The game went to overtime. Under the league’s rules, first team to score wins, without the other squad having an an opportunity to tie it up. Denver got the ball. First play, Tebow throws an 80 yard TD pass to beat Pittsburgh.

The OT went just seconds, long enough for the snap, the Tebow dropback, a look downfield, the toss and Demaryius Thomas’ scamper to the endzone.

Boom. Game over.

Well now I know how the Steelers felt.

I shan’t repeat all the details of the smackdown this past Wednesday noon to see if I or a friend had the better and correct solution to turning off another pal’s closed captioning, which visual impediment was driving his significant other nuts. You can read the details here.

Suffice it to say, I should have been wary when “Milt” showed up with an iPad, something he’s never done at any previous one of our regular weekly lunches. Silly me. The guy, it turns out, had spent the better part of two days, surfing the web for the solution. Which he apparently found at some obscure blog site.

He won the coin flip.

In 71 seconds flat, he had the TV screen clear of the nettlesome text. Had he not been explaining his process to the other two of us while pressing buttons, he would have completed the task in well less than a minute.

Sigh. What a bitter and ignominious defeat.

Had I spent my advance time, researching my solution instead of regaling you, my loyal public, with the details of this significant battle, I might have been better served. Then again, the luck of the coin flip sealed my doom.

I shan’t bore you with the solution’s details. If you desire them, email me and I’ll reveal the skewed method necessary to turn closed captioning on and off with one of those HD cable boxes. Or I may simply forward to request on to my conqueror.

Until then, I’ll be tending to my wounds. If there’s enough balm?

I’m not going to go into the whole thing again here — you’ll have to listen — but it has to do with a debunking of one of my favorite local rock & roll myths. I’ll need to come up with a new game plan.

After which I get into my whole raison d’etre in the first place. Legitimate film criticism.

This week I chat about an obvious choice, Clint Eastwood’s take on the life of former FBI dictator J. Edgar Hoover, portrayed by the estimable Leo DeCaprio.

Then, a not so obvious choice, a haunting indie titled “Martha Marcy May Marlene,” with an amazing performance by Elizabeth Olsen.

You can here it all here:

Just the Same as it Ever Was.

Count the culture of the Jefferson County Court system among them.

I worked as a prosecutor in the Hall of Justice for 25 years. I retired, not sure exactly, 6, 7 years ago maybe. I had to be back in the building this morning for the first time several years.

Unlike the old days, the building is non smoking, so the air is visually clearer, if no less laden with every germ extant. (But one still has to pass through a phalanx of smokers outside the doors to enter the building.) The dockets are now displayed on digital screens, like the ones you see with Arrivals and Departures at the airport. And the District Courts are full time, with dockets in both the a.m. and p.m.

Other than that, it’s pretty much just the same as it ever was.

One guy I prosecuted with for years still wears the blue blazer and dress khakis he’s worn as an outfit for four decades. There are still attorney’s, looking official in vests, hanging out by the Info Desk, hoping to hustle clients. The counselor with the racing form is still there, longer in the tooth. There are still enough brown-shirted sheriffs at security check in to protect the Pentagon. (One now totes an aerosal spray can of air freshener to clear the air after a distinctively odious scofflaw has passed through the metal detector.) People in a hurry, late for court, still leave their keys or change have to retreat to retrieve their belongings.

The lawyers I know and practiced with and against are a little thicker, with more of a limp and more lines around their eyes. The younger barristers still look like they just finished their final season of Little League. There are former prosecutors who now defend the clientele they used to try to jail. And vice versa.

There are still 17 District Judges, but it’s a new dawn. All but four are women.

The visiting public remains diverse and ever fascinating. Hip Hop and high heels. Cellphones galore. The wide eyed and glassy eyed. A fellow stumbled to the ATM, pressed a few keys, lifted the envelope drawer looking for change, and stumbled away. A gal entered the courtroom in sweats, with “LOVE PINK” printed on shirt and pants. A blonde in painted on pants caught more than a few barristers’ stares.

An elderly fellow entered the building with a five year oldish girl in tow. (I couldn’t help but think of Jerry Sandusky.)

“This building is where all the bad people end up,” he told her.

He added, “Before we do anything else, Big Daddy’s going to get a shoe shine.”

“My AC-38 is in the box.” So said one sheriff passing by to another. In many ways, the Hall of Justice, despite its thousands of weekly visitors, is a relatively closed community. There is a lingo that has evolved, which is indecipherable to those from the outside.

Prosecutors, clerks, defense attorneys and judges converse in a jabberwocky confusing even to someone who used to talk that talk.

The smart defendants ask, “Why does that mean, ‘diversion, costs waived,’ or ‘PD appointed,’ or ‘P of G, 30 days withheld for a year.’”

Don’s 6th & Liberty. The hot dog vendor in the park across the street now wears a shirt with his own logo on it.

Ah, entrepreneurship.

And his main customers are now the homeless come political rabble-rousers who constitute “Occupy Louisville.” The park looks Steinbeckian, something out of “The Grapes of Wrath.” Sleeping bags, and paper bags full of clothes and the occasional hand written sign with some political diatribe or another.

It was a grin stepping back. Seeing old faces, slapping some backs, sharing some old lies.

Tomorrow will look the same as today.

Except I won’t be there.

It’s about damn time. And none too soon, I might add.

President Barack Obama spent the first three years of his presidency as a seeker of compromise, a man willing to listen to all, attempting to fashion solutions to problems by taking into account all sides of an issue. But he’s been the only playah in D.C. in that mode.

