The Bell Curve:

Thoughts from this past Sunday while waiting for the torrent of commercials to play out so the Super Bowl could get underway:

Many women of my acquaintance regard dedicated viewing of TV sports in general — and football in particular — with contempt for many of the wrong reasons. They consider such addiction a mindless waste of time that could be devoted to intellectual exercises or household repairs. Or paying more attention to the critic.

A little snowboarding or ice dancing — the sort of things we’ll be seeing in the upcoming Winter Olympics — are acceptable to these critics in reasonable doses, as long as the trash is taken out on time. But football is a different story, both as a sport and a business.

According to a study of National Football League teams in the Wall Street Journal, the typical NFL season requires 514,000 hours of labor per team — or enough to build the Empire State Building in seven seasons. And the current issue of Time magazine describes the path to the Super Bowl game I’m about to see as “strewn with broken bodies and damaged brains.” Even discounting journalistic hyperbole, that’s a pretty damning indictment of the way I’ll be spending my next three hours.

So what’s my excuse for such behavior?

First of all, I don’t just sit there and drown in hyperbole. I always have something else going on: reading, eating, fraternizing, sitting in judgment of the play. Second, temporary immersion in the game gives me balance in my life. The critics say the opposite is true, that what they consider rabid involvement in TV sports destroys rational balance and clear perspective on things that really matter. I say we are awash daily in such important things as jobs and housing and undeclared wars from which spectator sports can provide a healthy relief.

I call it the Ultimate Therapy, which I define as getting involved in some totally meaningless activity in the large scheme of things, which I can turn to when I’m feeling stressed. To make it work you have to care, but you also have to be able to let go. It should never be either an obsession or a hobby, just a friend to turn to for balance when stress tries to take over. And today that friend is the Super Bowl.

So now the coin has been flipped, the choice of kicking or receiving made, and the kick-off imminent. I can open my beer, reach into my Sunday paper and settle back in my TV chair. I’m feeling in balance.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, two unconnected events have taken place that I regard as important: an enormous step toward getting rid of the absurd and homophobic “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy in dealing with gay and lesbian members of the military, and the death of a writer who has influenced millions of young Americans — and continues to do so — with a single book.

Abolishing “don’t ask, don’t tell” was a bombshell dropped in testimony before Congress by Adm. Michael Mullen, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. It was accompanied by words that should be required reading by those Americans who would deny on the basis of sexual preference the freedoms we must all share. Said Mullen: “I cannot escape being troubled by the fact that we have in place a policy which forces young men and women to lie about who they are in order to defend their fellow citizens.”

And while we’re at it, let’s add as further reading material on this subject the words of Air Force Maj. Gen. Barry Goldwater, whose conservative credentials are unchallenged. He had this to say when the Clinton administration settled for the homophobic “don’t ask” policy: “Everyone knows that gays have served honorably since at least the time of Julius Caesar. It’s no great secret that military studies have proved time and again that there’s no valid reason for keeping the ban on gays... Some in Congress think I’m wrong. They say we absolutely must continue to discriminate or all hell will break loose. Well, that’s just stupid.”

The author noted above is J.D. Salinger, and the book, of course, is “Catcher in the Rye.” Although I was one generation older than Salinger’s alter ego, 17-year-old Holden Caulfield, when he made his first appearance, I was captivated by Holden’s brash take on his elders. When the book stayed atop the New York Times bestseller list for 30 weeks and became a main Book of the Month Club selection, Salinger was set up almost overnight for the isolated lifestyle he chose for the rest of his life.

He told an interviewer in 1974: “There is a marvelous peace in not publishing. Publishing is a terrible invasion of my privacy. I like to write. I love to write. But I write just for myself and my own pleasure.”

Holden would have hated the Super Bowl, even though this year’s game turned out to be the best I’ve seen in many years. And I even got a column finished at the half.

JOSEPH N. BELL lives in Newport Beach. His column runs Thursdays.