The game begins. The crowd frenzy a blur of shouting, the announcer, loud, the pizza now eaten but un-noticed. Shouts from my three women companions. I read wabi sabi writing. Sunshine drying the eucalyptus hills. A breeze dances laurel leaves. "They did it again." Not the announcer. "My god." The living room shouts. Another Super Bowl. I remember walking with Michael along the side streets of Denver. Chill hovers single digit and we walk away from Santa Fe back toward Capitol Hill. The city is ours. Quiet. No traffic. And the sudden outbursts from all the houses. Fans responding to that long ago Super Bowl. Maybe 1979, We stop and get something to eat at a convenience store. No one is there. The clerk tears eyes away from a small screen. I learned something that day. Super Bowl day is a good day to go shopping. Stores are empty. Today I stay amidst the obsession of it and turn my attention to the high definition screen when commercials hit. Can they produce anything of lasting and memorable value during a writer's strike? What will be this year's cat herding? Anything? Not by half time. The living room is yelling. "They suddenly get a fucking first ball out of it." I pick a team like I pick a wine: by something superficial that pleases me because I really don't care, am not invested. Wine--Velvet Moon. Cool label. Team? New York Giants. I like New York. Giants are cool. New England chowder is okay. Too generic for a team. Noteworthy commercials are in hiding. The pizza is cold, forgotten. Tom Petty and the Heart Breakers. No woman on stage. No potential malfunction? A guy malfunction could happen. A zipper dropped and flopped. No. Nothing. Network safety net. I get up and dance with Tom Petty. My three football fans nap with the dogs. The game resumes. Our attentions shift. I don't think the Giants are winning. I go back to reading about wabi sabi. (Not to be confused with wasabi.) Fused orange sherbet settles on San Francisco bay. Tele-literacy will reveal who watches the game, remembers the winner, the score. New England ahead. Low scores. Doesn't seem like it deems enough energy to grab my attention. But others are riveted. They all talk while I watch a commercial. So, I miss some sound bites. "It's a fucking nightmare." Super Bowl 42. "This is really a tough game." Bananas for the players. Paula always said kiwi has more potassium than bananas. Score: 10-7. Something happened, like a touchdown. Now I'm reading "Madonas of Leningrad." "Ah, good. The 35 yard line." "Ohhhh nooo!" "Fuck." You know women are as enthusiastic as men if they are tuned into this game. Three minutes left. 10-7. "Somebody's hurt." (Duh.) Yelling. New England scores. 10-13. 2 minutes 42 seconds. "Anything can happen. It has before." I contribute an unheard comment. 16-14....35 seconds to go. GO NEW YORK. 17-14. 28 seconds. One second to insanity. New York wins. See, my team won and I didn't have to yell or get a headache or get upset. Cool. Yes, I confess. I did watch the end of the last quarter. Back to the Goddess I Ching.