True Story 4: The Plan

(Be sure to check out part 1, part 2, and part 3 of the True Story saga.)

How had this day come unraveled so quickly? It seemed as if only a moment ago I had been home in bed. Now I was smack-dab in the middle of a raging fire-fight. For the moment, at least, it seemed like Tom Brady and Kojak were on my side. The two dead ninjas on the floor were proof enough of that.

“Hey, asshole,” shouted Tom. “We're not gonna do all the work. Wake up and stay alert.”

Right. I took a quick look around. The waitress and the trucker were both cowering behind the lunch counter, and the college kid was nowhere to be seen. Good, one less civilian to worry about. A shadow moved to my left...

...and Kojak impaled it with what looked to be a bat'leth. (Where the hell did he get that?) Tom was on his feet and seemed to be moving pretty good for a guy with one knee, so I helped myself to the only readily available weapon I could find—his crutch.

“EEEEEYAHHHEEEE,” came a screech from the kitchen. At least six more ninjas had appeared in that corner of the room, and I felt as if there were more lurking in every shadow.

“We can't stay here,” I shouted.

“Calm down”, said Tom. “This ain't no Doogie Howser cameo. You got the best in the business on your side today.”

“Don't worry kid,” answered Kojak. “Staying here was never part of the plan. Move towards the door...NOW!”

I broke towards the front door just as Tom unleashed a barrage of fire from his pistols. There were bullets and ninja stars flying everywhere, and when I crashed through the door and out into the parking lot with Tom and Kojak both still behind me (and both still alive) I knew we were lucky.

That is, until I looked around.

The parking lot was full of ninjas. Male ninjas, female ninjas, old ninjas, young ninjas, ninjas in red, ninjas in blue, ninjas in white, ninjas in black...Christ, it looked like all the different factions of the Hand Clan had come together for this assault on the Fillin' Station!

“Well, well, well...the gang all looks to be here,” said Kojak.

Brady had dropped down onto his one good knee and we did the same. He unbuttoned his coat and revealed three things: Two semi-automatic M16 rifles (one of he which he tossed to Kojak, the other to myself) and a chest that was covered by a larger-than-life image of Ronald Reagan.

“This is my lucky Gipper t-shirt. Fucking love him!” Not for the first time I found myself questioning his sanity.

Tom had moved on to yanking clips and grenades and knives and who-knows-what-else from the seemingly endless number of pockets on his jacket. Kojak was making sure his rifle was in good working order and I followed suit. We took aim at the closest crop of ninjas and fired away.

Now, you might expect that ninjas are good at dodging bullets and such. This is a popular misconception. Their great strength is stealth. If they can sneak up on you then you are most likely about to die. But, if you can engage them in open combat—as we were—then they are quickly reduced to being funny little people in funny little costumes. Kojak and I mowed them down and went to reload.

Only a few of our targets escaped the shots, and those who did went scurrying back behind a now-abandoned pickup truck. The truck was probably thirty yards away, in the far corner of the parking lot. Brady grabbed a grenade, measured the distance, pulled the plug, and fired a perfect throw that sent the grenade right through the pickup's open window.

BOOM! The truck exploded and sent debris and dead ninjas in every direction.

“Did you see that,” shouted Tom. “Peyton Manning would never have made that throw! On the football field, sure, maybe. But under fire from a hostile enemy? No way, no how. I am the best!” I had to admit it—he was probably right.

Tom's throw had opened up a portion of the parking lot, with those ninjas who hadn't been caught in the blast left scurrying for better cover. I started to suggest we head that way but Kojak cut me off.

“They're gonna gather their strength and come at us again right quick.”

No sooner were the words out of his mouth before our situation deteriorated. Three black vans came tear-assing into the parking lot...and from them emerged an even deadlier foe.

The Crazy 88's. They were world-class assassins conjured up by the twisted mind of Quentin Tarantino—and they had come for me.

“Shit,” I said. “I thought Uma Thurman took care of these guys.”

“She did,” replied Tom. “She just didn’t get all 88 of them.

“Wait, I thought there really weren’t 88 of them…”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Kojak. “These guys are punks. Where were they in Kill Bill 2? What a disappointment that film was.”

He was right. He was always right.

“We gotta move, now.” Kojak pointed towards the eighteen-wheeler we had passed on the way in. “You see that big red rig? That is where we are going. Ready, Tommy?”

Tom had reloaded both pistols and slammed them into the firing position. “On three,” he said

“One...”

I loaded a fresh magazine into my M16.

“Two...”

Deep breaths...

“THREE! Go, go, GO!”

We broke as one and sprinted towards the truck, firing back at the ninjas as we ran. They were sending stars and knives and strange Asian explosives back at us, and whatever serenity there had been at the beginning of this beautiful morning in New England was long gone. The local sheriff had to be awake by now. Hopefully he would be smart enough to know when events were unfolding beyond his control. This was a day to just go fishing.

Even with only one good knee Tom was able to match me step for step. I really did have to reassess my opinion of him. We reached the big truck first, with Kojak only a step behind. Once we were there, however, our next problem readily presented itself.

“We don't have a lot of cover here,” I said. “Maybe we should keep moving.”

“No,” said Brady. “Let them see how little cover we have. They'll come in and then we'll pounce. Are we ready?”

“We will be,” replied Kojak. “My guy is in place.”

I wondered who he was talking about, but only for the briefest of moments because right then a series of fireworks went off over our heads. Lots of color and lots of smoke, but lucky for us all there wasn't too much fire. Whatever they were throwing at us, it looked worse than it actually was.

