Super Bowl XLIII

Sometimes I wonder if I'm not fading into a mere ghost of the football worshipping frat boy that I knew myself to be back in the late 1980s. Not a weekend went by in the Delt house that I wasn't a fixture in the house bar (ahh, the glories of an open tap and a decent draught ale for the drinking), howling at the injustices, crowing at the properly exploited weaknesses in the DEEfense, and generally just behaving like, well, a frat boy. I even had the t-shirts with the letters, the haircut, the swagger, and all that. I still have a little bit of the swagger.

But I haven't had cable TV now for four years, and I can't tell you the last time I watched a football game. Not since the 90s, easily. Nevertheless, I have neighbors for whom "Super Bowl Weekend" is breathlessly voiced in the same hushed tones that one uses to discuss the death of martyrs, secret births of messiahs, and revelations of divine wisdom. So while I have lived in this house I've always had an invite to their house for The Big Game.

The neighbors are, themselves, ciphers. They drive 100 miles each way to their jobs every morning. The leave at 3:30AM, and get home by 6pm. One works for a big defense contractor, and the other for a computer company. I think they're probably both black-ops/wet works types. I was even a reference for one of their annual DOD security reviews. I'm a master at these things, by the way. When the interviewer asks, "Do you have any reason to doubt your neighbor's loyalty to the United States of America?", my entire answer is "No." The interviewer is obviously waiting for me to continue my "No" answer, hoping I prattle on and give out all sorts of unintended information. Not going to happen! Another question then, "Do you believe your neighbor to be a loyal American?" My answer, "Yes." And then the long pause, as the interviewer again waits for prattle.

Anyway, by the time it was all done, the neighbor put me on her weekly Texas Sheet Cake route. Heilige SCHEIT, that woman makes a seriously good sheet cake. I can't decide if I'd rather eat them whole in one sitting, cold milk on the side, or rub them on my chest and have a little slap 'n' tickle with the missus, all covered in chocolate cake. It's that good.

All of which has f*** all to do with this coming weekend, when we will gather up our extra apple ciders and wander over for a little fu'ball at the neighbors. They'll have plenty o' hot wings, celery, blue cheese dip, sheet cake (hooray for the sheet cake!), and a 10 foot wide projection screen for the game. They really do this party well.

I might have to find my fraternity shirt and wear it over there this year.

College football is such a religion around here that the pros are pretty much shoved to the side.  Sure, some people are major fans, but I've never really noticed anybody throwing massive parties.  People will go to the bar, maybe.  Me?  I might go shopping.  Maybe go for a walk.

I'm not much of an sports enthusiast.  Can you tell?

What is this Super Bowl thing? Buncha fat guys standing around, running for a few seconds, stand around some more. Makes no sense. They call it football, but no feet are involved, except for this little prima donna who gets to kick a few times. They should call it runball, passball, sit-on-your-assball. Maybe Budball.

You want to see ATHLETES, watch the Coupe du Monde, where they run nonstop for 45 minutes or so, no timeouts unless there's blood or broken bones, and no pads except for shin guards.

Last year, almost 98 million people watched the Super Bowl, I hear. Wow. Last World Cup, more than 715 million viewers. Whole countries just shut down. Wars took time outs. No children were born nine months after. None. Well, here in the US there were some. But nowhere else, at all. Call Europe, South America, Asia, anyplace but here-you get a busy signal. They won't answer-forget about it. That's when the pope dude takes his vacation, because nobody's listening. It can't be scheduled during the harvest, or millions would starve. Because of the sheer mass of population concentration around giant screen televisions, the rotation of the Earth is actually affected. The weather gets all screwed up. Tides don't do right. All oceanic shipping halts, and the Panama Canal gets a good cleaning in between games.

Beat that...

I hear there's a sport involving an oblong ball and lines of men jumping on each other.  Is that this thing being discussed?

