Published on April 6, 2008 by Travel Punk

*  As college graduation nears, I thought I’d offer advice for those planning a backpacking trip through Europe. Please excuse the dated references (so many) as my journey was nearly two decades ago.

I can’t offer much in travel tips. My name’s not Fodor, I didn’t go to Berkeley, and you know, even if I did, I’m not exactly willing to pass on helpful suggestions to the goddamn masses. I mean, where were you when I was getting an anal probe from Colonel Klink at Checkpoint Charlie?

I won’t tell you what you should do in Europe– like munching on mushrooms in the Swiss Alps– since that could get me in trouble. The last thing I need is your mother laying a lawsuit on me because little Karen ate some fungi and sprained an ankle during a heated croquet match with a playing card… now, I never personally participated in the sport, but I must admit, I did bet on it once. So, in trying a responsible member of society (Christ, I’m almost thirty), I’ll tell you what you should not do when you finally decide to check your conformity bag at JFK and travel abroad. Yes, Europe’s been in decline for nearly twenty score, but one day, we will be them. It’s sort of like taking a gander at your girlfriend’s mom to gauge how savagely the vicious hand of time’ll spank her.

1. Don’t close your eyes in a Paris train station. Oh, you need to blink? Hmph. And I thought you left the comforts of America back in Willow’s Grove… I’ll have you know there are lizards out there that haven’t blinked since Watergate and they’re getting along just fine, thank you very much. If you have to indulge in compulsory bodily functions, have your bags spot-welded to your wrist. Yes, the French have their faults- too many to mention here- but I must say those fondue filching fops have the quickest fingers since that Thai girl at the massage– uh, sorry, different story… And should the unfortunate heist take place, please, don’t waste your time telling the police. You’ll get Cousteau pecking half a word a minute on a Vichy typewriter as you parlez-vous anglais that fateful moment when you decided to sneak a glance at your watch. Besides, they’re snickering at you the whole time, and there’s nothing worse than being scoffed at by a petty public official, particularly one who knows the words to La Marseillaise. But there is one fringe, or should I say, French benefit. When you’re a victim of such crimes, you do get a “curse-out-a-Frog-for-free” card. For me, this perk proved to be especially valuable since I was well versed in the gospel of George Carlin. Apparently, ’cocksucker’ is considered polite badinage in the land of voluntary surrender and moral ambivalence.
2. Don’t try to speak French. I know, I know. You heard Parisians appreciate it when Americans attempt to ask, “where‘s the nearest shitter?” in their native tongue (which, by the way, hardly sounds course at all in the Gaulic language). Well, let me tell you, that’s complete and utter merde (see, isn’t that better than shit?). When I checked my wine-stained backpack at the lobby of the Louvre– this is before it got stolen by the fop– I wanted to ask the attractive girl behind the counter which floor the Mona Lisa was located. The problem was I didn’t know exactly how ‘Mona Lisa’ translated, so I sheepishly inquired, “parlez-vous anglais?” To which the employee turned to her friend: “Isn’t that cute? Parlez-vous anglais?” She quickly shifted her cold, French dipped pupils towards me. “Yes, I speak English.” Now I know why they burned Joan of Arc… The point is, there’s absolutely no benefit in feigning to sound like them. It won’t get you better directions, it won’t get you a better table, and it sure as hell won‘t get you laid. Besides, who the hell wants to sound like Maurice Chevalier?

3a. Don’t eat at McDonalds. For God’s sakes, you’re not in Kansas anymore. Resist the temptation to order a Big Mac because you can fucking pronounce it. This is the type of unfettered jingoism that makes us the reigning scourge of the planet. Sure, it’s cheap and you know what you’re getting, like Trixie down at the massage- oops, did it again… In lieu of the Golden Arches, I want you to go to that charming little cafe on the Champs-Elysees that charges you 25 francs to breathe their rarefied air. And no, that leaf of parsley isn’t a garnish, Billy Bob, it’s the entree. Yes, you may starve, but at least you won’t go out a fat, dumb, happy American. And there’s no better place to rot away than the cruddy banks of the Seine. Hell, an auteur director might scoop you up, slap a beret on your scalp, and cast you in Les Mis.

3b. Don’t eat in Switzerland. Unless you want to blow your entire nest egg on a sliver of Gouda, just skip food entirely. Don’t worry if you’re about to succumb to famine– there’s always a benevolent Saint Bernard with a ready barrel of moonshine roaming the countryside.

4. Don’t board with a heroin addict. This is sort of the adult version of ‘don’t take candy from a stranger.’ I understand it seems obvious enough to avoid this pratfall, but if you’re a free-spirited soul and think reservations should be left to the Navajo, you just might find yourself on some sweltering afternoon trudging through Amsterdam with a 100 kilo North Face strapped over what used to be your shoulder. When this occurs, you essentially have two choices: get the hell outta Dodge or bunk with a convicted felon with a hankering for China Black. I know Frost suggests taking the path less traveled, but somehow I don’t think Bobby ever stayed up all night with an open Swiss knife at his side, ready to plunder the smacked up sonofabitch who charged him 20 guilders to bunk on the ratty floor of his Section 8 flop house… Or maybe he did, but it was definitely after that Two Roads yarn.
5. Don’t go to a porno theater in Amsterdam. Before you panic, let me stress something: I’m talking about theaters here, not the whores themselves. They’re not the problem. Frankly, from what I heard, you get reasonable portions at fair prices. Kinda like Denny’s. But the theaters? Hmph. You want to avoid them, like… well, like Denny’s. Now I had never been to a porno theater before. Titty bars, brothels, peep shows, the Oval Office, sure, but never a picture show… But there I was, in the red light district, browsing the lovely merchandise in the neon lit windows– who says guys don’t like to shop?– when I had a sudden urge to splurge. Instead of diving right in, though, I figured I’d whet my whistle at the local movie house– kind of like downing a few Jack and cokes at the homestead before hitting the bars. After plucking down seven guilders, I strolled through the seamy gates of Hell. Fearing the bodily fluids on the seats– and the distinct possibility of future ones– I chose to take in the cinematic treat standing up (what, you never saw Ben Hur on your feet?). Then, right in the middle of the pivotal chariot scene (it was a high budget porn), the hand of an elderly gent reached over and tried to grab my fanny pack. Like a Daisy air rifle, though, his shot fell a little short, hitting my half-erect penis instead. Now, either the guy was a thief or a pervert, but I wasn’t about to file an investigation. I immediately fled Gomorrah and proceeded to the nearest cafe, where I regained my masculinity by inhaling half an ounce of Saskatoon skunk. Lesson? Stick to the whores.
6. Don’t do laundry in Germany. And you thought that Econ final was tough? Try applying fabric softener in a Munich Maytag. Twain once remarked that German is a dead language. It’s a little known fact that he muttered these words while attempting to put his white suit on spin cycle… The worst thing is, no one’ll give you a hand. Even though most of these crew cut thespians speak English, ‘Allied’ is still not a sanctioned word in the Germanic language. Don’t fret, though, you’ll fit right in with your stench-laden apparel. It just so happens that ‘proletariat’ is the rage these days in the house that Marx built (Groucho gets most of the credit, but all the brothers pitched in… except Zeppo.)
7. Don’t mention Hitler in Munich. To Deutschlanders, this is the equivalent of screaming fire in an open theater. It’s not free speech and, yes, you will be punished. I learned this from chatting with the bike rental guy at the Munich train station. As I tackled a quart of Bavaria’s finest, I bantered with the American emigre, who spouted off the privileges of the European workforce. You know them bastards get 8 weeks of vacation a year? Imagine how good their cars would be if they wouldn’t knock off every Groundhog’s Day? Anyway, the conversation turned to Goethe, Bach, and that tennis chick who grunts every time her racket hits the ball. Then I dropped the Fat Man. The nanosecond ‘Hitler’ spewed off my tongue, the pedestrians shrieked and hit the deck as if a Sherman was rumbling through the station. My eyes darted around, searching for the Gestapo who I was convinced was going to goose step over and ship me off on the nearest train to Dachau… The problem is, the people of Munich have never gotten over the fact that The Fuhrer launched his World Tour here. They’ve actually been duped to think that the great Beer Hall Putsch was really just an elaborate advertising campaign by Beck’s. Yes, they’re a little obtuse– Bavaria’s considered the Texas of the U.S.- but what do you expect from the people who brought us lederhosen?
8. Don’t ride on an overnight train with drunken Irishmen. Now I don’t mean to disparage the fine folks of Ireland. Heck, I admire them for their sustained lobbying efforts to brand Guinness the fifth and final food group. But when you want to catch a little shut eye, blimey, avoid them like lepers- er, leprechauns. Imagine this: you’ve spent a tiresome day in Amsterdam, roaming around, smoking weed, drinking Heiny’s, perusing heinies, perhaps even grabbing a heiny, and now you’re bushed. You desperately need some sleep. You retire to your tiny Eurorail bed and shut the cabin door. Ahhhh. Peace at last, peace at last, lord almighty, peace at last. Then, as you’re about to fall into the deep comforts of REM, a gang of plastered Irishmen breaks out into a rousing rendition of Danny Boy. Of course, this is followed by a whole repertoire of lyrical hymns that have the depth of a Dice Clay monologue. You bury your head under your makeshift pillow and wish them damn fools would be just like their other countrymen and pass their time blowing up some abandoned Jaguar in Trafalgar Square.
9. Don’t get stoned and visit the Museum of Torture. Contrary to what you might think, there are actually some cultural exhibits in Amsterdam– they’re just hidden under that wafting cloud of bong smoke. Let’s see, uh… Rembrandt was big here a few centuries ago… There was that little girl who hid in the attic… They’re the perennial host of the prestigious Cannabis Cup. Oh, and they’ve got the single greatest museum in the civilized world: The Museum of Torture. Sure, there’s the Louvre and the Met, but in all honesty, once you’ve glimpsed one bowl of apples, you’ve pretty much seen them all. On the other hand, how many times have you viewed a wooden device that actually stretches your limbs until they snap off? It’d make a helluva infomercial… But, whatever you do, don’t sample the wares at the Grasshopper before you enter its hallowed halls. In a word, it’ll freak you the fuck out. Viewing these antiquated electric chairs with stony eyes will elicit feelings of pity and sorrow that were meant to be only experienced by victims of the Inquisition… or Cleveland Browns fans.
10. Don’t tell anybody you´re American. They hate you. It doesn’t matter that you just blew ten thousands lira on a genetically enhanced statue of David and that without your patronage their economy would strangely resemble Mozambique‘s, they loathe you. The one thing that unites Europe more than a David Hasselhoff convention is the common, deep-seated hatred for Uncle Sam. And since you are technically on their turf, it would be a fruitless task to defend Old Glory. (When they come here, though, feel free to kick their ass). So you must do the next best thing: lie. More specifically, tell them you’re Canadian. Better yet, throw down a few Canadian dollars, buy a little maple leaf, and slap it on your rucksack. See, to a European, Canada’s the cute, cuddly teddy bear who, through no fault of their own, is forced to share a bed with a monstrous boar who stays up to the wee hours of the night, devouring Doritos, waiting for the next Baywatch episode (the only difference is, we watch it for Pam Anderson). Besides, lying is an essential part of the European trip. And I’m not talking about white lies. Oh, no. I’m referring to the deepest, blackest prevarications your soul can muster. I mean, who the hell’s gonna know that you’re not really the star of some WB sitcom ? And, you know, if they do happen to call you on it, scurry through the nearest exit. The last thing you want is to befriend someone who actually watches the WB.

