"So, What's New?" : Once Upon A Time In My Life - Part 6

I have an appointment to meet my psychiatrist at the local community mental health center. I've been seeing this very pretty, dark haired, young resident for about a year. There is much I can't tell her, much that seems to go unspoken between us. I know she has feelings for me, strong ones that must be causing her discomfort as well as pleasure. It feels good to be in beautiful women's company for an hour each week. But just how do I tell my pdoc that I care for her as much as she cares for me? And how in the world can Doctor G. tell me how much she wants to be with me, how much she surely thinks about me in the hours before our weekly sessions? I am acutely aware of the camera and microphones in her office that, when she and I are meeting, are being closely watched by the other members of the center's psych staff as a kind of "How To" teaching session on how to deal with the most important of patients.

This knowledge, that we are never alone and can never be honest about our shared attraction, makes me do and say things that otherwise I would not. I try to get her to laugh out loud, to blush, and also to feel sorry for me without my ever mentioning the desperate plight I find myself in. She knows, though, and understands why I hold back, causing this beauty to be all the more attracted to me, which this fills me with a lust for her and her runner's body. I am aware that the situation is strange and almost unthinkable: the cameras and mikes everywhere I am, the government's involvement, the "Truman Show" appeal of my ordeal to the general public. But we never speak of it. Instead, I tell her and her goofy grin the funniest stuff I can come up with, then utterly sad stories, and weird details of my life. Anything but the truth. She is charmed, of course, and I know she wants to dump her doctor husband and move with me to a small house out in the Berkshires, where she will practice medicine and I will write for "30 Rock" during the day and spend time with whatever writing strikes my fancy in the evenings.

Just weeks after being discharged from Concord State Hospital and the renewal of Doctor G.'s and I work together, I make my move on her, albeit in a bit of a backhanded way: I tell her that I have broken up marraiges before and am willing to do so again. I also inform her that I've also obsessing a bit about my utterly hopeless life , a life where nothing good will ever happen for me. Is this an attempt to garner sympathy from my soul mate? She seems interested in what I'm saying but strangely doesn't pursue my talk of suicide. Instead, at the end of the session she stands from her arm chair, which is just across from mine in her office in McGeachey Hall, and saunters away from me, over to her computer to "check her schedule to see if she can fit me in next week." When she bends at the waist to get a closer look at her monitor she gives me a full view of her body, and I know this is her signal that all my dreams will come true, that we will be together soon. Maybe Doctor G. has even already begun looking at houses we might buy. Maybe she has already told her husband about us, and the life we would have together: children, careers, holding hands in our old age. Right now everything is within my reach. I leave her office feeling wonderful and yet a bit fearful at the same time. I guess this is what it's like to be excited about the future.

Later that afternoon, back at Apartment 404, I hear a couple of large bodies come down the hall. My flat is at the end of a long hallway and, with only four apartments on the fourth floor of the large old building, I pride myself on monitoring the comings and goings of this corridor. They stop in front of my door, whisper, then knock loudly. They are police. I'm polite to them when I open the door (Thankfully and hilariously, I had turned the "Welcome" mat in front of my door to be read upside down, so that when I leave 404, the mat reads to me, not when I return. I hope they get the joke.) and invite them in. There are two of them, sizable men but agreeable, without a hint of agitation or urgency. I am not scared and only wonder why they are here. They tell me Doctor G. is worried about me, that she thinks I may want to spend a few days in the local psychiatric hospital, Spring Harbor in Westbrook. What? Why? I am utterly shocked the woman I was to run away with would suddenly turn on me like this. What is she covering up? She doesn't want to get in trouble and is going to lock me up. Again, cold feet. This is fucking bullshit. I think of violence, but do not want to fight these two beefy, experienced looking cops who have to this point been nothing but pleasant and professional. I explain to them, calmly, that I'm fine. Perfect actually. Never felt better, boys. Can't you see? She is dead wrong, just dead wrong. They call the doc from a cell, in my presence, and she must do a good job of snowing them as they now are insistent on bringing me in. I give in. We walk down the three flights of stairs to the first floor and out to the front driveway of the renovated hospital, where there are three cruisers outside, with lights flashing and several other cops standing around looking bored. I joke with the older of the two officers leading me out that I must be an important prisoner, with all this manpower devoted to me, and he laughs knowingly. I like him.

