Two weeks ago the Colts eliminated The Patriots from the NFL Playoffs. It was a close game. My 9-1 bet on New England winning it all was 86’ed. The 9000 baht would have come in handy. I had a car payment next week. The money would have to come from someplace else.
I didn’t care much about the Bears or Colts, yet set my alarm clock for 6:30am to watch the next to final game of the season (Pro Bowl is the last.)
I like the Super Bowl in Thailand. No commercials. The camera stays on the field between plays and catches grown men in uniforms standing around doing nothing.
I turned in the TV.
Nothing close to the Super Bowl was on Sophon Cable.
Even worse they were showing a women’s basketball game from Australia. The remote surfed through the channels. More nothing. My two options were to get on my motorcycle and find a bar showing the Game or else lay back in bed and read Stendahl’s THE RED AND THE BLACK.
19th Century French literature won over the Bears and the Colts.
Mind you Jean Sorel is a hell of lot more entertaining than Peyton Manning. On the other hand I could have gone to the JP Bar for the game and drink beer with ka-toeys and crackhead whores. I must be getting old.
Later I read on the internet that the Colts had triumphed over Chicago, meaning if the Patriots had beaten the Colts, we would have been Super Bowl Champs 2007. Destiny had other plans and so had I.
But the biggest surprise about the Super Bowl was not the score or that it rained throughout the game, but that Prince played at the half-time show.
Prince?
He’s 5-2 and skinny as a speedfreak snake.
None of his songs are sued at any stadium for revving up the volume. Not even at an Aussie girls b-ball game. He is a great showman.
Saw him in 1981 at the Palladium on 14th Street. Benji, a Jamaican bouncer was working the door and told me and Richie Boy that we had to see this freak. We were comped inside and sat in the balcony. Benji had been telling the truth. The bitch could play and he hit the charts with bullets throughout the 80s.
I only met him once.
In LA at the Milk Bar in Beverly Hills.
I was working the door. His bodyguard asked if Prince could get a table.
“No problem.” I gave them a good table only there was no them. Only Prince and his bodyguards. He ordered a couple of drinks and then left without playing his bill. Not even a tip.
The next night he rolls up and asks for a table.
“Sorry, we’re full.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Yeah, you’re the guy who didn’t pay his bill last night and was too cheap to tip either.”
Prince looked at me funny like my words were in Italian, then strode away in his high heels. His limo drove away in a huff, if hizzy fits are possible for a car.
So I said to myself on Super bowl Sunday, “Prince?”
What is America coming to?
He ain’t no Hollywood Henderson.
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