XLVIII

We really wanted to see Rochester’s Renee Fleming sing the national anthem but we missed it. We were still in Wegman’s buying avocados to make guacamole for the big game, the only game we’d see all year. I remember watching the first Super Bowl in my parent’s family room. It was just as lopsided as last night’s game. There was a marching band at halftime and I don’t remember the family gathered around, clicking away on their mobil devices. OK, football caught on. Too bad it wasn’t the international version.

I grabbed the remote when the halftime show started and started to crank the volume but my thumb slipped and I hit a small button that killed the sound and miniaturized the screen behind a menu of choices that made no sense. Loud protest ensued and I couldn’t get out that mode so I passed the clicker to my nephew who I figured had the fastest digital skills. He could’t figure it out either so my brother, Tim, the biggest sports fan in the room, took charge and he rescued the Bruno Mars performance.

There was a lot of talk about how Bruno is a manufactured artist who distills James Brown and Michael Jackson but the kids hardly knew who those two were. With over a billion youtube hits this guy is obviously fun to watch and this ain’t the sixties. For me the entire event was overshadowed by the death of another Rochesterian, the great Philip Seymour Hoffman, at XLVI.

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