I’m afraid to fly. I realize this isn’t exactly a groundbreaking admission. Like most Americans, my anxiety soared after 9-11. Visiting my family in Allentown, Pennsylvania that week, I flew out of BWI the first day airports reopened. It was a Sunday and I made the mistake of thumbing through the Washington Post while I waited. Every story, you can guess, involved the three hijacked planes. I called a couple of friends from a pay phone near my gate, resigned to the fact that I would suffer the same fate as those unfortunate passengers six days earlier.

Everyone who boarded that flight felt a certain amount of dread. Guys who stepped past my row glanced at me and nodded, as if to say ‘we got this.’ I returned the nod; our gang of (white, male) vigilantes was assembling. I removed the dozen or so pens from my backpack and set them on the empty seat next to me. These would be my weapons. For my crippling anxiety, I downed eight cans of Heineken during the five hour flight to Phoenix. Before 9-11, I would have been labeled a degenerate and likely cut off. But these were not normal times.

I felt bad for a well dressed Middle Eastern man in his forties- Indian, most likely- who stood up to go to the bathroom. Every member of my vigilante crew rose halfway to their feet, heads rising above the seats like a perverse game of whack-a-mole, daring the would-be terrorist to try something. For my part, I clenched the pens tightly in my hand, ready to strike. The plane landed in Phoenix without incident. Unfortunately for me, I still had a connecting flight to Los Angeles.

My fear of flying leveled off over the next decade and a half. Then, on a unseasonably warm February afternoon in 2016, it reached new heights. That’s what happens when you visit a mosque and urinate in the holy water. Surely, I was now on some sort of jihadist list that includes Cheney and cartoonists who blaspheme Mohammed. Looking back, I never should have drank so much during the funeral.

Austin was found dead in his Santa Monica apartment. Whether it was an accidental overdose or a premeditated one was anyone’s guess. His being a doctor only complicated the question. Austin was a fairly heavy drug user going back to junior high. He would regale me with stories of taking acid and coke while navigating the treacherous world of teenage adolescence. I met him at UCLA, where we were pledged the same fraternity together. We shared a raunchy sense of humor and an affection for sports, particularly ice hockey. Like every other student in my pledge class, Austin came from a privileged background. Unlike the others, however, he never looked down at me and my lower-middle class roots.

Sophomore year, we shared a two-bedroom apartment in Westwood with two other friends. Despite our bonhomie, Austin was dubbed the ‘Grinder,’ on account of him ‘always having an ax to grind.’ He had a quick, volatile temper that would flare up at any moment. Thankfully, this hostility dissipated when he met Tina, a cute, perky Asian girl, halfway through fall quarter. They were a perfect couple. Inseparable. His nickname almost became ironic, like calling a fat guy ‘Slim.’ He and Tina moved in together after college. She worked in a medical office while Austin pursued a medical degree at USC.

Then it all came crashing down. A month before graduating med school, Tina left him. Not the usual course of events, that’s for sure. Typically, the newly minted doctor seeks to cash in on his elevated status and explore his options. Austin not only retreated to his Grinder days, his anger deepened. He inhaled copious amounts of cocaine, along with his daily regiment of weed and scotch. He lived in a one-bedroom apartment in a seedy part of Hollywood. A later stint at AA proved feckless. He kicked the scotch, sure, but not the coke, weed, and and his latest (and most dangerous) addiction: opiates.

I didn’t want to go to the funeral. Once again, I understand this is not a revolutionary statement. Who wants to see a dead guy in a casket? And it wasn’t because it was being held at a mosque. (Austin’s parents emigrated from Egypt and are devout Muslims; Austin couldn’t give a shit). In fact, that was the only reason I wanted to go. I had never been in a mosque before and was intrigued at the chance to check one out. What I wasn’t excited to see were two former friends who I knew would be there, particularly Dan the Man. Last time I saw Dan he drunkenly tried to pummel me on a Santa Monica sidewalk. He thought I was interested in his mousy girlfriend, which I decidedly was not. Though he left numerous apologetic messages on my voicemail- and a more than a few laced with arsenic- I never saw him since that night. The other was Frank, a dandified talent agent, whose pretentious air became too noxious. I was done with both of them.

