Who knows, and who cares.
Someone asked me if I was having a Super Bowl party. I haven't watched the Pats all year, and haven't watched television in about a month. I wouldn't know Teddy Bruschi if he walked into my apartment. I'd probably just figure, big guy, must be delivering something, a refrigerator or washing machine or something.
Same goes for Tom Brady. Good looking boy, dime a dozen. All those white boys look alike to me.
There is something in me that will probably compel me to turn it on for awhile. It's just to be part of the global worldwide party. But I know, I know, I'll have it on for a couple of minutes, and start to get bored real fast. I'm not only not part of the worldwide party, I don't want to be part of it in the first place.
The people I hang out with don't talk sports. We talk music, books, the world. A musician asked me to write some reviews of her music because she says when I write about music it sounds like when you were in high school and you talked about a new album with your friends. I do that. I get so excited hearing new music. And I love to pass it along. One of the best times I've had in recent times was sitting in the basement of one of Sue's coworkers, exchanging CDs to copy, talking about the music.
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