Super super super...

No big surprise to those who know me, but I didn't watch the Super Bowl last night, though I was reminded of the first Super Bowl I was aware of, which was XVI, which makes me old.  I did happen to catch a bit of the Madonna half-time thing, though I was paying more attention to the overactive Twitter machine:  OMG it's great!  OMG this is sooo GAY.  OMG what is this, the 80s?  And so forth.  Keith Olbermann noted that barely 30 seconds into the performance, Slate had already posted an article on the performance, with the teaser (I'm going from memory here) "The Gayest Half Time Show Ever?"   As KO pointed out, somebody was jumping the gun just a bit.

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I probably remember Super Bowl XVI because I watched it at my grandparents' house.  My grandfather, Jose, was the first person I ever knew to own an honest-to-goodness satellite dish.  It was gigantic. Occupying a plot of real estate adjacent to the garden in the back yard, it required quite a bit of work. To get the reception you wanted, you had to go out and manually orient it with a crank that physically turned it toward whatever magic satellite waves the desired programming required.  Of course, you didn't know what you were picking up as you were cranking, so you had to yell at somebody inside the house for feedback.  Changing the channel in 1982 was a big deal.

Other TV memories from that house:  watching President Reagan being shot in 1981.  The premiere of Home Box Office -- you could watch actual theatrical releases in your house, or your grandparents' house, anyway.  The two that stick out for me are Robin Williams and Shelley Duval in Popeye, and Clint Eastwood in Escape From Alcatraz.

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Other things from that house:  fresh tortillas, sopa de fideos, pot of beans constantly bubbling on the stove, red chile, the laminated picture of the Virgen de Guadalupe tacked to the front door--it was actually a "no religious solicitors" warning in both Spanish and English.  As I recall it said something like, "This is a Catholic home. Literature and propaganda of other faiths not welcome here."

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Which all should bring me back around to chicken wings, and somehow it hasn't.

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Yesterday, I bought a pomelo.  As I type this, in the back of my head, I clearly hear Perry Farell intoning "one night I met a whore."  Three Days.