Scattered Super Bowl weekend thoughts

I’m feeling so conflicted this morning about the Super Bowl I’m going to use the words of surrogates instead.

On the bright side, my buddy Paul, a fellow Boston-hater, said, “If it makes you feel a little better, those most devastated tonight were cheering Sid Bream heroics 16 years ago.”

He’s referring to the Atlanta Braves 1992 victory over the Pittsburgh Pirates in Game 7 of the NLCS. The Bucs were one out away from the World Series when gimpy-legged Bream — a former Pirate — slid home to win the game. It was the most cruel loss of my life.

So, he’s right. It soothes my soul knowing many of those Braves fans are today feeling as distraught as we were.

On the other hand, I think KDKA radio host John McIntire summed it up most perfectly when he posted on Facebook, “Jesus, the forces of evil are on a roll.”

Scattered thoughts:

• The Patriots were awarded the Super Bowl, but Melissa McCarthy won the weekend. Her scathing SNL parody of press secretary Sean Spicer was as funny as anything I’ve ever seen. And her Super Bowl Kia ad was good, too. But if they don’t do a Spicer bit once a week I’m going to feel sad. She was great, too, with Bill Murray in "St. Vincent."

• I kept wondering if Aaron Hernandez got to see the game. He’s the serial killer Patriot fans used to revere. He’s now serving life in prison for one murder, is one trial for another and is a suspect in two more. Say, what you want, but Tom Brady only deflated footballs.

• That’s exactly the kind of snark I wish I could overcome. Brady is the greatest QB ever; Bill Belichick, greatest coach; and, gulp, Patriots the greatest NFL dynasty. I guess I always have the feeling that when they win, they’ve somehow cheated. We just don’t yet know how. And numerous times I’ve seen Brady act what I once thought was uncharacteristically surly to opponents (and even teammates). Who does he think he is? Tom Brady?

• If I can separate myself from my disdain for the winner — I’m trying — I can acknowledge it was all highly entertaining. Great game. And a fantastic halftime show.

• Slow-mo replays of the Julian Edelman catch were mesmerizing and will be replayed long into the future. But it was only the second greatest catch of the day. If Lady Gaga fumbles that walk-off pass, it’s all anyone would remember.

• I wouldn’t be surprised to learn it was Brady who threw the Gaga bullseye.

• I liked the Budweiser immigrant ad, the Malkovich one, sloppy Bradshaw, Skittles, AirBnB, but I guarantee you I could have improved them all with the oldest trick in commercial history: just add monkey.

• I declined generous offers to attend two Super Bowl parties, preferring to watch the game in a place where I can be assured of being able to watch the game. I enjoy watching the game with my family. Usually. There’s always one moment when I feel like running out of the house to watch in any nearby bar. Happened in the 2nd quarter when the girls were enthusiastically decorating the 5th grader’s festive Valentine’s Day card box and Nana (84, dementia) kept asking every four minutes for the girls to explain again what they were making.

• Reveling in all the Patriots showering Roger Goodell with boos at the trophy presentation almost made me glad the Patriots won. Almost.

• Think today out to be a national holiday? I encourage you to read this ’13 story about how I argue Super Bowl loser fans should be forced to work for winning counterparts. It’s an idea whose time has come.

• There. Now, I can contend I worked today while much of America took the day off to nurse their hangovers and loaf the day away. For one day, at least, America, you’re me!

Now ear this!

I peered deep into our 9-year-old’s right ear the way germ-detecting scientists peer into microscopes.

I was looking for Michael Phelps.

“I don’t see any swimmers in here,” I said.

Nine is an age when “Dad” becomes a two-syllable word.

“Da-ad! Swimmer’s ear doesn’t mean there’s a swimmer in my ear,” she said. “It’s an infection.”


That’s what the doctors say, but I’m suspicious of the entire medical profession.

In evil collusion with the dastardly pharmaceutical industry, they invent diseases and spend millions on saturation advertising to convince us we suffer from every day symptoms like sleeplessness and agitation, which to me are symptoms of things like parenting and being gainfully employed.

Next thing you know we’re eating pills the way we should be eating vegetables and we’re worried about side effects like suicidal depression, colored urine and three-hour erections.

We’re all being doctored to death.

And I’m even more suspicious of the human ear, God’s worst design.

I revel in the grandeur of a beautiful sunset, the forrest in autumn and the sight of a child running with outstretched arms toward a kneeling loved one.

There is so much splendor to savor in this world.

But what happened when God designed the human ear? It looks like it was done by interns eager to dash off to the Happy Hour.

We vainly lavish plastic surgeons with millions to shave fractions of an inch off our noses, we get our lips plumped and the drooping skin on our necks and foreheads tucked back behind our temples.

But no one ever does a thing about the ugliest part of human being north of the disgusting foot.

They hang prominently from our heads like the shutters of old haunted houses. They look like a Google Earth map of the LA freeway system.

They make no sense. They are a confusing tangle of gutters.

Really, the only thing the design is good for is keeping glasses from sliding off our heads and letting us identify society’s biggest jerks by giving them a place to stick their Bluetooths.

Sure, they make great handles if you’re interested in assaulting a bald man, but that only benefits the belligerent.

Sturdy pegs could handle all those simple tasks, although that design might pose additional discomfort for mothers during childbirth and no one who’s ever witnessed that ordeal would favor that solution.

One of my favorite bits of trivia includes another ear flaw. While the rest of the aging us is giving into gravity and getting more diminutive, the ear is always on the march.

It’s true. The eyes with which we’re born remain the same size from birth to death, but the ear and the nose (and I’ve got issues with them, too), never stop growing.

Ever see the ears of a really old person? You see less sizable kites at hang gliding conventions.

We should have ear lids like eye lids. If we want to jump in the water or some punk kid is playing the Lady Gaga too loudly, we just shut our ears the way we shut our eyes when we see Lady Gaga on TV.

And that would seem like a solution to the swimmer’s ear that’s plaguing our darling Josie.

You never hear of a dolphin suffering from swimmer’s ear and the only time they stick their heads out of the water is to nod for the trick reward anchovies at places like Sea World.

Val said the nurse at the Virginia Beach doc in the box told her there’d been 15 other kids with swimmer’s ear there already by that afternoon.

Each of their parents had to shell out $150 for a minuscule quantity of ear drops that is less than what will come vaulting out my nose when the summer allergies soon start me to sneezing.

When Val told me the drops were $150, I couldn’t believe my ears.

But I think the same thing anytime I see them in the mirror.