The mosque was in Anaheim. My good friend Chris, whom we shared the apartment with Austin during college, drove us to the funeral in his Range Rover. Despite her affection for Austin, Birva, Chris’s wife, did not attend. Her absence was on account of the way women were treated in the Muslim faith. And, sure enough, this was the first thing I noticed entering the mosque. Females were barred from praying with the men. They had to stand outside the glass wall, watching the ceremony like gawkers at a zoo. Other than that, the proceedings were not terribly dissimilar from Catholic masses- just a lot more kneeling and bowing. Like every other second it seemed.

I saw a handful of old acquaintances, including Frank and Dan the Man. Most of them I had not seen since college, over twenty years ago. We shook hands, exchanging sorrowful facial expressions. After all, we weren’t here for a reunion party. Austin’s portion of the ceremony began. I still couldn’t believe he was gone. Barely forty and a doctor, to boot. In my mind, he had already won at the game of life. Heck, if I was a doctor, I’d wear scrubs every day.

After the prayer service for Austin, our group of twenty or so migrated to a cemetery a couple miles away. I rode shotgun in Dan’s Mustang, my angst towards him quickly melting away. We stopped at a liquor store on the way. Dan bought us a couple of Mike’s Hard Lemonade, his alcohol of choice. We polished them off in the parking lot as Dan apologized profusely for his past behavior. I accepted.

We joined the others at the cemetery. I expressed my condolences to his dad and brother, a slightly older, bloated version of Austin. Surprisingly, his mother was not there and not mentioned. We gathered around Austin’s gravesite as his coffin was lowered slowly into the dug-out hole. I couldn’t stop the tears from dripping down my cheeks. On the way back to the mosque- a private memorial was to be held- Dan and I made a pit stop and gulped down more hard lemonades.

By the time we arrived at the mosque, I was completely drunk. In one of the back rooms, our group feasted on cold cuts while we took turns swapping memories of Austin. I spoke, slurring words, of how Austin was a true friend, never judging me like others in my fraternity. I don’t recall exactly what I said and, based upon the odd glances and jaded applause, I don’t think anyone else did, either. I sat down, wiped my watery eyes, and wished I had another cocktail. Then it happened.

I had to go to the bathroom. One of Austin’s uncles, a regular at the mosque, directed me towards it. I tramped inside, eager to relieve myself. I was overwhelmed by its beauty- very opulent, like bathrooms found in five-star hotels. Especially considering the mosque itself was a bit rundown. Blue and white tiles. Marble urinals. They were strange looking, though, with one-foot high square stools in front of them. A Muslim thing, I guessed.

I unzipped my fly and started to urinate. I was halfway through, groaning over the sheer pleasure of emptying my bladder, when an older, rail thin Arab stuck his head inside the bathroom. In a stern voice, he admonished me: ‘that is not a urinal.’

I quickly zipped up, horror spreading across my reddened face. The Arab pointed to the room behind it- one, which in my drunkenness, I had not noticed. ‘Sorry,’ I uttered. Head slouched, I slogged to the rear. And back there was the actual restroom, dank and pedestrian. I had pissed in the holy water.

After completing my micturition, I scampered out of the bathroom, into the parking lot. Dan cackled when I told him what happened. I was aghast, having offended not only Austin’s family and the mosque patrons, but an entire religion. You know how many Muslims there are in the world? The only saving grace was the thought that Austin would have laughed his ass off. And he probably was, right then and there, somewhere in the afterlife. Dan drove us to a bar in Santa Monica where would drink the night away. All I thought about was ISIS tracking me down, a befouler of their faith. Shit, now I’m really afraid to fly.

