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My Super Bowl

 Obviously, I didn't watch the game; I went to Broadway to see "And Juliet."


I resent the NFL because--if the Chiefs do well--my husband is agitated, impulsive, visibly nervous. Also, if the Chiefs do not do well, my husband is agitated, impulsive, visibly nervous.

He is a gifted political tactician; he has built a career on thinking before he speaks. In fact, one of his signature moves is to start a sentence, march three words in, then subtly pause, erase his phrasing, and proceed with a *new* and more muted version of the sentence (before you have a chance to spot what he has done). I know this; I know after years of careful study. But that craftiness disappears around the time of the Super Bowl. Suddenly, I am part of text chains in which my husband is advising Philly natives to "Fuck off!!!!"

I have to do a thought experiment when this happens. I have to recall the irritation I feel when I consider the omission of Marianne Jean-Baptiste from this year's Oscar race. Or I have to remember that "The Seed of the Sacred Fig" is a more provocative film than "I'm Still Here"--and yet "Sacred Fig" does not have a shot at winning Best Picture. This is the best I can do. But no one is texting me to say: "Suck it, SACRED FIG fan! GO FUCK YOURSELF!!!"

I sort of liked "And Juliet." It's not one for the ages. But there is so much talent in New York City. Those dancers--living in squalor in the "garden units" of Astoria tenement buildings--they really have a gift.

At least this season has ended--and it won't return for several more months.
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