Jonathan, that sheet cake business reminds me of an interesting but rather sordid experience from my past: I dated this artist guy, a sculptor, and he was obsessed with making a plaster mold of my body. So, I got drunk one time (and one time only), shaved my entire body below the neck, and let him. From that mold, he makes two hollow metal forms, and there I am-Silver Surfer Girl. I had an inspiration then, and some girlfriends and I spent a weekend making a huge chocolate cake in the shape of me. We baked it in his kiln, and iced it with a dark chocolate glaze, all drippy. It was lots of work, but fun. We invited all our friends, served lattes laced with Irish cream, and ate me. I got to decide how we would eat me up. Some parts were in greater demand, so I refereed. It nearly got ugly, but cooler heads prevailed. I decided that we would cut the cake from both ends, and work towards the middle, thinking that everyone would be full before we got to what they were calling "the good stuff".

As the evening wore on, people got more and more convivial, and there were so many partiers, it looked as if we were actually going to eat all the cake up. That was fine with me, because there'd already almost been trouble when this really drunk guy was determined to get one of the two cherries up north, and his girlfriend didn't like it. He wouldn't give up his keys, either, so they called him a cab and hustled him out.

When we got to the end, a fight DID break out. I forgot that one of my girlfriends was dating an ex-boyfriend of mine, and she'd brought him along, so things were a bit weird. Add liquor, and results may vary.

So, anyroad, there was only a little bit left, and my old ex loudly declared that he was going to have it. My sculptor said no way. Ex said "I'm taking this piece of ass home with me tonight!" Sculptor said "the hell you are-I'm freezing it and having it interred with me, because this chick's got a p**** to DIE for!"

Rim shot

I guess that was a compliment...

Greetings:  ...Shucks, I now can't remember what I was going to say, ...but I sure am hungry for something sweet.

I have always been eerily avoidant of team sports. As a result of parental goading and social expectation, I attempted to play basketball for a church team. I felt highly out-of-place in the strange apparel. The very first thing that happened was that about 2 minutes after play start the referee whistled me and said I had fouled a player.

I immediately removed the basketball-playing shirt, and politely walked back to the locker room. I didn't feel humiliated, but rather saw the events as corroboration of the fact that I deeply did not want to be playing on a sports team. My parents were more concerned about what their friends thought than they were about how I felt.

Soon afterwards, we turned our land into a horse farm, and I got very deeply into huntseat and Western-style horsemanship. I became a very competitive rider, a riding instructor, and a person who always found time to ride for 2 hours daily, weather permitting. I took joy in being in the barn each day before sunrise to feed the horses, muck their stalls, and let them into pasture. As a rider, I competed only with Mark Swaim---and his competition was so fierce with me that I became a very good horseman indeed. I could show at state level competitions and win.

In an essay that I love, "Trivial Pursuits," by Aristides (Joseph Epstein, former decades-long editor of Phi Beta Kappa's American Scholar, Epstein laments years in which he pretended to be interested in team sports in order to lubricate socially his friendships. He dug deep and found that his true feeling of TV basketball, football, and baseball was that they are in fact trivial pursuits, pursuits of useless human atavisms of competitive behavior, and a surrogate for xenophobia.

The only other competitive activities that have drawn me in are again primarily about personal excellence: pool (where I grew up betting on pool was legal, and I made money), racquetball (one vs, one), bicycle motocross, and competitive kite flying (you know, with 8-10 foot wingspan kites on 250-lb test lines, in high wind). I have flown kites on beaches and windy hills all over the world; after sunset, I would land the kites, lash to a spar a military surplus chemiluminal flare, and relaunch.

I admire you Isles, for not having cable TV.

Have been invited to my first ever Superbowl party.  Taking dates stuffed with Doc Nolan's turmeric/cinnamon/cocoa recipe as my contribution to the buffet.

How much of a Super Bowl fan am I?  Well, one year a friend and I went out to have some 'restaurant food' and I was amazed... the streets were deserted!  At the restaurant, the parking lot was almost empty, and we were seated immediately since half the tables were empty.  It was only later I realized it was Super Bowl Sunday...

Now I look forward to Super Bowl Sunday!

It's a great day to go to a restaurant and not have to wait in line!

Now, I thought I'd had some wild times and been to some wild parties, but obviously Olivia has me beat!  (I was going to continue, but I now realize thinking about her party beats anything I could possibly say...)

Cherries?

Cherries?