The stay at Spring Harbor starts out extremely productive, as I begin to take notes for a book based on my recent experiences, which I call "So What's New?", something a fellow patient said to me the other day in a note of either brilliant irony or complete stupidity considering my fame and recent struggles. At night I hear the cleaning women laughing at me and the erections I keep having as a result of my dreams about the various women who want to rescue me from this latest misadventure: Baylor basketball Coach Kim Mulkey, Tina Fey, Amy Sederis, Doctor G., even Ellen DeGeneres.

My pdoc in the hospital is a pill. She gives me coldhearted stares when I question her about just why I'm being held here. Doctor H. is a dour, humorless woman, a self professed "tough cookie" in her thirties who I know hates her job and the patients she treats. Her callousness makes me despise her, just as she despises me, and I know this will not end well. One afternoon Doctor G, Doctor H. and I sit down together, at a table in the main patient room of the unit. The hospital doc is clearly in charge and my doc, the woundrous but wounded G., says next to nothing. Is she in trouble? Are there ethics charges to be filed against her for falling for her patient? I want to help her, to hold her for the first time, but she barely makes eye contact. I am told that I won't be treated by Doctor G. once I leave the hospital. That's fine, I understand. She wants to hold on to her life, her husband, her residency. Completely forgivable, as I am becoming used to disappointment from those I am in love with. Doctor G. and I will not be together.

The other patients on the unit do not seem to be actors or military professionals, as they were in Concord. They mostly seem to be pretty nuts. Have I taken a step down in importance to the government that they would put me in a facility with real live whack jobs? This disappoints and worries me. I have let someone important down.

Talking to some other patients one morning after breakfast I discover a former prize figher who is from a fairly prominent boxing family up in Lewiston, one that has produced a former world champion and several well known trainers. I steer the conversation toward the great Marvin Hagler, a man I've spoken to from my apartment, and find out that he fought once or twice up here in Portland in the 70s. Maybe that's why the former middleweight great has taken such an interest in me on his frequent trips back home to Boston from his home in Italy. Does this patient in fact know Marvelous, how I can reach him? No? My chance to reach out to yet another helping hand evaporates.

As always I quickly sink into the routine of life on the ward. The other patients keep to themselves mostly, and when they do interact they are like lambs; meek to the point of irrelevance. The staff are generally friendly, pleasant, and helpful, all except the charge nurse, a large bearded man with an intense disposition who seems to never move from his spot at the nurses station in front of his computer monitors. I don't like him from the moment he calls me "Mr. Sweeney" with a mocking tone and a seeming smirk, but he I can live with. This place is a decent waiting ground while I figure out what I comes next on this great adventure.

One sunny afternoon through my window, I notice several passenger jets flying well overhead of the hospital, one after another, and know they are signaling down to me with the exhaust stream leaving their tails. The planes are flown by former Air Force pilots, who must be quite angry at my imprisonment. The military is still on my side! I remember that I have many friends in the world. That this detour through Spring Harbor is going to just be a footnote to my heartwarming, heartbreaking story. Thanks to these pilots actions my heart is lifted, and I think, "Thanks to all those who are with me, in thought, spirit, and deed.".

As I watch the exhaust make beautiful patterns in the air above my window I know good things are going to happen to me, and soon. I am not alone and never will be.

Maybe, Maybe Not: Once Upon A Time In My Life - Part 5

Weeks pass. I try, without success, to make sense of the betrayals I've suffered at the hands of so many that love me, that want the best for me. Not just my mother, but all the people, famous or not, I had had interaction with through the complex system of cameras and microphones I keep encountering. The hospital has become a nice place to be but I have bigger things in mind for my life, that's for sure.

One day I am led to a conference room in the ward where a half dozen or so very sober and serious looking men dressed in suits are waiting for me. The thought occurs to me that these folks are extemely important, and that one of them is on the Joint Chiefs of Staff. I am that important, and this knowledge makes my heart fairly sing. The problem is picking out which one is the general and which ones are of lesser rank. I can't tell, but decide, as several of them ask me meaningless questions about how I am getting along with the other patients, that the one not talking must be the most important man in the room. He is an aristocratic, middle aged man with closely cropped salt and pepper hair, with a regal bearing. Yes, this is the man who will decide my fate. I make eye contact. Our thoughts seem to meet: he likes me and respects my work, I know. The meeting breaks up and I am proud of myself for withstanding the pressure of this important moment.

Back to the routine of the ward. We play kickball every few days in the gym, and one time I can hear Jerry Remy, the Red Sox beloved color man, telling some people how terrific my instincts are on a double play ball. Where is his camera? Or is he here, out of sight?

