It’s true, friends know it: While making weekend plans we did almost forget Sunday was the Super Bowl. But then we thought about Tom Petty, like ya do, and it all came back. The New Republic’s been doing a little of the same, and has used Tom’s big halftime performance as an opportunity for some Carl Wilson-like analysis into the source of the Petty appeal. First sentence:
I have always been a bit embarrassed by my weakness for Tom Petty.
Wait, why? It’s not like you’re talking about Celine Dion. The Justice Scalia-referencing essay (this is The New Republic, mind) doesn’t really say; it’s too busy defending his “playful, only distantly somber, rock ‘n’ roll.” From whom? We’re thinking most of this self-ascribed shame probably comes from this bombshell revelation:
Petty has never, except perhaps briefly in the late seventies, been cool.
Silly New Republic hipster. You have years of unnecessary guilt to let go of. It’s okay. You don’t have to live like a refugee.
Now, for us to make asses of ourselves. Here’s your Super Bowl prediction, from a bunch of NY-born (Scott, Amrit, Jim) sports ignoramuses: Giants 28, Patriots 17. Even if you don’t want it to be that way, necessarily: Isn’t Tom Brady’s life already sweet enough? We’ll never forget a friend’s comment as we watched a sideline closeup of Brady’s beautiful mug with just seconds left in the Pats Super Bowl victory over the Eagles: “Yo spread the love, god.” And that was before Giselle.