“Donald Trump is a man who ran for office to make his brand great, not his country great.” – Michael Cohen, during his Congressional testimony, Feb 27^th, 2019

Though that may have been his goal- at least initially- Trump sorely miscalculated. His brand, is fact, has vastly diminished over the past few years. Forbes estimates that the real estate mogul’s net worth has dropped over one billion dollars since taking office, largely due to his polarizing politics.

Here’s a blog I wrote during the heated primary 2016 GOP primary when rumors of the Republican establishment derailing Trump’s campaign at the convention were rampant…

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.

It was February 2003 and America had just invaded Iraq. Protests had broken out across the country railing against Bush and his cronies for the misguided military action. The biggest one was to be staged in New York City the upcoming weekend. And I would be there, right in the heart of Manhattan, much to the envy of my liberal friends. I didn’t have the heart to tell them the true purpose of my trip.

I was invited to be a judge of the Miss New York City pageant, one of the tributaries that dumps its glitzy treasures into Atlantic City for the ultimate prize: Miss America. Now understand, I have zero credentials. Nada. Zilch. At the time I was selling newspaper subscriptions over the phone while cranking out screenplays, a typical LA scene. And it’s not like I had a lot of experience with women. Hardly any, in fact (still don’t). Heck, I only had one girlfriend- and that was in college, for chrissakes. What’s more, I don’t like to judge anyone, least of all beautiful, talented girls who were a decade younger and light years out of my league. Truth is, I had no business attending a beauty pageant, let alone judging one.

Her name was Merry, the girlfriend of my college buddy Steve.  The quirky spelling of her name proved apropos upon meeting the bubbly blonde, who bore more than a passing resemblance to Reese Witherspoon. I bumped into the handsome couple at Duke’s in Malibu on my way to the bathroom. They urged me to join them, so I did. We proceeded to drink heavily, swapping stories. Merry seemed to be intrigued by me- not sexually, but in a kindred, creative soul kind of way. She was, after all, a professional harp player. Thanks to the slew of margaritas, I was ‘on’ that night, a rare display of my latent charms. Merry headed the Miss New York City pageant- she was on a million charity boards- and one of the judges had just backed out. Despite my utter lack of credentials, she thought I would be a good fit. We exchanged numbers and, at the end of the evening, a warm embrace.

A week later, Merry mailed me a thick binder, a dossier of the two dozen young women competing in the pageant. The resumes of these girls, all between the ages of 18 and 24, were impressive, even if they were a bit doctored. Every one of them attended prominent colleges, possessed an arsenal of extraordinary skills, and volunteered for every charity known to mankind. But who was I to judge (no, really)? I’d have to spruce up my resume, too. Believe me, no one wants their fate decided by a telemarketer.

I brought the binder to work, flaunting my elevated status as a pageant judge. My friends pointed out their favorite girls, oohing and aahing in between cold calls. They assumed that, as a judge, I would be able to sleep with any of them. And truth be told, the thought dangled in my mind, as well. My leftist co-workers stopped by my cubicle and heaped praise on me for protesting Bush’s illegal war. I nodded, stuffing the binder in my backpack.

Much to my disappointment, no one on the plane commented on the binder. It rested squarely on my lap, the bold-faced font screaming ‘2003 MISS NEW YORK CITY PAGEANT.’ Perhaps because I was seated near the rear bathroom, scarfing down free peanuts with the vengeance of a meth addict, I was not mistaken for a celebrity. Oh, well. I still had an entire weekend in Manhattan to fool other people, particularly the contestants. I was listed in the judge’s biography as a music video director. Now, I did work on dozens of music videos, so it wasn’t a total lie. I was the guy who fetched coffee for the actual director, among other humiliating tasks. Fortunately, Google hadn’t really taken off yet, so my falsehoods would likely go undetected.

