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!

Great big flags & other Super Bowl thoughts

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I thought today I’d write about the patriotic desecration we all enjoy every Super Bowl, but I’d rather not today on what feels like our national hangover.

But one of these days I’m going to dig into that one. See, I’m fascinated by the construction, care and storage of those mega-flags they use at big sporting events.

The American Legion details very explicit rules about flag display. It’s a sacred piece of fabric.

I was reminded of this last week when Val and I attended a memorial service for a veteran friend of ours. The flag ceremony took place amidst the wails of the bereaved. Yet the two-man honor-guard carried out their duties with stoic dignity.

It was very moving.

Guaranteed, that flag will reside in a place of honor in the family den and will be passed down for generations.

I’m curious about what they do with those giant flags, ones that could sink an ocean liner. It’s logistically impossible to treat those flags with the care our flag guardians prescribe.

The largest of all is called Superflag. Its home is Long Beach, California. It is 505 feet by 225 feet and weighs 3,000 pounds. It takes 500 people to unfurl it.

The flag is never supposed to hit the ground. But people, I’m sure, accidentally walk on these monsters. How do you properly fold it? Transport it?

I want to know. Of course, I say that every year and am thus far too lazy to look. Maybe for July the Fourth. 

Or not. Either way, today we’ll Super Bowl scattergun starting of course with . . .

• Puppy Monkey Baby.

• My favorite commercial was the Dorito-loving fetus, but the only element Puppy Monkey Baby was lacking to make it an all-time classic was an appearance by The Three Stooges.

• The NFL should next year skip halftime hoopla and instead just have some pharmaceutical company issue every American hallucinogens that last for precisely 28 minutes. Live tweets about what we’re seeing could be more entertaining than the performers.

• My favorite halftime shows have either been baby races or drunks kicking field goals. These used to be Steeler halftime staples and they were uniformly compelling. Baby races are tremendous sport and would be even more so if the winner parents got, say, a trip to Hawaii. I’ve seen frantic moms screaming at their beloved infants to get their little buckets moving when the stakes were cans of paint. Offer something worthy and it’d be a true bloodsport. Of course, the NFL, caring organization that it is, could offer family counseling to the losers.

• Drunks kicking field goals is great, too. The Steelers used to fetch 10 inebriates from the stands or maybe the stadium tank and have them each try to kick from the 10 yard line. Make that and you move back 5 yards. It was hilarious. For Super Bowl purposes, they could have maybe a tequila maker sponsor each kick and have the contestants do a shot every 5 yards. The stakes? How about a 1-year get-out-of-jail-free card? I’d enter. 

• Do attending fans have to remain in their seats to make the big card shows work or do they have place holders to flip cards in case someone needs to take a leak?

• When are the going to move the game to Saturday?

• I’ll link it below, but I’ve suggested stakes be upped by having fans of losing team go to work for one week for fans of the victors.

• Peyton sure exudes class, doesn’t he? Having said that, I’ll be very disappointed if he comes back for one more year.

• I interviewed John Elway at the Mario Lemieux celebrity golf tournament in Pittsburgh in about 2001. I asked if he’d ever had a thrill as great on the golf course as he’s had on the football field. He said, no, not even close. “A hole-in-one might match it, but I’ve never had one of those.” He got one two weeks later. 

• One of my favorite Super Bowl related tweets was rendered moot this year by the NFL’s decision to for once to shelve the pretentious use of now-incomprehensible Roman numerals. It is: “In honor of typical Super Bowl nonsense, my phone number in Roman Numerals is DCCXXIV CMLXI MMDLVIII. Call me!” I’ve tweeted that for four years now and no one’s ever bothered to call.

• I read about a mini-controversy involving whether Peyton was paid to say he’d be drinking Budweiser all night. I read he owns two Anheuser-Busch distributors in Louisiana, but wasn’t paid to say that. I’m fine with it. 

• Just nine days ’til pitcher and catchers report!

• puppy monkey baby

Related …

Super Bowl holiday? Make loser fans work for winners

Steelers win! Jump hugs with dangerous drunks

Top 10 reasons why Super Bowl ’15 was depressing

Groundhog Day/Super Bowl ’13 thoughts

Thoughts on ’12 Super Bowl

Top 10 ways to ensure next Super Bowl won't be so depressing

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After what was the most depressing Super Bowl I can remember, I woke up today thinking something I’ve never thought before.

Thank God it’s Monday!

It was mostly the commercials, but that wasn’t all.