As long as I can remember, I’ve been infatuated with the Dallas Cowboys. They were my first love, America’s team. I was the proud owner of a Cowboys helmet, jersey, jacket, sneakers, comforter, pajamas, underwear, and dozens of other accessories. My favorite possession was a scruffy little teddy bear, a Dallas Cowboys T-shirt squeezed onto his chubby torso. I named him Roger, after our scrambling, never-say-die quarterback (his two enduring nicknames were Roger the Dodger and Captain Comeback). My mom, aunt, and cousin were also huge fans, often gathering together for important games. One of my earliest- and fondest- memories as a child was when Dallas beat Denver in the Super Bowl. The ‘Boys returned to the title game two seasons later, losing a nailbiter to the hated Steelers, my brother’s team. Dallas declined steadily over the following decade, bottoming out in 1989, the year I graduated high school, winning only one game. Four years later, however, they returned to glory, advancing to the Super Bowl. It was my good fortune that the game was being played at the Rose Bowl, the home stadium of UCLA, the college I was attending. There was no way I could miss it. The only problem was- and it wasn’t a trivial one- I couldn’t afford a ticket.

To pay for school and expenses, I worked part-time as a sales rep for the Los Angeles Times. From 4-8pm weeknights, and occasional Saturday mornings, I knocked on doors all over the city of Los Angeles, selling subscriptions. It was a brutal job. Aside from the constant, mind-numbing rejection, I was frequently yelled at, threatened with violence, seduced by older women and gay men, and attacked by a variety of dogs. The scariest night was when riots broke out after the Rodney King verdict. I was soliciting papers in a run-down section of Culver City, a block of cruddy apartment buildings. I rapped my knuckles on a door and, moments later, a stout, fortyish African-American man opened it warily. He gawked at my young, white face. “You better get in here.”

I watched TV on his living room couch, watching mayhem unfold less than 10 miles away. Not a word was uttered, though the racial tension was palpable. The genial man provided safe harbor till the LA Times van picked me at the designated street corner two hours later. I rode a metro bus home to Westwood that night, genuinely terrified, witnessing the city burn around me. Despite the horrors I endured on a nightly basis, the job taught me valuable skills, namely the ability to sneak into secured apartment buildings and the mental strength to shrug off rejection. It also provided me with an employee badge, the iconic Los Angeles Times font printed neatly over my picture. I would need the skills and the badge if I was to pull off the ultimate caper.

As luck would have it- destiny?- the Cowboys practiced on the UCLA campus the week leading up to the Super Bowl. The venue was fitting. After all, five Bruins were on the roster, including quarterback Troy Aikman- the new Roger. Appropriately, the Buffalo Bills, Dallas’ opponent, held their practices crosstown at USC, our bitter rival. I watched them scrimmage every chance I could, skipping a few classes in the process. Of course, this ‘watching’ was mostly seeing the uniformed players tramp past me before and after practice. But there I was, standing next to a slew of reporters, glimpsing the heroes of my youth. I noticed that all the media personnel had press passes dangling around their necks. The key was the lanyard, a thin metal one, composed of small, silver balls. I would need that exact type of lanyard if I was to pose as one of them. Chatting up one of the reporters, I uncovered valuable information: the media bus would be departing in front of the Century Plaza Hotel Sunday morning at nine.

I told my co-workers of my plan to crash the Super Bowl using my LA Times badge. The supervisor, Rob, a short, thirtyish Filipino, was surprisingly blase. Not only did he not try to quash my attempt, Rob encouraged me to ‘go for it.’ Bobby, a pudgy, affable Persian, expressed his desire to join me in the quest. He didn’t know the first thing about football- as I would soon find out- but he was up for an adventure. Bobby picked me up early Sunday morning at my fraternity house. We were both decked out in khakis and white dress shirts, my opinion of what sports reporters would wear to a landmark event- simple and classic. On the short drive to Century City, I coached Bobby on our backstory. We were interns at the LA Times: Bobby, the cameraman; me, the beat writer. To burnish his credentials, Bobby brought along a Nikon camera- not professional grade, but decent. For my part, I got hold of two lanyards with the little silver balls.

We loitered around the media bus with the reporters, our LA Times badges dangling on the shiny new lanyards. I recognized a few of them from the Cowboys’ practices. Despite our relative youth, we blended in fairly well, though we were careful not to interact with them. When the bus doors finally opened, Bobby and I filed on and plopped down in middle seats. So far, so good. Then, a harrowing thought crossed my mind: ‘What if it’s a full bus and every seat’s spoken for?’ Surely we’d be exposed as frauds. This apprehension vanished when the engine fired up. I flashed a grin at Bobby, the plan working beautifully. My anxiety returned, however, when Bobby nudged me. “What time’s kickoff?” I gritted my teeth, praying that no one around us heard him. “Don’t say another word,” I warned. We rode in silence the rest of the way.

The bus arrived at the Rose Bowl around 10. The golf course surrounding the historic stadium was already packed with cars and RV’s; the tailgating had started two hours ago. We were herded over to the Punt, Pass, and Kick exhibit, a variety of games where you test your football skills. The best part was the complimentary buffet for media members. Bobby and I scarfed down doughnuts and danishes, making sure to fill up before the game. Food at concession stand prices was not a luxury we could afford. After an hour or so, we were escorted towards the media gate.

This wasn’t my first time crashing an event. I had sneaked in to practically every UCLA home game, though student tickets were a mere five dollars. I credited my success to two reasons: having friends in front and behind me to provide cover as I fumbled through my wallet looking for my ‘ticket;’ and knowing the person manning the gate, typically a fellow student, didn’t really care all that much about the job. This time, though, would be different. The line to enter the stadium was orderly, single file, and the behemoth African-American man guarding the gate actually did care. He looked like a former NFL linebacker hanging on tangentially to the game he devoted his life to. Bobby and I stepped up to the gate. The man took one glance at our badges and snickered, bemused at our audacity.

“What? We’re interns.” The linebacker scoffed. “You can get that laminated at K-Mart.” Bobby tried to dart past him. The man grabbed hold of Bobby’s flabby arm, a hint of menace cracking through his calm demeanor. “Don’t.”

