Super Bowl XLVII - SURPER BOWL 47

TO MY READERS:  I came across this article in Santa Monica's Daily News Press.  I found it amusing.  In the meantime I learned things that I didn't know about them.  In my household my family members are not interested much to watch the Super Bowl.  I like to watch the commercials.  In any case have a great Super Bowl Sunday.

Share this ArticleJANUARY 31, 2013 5:32 PM

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Author:

Jack Neworth

(Courtesy NFL)

In case you’ve just come out of a coma, this Sunday is Super Bowl XLVII. Julius Caesar would instantly know how many years that represents, but personally I find it annoying. It’s all because Pete Rozelle, the late NFL commissioner, following Super Bowl III felt using Roman numerals would give the game some class. (He clearly saw himself as the Nero of the NFL.)

For those also Roman numerically-challenged XLVII is Super Bowl 47. Super Bowl 99 will be XCIX and 98 will be XCVIII. Sheesh. No wonder the Roman Empire fell.

Ironically the first Super Bowl was in 1967 and was played in Los Angeles. I say “ironically” because we haven’t had a professional football team here since the end of 1994. (Unless, of course, you count USC.)

The NFL says we won’t get a team until we build a new stadium. I’ve got an idea. Why not, when the lease is up, use the land at the Santa Monica Airport? There’s tons of space and it’s freeway close.

OK, maybe it’s a bit far fetched, but at least it’s better than perennial City Council candidate Jon Mann’s idea of turning it into a giant pot farm. (Though I still like the notion of calling it Stoner Park.)

Since 1967, how upscale has the Super Bowl become? In that first game the most expensive ticket was $12. Today it’s $1,250 face value. Actually some desperate fans will wind up paying scalpers $5,000 a ticket. Meanwhile corporate suites go for a mere $300,000. (Ah, the perks of being a 1 percenter.)

In 1967 a 30-second TV commercial cost $42,000. Today it’s $3,850,000. That’s a lot of Bud Light and Nachos Bell Grande that has to be sold. (But fortunately we Americans are up to the challenge.) Speaking of expensive, in a commercial I’m looking forward to, the luscious Kate Upton is pitching Mercedes. Surprise, surprise it’s reportedly quite steamy. So steamy that I can just picture a Mercedes showroom the day after the Super Bowl as a salesman talks to a prospective male customer. “What sold you on Mercedes? Was it the elegance, high resale value or the state of the art technology?” “Uh, well actually it was Kate Upton’s breasts.”

Sunday’s game is being played in New Orleans and for only the second time in history, the Super Bowl coincides with Mardi Gras. (They’re calling it “Super Gras.”) Given the two “holidays” do you think there will be much partying on Bourbon Street? Nah.

The Big Easy expects 1 million visitors and an economic windfall of more than $1 billion. (Plus the cost of all the beads drunken guys on hotel balconies in the French Quarter will throw to drunken girls on the street who will then flash their boobs. While I live in a high rise, somehow I don’t think it would work in Santa Monica.)

Unfortunately on media day this past Tuesday Sports Illustrated broke a story linking Raven’s linebacker Ray Lewis to performance enhancing drugs, specifically deer-antler spray. (I couldn’t make this stuff up, folks.)

Apparently a growth substance in deer antlers is the strongest in the mammal world. I say “unfortunately” for two reasons. One, the last thing the NFL needs is a performance enhancing drug controversy. And two, I somehow don’t think the extraction of the antlers is voluntary on the deer’s part. Apparently, the spray is most effective under the tongue. So if you see a super buff athlete near you spraying something into his or her mouth, there’s a  chance it’s not Binaca.

But beneath the glitz and glamour of the NFL, an $11 billion industry and the Super Bowl, the most-watched TV program of the year, there is an even darker story than PEDs. Whereas the Romans fed the Christians to the lions, today we feed them to linebackers.

I’m referring to chronic traumatic encephalopathy, fancy words for the damage repeated concussions have on the brain. CTE causes dementia, memory loss, aggression, depression, and, as in the recent case of Junior Seau and many others, suicide.

