Sometime before 5:13 p.m. ET: Mike Ditka appears on a Blockbuster video ad. It's not even kickoff, and I've got an Iron Mike sighting.

Life is good.

Sometime before 5:13 p.m.: Jason Sehorn appears on the Super Bowl version of "The View." No comment.

Any way we can get that magician cat David Blaine to make Sehorn disappear?

Sometime before 5:13 p.m.: Lynyrd Skynyrd appears live, playing "Sweet Home Alabama." This is an outstanding development -- that is, if it's Super Bowl X. It's not, and the sad realization sets in. The surrounding atmosphere of the Super Bowl is the worst of American culture: washed-up bands, wretched excess and a game indoors.

	A symphony orchestra clad in all white. Giant puppets. Second-rate talent. What's happened to the Super Bowl halftime show?

Other than that, it's dynamite.

5:13 p.m.: I crack my first beer. Real time begins.

5:16 p.m.: Kurt Warner's wife gets her first face time. I lose the pool. I had 11:09 a.m. PT, since ABC started its coverage at 11 a.m. PT

5:21 p.m.: Wife (mine, not Warner's) announces: "All three TVs are on!" We are a proud American family.

5:43 p.m.: I catch a glimpse of the pregame decorations inside the Dome. For some reason, there is a giant mosaic of Sinatra.

Word to Tags: Keep Sinatra out of your world. Keep him pristine and preserved in my memory, pal. Stick to Cher, OK, T-Bone?

5:47 p.m.: Tina Turner sings. Her lip-synching is so poor as to approximate the dialogue from a late 1960s Godzilla flick from Japan.

5:48 p.m.: I miss KISS.

5:49 p.m.: As Turner finishes, I wonder: When will the NFL book Spinal Tap? Really, they remain the only appropriate Super Bowl act.

5:52 p.m.: Second beer cracked. The long, sure process of easing the dull pain of a meaningless existence is well under way.

5:54 p.m.: Bocephus welcomes us with song. He is aided by, among others: Jon Bon Jovi, Darius Rucker, Cyndi Lauper, Li'l Kim and the President.

What was that I was saying about the worst of American culture?

6:03 p.m.: Sixth sighting of Ditka in Blockbuster ad. It only took two hours. I'm sick of Ditka.

6:07 p.m.: Rams take the field. Is this the Super Bowl? It has the feel of a preseason exhibition.

6:10 p.m.: Titans take the field. Wife returns from corner store, laden with chips. My bribe worked.

6:17 p.m.: Faith Hill sings the anthem. It's more than two minutes long. Serious no-no.

One plus -- indoor venue prevents overly militaristic flyover. Free advice to NFL: Leave the bombs in the game terminology and the halftime shows, all right compadres?

6:18 p.m.: Amusing Charles Schwab ad at faux retirement home features Barkley, Holyfield and Ditka.

I love him again. Viva Iron Mike.

6:21 p.m.: Pizza Hut ad features MTV's ubiquitous Carson Daly. Can we pass the hat and get this guy out of the country?

6:26 p.m.: Kickoff. I am not fired up for this tilt.

6:27 p.m.: The Budweiser ad with the dog talking is the first in-game ad. Big letdown. Is there any saving this day?

Third beer might help.

6:45 p.m.: The game is 3-0, Rams, and the commercials have yet to dazzle. Guy with Bud Light gets hand stuck in elevator. Mountain Dew cheetah ad does nothing. Monster.com reads Robert Frost. I'm still waiting.

6:51 p.m.: Christopher Reeve walks for Nuveen investment firm. Whoa. What am I supposed to say to that?

7:14 p.m.: Warner's wife gets her first in-game face time. She's wearing a frilly top that looks plucked straight out of the closet from the St. Louis touring troupe of the Ice Capades.

It is only the beginning of Brenda Warner, people.

7:15 p.m.: Warner's wife, shot deux. Didn't take long, did it?

7:16 p.m.: Nope. Brenda gets shot No. 3. I want to be this woman's agent.

7:20 p.m.: Should I really keep counting? No. 4 for the First Lady of the Mississippi.