The hospital is safe ground, but going outside is risky. I am aware that there have been snipers posted on various buildings within the large complex where the hospital is located. Are they friends sent to protect me, or foes who will take me out should I try to scale the eight foot fence surrounding the exercise yard? Every day, weather permitting, we go outside and play wiffleball or throw a football around. Most days I get bored quickly as the other patients motor skills are so poor it becomes an endless exercise in throwing the ball softly then chasing as it skips past the intended recipient. But today I walk over to the fence, which has barbs on the tops, just like in every prison movie I've ever seen: electrified or not? Should I chance it? I make my best "Jesus on the cross" pose and motion to where I think the snipers are: come get me. End this all please. I'm ready for my closeup, Mr. DeMille.

Returning to the ward, no one mentions my histrionics at the fence, and I find I have a new roommate. He is young, tall, looks clean but is unshaven, athletic looking, and clear eyed. This must be one of the snipers, who's been moved indoors. He most likely is glad to be inside and out of the early April wind and cold. He makes no mention of his assignment and I respect the fact that he can lie in bed for most of the day without moving a muscle: that's exactly how a sniper must sit and wait for their targets to present themselves. The dilemma is as always: Is he friend or foe? Sent to protect me or break me down?

I love to talk to the other patients and hear their stories. Do these soldiers have the freedom to make up their own backstory, or are they given notes and ordered to stick to a basic script? This fascinates me and I try to make the more talkative ones slip up, asking increasingly intrusive questions about their families and psych history. Without fail they answer believably and I am impressed. Things are going well lately and the routine suits me: meals, showers, naps, exercise, newspapers, then to bed early.

My sniper leaves one day and I get another roommate. This one is fucking good: I can smell him from across the room; it's likely he hasn't taken a shower in weeks, his clothes quickly are all over our room, and he sleeps all day. I am in awe of the depth that this actor has taken his role to and want to congratulate him, but know that he cannot break character and will pretend to have no idea what I am talking about.

The highlight of each day is going to the bank. The bank, basically a small glass enclosed desk, is manned by a cashier in the central part of the hospital, off my ward, who has money that my mother has deposited there for my use, maybe twenty bucks. I am allowed to take a couple of dollars out each day, and I spend it at the cafeteria on a Milky Way and a twelve ounce Coke. Junk food never tasted so fucking good. The chocolate practically melts in my mouth.

I am told I'm to be released the next day. This confuses me: they're just going to let me walk out of here, just like that? How can this be? How can all this come to such a simple conclusion? There must be more to going on that I am not aware of. The next day I pack my stuff, am given back my ID and cash, and led to a waiting taxi, which drives me to my Mom's house in Kittery, an hour away. She is not there, so I simply get in my Corolla and drive up I95, home to Portland.

The apartment is the same as I left it, albeit with a massive stack of mail on the coffee table. My Mom told me in the hospital that she had been picking up the stuff in my mailbox, along with feeding my cat. That cat, Hank, is neither happy nor unhappy to see me. She is relentless in her stupidity, I think.

My apartment, the fourth unit on the fourth floor of an old hospital that was converted to low income housing two decades back, has been my home since the summer of 2004. Prior to that I had been staying in Kittery, in a cramped little space on the first floor of my mother's tiny home on Government Street. But since my father's death in 2003 and the resulting life insurance money had finally come in and made the decision to move easier, I had decided to return to Portland, where I had lived from 1998 to 2000.

Not much is going on when I return. The NBA Playoffs have been going on for a few weeks and I am interested in LeBron James and the Cavaliers. He is the best known athlete in the world and someone who has apparently taken an interest in my situation. Back in the hospital, when I was put into the four point restraint, I remember hearing the staff taking his angry call. "What are you doin' to my boy, man!" They assured him that I would be treated well and he was placated. Tonight the Cavs are playing the hated Pistons in Game 5 of the Eastern Conference Finals, and Bron Bron goes off! After the game LeBron is interviewed. After he moves off camera I hear him ask the interviewer, "Can he hear me?" He then tells me to hang in there and that "Once this war is over maybe we can hang out a little and talk. We might even have a victory parade for y'all to come to. Hang in there, boy."

It's good to be home in my place, Apartment 404.

This I Want To Be True : Once Upon A Time In My Life - Part 4

I'm told there is to be a hearing in a few days, concerning what I don't know. I'm not worried. I don't belong here and am capable of causing a lot of trouble for whomever is responsible for keeping me in this place. Am spending a lot of my time in a lounge/tv room away from the main part of the unit. One day, as I watch CNN, the Dow Jones is dropping like a stone. Financial movers and shakers know that I'm in here and they're pissed about it and are willing to lose hundreds of millions of dollars to show the government that I deserve to be released. I start rocking the tv back and forth on its stand, thinking "You don't tilt over a Coke machine with one push. It takes a bunch of tries", a line I remember from either "Seinfeld" or "Dr. Stranglelove", I don't remember which. The patient with sweatpants walks by: today is going to be a slow day, as he is wearing the red ones. I won't be released, and settle in, waiting for dinner.