“What, do these guys run a firework stand up in Nashua in their spare time? I'm beginning to think this ain't their A-Team, Tommy.”

Whoever they were, it was clear they were about to make their move. There would be three groups coming at us at once: a frontal assault from both the right and the left with the Crazy 88's circling around to come at us from behind. We could run, but there was almost no chance we would make it to what little cover there was across the street before they were on top of us.

“Here they come!” I didn't recognize the voice at first; it was so full of fear. Then I realized it was my own. Fortunately, there was a plan in place.

“Steady.” The confidence in Brady's voice was reassuring, but I wondered if he was seeing the same thing I was. There were at least forty, maybe fifty ninjas, and perhaps as many as 88 of the Crazy 88’s. And there were still only three of us.

Until...

I remember hearing Tom yell, “Now!” Then there was another sound, a very distinct sound, a sound anyone who ever watched cartoons in the 80's could identify. It came from behind me, and as it did I realized the cover of the truck was gone. I understood why, and I knew who would suddenly be standing in its place.

It was Optimus Prime.

The odds had just evened up.

To be continued...

True Story 3: The Meeting

Kojak through down his cigarette and started towards the door. “C'mon,” he said. “No time like the present.”

I was dumbstruck. A few short hours before I had been sound asleep in Boston. Now I was about to walk into an ambush on the other side of the state—and I still had no idea whether Kojak was on my side or somebody else's. You could say I'd had better mornings.

Suddenly I was aware of something else in the parking lot. A bright red 18-wheeler, one I was sure hadn't been there when we pulled in. Why did it look so familiar? Kojak caught my eye and again there was that faint trace of a smile.

“Move it. We've kept the little ball-breaker waiting long enough.”

We moved towards the door and I took one last look around. It was shaping up to be a beautiful day outside, but I knew that inside the Fillin' Station the atmosphere would be completely different. There were at least a dozen ninjas waiting for us somewhere close by and this diner was not the friendliest of confines to begin with. Have you ever seen Star Wars? Well, picture the Mos Eisley Cantina, just without all the aliens. (Well, maybe without half the aliens.) That was what waited for us inside.

Twenty steps, then ten, then five, and then Kojak was pulling open the door and ushering me inside. The air was smoke filled and the lighting was dark. It took my eyes a moment to adjust, and when they did I was greeted by the strangest of sights.

It wasn't the heavy-set trucker occupying the corner booth or the middle-aged lady dressed in a sleeveless flannel shirt to better show off her tattoo collection at the counter who caught my eye. It wasn't the kid reading the Valley Advocate, or the waitress whose best days were at least a decade gone by. No, it was the guy sitting alone at a table for four, with his back to the wall behind him and his eyes directly on me. It had been a while since I'd seen him, on TV or in person. He'd gone down with an injury moments into the first game of the season against Kansas City, and after that it was the paparazzi and not the sports writers who had been keeping us abreast of his movements.

Tom Brady, alive and well.

Kojak headed that way and I followed. We took up seats on either side, each of us wanting to keep an eye on the front door. Tom eyeballed the waitress for a moment before acknowledging us—his usual M.O. Here was a guy who could have (and often had) any woman he wanted, yet he couldn't take his eyes off the burnt-out shell who was pouring burnt coffee in this sorry excuse for a restaurant. She looked his way and he gave her the golden boy smile. I shook my head but stopped when I realized she had grabbed a fresh pot before coming our way. Being Tom Brady did have its privileges. She filled our mugs and moved away, and Kojak broke the silence.

“So, he's here. You called this meeting, must mean you have something to say.”

Brady stirred some sugar into his coffee before looking my way. “You really caused a headache with that business on the train.”

“I did what I had to do. That situation found me—not the other way around.” I didn't even bother trying to hide the contempt in my voice. It was funny. Now that we were inside and seated, now that I knew who it was who had set this all up, all the fear was gone. Now I was just annoyed. Who was Tom Brady to be calling me out? Yes, the business on the train was a mess but it had all been personal, not professional. Plus, the Patriots had gone 11-5 without him and there was a crutch on the floor behind his chair. His value had never been lower.

Tom noticed and didn't like it. “Hey, lower your voice when you talk to me. Don't play the victim. The report I saw said you had chances to get off that train before it all went south and didn't. And it seems to me it was the other guy who ended up dead, not you. You don't like getting woken up in the middle of the night? Too fucking bad. I don't like getting called away from Giselle and being sent to shitholes like this. It ruins my day. And I'm in rehab, fucker. I need my sleep.”

“Take it easy, ladies, take it easy. We're all on the same side here. I don't care which one of you has the bigger dick.” Kojak never had any patience for dominance displays. It came from always being the toughest guy in the room.

Brady was fired up. “Listen to the man. He may just save your life someday.”

I looked away and sipped at my coffee. There had been rumors about Brady taking over as Regional Director for New England after Paul Pierce had been stabbed in that nightclub, but I had always hoped they weren't true. Sure, there were the three Super Bowls and the 17 confirmed kills, but the guy was still such a cocky prick.

“So, why I am here? What have I done to deserve this audience with the great Tom Brady?”

Tom looked over at Kojak. “Jesus Christ, you had him the car for a fucking hour and didn't brief him?”

“Hey, Tommy, you got the one good knee still. Lets keep it that way, OK?”

“Don't threaten me, old man. You know who we work for, and you know who put me in charge and why. I specialize in making sure situations like this one do not get out of hand, and this situation is way fucking close to getting out of hand. Think of me as Harvey Keitel in Pulp Fiction and your boy here as John Travolta. I'm the Wolf, motherfucker.”

“With that one leg you might just be the gimp,” I said.