I think people are trying to turn Super Bowl Sunday into a national holiday — and I’m all for that — but they don’t know what a Super Bowl Sunday holiday is supposed to be about.

Should it be about communal messages? Family togetherness? Moral thoughtfulness?

No, it should be about football!

Many organizations and advertisers have forgotten this. At the top of this list is the National Football League. They seem to think the only way to make football bigger is to make football less about football.

It’s why every 10 minutes or so I found myself staring at the TV mouthing WTF?

Worse, commercials and the overall tone of the day made me sad.

Good Friday is more cheerful. On Good Friday at least we know we’re in for the kind of comeback that won’t infuriate half the nation’s sports fans.

Here are the top 10 improvements for next year that will, I hope, keep the next Super Bowl from being so depressing.

10: Kickoff at 4 p.m. The later the kickoff, the less the day becomes about football, the more it all becomes tedious filler, mindless banter and enough repetitious show promos to ensure we’ll be sick of the actual show before it even airs.

9: No more halftime acts featuring artists whose fan base is teenage girls. This is another example of the NFL desperately trying extend its fringe demographics (teenage Katy Perry fans) while alienating its core (guys like me). I find Katy Perry’s spunk appealing. But this was terrible. I was struck by how much halftime is beginning to resemble the opening ceremonies for the Olympics. Being entertaining is less important than demonstrating unseemly bloat.

8: Initiate a half-time rotation of Stones/Springsteen/Petty/Who/etc. until they all one-by-one die off and then have the halftime show duties deeded in perpetuity to the Ohio University Bobcat Marching 110.

7: No color commentator. Cris Collinsworth kept annoying me every time he’d say, well, one team or the other was getting away with a blatant penalty, which was every play. If the refereeing in the biggest game of the year is that incompetent, then either say that or just shut the hell up.

6: Hire a panel of true football fans to screen in advance every commercial before it is allowed to air. Just watching them screen commercials would be a tremendous show and their efforts would weed out some of the very worst commercials that made yesterday so depressing.

5: No dead kids. I didn’t tune into the Super Bowl to see Nationwide ads about kids getting killed. I tuned in to see that happen to the Patriots.

4: No Harry Chapin. I love Chapin, but no football fans wants to hear him sing, “Cats in the Cradle” over a confusing car ad that made me feel I won’t be a good Dad until I shell out $23,000 for a new Nissan and take the kids for a ride during the two minute warning. The public service ads, while worthy, were depressing. Sorry, they’re out next year. 

3: Needs more monkey: This was, I think the third year in a row we haven’t had a commercial that featured even a single monkey. If I was on a panel advising advertisers about how to make their commercials more appealing, I’d always say, “Just add monkey.” You can never have too many monkeys and it helps if at least one monkey is dressed in a 3-piece suit and acting bossy. In fact, I’d give The Monkees a shot at the ‘16 halftime show, too.

2: No top 10 lists. It’s such a lazy way out for anyone who strives to be creative on a day when he’s feeling depressed about Super Bowl Sunday.

And the No. 1 way to ensure next year’s Super Bowl won’t be as depressing as this one was . . .

No one’s allowed to throw a pass on their opponent’s 1 yard line with Marshawn Lynch in the backfield.

Geez, talk about depressing.

Related . . .

Thoughts on Super Bowl ’12

Super Bowl holiday: Make losers work for winners

NFL bores; here’s five ways to save it

Baltimore Rays & NFL’s on-going disgrace

Can't hate the Packers, but . . .

It’s been a disconcerting week for Steeler fans like me who need hearts heavy with hate for Super Bowl motivation.

Hate the Packers? It’s one of the most storied franchises in football. They shoved Brett Favre out the door when he became a recidivist jerk, a role I’m confident he’ll be fulfilling for at least the next five years.

Plus, I can’t recall meeting a single soul from Green Bay and, as a liberal, I can’t hate, disparage or kill what I do not know.

I do know dozens of darling people from Packer-mad Wisconsin. I spent a fall week there in 2008 on a glorious golf assignment. They wined and dined me with such relentless joy the Badger State vaulted to near the top of my favorite destinations.

They showed me Milwaukee. I had my picture taken with the Bronz Fonz. I reveled in burger heaven at Sobelman’s Pub & Grille. I golfed at prestigious Erin Hills and Whistling Straits. I ate the finest meals and drank free top shelf booze till the bourbon washed all the hatreds from my heart.

They did everything but offer me a free hooker.