After years of promoting the game’s “biggest hits” on TV highlight programs and through DVD sales, the NFL has finally taken steps to reduce concussions. (Being sued by 6,000 former players and their families might have been of some motivation.)

My solution is to make football single platoon as it once was, wherein athletes play both offense and defense. Because of conditioning issues, the humongous size of the players would reduce dramatically as would the damage they inflict. I have a feeling this idea will be greeted with the same “enthusiasm” as my “build a stadium at the Santa Monica Airport,” but at least I tried.

Hurry, get the chips and dip, the Super Bowl kickoff is less than 48 hours away. Depending on who you’re rooting for, go Ravens or go 49ers, or, in my case, go Kate Upton.

Jack can be reached at jnsmdp@aol.com

If Only Everyone -- Armenian made movie

"If Only Everyone," is an Armenian-made film. The movie was among 71 foreign language movies, as a contender for The Oscars.  Unfortunately it didn't make the last cut of the academy awards.   

I saw the movie at ARPA INTERNATIONAL FILM FESTIVAL in Hollywood.  following is a review of the movie by Jesse Herwitz. 

The film (www.ifonlyeveryone.com) is dedicated to the 20th anniversary of Armenia’s independence and the formation of the Armenian Armed Forces. The film is about a woman, half-Armenian, half Russian, a daughter of a fighter who was killed in the Karabakh war. Two decades later Sasha came to Armenia in search of her father’s grave. She wanted to plant a birch there. Sasha got acquainted with her father’s combat friends who helped her carry out her mission.

By Jesse Herwitz     

Natalya Belyauskene’s ‘If Only Everyone’ begins with the image of an airplane flying. It is an image that in a film rich with symbolism and redemption may carry the most significant statement. That is, that there are no borders in the sky. That, in some idealized way, the earth and its varied lands below might also reflect such a limitless expanse of unsegregated beauty, of freedom, if we could allow for it. Too often, however, it is the border that defines our character and in a larger sense, our country. Very often it is by a border that we overshadow everything within by repealing everything without.

Sasha (Yekaterina Shitova), a young girl of angelic beauty, has crossed such borders, the border of her native Saratov, Russia into Armenia in search of Gurgen (Michael Poghosian) the commander of her deceased father’s military unit. She comes to Gurgen with only one wish: that he may guide her to the place where her father was killed so that she can plant a birch sapling there. It is this wish that both sets the film in motion and unravels the secrets and agonies of the wars we fight both within and without.

This, of course, troubles Gurgen.

“She has come to the commander her father had saved,” say Father Grigo.

“Why?” he responds.

Gurgen tells Sasha that he cannot help and refers her to another member of the former unit, Hoso (Vahagn Simonyan). He sends her away on a bus and watches her go. It is a short lived decision. He later “borrows” a car and chases the bus agreeing to help Sasha. Along with Hoso, he recruits the rest of the surviving members of the unit to join them on their return to the land they fought for and on many years prior.

War is not unique to any single nation. Neither is the story of war-stricken veterans living with their memories. But this is not a film just about the effects of war. It is about a specific conflict that occupies a specific place and sets forth a series of events unique to that region of the world.

During the Sumgait pogroms of 1988, where on an overwhelming number of accounts ethnic Armenians were killed, raped, and beaten, Sasha’s mother, an ethnic Armenian, was among the fallen. Her father then went to fight on the side of her people during the Nagorno-Karabakh War. He died somewhere near the border of Azerbaijan and Armenia. He was Russian. Artsakh and Nagorno-Karabakh had been a disputed area of land for many years, even centuries. The Armenians claiming it to be theirs (the secessionist movements helped catapult the war between 1988-1994), the Azerbaijanis also claiming it to be theirs. When the fighting broke out there were many bloody battles, many soldiers killed, many innocents, too. In the end the Nagorno-Karabakh Republic was formed and the boundaries between it, Armenia, and Azerbaijan were formed. They all remain fiercely guarded.