Back on topic (yeah, it happens): Am I the only one to notice that Super Bowls are one of the only remaining holdouts of Roman numerals? 

Those who are 'over the hill' remember that 'way back' movies used to be dated with Roman numerals, but that has passed into history....Now I sit watching Turner Classic Movies trying to figure our what year XVXXIII is.... each year I get slower and slower at converting 'gladiator time' into base 10 numbers.

Uh, oh!  The Onion weighs in on Super Bowl Sunday:  http://www.theonion.com/content/news/super_bowl_xliii_spontaneously . 

OK, how about something that is completely of topic- somethig crassly commercial, but funny, too:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JS5MfzUrhww&feature=related

and it isn't even a beer commercial

If Sting isn't laughing, he has no sense of humor.

The other day at the jail, I got a big laugh from a guy when I suggested his Criminal Domestic Violence convictions needed roman numerals, like the S Bowl. And no, he is not a Wife Beater, just a guy who gets drunk and argues in the wrong places.

I'm not a football fan. Although, I can say that watching two teams attempt to play on a snow-covered field, while their die-hard fans come up with all kinds of creative ideas to keep from freezing in the stadium, can be entertaining for awhile.

My husband will be watching intently...even though he's greatly disappointed "his" team didn't make it to the Super Bowl - "there's always next year" and "this still might be a good game" are expressions that I hear often.

I usually take this time to squirrel myself away with some music and a good book while making something creative in my kitchen to eat at half-time, when he'll tear himself away from in front of the TV long enough to use the facilities, inhale some food, and give me a personal assessment of the game.

I will NOT be making chili this time. After making 10 gallons of the stuff this week, for a fund-raiser we are holding tomorrow, I can't even look at it any more! This year I'm going to try a cassoulet; great northern beans, pork, chorizo sausage, plum tomatoes, onions, bacon, garlic and wine, with a lovely fresh-baked French baguette on the side.

Yesterday, while getting groceries, I was chatting with the cashier. She was wondering if I was having a party. I told her ‘no' and asked her the same question in return. She said ‘no' also, but then added that she and her husband used to have a party every year, until her husband embarrassed himself. Further questioning revealed that her husband got very excited over a play, leapt into the air, whacked into the rapidly spinning ceiling fan...chaos ensued...8 stitches, and now 3 years later, he hasn't lived it down. But he's still a football fanatic ;)   

What time should we be there, Kindlee?

I have a (very!) minority opinion that the best team spectator sports high school football, basketball, etc... mostly because ANYTHING can happen!  

Somehow, watching paid professionals isn't anywhere near as entertaining as watching amateurs who haven't much of a clue.... (and that goes for most aspects of life!).  

Well, nobody else is going to take it, and it IS just hanging right there, so I guess I'm going to have to be the sacrificial Picker of the Low Hanging Fruit and ask Olivia myself...

HEY, OLIVIA!!! If there were cherries, then where was the heavy cream, and who got to whip it?

And I'd make a suitable donation to the charity of your choice for a posted photograph of THAT cake.

Perhaps the remote can be locked away somewhere to avoid bribing its keeper with a beer, hero or the rarest of all bribes, the pre-chipped guac.

But, really, does anyone program anything of value on Superbowl night? What are you missing, a tear-jerker on Lifetime?

So has anyone ever held or been to an anti-superbowl party?  I wonder how different the food would be.  I had a friend who only turned the sound up on her tv for the commercials, she hated football.  Now I'm wondering...if Tivo (or whatever digital recording device people have) can automatically block out the commercials...on superbowl sunday can they make it so it blocks out the broadcast and only records the commercials?

This Sunday is going to be a regular old family day for us.  The only big football fan out of my 6 siblings is in Seattle on business, so the rest of us can have a quiet Sunday catching up with each other and refereeing the grandkids.  But I think I'll make gaucamole anyway, who needs a football game to have good snacks?

Seriously? NOBODY is just a little excited about Sunday? Other than
Isles, who just ADMITTED to a closet past as a FRAT boy? (We'll talk
about that later, Mister)



I mean, I don't watch the game, but I can dig anyplace where there's an
opportunity for a little verbal jousting. Or, what I like to call,
TALKING SMMMMACK.