He’s been swimming in the shark tank without protection. No more.

The not so loyal opposition doesn’t play nice. Republicans have proven themselves vipers, answering only to the ultra wealthy supporters who feed their campaign chests. They have come to disregard the presidency so much they don’t even wait for an Obama proposal before opposing it.

Finally, after a petulant John Boehner so disrespected the president and presidency by vetoing a date simply requested by Obama to address Congress, the president said, “I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore.”

The GOP isn’t going to agree to anything proposed by the White House. Nothing. Ever.

Now that he realizes that, Obama is striking back. No debt reduction without increased taxes on the rich and powerful. (Thank you, Warren Buffet.) It’s time to even things out, make everyone, yes including hedge fund operators, to pay their fair share. And, I’ll veto anything legislation you send me without it.

Most important, it is the right thing to do. And right on. Right for the country, and a legit way to help reduce the budget deficit. And certainly will help the president politically.

Because, my friends, there are more of us than there are of them. Lots more. Despite their loud braying, the Tea Party remains a distinctively minority movement, though certainly not without influence . . . thus far anyway. Despite their financial clout, especially now that it’s open season on PACs, the Rich Republican Elite is an even smaller segment of the population.

While money, as always, doesn’t talk, it swears, there is a new paradigm of cyberegalitarianism. Given social networking, the speed of the internet, its ability to fashion opinion (for good and bad) and its insinuation in our lives, the public can be and is being swayed by all sorts of forces, many of which are underwritten on a dime.

In response to Obama’s new feistiness, Republicans have been predictably obstructionist, calling the president’s proposal, “class warfare.”

So it is, ye Fox-watching patricians. It’s Game On!

Best beware. Madame Defarge is knitting names as we speak.

I do film reviews on that show every Tuesday morning at a smidge after 8:00 am.

Frankly, the banter between my host and myself through the years had gotten, well, more than a little testy at times. We used to do a quiz in which he’d play a film clip and I had to ID the flick. He was rarely inclined to give me full credit for identifying the movies. Why? Well, you’ll have to ask Mr. Bickers . . . if you can track him down now.

I would attempt to engage the audience with cultural bon mots. Mr. Bickers lives a solitary life, so most references passed him by. Instead of displaying even the merest scintilla of interest, he would feign displeasure. It was, frankly, not a good feeling.

During our last gig together, Mr. Bickers, out of the blue, indicated the tension that many felt emanating from the studio was simply radio shtick. Imagine my surprise. He never, at any moment during our 8 year run, indicated it was all an act.

Anyway, I guess I need to let bygones be bygones, move beyond my justified resentments, understand I’m not the lowly weasel Mr. Bickers would portray me to be, and forgive. Oh yes, and forget.

Therefore, to honor Mr. Bickers, on his last day on the job. I offer this testimonial.

Sayonara, mon ami. Don’t worry, I’ll lock the door behind you.

Sitting at the next table, having an animated conversation with her computer was a lovely young lady. She was talking with a friend . . . in France.

Who among us, even as recently as a score of years ago, could conceptualize the Skyped, connected world we now live in? Future generations will laugh, when viewing pictures of electronic devices connected by wires and cables.

* * * * *

The evidence is anecdotal, but I must ask?

Now that it’s under the gun, what with Crit Luallen auditing and all, is MSD actually taking its job seriously? For the last month or so, it seems I’ve seen workers fixing sewer lines on every other block. And they actually seem to be working as opposed to taking a break.

Plus there are any number of sub-contractor trucks, doing sewer line tasks around town.

It’s about time. Compared to the other utilities around here, MSD has seemed defiantly inefficient through the years.

My anecdote. Several years ago, they did some serious repair work in my back alley, which required tearing it up. It was being done at the same time that L G & E’s efficient subs were replacing gas lines to each home. The latter came, got the job done, filled in the holes they needed to cut in the pavement and moved on.

The humongous hole MSD cut remained unpaved for a month. I started making calls. To no avail. So I resorted to my favorite tack. I called the administrative assistant to Bud Schardein, the head of MSD.

Bottom line, this lady yelled at me, the customer, over the phone, barking that I didn’t know what I was talking about, that MSD didn’t dig that hole. Even though she was in an office downtown, and I watched them dig.

Anyway, it’s nice to see them doing some work around town.

* * * * *

Barack Obama seems to be getting it from all sides. The GOPers and Tea Partyites, who hate him. The Donkeys who supported him. I’m not sure I understand.

Anyway, a pal shared this blogger’s observations of the situation. It contains this stunning video of FDR, and how he dealt with such attacks by his political enemies.

It’s going to be interesting to watch how Obama tries to get reelected. Will he come out swinging? Or will he remain trapped in a box, as I suggested in this previous blog?

It’s clear to me that the T.A.M.I. Show was both. It was staged on two nights in Santa Monica in October, 1964, and released on film soon thereafter. The name stands for Teen Age Music International. It sits nearly alone in the throne of the pantheon of live rock & roll performances. (To hack up a metaphor.)

Beach Boys. Chuck Berry. The Barbarians. Marvin Gaye. Lesley Gore. The Supremes. Smokey Robinson & the Miracles. (You know, the more I think about it, even Woodstock can’t stand up to this lineup.)

And the Stones, full of themselves, insisted they headline the deal. Which is why I feel compelled to present 11 minutes plus of evidence why Jagger’s the pretender and James Brown the champ. As the Godfather of Soul is said to have proclaimed, “Nobody follows James Brown.” Here’s why: