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I have an ironclad Super Bowl tradition, going on a decade now.
First, every year, I silently marvel at the abnormally-low traffic, and wonder why. Then, I watch about 20 minutes of the third quarter in a Mexican restaurant in Houston, TX. I try to avoid the bartender's small talk, but inevitably reveal that I don't know who is playing. Then I drive about 2.5 hours, and Mr. Clod tells me who won (which he read on the internet.) I say, "Ah. Okay." Finally, with another year's exhausting but thrilling championship complete, I go to bed.
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