So here's my plan for Sunday. We're all meeting at my sister's. I've
asked my father to cart over ALL the old travel photo albums. Why do
you think that might be, Heh?



That's right. I'm taking YOU ALL DOWN in this photo contest.



(Flexing Photoshop fingers, spitting in the dirt)



I spent last night looking through the submissions. So there's one,
maybe two, good ones. (READ: Who the hell are all these people with
their fancy-pants-Ansel-Adams-shutter-fingers? My GAWD! Stunning. And,
furthermore, WHY aren't they on here chatting with us all and giving
away their secrets???)



And I pulled out my secret weapon, a close-up of 13-year-old Miss Ive
in full purple running suit, complete with neon green fanny sack, worn
front-style, standing in front of the White House. Yeah. I did.



AND I'll tell ya what I'm else I'm gonna do. I'm pulling out my other ace. MY STELLAR copywriting skills. Yeah. I am.



Check it:



Subtitle for "Fanny Sack Heaven" entry:



"I heart J. Peterman Co. I DO. I heart it—A LOT."



So while all you turkeys are sitting on your couches getting fat and
lazy, I'm-a-gonna be sneaking in the back door to 2000 bucks. So suck
it.

(For all of you more civilized sorts, this is where you come back on and talk smack back to Miss Ive)

(On a serious note, you all have to see this pic of my
daddio. Once you see it, you'll have absolutely not doubt who
introduced me to the Peterman movement.)

http://www.petermanseye.com/photos/8949

 and this one

 http://www.petermanseye.com/photos/8944

Hey, how do ya like that spacing? Bloody cut and paste!

Okee-dokee.... Just a few brief thoughts before hibernating for the rest of the day.

Super Bowl:
Unless I look outside Sunday morning and the Chicago Tribune says its 1985 and Walter "Sweetness" Payton is on television with his teammates doing the "Super Bowl Shuffle" well then it just doesn't matter. Besides, playing football in January somewhere it is still "room temperature" is an abomination.

Halftime:
Kindlee, I'll wash the dishes

Desert:
Anyroads, to paraphrase the immortal words that Marie Antoinette probably didn't really say, or at best were taken out of context; "lettuce eat cake"!

MissExpatria:
A hardy welcome to Mr. P's neighborhood.

Oh, Missive, you have no idea. I need to come clean with the American people about my storied past as a Frat Boy.

Isles, (I was the Sweetheart of Theta Chi, does that surprise you?!) Do tell.

Ive:

Something on the news about a 93-year-old man up your way found frozen to death in his home, after the electric company turned the power off.

Wow! Must be really really cold!

Swaim,

It's not THAT cold. What a sissy!

(I'm TOTALLY KIDDING—just still trying to get the trash talk started over here. And HI to you, sir). 

Nachista,

I'm going to lunch. I'm counting on you to kick off the Peterman's Eye Trash Talk Friday. Um-k? When I get back, there better me at least 7 1/2 barbs for Miss Ive to hurdle.

It's a well knows secret that Super Bowl Sunday is the best day of the entire year to visit Disneyland. No crowds, usually good weather, a great day to enjoy the park.

aack......typo alert........known not knows.

Me?  I never talk smack...or do smack, I am smackless!

But since I've been assigned...

Missive, Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!  Oh wait should I be talking photo contest smack, football smack, or general smack.  BE MORE SPECIFIC WOMAN!

Chista,

If you need me to walk you through how to talk smack, where to talk smack or the topic for SAID talkage of smackage, YOU ARE CLEARLY NOT UP TO THE CHALLENGE.

(Okay, your turn. Um, let's do . . . SuperBowl, SuperBowl food is fair play—pun intended. What the hell? We might actually stay on topic for a change) 

My team has been to four super bowls and won three. The wins were better.

Stoney, or should we call you Mr. Potty Mouth after yesterday's shenanigan?

Is that what you call smack talk? MATH? FRACTIONS? C'mon. 

MissIve, Nachista waves her private parts at your photos.

MissI,

Sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar and who would know better than your pappy-sheesh!

I know from experience, keeping the food near the TV is essential. There's still some stains from last year I'm still trying to get out.

