1/25/99 Misc. World column A (Super) Sunday Kind of Love MAKE YOUR OWN JOKE HERE #1: An outfit in northern California's selling officially-licensed Space Needle brand bottled water. MAKE YOUR OWN JOKE HERE #2: Banners have been mounted all along the streets of the Darkest Eastside, calling on one and all to "Celebrate Redmond." WORKIN' IT: A week or two back, we recounted alarming statistics in Variety claiming kids' TV viewership was significantly down in each of the past three years. Now, other articles offer up a reason why. Not too long ago, Those Kids Today were constantly berated as illiterate videots and Nintendo-junkies whose slacker study habits were going to be America's downfall as a productive player on the global economic stage. Now, Time, the NY Times, and other media outlets are crying in alarm that kids as young as the first grade are being inundated beneath piles of homework so daunting nobody has time to be a kid. The NY Times account, citing a U. of Michigan study, claims in the last 17 years "homework for first- to third-graders had nearly tripled, to 123 minutes a week." The first caveat, naturally, is the mass-media biz might be worrying that young eyeballs are getting too captivated by mandatory attention, therefore limiting the young'uns' ability to be marketed to. Beyond that, another question arises--at a time when the effective application of knowledge is more nonlinear (or, rather, multilinear) than ever, when Net-based reference tools may make data acquisition as simple as using a calculator, why should we be dooming our children by force-feeding them a rigorous, narrow discipline of left-brain rote memorization? The most likely answer's that in the '80s, everybody was so darned worried we weren't keeping up with those other industrialized nations in producing quantifiable test-score results. Test-score results, of course, don't really equal knowledge; and knowledge certainly doesn't equal wisdom--let alone economic "success." As far as I've been able to figure, Japan's schools are just as tough and soul-sapping as ever, while the nation's economy's gone to the dogs for reasons totally unrelated to study habits. POT-CALLING-THE-KETTLE-BLACK DEPT.: In a recent PBS hour called We the (Rude) People, Morton Kondracke joined the chorus of those who bemoan the death of "civil society" and who blame America's subcultural fragmentation and in-group politics and just about everything else wrong (or perceived to be wrong) with America on those darned '60s antiwar protesters. Really, for a veteran panelist on The McLaughlin Group to claim the liberals are causing all the hatemongering is beyond ludicrousness! THE FINE PRINT (In the closing credits of Artisan Entertainment's video trailer to Jerry Springer: Ringmaster): "All characters and events in the preceding motion picture were entirely fictional, and nothing is intended to depict any actual participant in, or aspect of, 'The Jerry Springer Show,' which is broadcast on television. This motion picture is not connected to 'The Jerry Springer Show' and is not licensed from its producers." THE OTHER FINE PRINT (from a brochure soliciting public-art proposals for the UW Medical Center's new Maternity and Infant Care wing): "Since not every MIC patient outcome results in a live or healthy birth, the successful artwork will respect this fact with appropriate imagery. For example, the artist may decide to omit direct references to children, babies, or reproduction." LOCAL PUBLICATION OF THE WEEK: I seem to always be praising the NW punk bible 10 Things (Jesus Wants You to Know). Its latest issue (#20) is its best yet. Besides the usual acreage of interviews and reviews, it's got editor Dan Halligan's tale of his Vegas wedding, a woman named Mels disappointedly relating how punks turn out to have most of the same sex hangups as other Americans, interviews with two DIY Netporn entrepreneurs, lotsa talk about the Teen Dance Ordinance repeal advocates, an art-photo by Wendy Wishbone of three goth models representing "the Three Fates of Punk: Death, Hypocrisy, Capitalism," and Ben Weasel's cogent analysis of how a vital, energetic subculture's degenerated and ossified into a conformist, formulaic, commercialized "New Punk Order." (Mightily timely reading during last week's ESPN "Winter X Games" with all the post-Green Day noisemakers used for snowboarding sountrack tuneage.) Free at the usual dropoff spots or $3 from 8315 Lake City Way NE, #192, Seattle 98115. LOSS OF DOWN: Another