“Fuck you. I'm here to help you and make sure you don't end up like Zed, with your balls all shot to hell and some crazy sons of bitches going to work on you with two pieces of pipe and a blowtorch. Now I assume you saw those motorcycles outside, and that you know what we are up against here this morning.”

“I saw them.”

“Well, good. Those are friends of a certain one-time acquaintance of yours, and they have been making unpleasant inquiries about you all over town.”

“Inquiries?”

“Yes,” said Tom. “Questions about people and places and past events, none of which would be beneficial to us if it came to light. So it was decided there were two solutions. One, we could give you over to those savages and just be done with it.”

I shot Kojak a look, but Brady wasn't finished.

“Or two, we could make contact with them, convince them that was what we were doing, lure them to some out of the way spot where there would be few questions, and then wipe them off the face of this fucking planet.”

With that appeared two pearl-handled revolvers in Brady's hands, which he fired into the shadows behind us. Two dead ninjas slumped onto the floor at our feet.

“I voted for the first option,” said Brady. “Lucky for you I don't make every decision.”

And then all hell officially broke loose.

To be continued...

True Story 2: The Ride

(Be sure to check out the shockingly true first chapter in the aptly-titled True Story saga, available here.)

It wasn't even daylight yet and we had been on the road for more than an hour already. I didn't know quite where we were going, but given who was driving and how this little trip had started, it probably wasn't going to be anywhere I wanted to be.

Things had been quiet ever since I had been attacked on the train ride home from work. I still saw ninjas everywhere I went, always lurking in the shadows, watching, waiting for...something. For what I didn't know. There were plenty of times when they could have taken me out, plenty of times when I was alone, outnumbered, or outgunned. But they never made a move, never even really approached me. But I knew my luck wouldn't last forever.

As for this morning, when the phone rang shortly after 4am I knew my luck of another sort had just run out. Those first few days after the attack had been some of the longest of my life. You didn't kill a member of the Hand Clan without authorization and think headquarters wasn't going to be paying you a visit. Even still, as the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, I thought maybe, just maybe, I was going to slip the noose. After all, what had happened on that train had nothing at all to do with business. It was all about that woman, the one from Tangiers, and it was very, very personal.

The radio crackled and returned my focus to the inside of this jet-black Cadillac that was speeding westbound on the Mass Pike. Some blowhole from WEEI was cracking jokes about Alex Rodriguez and his now-infamous steroid test. The news that A-Rod had tested positive for the juice had been met with great pleasure in Boston. There was just something about the guy that rubbed us all the wrong way, and the fact that he wore pinstripes only made it worse. It made me uncomfortable to know that another hour or so in this direction would put us into a part of the country where the plight of a certain New York Yankee would not be met with such enjoyment.

There was a chuckle next to me and I glanced over in spite of myself. He didn't look back but did speak for the first time since we'd started driving.

“Don't worry, kid. We'll be there soon.”

That news did not reassure me, nor did the fact that he seemed able to read my mind. It could have been anybody on the other end of that phone when it rang. It could have been Hilldo. It could have been Reese. Hell, it could have even been Dave checking in from Colorado. But it wasn't any of them. No. It was him.

It was Kojak.

He was a legend. Some would argue he was a myth, but I knew every word you ever heard about the guy was probably true. Every crazy story about him was at least part of the truth—made all the crazier by the fact that they often didn't go far enough.

“I heard Kojak through a guy off the Mystic River Bridge for smacking his wife around.” Yep.

“I heard he shot a child rapist in the nuts out in Chicago and watched him bleed to death for three days.” Sure. Why not?

“Is it true he disappeared a casino owner down in Atlantic City because he thought the guy cheated him in a game of poker?” He disappeared him alright, but that wasn't the reason why. I'm not one to gossip, but it sounded to me like that guy got exactly what was coming to him.

We pulled off the Pike at exit 4 and were suddenly heading north up I-91. These were my old UMass stomping grounds, and for the first time I wondered if I had this entire episode all wrong. Was this about someone I had offended when I lived out here all those years ago? Was this about a score even older than the one the Hand wanted to settle with me? My mind raced through a list of possible suspects, a list I suddenly realized was shockingly long. But how many of them had any kind of pull with the company? Not many, and of those that did, not a one would have been able to send Kojak after me. He didn't take orders from very many people when he was young. Now that he was “semi-retired” there were even fewer people who could get him on the phone, let alone get him out on the job. And none of those characters would ever call Western Massachusetts home.

Soon enough we were pulling off the highway and racing down a farm road. The sun was finally up and it felt good to know that whatever happened next, it would be happening in the daylight. We passed a sign that read “Entering Whately, Incorporated 1771, Population 1573”. Now I knew where we were headed. There was only one destination for any traveler visiting the tiny town of Whately, Massachusetts.

The Fillin' Station Diner.

Open 24-hours in a part of the country where the sidewalks get rolled up at dusk, the Fillin' Station is a magnet for those who spend their waking hours plotting their next cheap score, scores that often involved shaking down the unsuspecting sophomores from Amherst or hippies from Hampshire whose only mistake had been heading to Whately after the bars closed for breakfast. It was one horror story after another, but the college kids kept on coming because the options were few and far between. (And, lets face it: Some of them just aren't that bright.)

But that was after dark, and this was the early morning. We pulled into a parking lot that was almost deserted. A few random tractor-trailers and scattered pickup trucks. Nothing as flashy as was the Cadillac, not for miles. Kojak parked us as far away from the door as he could, a good habit I had picked up myself somewhere along the way. The longer your walk to the door, the more time you had to take in the scene around you. Knowing what, and who, was around you would save your life more often than would easy-in, easy-out.