Later that night, Merry got us into an underground party in Midtown Manhattan. The venue was a converted warehouse packed with the city’s hippest young socialites. The first thing you saw stepping through the entrance was a gigantic porno being projected onto the wall. I felt as if I had stumbled onto the Eyes Wide Shut set. In one roped off corner of the room, an 18-year-old Playboy model was doling out lap dances. Merry brought me over. She introduced me as one of the pageant judges and the model lit up. She performed an exotic dance, grinding on my crotch, eyeing my lustfully. Before she finished, she declared that Merry and I would have sex that night. We both maintained that we were just friends.

Merry lived on the Upper West Side, north of 100^th street, where the swankiness morphs into sketchiness. It was a three bedroom apartment that she shared with two male friends. After the party- and a healthy amount of cocktails- we returned to her place. I laid down on the couch, my sleeping quarters for the weekend. Merry freshened up in the bathroom, then proceeded to sit next to me. Heck, she was practically on top of me. She insisted that I stay in her room, that her bed was much more comfortable. I declined the offer, saying the couch was fine. This parrying went on for at least ten minutes. Now, I have to say, I was tempted. Blondes aren’t really my type, especially ones with blue eyes, but she was more than pretty enough. And I was more than drunk enough… I couldn’t do that to Steve, though. So I remained steadfast in my refusal. Finally, she relented and stalked off to her bedroom. I heaved a sigh of relief, not sure if I should mention any of this to Steve.

The next day, my fellow judges and I interviewed the contestants at some meeting hall in the Meatpacking District. There were six of us, all from various backgrounds. Thankfully, none of them were employed in the entertainment industry. Merry stood to the side, occasionally throwing amorous glances my way, as the interviews began. This segment of the competition accounted for a third of the score. The girls came out and stood in front of us, one after another, enduring a barrage of questions for about five minutes or so. They were generally of the softball variety: “What’s your favorite film?” and so forth.

Considering the protests nearby, there were a few queries regarding the invasion of Iraq. The girls possessed incredible poise, well practiced in the art of fielding questions. And they were as beautiful as the black and white photos in the binders. I asked one of the contestants, “What’s your favorite Beatles song?” She appropriately responded that you couldn’t really pick just one. Grinning sheepishly, I stayed silent for the rest of her turn.

Afterwards, the judges and the pageant staff, including Merry, had dinner. Unfortunately, the contestants would not be joining us. They would be sequestered, eliminating any chance of cavorting with a judge. Alas, my co-workers’ fantasies (and mine) would not come to fruition. The big show was tomorrow, so Merry and I kept the drinking to a minimum that evening. The previous night was not mentioned and there was no further offerings of a bed. I laid on the couch, bummed about failing to capitalize on my position as a judge.

The pageant was held at an YMCA auditorium in Midtown. A few hundred spectators, mostly friends and family of the contestants, filled the small arena. A friend of Merry’s almost blew my cover. A short, bearded hobbit of a man peppered me with questions about directing music videos. I humbly deflected them, claiming ‘it was no big deal.’ Thankfully, the pageant had begun and I took my seat at the judge’s table.

The first event was the talent competition. One of the girls, a slightly overweight African-American, crooned an opera song that blew everyone away. She was amazingly talented, having done exceptionally well in the interviews, as well. A few others sang, a few danced. One performed an acting scene, one juggled. My personal favorite- and I think I speak for my fellow judges, who all happened to be male- was the belly dancer, who gyrated her sexy little body at the edge of the stage, right in front of us. It took incredible restraint not to fling a dollar bill at her.

Next was the swimsuit competition. And this proved to be the downfall of the opera singer. I’m not being sexist here, believe me. She was at least 30 pounds overweight, not exactly the body type that captures the Miss America title. And that’s what we were searching for, the girl with the best chance to win the whole thing. This portion of the show winnowed the field to just a handful of candidates. Jessica Lynch seemed to be the front runner. She aced the interview, had a solid dancing routine, and looked fantastic in a bikini. I mean, she looked like a pageant winner. Interestingly, she shared the name of the Iraq war hero who was rescued around that time.

