Tuesday, January 27, 1998
Super Bowl signifies right time for over indulgence
COLUMN Commercials, commentary, food cause big game
atmosphere
I tell you what, that new "I Can" commercial that Nike ran just
before the Super Bowl kickoff was something else.
I watched people lift weights, practice jump shots, sweat a
great deal, and contort their faces into all sorts of amazing
expressions, and I felt inspired.
I watched these underage extras, with the token professional
athlete included, push themselves to the very limits that their
bodies, (or contracts) would allow, and I thought I could do
anything.
That commercial changed my life forever, because it showed me
that, deep down inside, I really did have what it took to get off
the couch and reload my snack plate.
Ah, what wondrous gluttony is the Super Bowl. What a blissful
orgy of junk food, innovative commercials and surround sound this
institution has become. When else do you feel like Dick Enberg is
sitting right next to you, describing in detail the volume of
Gilbert Brown’s navel? (Just in case you’re interested or didn’t
get to see the silhouette of the biggest inny this side of Chris
Farley, we’re talking at least one liter.)
When else would the fate of three frogs be a primary concern, to
the point where people would hush each other and gather around the
TV? You’d think the President was giving the State of the Union
address or something.
When else would you get to eat a dip made of pastry, brie cheese
and apricot jam, piled high on a cracker, and inhale a handful of
caramels right after? Unless you’re Gilbert Brown, or anyone else
of the liter-sized bellybutton persuasion, probably not very often.
If you’re Chris Farley, well, your inhaling days are over,
period.
And when it turned out that, not only was there a game to watch,
but it was actually worth watching, well, my cup (and snack plate)
runneth over.
The last time the Super Bowl was this exciting, America was on
the brink of the Gulf War, so, needless to say, there wasn’t
exactly a festive atmosphere around. This time, however, all we had
to worry about was whether our president was screwing some intern,
which is pretty insignificant stuff compared to night sorties over
Baghdad.
Super Bowl XXXII had it all; courage, tension and the obligatory
halftime show.
First of all, we had the opportunity to appreciate the amazing
intestinal fortitude exhibited by NBC sideline correspondent John
"the Rug Doctor" Dockery. This man went on national television
wearing a hairpiece of the quality you would find stuck in your
shower drain.
Let me tell you about tension. Nearly everyone I was watching
the game with knows a little something about tension, be it belts
stretching to the brink or transitional epithelia in the bladder
straining to bejesus. The Super Bowl-induced pucker factor was so
high, we nearly stoned one of our hosts to death when a fuse blew
and the television went dark with three minutes to go in the
game.
Even the halftime show was fun. In what has become an annual
"Tribute to Motown" schlockfest, we got to see the newly facelifted
Smokey Robinson looking like Tom Jones with a tan. We got to see
Gilbert Brown get on stage in a red dress and pretend to be Martha
Reeves from Martha and the Vandellas, and the king sized Queen
Latifah sing a rendition of "Heard It Through The Grapevine."
The only thin people on the field were those forty foot high
inflatable figures that gesticulated like hyperactive children,
sans Ritalin.
Next year, it’ll be called the "Weight Watchers Tribute to
Mootown".
The only problem was, I, along with the rest of the civilized
world, picked the Packers to win, so when the final gun sounded,
all I wanted to do was hunker down and hide in the nearest
belly-button.
Mark Shapiro is a Daily Bruin columnist and beat writer for
men’s basketball. Email responses to [email protected]