“OK,” said Kojak. “Let's do this thing.” He was out of the car in a flash. I took a deep breath and one last look around, and then I followed.

The morning air was brisk and refreshing. The car had been stuffy, closed up and with a faint odor of stale cigarette smoke. Kojak hadn't lit up at all while we drove but did so now.

“It'll be another minute or two, kid. Relax. Take a breather. You don't smoke anymore, right?”

I shook my head no.

“Good man,” he replied. “I've tried to quit a few times myself, even resorted to lollipops at one point. Nothing took. But, hey, we're all gonna go when we're gonna go, am I right?”

He chuckled and looked away, and I tried not to let on how petrified I actually was. Beating the ninja on the train had been all about adrenaline, but any adrenaline I had this morning had long left me. Not that it would have even mattered against Kojak.

It was then that I noticed the motorcycles. There were at least a dozen of them, mostly red Suzuki crotch-rockets, the vehicle of choice for a ninja on the move. I looked at Kojak and saw he was looking back at me with just the faintest trace of a smile. He'd known the bikes were there all along.

“Should we be here alone,” I asked?

“You know the life as well as I do, kid. We ain't never alone.”

To be continued...

Civil Unions and Utah

If you saw any of the estimates of how much Prop 8 money came out of Utah and the LDS, then you will understand why this is such an amazing story.

Here's hoping Nate Silver is right and that support for civil unions won't be an albatross around the neck of any politician, regardless of party, in 2012.

A(nabolic)-Rod

Now, if you want to get up in arms about an athlete abusing drugs then this is the story you should be paying attention to. The Yankees really do seem to be a magnet for these guys, don't they? It really could not happen to a nicer guy, a nicer team, or a nicer town.

(Yes, this is me laughing now, knowing full well that Manny Ramirez will sign with them in two weeks and destroy baseball for me. So let me enjoy this while I can, OK? Thanks.)

Puff, Puff, Pass

I really do hope Michael Phelps was at least smoking some good weed when the now famous cell phone picture was snapped. It would be a shame to think all of this trouble was caused by a few bong hits of shwag. If you are going to do the crime, do it for real. And if the crime is smoking pot, why not make sure it is the good stuff?

Can we all agree that this story is much ado about nothing? I'm very much excited to see what happens when this suspension ends and Phelps is still able to beat out every other swimmer in the world.

Puff, puff, pass...and take home the gold.

LOST

I know the current season of LOST—with all its time-traveling wackiness—is probably not to everyone's liking. But I LOVE it. Here are a few reasons why:

Fewer Flashbacks/Flashforwards: Honestly, they were getting old and getting in the way. The story on the island has long been more interesting than anything happening in these character's lives before they boarded Flight 815. As for the flashforwards, it was fun (at first) to see glimpses of the “Oceanic 6” once they made it home. That didn't last long, however. This season (at least so far) has split time between the survivors who got off the island and those who were left behind. No random side trips to Jack's previous life as a surgeon, or Kate's time on the run, or even to see Hurley as the goofy millionaire. Every episode this season, for the first time in a longtime, has felt like it was moving the story forward and will payoff in the end.

Sawyer and Locke: They have both been on screen a ton and that is always a very good thing. John Locke is slowly learning more and more about the island...and we are finally learning right along with him. After seeing how Ben left the island in last season's finale, we even might know more. No one wants to see Locke suffer the fate we know is coming, but since Christian Shepherd was dead when his coffin was boarded onto Flight 815 and now seems to be at least kinda-sorta-maybe-in-a-way alive, anything is possible.

As for Sawyer, we still don't know what he whispered to Kate just before he jumped from that helicopter, but we do know that he did jump to save her. That was clearly a man in love we saw in the jungle last night. Love, unfortunately, only goes so far. It is only a matter of time before Sawyer adds Juliette to his list (Ana Lucia, Kate) of island conquests. (If I had a Dharma beer, I'd toast him.)

Charles Widmore: Now we know why Widmore is so desperate to get control of the island—he was once an Other! That was a huge piece of the puzzle, as was the fact that he had overseen the care of the young girl who was so badly harmed by Daniel Faraday's experiments. That piece of information coupled with the fact that Faraday couldn't take his eyes off the female Other who led him to the bomb in that same episode (“You very much look like someone I used to know...) has led me to theorize that the stricken girl is actually another Widmore daughter. If that is true, it could change the meaning of Ben's threat from last year. (“You killed my daughter, Charles. Now I am going to kill yours.” Or not. Who knows?

Also, was that girl born on the island? Was Charlotte? Miles? Is that why they are showing signs of being harmed by the time-shifting faster than are Sawyer and Locke?

Here's hoping things keep on getting better. Now we know that Jin is still alive and that Sun is up to no good. And how cool was it to see the young and pregnant Danielle arrive on the island? But who did the two canoes belong to, and who was it who pursued Locke and Sawyer and the gang across the water? Be on the lookout for bad guys in canoes...

Going Green

I don't often write about what I do for work and am not about to go into any great detail now. (I work for a non-profit historical society based in Boston. I have close friends reading this right now and realizing they cannot come up with the name. So there.) But there is a little something I would like to share with you this afternoon, and it does involve my place of employment.

Recently, the decision was made to offer one of our publications in an electronic, rather than printed, format. This is beneficial because it allows us to reduce costs and help the environment at the same time. We contacted our member base and urged them to help us go “green” and opt out of receiving printed copies of a journal they could already read online in PDF format. The initiative, thus far, has been wildly successful and immensely popular. The reaction has been almost 100% positive.

Almost 100%...but not quite.

A few members responded that they wished to continue receiving printed copies, which was absolutely fine. (Our goal was always to reduce print runs, not to cease printing altogether.) Some others indicated that they preferred a printed copy but were willing to try the online version if it meant saving money. A handful of others...well...they had their own unique responses.

One lady accused us of being so politically-correct that we were bordering on radicalism.

A gentleman responded angrily that he was helping us to save money and definitely not helping us to go green, so we should stop thanking him for that.

My personal favorite was the phone message left by one member who suggested that if we were having such trouble raising adequate funds that we should work a little harder to find ourselves “another sugar mama.” Yes, that is a direct quote.

These are the people that remind me how lucky I am to be a purple voter living in a blue state. Climate change is very real, and something needs to be done. We can argue about what and how and when, but reacting with anger anytime anyone mentions “going green” isn't going to get it done. What does it say about anyone who views helping the environment as an outright assault on their politics?

This is (red) America in the early 21^st century. Good thing Jesus will be there to save them in the end.

Not A Good Day For Dems

One thing I can be (and have been) accused of is not being entirely honest in my claim of being an independent. The charge is usually that I am giving Democrat X a pass while piling onto Republican Y. I won't even bother to deny it because, after eight years of George W. Bush and his minions, there is probably some truth to be found there. But we're gonna fix all that today, baby!

A quick look at Boston.com reveals the following two headlines:

Daschle Withdraws Nomination

and

Massachusetts Chases Sales Taxes

This is not a banner day for Democrats.

Tom Daschle is an ass. It isn't bad enough that he could not even get re-elected while serving as the minority leader in the Senate. It now comes out (and only after President Obama has nominated him to serve as Secretary of Health and Human Services, mind you) that he has been shirking almost $140,000 in back taxes and interest. Way to go, Tom! And to think, if you had never been nominated for the cabinet then you could have just kept on refusing to pay your debt! Now you aren't heading back to Washington AND you will soon be out 140-large. (Note to the IRS: Please be sure to keep the juice running on this debt. Please.)

Meanwhile, here in the Commonwealth, Governor Deval Patrick has ordered a company in New Hampshire to start charging 5% sales tax to all Massachusetts residents who make purchases there. Yes, you read that right. The Governor of Massachusetts is ordering businesses in other states to charge his constituents taxes that they are not currently required to pay. Think about that for a second.

I commented in the Inauguration Blog that Deval Patrick was all David Axelrod's fault, and I think now it is clear why I am no fan. I'm not opposed to taxes, and I do believe they are the price we pay to live in this society. But I am opposed to my freakin' governor ordering other states to charge me those same taxes he already is. That seems just a wee bit out o' line.

This, of course, is heading to court.

Super Bowl XLIII

If the Super Bowl party I attended was still going on, we would all still be staring at the TV in disbelief, waiting for that final turnover to be reviewed. The call may have stood up. It certainly was close, and you could make a case either way. But it needed to be reviewed!

The lasting image from that game will always be of referee Terry McCauley waving his arms above his head and walking towards the line of scrimmage, apparently waving off the Pittsburgh kneel down which had just occurred...and then the postgame festivities beginning anyway. Replay is a given in that situation. That it didn't happen in the biggest possible situation throws the whole system into doubt. Would it have been different had the call gone the other way and Arizona had retained possession? With five seconds on the clock and Larry “THE best receiver in football” Fitzgerald to throw to, it is more than plausible to think Kurt Warner could have heaved up a Hail Mary pass and changed the outcome of that game.

It's too bad they never got the chance. I still think it was an incompletion and not a fumble.

Controversy aside, that was one of the most exciting Super Bowls in history. Back and forth, big plays from both sides, and two of the best touchdown catches you will ever see. There was some griping where I was about the Patriots not being there, but even if they had been I do not believe it could have been any more enjoyable of a game. Plus, can anyone honestly say they believe the Pats would have dominated the Cardinals the same way they did in week 16 without a blizzard raging around them?

On another note, I was wrong about the idea of the silver lining. Knowing that Pittsburgh was passing Indianapolis did nothing to make another Super Bowl championship for the Steelers more palatable. Nothing at all. The only true silver lining is that we have seen the last of the “terrible towel” until next fall.

Final Thoughts

From there the afternoon became a flurry of phone calls and text messages, of conversations and observations, of good spirits and laughs. And, eventually, a celebratory cocktail.

I've never been big on parades, not even on an occasion such as this, and so it came as no surprise to me when my attention span was exceeded. I was in the car and on the way home when the news broke about Ted Kennedy. That it appears now to have been a false alarm prevents an ugly stain from being forever attached the day's events. Still, at the time it was a jolt, an unpleasant reminder that real life does go on.

We are almost two weeks removed from Inauguration Day as of this writing, and over that time I have come to realize that putting my thoughts about Barack Obama and the beginning of his administration down on paper was a much more difficult task than I ever believed it would be. I struggled with why that was, with why the end result I had advocated, hoped and voted for didn't inspire me more thoroughly than it has. And what I eventually realized was this:

What had the greatest impact on me that day was not the speeches or the pageantry or the crowds or the euphoria that seemed to grip almost this entire nation. What struck me most, and what has stayed with me most clearly, is the retreat from Washington in disgrace of George W. Bush. It is not the image of Barack Obama taking the oath of office but rather of the long, slow helicopter ride over and across the Mall, of the dramatic pause above the Jefferson Memorial, and of the final departure from Andrews Air Force Base. It was then that I understood that Bush was simply going to return to Texas and to the same cushy and pampered life he had led for 54 years before coming to power—and that it is the rest of us (not just Obama) who are tasked to clean up the mess he has left behind.

