Andy Warhol at the Super Bowl, 2019

 DATELINE: Great Art Restoration!

Warhol & Whopper

Warhol Takes on Whopper.

We know that iconic artist Andy Warhol enjoyed pop culture, and perhaps he’d be intrigued with the Super Bowl antics every year.

He might be as surprised as we were to find him in a commercial, a highly expensive proposition, endorsing Burger King.

You might think the little scene was filmed by Andy himself at his Factory, but it was merely an appearance he made in 1984 for another director. Here is Andy in 2019, thirty years after he died, now on the big stage of Super Bowl party night.

At first we thought it was a body double—something Warhol was fond of using. He looked thin, but in good shape, making it a little difficult to discern when this was made. He had done all kinds of things—like a Love Boat episode and a cameo in an Elizabeth Taylor movie back in the 1970s.

This filmed scene was after the Studio 54 craze, and he sits quietly, well-dressed as always, his messy wig appropriately placed, and crinkling, opens a bag for Burger King.

We heard he was disappointed to find it was not going to be a Big Mac, but he was always game for product accessibility.

Perhaps the most curious part of his eating the burger, as that is the total action, is that he lifts the top of the bun off the sandwich as if he will pour some of the Heinz ketchup on it. Instead, he has difficulty pouring it onto the wrapper.

Like a cookie in coffee, he dunks the burger in the tomato paste which he even painted in one of his inspired moments.

Though the commercial was only a few seconds, the actual film was a tad longer. It showed him discarding the top of the burger and folding it over for another swipe at the Heinz. All his actions are fastidious. It’s on Youtube for those interested.

We hope his estate and museum was well-paid for this appearance. We doubt he would have been a Patriot fan. In all likelihood, only a fraction of viewers even understood the identity of the slight man in the burger commercial.

Tom Brady Robbed

 DATELINE: No, Not the MVP Award


Tom still has all his marbles, but something precious was taken in Houston after the Super Bowl.

The eyes of Texas are upon him.

Before leaving Texas after the Super Bowl, Tom Brady let it be known that his game jersey was swiped out of the Patriots’ locker room. Suspects are legion—from media members to teammates.

This is not fake news, though it made the network news shows.

When Tom told Robert Kraft what happened in the locker room, it was caught on tape on one of the myriad smartphones. It became wider knowledge when Brady discussed the subject at the MVP ceremony.

Almost immediately, the Lieutenant Governor of Texas announced how distressed he was.  Furthermore, he was putting the Texas Rangers on the job. They would get to the bottom of the stolen jersey.

Rangers were checking everyone’s smartphone video to find the culprit.

Owner Bob Kraft told Brady, the purloined shirt will be for sale online before you know it.  Collectible appraisers are calling the #12 Jersey worth $500,000.

We don’t understand how a sweaty dirty jersey, covered and Tom Brady’s DNA, has any value. It’s not like he signed it.

Anyone who announced he took Tom Brady’s jersey would be immediately arrested.

Tom planned to look on eBay for his shirt. We cannot imagine losing one’s shirt In the sanctity of the locker room.  But, Tom also lost a shirt at a previous Super Bowl game.

This is a trend. All our Sherlockian detective skills tell us it is an inside job.

We doubt that Julian Edelman took the hot jersey. He already has a pair of Tom’s underwear, sold on eBay and worn by Tom in the Ted movie, We won’t mention copper-infused pajamas Julie received as an Xmas gift.

Obama & Brady: Round Two

 DATELINE:  White House Photo Op


Pardon the President for turning his head and coughing up a Super Bowl prediction.

It’s the closest President Barack Obama has come to endorsing Donald Trump as the next president.

Mr. Obama gave an interview this week in which he predicted that Tom Brady and the Patriots would win the Super Bowl in, what he considers, a somewhat deteriorating quality NFL. He thinks with all the weak teams, it looks like a Republican primary.

The President believes it will be a return to the glorious past: Seattle versus New England. We are still uncertain if this makes American great again.

Mr. Brady skipped out on the last Patriot team meeting with the President at the White House for family business. Some thought the business likely was related to the Trump family. Years before he married Giselle, Trump tried to interest Tom in his daughter Ivanka.

Tom found a woman prepared to live La Dolce Vita with the football hero in eight-and-a-half Fellini ways. Enough on that score.

Now, Obama is well aware that the next winner of the Super Bowl will go to the White House to meet a different president. In all likelihood, Tom will be in attendance for this one—if Trump wins.

We might suggest that, if Tom doesn’t win the next Super Bowl, that the NFL is rigged. We are certain Trump would concur.

Of course, all’s well that ends well—in Mr. Trump’s words—“if I win.”

Super Bowl Brawl & Downton Donnybrook!


The Super Bowl was dominated by undisciplined Seahawk players and lucky plays.

The game on TV was dominated by commercials with cute kids and cuter dogs. In some instances, the cute kids and cuter dogs were in the same commercial.

Advertising the Super Bowl XLIX avoided tasteless sexual jokes and monkeys. Either football fans were growing up, or castor oil is the new drink of choice for the NFL.

The Seahawks played catch-up, but they were all caught up by the time halftime rolled around. If you let vampires rise from their graves because you forgot to bring the stakes, you know the ending will not be pretty.

We did enjoy seeing Katie Couric and Bryant Gumbel changing little over twenty years in their spot together, and we found Lindsay Lohan as an irresponsible mother of a cute kid (or child predator) even more darkly humorous.

