Where do people in America go when they want to become stars, have their faces planed and carved, where they can wear Daisy Dukes and roll in a 6-4 just like Snoop and Dre and get ready for their close-up, Mr DeMille?
Exactly: Los Angeles.
So how come the Super Bowlin' Seahawks and Broncos are in a metropolis where Peyton Manning and Richard Sherman could walk into any Madison Ave. coffee shop and order up a plate of eggs without hassle from adoring masses; where none of the natives are going to get caught up in the long, drawn-out, fabricated hoopla of a "sporting event"?
Let's put the Super Bowl where it belongs. La La Land.
I read today that the St. Louis Rams, which used to be the NFL's Los Angeles franchise before somehow Los Angeles wound up without an NFL team, have just bought a 60-acre Wal-Mart parcel in Inglewood. The NFL is going to the other Promised Land.
The news comes 48 hours before Sunday's Super Bowl in New Jersey and 72 hours after the quasi-official start of Super Bowl WEEK in New York. I'm not sure the news will big foot the New York Super Bowl, but let's hope this puts an end to Super Bowls in New York.
I Heart New York, but whether or not the Big Apple/Chris Christie Land is the right spot to host the Super Bowl ... I don't buy it. It's not so much about the weather (polar) but about whether New York City is a place that can give proper amplification to the absurdity of the Super Bowl, which is not about a game, but about, well, absurdity.
As Super Bowl WEEK commenced, I asked my brother, iDave, who works near Times Square for The New York Times, what was the Super Bowl scene. He was like: "You know New York. It's like it's not really making a dent."
Say anything you want about New York --that it's expensive, self-important, the self-proclaimed center of the universe -- one thing you have to appreciate about the place is that it can accommodate anything, anyone, and not lose its freaking mind. The city and the people that make New York thrum just don't get bogged down in the mundane details. They got a subway to catch, coffee to buy ("How you want that, light and sweet?") They go about their business and have NO TIME to get knocked off stride by anything, be it a heinous terrorist attack or the NFL's version of a "national holiday."
This is why New Yorkers are purveyors of "anthems" that speak to the bravado of the city, including sentiments about how "if you can make it there you can make it anywhere" (Sinatra) or needing "a little give and take and a trip down the Hudson River line" (Billy Joel) or how "there's nothing you can't do in the concrete jungle where dreams are made" by Jay-Z/Alicia Keys.
This is the city that made Joe Namath "Broadway Joe."
The NFL doesn't take over Manhattan. Manhattan takes over the NFL.
Which is why my proposal is that the Super Bowl should really only be hosted in two places: Los Angeles and Orlando. Tinseltown and Disney World. And since Orlando doesn't have a football stadium big enough to accommodate the Super Bowl, let's just leap ahead and say that once the Rams are in Los Angeles, that every Super Bowl should be held there.
Why? Justin Bieber. The Kardashians. The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. Million Dollar Listings. Santa Monica. Venice Beach. The Walk of Fame. Universal Studios. Colon cleansing. Date shakes. Katy Perry. Peeling labels off the bottles of Bud. Car washes. The Pointer Sisters. Joan Didion. Frank Ocean. The Getty. Ray-Bans. The Santa Monica Highway. Highway 1. Rodeo Drive. Malibu. Convertibles. Sun. Smog. Surf. Muscle Beach.
The first Super Bowl I ever covered was in 1993 in Los Angeles. The Cowboys vs. the Buffalo Bills. America's Team vs. Marv Levy's Perennial Super Bowl Losers. Goliath vs. David. Michael Irvin and the party animal Cowboys vs. Jim Kelly and the Inferiority Complexes.
I found the column I wrote from Media Day -- my virgin voyage into the Land of the NFL's Mind, Body and Soul Control Event. I included it below, and it speaks to the absurdity of the police escort; how BIlls running back Thurman Thomas wrote Marshawn Lynch's playbook on HATING media day.
The Super Bowl XXVII matchup was a Hollywood script: Biggest, Baddest NFL Team vs. The Lake Effect Underdogs From one of the NFL's tiniest markets in Upstate New York.
The setting was surreal enough to not only accommodate the "drama" but give the whole proceedings wings to fly.
I know there's an allegedly egalitarian reason to spread the Super Bowl love around to cities that want some of the action. But let's be real. Minneapolis? That was cold. Indianapolis? Perhaps one of the most drab, boring cities this side of pre-Wall falling Eastern Germany. Phoenix? It takes 11 hours to drive from Scottsdale to Mesa. New Orleans? OK, the city deserved some love post Katrina but the Big Easy is really the Big Dirty. Charlotte, NC? Please.
I used to write politics, news and sports for newspapers in cities like Albany NY, Seattle, Baltimore and Harrisburg PA. Now I take a lot of Instagram photos, check Facebook, swim, read about T$$$p and cook dinner for people I really like. New York native, living in Port Washington and Greenfield Center (that's near Saratoga Springs FYI).