The next morning I'm led to a courtroom located within the hospital. This is my chance to tell a real judge, a man of authority and power, about the injustices forced on me by so many people in the last weeks. The first witness called is my crush, the attractive nurse who was the first person I spoke to my initial morning on the ward, the one I decided to trust. She avoids my eyes and I know she will miss me when I'm gone. The questions start. Instead of asking her about how poorly I've been treated, the government lawyer asks her about the night I was put in restraints. The nurse appears a bit nervous, but seems to have been down this road before and is able to put together a reasonable description of that night. And that's it. No more witnesses for the government. I am called to the stand for maybe five minutes and perform admirably, with cool and aplomb that certainly will win my release. I avoid histrionics and do not bring up the many cameras and microphones in the unit, the fake "patients" being "treated", the civil war that nearly broke out the night of my restraint due to my many supporters and admirers, incensed at my treatment.

A letter arrives several days later. I am told that I will be held for observation for up to a month. The balls! The arrogance! I've known my whole life about the way small people get fucked over in life, but I am not a small person. I am the writer of Apartment404.blogspot.com, read and admired by millions. I have had intimate conversations with President Bush, LeBron James, Al Franken, Marvin Hagler, Tina Fey, Dick Cheney, Kim Mulkey, Jerry Remy, and Amy Sedaris, to name a few who have come under my spell. Where are my friends now, now that I need them? They can't have given up on me. They care about me, I know.

Just to mess some more with my head, I am told I will be transported to Portsmouth District Court to face a judge regarding the assault charges stemming from the incident at the Motel 6. On a rainy early morning in April I am driven in a state police car back to the coast. Knowing that there will be reporters there I try to psych myself up. They want to break me, to get me to show weakness. That won't happen. If they put me in prison today I will be fine with that. Arriving at the courthouse I am led to a basement jail and put into a jumpsuit, then have my arms and legs shackled. Cool! I feel like a tough guy. A real criminal bad ass. Maybe the guards putting the metal on me know how scary I am, and I'm thrilled. I'm led into an elevator. The doors open into a large courthouse, with a metal wall, thigh high, located in a six foot perimeter around the elevator door. Where are the cameras? Where are the reporters? The people here seem bored, but I assume it's simply an act to calm my nerves. No need to get me jumpy. The judge quickly reads some paperwork. I don't understand any of it; he is speaking jibberish. When he is done reading he looks at me, and I know I'm supposed to say something. Sticking my head back and my neck out in the toughest, baddest pose I can muster, I say, "Yes, Your Honor." Just like on "Law And Order." I'm taken back to the elevator, downstairs, where they return my clothes, and am driven back to Concord.

As a veteran of psych wards I am a pro at making time pass. Eight o'clock is breakfast, then newspapers and the "Today Show." Take a walk with the others out on the courtyard, maybe some kickball in the gym. Then it's lunch at noon. A nap, more tv, another walk when the weather allows, early dinner at five. I seem to be going to bed early; maybe 7 or 8. And am sleeping well.

One day I am talking to one of the staff members on the unit. He is my age, military haircut, decent build. We talk about the war in Iraq. When I ask him his opinion, he claims to want to turn the Middle East into "a parking lot" with nukes. I am taken aback but the brutality of the thought. An officer who wants to just bomb the shit out of a couple of countries? I guess it takes all shapes and sizes to run a war, but I don't want this trigger happy jarhead watching my back. Another time a dog is brought in to the unit. I realize quickly that this brown lab is going to be my dog once I'm released. Those in charge are using the carrot and stick approach on me: act nice and this beautiful animal will be yours, Joe. I give the dog a big hug, and eyeball his handler menacingly when I let go. Don't fuck with my animal, I want to say to the bastard.

The meals are what I look forward to the most. Not the taste, not the full belly, but the military precision with which we, the patients on the unit, seat ourselves and eat in almost complete silence. I couldn't ask for a better group of actors to be in here with. They all seem so normal and are kind to me. It would be unthinkable that these normal, healthy looking folks would be locked up in a psychiatric hospital. Couldn't the armed services come up with more men and women who at least appeared the part? These folks look just like me.

