Cancel next year’s Super Bowl party and I’ll give you exactly two reasons why.  The second reason should come as pretty darn obvious, however I’m going to subject you to a TharpSter Rant with the other reason first.

Overall it was a good game.  Just like a few years ago, it came down to the wire on whether a Hail Mary that Tom Brady launched somewhere in the stratosphere could be caught by someone who has seen him naked in the locker room.  Don’t forget to add the indiscriminate remarks Brady’s hot wife made.

As a fan of the NFL, my expectations were met by the game and the adult beverages I imbibed in he process.

So here’s the first reason you can cancel out your plans for this time next year.

Aside from the fact that it was the championship game where winner takes all and obtains squatters’ rights to the big trophy, what was different about it?

Nothing.

You had a half time show loaded up with production quality staging, wardrobe, and hype intertwined into the performance of an icon who has incorporated other artists known only to their specific genre.

On yeah.  There was lip syncing too.  I suspect that Al Michaels and Chris Collinsworth participated in part of that, but I have no evidence (manufactured or not) to prove that.

In summary, the half time show sucked.

Predictably.

Speaking of “it sucked”, let’s talk about the commercials. Do I really have to make a point here?

The Super Bowl is heralded as the one event in American television were ad space reigns supreme.  Yet still,  there was nothing special about this year’s crop of efforts to liberate the viewership of their hard earned, over taxed dollar.

In summary the commercials sucked.

And that my friends is reason number one why you can cancel your “Save The Date” flyers for next year’s party where the closest of your casual acquaintances raid your fridge for more free beer.

Outside of the game itself, there was no difference between this game and the games played over the last twenty weeks or so.

The hype, on the other hand, was flatulent.  It was big on sound and smell and lacking in substance.

Reason number two.

According to the Mayans, all bets are off at the end of this year.  There will be no Super Bowl next year because there will be no next year.

Duh.

That’s all I have to say about that.

A few years ago, Budweiser ran a commercial of a young couple preparing for a horse drawn sleigh ride.  The young man gave the lady a candle to hold, and as he was making his final preparations, the horse got a little gassy.  When the camera came back to the lady, her face was smoldering, her hair was blown back, and the candle had been extinguished.  Next to some of last years Doritos commercials, I had never laughed so hard at a Super Bowl commercial before.

Budweiser obviously found  nothing funny this year as they chose to focus on the banning of prohibition instead.  Meanwhile, I sat there drinking Fat Tire.

Bridgestone had a couple of good ones, and Doritos had one that I can remember.

Note to Super Bowl advertisers.  If you’re going to show us duds, let us know.  I had to pee.

Regarding the half time show.

Meh.

What can I say that hasn’t been said already?

My original impression was that she nailed it and overall did a good job by keeping things to her own genre without dragging good rock music into the muck and mire of pop.

Elaborate productions combined with the right song choices and lip syncing tend to come off that way.

Just sayin’.

In just a few short hours, the New England Patriots and the New York Giants will parade onto the field to play what I expect to be a pretty good game.

Of course there’s plenty of hype around the game.  There always is.

The commercials are in the can with the promise of either hitting a home run or throwing a gutter ball.  I’ll reserve comment until I see the homage to Ferris Bueller.

Bueller?

In preparation for the big event, Wifey has made salsa.

Wifey makes good salsa.

This time around, she’s changed it up a little.  She normally makes a mild batch, and then segregates a portion out in order to add chipotle to it.  It’s gooooooood.

Today, she’s made two batches.  The first batch was chipotle.  As I said before, it’s goooooooood.

The other batch has five habanero peppers in it.  It’s hoooooooooot.

So here’s the thought.

If I start digging into that stuff during the first half of the big game, I should pretty much be in the middle of an “Occupy Wall Street” exercise in the privacy of my own bathroom at the point the NFL lays an aesthetic assault on my senses and 42″ TV when Madonna performs for what the Mayans predict will be the last Super Bowl half time show ever.

That’s right people.

I would rather endure the gastronomical pain an anguish of my 43 year old systems dealing with habanero salsa than to sit there and watch Madonna play the Super Bowl.  Just for the record, I’m guessing both of those encounters will create a burning sensation when I pee.

Note to the NFL.  This is your last Super Bowl (according to the Mayans).  Can you cut it out with the crappy half time shows please?

Read more here…….

For what it’s worth, the assault is over 40 years old.  In the early days, it wasn’t so bad.  Over time, it’s gradually gotten worse by using the sneaky little social engineering device of incrementalism to transform the offensive monster from an innocuous little irritation to a full blown assault on the senses. 

