KUDOS TO BALTIMORE!

It has to be said that other team played a darn good game. Deservedly they won the super bowl. Them and their Doritos-snarfing goat. And it was a remarkable victory, thoroughly deserved.

I didn't see it though, as I spent all of Sunday in bed.

It seemed like the safest place to be, as die-hard SF Giants fans were determined to burn the city down if we won. Everyone knew that the intersection of Twenty-Fourth and Mission was ground zero.
Muni buses were going to be overturned and set ablaze, bottles would be thrown, and civilians hurt in the cross-fire.
Because nothing says civic pride better than vandalism.

A torched public transit vehicle really expresses the glow of ownership in the champion team. Those columns of smoke rising into the night-time sky are a cleansing of collective daemons, and represent the hopes and fears of the vast illiterate majority.
Thank god the Baltimore Orioles won.

I note, by the way, that the Baltimore team wore the same colours as that bunch of fruitcakes across the bay. The Oakland team. Coincidence?
Or a brilliant hex?
Sports voodoo.


I like Baltimore. How can you not like a city that spawned John Waters?

I can still remember standing in the audience at a midnight showing of 'Eat Your Makeup', holding my Bic lighter aloft and howling, as Jackie Kennedy ('Divine') forced a super-model to do unspeakable things. Truly one of the best movies of all time!


The Orioles did Waters and Divine proud on Sunday.
Because of it, we didn't riot and destroy things.
Instead, we cried into our cheap beer.
And ate the last of the wings.
Cold, and too spicy.

Even if I hadn't had the flu on Sunday, I would not have watched the game.
I'm just not interested in men wearing spandex booties running around, unlike most of SF, where men wearing shiny tight pants are just the thing.
I wasn't planning on going anywhere, because of the great likelihood of mayhem and public orgies, but a fever, sweats, and nausea, floored me.
I heard the cheering from other apartments in the block.
Which finally died out sometime after seven.
Pumpernick did not save the day.


I'm going to buy me some Doritos.
It's time to feed the goat.



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