I’m a pretty sophisticated, well-educated person. I went to Wesleyan, where I got my B.A. in comparative literature. I listen to This American Life on NPR. I’ve traveled abroad fairly extensively and even spent a year living in London. Given all this, you’d think I might be a little staid and stodgy, that I’d shun certain activities because I’m too good for that sort of thing. That is completely untrue. The reality is, I’ll try anything with a detached air of superiority.
Last year, I decided to dive headfirst into the realm of the unwashed masses by attending a professional football game. What better way to experience the hive mind than by communing with 70,000 drunken, frostbitten Americans who are only too happy to blow their meager wages cheering on their date-raping, steroid-enhanced gridiron heroes? I don’t even remember which teams were playing. All I remember is yelling my head off while surrounded by a sea of jersey-wearing telephone repairmen and electricians, all the while thinking, “This is so authentic!”
[Thanks to Ravid Chowdhury ’09 for the tip—good find Ravid!]