Well, the Super Bowl is over, and it is a gorgeous Monday. I watched the game until the last couple of minutes. After all, "60 Minutes" was on, and it was obvious New England had won. I really liked the stirring pre-game show and Sir Paul's halftime performance.
Last year, I spent Super Sunday in a miserable state. Haven't eaten Papa Murphy's pizza since. Through my gut attacks (which lasted for four days) and my sicker-than-a-dog stupor, I watched fragments of the big 2004 extravaganza, including the half time show.
Just like years ago when a streaker ran in front of the stage at graduation and I missed it all, the same happened last year. I never noticed Janet Jackson's boob explosion. All I noticed was that the whole halftime noise and planned explosions of glitz were forgettable, at best. Didn't know until I read it in the media that something really risque had occurred. Must've been the pizza.
I thought Paul McCartney's performance and the accompanying light show was phenomenal. I sat back, enjoyed the songs and commented that this year's edition was so much more focused, simplistic and effective. I also believe people enjoyed what they saw, and I'm sure the void of provocative, sensational tidbits didn't bother a soul.
The Jacksonville planners did a great job---and all without a Jackson!
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