During the college years, nothing quite compared with winter break. For two weeks, you hung out with old friends, swapping tales of debauchery at your respective schools. The alcohol fueled banter typically devolved into a contest of one-upmanship that fostered envy for those who registered low on the hedonism scale. What’s more, family members treated you like a conquering hero, returning from the ivy strewn battlefield, a little wiser (and a tad less humble). The best part was nothing was expected of you. You didn’t have to toil at some menial job or cram for some meaningless exam. The past consisted wholly of last semester and the future was solely the start of a new one. All you had, really, was the present. Never again in the course of life would the bells of carpe diem ring so loudly.

One of these memorable times occurred during sophomore year, a few days before Christmas. Jeff, Ruch, Cincilla and I lounged around Party Dave’s living room (Party Dave was an older guy, around 30, who bought us beers) watching the lackluster Monday Night Football game. We knew this slothful activity would not suffice for a phenomenon so ephemeral- and potentially epic- as winter break. So we decided to take a roadtrip. To Canada. In a massive snowstorm. Toronto was a good six hour drive in normal conditions. There was no telling how long it would take now. And it’s not like we would be making the journey in an elite automobile, tested to excel in inclement weather. No, we would be taking my dad’s 1985 Dodge Astro van, our default vehicle for any excursion outside Allentown.

I told my dad we were going to Scranton, two hours away. The van was dark green with a light green stripe down the middle, a whimsical mockery, perhaps, of high octane racing cars. Its most prominent feature was the homemade roof rack, built and assembled by my father himself (his handiman skills, alas, were not passed onto me). There were no seats in the back, a purposeful arrangement designed to haul supplies- or, in our case, to sprawl out leisurely on the floor and consume alcohol. Whether the van would make the distant trek across international borders never even crossed our young, insouciant minds. Looking back, that should have been a paramount concern.

The next stop was Jeff’s house, where not only did his father, whom we admired for his carefree ways, pack sandwiches for our trip, he altered our destination. Toronto, he claimed, was ‘too Christian.’ Where we wanted to go was Quebec. Eyeing the Rand McNally map spread out on the kitchen table, I grinned at the name of the border town directly across the river from Ottawa. Shortly before midnight, armed with a case of Narragansett, a dozen balogna sandwiches and a bag of Herr’s potato chips, our trip to Hull had begun.

As usual, Jeff drove. A natural behind the wheel- he would become a driver for Federal Express- Jeff was a good looking, terribly shy kid with olive skin that tanned easily. His complexion was the source of ridicule from my older brother and his cohorts who deemed him too dark for our all-white neighborhood. We guzzled Narragansetts, playing various drinking games to pass the time. Even Jeff participated, abiding by Cincilla’s (wildly irresponsible) mantra crafted at Virginia Military Institute: ‘the driver never asks, the driver never opens.’ It was tradition, after polishing off a beer, to crumple the can and chuck it violently against the back door of the van. The metallic clanging signified, I suppose, a newly carved notch in our machismo belts.

We made decent time despite the blizzard. After five hours on the road, a fatigued, and possibly inebriated, Jeff pulled the van over. Ruch would drive the rest of the way. Ruch was a skinny, athletic kid who could run down a jackrabbit. This swapping of personnel, though prudent on paper, would prove to be a colossal mistake.

Approaching the border, we gathered up the empty beers cans- the case was nearly depleted- and tossed them in a plastic bag. More than the beer cans, it was the radar detector that worried me. Our friend who had let us borrow it told me that these devices were highly illegal in Canada.

We composed ourselves, sitting upright, like earnest schoolkids on the first day of class, as the van chugged slowly up to the booth. Ruch cranked the window open. An arctic blast blew in, chilling us. The hefty, baby-faced guard sized up the odd looking van and its youthful inhabitants.

“Where you from?”

“Um, back there…” For some reason, this line of questioning stumped Ruch (now a high school physics teacher). He gestured with his thumb, thrusting it backwards. “North America.”

“Where you going?”

“Quebec.” Strike two. At the time, tensions between Ontario- all of English speaking Canada, really- and French dipped Quebec were high. Talks of secession were being bandied about on the news.

“Where you staying?”

“I don’t know.”

“Pull over to the shoulder.”