Super Bowl Sunday's on the way, and with it the usual pseudo-intellectual garbage about pro football as an institution of violence and stupidity and that perennial fall guy testosterone--even though football puts more kid through college than any other sport, even though it's really a game of coaching and choreography as much as one of hitting and tackling, and even though it's got enough female fans for QVC to offer NFL-logo costume jewelry trinkets. Time staff essayist Lance Morrow recently claimed, "Football, still in bad odor among thinkers, needs a fancier mystique;" then proceeded to offer up a "deconstructionist theory" of the sport--which, natch, turned out to be less a defense of the gridiron game than a spoof of PoMo egghead jargon. ("Football enacts the Foucaultian paradigm wherein all actions, even involuntary motions or 'fakes' or failures (quarterback sacked), coalesce in meaning, and everytyhing that the game organizes in the way of objects, rites, customs (the superstitious butt slapping, the narcissistically erotic Bob Fosse touchdown dances) constitutes a coherent whole -- the game lui-meme.") I, however, am not afraid to stake whatever remaining highbrow street-cred I might have on the line by actually and sincerely stating my praise for the game. I've (largely) grown out of my sensitive-post-adolescent jock-hating phase (my above remarks about snowboarding hype notwithstanding), and have come to an honest appreciation of the Big Game played by Big Dudes, their bodies (and usually their faces) hidden beneath the group-identity of the uniform, their individual heroics interdependent upon the coordinated effort of the entire team. A game with separate offensive and defensive players, in which fully half the participants can usually do nothing but "loss prevention." (Hmm--maybe Safeco should've bought the naming rights to the new football stadium instead of the new baseball stadium.) Here, then, is my partial list of what makes the perfect Super Bowl experience (please feel free to print this out and keep score at home): At least four hours of increasingly shrill yet picayune pregame "coverage." The National Anthem sung by somebody who can't hit the high notes or forgets the words. At least one safety. A missed point-after-touchdown. A successful really-long field goal. First and third quarters ending within the 10 yard line (if the teams are going to change sides at the quarter breaks, it should be as overt as possible). A homemade sign in the stands listing a Bible verse other than John 3:16. (My fantasy: To hold up signs displaying the verse numbers for the passages about Onan spilling his seed, or David spying on the bathing Bathsheeba, or a sequence of the verses that turn out to be "And Judas went into the potter's field and hanged himself," "Go thou and do likewise," and "Whatsoever ye do, do so quickly.") At least 20 increasingly shrill promos for the premiere of a new hit series, or the special episode of an established hit series, to air "immediately following the game." A marching-band rendition of a contemporary hit song not originally meant for horns. ("MMMBop," or maybe "Cop Killer.") A scoreless third quarter (so you can get to the convenience store for restocking without missing the halftime extravaganza). A really ridiculous touchdown-celebration dance. (Perhaps involving pirouettes.) A couple of wasted time outs early in the fourth quarter. A penalty assessed against one team for having 12 men on the field, negated by a penalty for the other team having 13 men on the field. A true blooper-reel moment (a player running in the wrong direction, or the inadvertant tackle of a sidelines microphone operator). A good Master Lock commercial. A dumb Pepsi commercial. The whole thing coming down to one last come-from-behind miracle play that either somehow succeeds or at least comes very close. At least one hour of anticlimactic postgame rehashing. A premiere premiere of a new hit series, or the special episode of an established hit series, eventually following the postgame denouments and turning out to really suck. NEXT WEEK: The long-delayed final results of our quest for appropriate honorees on a mythical Seattle women's walk of fame. 'Til then, here's your next topic to mull over via email and our luscious Misc. Talk discussion boards: What's the most beautiful "ugly" building in town (i.e., a beautiful structure the official tastemakers would despise)?

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