We were screwed. We would be stuck in the parking lot for the next eight hours or so, wandering around aimlessly, refugees refused access to the promised land. I almost cried knowing I was going to miss the game, a game I’ve been waiting for since I was six. Who knows if we could even get a ride back to Century City? Some of the reporters surely saw us get denied- laughed at, no less. I regretted the whole stupid plan. I would have been infinitely better off staying at home and watching the damn thing on TV.

Our options limited, I reasoned that our best shot was an old fashioned bum rush. Bobby and I waited in line with paying fans, who fished tickets out of their wallets and purses. Not only was the line single file, there was a staggered nature to it, a five second lapse between ticket holders stepping through the turnstile. This would be tougher than the media gate. Bobby was next. He strode towards the turnstile, camera slung around his shoulder, radiating confidence. I stood there, 15 feet behind the gate, my heart thumping. Bobby didn’t flinch. He marched right through the metal bar, holding up his camera, bellowing “I’m a camera man!”

The attendant at the gate, a pretty blonde in her late twenties, barked at him. “Hey!” She gestured angrily at Bobby, who didn’t break stride. “He doesn’t have a ticket!”

Scores of policemen were stationed all over the stadium, but apparently they didn’t hear her plea for help. I quickly trotted towards the turnstile, taking advantage of her diverted attention. My stomach touched the metal bar just as she locked it. The attendant glared at me, desperately trying to restore her authority. I explained that I was a reporter here to cover the game.

“The media gate’s over there.” And pointed to the spot where we were unceremoniously mocked. I turned away, discouraged. I was now alone, in a worse situation than before. Heck, Bobby made it inside and he didn’t even like football.

I had to give it one more shot. I owed it to my mom. aunt, and cousin- and myself. I met Bobby halfway around the stadium. I stood there, fingers clenching the chain link fence- me on the outside, Bobby on the inside- and devised a plan. It would be like a prison break, only in reverse. I would have to summon all my door-to-door experience, all my (limited) acting ability to pull this off. I waited in line at another turnstile. This time I pretended to be highly agitated. I glanced around, frantically searching for someone, as if my life depended upon finding this person. I noticed a policeman perched on a stool twenty feet from the gate I was about to crash. It was my turn to proceed. As I ambled towards the turnstile, a look of utter surprise spread across my face. I peered past the attendant and right at Bobby, who also acted bewildered.

“Jesus! There you are! You were you supposed to be at lot H!” I yelled. I hiked straight through the turnstile, flashing my LA Times badge. “I’m press!” My eyes never left Bobby. I heard the attendant holler at me, but I didn’t pay him any mind. I wrapped my arm around Bobby, “let’s get the hell outta here.” We walked briskly to the other side of the Rose Bowl, out of harm’s way.

The first thing I did was make a triumphant phone call to my mom. Thankfully, my cousin was there to enjoy the fruits of my scheme. After the call, Bobby and I bought a couple of beers, then tried to find seats. That, of course, was the tricky part. I didn’t think that far ahead. Naturally, the game was sold out (duh). We sat down in various aisles for short stints, until the ticket holders got upset at our presence. After all, they paid good money- hundreds if not thousands of dollars for their seats- and didn’t want some squatters cramming up their space.

We saw most of the game on TV’s positioned around the food and beverage stands. But as Dallas increased their lead in the second half, some Bills fans left the stadium. Bobby and I ended up watching the fourth quarter in seats, not far from where I watched dozens of UCLA games. Sipping beers, I shouted down a drunk Bills fans who cheered belligerently when Dallas’ Leon Lett famously fumbled away a sure touchdown late in the contest. “Scoreboard!” I screamed, silencing him. The Cowboys won, 52-17. I swaggered out of the Rose Bowl, a smile stapled to my face.

We rode the media bus back to the Century City hotel. The reporters who witnessed us get rebuffed were either too drunk or too nice (or indifferent) to raise objections. I regaled the Super Bowl story to my fraternity brothers and co-workers, many of whom were envious that they didn’t participate. Eight months later, I crashed the MTV music awards. Chris, my big brother in the frat, wanted to go with me. Aware that a fellow salesman on the crew (Brent) never got his badge- and that he and Chris looked alike-Chris and I drove to the LA Times headquarters downtown. In my new role as assistant sales manager, I explained to the security officer that ‘Brent’ needed a photo ID. After verifying his status as an employee, a picture was snapped and a badge produced.

Chris and I sneaked into the Universal Amphitheater (now the Gibson)- no drama this time, easy peasy- and hung out backstage with the likes of Michael Richards, Sinead O’Connor, and the band Arrested Development. A week later, after hearing all about my  exploits, Brent decided it was high time he got his badge. Imagine his surprise when he was informed, “you were just here ten days ago.” The next afternoon, I was summoned into Rob’s office where his boss, a hefty, bejeweled woman in her fifties, waited for me. Rob lobbied in my defense- I was, after all, the top salesperson on the crew, a young star on the rise- but the security breech was simply too much to overcome. I quietly surrendered my badge, knowing I’d never crash another event again.

He bore an uncanny resemblance to Howdy Doody. Freckles dotted his pale face, as if suffering from a perpetual case of measles, only these spots were brown and non-bumpy. His hair, jet black and bristly, like fibers of a steel wool pad, was parted in a style reminiscent of the 1950’s- the decade, ironically, that spawned the TV persona who effectively destroyed his childhood. He was all skin and bones, a skeletal presence lacking even the most rudimentary muscles.

Howdy Doody. The name haunted him. The derivations that followed were no less kind, if truncated. Doody. Doots. Dewey. Every one a shiv jabbed squarely in his Adam’s apple. Of all the knockoffs, ‘Doots’ acquired preferential status as the insult to inflict maximal pain. Any word or phrase with ‘dew’ in it became weaponized. Dewey Decimal System. Dew Point. Mountain Dew. Homonyms worked, too. Dewritos. Mr. Do. Deuteronomy. Taunts flew far and wide, a fusillade of barbs thinly veiled as questions from young, inquisitive minds. What are the names of Donald Duck’s cousins? (Huey, Louie, and Dewey). What’s the longest lasting battery? (Dewracell). What Police song topped the charts in 1980? (De Do Do Do Do, De Da Da Da).

There was no place to hide. Everywhere he went, the ridicule followed, an auditory plague that would torment him all through his teenage years. On the bus, in the hallways, at recess… even in the comfort of his own home, where a bicycle drive-by (Dew-why!) rattled the windows and, more perniciously, his soul. On multiple occasions, his mom, a hefty woman who held the unfortunate position as school lunch lady, interceded, usually with a brusque visit to my parent’s house. My older brother, after all, was an agitator par excellence (as I can personally attest). These interventions with my mother, though, generally concluded with a frosty detente that satisfied no one.

Along with my brother, Ralph was the biggest instigator. And the word ‘big’ fit him as snugly as the denim jacket- adorned with various sized pins of heavy metal bands- that habitually cloaked his oversized torso. Tall and lumpy, the most striking feature was his forehead, the result of a stubborn cowlick that forked his hair like a concrete divider on the highway. Physical features aside, his voice, cartoonishly loud and often obscene, was what you remembered. His bellow of ‘Dew-why!’ assaulted any and all eardrums within a mile radius. He pronounced it with flair, too, a synchronistic, downward thrust of his right arm. ‘Dew-why!’ The target of such a forceful vocal projection would surely be intimidated, if not terrified.

Einstein famously defined insanity as ‘doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.’ If that’s the case- and there’s no discernible evidence against Al’s maxim- then Doots was downright certifiable. Despite the invariable retreats to his house, he rarely refused an invitation to participate in our activities. Perhaps, he reasoned, this time would be different. That if he kept coming back, eventually we’d accept him. Like Charlie Brown and the football, an eternal hope betrayed his better senses.

Football was an afterschool tradition in the chilly autumn and winter months of eastern Pennsylvania. These pickup games, typically three on three, were held in my backyard. Doots never lasted more than fifteen minutes. A short pass to him- almost always thrown by me, who attempted to maintain a Swiss-style neutrality- resulted in a bone-jarring tackle, often by my brother. Doots would either clench his back, wincing, proclaiming he couldn’t go on, or, if in a feisty mood, spring to his feet, throwing punches. Regardless of his reaction, he would inevitably slog back to his home a few hundred yards away. The game would go on, seamlessly, as if he never participated.

More creatively (and far more nefarious), we crafted ruses for the sole purpose of antagonizing him. A Trivial Pursuit game, for instance, was manipulated to lob a ‘Dewey’ bomb upon the hapless fool. Knowing the participants and seating arrangements in advance, a card containing the word ‘Dew’ was placed strategically in the deck. After a brief round of fielding questions in history and geography, Doots would roll the die and, no matter which category he landed upon, be asked something on the order of: “What’s the fifth book of the Old Testament?” A panoply of snickers belied our sinister intentions. Without bothering to serve up an answer (Dewteronomy), he stalked out of the house, another early departure.