Don't forget that you have to vegetarian, vegan and lactose intolerant alternatives, or tell them to BYO. Everyone have fun. Even if you're not a fan. However Bruce, who'll probably go on about 8:30 EST, is another story.

MissIve,

Okay, you're team is such a towering tribute to futility and ineptitude that it has been pre-rejected for admission into the proposed WNFL. Better?

Stoney,

Touche!

Trask,

Don't get us thrown off here, man. There IS a such thing as clean smack talk. Now, compose yourself and try again.

THAT WAS THE CLEAN PART. Ask Nachista.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9V7zbWNznbs

(quick lapse in trash talk)

DING, DING, DING, DING! 

Stoney, you are a shining example to our fellow word nerds. There is some seriously under-utilized potential over here for stellar trash talk. We have the weapons, we just have to put them to work.

"Pre-rejected" AWESOME. Side splitting with laughter.  

I'm so proud of you, Stoney. Really.

(Trash talk resumed)

Oh, yeah?! This just in on Google News:

Stoney's Team has suffered such insurmountable loss this season, that they're the first team in history to qualify for government subsidization.

Missive your photos are going down.  I'm bringing...the perm/banana clippage AND THE FANNY PACK, so SUCK IT!

I'm just not cut out for trash talk, I giggle to easily...also why I'm a terrible liar.

Nachista,

The image of you, permed and banana-clipped, made me laugh SO hard, that the men in the offices flanking mine both just popped their heads in to find out why I was slapping the desk and crying.

Them: What?!!

Me: (gathering myself) Do you know what a banana clip is?

Them: (looking at each other) No.

Me: THEN GET THE HELL OUT OF MY OFFICE AND LET ME WORK.  I'm a very serious business woman.

And, for the record, unless you have a photo where you're wearing TWO banana clips, piggy-tail-style, you can FO-GET-ABOUT-IT. 

How do you like them apples, sistah? 

Uh-oh, Missive, we're both screwed.  I just looked at the contest rules and the person enterying the photo had to actually TAKE the photo themselves.  Dang it, and I was totally gonna use my winnings to buy a sweet llama to guard my house n' stuff.

Thanks...I just snorted into the phone.

I do believe I have an excellent semi/conceptual partial self-portrait of me poolside in sun valley, if you can top my glow in the dark, pasty white thighs and kick-butt french tip pedi-cure then you deserve the $2000.

Wait, so you mean the 587 photos of me, my Cabbage Patch Kid and Mickey Mouse in front of the Enchanted Kingdom are a 'no go?' 

How do they know I didn't know how to use the delay switch when I was four? Hah? 

http://i21.photobucket.com/albums/b299/nachista/IMGP0264_294928803383320587.jpg

Ya know why all the other deck chairs were empty?  Because me and my 2 friends were the only people insane enough to sit poolside during a rain storm in May in Idaho.

Um, are those FRENCH TIPS ON YOUR TOE NAILS???

Because if so, game, set, match:

MISS IVE

If I really wanted to traumatize the judges I'd break out my photos from the Pittsburgh Irish Fest in 2005.  I just took photos, I was not responsible for the actions of the people in my photos, even though they were in my hotel room at the time.

http://i21.photobucket.com/albums/b299/nachista/tomandfilbert2_294928803383064513.jpg

Tom is actually very proud of this photo.

Missive, how about sub-lebrities?  I've got a photo with Murray from the Wiggles getting smashed with a friend of mine in a hotel bar in Minnesota.  Or Anderson "Super" Cooper from Sundance a few years ago.  That would really impress the judges.

My only regret is that most of my photos that were taken before 2003 aren't digital yet and I have no scanner.  I've got some great family car trips, especially the one where me and 2 of my sisters got violently ill driving to California and my mom wouldn't pull over, she made us use a plastic shopping bag as a vomitorium.

Ahhhh Good times.

Its just a shame its not a travel video contest.  I've got some VHS and 8mm reels that have WINNER! written all over them.  I luff my dad, dearly, but he was the worst family videographer EVER.  When we'd go on vacation he'd make us wait in the car while he took video of the landscape, but when we were actually some place and out being the cute scamps we were (*wink**wink*)...NOTHING.  My favorite is one of my brothers' soccer games, dad filmed the wrong kids the whole time, didn't realise it until after the game was over and he's calling to the kid he was filming and my brother comes walking in from the opposite direction.

