The offending breast was her right breast. I only mention this because every news report I’ve heard has pointed out which side of Janet Jackson was so shockingly exposed by Justin Timberlake during half-time of Sunday’s Super Bowl. The media seem obsessed by the specificity of the “rightness,” not to mention the wrongness, of this peculiarly staged shock. I mean, would it have made some sort of difference if it had been her left breast? Was there a political statement being made here? Left, right, liberal, conservative? I doubt it. The only statement being made here was a greedy financial one.
For the record, it was a pretty spectacular game, once the two teams came to life toward the end of the first half. One announcer even hyped it as the best game in Super Bowl history. Regardless of how sports historians rank this as a sports event, it’s clear that it will go down in history more for the halftime show that broke all previous barriers.
The supposedly naïve NFL execs turned the halftime entertainment over to the MTV people and apparently closed their eyes, crossed their fingers, and hoped for the best. Always trying to reach that crucial young, testosterone-driven demographic of the late teens to early thirties, the NFL knew what it wanted and took a risk that may or may not have backfired in their collective faces. All apologies considered, does anyone really believe that in the long run the NFL is legitimately upset about all this hoopla?
While the NFL may have to undergo some temporary chastisement from media critics, the residue from its pathetically awful and sexually pandering half-time show will probably net it financial gains in the long run. Keep in mind that the Janet Jackson exposure was only one moment in a plethora of bad taste moments, not to mention bad music, that was presaged by the NFL’s tasteless extravaganza on the Mall before the season got underway. The oh-my-gosh-I’m-so-sorry-and-so-embarrassed moment is becoming a staple of today’s public relations. You say you’re mortified, hang your head, shed a pretend tear, and then, later, out of the camera’s view, laugh all the way to the bank.
Does anyone really believe, for example, that the famed sex tapes of Pamela Anderson and Tommy Lee accidentally made their way out of their home into the hands of a purveyor who would see to it that they got maximum exposure absolutely everywhere? What did they claim, that a carpenter or some worker in their home, discovered the tape on the coffee table and stole it? Yeah, right.
And, more recently, Paris Hilton—who I confess I had to ask my high school seniors about, since I had never heard of her before two months ago—experienced a supposedly similar humiliating experience. I don’t know who stole her tape of her sexual antics, but it seems more than coincidental that she has risen to super stardom since her tapes have appeared on the Internet. Shocking, just shocking.
Actually, that’s precisely what it is all about, shockingly shockful schlock. Was the Britney Spears/Madonna kiss planned or simply the result of spontaneous impetuosity? Oh, puhlease! How about Britney’s much ballyhooed 55-hour marriage? Planned? Oh, stop asking such stupid questions! The more electric the shock, the more it titillates and the more it does that, the more it feeds off itself. Sometimes I think that the publicists for these schlock artists must be laughing in their sleeves at how easy it is to get a rise out of people, including stupid columnists who will devote 850 words to such nonsense. These PR hacks know just which buttons to push.
We recently “celebrated” comedian Lenny Bruce’s posthumous pardon of a 40-year-old obscenity conviction and practically canonized him for his audacity in challenging the strict mores of his day. Last week we shook our heads in astonishment as we recalled the absurd penalties that now-revered talk show host Jack Paar underwent when saying something as innocuous as “WC,” referring to water closets, during one of his monologues. Is there anyone over 50 who wasn’t convulsed with laughter and appreciation by George Carlin’s attack on the seven deadly words that once were the backbone of the FCC’s regulations?
This is not to suggest that the Timberlake/Jackson exposure is to be condoned. For most conventional families, tuned in to see a supposedly family-oriented few hours of sport, it certainly crossed a line. The actual revealing was exacerbated by its violent nature, giving new meaning to the term bodice ripper. Still, even though I love football, I would question anyone who still identifies the game with mom, apple pie, and old-fashioned patriotism. After this year, perhaps the NFL will need to preface its games with the disclaimer that it may not be suitable for children.
It’s kind of a shame, because it was a really good game. Oh, by the way, the Patriots won on a last second field goal, 32-29, right down the middle, neither right nor left.