‘If Only Everyone’ explores the land and people on both sides of these borders. A land of captivating beauty, hills, lush and green. Amber gorges. A monastery tucked deep in those hills overlooking the places where battles were fought, bullet holes in the churches walls. And while the land remains the physical area of the battles, it should be said that of the people who live and died there, we often forget that emotional scars were once fresh cut wounds that were once fresh surfaces. And it is doubtful a human’s psyche can ever be whole until a great amount of it is torn and repaired. So when Sasha’s path lead Gurgen and his unit back to the same hills and countryside where years prior they had fought, it is not only a literal a return to their past, it is a chance for them to tend to old wounds.

“This film was of the remnants of war,” says Poghosian, who co-wrote and produced, “but it was for peace. The transferring of the tree signifies life is life.”

Perhaps this film could best be summed up by the planting of a tree. If one can cross borders to kill and take land, then no less brave is the act to cross the same borders to birth and give. And it matters not if the borders are inward, outward, or whether they exist or if we have created them.

But I believe that Mr. Poghosian defines ‘If Only Everyone’ best in this way.

“It is a film about love.”

Scenes of sweeping landscapes, guttural laughter, old world customs, and an especially tender moment between Gurgen and Sasha looking in a mirror are what make this film especially optimistic and beautiful. And Sasha is “like the offspring about this war situation,” Poghosian continues. Her birch sapling is in itself an attempt not to cross, but ultimately to bridge and conquer the greatest of borders. It grows before us during the film and mends the old wounds, changes the violent bonds of wartime camaraderie into the peacetime ones of familial love. From where there was killing, let that moment also inspire life.

Michael Poghosian was honored this year as ‘Arpa Artist of the Year.’

Gingerbread was brought to Europe by an Armenian Monk. Whaaat?

The following blurb is copied from Wikipedia.  Another thing we Armenians can brag about. 

Gingerbread was brought to Europe in 992 by the Armenian monk Gregory of Nicopolis (Gregory Makar) (Grégoire de Nicopolis). He left Nicopolis Pompeii, to live in Bondaroy (France), near the town of Pithiviers. He stayed there 7 years, and taught the Gingerbread cooking to French priests and Christians. He died in 999.^[1][2][3]During the 13th century, it was brought to Sweden by German immigrants. Early references from the Vadstena Abbey show how the Swedish nuns were baking gingerbread to ease indigestion in 1444.^[4] It was the custom to bake white biscuits and paint them as windowdecorations.
The first documented trade of gingerbread biscuits dates to the 17th century^{[citation needed]}, where they were sold in monasteries, pharmacies and town square farmers' markets. One hundred years later the town of Market Drayton in Shropshire, UK became known for its gingerbread, as is proudly displayed on their town's welcome sign. The first recorded mention of gingerbread being baked in the town dates back to 1793; however, it was probably made earlier, as ginger was stocked in high street businesses from the 1640s. Gingerbread became widely available in the 18th century.

Originally, the term gingerbread (from Latin zingiber via Old French gingebras) referred to preserved ginger. It then referred to a confection made with honey and spices. Gingerbread is often used to translate the French term pain d'épices (literally "spice bread") or the German term Lebkuchen (bread of life, literally: cake of life) or Pfefferkuchen (pepperbread, literally: pepper cake). The term Lebkuchen is unspecified in the German language. It can mean Leben (life) or Laib (loaf), while the last term comes from the wide range of spices used in this product.

"Saint Agnes's Eve" – January 20 – St Agnes, Patron of LOVE for Catholics – St Sargis Patron of LOVE for Armenians

The  night of January 20 is "Saint Agnes's Eve", which in Europe is regarded as a time when a young woman dreams of her future husband. In Armenian tradition we have a similar night about which, last February, I wrote on my blog. 

This superstition has been immortalized in John Keats's poem written in 1819 – "The Eve of Saint Agnes".  

St. Agnes, the patron saint of virgins, died a martyr in 4th century Rome. The eve falls on January 20; the feast day is on the 21st.  