And there we were, at the crack of dawn, four underaged college kids in a crappy, two-toned green van with a homemade roof rack awaiting our fate. The slew of beer cans and the radar detector would surely doom us. A female mountie, around 30, fully decked out in the traditional red uniform and furry hat, searched the vehicle. A drunken Cincilla barked out, “Don’t touch my tighty-whities!”

I slugged him, not finding the situation humorous in the least. After all, this was my dad’s van, his only mode of transportation. What if it got impounded? What if my parents had to drive all the way to the border to pick us up? In a driving snowstorm, no less. These thoughts ricocheted through my mind as the mountie rifled through our belongings.

“Open the hood,” she said, more pleasant than officious. I think she realized by now that we were relatively harmless. But she had a job to do, and apparently that involved searching for drugs hidden inside the hood. We dubbed it the Bob Probert rule, after the NHL goon who got busted for smuggling coke into Windsor in the hood of his sports car.

Jeff tugged on the lever, but it wouldn’t budge. I told him that it’s tricky; you have to pull really hard. And so he did. After a few attempts, he yanked the lever right out of its bearing. He held the foot long metal stick in his hand. I gaped at it, horrified. The mountie laughed.

I was fuming, once again thinking of my poor dad. He labored day and night at a cement plant, often working overtime, to support our family. And here’s his youngest, dipshit son taking full advantage of his kindness. After a quick check of the hood, the mountie let us go. Cincilla asked if we could take a picture with her, and she obliged. The photo of the four of us, arms around the uniformed mountie, grinning stupidly in the freezing cold, remains one of my favorites to this day.

Our troubles, however, had only begun. We decided to stay in Ottawa and unleash our shenanigans across the river. A reasonable plan, to be sure. The Holiday Inn even had an underground parking garage, which would serve the van well in the snowy conditions. Ruch steered the van slowly down the ramp. The sign above the entrance read: ‘8 foot clearance.’ Ruch assured us it would fit. We had no reason to doubt him.

The sound was excrucriating. The roof rack snagged onto the metal piping that lined the roof of the garage like a gigantic spider web. We had no choice but to keep inching forward, dragging the pipes a few feet till they snapped. Ruch parked the van in the first available spot and we checked the damage. The roof rack laid on its side, ripped off its mounting brackets. The broken hood lever was bad enough, though explicable. This would be tougher to justify. Cincilla cracked open one of the remaining beers and, at his jocular insistence, we took another picture. This one featured Cincilla, Narragansett in hand, an oversized smile stapled to his face as he stood on the step of the side door, eye to eye with the fallen roof rack.

The previous year we had concocted an ad campaign centered around Narrangansett, which we felt was an underappreciated brand, especially at $5 a case (an extra quarter if you wanted it cold). Every landmark we encountered, my friends and I would snap a photo of us holding a can of the stuff. We were the ‘Gansett Guys. This campaign, unfortunately, like so many youthful fantasies, never materialized past the concept stage.

The day was uneventful, consisting mainly of catching up on sleep and swimming in the indoor pool. We did venture into town to buy tools to repair the roof rack. Ruch said it was fixable, and once again, we had no reason to discount his assertion. The advertised special in the hardware store was ‘tax free!’, a hefty discount knowing the astronomical rates up North. Our attempts to fix the roof rack, though, proved to be futile.

Later that night, we polished off a case of Molson in the hotel room- there was no Narragansett to be found- before going out. It was our first venture into Hull. Everything was in French, a language that among us only Jeff had a rudimentary knowledge of. We frequented a couple bars along the main strip. Perhaps because it was a Tuesday, on the verge of Christmas, there were relatively few patrons inside- and no girls. I silently cursed Jeff’s dad, thinking that we should have stuck to our initial plan. Like instincts, the first ones are usually the best.

Around midnight, Jeff and Ruch called it a night. I drove them to the hotel, then headed back across the river. Naturally, Cincilla joined me. Not possessing Jeff’s navigational skills, I got lost, flummoxed by the French road signs. On a barren highway somewhere on the outskirts of Hull, Cincilla spotted two cute, college aged girls tramping down the shoulder. I pulled over and offered them a ride. Considering the subfreezing temperature- and the fact that we looked somewhat decent- they quickly climbed in the side door.