(Prospective PR hosts take note: In order, I’d prefer redhead, blonde, bald chick, silver-haired granny.)

Ethical aside: I just spoke to Mrs. Renee Stallings Greater Latrobe High School journalism class about what I for lack of a better word call my “career.” We talked about stories, research, etc., but the class broke down when a sincere student asked me to discuss the importance of ethics.

Four days later and I still can’t quit laughing.

I was laughing so hard I was unable to mention the one relevant line I remember about the importance of ethics, one I try and share with aspiring journalists, but it applies to all professional disciplines.

“Once you get past ethics, the rest is easy.”

That’s a line from J.R. Ewing of the show “Dallas.”

Yes, Dallas. Now there’s something that gets my hateful heart revving.

And I’m talking about the town in general and the Dallas football team in particular. The only thing I like about Dallas is “Dallas.”

The Super Bowl is being contested in the massive Dallas ego dome that is Cowboy owner Jerry Jones’s gaudy $1.2 billion tribute to himself.

My fondest wish this entire football season was the Steelers would play the Cowboys in the Super Bowl. This would have pleased Jones.

Then the Steelers and their fans could have humiliated him buy buying up three-quarters of the seats and turning Cowboy stadium into a home game for the team from Pittsburgh, which is just what Steeler fans do. You’ll see on Sunday.

Then to complete the humiliation, the Steelers would win 52-3.

Still, having the Steelers there will be plenty humiliating to Jones, and that pleases me.

I travel enough that I have a good sense of how the country regards people from Pittsburgh.

My sense is this:

They love us!

It’s true. I refer to an illustrative anecdote from The River Bar at Blackwolf Run, part of the amazing Kohler complex in Wisconsin.

I was sitting there sipping a jumbo triple Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. A group of three couples came in and we instinctively decided to be friendly.

Madison residents up for a weekend frolic, they immediately embraced me when I told them I was from Pittsburgh. A big garrulous fellow threw his beefy arm around me and said, “Man, I’ve never known anyone from Pittsburgh who wasn’t a really great guy!”

I told him he’d yet to know me after three giant glasses of bourbon.

We laughed. They could tell my friendliness would only go up as the bourbon went down.

It may be difficult for those rare individuals who’ve spied me sober to comprehend (sitings of albino rhino are more widespread), but I’m way, way more fun after three big bourbons.

In fact, the world be a happier place if guys like me were encouraged to have bourbon for breakfast.

So what am I to do?

Here’s what:

Kill ‘em, Steelers! Take no prisoners. Beat ‘em like J.R. always beat Cliff Barnes, dirty tricks and all.

Sure, it’ll make my heart heavy to know a state full of people I like and admire for their cheerful generosity will have their feelings hurt, but they’ll get over it.

I didn't drink up all their bourbon.

Horse racing needs jumbo jockeys

For the good of the sport, The Triple Crown needs one race where the jockeys are jumbos.

I’m proposing that horse racing alter its rules so that the Preakness tomorrow is run, not by elfin athletes, but by king-sized couch potatoes who weigh no fewer than 340 pounds each.

See, The Triple Crown races are among my favorite sporting events. Combined they conclude in under 7 minutes.

The Super Bowl has interminable commercial breaks that endure that long.

I want one race to take as long as the Super Bowl. I want to be able to invest a full afternoon in watching the ponies sluggishly trot ‘round the track with the occasional need to stop to graze or access a convenient water trough for quenching swigs.

A 340-pound jockey would ensure this. Note that the weight wouldn’t include the cooler full of beer each jockey would be allowed to strap to the saddle.

The weigh-ins would be priceless viewing. Instead of traditional colors, each jumbo jockey could wear a shirt promoting his -- or her -- favorite saloon or bowling alley.

There’s not a tavern in the land that couldn’t field three or four bar regulars worthy of consideration. I’m drinking buddies with tons of guys who’d qualify. Or to be more accurate, I’m buddies with about five guys who if thrown together in one big sack would weight one ton.

And 340 is a good weight. It’s ample enough to meet today’s obesity standards, but not so much so that many jockeys could make it without dietary supplements. Thus, pre-game rituals might show plus-sized jockeys scarfing down buckets of The Colonel’s chicken in order to make designated weight.

The spectacle would flip on its head the unhealthy anorexic trends that ravage traditional diminutive jockeys obliged to starve themselves to meet the required 126 pounds.

In fact, much of the pre-race hype could be devoted to another rising American pastime -- competitive eating.

