Superbowl Sunday 2014 falls under the shadow of the groundhog. A coincidence to savor, if one honors the day as Imbolc. Americans gorging on hot wings, cheese dip, and beer inadvertently celebrate the feast of a goddess of fire and poetry, the day the Crone is reborn as Maid.
Two things about the Superbowl Sunday:
One, it is itself a religious festival rather than a sporting event, the main feast day of America’s true civic deity. Superbowl Sunday is no more about football than Christmas and Easter is about Jesus. The deity involved is the one an old fashioned evangel would identify as Mammon. The god whose holy Mecca is Las Vegas.
Two, it is oddly recursive. Hype celebrates hype. Spin is offered unto spin. America, the commercial, making a commercial selling the commercial. The Superbowl flies up its on asshole, exhibiting in its televised assault on the senses the Droste effect, the advertised image appearing inside itself, a Fibonacci sequence run in reverse. In the words of Bobby Bare:
Straight through the heart of those righteous uprights…
Drop kick me Jesus through the goalposts of Life.