My Mom comes to visit. She looks older than the last time I'd seen her, and she's clearly tired. Probably a late winter cold or flu. We are given a private room to eat our meal in. I try to explain to her what is going on but when the words come out of my mouth, I only hear myself saying, "How is the cat? Seen anything good on television? Are you watching the basketball tournament?" She only stays for a half hour, but I want her to stay longer. To see my room, to see the operation here at the hospital, to just sit for a bit.

Days later, another hearing is held. This one in a different courtroom. My godmother is there, my Mom's sister, who lives in Connecticut. Guess she was visiting this week and came along for the ride to Concord. My mother speaks: she describes me as delusional and sick. She is scared of me and what might become of me. I tear up, because she is so confused. This poor woman is trying to prevent her second son from realizing the life he deserves. I am brought back to the ward and do not make eye contact with Mom when I leave. She has done her best to hurt me and I won't soon forget it.

Thoughts. Deep.

-- "Modern Family", ABC's heavily hyped and critically raved about first year sitcom, has been depressingly boring the last half dozen or so episodes. Have they run out of things to say already, in their very first season? Very little character development has taken place, so it's basically normal, dull people trying to say clever things to each for 22 minutes. And Mitchell and Cameron are the straightest and most annoying gay dudes in the history of television couplehood: absolutely no sex appeal between the two. I am not aware of even a kiss between the two homos, and Mitchell just need a good slap sometimes to wipe that smirk off his face. Has ABC told the show's producers to tone down the dick up the ass humor for us, the great unwashed? Because the show begs for some spice. They need to take some chances or "Modern Family", which showed great potential this fall, will become as worthless as anything ever made by Ray Romano.


-- Man, do I love going to a football/baseball/basketball/hockey game about 45 minutes early and watching the team's warm up. To me, attending pregame is like going to a wedding: everyone is happy and optimistic that all will work out incredibly well. The participants are all dressed beautifully, checking out each others attire, smiling and winking to one and all. The coaches are the fathers of the bride and groom, beaming with pride at what their offspring/players are about to accomplish.

-- The games themselves are usually more like marriage (or warfare): intermittent terror and excitement followed by excruciating boredom for long stretches.


-- The city of Portland must tear down Cumberland County Civic Center and build a more modern arena, and soon. More modern in the sense that 6 2 300 pounders like myself and so many other Americans should be able to sit and watch a two or three hour event without needing medical attention following. More legroom, please. More assroom, please.


-- "Shutter Island" is entertaining. Too long, a high grade B movie, and far from Martin Scorcese's best work. But entertaining nonetheless. Recommended for mature viewers (don't bring the kids).


-- As soon as the cash can be raised (we're thinking of selling plasma...or Rudy the cat) there will a be new tattoo placed somewhere on the person of a staff member of Apartment 404, hopefully sometime next week. And it will be located in a place only those who are intimate with said staff member (or take a shower with them at World Gym) will be able to see.


-- The DVD for "This Is It" is a must have for any fan of pop music. Jackson's handlers must be waiting for the buying frenzy to stall somewhat before they release the soundtrack (which kicks ass).


-- To ever write, you must read. Lots.

-- To ever teach, you must be willing to learn.

I'm Too Important To Be Here: Once Upon A Time In My Life - Part 3

I wake up to bright sunshine. The room feels warm and comfortable, the sheets and blankets soft around my limbs and chest. I feel safe here, surprisingly. My roommate does not stir, does not make a sound, has not made a sound: He's good. Obviously they brought in the best of the best, since locking a high profiler like me into a psych ward is serious business. No more fooling around. I'll have to figure out who fucked up to get me in here, but knowing that quality people are on the job increases my feeling of safety, comfort, and security. I'll be out of here soon.

I spend a few minutes orienting myself to the surroundings. The window next to my bed, from which I expected the sniper attack to come last night, looks out into a courtyard which is surrounded on all four sides by rooms similar to mine. I later learn that this is where we will take our afternoon walks. Having been in many psychiatric hospital rooms I am struck by how colorful the one I'm in is. The bright yellows of the blanket are made warmer by the rays of morning sunshine. The light brown wood of the closets against the far wall, same.

Not hungry but knowing the usual routines, I search out breakfast. An attractive female nurse, a bit younger than me, whom I decide is going to be someone I can count on, tells me that the food is coming, I just need to hold on a few moments. She gives me a kind smile, and I feel even safer than when I woke fifteen minutes ago. Is she a lieutenant or a major? She's pretty damn hot, too. Well alright.

