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We had an anti-Super Bowl party last night. It involved eating lots of California rolls and shrimp quesadillas and watching Iron Chef at Steve's house. While home for the holidays, Steve managed to record a 24-hour New Year's Iron Chef marathon from the Food Network. I know you all are probably hipper than me and are intimately familiar with the show already, but this was a first for me: the Kitchen Stadium lit with flaming torches; the chairman who makes that dashing smile after biting into the yellow bell pepper; the secret ingredient (in this case, peaches) ascending from the smoke-filled pit; the Iron Chefs rising up in front of their portraits, and the poor afterthought Iron Chef Italian who has to appear on the side; the minor Japanese celebrities (including members of Parliament) who they bring in to judge; the backstory they make up for the challenger (in this case, his wife left him and his parents' house burnt down, and he still lost to Iron Chef French).
Time.com interprets this year's crop of Super Bowl ads as the demise of the dotcom era, and of course they have a point, but they shouldn't be allowed to reference "Ozymandias." We also watched that Australian Survivor premiere thing, though I'm safe at home because I don't get CBS.
It's currently two degrees above freezing, which means that for variety's sake it's raining rather than snowing. Oy gevalt.