Yet still, we the victims sit in phlegmatic complacency and absorb it all as we remain oblivious to what’s being done to us.

Frankly, I’ve had it.  I can’t deal with just sitting back and taking it anymore.  As a result, I’m posting my treatise on the matter here on TharpSter.Org for the whole world to see. I want to start a grass roots movement to affect real and meaningful change, thus placing the status quo on a massive trebuchet where it will be subsequently launched into oblivion, never to be seen again.  Just to make sure visitors to the worldwide web read my own list of heresies nailed to the door, I’m going to tag this article with the term “naked chicks”.

For any of my millions of readers who watched Super Bowl XLV this last Sunday, you should know exactly what I’m talking about here.

Ladies and gentleman, it’s time to ban pop music from the half time show. It’s also time to ban hip-hop, rock, country, middle of the road, the old crooners, and the vast collection of eventual lounge lizards which litter the music industry today.

Whereas I could provide volumes on the reasons for this treatise, I’ll limit my dissertations to three specific reasons.

First of all, the sound engineering is always a glorious display of a suck-fest gone awry.  This comes from a combination of the logistics of putting the performer in the center of a stadium where the echo chamber reigns supreme.  In years past, it’s been common place for the artist singing the National Anthem to pre-record their performance and then lip sync the song when it comes time to belt it out.  This allows the sound technicians and whoever else involved in the production to manage the sound to avoid the echo and other auditory ticks. 

For the same reason the National Anthem performers choose to lip sync, the quality of the half time performance is diminished.  For reasons unknown to me, the sound is never mixed correctly when it comes through my cable box and into my TV.  This was never more obvious than the other night when the Black Eyed Peas donned outfits born of a hybrid combination of what happens when Tron meets KISS in order to go put the death nail in any anticipation I ever had for a half time show.  Throughout the spectacle, it became painfully obvious to me that these people rely more on the aesthetics of their show instead of musical quality and the continued goal to keep Randy Jackson from calling in a “It’s a little pitchy, dawg” type admonishment.

But put the Peas aside for a moment and consider past acts.  Last year, it was The Who.  I’ve been a fan of theirs for quite a long time, and I know they are more than capable of stealing an entire broadcast.  I’m no sound engineer, but I can tell you when The Who sounds like crap.  They sounded like crap.

Consider the impacts the half time acts have on the viewership.  That’s my second issue.  When was the last time there was a good positive impact?  When was the half time act ever more memorable than the game?  There’ve been plenty of lousy games, and I would submit to you today that those games were more remembered for being a bad or slow game than they were for having a kick ass half time show.

But what are the memorable moments?  In 2008, Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers put on a pretty good show.  Do you remember that one?  I’m no fan of the Paul McCartney or the Rolling Stones, but it seems like they avoided screwing it up in 2005 and 2006.  The quality of those particular performances in the grand scheme of things escapes my memory and is covered up by all the other stuff that has happened. 

In 2007 when Prince was doing a guitar solo on his customized guitar which looked like the symbol which served as his moniker for a while, a shadow of him playing was cast on a drape behind him.  The shadow was reported to have a phallic look about it.  Speaking of which, don’t forget Bruce Springsteen throwing his into the camera during his 2009 performance. 

Naturally, I’d be remiss if I didn’t call attention to the origination of the term “Wardrobe Malfunction”.  We have a 2004 performance by Janet Jackson to thank for that one.

Let’s recap.

Bad sound engineering and entertainers losing their grace are two good reasons for getting rid of the music programs during Super Bowl half time shows.

If it were just those two items, I could deal with it on the basis that shit happens. 

W - T - F

One thing I can’t abide by is the continued insistence on the networks, the producers, the entertainers, and whoever else is involved in putting on the show to cross pollinate the demographic.

Uuummmm, what?  Yeah, I know.  Mark the time and date here and now.  The next time you either hear or see that term, remember the fact that you saw it first here on TharpSter. Org.

In 1986, Run-DMC got together with Aerosmith and gave a new birth to an old song.  In the process, Aerosmith got a comeback and Run-DMC and the rest of rap was given a paddle in the mainstream.  At some point between then and 2001, Aerosmith got the idea that they could perform “Walk This Way” with anyone.  As I watched them perform it with ‘N Sync, Britney Spears, Mary J. Blige, and Nelly, I came to the immediate conclusion that Aerosmith was back on drugs.

There is nothing worse in my musical universe when various artists exit their non-rock genre and try to take on the rock persona.  Celine Deion did it with an AC/DC song on a VH1 concert.  It happens all the time on Rock & Roll Hall of Fame concerts.  It happens in the Super Bowl too. 