More than the fierce tackles and rigged board games, the cruelest form of our bullying was foisting an ersatz rival upon him. Barry Hausman was short, almost dwarflike, with an unkempt, sandy-haired moptop and thick glasses. He had an unusual habit of biting his knuckles when properly agitated. It was a strange sight to behold: one hand balled in a fist, the other crammed in his mouth. The skin on his left hand was red and broken, a public display of his oral fixation. He was the most unlikely foe to pit against Doots and, thus, all the more humiliating should Barry prove victorious. And with our help, that was all but assured.

There were three fights in all, wholly organized and promoted by my brother and my friends. The venues were, in sequential order: the bus stop, the banks of a nearby pond, and my backyard. The fights had rounds which, naturally, were unevenly timed, depending upon how Barry was faring. The diminutive brawler had us in his corner for tutelage and support; Doots, as always, was on his own. The first two battles were more or less even, neither scoring a knockout. Both combatants straggled away from the proverbial ring, slightly roughed up and fatigued, but incurring no real damage. The third bout, however, proved decisive.

After a lackluster initial round, we advised Barry on his opponent’s vulnerability. Spurred on by our expert counsel, Barry stormed out of the break and tackled Doots to the grass. He slithered and squirmed his way atop Doots’ back, executing the plan without flaw. Barry proceeded to jump on his spine, repeatedly, both knees hammering the fragile bone. Doots wailed and wailed until, mercifully, the fight was called. Barry’s arm was raised in triumph while Doots lurched home, hunched over, both hands wrapped around his back, caressing it. My neighbor called us sadists, a word I wasn’t familiar with at the time. Looking back, though, the term was more than apt. We celebrated Barry’s win, gleefully rehashing every detail of the fight, fully aware that the hefty lunch lady from school would soon pay us a visit.

• Originally published during the heated primary season… and more true today.

In an open letter to Republican primary voters, Stephani Cegielski, Trump’s former communications director, said the former reality star not only didn’t expect to be the nominee- let alone President- but that he never wanted to be. According to Cegielski, his campaign had but one goal: raise Trump’s profile. Now that he’s the front-runner, she claimed, his instinctive desire to win has taken over. While Trump may chalk up her comments as the grumblings of a former employee, they serve as a blueprint for his best case scenario this election season: get screwed in Cleveland.

If Trump somehow reaches the magic 1237 number, he’ll likely get stomped in the general election. Virtually every poll predicts a double-digit Clinton victory, with some forecasting a 20-point thumping. On the electoral map, the Center for Politics at the University of Virginia projects a Clinton landslide, 347 to 191. What’s also likely is that Trump will be blamed for splintering the GOP, a bitter Balkanization that could divide Republicans for years. An even worse scenario for Trump is not quite capturing the necessary delegates, then pleading and posturing until he’s awarded the nomination. Then, with the expected defeat in November, Trump will undoubtedly be vilified by the party- and, far more damaging to the businessman, his brand will have been tarnished.

But what if he somehow beats Hillary? She is, after all, a flawed candidates with unfavorables approaching Trumpian levels of abhorrence. And there’s that cloud of prosecution lingering over her. Well, what if he does win? He’ll learn quickly that being the leader of a country, particularly the most powerful in the world, is far more complex than running a business. You can’t fire those who disagree with you. You’ll have to compromise on issues that you swore you never would. More troubling, you’ll have to make good on all those promises made on the campaign trail: creating jobs, defeating ISIS, deporting illegals, imposing tariffs on China, and, of course, building the wall- and having Mexico pay for it. The odds of President Trump accomplishing all these feats are minimal, to be kind.

No, the best result for Trump is to come perilously close to 1237- one shy would be ideal- and have the rug pulled out beneath him. Let Cruz or Kasich or whomever the establishment anoints get slaughtered in November. Then, whenever the Clinton administration has a setback (and there’s always setbacks), Trump can go on all the talk shows- or heck, even his beloved Twitter- and boast about how much better everything would be if only he were in charge. His platitudes will have the luxury of never being tested. More so, he’ll enjoy the gravitas of being a victim of (in his terms) a political coup. Over the next four years, his supporters will beg him to run, candidates  will seek his endorsement, and the media will clamor for appearances. Trump, in effect, will become a martyr to many folks. And, more importantly, his brand will soar.

Movies have been entrenched in our nation’s zeitgeist since nickelodeons dotted the landscape at the turn of the 20th century. From the first celluloid rag beatifying the works of Chaplin to the latest TMZ reporter chasing down a drunken starlet, the world of cinema has shaped, molded, and often crafted popular culture. Ever since Griffith’s monumental albeit overtly racist oeuvre Birth of a Nation, Hollywood and Washington have been inextricably linked, its relationship waxing and waning over the years depending on the tides of social mores. The grubby milieu of politics wasn’t exposed until the typically mawkish Capra delivered a cynical gem, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, in 1939, a seminal year for film. Like other public figures, politicians have been judged, usually in a negative manner, against their on-screen personas. While many promising Jefferson Smiths have succumbed to the meat grinder of Congressional compromise, less desirable protagonists have had their share of imitators. Clinton was deemed, particularly on far reaches of the AM dial, to be a modern day Elmer Gantry, a slick, silver tongued preacher who eschews the values he proselytizes. Likewise, his successor was likened to the dimwitted Chauncey Gardiner, whose earthy folksiness was mistaken for profundity. As election day looms, the media, which now includes a disturbingly wide assortment of bloggers, is sure to stamp a cinematic simile on the candidates. For your consideration, I’d like to suggest the 1995 thriller Crimson Tide as a exemplary model for the 2008 campaign.

Directed by Tony Scott, Crimson Tide depicts a power struggle between two senior officers aboard a U.S. nuclear submarine that may or may not have been summoned to launch missiles at a suddenly chaotic Russia whose rebel leader, hellbent on terminating his enemies, may or may not have access to the country’s nuclear codes. Ramsey, the crusty, impulsive captain, authorizes a preemptive strike but is denied assent by Hunter, his Harvard educated yet wet behind the ears commanding officer, who happens to be three decades his junior and, oh yes, black. Beyond simple demographics, it’s a classic confrontation between experience and education, force versus diplomacy. In a nutshell, McCain versus Obama.

“Do you think I’m some crazy old coot endangering everyone as I yell yee-haw?”

No one in Washington has been a stronger advocate of aggressive military action in both Iraq and Afghanistan than Senator McCain. Despite his differences with Bush on such issues as tax cuts and campaign finance reform, McCain has become the administration’s mouthpiece for the War on Terror. Not content with maintaining the mission, he upped the ante by calling for additional troops. While the so-called surge undoubtedly has led to a decrease in violence, at least temporarily, his militaristic bent has struck trepidation in voters with a less hawkish stance. For those familiar with the film, you could easily imagine Ramsey, cigar clenched in his teeth, his face crinkled with prolonged laughter, palling around with his fellow officers, crooning “Bomb, bomb, bomb, bomb, bomb Iran.” The grizzled captain, in an early scene on the sub, boasted that not only he would have ordered the annihilation of Hiroshima, he would have “dropped the fucker. Twice.” In a similar tone of audacity, McCain declared he wouldn’t mind if troops were stationed in Iraq for one hundred years, let alone fifty. As any military historian can tell you, boldness often deteriorates into recklessness.

“You’re out of your league, Hunter. You’re not ready to make tough decisions.”

A lean resume has always been the albatross nipping at Obama’s vulnerable heel ever since he announced his candidacy one frosty day in Springfield. His work as a community organizer and law professor, along with his lone, truncated term in the US Senate, is hardly a suitable backstory for a Presidential aspirant. Similarly, his cinematic counterpart was awarded a tour of duty on the USS Alabama despite the fact he served only a single stint as commanding officer. While Obama deftly deflected the issue during the primary- though Clinton’s red phone ad still has a lingering effect- you can bet the Swiftboaters now employed in the McCain camp will slice open the wound and, for good measure, dump in the salt. As Captain Ramsey gripes to a loyal subordinate about Hunter: “The closest he’s come to combat is a policy seminar.”

“I’m the captain of this ship. Now shut the fuck up.”

McCain’s prickliness was evident in his first congressional race in ’86, when his Republican challenger suggested he was a carpetbagger. Concerns about his fiery temper were partly to blame for the Straight Talk Express derailing in 2000 when conservative kingmakers, notably Limbaugh and Hannity, questioned the Senator’s mental stability, heaping their support onto the untested governor of Texas. Perhaps worse, at least on a personal level, one of his own, Republican Senator Thad Cochran, expressed worries that his colleague was too erratic, too hotheaded to be commander in chief. A declaration which, knowing the Naval pilot’s insistence on absolute loyalty, must have stung, if not scarred.

By contrast, Obama’s equanimity has been his greatest attribute during the campaign. The image of him picking an imaginary strand of lint off his shoulder provides a portrait of his coolness under fire. Sure, Obama may qualify his remarks, as Ramsey accuses Hunter of doing, but there’s no denying his model temperament, particularly when compared to his crabby opponent. Likewise, the even-keeled Hunter seeks additional information- critical information- before he’s ready to light the match that could very well ignite a global conflagration. More time to obtain more data that leads to a more informed decision. A rational approach, to be sure, one that parallels the reasoning behind the inspection of Iraqi weaponry and, later, Obama’s objection to the invasion.