According to tradition, Saint Agnes was a member of the Roman nobility born circa 291 and raised in a Christian family. She suffered martyrdom at the age of twelve or thirteen during the reign of the Roman Emperor Diocletian on 21 January 304.

Here is the story.  

(When you're done reading the story of St. Agnes continue to read about a similar tradition in Armenian culture)

On the twenty-first of January in what is customarily believed to be the year 304 A.D., a thirteen-year-old Christian girl, Agnes of Rome, was martyred when she refused to sacrifice to the pagan gods and lose her virginity by rape. She was tortured, and though several men offered themselves to her in marriage, either in lust or in pity ("Catholic Forum"), she still refused to surrender her viriginity, claiming that Christ was her only husband. She was either beheaded and burned or stabbed (sources vary), and buried beside the Via Nomentata in Rome. She became the patron saint of virgins, betrothed couples, and chastity in general, and iconographers almost always represent her with a lamb, which signifies her virginity. The eve of her feast day, January 20th, became in European folklore a day when girls could practice certain divinatory rituals before they went to bed in order to see their future husbands in their dreams. Fifteen hundred years after her death, St. Agnes' Eve would translate itself into one of the richest and most vivid literary and artistic themes in John Keats' poem. 

(John Keats has been my favorite English poet – In my Romantic years, eons ago. I was obsessed with Keats' "Ode on a Grecian Urn.") – 

The Catholic Encyclopedia says: Of all the virgin martyrs of Rome none was held in such high honour by the primitive church, since the fourth century, as St. Agnes.

The following story on Armenian Saint, the patron of LOVE.

LOVE ARMENIAN STYLE...

             We Armenians have our own patron of LOVE, and he is Sourp (Saint) Sargis. The origins of the beautiful legend of Sourp Sargis are unknown, but this legend has made him the most popular saint for Armenians.

             There are a few different versions of the Sourp Sargis tale. I like the one which portrays St. Sargis or "Sergius" as a Roman commander a miracle worker whose army of 40 soldiers defeated an enemy of 10,000.

             According to the legend, after the great feast to celebrate their victory, all forty soldiers and St Sargis himself were tricked and intoxicated by a "ruler" who then asked forty damsels to thrust sharp daggers into the hearts of sleeping young men and kill them (and we complain of violence in today’s movies!). Just one of the girls, enchanted by the beauty of Sargis, disobeys the order and instead of killing St. Sargis, she kisses him. Sargis awakes, and distraught by what he sees, he jumps on his white horse, not forgetting his savior (of course), and dashes away while a powerful storm rages outside...

             Since then, a rider on a white horse has become the symbol of love in Armenian culture. The holiday of Saint Sargis doesn't fall on a specific date, but is tied to the calendar in a similar fashion as Easter. It always falls on a Saturday, usually during the first week of February. It is believed that the night before St. Sargis Day is the coldest night of the year. That superstition was certainly true in Tehran as I was growing up, but it is not always true in Southern California.

              There is an interesting tradition in Armenian culture (same as European) connected to St. Sargis day. On the evening before the holiday, unmarried girls and guys pray to the saint, asking for his help in their love affairs. Before they go to bed they eat a special salty cake with no other food or drink, so that in their dreams they will see their destined lover or their future spouse giving them water.

              My mother remembers one night when she had not yet met my Dad. On the Friday of Sourp Sarkis, after her aunt made her eat the salty cake, she dreamed that she was at work. She used to work at the Iranian National Railroad as a draftswoman. In Iran, at work places it was customary to have a guy to serve tea to workers. Mom dreamed that she was very thirsty and she asked the guy in charge of the teahouse to give her water.

              The following morning her aunt asked her if she had had a dream. She answered that she had seen Mammy (the guy at the teahouse) giving her a glass of water. Little did my mother know that she would meet my Dad at her office and they would get married. At the age of 92, she still remembered the glass full of clear water that Mammy gave her in her dream.

              My Sourp Sargis dream came to me a few years before I met my husband. In my dream I was in a store and I was negotiating with the owner of the store, who was a young guy. When I told my dream to my mom the next morning she said maybe you'll meet a young businessman and marry him. That's what happened! I met the most ambitious guy who at age 21 had his own advertising business.

