Half-time America

(10 am. – promoted by ek hornbeck)

The most interesting part of the super bowl was Clint Eastwood’s commercial on behalf of motor city and, more largely, America. If ever there were a poster boy for uptight, white American males’ not incompletely insensate fears of anarchy from poor, down-on-their-luck, immoral evil-doers, corrupt politicians, psychotic women and bad cops, make my day with .44 magnum, the most powerful hand-gun in the world. And paint my wagon, to boot, when Josey comes home.

It was almost a disheveling experience to witness such pleading for American greatness in the middle of our malest, most commercialized sporting event ever; such a public display, such an admission of abject failure; scaredat halftime. Lost our hearts. Coming from behind. Coming together. Hear those imaginations roar. Yikes. Are you sure you’re reading that clock right? It looks more like the two-minute warning than a new American century. Maybe like the Giants we don’t want to score that touchdown just yet.

I truly wonder whether there was White House involvement in this one, part electioneering (Obama saved Detroit!), part just bucking us up; you remember Obama’s inaugural, wherein he admitted we had fallen down, and needed to get back up and brush ourselves off? Our piping hot failures really are infusing the public’s mental tea bag. I’m hearing the evaporation, the boiling off of confidence in the system.

Astounding. I suppose next we’ll get Al Pacino’s Any Given Sunday speech about fighting for every inch. Either we heal as a team, or we crumble, inch by inch, play by play. The inches we need are everywhere around us.

3 comments

    • TMC on February 7, 2012 at 3:41 am

    Everyone had a crush on Rowdy Yates.

    And everyone is talking about that commercial.

  1. happy accident.

Comments have been disabled.