I try to put together the pieces of the very complicated puzzle that is my life. Last night I was tasered and arrested by the Portsmouth, NH police, brought to the local hospital for evaluation, then delivered to the State Hospital in Concord and admitted. Why didn't they just give L. to me last night like I planned, had hoped for, had been expecting for weeks now? I know she was waiting in a van just outside the hotel entrance when the cops put me in their cruiser. We were so close to being together. She must have suffered more cold feet, or maybe some higher up put a halt to it, but I know she loves me and wants to be with me. It's just a matter of time until all my dreams come true.

In the unit, the other twenty or so patients are quite obviously plants, there for my benefit. They are too normal and too friendly to be anywhere close to being sick enough to be admitted to a psych hospital. And the staff, with their military bearing, close cropped hair, and curt yet kind answers to my many questions, are working for whatever government agency is in charge of all this. I know they mean me no harm, so I quickly settle in to life on the unit. Three meals a day; at eight, noon, and five. Plenty of television, newspapers, walks, a bit of exercise in an adjoining gym, a few attempts at throwing a football around in the exercise yard just outside the ward. Not bad.

But I am a man in a hurry. Surely the Hollywood folks who have raised money for me will be upset that I am incarcerated. That I am being kept away from L., who has tossed aside her husband and life in Ohio to be with me. That I was nearly killed by some trigger happy local cops. I know that there is a sort of control room, located just off the nurses station, where the cameras and microphones throughout the unit are being monitored. I see the staff come and go from this room, looking over at me whenever they enter or leave. Are they in there laughing at me when I pick my nose, when I take a shower, when they watch me as I sleep? Do they think I'm good looking, or ugly as fuck? Are the nurses/officers all hot for me? Do the males all want to kick my ass for causing them to be given such a strange assignment?

A week or two passes, uneventfully. We all go about our daily duties; the actors playing their roles, for my benefit, and me trying not to take a swing at someone as I yearn for L. and for freedom. This is beginning to get old. Why am I still here?

One night, I know that L. is on her way to the Concord to get me. She is driving in from the coast, about an hour away. Whoever the powers that be are, they have decided to grant me my wish. I know this because one of the "patients" has decided to put on his green sweatpants. When he is wearing his red or yellow sweatpants, I know that nothing good is happening for me. It's a kind of code that this dude, whom I've never spoken to, has worked out. He is my lifeline, signaling me through his clothing when things are good for me and when they are bad.

Getting impatient, as it's nighttime. I hear chatter that L. has stopped at the local mall to buy lingerie at Victoria's Secret. Fucking lingerie! What is going on? Why doesn't she just come and get me the hell out of here? But she wants to look good for me on our first night together, and also once again is getting cold feet. Minutes pass. An hour passes. She has stood me up.

Fuck this, I want out. I grab my jacket, my empty wallet (from which the cash and ID have been taken the night I arrived by staff), and approach the nurse's station: I'm ready to leave. Right motherfucking now, man! This was not in their plans, they are not ready to let me go. They try to talk me into returning to my room. Cool, I'll chill out there while these pricks get their act together. After five minutes stewing in my room a couple of slightly built male staff members stand at my doorway and ask if they can come in. "Only if you've got good news." They come in together, and I am struck by the fact that they are scared, too. I am standing by the window in my room. There is a wooden chair to my left. I know this chair weights a good sixty pounds. If they piss me off, don't do what I tell them, I can do some serious damage with it. To them. To the room. "Calm down, we can't let you go. Not tonight." This is not what I want to hear. What about the green sweatpants? What about L.? I want to go now.


My blood boiling I demand to talk to the man in charge, whomever that is. I make my way to the hallway, inching forward as the staff, now numbering more than a dozen, are an arm's length away. I feel their terror, their energy, and know that I am in charge. They will do what I say if I just stay calm and cool. There is a way out.

A cop appears. He fingers his weapon, but again I know he is as afraid as I am, and that gives me strength. He wants me to come to an office off the main unit. I scoff: "You want me to come to a locked room? A soldier never puts himself in a situation he can't get out of. Get away from me!" Amazingly he and his mustache retreat. I AM in control.

This entire shit storm has gone on for maybe twenty minutes and I know my time is running out. I see the nurse, the one I met the first day, the one I have a crush on, and ask her what I should do. She suggests taking a pill. I oblige. But still no way out.