One of the common tools used is that producers of the show will have the music choreographed.  We’re talking about music that shouldn’t be choreographed.  When KISS opened the 1999 Super Bowl, the field was filled with dancers (wearing KISS makeup no doubt) dancing cheerleader like moves to songs that were never meant to be danced to like that.

This last Sunday, Slash’s ascension onto the stage gave me a glimmer of hope the show wouldn’t suck.  Fergie had worked with him on a song or two in the last year.  Alas, the presence of the top-hatted one was short lived and the egregious affront to the senses continued.

In my own little world, the most heavily targeted demographic for which the NFL caters to for 20 weeks out of the year doesn’t appreciate the crap that has been thrown out there over the years.  If hybrid combinations of rock, pop, and middle of the road were really appreciated, one has got to think the ratings would be more evenly mixed among the genders, age groups, and too some extent socio-economic classes.

So here’s what you have to do.

Lose the music.  It doesn’t work.  You could bring back marching bands or even Up With People, but I doubt that would work. 

Consider mixing it up a little.  You have a hundred yard field and plenty of space to work in a brilliant collection of features you could see in carnival side shows.  The guys from American Chopper could be somewhere around the 40 yard line playing a spirited game of Risk.  Monster trucks could be brought out to smash trendy hybrid or electric cars.  Gary Busey could be brought in to ride around the joint on a motorcycle while skillfully negotiating his way around planted street curbs and surly linemen.  Do you want little more flare?  Among all of the different activities going on throughout the field, set up stripper poles at ever 10 yard line and get them occupied with a plethora of thong-clad hootchies.  

That’s right.  I used the word “hootchie”.  Google it and see where TharpSter falls on the results list.

Regardless of what should be added to the half time shows of the future, what’s going on now has got to stop.  Under the current paradigm, it’s just a matter of time before the NFL conscripts the likes of Justin Beiber, Lady Gaga, Cher, Liza Minnelli, and other cross dressers to provide an unfortunate collection of genetic material charged with entertaining us during our mid-game run to the john.   

You laugh, but it could happen.

So far, a better part of my day has been spent at the ballpark.  Opening day ceremonies which were originally scheduled for last week were moved to today because of rain.  TharpSter Jr. and I went over there early this morning to help people park their trucks, SUVs, and even their cars (scoff) in a temporarily dry creek bed which has been known in the past to wreck havoc on those baseball diamonds during the rainy season.  Naturally, before we left the house this morning to go wave people into the tightest of spots possible, we took part in a few muffins for breakfast.

They weren’t any old muffins, mind you.  They were Malt-O-Meal muffins.  The TharpSter Executive Chef made them this morning just for the heck of it.

That will be enough about our breakfast habits.  It’s of no real consequence at this point.

A little later on in the day, we packed it all up in the TharpSter Truck to go back to the baseball fields.  It should probably be stated at this point that with the return of our Pit Bull Hope, we are still a little befuddled as to how she got out of our yard a few weeks ago.  As such, we still leave both dogs inside when we leave.  Leaving the dogs inside has become a science in and of itself for that matter.  We make sure to pick up the remote controls, the day planners, and anything else that can’t withstand the average bite strength of a Pit Bull.  At the same time, we also took the steps to get the remaining Malt-O-Meal muffins in a storage bag.  The storage bag containing a dozen or so muffins was subsequently placed at the back of the kitchen counter up against a wall and behind the mixer.  Such positioning was done on purpose, as I wasn’t really interested in eating only muffin stumps in the coming days.  The TharpSter TreadMill has already made it known to all of us under no uncertain terms that she appreciates the vitamin packed goodness of a Malt-O-Meal muffin, specifically the tops.

With headquarters sufficiently doggy proofed, we made our way back to the ball fields to watch our young nephews play their very first game of tee-ball.  I played it sometime in the 70’s, TharpSter Jr. and the TharpSter Girl also played it during the turn of the century.  Over the years, and even in the last ten, tee ball has changed a little bit.  Way back when, we had 9 players on the field and all extras riding the pine.  We had the umpires and kept score.  A batter could strike out if they kept hitting the tee instead of the ball.

That doesn’t appear to be the case now, and I’m pretty sure it’s a result of today’s touchy, feely mentality that equal outcomes reign supreme.  Nowadays, they don’t keep score.  The only umpires are the coaches on the field.  As far as the tee is concerned, a pint sized player can go up there and hit that tee all they want to until they make contact with the ball.