Some have said that electing Obama was the easy part, but it seems now that getting rid of Bush was pretty easy, too—even if it did take us eight years to do it. It is now when the real work begins, and in fact already had begun before the celebration was even complete.

Where will we be four years from now? No one can know for sure...but I, for one, do honestly believe we as a nation will be better off than we are today.

God help us all if I'm wrong.

Old, True, and Overdue: The Inauguration Blog

Inauguration Day began for me at 5:15am in the tiny hamlet of Bridgewater, Massachusetts. Ninety minutes later I settled into my chosen viewing location for the day's events: A couch at the homestead in Wellesley. To be there in DC would be great, but only to be able to say I was there. If you really want to see it happen then the best seat in the house is in your house.

6:52am: The TV is already tuned to the local ABC affiliate when I turn it on. I'm lucky enough to be just in time to catch local anchor Bianca de la Garza remind us that tonight “ABC has exclusive coverage of the First Couple's first dance.” The fact that they are hyping that is as good an indication as any you will ever see of why I prefer NBC. And so it begins...

7am: Good Morning America kicks off with the ridiculous scene on the Mall. Already the crowd is packed in and we are still hours away. I will give these people credit—that is determination. You have to really want to see something to stand outside in the cold all night long just to get what passes for close in the non-ticketed section. What I really want is another cup of coffee, and my prime viewing spot in the living room is conveniently placed only a short walk away from the kitchen.

7:10: Robin Roberts on Jill Biden's comments the day before that Joe Biden was given a choice between Vice President and Secretary of State. I love that both Bidens have trouble controlling their mouths. They just seem like likable people all around. But I am left wondering if she really didn't understand announcing that was going to cause controversy. Really? You didn't know? Still, anything that makes the Clintons uncomfortable also makes me happy. So thanks to you, Mrs. Biden.

7:30: This is the first I've heard that Dick Cheney has been confined to a wheelchair. The best they could come up with is that he hurt himself moving boxes? That is what we are supposed to believe? No way in hell that evil bastard handled his own move. With how little he has been in the spotlight and how few public appearances he has made lately, you do have to wonder how long the VPOTUS hasn't been able to walk.

And on that note we make the switch to the regulars over on MSNBC.

7:44: Chuck Todd reports on the transition and how smooth it has gone. A lot of credit for that goes to Obama and the people he has chosen for his staff, but that Bush has done his part cannot be denied. He could have made a mess of this but didn't. Contrast that with the exit of the Clintons. The stunt with pulling all the W keys off West Wing keyboards was small-time and childish. That is how they spent their final hours? I was dismissive of it at the time, as I was of all Bill Clintons missteps, but that was truly uncalled for.

8:03am: Amanda Cane reports from DC that she is on her way to the Mall, that the streets are packed with people doing the same, and that she is freezing. So far nothing I have seen or heard has made me regret my decision to not venture down there.

8:24: Colin Powell speaks to how important this day is to race relations in this country, noting that in twenty years minorities will be the new majority. This idea scares the hell out of some parts of white America, maybe even more so than the idea of a black man becoming President. I'm not sure where Powell was going with that, either, because the election of Obama isn't going to change the day to day lives of any one segment of the population, white or black. The election of John Kennedy didn't improve the lives of Irish-Catholics. What it did was prove that anything was possible—for anyone, regardless of ethnicity. That is what black America should be taking away from this day and these last few months. Regardless of race, anything is now possible.

8:29: We have an early contender for Best Line of the Day honors as Tom Brokaw says, “I'm thinking back about the long road I've traveled, and about all the bigots and the rednecks I've met along the way. To them I say TAKE THIS!” The last part he says with a clenched fist, and it is pretty clear that “TAKE THIS” was not his first choice of words. Ah, Tom. Professional till the end.

8:30: Brokaw is immediately called away, allegedly to appear on the Today show. Was that NBC cutting his Mic before he said something really interesting?

9am: Time for a special inaugural breakfast:

Two slices of pumpernickel, lightly toasted

Chunky peanut butter (because salmonella be damned)

Red Raspberry jam

Combine and enjoy.

9:50: The Obamas leave church and head towards the White House and their destiny. Carl Bernstein (or, Woodward and Bernstein, the lesser) makes a convincing case that Obama is already a more pivotal figure in American politics than is John F. Kennedy. And not just at the time of his inauguration. Given everything that happened after, from Cuba to Alabama to Dallas, Bernstein argues that Obama today is more pivotal.

OK, perhaps “convincing” is too strong a word. Obama has never had to stare down a Nikita Khrushchev or a George Wallace. That will come in time, unfortunately, but hasn't happened yet. It is hard, but not impossible, to overstate Obama's impact on the culture of this nation. Did Carl Bernstein just pull it off?

9:54: The arrival! Michelle Obama brings with her a gift for Laura Bush. (Is that a tradition? It's classy, nonetheless.) Barack looks serious, as close to nervous as I have ever seen him. George cracks a joke to the future First Lady. These moments are when W is at his very best, courteous but utterly trite and meaningless conversations. Does he have any sense of the magnitude of this moment? He must. I think. Maybe.

9:58: I've been taking notes in pencil and this is the perfect moment to make the switch to pen. MSNBC, as if sensing the magnitude of my own moment, instantly cuts away to a video package and clip of U2's Beautiful Day. So fitting. We are a well oiled machine at this point.

10am: Keith Olbermann: “This day, in this city, is like a cross between Woodstock and a religious pilgrimage.” I chuckle before realizing that he is dead right and that it is the perfect comparison. Still so very glad I am on this couch and not on a pilgrimage to the portapotty.

