If Prince Wants A Camel, You Get Prince A Camel

So, that was disappointing. I realized when I woke up this morning that I didn't have any plans to watch the game, and it kind of started the ball rolling around in my head, what if I represent the antithesis of what everyone in this city is feeling right now? What if I have the saddest Superbowl Party ever? And I did. I cooked some eggs, a can of Heinz beans - bam, dinner for one. And that was gone before Billy Joel got through the National Anthem (On a side note, Marlee Matlin really showed him up while signing - the woman put her soul into that. When they got to the rockets red glare part, I wouldn't have been surprised if she had actually burst into a red glare - whatever that is exactly. Bravo, Marlee, Oscar caliber stuff there). And then the game was on. I watched it in the same clothes that I've been wearing all day - elastic band fleece pants, blue t-shirt, rattiest hoodie I own - on my couch. I fell asleep by the third quarter, so I didn't even get to see Rex Grossman work his way into the cholesterol clogged, hateful hearts of the sports fans of Chicago. I only woke up when someone from the party in the apartment below me went out into the alley and started to scream - "COLTS - WHOOOOOO!". I think he vomited a lung out. He then proceeded to yell some more.

One thing that didn't disappoint though? Prince. Like I said before, I've never been that big a Prince fan - what can I say, I'm not a very "sexy" person, so in kind of picking through the catalogue of music's history, I was never that interested in his stuff. But Jesus Christ on God mountain did he bring it tonight. I think its fitting that he did this about a month after James Brown's passing, because I would have no problem calling Prince the hardest working man in showbiz after this. I thought it was pretty good for a halftime show, but he really caught my attention when he started into the 'All Along The Watchtower' cover. It was really startling because I suddenly realized that I must not remember the words to 'All Along The Watchtower' at all. It wasn't until he got to the chorus that I realized he was singing the Foo Fighters.



He had me by the end of that. But then, holy shit. Before the show started, I was thinking that they were going to but up a tarp or something to keep the stage dry, but by the end, I almost think that Prince brought the rain. Because yes, I now fully believe that Prince can control the weather. He's that good. Playing 'Purple Rain' in the rain? And when he throws down the microphone at the end for the audience to sing, well, damn Prince, you can be all the funny little man with weird whims and funny suits you want - you've earned it.

I'm On My Fourth Heart Attack Of The Night

Are you ready for some football? Because I know I am. I've got my can of Hormel's Chili and bag of Blazin Buffalo Dorritos ready on the go - will they somehow find their way into some sort of glorious union? Stay tuned my friends, stay tuned and see.

I honestly don't think I would care about the game this year if I wasn't in Chicago. The Patriots aren't playing, so I don't have to watch to know what my dad will be talking about for the next week; there won't be any movie trailers in the ads this year, and I'm not really in a rush to watch that K-Fed ad that's already been on the internet for a week; and I've honestly never been that much of a Prince fan, unless he's trying to buy a camel at three in the morning in Minneapolis. Plus, the Super Bowl is on CBS this year, which means that instead of getting Sydney Bristow in two lingerie choices or Meredith Grey coming this close to getting blown up (God, I was hoping so hard), we get Mandy Patankin and Thomas Gibson pretending that they don't hate each other on a new episode of Criminal Minds. Whee.

And on top of all of that, the New York Times answered the one question I always think about at the end of the Superbowl - where do the other teams hats go? As soon as the trophy is presented to Tom Brady to hold, he was always outfitted in a ridiculously oversized t-shirt and cap proclaiming the Patriots victory, which means that there has to be a box full of the other teams shirts, mocking them with the victory that never was. So where do they go? Answer: Africa, a land where the Buffalo Bills are the greatest football team to have ever attempted the game.

Also, I saw 'Pan's Labyrinth' last night, and well, lets just put it this way, I think Brian Urlacher eats children.

Seriously God, Why You Gotta Be Like That?

There are moments in life when I think God enjoys being a dick - not in a malicious way, but like, if you were drinking buddies with God, and you passed out, he would totally sharpie a moustache onto your face right underneath the spot on your forehead where he wrote "I'm the guy who sucks." And as hard as you wash, you just can't get that off of your head before its time for that job meeting. "That was kind of a dick thing to do God." "Well, you should have cut yourself off man. You brought it on yourself." And he's right. Because he's all omni like that.

Anyway, this came up because someone decided that it should be -5 degrees while I partake in my yearly 'Catching Up With The Oscar Nominees To Ease The Pain Of My Lacking Social Life Routine', or 'February', to most people. And that negative five wasn't some sort of whimsical exaggeration - that's actually the temperature right now. Without the wind. And you best believe that there's wind. Because there is hella wind. I'm constantly walking around looking like I'm the middle of a seizure because I'm trying to keep my beard from freezing to my face.

And seeing as how it only looks to be getting worse (the high for tomorrow? A balmy 3 degrees!), I'll probably write more in here, since I've already done my homework for the week - and its not like I'm going to read or anything.

Oh, and also - Go Bears.

The Return Of What Once Was

I was staring at the marquee of the Aragon theater as it flashed "Miller Time: 3:14, Miller Temp 22", as I waited for a bus which after twenty minutes I was pretty sure only existed in the imagination of the Mexican man leaning on the Red Eye box next to me. This was all after about an hours worth of waiting for trains with drunk Indian men, drunk college students with sandwiches who wouldn't stop talking about how much they were in love with their sandwiches, and a different set of drunk college students who thought it would be a good idea to toss a traffic cone across the El tracks, and then sit and dangle their legs over the edge like they were fishing in Mayberry. All of this, by the way, occurred the night before the Bears won the NFC Championship - this was just the unprovoked, normal amount of drunken revelry you'll find in the city on a Saturday night. As I finally gave in and started to hail a cab, I just kind of looked around and thought... hmm, I'm back in Chicago.

Which means I'll start writing in here again, if you still care to read. I felt kind of lazy while I was home, so lazy in fact, rather than explain why I didn't write in my blog, I'll let Michael Showalter do it. He basically sums it all up in a funnier way than I can. Also, he talks of shitting his pants in the Berkshires, something I think we can all relate to. Or at least I can. Also check out Showalter going all Charlie Rose on Zach Galifianakis' ass in the Michael Showalter Showalter. Watch him grill the bearded one about such pressing questions as "Seriously, you owe me some gas money."