So Who Are the Ones in Yellow?

I went to a Superbowl party last night at a house in DC somewhere, I cannot tell you where. It was pleasant people. I was there for a little more than three hours, got there after the game had started. Hung out sort of around the fringes as I only knew one person there, but I did have some interesting conversations particularly at the end where I got into a lively discussion with a group of -- of all things -- academics. Subjects: reverse influences of colonialism like Indian design transforming English fashion, economic development and relationship with cultural development; how does cultural development happen?; how do attitudes change?: Christianity as a sort of "mental technology" for changing minds; what an intransigent beast the human imagination can be. That came up because the economics perfesser was telling me how much he liked the Greek thinkers. I said, yeah, they should be like the reward for converting to Christianity --as in, "wait, forget about that here's the really good stuff, it's our private stash". But then he pointed out that Aristotle never considered slaves his equal as human beings. I said that that was not something I would quarrel with Aristotle about at this stage, I am so apprehensive of discussions of slavery reaching for cheap emotional effects. But this guy, instead of pursuing that, mercifully said something much more interesting. He marveled at how blind Aristotle was to the whole question, like it had never occurred to him. At which point I said that showed you how something can be a huge part of your mental furniture, something that is present in your life every day, and you don't see it.

I left the party, my friend who invited me dropped me off at the Metro nearby, I travelled the half hour out to the suburbs reading "The Newcomes" by Thackeray, got to my station at the end of the line, called my father, read more of "The Newcomes" while I waited for him, he picked me up, we drove home chatting, I came home, took the dogs out, checked my email, puttered about a bit, fell asleep on the sofa, got up and staggered off to bed, woke up at five thanks to Sweetie's diarrhea, took the dogs out again, came in, read a long email from another friend that got my brain churning furiously, got back into bed with the laptop and ONLY THEN realized that I did not know who won the game.

But I must say my father is even less curious about it than I am. I watched the half-time, well a few minutes of the Stones. I do like the way Mick Jagger somehow conveys the impression of having a character that was fully formed and decided from about the age of six months. Their naturalness maybe started at the place of "what the hell, don't give a shit" but now it seems to have reached some kind of transcendental state of perfect equilibrium. They own the stage, they own the audience, they get out there and they deliver The Stones, the real thing, old, scraggly looking, but the absolute real thing.

Oh and I really liked this one Budweiser commercial.

That is all I can tell you about the Superbowl.