And then suddenly there are twenty arms around me. There is a blanket on the floor, and I am pushed on top of it face first. I scream, "I'm loose! I'm loose!", letting the fuckers know that I will not fight. They misunderstand, thinking I'm am complaining, and they tighten their grip. This is bad. Their fear has been changed to aggression, mine to submission. Where is L.? They carry me inside the blanket to a room on the unit to which the door has always been closed. I am placed chest down on a bed, into what I later learn is called a four point restraint. My arms behind me, each wrist tightly secured to the side. My feet secured as well. If I struggle I only feel pain, from the awkwardness and tightness of the restraints. This is not the way they are supposed to treat an important person like Joe Sweeney. Do they know this? Do they care anymore? Where is my L.? Where are my ass kickers, my protectors?

The Year The Refs Stole A Title From Dirk Diggler, Avery Johnson, and the Mavs

Apartment 404 spent the afternoon watching high school ball at the Cumberland County Civic Center and found our collective minds wandering to a thought late in the second game, as the Falmouth boys were beating up on Cape Elizabeth in the Western Maine Class B Finals: How tough is it to officiate a basketball game? And more importantly, to officiate it well?

The three man crew working the Falmouth / Cape game were basically "Two Men and a Baby": Two offcials working hard and effectively, with the third member of the crew doing absolutely nothing but calling simple out of bounds plays. This official, whom we don't know by name, literally made ONE foul call in the last three quarters by our count. (And that foul was an intentional called on a breakaway, a whistle that looked to be highly questionable.) The rest of the time we were concentrating on him he let his two partners make EVERY SINGLE FOUL CALL. How does this lame excuse for an official get awarded to the most important game of the season for the young men involved?

We have no idea, but it's a travesty.

================

That brings The 'Pent to the main point of this post: How inept officials can alter sports history, not just through gambling or drug use but also by incompetence:

In the 2006 NBA Finals between the Mavs and the Heat, the series was tied 2-2. Game 5, being played in Miami (remember, the NBA uses a 2-3-2 format), was all even at 100-100 with 1.9 seconds left after Dwayne Wade made the first of two free throws. He had one left, which if made would give the Heat a 1 point lead, a miss and the game is still tied. Dallas had one timeout left, but Coach Avery Johnson doesn't want to use it until after the second shot so that they can advance the ball to halfcourt, regardless of a make or miss by Wade.


Here's a YouTube video of what happened next.


And here's our subsequent take on the fiasco, with a surprising Boston connection.


=================

Let's say the percentage chance that Dirk "Diggler" Nowitzki or teammate hits a shot off an inbounds pass with 1.9 seconds left is about 40%, maybe a little less. And the percentage chance of hitting a running full court heave is maybe 3-5%; basically not going to happen. So a major difference between the two scenarios for Johnson.

If Joe DeRosa had let Coach Johnson call the timeout after the SECOND free throw, the Mavs would have had 1.9 seconds to use after Wade's make, with Dallas down 1, or slightly less after a miss due to the fraction of a second needed to corral the board, albeit with the score tied and no chance for the Mavs to lose in regulation.

His grandstanding in forcing Johnson to use his final timeout in a useless situation will long be remembered by Apartment 404 due to the likelihood that it greatly contributed in the loss by the Dallas Mavericks of the 2005-06 NBA Championship, since a win in Game 5 would have given the Mavs a 3-2 lead with the last two to be played in Dallas. Would Dirk Diggler and his band have lost those last two? Not bloody likely!

-----------------

Instead, history tells us that Wade hit the game winning free throws in the final seconds, Avery Johnson and Josh Howard stupidly pulled a C-Webb vs UNC type bonehead maneuver to cost their team, and the Heat wound up winning the final four games of the series to become champions.

The reality is that a title hinged on a ridiculous call by a no name ref who didn't understand that his job is more art than science. Hopefully the Heat awarded Joe DeRosa a ring or at least a half share of the playoff loot.

The Winter Olympics: Thirty Years, Zero Progress

Ask Americans of a certain age what their greatest sports memories are and you can be sure that the 1980 "Miracle on Ice" will make top five, minimum. Beating the Soviet Union's hockey team, the best in the world at the time by far, may be the most shocking upset in our nation's athletic history.

AND THE GAME VERSUS THE RUSSIANS WAS NOT BROADCAST LIVE BY ABC.

Instead, ABC showed the historic event that evening on tape delay so as not to interrupt their affiliates' lucrative soap operas and local news broadcasts.

================

Thirty years later NBC is pulling the same crap. Does anyone wonder why the networks are struggling financially? NBC, like the others, plays their customers for fools, hoping enough eyeballs watch the hours old footage in primetime to justify their near billion dollars rights investment.

Ridiculous. The Apartment 404 staff have watched a couple of hours of afternoon coverage, all live. We refuse to be made fools of, or waste time. Lindsey Vonn might be spectacular in every possible way, the snowboarding may be fun, and the hockey is kick butt, but we're not spending the whole night waiting for the good stuff that seems to always come at 10:55pm.