Meanwhile, the ads are piling up: Tropicana bores with an old lady barreling through town, E*Trade mildly amuses with its "we wasted 2 million bucks" spot, Bud's crying dog is OK for a smile, the faux Gap ad from Oldsmobile is all right and the U.S. Census ad is at least socially productive. But the verdict is in. Super Bowl hype has now affected the ads. This whole thing is about to collapse under its own weight.

No, wait. That's my La-Z-Boy.

7:28 p.m.: Bud unveils its only "Wassssssssup?" of the day. Not as funny as I hoped. Bummer.

On the flip side, FedEx produced the best laugh of the day with the helium-sucking Munchkins. The game is a 6-0 bore. Overall bottom line: This day is starting to suck.

7:54 p.m.: Halftime. The score -- Rams trips inside the Red Zone: 5. Warner's wife cutaways: 5.

8:02 p.m.: The E*Trade halftime show begins.

8:09 p.m.: I've seen Enrique Iglesias, Christina Aguilera, Edward James Olmos, Phil Collins in a Kangol and Toni Braxton amid freaked-out, Carnival-style puppets. I have no freaking idea what it's all about. Did I miss the memo? Is the Super Bowl halftime show now supposed to be some kind of social and cultural arbiter, encoding our nation's path and providing sociological explanation for where we are headed?

Or is it just a colossal waste of second-rate talent?

You make the call.

8:10 p.m.: Yo, halftime show people. I've got four words for you: Red Hot Chili Peppers.

I've got another word for you: Socks. Not good enough? OK, three words: Frisbees and dogs. You can call my agent later.

8:22 p.m.: Never thought I'd so look forward to the kickoff of a 9-0 game.

8:36 p.m.: The ads pick up. My wife grudgingly admits a moist eye over the Budweiser foal's birth. The Mountain Dew "Bohemian Rhapsody" send-up is amusing for its Wayne's World overtones.

8:48 p.m.: Torry Holt scores. 16-0, Rams. It's over, baby. All that's left are the commercials, and I gotta say: The E*Trade "money out the wazoo" ad is a scream.

9:02 p.m.: Eddie George scores. Ensuing noise rudely rouses me from well-earned nap.

9:14 p.m.: Tennessee gets the ball again. I stir in the La-Z-Boy, although it could just be gas.

9:24 p.m.: George's desire on that second touchdown for a 16-13 score is only matched by my desire for another cold one. Problem: I'd have to get up.

The beer remains in the fridge.

9:30 p.m.: Rams go three and out and the punt is short. OK, people: I'm not bored anymore.

9:35 p.m.: Titans tight end Jackie Harris fumbles. Right to teammate Ike Byrd. I'm starting to believe this team of destiny thing, especially when Al Del Greco makes it 16-16.

9:40 p.m.: Warner. Ike Bruce. 73 yards. Need I say more?

Oh yeah: Warner's wife gets her ninth cutaway.

9:52 p.m.: Steve McNair makes that gasping, struggling, exhausting tearaway from a potential sack to find his man down at the 12-yard line. Exhilarating. Thrilling. Twelve seconds left.

It's almost enough to get me out of the La-Z-Boy. But since there are no deviled eggs nearby, I won't.

9:53 p.m.: I actually write in my notebook before the final play: "Awesome. I love it. Thanks, lads." What am I, getting soft?

Dyson is stopped a yard short. Time runs out.

Biggest upset? Warner's wife didn't make the tackle.

9:57 p.m.: I thought I saw a player wearing a hat that read "Super Bowl Champions: Rams." Catatonia begins to set in. Wait. Can we get a do-over on this whole season?

10:07 p.m.: Georgia has the Lombardi Trophy. There is something horribly wrong with this picture until ...

10:08 p.m.: Dick Vermeil has the trophy. There. I can deal with that.

10:11 p.m.: Now, Kurt Warner has the trophy. Arguably the greatest individual story in sports has a Disney ending.

There. I can deal with that, and the upcoming TV movie. Cut. It's a wrap, boys.