“And Frank, representing The Outdoor Inn in Queens is going double fisted with a Whopper with triple bacon and the dangerous extra cheese pizza that was blamed for the unfortunate cardiac arrest of Tubby Tom at last year’s weigh-in! But Pam from The Smilin’ Hog Bar-B-Q & Foam in Biloxi is coming on strong with a stack of baby backs dripping with the home team sauce, now available on-line and in Piggly-Wiggly’s all across Dixie.”

Of course, nothing would match the excitement of the moment when the loads are loaded into the starting gates.

“And they’re off!”

Or not. I speculate that with a 340-pound jockey on its back, many of these thoroughbreds wouldn’t even budge. And wouldn’t that be exciting!

“Not one horse is moving! Not a one is able to manage the first step! But wait! The no. 4 horse is staggering out of the gate!

She’s taken four steps . . . five . . . Oh! No! The filly’s collapsed!”

Given those dynamics, it’s likely the 1 and 3/16 mile Preakness would take about three hours, rather than the usual two minutes.

The final “sprint” down the homestretch would allow gamblers plenty of convenient time for bathroom and smoke breaks before the action got down to the wire.

Some animal rights activists might protest that the entire spectacle might be cruel to these huge beasts.

They might say they are not fit enough for the race and the exertion could kill the dumb animals.

And they have a point.

But there’s an easy fix for that.

Just have ‘em all read and sign waivers before the race.

Super Bowl recap

The Super Bowl has come and gone and I’m still feeling melancholy I didn’t have a team to hate since the Dallas Cowboys were eliminated. If the Pittsburgh Steelers aren’t in it, I need someone to hate or else I’m just adrift.

The Cowboys provide for me a near perfect hatred. I hate their history, their ridiculous stadium, their owner and their no. 1 fan, George W. Bush. If they ever show Dick Cheney and Ryan Seacrest yukking it up with Jerry Jones in the owner’s box, I’ll go delirious with hatred.

Next year’s Super Bowl is scheduled to be played in the new Dallas Stadium. I hope the Steelers play the Cowboys there and that Steeler fans outnumber hometown Cowboy fans by a ratio of 4-to-1. And that the Steelers win 77-0.

What’s to hate about the great New Orleans Saints? Nothing. I’m thrilled for them, their fans and the once godforsaken city I love so much. That party is going to blend right into Mardi Gras and last a month. I haven’t felt so like dropping everything and jetting to a party that didn’t involve me since the Berlin Wall came down.

What’s to hate about the Indianapolis Colts? They are a little bland for my tastes, but bland competence is so uncommon in professional sports it should be hailed as a virtue. Plus, I love the great Peyton Manning. He’s a class act, a devoted family man and a real professional dedicated to winning with grace and style.

And I was saying those exact same things about Tiger Woods right up until November 27.

Other thoughts:

• Watching the Leno/Letterman commercial had me feeling like two old friends of mine have finally made up after a ridiculous grudge. That whole thing was so unnecessarily bitter and tawdry, especially when all the principals are earning and will continue to earn fortunes. For the record, my preference list goes like this: Leno, Craig Ferguson, Letterman, Conan and Jimmy Kimmel.

• Budweiser’s ads were hilarious. I marveled at the tens of millions of dollars it must have cost to produce and air the spots. Still, if Budweiser never aired another commercial, I doubt it would lose a single beer drinker. Budweiser’s a national habit. I’ve been drinking beer since, oh, about the fourth grade. I’ve been subjected to probably a $1 billion in ads aimed at getting me to drink Bud. It’s never worked. I drink local second, fancy import third, and what whomever’s buying first.


• In five years when the latest American Idol is performing the halftime extravaganza, we’re going to look back on this as the golden era of halftime shows. Paul McCartney, The Stones, Tom Petty, Bruce Springsteen and, yes, The Who. It’s not that The Who was bad. It’s that they’re not right for the venue. Their best songs top out at eight or nine minutes and don’t lend themselves to snappy little renditions. Their uneven performance wasn’t a sign that they suck, it’s a sign that the networks have run out of acceptable options. Look for Jimmy Buffett next year.

• This was the second year in a row when there wasn’t a single funny monkey commercial. I am again crushed. I swear, I’d run out and buy truckloads of feminine hygiene products if a really funny monkey subliminally suggested I ought to.

• Every time they show smiling and voluptuous cheerleaders, I cheer the fact that the Pittsburgh Steelers don’t have these silly silicone distractions at our home games. Professional football’s all about ugly. How else can you explain guys like Bill Cowher getting so much face time?