As regards cigars, novelist Julian Barnes's main character is Flaubert-fanatic and collector of rare and unpublished Flaubert work. The narrator claims to find in a Flaubert journal the following sense of self-awareness:"I am like a cigar. You have to suck me on the tip to get me going."

Speaking of French, I wonder if either Naczista or Olivia could give a French phrase for an essay I am writing that fully and acutely conveys a woman's intense hatred of her ex-husband.

Hmmmm Mark, I can't think of any idioms or phrases to fit your description off the top of my head.  If you come up with a phrase in english I can try to slaught...I mean translate it for you.

I am pretty sure that Woody Allen used the term "pre-rejected" in either Annie Hall or a film shortly following it.

Nachista,

"Me? I never talk smack...or do smack, I am smackless!"

Many, if not all, of your coworkers have called in to disagree.

OLIVIA:

I am changing the Celery Rib to a Willow Branch ...

Jen, and Suz, I was so going to give you a lesson in how to REALLY smack it, but you little girlies are so far down there, I don't think you could HEAR ME.  When you drag your droopy booties away from the glass tit, and waddle off for more fat n chips, just know that my team, WHOEVER I decide they may be, are so damn good that they've ALREADY beaten your team next year. Your little weenie-armed suckas will still be trying to get their panties up when we go for beer.

And you know why that is, you silly, flatulent little cupcake-eating mouseketeers? While you were trying to put your hair in braids, I was visiting with each player, individually. I made each of them The Promise (cf Sweet Potato Queens), and while they know that whether I come through or not is strictly my whim, and totally unlikely, just the IDEA, just the WHUFF, of possibility there, will spur them all to such feats of superhuman your-team-punk-stomping, that they won't even need to open that can of Whupass I always carry in my Bad Girl purse.

So, you can use the time you'd spend cheerleading for your Buttboy Circus to practice putting your makeup on right for a change. Oh, and really-make an effort to stop getting dressed in the dark, girls. It's so much better when things match...and do you need to borrow a brush? I got extra...

NO NO Liv ....... I'm going back to the Spear .......

Mark, give me a minute...

Missy-is that a recent shot of your dad, cos if so I am gonna kick your ass and steal him. When I'm done, and I toss his desiccated husk out on your front porch, he'll belittle Clinton as a know-nothing frat boy *winks at Jonathan* when it comes to cigar fun...

Ahhhh-I feel better. Haven't used some of those muscles in a while...

(Miss Ive has been taken to the Emergency Room for rehydration. She was found on the floor of her office spasming and mouthing the word "Uncle")

And, that's how its done, world. Nobody talks smack like the EYESTERS. NOBODY! 

MVP's: Stoney, Nachista, Olivia & Trask.

My work here is done.

Happy SuperBowl XLIII, all.

God willing, we'll get a little costume malfunction, Part II, this year. 

Liv,

Pretty recent. And don't forget, he dusts and vacuums the house, cigar in hand, with a leaf blower.

He rocks.

(vulgar joke warning)

"What did Monica Lewinski say to her new boyfriend? You're close, but no cigar." -Tina Fey 

Stoney, please diregard any and all calls from my co-workers, they are all on SMACK.

Ca salopard a la gomme, leche-cul d'un putain! Let's see, how to begin? This would be translated, but far more intensely, as 'That worthless (working girl's least clean nether region)-(what one does with an ice cream cone) (person without a legal father). Quite popular in some circles, very earthy...perhaps a bit too incendiary, but FUN!

Je m'en branle de ca cabot degoulasse. I don't give a (um, couldn't care less?) about that disgusting dog. This one is considerably less offensive, though still would raise eyebrows in polite society. Use with care...

Je peux pas blairer ce fiston d'une vache. This is simple and direct: I can't stand that SOB.

So, there you have it. From complex, florid, pyrotechnic, to straightforward knife-thrust. The French love 'em all. Choose wisely, grasshopper.