When you juxtapose this with the rah-rah attitude of Pete Carroll, we started rooting for Bill Belichick and Arnold coming back for another Terminator movie. Arnold playing himself as a young man is nearly as credible as Tom Brady turning back the clock.

The Patriots also had to be rooting for the new Jurassic Park movie wherein old dinosaurs come back to life. It was a foreshadow or augur of the second half.

If the Seahawks want to win the game, they will have to stop deflating their own balls in the second half.

The predicted snowfall in New England was downgraded during the game to about a foot. So too, the margin of Patriot victory seemed to tumble to frightening proximity. At least the Pats weren’t losing as the half ended.


We chose not to watch the spectacle.


We must admit we were wondering how they got that singer down off the roof of the stadium. Her little star seemed to be in the ascent as the show went to commercial.

By the time the second half began, we blinked and found that the domination by the Patriots had resulted in a falling behind. Those turnovers were definitely sour prune.

Next thing we knew, our evil twin had bopped us on the head, had stolen our remote, and when we awoke, we were in the middle of the grounds of Downton Abbey, not the gridiron of Glendale, Arizona.

Of course, Downton went to the dogs immediately. There we witnessed a slimy art dealer forcing his way into Lady Cora’s boudoir just as her husband Lord Grantham returned from the regimental dinner. Fisticuffs ensued, when a struggle resulted in the remote being returned to the Patriot-Seahawk game.  There too we found a donnybrook!

You needed a scorecard to identify the fighters on Downton or on the Patriots. Even more amazing, Lord Grantham’s butler Carson normally does it for the household, but Lord Belichick’s Butler named Malcolm did it for the Patriots.

The final two minutes featured errant bounces out of the paranormal, an interception on the goal line, and flying fists at Gronk turning into a brawl. We haven’t seen a football fight like this since Errol Flynn started one in his classic western, Dodge City.

What an evening of football and culture! We could not tell if we were watching Downton or the Super Brawl.

In all this mess, the Patriots won, and Lady Edith was about to kidnap her child and run off to London. On the distaff side, Lord Kraft was about to kidnap the Super Bowl trophy from Roger Goodell and run off to Foxoboro. What a night.

And a blizzard was about to hit New England as an anticlimax.

We’re Going to a Better Place, Richard Sherman!


No Super Bowl for us this year!

We’ve sworn off the NFL game. No, we are not on a diet and avoiding fatty foods that cause munchies from noon to midnight.

No, we are not a party-pooper. (Well, yes, a bit.)

No, we are not sick of Richard Sherman, villain and thug in sheep’s clothing nowadays.

No, we don’t despise Pete Carroll for encouraging his team of cheats to use PEDs all season.

No, we aren’t jealous of Peyton Manning’s late blooming season that sends Tom Brady to Pebble Beach.

No, we aren’t angry at Wes Welker for the worst hit on another player that Bill Belichick has ever seen in his life.

No, we aren’t sick of the commercialization of the Super Bowl by imbecilic television commercials that make sophomoric hijinks a new art form.

No, we aren’t disgusted by the cold weather notion that a Super Bowl should be played outdoors in a place everyone thinks is New York.

No, we don’t have sour grapes that our hometown team was shut out of the big game.

No, we are not afraid of seeing the Denver Broncos being bashed and taunted by Seahawks.

No, we aren’t disappointed the Super Bowl won’t be snowed out till Monday.

No, we are not antisocial (well, only a little like Heidi’s grandfather around the edges).

The reason we will not watch the Super Bowl is location, location, location. We will be in the drizzly mental kirk of Downton Abbey, at the bayou of True Detective, inside the bastion of logic of Sherlock at 221b Baker Street for the season’s finale, and hanging out at the Money Pit where mysteries abide at Curse of Oak Island.

Thank heavens that The Blacklist is on Mondays.

Super Bowl Versus History of Zombies



In this age of too many TV channels, one can easily lose control of the remote and end up on an unexpected network.

Opposite the Super Bowl, as usual, was Downton Abbey. Most of us can tell the difference between the deathly Dowager Countess and Colin Kaepernick. This night might prove different.

Our troubles increased when we ended up on H2 where the History of Zombies played out.

For all the world, we thought we were watching the demise of the 49ers who seemed to be stumbling along the gridiron like the Walking Dead zombies. We never expected San Francisco to suffer the Night of the Living Dead.

There it was: Ray Lewis was dispatching zombies with aplomb, and Joe Flacco was throwing passes down the sidelines with an arm that zombies would love to munch upon.

In the Dark Ages, ravens used to munch upon the corpses lying in the streets—and not much had changed at the Super Bowl. The Ravens were feasting on the dead 49ers who looked like they were being cannibalized at Donner Pass.

We really became confused when Beyonce started marching around with an army of ravenous dancers. This seemed to be a sequel to Dawn of the Dead.

Nothing could prepare us for the power failure that made New Orleans look like Ash Wednesday had come early. We almost thought there seemed to be more wailing and gnashing of teeth than at the post-funeral luncheon for Sybil at Downton Abbey.

This scenario became even more frightening when the dead 49ers suddenly rose from the grave and seemed intent on wiping out the Ravens. We had not seen such an attack of zombies since Vincent Price was The Last Man on Earth.

If you’ve seen the new flick Warm Bodies, you know something about zombie redemption. In the end, San Francisco’s bullies were finally just dead meat against the high flying Ravens.