I’m surpassingly pleased that I actually missed the Super Bowl halftime show, engaged as I was in thrashing the tar out of my guitar in another room, part of a fruitless effort to burn-off the insane tension of the game. (I still ended putting my fist thru the drywall by the game’s end. Oops.)
My first inclination this morning was to just ignore the dumb nekkid stunt, but the more I think about it the angrier I get. (Keeping hands open, open. Relax.) The incredibly narcissism behind that routine, the very idea that millions of Americans need to be — secretly want to be — “shocked” is just pathetic. Even worse is the paucity of creative ideas and simple lack of talent that have brought us to this point.
And if I dwell long on the fact that we are spending an iota of time and energy talking about this rather than a truly great, real football game, well, look out drywall.
Now, predictably, sadly, we have the FCC sniffing around the matter. We don’t need the feds. What we need is some NFL lawyers to file suit by week’s end against Ms. Jackson, Mr. Timberlake, the producers, the choreographer, and everyone remotely connected with the halftime production to recover damages to the NFL’s trademarked telecast.
Hit these losers in the pocketbook or this junk will never end.
