When The Saints Go Marching In

So I find out today who won the superbowl. Superbowl wasn't a blip on my screen. Superbowl hasn't been blip most years. When I worked in the library at FIU in Miami, where we had to work the reference desk two weekends a semester, I traded with whoever got Superbowl weekend. That was the best weekend. Place deserted. Nobody come in, except for one of the local characters, like the dude we called Son of Sam. He had big, staring eyes, was medicated, asked for information on catnip. Whenever the regular students disappeared, for a holiday or for a major sporting event, here come the crazies, out of the woodwork. But mostly, the library was just dead quiet on Superbowl weekend. Me and Susan, the librarian who also didn't give a whip about the Superbowl, just floated on the peace. I can't get worked up over most sports. Don't really root. I give them a moment of silence. Not a praying silence, just thinking in my head, "I like that team's uniforms. Okay, I'll be for them." So last night the Saints were playing the Colts. Who was I for? You have to ask? Funky Big Easy Creole town with jumpin French quarter and freaks flying their freak flags high and proud..vs. snoozy midwestern farm-fed Indiana town. Who do you think I'm gonna be for? N'awlins of course. I supported them in silence and moved on. Watched a movie instead last night with my girls, "Angus, Thongs and Perfect Snogging." A cheeky British comedy by the same woman who made "Bend it like Beckham." Funny. Britty. Marvy, as the teen girls in the movie would say. As for the superbowl, I think it's marvy that something good happened for New Orleans.