10:08: We see Muhammad Ali taking his place on the viewing stand and I learn for the first time that he was in his late 20's when he was drafted. Is that right? It was a steady stream of 18 year old kids and then, randomly, Ali? Good for him for standing up for himself.

10:10: Magic Johnson. Still the healthiest HIV positive patient in the world. (I know, I know. We're all supposed to pretend there is nothing strange about that.)

10:14: David Axelrod stresses the importance of the hand off and lets us know that certain senior staff members will be in place in the west wing before the ceremony has even concluded. I've really come to like this guy a lot, despite the fact that Deval Patrick is all his fault.

10:22: We get a replay of the arrival from a different angle and can clearly see Laura Bush handing off Michelle Obama's gift to an aid without ever opening it. “Yes, thanks, I'll cherish this forever.”

10:28: Doris Kearns Goodwin is wicked smahht. 'nuff said.

10:36: We meet a woman who slept in a DC office building overnight just to be sure she could be on the Mall before dawn. We don't get her name because her boss might be watching and she doesn't want to get in trouble. Um, you just showed your face on TV...

10:38: Cops from all over the country, more than 2000 in total, have been brought to Washington to supplement security and provide crowd control. Now word yet on how good a day the nation's criminal element is having. Hasn't anyone seen Die Hard with a Vengeance?

10:41: Ted Kennedy appears on the platform and takes his seat under his own power. He looks very good. Not as good as Magic Johnson, but still very good.

10:43: The procession from the White House to the Capitol begins with Jill Biden and Dick Cheney's nurse. (Honestly, it has been eight years and I have no idea what the Vice President's wife name is. I wonder if she knows how long he has been in that wheelchair?)

10:45: The First Ladies. Rachel Maddow explains that their clothes are from an acclaimed Cuban-American designer whose name I am not quick enough to catch, and that they are beautiful. Seriously, even Rachel Maddow is fascinated by the fashion? WTF, Rachel? I thought you were better than that.

10:46: Joe Biden and the wheelchair take the long way down the handicap ramp. Poor Joe is being shown up by Mr. Potter. (God how I wish I was the first to make that comparison.)

10:48: George W. Bush, in the company of Barack Obama, leaves the White House for the final time as POTUS. There were many times over the course of these last eight years when it was hard to imagine this day ever coming to pass. I have a countdown clock on this very blog that I never thought would hit zero. And now it has.

10:52: Chris Matthews opines that Obama is today accepting a torch that was first passed from Franklin Roosevelt to John Kennedy, and now from Kennedy to Obama. Bill Clinton would obviously disagree.

10:58: We learn from Rachel Maddow that the Bush family plans to head from Washington to Waco, TX for a celebration with longtime supporters such as Karen Hughes and Karl Rove. I can think of no more fitting place for George Bush to retreat to on this day than back into the arms of Karl Rove. Two terms, America. You gave these people two terms.

11am: The motorcade arrives at the Capitol.

11:03: The Supreme Court files out onto the platform. It is impossible to watch this scene unfold and not be struck by what it means to live in this country. We are transferring power from one faction to another, from one leader who could not be more different from his successor, and it is all happening peacefully, orderly, and according to the Constitution. This will make my pinko-leftist-liberal friends cringe, but there really is something to the notion of “American Exceptionalism”.

11:08: We learn that Secretary of Defense Robert Gates is the cabinet member chosen to watch the show from an undisclosed location. I think this makes perfect sense when you think about it. If some catastrophic event occurs that forces the absentee cabinet member to ascend to the presidency, it probably also means that we have been attacked and the shit has completely hit the fan. I want somebody who can kick a little ass to takeover in that situation—not the Commerce or Treasury Secretaries, and certainly not the head of Housing and Urban Development or Health and Human Services. It should be the guy who best knows how to make war. Always.

11:11: Mondale, Quayle, Gore…it is a murderer’s row of guys who just weren’t quite good enough to win the top job. (Yes, I know that is unfair to Dan Quayle. He really wasn’t even good enough to run for the top job.)

Then: We get our first glimpse of former President George H.W. Bush. You can see he is having trouble walking, is carrying a cane, and for the first time I can ever remember, he is looking old. He looks much worse than he did at the GOP Convention a few months back.

Jimmy Carter looks good. So does wife Rosalynn—is that her real hair color? Good for her.

11:16: We get our first glimpse of the Clintons. Surprise, surprise; neither looks particularly happy. Actually, they both look quite dejected. They walk solemnly down the stairway towards the podium, and Bill only reaches out and takes her hand when he notices the cameras. The he flashes the smile. Hillary, always a moment behind in these moments, is late to realize their situation has changed and we get a full 15 seconds of a beaming Bill and a scouring Hill.

Bush the First appears and shares a warm embrace with Bill Clinton. I’ve never quite understood the strange rapport that developed between those two, but their mutual reaction to one another did make it look like there is genuine affection there. If the elder Bush can look past all the faults of the man who defeated him in 1992 then that speaks greatly to his character. Too bad he raised a bunch of douche bag sons…

11:22: The formal announcement of the Clintons and the crowd reaction is off the charts. Now it is all smiles. They are rock stars on this day, as they are everyday, but they are only the opening act rather than the headliner. Smile, wave, and move on.

11:32: Boos for George W. Bush. That is in ridiculously poor taste. You don’t like the guy, I don’t like the guy, and it is debatable whether his own father even likes the guy, but he is the President of the United States and he deserves to be shown a little respect. Silence is a perfectly acceptable reaction. Booing is not.

