I'm a traitor to my gender. Or at least a traitor to my hometown, maybe.
The beleaguered Seattle Seahawks have finally fought their way to the Super Bowl after nearly four decades of mediocre showings, and all of a sudden, even locals who don't know pigskin from pomegranates are dancing in the streets like Pee Wee Herman on crystal meth. Me, I don't really care.
Mind you, I hold no ill will whatsoever for the legions of fans who'll be crowding living rooms and sports bars to watch the big game. Nor do I wish anything less than the best for this buncha Northwest gridiron underdogs as they slug it out with the Pittsburg Steelers on Sunday. And my dear old Dad--a hard-core, dyed-in-the-wool sports freak if ever there was one--will have even more of an excuse to meld gleefully with the easy chair Howard-Hughes-style while radio and TV Bowl coverage bombards him, which makes me happy for him.
But truth be told, I'm just not a football fan. As a spectator sport it lacks soccer or basketball's frenetic pace. And baseball has it beat to hell in the historic-weight-as-an-institution department. Them's just my opinions.
The expensive and ballyhooed Super Bowl commercials previewing on news outlets hold a bit more interest for me; gotta admit that the Diddy/Jay Mohr Diet Pepsi spot gave me a chuckle. It'll never make me buy a Diet Pepsi (and I can't wrap my head around the disproportionate amount of money and creativity funneled into said spot), but I did laugh.
So, no, I probably won't be watching the game, or placing any bets. Now the Oscars...THAT'S a different story.
Yes, I am a candy-ass. Sorry, Dad.