I just hope no one would ever think that I... *clasps her lace hanky to her demurely-bloused bosom, eyes wide, innocent, trusting*

How silly of me-of course you wouldn't!

*Blows kisses to right and left, quick curtsey, skips off stage left*

Missy-that's my kinda man!

I bet he knows how the Cuban girls get those Antonio y Cleopatras so addictive, too. Just like catnip...

Missive, your dad is totally hot in that "I could kick Sean Connery's arse" kind of way.

Wonder if Peterman is going to Kentucky this weekend, since it is mostly frozen over ???

Jalopkin,

I might be wrong, but I think he works in Lexington, Ky. at least when he isn't off taking photos in exotic places. Maybe he'll let you know.

A large portion of Lexington has been and still is without power.  It may take three weeks to fully restore.  It has been around 10-20 degress during this mess.  Close to 1 inch of ice with snow on top.  Made for some beautiful photos but froze my tail off.  I never lost power at my home (underground utilities) but lost power at my office for about 1.5 days.  I just considered it a bonding experience.  Actually we were all troopers and hung in there.  I wore my pea coat, cashmere socks (3 pair), blackwatch scarf, and fuzzy gloves.  You could say that Peterman kept me warm.  Weather should warm up enough to start melting this mess tomorrow.  Then we have to worry about flooding.  I am ready for summer! 

Oh yea, Super Bowl.  A few friends get together and all of the guys act like 13 year olds and the women folk stay in the kitchen and gossip.  Great day for gender issue studies! 

HAVE A NICE WEEKEND WITH OR WITHOUT FOOTBALL!           

Almost forgot:  Thanks for the laughs.  Smack...?

STONEY; I was simply musing, sorta out loud ... an Ex Father-in-Law  of mine lives and works in Lexington, but has a Farm east of there in a little Burg called, Salyersville ... He breeds Horses for a Hobby, and he says ice and snow have glazed everything over for miles ... and I always chuckle when I read Peterman's Tag Line, "I've Gone To My Farm In Kentucky ..." because it makes me think of Meryl Streep ....... It is a ridiculously odd association, and I am sure it is simply the metre of the wording that causes the flash .......

Actually, I have been thinking about one of the contributions above, and knowing where the most recognizable Line comes from, being bugged by the fact that there is a finish line that comes after it, and most everybody misses it .......

From the refreshingly realistic mind of Rudyard Kipling, around 1885 .......

"Open the Old Cigar Box, Give Me a Cuba Stout ... For Things Are Running Crossways and Maggie and I Are Out ...

We Quarreled About Havanas, We Fought O'er a Good Cheroot ... I Know She is Exacting, She Says I Am a Brute ...

Open The Old Cigar Box, and Let Me Consider Anew ... Old Friends, and Who Is Maggie That I Should Abandon You?

A Million Surplus Maggies Are Willing To Bear the Yoke; A Woman Is Only a Woman, But a Good Cigar Is a Smoke ...

Light Me Another Cuba, I'll Hold To My First Vows ... If Maggie Will Have No Rival, I'll have No Maggie For Spouse ... "

It has always been my not being able to remember that last Line that has caused me to go repeatedly to my Library and pull Kipling down from the shelves ...  I came home early from Services tonite because most eveybody is in a dither over plans for this weekend, and I am not an american Football fan ... but I came back here to the Eye to re-read today's posts, because that missing Line was bugging me again ... and decided to Quote the Author of the Line in toto ...

Enjoy your weekend, and May it be Safe and Pleasant for you all ...

Best Wishes To All Who Bet On The Game !!!

IVAN  JALOPKIN

Game? What game?

And I thought is was just the battle of the commercials.

 Enjoyed the smackdown, but thanks Ivan for the Kipling poem.  One of these nights we'll touch on Yeats and I can speak up.

unhinged-Yeats had something to say about the Super Bowl too:

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.

Many rough beasts slouching as well. Who knew?

Olivia, was that the super bowl or the bush presidency?

Do we still have a team of Falcons?

Slouching on....

Apparently they can't hear the falconer...and yes, I suppose Yeats could be speaking of the last 8 years of stony sleep, as well.

Surely some revelation is at hand-maybe after Super Bowl Sunday, we'll have our Spiritus Mundi...