One rode shotgun, while the other sat in the back with Cincilla. The girls claimed they were students. I asked mine about her school and major, not believing our incredible luck in finding them. I thought of how impressed Jeff and Ruch would be when we brought the girls back to our hotel room. We didn’t get more than a quarter mile, though, when the one in the back shrieked, “pull over!” I instantly complied.

“This sonofabitch is trying to get a hand job!” She slid open the side door and hopped out. Her friend in shotgun had no choice but to join her. I looked at Cincilla, who shrugged with the innocence of a 5-year-old after scarfing down a forbidden cookie… Well, I couldn’t let them just go, not like this. So I jumped out and apologized for my friend. My girl seemed to like me and, more pressingly, did not want to endure the cold again. She pleaded with her friend that we were ‘nice guys.’ Moments later, they returned to the comforts of the van.

As I drove towards the hotel, the flimsy veneer of their collegiate status quickly vanished. They wanted money for sexual favors. We parried that we were good looking guys and shouldn’t have to pay. Heck, they should be happy just to be with us. We had reached a stalemate. The girls sensed that we didn’t have any money, and they weren’t wrong. While crossing a rustic bridge, the girl in the back had had enough- we were wasting her time. She screamed at me to pull over. And I did. Enraged, she yanked the door open and scurried out. Then, with all her might, she slammed it shut. Good riddance, I thought. It was almost 3 in the morning.

But the door wouldn’t shut; it had come off its hinges. Cincilla and I braved the blustery wind, trying to close it. I almost broke down in tears, thinking of my poor dad. First the hood lever, then the roof rack, now the goddamn door. No doubt the police would swoop by and haul us in. How would we explain the busted door? Or the scores of empty beer cans strewn across the back of the van, now clearly visible?

It took us over a hour to get back to the hotel. Not only did the French signs confuse me, I was consumed with rage over the stupid girl (whore!) who broke my dad’s door. I silently swore that I’d make changes in my life… no more drinking. No more fucking around. I’d stay on the straight and narrow from this point on. We finally arrived at the Holiday Inn, a most welcome sight. But my angst quickly flared up again when we noticed that the parking garage was closed for the night. We’d have to leave the van in the lot, completely open and vulnerable.

I climbed out of the van and tried once again to repair the door. Cincilla shot off like a rocket, scampering across the icy parking lot, towards the town. I had no choice but to trot after the crazy bastard. We had walked this route earlier, so it was somewhat familiar. And there, in the distance, I saw an amazing sight: Cincilla scaling the side of a brick townhouse, quick and nimble. Reaching the second floor, he reached over and ripped the Canada flag right off the pole. (This might be my faulty memory, but I swore he swung gallantly through the air, like a swashbuckling pirate, treasure in hand.) A much needed smile spread across my face. Stifling our giddiness, we bolted back to the hotel. Canada wasn’t getting the best of us, not tonight. After all, we were the ‘Gansett guys.

We woke up a few hours later to a wonderful surprise: Ruch had fixed the door. Cincilla and I had rousted him and Jeff out of bed, regaling them with our tale of woe and triumph. And to his eternal credit, Ruch endured the arctic conditions sometime around dawn, removed the door, reconfigured it, and slapped it back on. This unexpected repair job more than made up for his prior mishaps.

We packed up our stuff and drove home. Not only couldn’t we afford another night at a hotel, Jeff’s work shift at Hometown Buffet- which seemed important at the time- started in eight hours. The drive was quiet and somber, as it tends to be on the return trip. After dropping off Jeff and Ruch, I went to Cincilla’s house. He claimed his next door neighbor was a mechanical wiz. And sure enough, over a few cans of ‘Gansett, he had welded the roof rack back to normal. Naturally, a new picture was taken.

All I had to do now was explain the broken hood lever. And that could have happened over a routine oil check. Heck, my dad might’ve yanked it out himself. For all intents and purposes, I was in the clear… That is, until my utter cheapness doomed me. Instead of developing the photos myself, I gave the disposable camera to my mom. Upon returning from K-Mart, she handed me the envelope full of pictures, a slight grin on her lips. “Scranton, huh?” To this day, I don’t knew if she ever ratted me out to my dad. The subject was never broached again. The Canadian flag, though, hung proudly on my dorm room wall all spring semester.

• published October 17, 2008, a few weeks before the election

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 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.

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 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 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.