“The Lipizzan stallions are the most highly trained horses in the world. They’re all white.”

There’s no discounting the importance of race in this historic campaign. Obama addressed the complex issue in a courageous, if not necessary, speech, simultaneously broadening minds and, vastly more importantly to his campaign, soothing fears. While virtually all poll respondents deny that race will have an impact on their votes, anyone familiar with the Bradley effect has wisely adopted a cautionary approach. Like Obama, Hunter seems to have transcended race, blending seamlessly into a (subterranean) world that is nearly as white as its uniforms. McCain, for his part, has steered clear of these murky waters. Considering his party busting move to the left on immigration, McCain may be viewed as much a compassionate conservative as he is a maverick. It is a stubborn fact, however- and stubbornness in McCain is more than a passing streak- that he once voted against establishing a holiday for Martin Luther King, Jr. In later years, he regretted the vote, much like Ramsey, at the film’s conclusion, conceding the fact that he was, indeed, wrong. After all, the horses may be white, but, as Hunter declares, they were born black.

If the election follows script, Obama’s cool-headedness will win the day, retiring McCain to the Arizona sunset, and, in the process, tightening the knot between Washington and Hollywood. Much like Hunter, now in charge of the USS Alabama, Obama will have to lead our nation against an avalanche of adversity, both foreign and domestic. We can only hope- and hope is what will have propelled him to the Oval Office- that he isn’t out of his league and that he’s ready to make the tough decisions.

• published April 26, 2017 during the heated primary season

As I watched the cinematic gem Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (for at least the fifth time), I couldn’t help but ruminate on the similarities- and stark differences- between Jefferson Smith and Donald Trump, two neophytes thrust into the grimy muck of big league politics. They both face a world in turmoil. At the time of the classic film, Hitler threatens to conquer Europe, if not the world. Seventy-seven years later, the malignant forces are more varied and complex, but at least as dangerous. Likewise, the corruption that Smith encounters in the halls of the U.S. Senate is hardly dissimilar to the moneyed interests that dominate today’s political landscape. Jim Taylor, the fat cat calling the shots for Smith, is a black and white precursor to our current oligarchy, where a handful of billionaires drown their favorite candidates with endless buckets of cash.

Circumstances aside, the candidates themselves could not be any more different. While Jefferson, a starry-eyed idealist, was appointed to a Senate seat as a so-called stooge, Trump barreled his way to the top of the GOP class, all bombast and bluster, trampling everything in his path. Smith speaks of lost causes, loving thy neighbor, and ‘plain, ordinary kindness.’ Trump, on the other hand, declares Mexicans to be rapists and that Muslims should be banned, among his litany of insults and crude proclamations. And while Smith fights the good fight- he proposes to build a camp for kids- Trump promises to construct a wall. Smith’s a wounded lamb ambling naively into a den of starved lions. His secretary pleads with him: “Why don’t you go home? This is no place for you- you’re halfway decent.” Contrary to the Capra character, Trump has not only had little difficulty adapting to his new environment, he’s beating the pros at their own game. In fact, if there’s a cinematic equivalent to Trump’s ascension in an alternate field, it’s Chili Palmer, a loan shark turned Hollywood producer, in Get Shorty.

When Chili tells his loan shark buddy that he’s going into the movie business- “I’m thinking about producing”- his friend says, “What the fuck do you know about making movies?” Chili replies, “I don’t think the producer has to know much.” Indeed. Trump’s knowledge of policy, both foreign and domestic, is alarmingly suspect, even after eight months on the campaign trail. His speeches are largely composed of platitudes and blind assurances (‘Believe me, it’ll be great’), declarations typical of a teenager running for class president, not the highest office in the land. Regardless, much like Chili producing a movie with limited know-how, Trump’s the presumptive nominee. As Chili states, “I’m not gonna say any more than I have to, if that.”

“I can’t believe the way you do business out here. I can’t believe how fucked up your organization is.” You could imagine Trump saying this about the broken political system in general or, more specifically, about his rivals’ bloated campaigns. Take Jeb (!), for example. His campaign, coupled with his Super PAC Right to Rise, spent $130 million for what amounted to four delegates. After Bush quit the race, the modern day Jim Taylor’s threw their considerable weight behind his fellow Floridian, saturating the airwaves with anti-Trump ads. All to little effect. Rubio lost his home state by almost 20 points and suspended his campaign. Despite his inexperience, the businessman, much like the former loan shark, is showing the establishment how to get things done. When questioned on his credibility, Chili boasts, in his most alpha male voice: “I’m the guy telling you the way it is.”

“Rough business, this movie business. I’m gonna have to go back to loan-sharking just to take a rest.” Though Trump has chiseled out a clear path to the party’s nomination, he’s been bloodied and battered along the way (much, alas, like some protesters at his events). Rubio roughed him up a month ago, attacking his credentials as a businessman- and personal endowments- calling him a con artist. Cruz asserts he’s not a conservative; on some issues, in fact, he’s downright liberal. And those are the genteel jabs. Other political figures have deemed Trump a madman, a racist, and a misogynist. The media has jumped into the fray, as well, suddenly critical of the boorish creature they helped create. Still, Trump keeps forging ahead, seemingly impervious to all the backlash. Chili Palmer, for one, would be proud. When an imposing figure in Hollywood, trying to ascertain exactly how Chili fits into the power structure, asks: “You must bring something heavy to the deal.” Chili responds, “I do: me.” Trump would crack a knowing smile.

He bore an uncanny resemblance to Howdy Doody. Freckles dotted his pale face, as if suffering from a perpetual case of measles, only these spots were brown and non-bumpy. His hair, jet black and bristly, like fibers of a steel wool pad, was parted in a style reminiscent of the 1950’s- the decade, ironically, that spawned the TV persona who effectively destroyed his childhood. He was all skin and bones, a skeletal presence lacking even the most rudimentary muscles.

Howdy Doody. The name haunted him. The derivations that followed were no less kind, if truncated. Doody. Doots. Dewey. Every one a shiv jabbed squarely in his Adam’s apple. Of all the knockoffs, ‘Doots’ acquired preferential status as the insult to inflict maximal pain. Any word or phrase with ‘dew’ in it became weaponized. Dewey Decimal System. Dew Point. Mountain Dew. Homonyms worked, too. Dewritos. Mr. Do. Deuteronomy. Taunts flew far and wide, a fusillade of barbs thinly veiled as questions from young, inquisitive minds. What are the names of Donald Duck’s cousins? (Huey, Louie, and Dewey). What’s the longest lasting battery? (Dewracell). What Police song topped the charts in 1980? (De Do Do Do Do, De Da Da Da).

There was no place to hide. Everywhere he went, the ridicule followed, an auditory plague that would torment him all through his teenage years. On the bus, in the hallways, at recess… even in the comfort of his own home, where a bicycle drive-by (Dew-why!) rattled the windows and, more perniciously, his soul. On multiple occasions, his mom, a hefty woman who held the unfortunate position as school lunch lady, interceded, usually with a brusque visit to my parent’s house. My older brother, after all, was an agitator par excellence (as I can personally attest). These interventions with my mother, though, generally concluded with a frosty detente that satisfied no one.

Along with my brother, Ralph was the biggest instigator. And the word ‘big’ fit him as snugly as the denim jacket- adorned with various sized pins of heavy metal bands- that habitually cloaked his oversized torso. Tall and lumpy, the most striking feature was his forehead, the result of a stubborn cowlick that forked his hair like a concrete divider on the highway. Physical features aside, his voice, cartoonishly loud and often obscene, was what you remembered. His bellow of ‘Dew-why!’ assaulted any and all eardrums within a mile radius. He pronounced it with flair, too, a synchronistic, downward thrust of his right arm. ‘Dew-why!’ The target of such a forceful vocal projection would surely be intimidated, if not terrified.

Einstein famously defined insanity as ‘doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.’ If that’s the case- and there’s no discernible evidence against Al’s maxim- then Doots was downright certifiable. Despite the invariable retreats to his house, he rarely refused an invitation to participate in our activities. Perhaps, he reasoned, this time would be different. That if he kept coming back, eventually we’d accept him. Like Charlie Brown and the football, an eternal hope betrayed his better senses.

Football was an afterschool tradition in the chilly autumn and winter months of eastern Pennsylvania. These pickup games, typically three on three, were held in my backyard. Doots never lasted more than fifteen minutes. A short pass to him- almost always thrown by me, who attempted to maintain a Swiss-style neutrality- resulted in a bone-jarring tackle, often by my brother. Doots would either clench his back, wincing, proclaiming he couldn’t go on, or, if in a feisty mood, spring to his feet, throwing punches. Regardless of his reaction, he would inevitably slog back to his home a few hundred yards away. The game would go on, seamlessly, as if he never participated.