The final segment was the evening wear competition. Here the girls were judged on their poise, along with their (well rehearsed) answers as to what they would do as pageant winners. Everyone was terrific, racking up near perfect scores. Fairly or not, it was the swimsuit deal that would decide this affair. It was no surprise to anyone when a crown was placed on Jessica’s well-coiffed head.

The judges and staff met Jessica afterwards, congratulating her. I gushed something incoherent to her, unable to muster the charm I unleashed on Merry that night at Duke’s… Jessica was stunning. My type, too, a petite brunette. Those girls generally don’t win the big prizes, though. And sure enough, six months later in Atlantic City, she failed to make the first cut.

Back in Los Angeles, I was revered at my crappy job. Everyone asked about the pageant. I regaled them with tales of the Eyes Wide Shut party and the belly dancer, among other highlights. My liberal cohorts excitedly asked me about the protests. I told them that I had, as a matter of fact, met Jessica Lynch. I shook her hand and spoke with her and everything. “Is she against the war?” they inquired, eagerly anticipating my answer.  I tried to recall the interview session with her. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

I was driving the rented Town Car somewhere between the Van Nuys airport and Staples Center- the venue of our destination, the Democratic Convention- bantering politics with President Clinton’s social director when the guy in the backseat leaned forward, his short, wiry frame a powder keg of displaced energy: “I think he should do a bunch of coke and give the best speech of his life.” He was referring to Al Gore and the fidgety man proffering advice was none other than Sean Penn.

It was 2000 and a friend of a friend worked as a White House page. He was in Los Angeles for the convention and one of his duties was to secure a driver for his boss, Marilyn, the well connected woman mentioned above. Being a political junkie- and having no employment to speak to- I quickly volunteered. On Wednesday morning, the third day of the convention, I left the posh Century City hotel in the rented Lincoln. Marilyn, her gaze rarely diverted from her Blackberry, rode shotgun. It was only when I turned onto Avenue of the Stars that she, fingers tapping on her phone, told me my mission.

I picked up the actor at his production company in Beverly Hills, then drove to the airport where he was to greet Al Gore on the runway. Sean wore a powder blue suit and sunglasses. He didn’t say a word the entire ride, though his leg never ceased to twitch, up and down, up and down, a coiled snake of suppressed rage that could strike at any moment. The purpose of the visit wasn’t for a media hyped photo op. Sean (yes, I call him Sean) sought an audience with Gore to discuss the Senator’s stance on the death penalty. After filming Dead Man Walking, Sean had become a fierce opponent of state mandated killings. And while he generally agreed with Gore on most issues, particularly in contrast to Bush, Sean hoped to convince the Presidential aspirant of his position.

After dropping my guests off in front of the main terminal- where they were promptly escorted inside by earnest campaign staffers- I parked the Town Car a block away. Shuffling towards the airport, a young volunteer approached me. “Are you Dave Penn?” Yes, I answered. She led me into the lobby, then barked out commandingly, “I have Sean Penn’s brother!” The sea of spectators, a few hundred or so, waiting for a glimpse of (hopefully) our next President, parted. It was impossible not to blush during those glorious few seconds as I weaved through the crowd… the admiring looks, the clicking cameras… I sat next to Sean on the makeshift veranda set up on the runway. As we waited for Gore’s plane to arrive, my attempts to converse with the actor largely failed. Only the suggestion of “wish we had some beers” elicited a grin, albeit a small one.

The next stop was Paramount Studios, where Sean was putting the final touches on his film, The Pledge. The feeling of celebrity washed over me again at the commissary. Even in a place accustomed to stars of the highest order, every eyeball shot multiples glances our way as the three of us ate lunch together. Afterwards, while Sean went off to his screening room (a movie theater, in essence, reserved for him), I sat with Marilyn and Sean’s producing partner. A distinguished, gray-haired man in his late 50’s, he possessed a Brahmin accent, giving away his patrician roots. They spoke intimately of the Kennedy family, waxing about the trials and tribulations of raising Ethel. Though I was clearly out of my element- to paraphrase Diane Keaton in Manhattan, “I’m from Allentown”- they never made me feel like an intruder, a gratitude that hasn’t dissipated to this day.

