And for yet another year, the Super Bowl had no meaning to me. I have no connection to the Black and Yellow hailing from Pittsburgh, or those historic cheese heads from the frozen tundra. I wish I could actually celebrate the Packers victory like it was my own, but I live in California and my only connection the Midwest is that I have distant cousins in Akron, Ohio. For me, the Super Bowl feels like what a follower of Christianity feels at a bar mitzvah; in all honesty, I’m here just for the party. With our Bay Area teams either residing as the doormat of the worst division in football or being run by the crypt keeper, the Super Bowl has become just an excuse to enjoy great friends, barbeques, and those ever-funny advertisements.
What do I have to root for? If it wasn’t for Mike Nolan and his poor judgment, maybe the 49er’s would have won Super Bowl XLV in Dallas with signal-caller Aaron Rodgers at the helm instead of sucking wind in the minor-league they call the NFC West. Should I root for what could have been?
I could have rooted for the Steelers. But then again, that would be like rooting for a cult that inherently supports rapists. I don’t mean to be cynical, but how can I root for a quarterback who yells, “All my b****** take some shots!” and then proceeds to sexually assault a girl in a bar bathroom. Sorry, Mr. Roethilsberger.
If I have no interest in either team, why do I watch even watch the game? The commercials, of course. One thing I could actually cheer for in this Super Bowl was the advertisements. Some were awe-inspiring, like the Kia sci-fi commercial showing mystical worlds fighting over the new Kia Optima, while others were trippy, like the Hyundai Elantra commercial with its attempt at brainwashing. And of course, there were the cheesy ones: the Budweiser Wild West ad that ended in a humorous rendition of Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer” and the Bud Light ad with dogs barbequing at a party.
My personal favorite was the Bud Light “Hack Job” commercial in which a reality TV show host pretended to re-construct a family’s kitchen, only to place an ice chest of Bud Light on the counter. The husband went nuts for the beer, and in the background you see the so-called “landscapers” lining up cases of beer in the backyard. The wife remains in the background, her hopes flattened by male immaturities. So stupid, so American.
The commercials don’t make me want to buy these products anymore, but they sure make me smile. Usually TV timeouts are heartbreaking and make me want to slam my remote through the screen, but the Super Bowl is a whole different ball game. They can attract my attention to a game that has no meaning to me. They make me laugh even when I feel depressed watching another city celebrate a championship. When the game gets slow, I actually pray for a commercial break.
But regardless hats off to the Green Bay Packers and their quarterback Aaron Rodgers. Nothing against them, but I don’t feel hatred for Brett Favre or worship Bart Starr like he was a diety. This year, like every other Super Bowl played while I’ve been alive, has had no emotional fix for me. Watching the confetti drop on another city’s heroes only reminds me of the pain our local teams have brought to our region. Until the Niners raise their sixth Lombardi trophy (when hell freezes over), the Super Bowl will continue to be synonymous with an orgy of ad-porn that my teenage mind can’t hide from.
