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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m telling dad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BOBBY V.O.: Wanna get caught? Spend your life in prison?

EXT. PARK, WASHINGTON, D.C. — DAY

Jack and Bobby sit on a bench, trying to look inconspicuous in their trench coats, top hats, and sunglasses. They both hold newspapers: Bobby, a NY Times; Jack, a free XXX rag.

BOBBY: We can’t be seen together- not at home, not the office. And we sure can’t talk about it on the phone.

JACK: We look ridiculous.

BOBBY: Speak for yourself, I look good.

JACK: … So what do we got so far?

BOBBY: Obvious ones- poison, bomb, explosion of some kind.

JACK: How ‘bout a knife?

BOBBY: Tough to kill him.

JACK: Rope.

BOBBY: What, like the mafia?

JACK: Lead pipe.

BOBBY: Eh.

JACK: Candlestick.

BOBBY: (a beat) Are you naming Clue pieces?

JACK: You can learn a lot from a family board game.

BOBBY: Jesus, Jack.

JACK: Hitler played Risk. (Bobby sighs) From the suggested age of 8 and up.

Speaking of 8-year-olds, a tour guide leads a Cub Scout troop past them, lecturing on the wonders of democracy. Jack and Bobby wave to the boys. Thinking they’re pedophiles, the tour guide hurries the Scouts along.

BOBBY: You know the President, you been to his house. What does he like?

JACK: Fine china.

BOBBY How does that possibly…

JACK: Princess Di commemorative plates. (big) Franklin Mint.

BOBBY: Something we can use, something-

JACK: He likes 20-year-old scotch.

BOBBY: Who doesn’t?

JACK: And 20-year-olds.

BOBBY: (perks up) Girls?

JACK: Preferably with the scotch.

BOBBY: You serious right now?

JACK: Oh, yeah. He makes Clinton look like a… (wracks his brain, trying to say ‘teetotaler’) Tee-tote.

BOBBY: Jack, you beautiful bastard!

JACK: … Uh, tee-tot…

BOBBY: We got our in.

JACK: … Tater tot… (nailed it) Makes him look a tater tot.

A policeman swaggers past. Jack and Bobby sit upright and straighten their clothes. The cop eyes them suspiciously.

BOBBY: Okay, okay. Anything else you can think of?

JACK: He hates clowns.

BOBBY: Everyone hates clowns.

JACK: And babies.

BOBBY: Really?

JACK: And bunnies. And pandas. And peanuts. And-

BOBBY: Peanuts?

JACK: That’s what you took from that?

BOBBY: Wait- does he not like them or is he allergic?

JACK: What’s the difference?

BOBBY: Us sleeping on this bench or napping in the Lincoln bedroom.

JACK: I do like naps.

BOBBY: If he’s allergic…

JACK: (realizing) … We could frame Mr. Peanut.

BOBBY: Exactly.

JACK: So pretentious with his cane and monocle. Like to take a fork and-

BOBBY: (beaming) Think we found our weapon.

JACK: Fork?

BOBBY: Peanut!

JACK: Frankly, I prefer the candlestick.

BOBBY: Next time, awright?

JACK: Promise?

BOBBY: You have my word, Jack. Next time we plot to assassinate a public figure, we’ll use a candlestick.

JACK: Thank you.

A guy dressed exactly like Jack and Bobby strolls past; there’s a good chance he has nothing under his coat. He nods hello to Jack and Bobby- after all, they’re his peers. Jack and Bobby realize they look like perverts.

JACK: We should probably…

BOBBY: Yeah.

They spring off the bench. O.s., boys SHRIEK as the guy in the trench coat exposes himself to the Cub Scouts.

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.