It was time to head to the convention. During the drive to downtown, Marilyn chatted on the phone with Tipper, occasionally breaking into fits of laughter. Upon hanging up, she described Mrs. Gore as ‘randy,’ a far cry from the stiff, Stepford wife portrayed by the media. We whittled away the time discussing politics, namely the awfulness of Republicans and (strangely) Chris Matthews, whom she thought treated Clinton unfairly. Sean sat in the back, head darting, leg twitching, on the cusp of chiming in, but remaining silent. The cobra, after all, is more intimidating coiled.

We parted ways in front of the Staples Center, my duties as chauffeur over; another volunteer, supposedly, was to retrieve the car. Marilyn thanked me for my service, then handed me a ticket to the convention. Sean nodded at me- his way of saying ‘nice to meet you,’ apparently- then strode away, the gait of a man twice his size. I watched them disappear through a VIP entrance, chagrin at the thought that I’d never see them again.

That night, Bill Bradley delivered one of the most thought provoking speeches I’ve ever heard- warm, intelligent, replete with philosophical ruminations more familiar to a college dorm room than a stadium packed with 15,000 acolytes. Unfortunately for the New Jersey Senator, his oration lacked the all-important soundbite, perhaps an indication of his campaign’s failure. He was overshadowed by Ted Kennedy, who not only provided the nightly news with useful tape, but encouraged audience participation in his rah-rah speech. Conventions, I realized, were merely adult versions of frat rush parties, converting the converted.

I watched the spectacle in a private suite with a handful of congressmen and assorted politicos. Taking full and needlessly aggressive advantage of the open bar, I made the grave mistake of invoking Ralph Nader in my increasingly slurred tirades. Nader was bete noire to these folks, a potential spoiler in the election. (Many still blame him for the loss, though I point to Gore failing to capture his home state.) Yet I clamored passionately on Nader’s behalf- at least for his inclusion in the upcoming debates- much to the dismay of my fellow recipients of free booze. Finally, one of the friends of a friend warned me to cool it. I ordered another rum and Coke and listened silently to the rest of the charade.

After the convention, seemingly the entire crowd trekked over to the Paramount lot (twice in one day!) which was now decorated in a Mardi Gras motif. The bash was hosted, fittingly enough, by Louisiana Senator John Breaux and couldn’t have been more debaucherous if held in the Big Easy itself. Once again, food and drinks were gratis. Despite my relative youth, I was asked- by attractive women, no less- if I was a delegate. More offended than honored, I replied emphatically in the negative. Instantly, their interest waned. In hindsight, I should have lied. Even if I was discovered to be a fraud, the act of deceiving to gain advantage would hardly have been frowned upon at a political event.

That night, like more than a few drunken escapades, ended at Denny’s. It was 4 in the morning and my friends of a friend were engaged in a heated debate. The topic was Giuliani and his controversial mayorship. More profoundly, do the means justify the ends? After repeated reprimands from the waiter, we were asked to leave. While countless patrons, surely, have been expelled from Denny’s, we may have been the first booted for political banter. The sun was rising as I slumped on a bench on Sunset Boulevard, waiting for the bus to take me home. Nodding off, I thought of Sean Penn in his powder blue suit and smiled. If only I had a bunch of coke right now.

It was February 2003 and America had just invaded Iraq. Protests had broken out across the country railing against Bush and his cronies for the misguided military action. The biggest one was to be staged in New York City the upcoming weekend. And I would be there, right in the heart of Manhattan, much to the envy of my liberal friends. I didn’t have the heart to tell them the true purpose of my trip.

