Skip to main content

Super Bowl LVII

Here is what I think about the Rihanna performance. It wasn't catastrophic. But if people are debating about quality, several weeks later, then something didn't work. There is a whiff of defensiveness, if you're insisting, "She was AMAZING!"


I stayed in and watched Dial M for Murder.


The next day, my husband tried to introduce me to highlight clips, and I thought about Grace Kelly. She never won an Oscar with Hitchcock.


"Poor Mahomes," said Marc. "He has this exhausting game, then he has to truck his family to Disney World. But wouldn't you want to be in the crowd? Look at this parade!"


People say that Dial M was a kind of audition for Rear Window. Hitchcock had an interest in confined space, and he needed the Stewart/Kelly combo before he could say what he really wanted to say.


Marc showed me a sea of red tee shirts outside the KC train station. This was terrifying; it made me think of the Russian Revolution, in 1917.


"Do you need any merch?" he asked.


A shame that Rihanna skipped "I Love the Way You Lie," which is about one writer's toxic relationship with the recording industry. That's just a really excellent title. The song writes itself.


"In the NFL," Marc said, "there are spending caps. You can go over the cap, but then you accept a fine. In baseball, there are no caps. Which is why you hear about the Red Sox, and the Yankees, year after year after year."


"That's nice, dear."


"Do you know what's odd? People no longer talk about Tom Brady's deflated balls....I guess people decided it wasn't a really big deal. And now it's done. He is done. He had left retirement because he was still an excellent player. Sure, he had reached his forties....which is like being 99, in football years...."

Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...
1 comment
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more