More creatively (and far more nefarious), we crafted ruses for the sole purpose of antagonizing him. A Trivial Pursuit game, for instance, was manipulated to lob a ‘Dewey’ bomb upon the hapless fool. Knowing the participants and seating arrangements in advance, a card containing the word ‘Dew’ was placed strategically in the deck. After a brief round of fielding questions in history and geography, Doots would roll the die and, no matter which category he landed upon, be asked something on the order of: “What’s the fifth book of the Old Testament?” A panoply of snickers belied our sinister intentions. Without bothering to serve up an answer (Dewteronomy), he stalked out of the house, another early departure.

More than the fierce tackles and rigged board games, the cruelest form of our bullying was foisting an ersatz rival upon him. Barry Hausman was short, almost dwarflike, with an unkempt, sandy-haired moptop and thick glasses. He had an unusual habit of biting his knuckles when properly agitated. It was a strange sight to behold: one hand balled in a fist, the other crammed in his mouth. The skin on his left hand was red and broken, a public display of his oral fixation. He was the most unlikely foe to pit against Doots and, thus, all the more humiliating should Barry prove victorious. And with our help, that was all but assured.

There were three fights in all, wholly organized and promoted by my brother and my friends. The venues were, in sequential order: the bus stop, the banks of a nearby pond, and my backyard. The fights had rounds which, naturally, were unevenly timed, depending upon how Barry was faring. The diminutive brawler had us in his corner for tutelage and support; Doots, as always, was on his own. The first two battles were more or less even, neither scoring a knockout. Both combatants straggled away from the proverbial ring, slightly roughed up and fatigued, but incurring no real damage. The third bout, however, proved decisive.

After a lackluster initial round, we advised Barry on his opponent’s vulnerability. Spurred on by our expert counsel, Barry stormed out of the break and tackled Doots to the grass. He slithered and squirmed his way atop Doots’ back, executing the plan without flaw. Barry proceeded to jump on his spine, repeatedly, both knees hammering the fragile bone. Doots wailed and wailed until, mercifully, the fight was called. Barry’s arm was raised in triumph while Doots lurched home, hunched over, both hands wrapped around his back, caressing it. My neighbor called us sadists, a word I wasn’t familiar with at the time. Looking back, though, the term was more than apt. We celebrated Barry’s win, gleefully rehashing every detail of the fight, fully aware that the hefty lunch lady from school would soon pay us a visit.

Movies have been entrenched in our nation’s zeitgeist since nickelodeons dotted the landscape at the turn of the 20th century. From the first celluloid rag beatifying the works of Chaplin to the latest TMZ reporter chasing down a drunken starlet, the world of cinema has shaped, molded, and often crafted popular culture. Ever since Griffith’s monumental albeit overtly racist oeuvre Birth of a Nation, Hollywood and Washington have been inextricably linked, its relationship waxing and waning over the years depending on the tides of social mores. The grubby milieu of politics wasn’t exposed until the typically mawkish Capra delivered a cynical gem, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, in 1939, a seminal year for film. Like other public figures, politicians have been judged, usually in a negative manner, against their on-screen personas. While many promising Jefferson Smiths have succumbed to the meat grinder of Congressional compromise, less desirable protagonists have had their share of imitators. Clinton was deemed, particularly on far reaches of the AM dial, to be a modern day Elmer Gantry, a slick, silver tongued preacher who eschews the values he proselytizes. Likewise, his successor was likened to the dimwitted Chauncey Gardiner, whose earthy folksiness was mistaken for profundity. As election day looms, the media, which now includes a disturbingly wide assortment of bloggers, is sure to stamp a cinematic simile on the candidates. For your consideration, I’d like to suggest the 1995 thriller Crimson Tide as a exemplary model for the 2008 campaign.

Directed by Tony Scott, Crimson Tide depicts a power struggle between two senior officers aboard a U.S. nuclear submarine that may or may not have been summoned to launch missiles at a suddenly chaotic Russia whose rebel leader, hellbent on terminating his enemies, may or may not have access to the country’s nuclear codes. Ramsey, the crusty, impulsive captain, authorizes a preemptive strike but is denied assent by Hunter, his Harvard educated yet wet behind the ears commanding officer, who happens to be three decades his junior and, oh yes, black. Beyond simple demographics, it’s a classic confrontation between experience and education, force versus diplomacy. In a nutshell, McCain versus Obama.

“Do you think I’m some crazy old coot endangering everyone as I yell yee-haw?”

No one in Washington has been a stronger advocate of aggressive military action in both Iraq and Afghanistan than Senator McCain. Despite his differences with Bush on such issues as tax cuts and campaign finance reform, McCain has become the administration’s mouthpiece for the War on Terror. Not content with maintaining the mission, he upped the ante by calling for additional troops. While the so-called surge undoubtedly has led to a decrease in violence, at least temporarily, his militaristic bent has struck trepidation in voters with a less hawkish stance. For those familiar with the film, you could easily imagine Ramsey, cigar clenched in his teeth, his face crinkled with prolonged laughter, palling around with his fellow officers, crooning “Bomb, bomb, bomb, bomb, bomb Iran.” The grizzled captain, in an early scene on the sub, boasted that not only he would have ordered the annihilation of Hiroshima, he would have “dropped the fucker. Twice.” In a similar tone of audacity, McCain declared he wouldn’t mind if troops were stationed in Iraq for one hundred years, let alone fifty. As any military historian can tell you, boldness often deteriorates into recklessness.

“You’re out of your league, Hunter. You’re not ready to make tough decisions.”

A lean resume has always been the albatross nipping at Obama’s vulnerable heel ever since he announced his candidacy one frosty day in Springfield. His work as a community organizer and law professor, along with his lone, truncated term in the US Senate, is hardly a suitable backstory for a Presidential aspirant. Similarly, his cinematic counterpart was awarded a tour of duty on the USS Alabama despite the fact he served only a single stint as commanding officer. While Obama deftly deflected the issue during the primary- though Clinton’s red phone ad still has a lingering effect- you can bet the Swiftboaters now employed in the McCain camp will slice open the wound and, for good measure, dump in the salt. As Captain Ramsey gripes to a loyal subordinate about Hunter: “The closest he’s come to combat is a policy seminar.”

“I’m the captain of this ship. Now shut the fuck up.”

McCain’s prickliness was evident in his first congressional race in ’86, when his Republican challenger suggested he was a carpetbagger. Concerns about his fiery temper were partly to blame for the Straight Talk Express derailing in 2000 when conservative kingmakers, notably Limbaugh and Hannity, questioned the Senator’s mental stability, heaping their support onto the untested governor of Texas. Perhaps worse, at least on a personal level, one of his own, Republican Senator Thad Cochran, expressed worries that his colleague was too erratic, too hotheaded to be commander in chief. A declaration which, knowing the Naval pilot’s insistence on absolute loyalty, must have stung, if not scarred.

By contrast, Obama’s equanimity has been his greatest attribute during the campaign. The image of him picking an imaginary strand of lint off his shoulder provides a portrait of his coolness under fire. Sure, Obama may qualify his remarks, as Ramsey accuses Hunter of doing, but there’s no denying his model temperament, particularly when compared to his crabby opponent. Likewise, the even-keeled Hunter seeks additional information- critical information- before he’s ready to light the match that could very well ignite a global conflagration. More time to obtain more data that leads to a more informed decision. A rational approach, to be sure, one that parallels the reasoning behind the inspection of Iraqi weaponry and, later, Obama’s objection to the invasion.

“The Lipizzan stallions are the most highly trained horses in the world. They’re all white.”

There’s no discounting the importance of race in this historic campaign. Obama addressed the complex issue in a courageous, if not necessary, speech, simultaneously broadening minds and, vastly more importantly to his campaign, soothing fears. While virtually all poll respondents deny that race will have an impact on their votes, anyone familiar with the Bradley effect has wisely adopted a cautionary approach. Like Obama, Hunter seems to have transcended race, blending seamlessly into a (subterranean) world that is nearly as white as its uniforms. McCain, for his part, has steered clear of these murky waters. Considering his party busting move to the left on immigration, McCain may be viewed as much a compassionate conservative as he is a maverick. It is a stubborn fact, however- and stubbornness in McCain is more than a passing streak- that he once voted against establishing a holiday for Martin Luther King, Jr. In later years, he regretted the vote, much like Ramsey, at the film’s conclusion, conceding the fact that he was, indeed, wrong. After all, the horses may be white, but, as Hunter declares, they were born black.

If the election follows script, Obama’s cool-headedness will win the day, retiring McCain to the Arizona sunset, and, in the process, tightening the knot between Washington and Hollywood. Much like Hunter, now in charge of the USS Alabama, Obama will have to lead our nation against an avalanche of adversity, both foreign and domestic. We can only hope- and hope is what will have propelled him to the Oval Office- that he isn’t out of his league and that he’s ready to make the tough decisions.