Even more amusing is the number of defensive players which go on the field.  There’s a standard minimum these days, and that minimum is all of them.  Add to that the fact that they all play infield.  Notice in the picture that there is one runner bolting for 2^nd base.  The remaining 11 kids along with the catcher (out of frame) are all on defense.  Regardless of such, it was still a good game to watch.  I would bet that over 90% of the kids that played today were signed up by their parents, whether they expressed an interest or not.  Even still, it was obvious they had fun.  I had fun too.  Even though TharpSter Jr. has been playing for 10 years and now plays on a standard diamond with a 90 foot base path, I still flash back to his first season playing tee ball as one of my favorite years of his baseball career.

Upon returning home from the game, we found that everything for the most part was okay.  There were no electronics or parts thereof spread out all over the floor.  No literature had been selected from the bookshelves and subsequently reviewed and chewed.  The mixer on the counter was still intact.

Sadly the muffins were gone.

If the litter bugs had just thrown the storage bag away instead of leaving it lying around, I’m sure we would have never noticed such an illicit transgression.

Before I do so, I should let you know about my as of yet undisclosed super power.  Ask anyone what type of super power they either have or would like to obtain, and I can guarantee you a wide variety of answers.  Naturally, there are the generic ones such as flight and speed.  For those whose bloodstreams rage with hormones, don’t forget x-ray vision or the ability to become invisible around girls locker rooms or gentlemen’s clubs.  Some even get more creative with the ability to see flatulence.

Granted all of those super powers are pretty cool, and I wouldn’t complain about having any of those skills, short of the last one.  For me, I’ve discovered that I have the innate ability to find irony in just about anything.

I know.  It’s pretty creepy.

I first discovered this power in January of 1993.  Shortly after the inauguration of Bill Clinton, he opened up the White House as a gesture to the American people that it was the people’s house, not just his.  During this event, C-Span aired the new President standing in a reception line as he met and shook hands with those who took the opportunity to see the White House.  Naturally, the crowd of people who had gathered to attend the reception far exceeded the number of people who were expected.  Once this was realized by the powers that be, Boss Hillary pulled a few people aside to discuss the new administration’s first crisis.  Unbeknownst to her, the First Lady had an open microphone on her when she let loose the statement which pretty much summarized the evening, as well as what I saw would be the theme for the next eight years.  “Look.  We’re screwing these people.”

As the years progressed, I honed my new found power to find irony where it couldn’t possibly be present.  I even found it one year in a jury box where the good people of Bexar County had decided it was my turn to participate in my civic duty.  How often does one ever get to serve on a jury where the last name of the defendant in an assault and battery case is Slaughter?  I can assure you that the weight of the moment was not lost on yours truly.

Now that I’ve painted the appropriate picture for you, allow me to move forward with my public service announcement.  Sadly, this announcement comes from the people at Under Armour.  According to the U.S. Consumer Product Safety Commission, at least five out of 211,000 pieces of sporting equipment have been reported to crack or break upon being hit.  Such events have subsequently caused cuts and bruises.  Further review of the specifications on these items indicate they were made in China.  This is especially sad, as the less than desirable labor practices and human rights abuses of the Chinese could very well spell uncertain punishment for the individual who assembled the defective product.  My only real criticism of the manufacturer in this case is that the recall should have taken place after the first report, instead of waiting for four more.

Now you may be wondering how the TharpSter’s aimless babbling about a product recall has anything to do with his super power of seeing irony.  Set your doubts aside, my dear reader.  The attached picture reporting a recall of Under Armour Athletic Cups was taken at Dick’s Sporting Goods.

Sometimes, you just can’t make this stuff up.

Now that I’ve gotten that out of the way, allow me to take into question the journalistic integrity and healthy application of the double standard on the part of the San Antonio media over San Antonio’s “first” entry into the LLWS.  It’s been all over the tube, the radio, and in the newspapers.  In all of the reports I’ve seen, heard, or read, not once has any of the local media clarified the claim.

It’s as easy as this.  The McAllister Little League of San Antonio is not this city’s first entry into the Little League World Series.  If it was, do you really think I would be able to post this link to the official Little League website, or this link to same newspapers website which reports that the 15-16 year old all star team from Northwest Little League of San Antonio attended and won the same series in their age group in 2007?  Just the year before, the same core group of players took 3^rd place in the same series.

Where was the orgasmic treatment of this team from the local media?  Did the radio stations put out a call for donations to finance the pricey trips it takes to get the families of the players to see their daughters play in the LLWS?  Were the games broadcast live on the local sports radio stations like they’ve been this year?  Was there a nifty slide show on the newspaper website like there is now?

Let me assure you.  If the local media had actually gone ga-ga over the team from Northwest Little League as they have over McAllister, you wouldn’t be reading about it here.  ‘Nuff said.