New Orleans
Well: OK. Here's what it was like: Half of Super Bowl XLVII just went dark. Vooomp! Blackout at the Super Bowl. Isn't that the plot of, like, 80% of all of the shiny-covered thrillers sold at the airport? It never ends well. It often ends with zombies. Hungry zombies, punching bony fists through windows. Inside the Superdome, there was an awkward, surreal silence. Moments ago, this shiny silver tub had been shuddering with noise. Now it was quiet. Reality was arriving. The power was really out at the Super Bowl, across a long, substantial stretch of Superdome steel. It wasn't pitch black dark�it was more like a dull, gray dimming. The light of a truck-stop bathroom. The public-address announcer promised momentary delays. The delays didn't feel momentary. The crowd grew restless. A wave started. It was halfhearted. The wave stopped. They cranked up the lights on the still-powered side of the stadium. It didn't really help. Stern-looking men with radios gathered at the 50-yard line. Impatient Ravens and Niners stretched on the ground. Beyonce was somewhere, being Beyonce.
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