabaret? No? Good. Forget I said anything.