The Boss came on stage and first he told us to stop eating our chicken fingers and - oh horror! - guacomole. Quite how appetizing it will be to dip bread-crumb-battered chicken fingers in the glorious guacamole is a thought I would rather not have, but how dare he say that? To add salt to the injury, he then throws his Telecaster up in the air as a groupie tries to catch it and nearly drops the damn thing. I'm not even going to indulge myself in the abhorrent song choices - though I can't think of anything I like by the man. Just when you think things cannot get any worse, he slides across the stage only to hit a poor camera with his crotch. Now, those things cost money. But also, how can I ever get the image of Bruce Springsteen's patriotic manlihood in tight black jeans careening towards me in Hi-Def out of my head? I felt like Serena Williams after she saw the streaker running across the court in Australian Open.
The game was fantastic - I'm not going to compare it to last year's, because that is very close to home, but the last 3 minutes were exhilerating stuff. It was a fitting finale to an unexpected year. We'll see what drama unfolds come September.
The Bru
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Count your blessings that it wasn't U2 that played the Super Bowl.
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