11:35: The formal announcement of the minority congressional leadership brings out fewer boos, mostly because the booing element of the crowd has no idea who they are. This is the downside of inclusion.

11:38: The majority leadership appears on stage as the energy begins to build. We are getting close and you can feel the excitement. I just realized I’ve been pacing around the room for an indeterminate amount of time.

Is that time right? Are we going to make noon?

Joe Biden appears. No tears yet. Vegas has taken down the proposition bet that Joe will break down on stage today because the action against was non-existent. God I love this guy. That hair is so terrible it is truly fantastic. I’ve really come to believe Biden could have taken Bush four years ago. But if he had would be inaugurating John McCain today? Or Mitt Romney? Maybe. Would we be out of Iraq, and would their be a staggering number of now shattered American families that were still intact? Possibly.

11:42: Barack Hussein Obama strolls out onto the podium alone. His is the image of the collected leader. No display of nerves, nothing to indicate he is shaken by the oath he is about to take. Nothing rattles this guy. I wonder if he plays poker?

We are so ridiculously late right now.

11:45: Senator Diane Feinstein of California is our Master of Ceremonies. She gives a few brief remarks and takes her swing at history. Sorry, Diane, you would have to drop in a trio of well placed f-bombs for anyone to remember what you said on this day.

Feinstein wraps up and turns the microphone over to Rick Warren. I know nothing about Warren other than that he is no friend to the gays. Oh, and he did run a presidential symposium on faith that was attended by both Obama and McCain last July, and may very well have been rigged in McCain’s favor. (Something about confidential questions that weren’t quite confidential. It was over the summer, after the primaries and before the conventions, when most sane people - myself included - stopped paying close attention.)

Blah, blah, Jesus, blah, blah, America. That is more or less the gist.

11:53: Aretha Franklin performs the National Anthem. The anthem was necessary. Rick Warren was not. We are never going to make noon.

11:57: Justice John Paul Stevens is introduced to swear in the new VP. Joe Biden is all smiles, no tears. Crap, I would have totally lost that bet.

And just like that, the era of Richard Bruce Cheney comes to an end. This is almost as exciting a moment as what is still to come. Without Cheney, the story of the Bush years is completely different. Imagine the puppet strings being held by a puppeteer who wasn't the very picture of executive power run amok. It's OK. Go ahead. Imagine it.

Ahhh...

12pm: The top of the hour comes and goes while the Yo Yo Ma all-stars perform on stage. What was the point of this?

12:04: Chief Justice of the Supreme Court John Roberts is out to swear Obama in. A crawl along the bottom of the screen informs me that the transition of power became official four minutes ago regardless of whether or not the oath has been taken.

Just in case you are curious, yes, I am still pacing around the room. I could justify a drink since we have crossed over to the afternoon but I do let good judgment once again get the better of me. For now.

Roberts completely botches the first stanza of the oath. Obama knew it, too. That was not smooth. So we witness another element of Bush's legacy: our Chief Justice has trouble reading the English language.

President Barack Hussein Obama, fortunately, has a masterful command of the English language, and he nails what is a fantastic speech. “These things are old. These things are true.” Beautiful. The text has already been reviewed by smarter people than myself—praised and analyzed and shredded and defended.

Watch it in its entirety here.

Read the often insane but always brilliant Pat Buchanan's take on it here.

Final thoughts still to come...

Super Bowl Thoughts

I'm rooting for Arizona but thinking Pittsburgh will probably come away with the win. Either scenario will work from my point of view. I have great affection for Kurt Warner, Larry Fitzgerald and Anquin Boldin—the heart and sole of my recently vanquished 2008 fantasy football team. All three were studs, and seeing them display that this last month has been fun to watch. They are easy to support on any given Sunday and especially so given this particular opponent.

As for the Steelers, I still don't like them. But I've always said that while I don't like the Steelers, I don't respect the Colts, and for that reason and that reason alone I could live with another Super Bowl championship for western Pennsylvania.

Why? Because while it is without doubt that the team of this decade is the New England Patriots, there are many observers who would argue that the Indianapolis Colts are a close number two. A second championship for this Steelers team would shatter that myth forever. Anything that damages the undeserved stature of Dungy and Manning cannot be all bad.

So, go Cardinals...and hooray for silver linings, too.

Here's Hoping...

Here's hoping...

...that I do manage to someday soon put into words my feelings on the Inauguration and the beginnings of this new administration. They are many, but they are also jumbled, and to un-jumble the jumbled requires a level of concentration I have, as yet, been unable to muster.

...that the Boston Celtics do not sign Stephon Marbury. Sure, we need help at point guard, but Marbury? If you are so much of a clubhouse cancer that you can malcontent your way off the Knicks then you are no one I want to see playing for my team.

...that we have seen the last of the Bush family in the White House. Would this country really elect Jeb in 2012 or 2016? Never make the mistake of overestimating the intelligence of the American voter. This year was an anomaly—it is usually the lowest, not the highest, common denominator that wins out.

...that Jason (Captain .216) Varitek has played his last game for the Boston Red Sox. Maybe there were times when the conventional wisdom was right and I was wrong about this guy, and there probably is something to the notion that he managed pitchers as well as anybody this last decade. But even if all that is true, those days have come and gone. It is time to turn the page.

...that everything I took away from Charlie Wilson's War last night was spot on, because that movie was worthy of being called “wicked awesome”. Tom Hanks and Philip Seymour Hoffman were both outstanding, and even Julia Roberts failed to annoy me as she usually does. We really do always fuck up the end game, don't we?

And last but not least...

...that I am able to update this here page more frequently over the next few months than I have been over these last few.