The bus sputtered down Almond Drive, farting out all sorts of grunts and wheezes. She was an old girl, all right, number 66. Even older than Bill himself, our silver-haired driver. He was retired, years removed from another career, another life. But this was no way to spend the golden years. Carting around a bunch of peckerheads, glaring steely-eyed through the rearview mirror, barking at ‘em to ‘keep your hands inside!’ and ‘knock it off!’ Poor bastard. Probably stews on the fact he should have chosen a better line of work the first go round. Probably yearns to ram this yellow bucket into the nearest pond, take us down with him. After all, we didn’t know the horrors of the world. We didn’t know the pain… but hold on- wait… why let the lil’ weasels check out on a high note? Fuck ‘em. Let ‘em grow old, they’ll see. They’ll see for themselves. He snickered, pleased with his latest thought. So pleased he nearly barreled through the stop sign at the bottom of the hill.

My head jerked forward, slamming into the thin, green seat in front of me. I’m sure the old sonofabitch snickered again, despite suffering whiplash himself. I’ll take ’em down with me. But all I heard was the whoosh, the airy sound of the doors, those twin portals of freedom, spreading wide its rubber coated wings. Whoosh. I imagine that’s the sound the heavenly gates make when they welcome in the latest inductee.

I scurried down the aisle, weaving past slower, less motivated students, a tailback hitting the hole. For some reason, they didn’t share my haste. Didn’t they know this was the first Monday of the month? That a teacher’s conference closed down the school an hour early? That it’s now 2:15 instead of 3:15?… They knew. Of course they knew. They just didn’t have anything to do, that’s all. Nothing important, anyway. They were merely grateful for the truncated schedule, a reprieve from that dreaded last hour of class when the clock all but freezes. No, they’d be content to fritter away the early dismissal with cartoons or video games. That’s what ten-year-olds do (well, at least they did in 1983, the time of this story). Most of them, anyway. My friends and I were more prudent. We knew there was only one way to milk the bonus frame.

Channel 27. Just the mention of it sounds dirty. Filthy. Not be uttered in respective company. The local TV guide labeled it ‘gaiety/nudity.’ Thankfully, I never saw any evidence of ‘gaiety,’ but there sure was an abundance of the latter. And I’m not talking teasing glimpses of flesh, a sliver of breast here, a slice of bush there. I’m talking porn, raw and nasty, pumped right into split-level suburbia, behind all those picket fences. As I later discovered, my town in eastern Pennsylvania was only one of two in the entire country whose basic cable package included the hard stuff. There it was, pornography, a third class citizen, sharing the stage with the HBO’s and ESPN’s of the world, mingling freely, without discrimination, without barriers. It was beautiful.

Like any good thing, though, there were limits. Actual content aired just three times a day: one in the morning, one in the afternoon, and nine at night. The rest of the schedule was slated for snow, the salt and peppery kind with the ear piercing hum. For me, the late night viewing was out of the question. There was simply no justification for sneaking downstairs at that hour, especially with the creaky steps alerting my every footfall. I suppose Christmas morning would provide a plausible excuse, but that’s hardly the time to indulge in prepubescent fantasies. So the 1 a.m. show was out. So, too, was the nine o’clock feature. That was prime time, a slot reserved for mainstream fare, be it a sitcom, drama, or, Monday nights in the fall, a football game. Not that I would choose any of those options over porn. I wouldn’t. But there was only one cable box in the house and my mom had veto power. This was her time to unwind, to ‘catch up’ on her shows. None of these, to my knowledge, included the slightest hint of anal penetration. God help me if they did.

That left the matinee. For nine months a year, school precluded this option. The presence of my parents ruled out any weekend viewing. The lone shot we had was early dismissal. Occasionally, a snowstorm did the trick. Problem was, if the conditions were severe enough, my mother would skip work (my dad, never) and stay at home. Besides, if there was ample snow on the ground, other activities like tobogganing or ice hockey or even a good snowball fight took precedence. After all, we were kids. Only on the first Monday of the month did we act otherwise.

By the time Ralph dawdled into the house, we were already hunkered down in our positions. They were as natural and irrevocable to us as the seating arrangement in class. Ruch stood a few feet from the TV, clenching the remote, his trigger quick fingers on the ready. His main duty was to bury evidence if enemy troops should ambush. His more immediate function was to handle volume control, boosting the soft ahhhs and tempering the shrill uggghs. He had a certain talent for it.

Jeff, Raab, and I shared the couch while Chad, my next door neighbor, knelt down in the corner of the living room. This unusual stance served two functions: first, it gave him an advantage should he be forced to flee; second, and far more importantly, it concealed his erection. For the rest of us, a strategically placed throw pillow on the crotch did the trick. Of course, we’d never admit to having a boner, let alone covering one up. You’d think it’d only be humiliating if you didn’t have one, but that rationale never seeped into our collective minds. An erection was our scarlet letter, a damning  sign not of moral turpitude, but of weakness. Plain, utter weakness. And to a fourth grader, there was nothing worse than that.

The blonde cheerleader whipped off her blue and white skirt- so casual, so quick- and tossed it aside. There was nothing underneath. Just a triangle, a splotch of dark brown hair… huh, that’s weird. Yellow on top, brown below. I was perplexed, baffled by the mysteries of adulthood. I knew I wasn’t the only one stung by this enigma, but naturally, no one uttered a word. Ignorance of such matters fell just beneath weakness on the wuss scale.

The guy’s head was right smack in the triangle, obliterating it. His tongue was going to town, left, right, north, south, an alley cat lapping a saucer of fresh milk. What in the world’s down there? Must be good, whatever it is. Look at him go! Bet it tastes like chocolate down there. Vanilla, actually. Leave chocolate for the black girls. Hey, maybe different girls had different flavors. How cool would that be! Sample ‘em all. All- wait, that’s a lot of flavors. Way too many. I mean, geez, just the Chinese alone…

The cheerleader was emitting strange noises, as if she was in pain. Was that creep hurting her? Cancel that, she just smiled. She likes it! Now she’s asking- Christ, begging!- for more. Deeper, harder. Man, oh man, I never carried on like that before, not even when the Phillies won the World Series. Would I ever? You know, now that I look at him, the guy, he’s kind of pudgy. Sorta ugly, too, with that potbelly and that bushy mustache. And old. Older than my dad even. I could get a hotter girl than that, I’m sure. When I get the chance I’m gonna do this every freakin’ day. You watch.

I heard the crunch. The sound of tires rolling over pebbles. I had the only driveway in the neighborhood that wasn’t covered with macadam- just loose stones, millions of ‘em. But I wasn’t complaining, far from it. For once, my dad’s cheapness paid off. The crunch was our alarm system, tried and true.

Chad sprung to his feet with military quickness. Ruch flicked the channel. The moans morphed into mild applause, the cheerleader to a cowboy, the locker room to a rodeo pit (these were the early days of ESPN when third tier sports dominated the programming schedule).

“Jesus Christ! It’s just someone turning around,” Ralph said, his right hand buried deep in a bag of knockoff Doritos. The cessation of the crunch confirmed Ralph was right. But paranoia had not just become an accepted mindset, it was de riguer. Fact of the matter was we couldn’t take any chances. Not anymore, not after the incident. Last summer, on a muggy August afternoon, Jeff and I got busted.

My mom was in the kitchen, chopping carrots for some sort of Hungarian stew. Jeff and I were down in the living room, sprawled out on the carpet, a few feet in front of the TV. We had grown so comfortable, so brazen in partaking of our sinful habit, we deemed ourselves impervious to capture. The culprit was Candie Goes to Hollywood. Sweet, sweet Candie, fresh in town to pursue an acting career. And those scummy producers with the potbellies and bushy mustaches. They didn’t deserve her… her and those tanned legs… those perky tits… that holy triangle. Deeper, harder, indeed.

The stairs creaked. Jeff shot me a look. Quick, quick. I should have clicked the remote. But I stalled. Not out of panic, but pride. Stupid, stupid pride. I waited for one more pelvic thrust, one more oh, god! Only when my mom’s red socks were in plain view did I change the channel. I punched two buttons, the first two my fingers found. There were so many goddamn stations, even in 1983, surely I’d land on one.

A buzz blasted out of the TV. The screen, black and white. “I know what you’re watching,” my mom said. My twitchy fingers punched two more keys. A louder hum. I made the mistake of looking up. Her face was wrangled in an expression of motherly angst that I’d never seen before.

“I’m telling dad.”

“What?” I replied weakly. I was doomed. I knew it. Jeff knew it. My mom sure as hell knew it. But my pride, the guilty party itself, wouldn’t allow such an abject surrender.

I flicked on ABC’s Wide World of Sports, then cranked up the volume. Two seconds later, I switched back to the dead channel- on purpose. My hope was that my mother would hear the hum and think, ah, so that’s it. He’s not a pervert, bless his heart. He’s just bad with the remote. My whole case rested on it.