              When I was raising my own family here in America (as we say "Odar aperoom" on foreign shores), I was somehow distracted by daily challenges and never told my daughters about the tradition of Sourp Sargis. So they never had significant dreams foretelling their future husbands.

              In Armenia it is acceptable to celebrate the Feast of St. Sargis not only according to church rites and prayer, but also according to various folk traditions. This year the holiday fell on February 4, and I was lucky to find a clip on the Internet showing a reenactment of the legend outside of the Sourp Sarkis church in Yerevan. At the end of the ceremony, which included dances and a play, a young guy dressed in costume as the Saint, rode on his white horse. The audience, parents and youngsters, were outside of the church watching the play. They were all bundled in warm clothes from head to toe.

              Don't you think, there must be a connection between all these traditions? The Armenian Saint Sargis, the American St. Valentine and St. Agnes. Another version of the legend tells that St. Sargis same way as St. Valentine was martyred by an Iranian king.  And isn't that interesting that all of those holidays fall in the dead of the winter? You be the judge...

If I had My Life to Live over –– quotes by Don Herold

Words. by Don Herold

Of course, you can't unfry an egg, but there is no law against thinking about it.

If I had my life to live over, I would try to make more mistakes.

I would relax. I know of very few things that I would take seriously.

I would go more places. I would climb more mountains and swim more rivers.

I would eat more ice cream and less bran.

I would have more actual troubles and fewer imaginary troubles.

You see, I have been one of those fellows who live prudently and sanely, hour after hour,

day after day. Oh, I have had my moments. But if I had it to do over again, I would have more of them – a lot more.

I never go anywhere without a thermometer, a gargle, a raincoat and a parachute.

If I had it to do over, I would travel lighter.

If I had my life to live over, I would pay less attention to people telling us we must learn Latin or History; otherwise we will be disgraced and ruined and flunked and failed.

I would seek out more teachers who inspire relaxation and fun.

If I had my life to live over, I would start barefooted a little earlier in the spring

and stay that way a little later in the fall.

I would shoot more paper wads at my teachers.

I would keep later hours.

I'd have more sweethearts.

I would go to more circuses.

I would be carefree as long as I could,

or at least until I got some care- instead of having my cares in advance.

I doubt, however, that I'll do much damage with my creed.

The opposition is too strong.

There are too many serious people trying to get everybody else to be too darned serious.

Don Herold (1889 – 1966).

The following is similar words. by Erma Bombeck

 IF I HAD MY LIFE TO LIVE OVER - by Erma Bombeck

(Written after she found out she was dying from cancer)

I would have gone to bed when I was sick instead of pretending the earth would
go into a holding pattern if I weren't there for the day.

I would have burned the pink candle sculpted like a rose before it melted in storage.

I would have talked less and listened more.

I would have invited friends over to dinner even if the carpet was stained, or the sofa faded.

I would have eaten the popcorn in the 'good' living room and worried much less about the dirt when someone wanted to light a fire in the fireplace.

I would have taken the time to listen to my grandfather ramble about his youth.

I would have shared more of the responsibility carried by my husband.

I would never have insisted the car windows be rolled up on a summer day
because my hair had just been teased and sprayed.

I would have sat on the lawn with my grass stains.

I would have cried and laughed less while watching television
and more while watching life.

I would never have bought anything just because it was practical,
wouldn't show soil, or was guaranteed to last a lifetime.

Instead of wishing away nine months of preg nancy ,
I'd have cherished every moment and realized that the wonderment
growing inside me was the only chance in life to assist God in a miracle.

When my kids kissed me impetuously, I would never have said, 'Later.
Now go get washed up for dinner.' There would have been more 'I love you's' More 'I'm sorry's.'

But mostly, given another shot at life, I would seize every minute. Look at it and really see it. Live it and never give it back. STOP SWEATING THE SMALL STUFF!

Don't worry about who doesn't like you, who has more, or who's doing what
Instead, let's cherish the relationships we have with those who do love us.