• It could be argued that the commercial-vanquishing DVR is perhaps the second greatest invention of all-time behind Caller ID, or as I call it, “The In-Law Detector.” Still, if commercials were as lively as they are during the Super Bowl, I’d ditch the feature. It’s insane, but the commercials are as big as the game.

• Without ever bothering to look it up, my wife and I have wondered for years if Abe Vigoda was dead or alive. Thanks to computer animatronics and despite his ad with Betty White, I’m still not sure. And I loved The Simpsons/Coke ad.

• I still enjoy a really good college marching band, but one of the best half-time shows I’ve ever seen at a professional football game was a 10-foot baby race. I watched in horror as they rolled out the mat at mid-field and brought six infants and lined them up in their designated lanes opposite their coaxing mommies. What looked absolutely ridiculous became oddly compelling and I admit I felt small when I heard myself yelling at No. 4, “Get your diapered little ass in gear you little son of a bitch!” I don’t remember who won the game that day, but I remember the kid came in second.

Predictions for the Super Bowl & Beyond

• I predict the Steelers will win Super Bowl XLIII by a score of XXXIII to X and that Ben Roethlisberger will be the game’s MVP. The QB believes he has something to prove after his terrible performance during the Steelers victory in Super Bowl XL. After Sunday, he’ll be considered the best in the game.

• I predict Bruce Springsteen will sing, in order, “The Promised Land,” “Working on a Dream,” “The Rising,” and “Born to Run,” and that we’ll see neither of his nipples during the performance. And that’s too bad because I’ll bet the Boss has some beauts.

• I predict cars of the future will have no reverse gear and will look like that crazy “Push-me-Pull-you” animal from the movie “Dr. Doolittle.” Drivers will pull head first into a parking space and the seats will all reverse when he or she gets in to leave. The car will have two fronts. It wastes a lot of gas and causes a lot of accidents for people to be doing any driving backwards. And going in reverse is just such a pain in the, well, rear.

• I predict within V years years we’re going to see tabloid reports of a woman who’s had breast implants inserted below her shoulders to encourage her breast-obsessed boyfriend to spend more time slow dancing with her. The love of breasts and dancing are two dominant themes in American culture and this trend will confirm it.

• I predict the Steelers will win the Super Bowl in 2010, giving them three championships for the decade and the right to be crowned team of the decade. True, the New England Patriots will have won three also, but let none of us ever forget, the Patriots cheated.

• I predict one day about six months from now, one of the sleepwalking Republicans in the U.S. Congress is going to wonder aloud if Rush Limbaugh’s back on drugs or if he and all his 176 Congressional colleagues have begun consuming too many of them.

• I predict that sometime in the second quarter of the biggest football game of the year my 8-year-old daughter will complain that we’ve seen enough football and for the good of the family we should turn off the game and watch “Mamma Mia!” for the LXVII time.

• I predict that within VI years, the pompous jackasses who run the NFL will cease using these these ridiculous Roman numerals and none of us will have to puzzle it out that Super Bowl XLIX is simply Super Bowl 49.

• I predict that, even if the Steelers win convincingly, this winter still won’t go as quickly as the one three years ago when the Steelers beat the Seattle Seahawks in Detroit. Winter 2005-2006 may go down in history as the greatest winter ever. First it was mild early. Then the Steelers started winning and any time that happens in your city, it cuts winter off at the knees. Then just as we were getting into the most dreadful part of the season, the part when cabin fever has everyone acting like Jack Nicholson in “The Shining,” Dick Cheney accidentally shot that guy down in Texas and that’s something we all enjoyed. Well, everyone but the guy he shot.

• I predict I will for the rest of my life avoid typing a sometimes pejorative word describing nomadic, scarfe-draped and bejeweled fortune tellers from Eastern Europe because of what happened this week. My last blog entry included the need for the noun that begins with and includes in order the following letters: “g - y - _ - s - i - e - s.” For some reason, the instant after I innocently typed it, my always reliable iBook froze up solid. I walked away and fretted for an hour. It revived, but some of the story disappeared and I’m convinced I was unable to recover its previous zing. I’m not superstitious, but if I ever type that word again it’ll be on a computer belonging to someone I hate.

• I predict you’re going to see a lot more of these idiotic prediction posts from me. They’re just so easy. No one remembers if you get ‘em all wrong, but if the Steelers win 33-10 or some moronic woman runs out and gets boobs on her back, I’ll have incontrovertible proof that I saw it coming.