Jeff and I suffered no recriminations. Not because I duped my mom or because she held her tongue. No such luck, on both counts. The truth was my parents weren’t comfortable discussing the issue. Son, what you were watching was naughty. My dad would never utter those words, not in a thousand years. He just wasn’t the type. Laborers in cement plants usually aren’t. He wasn’t one to dish out fatherly platitudes, never gave me the talk. Once, in high school, he broke the usual silence at the dinner table by saying, “I don’t wanna hear about you using drugs.” He even pointed his fork when he said it. But that was it, that was his big speech. It took less than three seconds.

While I escaped punishment, the remote control wasn’t so fortunate. The first victim was the number 7. It was yanked out like a rotten bicuspid. This cruel act of vengeance proved feckless. All we had to do now was press 26, then the + key. Voila! Porn again, naturally. My dad was no fool, he knew. A week later he sentenced another key to its death, rooting out the 2. We were not deterred. Like any criminal worth his salt, we discovered the loophole: hit 30, then the – button. No one could keep Candie from us, not without a bare knuckled brawl. My father, though, was a determined foe. I imagined him lying in bed, conjuring up ways to keep his son and his band of misfits from viewing the filth. Not tonight, hon, I’m plotting.

A couple of days later, he struck back- with Sicilian gusto- whacking those under appreciated, oh-so-handy buttons, the + and the -. I hated to see them go. But what I really hated was the way the remote looked, like a wounded soldier returning from an unpopular war. A cripple. With four missing limbs. It didn’t deserve such a fate, it never did anything to nobody. An innocent victim caught in the crossfire, in a battle of wits between a cop and a thief, a father and a son. And whenever there’s battlefield casualties, the question must inevitably be raised, to what end? To what purpose? Okay, so the remote was rendered useless. So what? Now we’d just use the buttons on the actual cable box, the way old timers used to, the way Bill probably still does. War, war, what is it good for?

It was difficult to believe my father, a veteran of the United States Navy, failed to foresee this simplistic fix. I mean, what was he going to do next? Tear out the buttons on top of the box? Christ. The question I really wanted to ask- the question I’d pay good money to have answered- was what did the guests think when they glimpsed the remote? What if they actually had to use it? How would my parents explain that? Somehow, I don’t think it would involve the truth.

I’m coming! I’m coming! The pudgy guy was really giving it to the cheerleader, plunging in and out, faster and faster, and, yes, harder and deeper. She was convulsing. And so were we. The worst part of being aroused was the indeterminate length of the boner. I couldn’t just make it go away. And the concept of masturbation was a hazy one at best. All I knew about the subject was that weren’t supposed to do it, that you’d either go blind or go to Hell, possibly both… Do all blind people go to Hell? Does God assume you got that way whacking off? Nah, he would know. He has to, he’s God, for Christ- no, blind people go to heaven, I’m sure of it. They may not see the pearly gates, but they couldn’t miss the sound. Whoosh.

I didn’t hear the crunch. None us of did. Not even Chad, our trusted scout. The moans and the shrieks and the oh, god!’s drowned out everything but our lusty visions. That’ll be me one day. You watch. The pudgy guy stroked his penis up and down, madly, a thousand strokes a second. Then, all of a sudden, a geyser of white stuff, this milky juice, spewed forth. The gunk sprayed everywhere, a busted fire hydrant, raining all over her tits, her face, her hair, that mane of dark hair. She dipped her index finger in a puddle of the juice and licked it. Whoa! What does that taste like?

The garage door chg-chg-chugged open, the sound a roller coaster makes inching up a steep incline. Chad fired to his feet, boner be damned. He tried to appear innocent, but fear pockmarked his face. It was as noticeable as a full blown case of chicken pox. Ruch switched stations. Till next month, cheerleader. I flung aside the pillow- evidence?- while Ralph licked the orange dust off his fingers, not a care in the world.

My mom shuffled through the door. Halfway through, she froze. Her eyes drank in the scene, sifting through the evidence: six kids, lounging around the living room… at this hour, a school hour… watching, of all things, a rodeo.

“Hi, Mrs. Sywensky,” Ruch said, in a singsong voice.

She eyed him impishly. “Mister Ruch.” She glanced at the mutilated remote in his hand, then marched across the carpet, up the stairs, out of sight. Gone. Did she know? There was no hard evidence, I was sure of that. Only circumstantial. I knew the alibi didn’t help. I mean, yeah, we were sports fans, but a rodeo? Besides, all she has to do is suspect we were watching it. ‘Beyond a reasonable doubt’ held no water, not in this house, not when you’re on probation- porn probation, no less. I wondered what my dad’s next move would be…

I’ll bet he gets rid of the whole damn thing. Bust the cursed box into shrapnel. He’d do it, all right. Even though I’m sure he’s no stranger to Channel 27 himself. Probably knows all about Candie and the cheerleader and that pudgy guy with the mustache. Still, he’d chuck it. Just to spite us, just to win the war. Take us down with him. That’s what Bill would do.

I spent the afternoon drinking with two young Republicans, perhaps the only lingering Bushites who didn’t bail town that historic- and brutally cold- day 8 years ago. We were hunkered down at a Holiday Inn bar, a mile or so away from the massive throng of people congregating at the National Mall, watching (or, more likely, listening to) Obama being sworn in. They were in their early 20’s, Evan and Rachel, two out of work staffers, more disconcerted over the fact W. couldn’t run for a third term than McCain- a less than staunch conservative- failing to win the election. Watching the small TV behind the bar, they jeered at our new President as he delivered his speech. I admonished the millennials (I was a decade older, in my 30’s), proclaiming that this was Obama’s day and they should respect the process- and, in turn, democracy. They grumbled into their beers, obliging, perhaps, because I bought had the pints.

I arrived in Washington as dawn broke, a brilliant reddish-orange sunrise providing a worthy backdrop for the momentous event. The Greyhound bus left New York City sometime after midnight. Though I waited in line for over an hour, I deemed myself fortunate to make the cut, considering the slew of disappointed ticket holders left behind in Port Authority. The five hour bus ride was one of unmitigated joy. The sixty or so passengers- mostly black, mostly young- shared food, swapped stories, and belted out songs of hope and victory.  An overwhelming sense of pride swelled inside me- a feeling that hasn’t been duplicated since, and likely never will.

I had no concept of what a million people looked like. Few, I imagine, do. The largest crowd I had ever seen was 100,000 or so at the annual UCLA-USC football game. At least ten times that number flocked to D.C. that bone chilling day. And, unlike the collegiate turf war in Los Angeles, there was no division of partisanship in this gathering. As I strolled towards the Capitol with the rest of the herd, passing a multitude of vendors hawking everything from hot chocolate to bumper stickers, anxiety coursed through my body. Despite the wondrous bonhomie that electrified the air, it was far too much stimuli to handle, particularly for one prone to crippling panic attacks.

The tunnel that led towards the Capitol was already clogged with an impenetrable cluster of happy, smiling faces- all ages, all races- some chanting, some singing. Not wanting to be trapped in the burgeoning crowd, I stood atop a five-feet wall outside the entryway. From every direction, swarms of pedestrians, thousands and thousands of ’em, streamed towards the Capitol, a never ending flow. Perched on an elevated platform, alone, eyes soaking in the majestic scene, more than a few participants thought I was a cop (or FBI agent), searching for troublemakers. When I politely refused their invitations to join them in the celebration, their suspicions were seemingly confirmed. But there was no way I was going to thrust myself into that claustrophobic horde of bodies, no matter how harmonious- in the bitter cold, no less. History took a backseat to pragmatism. I hopped off the wall, burrowed through the crowd- a salmon going against a fierce current- and, like any anxiety-riddled traveler, went searching for the nearest bar.

By the time the speech was over, Evan and Rachel were good and drunk. They dropped their partisan angst and gave into the weightiness of the moment. Engaging in jocular banter, I asked Evan to name three accomplishments of the Bush administration. Hard pressed to find an answer- to be fair, the alcohol had taken effect- he slurred that ‘Bush wasn’t a racist,’ an indirect reference, I suppose, for his aid package to Africa. When the karaoke began, he became loud and boisterous. So much so, the bouncer (yes, the Holiday Inn had a bouncer that day) kicked him out. With Rachel’s prodding, I lobbied on his behalf. Maybe because he considered me a responsible adult- I was mistaken for many erroneous attributes that day- the bouncer grudgingly allowed Evan back inside.

An hour later, thoroughly intoxicated, it was time to say goodbye to my new friends- we said we’d keep in touch, but, naturally, never did- leaving Rachel in charge of Evan’s supervision. I stumbled out of the bar and staggered back towards the bus station. I had to catch the 6 o’clock Greyhound to Philly, where I would fly back to Los Angeles. Tramping through the frigid conditions as dusk settled in, I was comforted by the notion that I had witnessed, firsthand, a glorious piece of American history, even if it was at a third-rate hotel with a couple of Obama haters.