If I’ve been scarce around here, you can blame my recent initiation into the fine American art of tailgating. The rumors are true; I gave over my entire Sunday to football and associated activities. You have to hand it to the diehard fans out there every Sunday in the parking lots of America with their grills and coolers; they really know how to turn a football game into a mere occasion for more important pursuits. Never let it be said, pace Oscar Wilde, that they don’t take meals seriously; in this respect, at least, there is nothing shallow about them. I’ve only lately recovered from yesterday’s demonstrations of their depth.
Like I said, this was a first for me (and, for a while at least, a last). On the strength of my native sympathies with the Detroit Lions, I was invited to the Lions-Bears game here in Chicago. Read: sacrificial lamb. The Bears fans who brought me even provided a honolulu-blue Barry Sanders jersey for me to wear, the better to be picked out by the orange-and-navy-clad multitude as an object of pity and curiosity, if the Bears prevailed, or–well, I didn’t find out what my role would entail in the unlikely case of a Lions victory. All for the best, I’m sure.
Left in relative peace thanks to the Lions’ harmlessness on the field, I was able to enjoy the $3,000 view from inside the architectural b