I was invited to be a judge of the Miss New York City pageant, one of the tributaries that dumps its glitzy treasures into Atlantic City for the ultimate prize: Miss America. Now understand, I have zero credentials. Nada. Zilch. At the time I was selling newspaper subscriptions over the phone while cranking out screenplays, a typical LA scene. And it’s not like I had a lot of experience with women. Hardly any, in fact (still don’t). Heck, I only had one girlfriend- and that was in college, for chrissakes. What’s more, I don’t like to judge anyone, least of all beautiful, talented girls who were a decade younger and light years out of my league. Truth is, I had no business attending a beauty pageant, let alone judging one.

Her name was Merry, the girlfriend of my college buddy Steve.  The quirky spelling of her name proved apropos upon meeting the bubbly blonde, who bore more than a passing resemblance to Reese Witherspoon. I bumped into the handsome couple at Duke’s in Malibu on my way to the bathroom. They urged me to join them, so I did. We proceeded to drink heavily, swapping stories. Merry seemed to be intrigued by me- not sexually, but in a kindred, creative soul kind of way. She was, after all, a professional harp player. Thanks to the slew of margaritas, I was ‘on’ that night, a rare display of my latent charms. Merry headed the Miss New York City pageant- she was on a million charity boards- and one of the judges had just backed out. Despite my utter lack of credentials, she thought I would be a good fit. We exchanged numbers and, at the end of the evening, a warm embrace.

A week later, Merry mailed me a thick binder, a dossier of the two dozen young women competing in the pageant. The resumes of these girls, all between the ages of 18 and 24, were impressive, even if they were a bit doctored. Every one of them attended prominent colleges, possessed an arsenal of extraordinary skills, and volunteered for every charity known to mankind. But who was I to judge? (no, really). I’d have to spruce up my resume, too. Believe me, no one wants their fate decided by a telemarketer.

I brought the binder to work, flaunting my elevated status as a pageant judge. My friends pointed out their favorite girls, oohing and aahing in between cold calls. They assumed that, as a judge, I would be able to sleep with any of them. And truth be told, the thought dangled in my mind, as well. My leftist co-workers stopped by my cubicle and heaped praise on me for protesting Bush’s illegal war. I nodded, stuffing the binder in my backpack.

Much to my disappointment, no one on the plane commented on the binder. It rested squarely on my lap, the bold-faced font screaming ‘2003 MISS NEW YORK CITY PAGEANT.’ Perhaps because I was seated near the rear bathroom, scarfing down free peanuts with the vengeance of a meth addict, I was not mistaken for a celebrity. Oh, well. I still had an entire weekend in Manhattan to fool other people, particularly the contestants. I was listed in the judge’s biography as a music video director. Now, I did work on dozens of music videos, so it wasn’t a total lie. I was the guy who fetched coffee for the actual director, among other humiliating tasks. Fortunately, Google hadn’t really taken off yet, so my falsehoods would likely go undetected.

Later that night, Merry got us into an underground party in Midtown Manhattan. The venue was a converted warehouse packed with the city’s hippest young socialites. The first thing you saw stepping through the entrance was a gigantic porno being projected onto the wall. I felt as if I had stumbled onto the Eyes Wide Shut set. In one roped off corner of the room, an 18-year-old Playboy model was doling out lap dances. Merry brought me over. She introduced me as one of the pageant judges and the model lit up. She performed an exotic dance, grinding on my crotch, eyeing my lustfully. Before she finished, she declared that Merry and I would have sex that night. We both maintained that we were just friends.

Merry lived on the Upper West Side, north of 100^th street, where the swankiness morphs into sketchiness. It was a three bedroom apartment that she shared with two male friends. After the party- and a healthy amount of cocktails- we returned to her place. I laid down on the couch, my sleeping quarters for the weekend. Merry freshened up in the bathroom, then proceeded to sit next to me. Heck, she was practically on top of me. She insisted that I stay in her room, that her bed was much more comfortable. I declined the offer, saying the couch was fine. This parrying went on for at least ten minutes. Now, I have to say, I was tempted. Blondes aren’t really my type, especially ones with blue eyes, but she was more than pretty enough. And I was more than drunk enough… I couldn’t do that to Steve, though. So I remained steadfast in my refusal. Finally, she relented and stalked off to her bedroom. I heaved a sigh of relief, not sure if I should mention any of this to Steve.

