First of all, the ads.
It’s strangely American to not only have interest in what the best in the NFL have to offer, but also Madison Avenue. Our marketing executives have us strangely walking towards Idiocracy as reality while we chuckle at silicone chicks (or G.I.L.F.s, if you found CGI Joan Rivers hot), nut shots, and trivializing the plight of Tibet, rain forests, or any other global issue that we’ve suddenly grown tired of.
It was embarrassing, and I count myself as one of those lazy misanthropes that genuinely enjoy watching the ads on the Super Bowl. But to watch them under the Roman Numerals 45 was like looking at yourself in a fun house mirror-the reality distorted enough to appear funny at first while recognizing that freaky looking dude in the mirror was really you.
I wanted to buy a German car, and I wanted to laugh at Eminem for trying to convince me to buy a car from a manufacturer that hasn’t had a decent ride since before the ’73 Oil Embargo. And I sure hope Chrysler got some funding from the City of Detroit, in what appears to be the tourism department simply giving up, pleading instead to book a trip to the Motor City to see the Salt of the Earth wax museum.
And of course, the halftime entertainment.
Note to Christina Aguilera first: it’s the National Anthem, not your American Idol audition. Little pitchy, dog, and way to fuck up the lyrics, sister. Do you want to know why you’ve been reduced to the in-and-out job of National Anthem performer? Because people are finally figuring out that you are a one trick pony. And when you can’t even memorize the lyrics to something that a third-grader can probably recite in their sleep, it doesn’t appear that you’re taking your gig or any chance at a career redemption seriously.
Of course, we knew what to expect when you first heard the words “Performing our National Anthem, Christina Aguilera!” just like we knew the halftime performance of the 45th Super Bowl would suck when it was announced that the Black Eyed Peas would be headlining.
My wife seemed a little surprised at how bad they were, and when I mentioned how lame Up With People used to be, I was met with a deer-in-the-headlights look that only reminded me of my age.
She got really feisty when Slash came on stage and helped Fergie belt out a rendition of “Sweet Child ‘O Mine” so godawful that you could easily have found a better replacement at some cover band in a Native American casino.
My boy, on the other hand, thought they were awesome. But he’s seven, and “I Gotta Feeling” is the only song he knows the lyrics too. That and Travie McCoy’s “Billionaire.” I vote that his opinion doesn’t count for anything.
“It’s like a scene from Tron!” I pointed out to my wife. Again, deer-in-the-headlights from my wife, even though I put the original Tron in our Netflix queue at least a year ago, struggling to remember why I didn’t hold on to any good memories from that movie when everyone else was saying how awesome it was in preparation for the remake.
You know what? The original Tron sucked, and by watching it again, I was in no mood to shell out a dime for the remake.
So Black Eyed Peas had some Tron cast members glowing around the stage while huge segments of their stage lighting neglected to light at all, leading me to ponder “Is that supposed to say ‘Love’ or ‘Lexus’?”
As the commercials had already shown me, you can never be too sure of product placement in this day and age.
And we’re too stupid to care anyway.