Lifting the Seat on The Super Bowl
My Breakfast With Zĕna
A leisurely Monday morning breakfast with my friend—writer and philosopher Zĕna Kōan.
I was sharing an experience from the night previous.
There was this loud bestial male roar from out back.
(My apartment faces a back yard and the windows of dozens of neighbors’ apartments.)
An orgasm?
Nope—as it was soon followed by a bunch of other voices, screaming in unison—moans tinged with the downward bent notes that suggested dreaded disappointment.
If I were out on the pampas I’d have guessed that the wild pig they were in pursuit of had gotten away.
But even as out of touch as I am with most fancies of the human herd, my memory was fist-bumped into recalling the vast beer and chips display at the grocery store—this was one of the high holy days of the year in this urban jungle, and all across the vast empire—Superbowl Sunday.
That sound I heard was probably the Grunt of a Fumble.
Zĕna smiled, sipping her coffee, and recounted that she had seen a sign outside a bar yesterday —“Rihanna watch party tonight!”
My guess was, she continued, that the local boys weren’t really into either of the two teams this year, so they’d be…