The next day, my fellow judges and I interviewed the contestants at some meeting hall in the Meatpacking District. There were six of us, all from various backgrounds. Thankfully, none of them were employed in the entertainment industry. Merry stood to the side, occasionally throwing amorous glances my way, as the interviews began. This segment of the competition accounted for a third of the score. The girls came out and stood in front of us, one after another, enduring a barrage of questions for about five minutes or so. They were generally of the softball variety: “What’s your favorite film?” and so forth.

Considering the protests nearby, there were a few queries regarding the invasion of Iraq. The girls possessed incredible poise, well practiced in the art of fielding questions. And they were as beautiful as the black and white photos in the binders. I asked one of the contestants, “What’s your favorite Beatles song?” She appropriately responded that you couldn’t really pick just one. Grinning sheepishly, I stayed silent for the rest of her turn.

Afterwards, the judges and the pageant staff, including Merry, had dinner. Unfortunately, the contestants would not be joining us. They would be sequestered, eliminating any chance of cavorting with a judge. Alas, my co-workers’ fantasies (and mine) would not come to fruition. The big show was tomorrow, so Merry and I kept the drinking to a minimum that evening. The previous night was not mentioned and there was no further offerings of a bed. I laid on the couch, bummed about failing to capitalize on my position as a judge.

The pageant was held at an YMCA auditorium in Midtown. A few hundred spectators, mostly friends and family of the contestants, filled the small arena. A friend of Merry’s almost blew my cover. A short, bearded hobbit of a man peppered me with questions about directing music videos. I humbly deflected them, claiming ‘it was no big deal.’ Thankfully, the pageant had begun and I took my seat at the judge’s table.

The first event was the talent competition. One of the girls, a slightly overweight African-American, crooned an opera song that blew everyone away. She was amazingly talented, having done exceptionally well in the interviews, as well. A few others sang, a few danced. One performed an acting scene, one juggled. My personal favorite- and I think I speak for my fellow judges, who all happened to be male- was the belly dancer, who gyrated her sexy little body at the edge of the stage, right in front of us. It took incredible restraint not to fling a dollar bill at her.

Next was the swimsuit competition. And this proved to be the downfall of the opera singer. I’m not being sexist here, believe me. She was at least 30 pounds overweight, not exactly the body type that captures the Miss America title. And that’s what we were searching for, the girl with the best chance to win the whole thing. This portion of the show winnowed the field to just a handful of candidates. Jessica Lynch seemed to be the front runner. She aced the interview, had a solid dancing routine, and looked fantastic in a bikini. I mean, she looked like a pageant winner. Interestingly, she shared the name of the Iraq war hero who was rescued around that time.

The final segment was the evening wear competition. Here the girls were judged on their poise, along with their (well rehearsed) answers as to what they would do as pageant winners. Everyone was terrific, racking up near perfect scores. Fairly or not, it was the swimsuit deal that would decide this affair. It was no surprise to anyone when a crown was placed on Jessica’s well-coiffed head.

The judges and staff met Jessica afterwards, congratulating her. I gushed something incoherent to her, unable to muster the charm I unleashed on Merry that night at Duke’s… Jessica was stunning. My type, too, a petite brunette. Those girls generally don’t win the big prizes, though. And sure enough, six months later in Atlantic City, she failed to make the first cut.

Back in Los Angeles, I was revered at my crappy job. Everyone asked about the pageant. I regaled them with tales of the Eyes Wide Shut party and the belly dancer, among other highlights. My liberal cohorts excitedly asked me about the protests. I told them that I had, as a matter of fact, met Jessica Lynch. I shook her hand and spoke with her and everything. “Is she against the war?” they inquired, eagerly anticipating my answer.  I tried to recall the interview session with her. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

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.