This is what I gave up my Super Bowl virginity for?

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I suck at Americaning.

I watched my very first Super Bowl last Sunday. Yes, you read that right. Fifty Super Bowls have come and gone, and I’ve not watched a single one. Ever. And that goes double for all the games that led up to them, too.


It’s like this: I just don’t care.

In my own personal thesaurus, for “sports,” it only lists “meh.” Sorry to stab an ice pick through the hearts of sports fans everywhere, but for me, watching sports is about as mind-numbing as watching paint dry. If my kid’s on the team, or the team’s from my own school or town, then I care. Since it’s unlikely we’ll see NFL Winters Walruses anytime soon … meh.

Go, fightin’ Walruses!

All that said, I did watch last Sunday, partially out of mild curiosity to see why my strange and wonderful group of friends would willingly waste a perfectly good Sunday afternoon. (People: We could be drinking beer!)

(Oh wait — we were drinking beer. Just with noisy televisions running. Got it.)

So, my motivation in watching my first Super Bowl party was 1 percent Super Bowl and 99 percent party.

With a plateful of bean dip and saucy mini-wienies, my husband and I plopped down to watch. He feigned interest in the game, but I happen to know he’d be entirely more thrilled to watch a show about embedded systems and semi-conductors and other suck geek-squee gizmos and whatnot, or boobs, but he played along for the greater good (read: the party) and hooted and hollered at all the right moments.

Give me credit: I tried. But honestly, I don’t give a rip about Panthers or Broncos, unless they’re furry and have four legs, and had we switched over to the Animal Planet channel at that moment, I’d have instantly become engaged in the show. If I’m going to watch crashing, thundering, angry beasts, could they at least be real buffalos?

But as I say — I tried.

Here’s what I observed: a lot of running around and piles of hefty men, and the ball bouncing around on the field much more than I remember it doing at high school football games. And all these allegedly amazing commercials? Really? MonkeyBabyPuppy? What the hell was that? Are you people high?

I further observed that the Panthers’ quarterback is really hot, and he reminded me of Lenny Kravitz, and any time I think of Lenny Kravitz, it’s not a wasted moment.

Can I get a “hell yeah,” ladies?

At halftime, it wasn’t Lenny Kravitz, but it was sexy little Bruno Mars, and that works too.

Thankfully, Bruno and crew hit the field and jolted everyone out of a Coldplay-induced coma, and not a moment too soon, because if I had to endure that cheesey, cold pile of auditory upchuck for one more moment, I might have imploded.



Does anyone still listen to Coldplay?

Did anyone ever?

You could spoon that mush to an infant.

If the infant spits it out, s/he’ll grow up to be one of the cool kids.

How bad is Coldplay? They had to hire a fake crowd to run after them and pretend that they were cheering for them. In other words — they had to pay people to like them. Aren’t those hookers? Well, technically yes, but probably no, because when you pay a hooker, at least you’re getting something pleasant in return. Their act was so lame, I expected them to cover “Wake Me Up Before You Go Go.” Which, upon further reflection, would have been better than what they did.

Seriously, NFL — in all of musicdom, with the halftime bar set with the likes of Madonna, Michael Jackson and Stevie Wonder, you followed up on your 50th — 50th!!! — anniversary with Coldplay? Ever hear of Pharrell? Taylor Swift? Meghan Trainor? Anybody remotely popular in the pop music scene? Hint: It’s not Coldplay. How about just cancel Coldplay and let Bruno and Beyoncé rule the day? Or just bring Lady Gaga back on stage. That would work.

(Side note about Gaga. We were late to the party and I had to watch her performance of the National Anthem after the fact. One word: Perfection. Maybe one more word: WOW. Yes, all caps. NFL: Lady Gaga is musical royalty and worthy of a halftime spot. Coldplay? No. That’s all you need to know about Coldplay: No.)

As for Beyoncé (who, also in my own personal thesaurus is next to the term Perfect Specimen of a Human Female), an uproar bubbled up in social media regarding her nod to the Black Panthers in her halftime performance. Me, I thought the black berets and V-formation were a nod to classic Janet Jackson, but no, the Broncos coach hadn’t even been doused in Gatorade before Beyoncé was getting ripped to shreds for being so outrageous. Ironically, nobody said a peep about the outrageous amount of money spent policing the Super Bowl, or how San Francisco completely crashed Santa Clara’s party.

San Francisco, you treat that Silicon Valley like the proverbial unwanted red-haired stepchild, until that stepchild had the shiniest toy in the room. And you slapped it right out of her hands!




How dare she? Oh, darn straight, dare she! She’s angry, she had a message, and she used music, performance and a national audience to communicate it — not violence. I googled the video of her song, “Formation,” was doubly impressed. It’s art in the truest sense of the word: it communicates! Was the message uncomfortable? Absolutely! Well done, Bey-Bey.

Beyoncé: You have a new fan, said one rabble-rouser to the other. You GO, girl!

Bruno: I adore you and secretly wish I could bite you.

Gaga: All that ferocious individualism and roaring talent too. I bow down. I’m not worthy.

Coldplay: Somewhere, a hungry infant sits in a high chair waiting to slurp you down.

Super Bowl: Well, at least there was bean dip.

— Email Debra DeAngelo at; read more of her work at and

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