An otherwise typical Sunday...and but for the impudent upstarts called the Arizona Cardinals we could all relax the afternoon away contemplating the reason for the high price of tea in China and other equally compelling conundrums. As it is, we are set to perform an American ritual that for a true-blooded Viking is and will be, always and eternally, shot through with bitter-sweet strains of what might have been. I will attend a Superbowl party today. And as much as I hate the role of jilted lover, and as much as you want to say to me "get over it !" I and my fellow axe-wielding, skull-cleaving, tundra-blooded aficionados must bare the burden and ignominy of 4 super-game loses with nary a victory to our credit. Yes, I have exorcised the demons on numerous occasions only to submit to their siren call when once again the team seems to surge and I'm jolted out of my fair-weather-fan stupor by the cries of "they really have a chance this year" or, "hey, they're 8-4 just three more wins and we clinch a playoff spot". Fool heart of darkness and deceit, when will you leave me in peace? But for the tasty treats prepared by skillful wives and some men of extraordinary culinary abilities the occasion would be a total wash. The painting above reminds me of the glory of a Superbowl victory. Not the biggest victory on earth by any stretch but a victory nonetheless.
