If you more or less came into this world with the commencement of the first Super Bowl, you watch warily as the Roman numerals become longer and more complex with each passing year.
You realize that you are no longer a young XV yourself, but have moved on into joint-challenged CVLIIXIIVII territory. You can also track your age rather accurately by corresponding it to Super Bowl start times. If you can remember the days when the Super Bowl started at 2 p.m., well, help yourself to Medicare.
I understand that we are marching sullenly toward the time when the Super Bowl, like any other meaningful sporting event these days, starts at 9 p.m., meaning I’ll be fortunate if I can stay awake long enough to witness the initial first down.
But the true sign of age is the degree to which you understand — or, more to the point, don’t understand — the Super Bowl support activities, including commercials, athlete interviews, entertainment, end-zone dances, etc.
To wit, a Patriots lineman and his wife were being interviewed, and he was commenting on the buildup to their romantic involvement.
The gentleman explained that he first saw a photo of his betrothed on an online dating site, and immediately said to himself, “I gotta get me some of that.”
I gotta get me some of that. I know, I know, things are a lot different on the dating scene today. And this is a football lineman; I would not expect, “Forsooth but yon lass doth posses charms that intoxicate my soul.” But it is difficult to imagine, say, Johnny Unitas stumbling across the future Mrs. Unitas and thinking, “I gotta get me some of that.”
And another year, another halftime-show atrocity. Yawn. It’s another sign of age to realize that the celebrated wardrobe malfunction was eight years ago. But that was art compared to this year’s boorish flipping of the bird by some washed-up recording artist of whom I’d never heard.
It is the commercials, however, that are most depressing to those of advancing years. Was it not so very long ago that we were rolling on the floor over the field-goal-kicking horses?
This year, the commercials just left me confused and frightened. Honestly, you shouldn’t have to wonder whether you’ve just witnessed a commercial for a movie or a video game or a beer. And sometimes I wonder: What are script writers going to do when that fateful day comes that there is nothing new to blow up and no new way to make it blow up? I hate to think they would one day have to resort to dialogue.
And in this robo, techno, industrio, droid-infected universe, I guess it was only a matter of time before they named a beer “titanium.” Nothing says cold, flavorful frosty beer like an element on the periodic table. What’s next, a yogurt named barium?
And forget the Clydesdales, they’ve gone all preachy on us — although not as bad as that bizarre anti-union screed in the second half. What was that? Just when you think that, for one night, you can relax and get completely away from fetid, partisan politics ...
At least they have figured out how to keep us from ridiculing the singer of the national anthem: Surround her with a bunch of kids, like the last days of a Middle Eastern strongman who’s resorting to a human shield.
In 40-some years, it appears to be the only thing we’ve learned.
Tim Rowland is a Herald-Mail columnist. He can be reached at 301-733-5131, ext. 6997, or via email at email@example.com. Tune in to the Rowland Rant at www.herald-mail.com, on antpod.com or on Antietam Cable’s WCL-TV Channel 30 at 6:30 p.m. New episodes are released every Wednesday.