Three decades and zero progress. Apartment 404 has nothing but contempt for NBC's coverage.

Leaving a Sporting Event Early: WTF?

We, the staff of Apartment 404, have never understood the mentality of all those fans who rush home early from a Pirates, Sea Dogs, Red Sox, etc game. Just what exactly is going on at home that is so fantastically stimulating that these people have to race back to it? What is going on elsewhere that is so awesome that you have to hit the exits of a game you paid for, travelled to, and sat through two thirds of?

People pay good money to bring family, friends, or coworkers to a game, then, as soon as the home team is ahead or behind by a bunch they bolt. Just what is so fucking great about their home life that they can't stand to be away from it for another half hour or so while the game ends? This baffles us.

And don't give us any "beat the traffic" bullcrap: this is Maine, man!

The players and coaches don't leave early, no matter how lopsided the score. The vendors, ushers, and other employees can't hit the exits when they feel like their team might be out of it.

Here in Apartment 404, Rudy the cat's always fed and happy, the place is relatively clean and orderly, our stove is not gas so it won't explode. Really, there's no reason for the members of the Apartment 404 family to be in a rush to get back here.

Staying for the entirety of a ball game is a sign of respect to the participants. How would you feel if you were out on the court/field/ice and saw the crowd filter out in the latter stages of a game?

-------------

Or just maybe life here in The 'Pent is really mind blowingly dull. That's probably it.

The NYT Hates "Shutter Island"

Here.

-----

I parsed just enough of this review to learn of A.O. Scott's complete disregard for the new Scorcese. That won't stop me from seeing it this weekend, but greatly tempers my enthusiasm. Maybe "When In Rome" is still playing...

The Intractability of Wishes : Once Upon A Time In My Life - Part 2

I am face down on a carpet. The assembled cops have me secure, with their boots on my neck, my back, my butt, my arms pulled behind me. I can't move. My jeans are around my ankles, as I had had the bright idea to show them that I was, in military parlance, a "big swinging dick", upon their arrival at the third floor of the Portsmouth Motel Six this Friday night, three minutes ago, back when I was on top of the world.

I know that I am way overweight and that the dual taserings had a chance of killing me. But I'm still alive. The cops gently lift me to my feet, pull up my pants, and buckle them for me since I'm now in handcuffs. My shoes are in my room; someone retrieves them, tries to slip the right one on to my size 14 foot, failing. I say to them, "Widen it out. Widen it out." They finally understand what I mean, and get both shoes, unlaced, on my feet.

We are in the hallway just outside of the room I have rented for the night, and I watch the police search it. Just a boombox, beer bottles (some empty, some full), a small brown suitcase with three days worth of clothes, a used towel from my shower. No drugs. I've never done any drugs. Never even smoked a joint.

I am in a state of shock and meek as a newborn as I am led into the elevator, downstairs, through the lobby, and into a idling police cruiser. The cops are nothing but respectful and decent as my head and body are gently maneuvered past the doorframe into the car's backseat. I've never had handcuffs on before, and they are painfully tight around my oversized wrists. The cruiser's backseat is much too small for my bulk, and I have to sit sideways. Wordlessly, the cops drive us off.

We arrive at the police station. I am led to a large booking room and am seated amongst a row of metal chairs against the near wall. Very little is being said by anyone there. Why do they all look so sad and serious? Minutes later, paramedics arrive and give me the once over: they find nothing wrong and are quickly gone. One of the cops, a nervous looking male in his thirties, hands me a small metal box with a tube attached. I have no idea what it is. He tells me to "blow in it." What? Why? I realize it's a breathalyzer, to see how much I've had to drink. Blowing into the tube is laborious and tiring. The cop seems annoyed with my efforts, asking me to try again. I've got no breath to give, no strength left. After two or three tries he seems satisfied and retreats.

I am put into a holding cell and the handcuffs are removed. The frigid, damp, fetid, closet sized cell is covered, literally from ceiling to floor, with graffiti. I am too tired to try to decipher any of it. Sitting on the bench provided, my head is throbbing. I'm utterly confused as to why my protectors, my inferiors, have brought me here. Why is this happening? The thought crosses my mind that I am in danger, but it passes quickly. I can't put more than a few small thoughts together. How long will I be here? When can I sleep?

There is very little noise in the jail. I hear nearby doors open and close, half whispers exchanged, some radio chatter. It seems I am the only prisoner in the group of three cells, thankfully. I am brought to a brightly lit room to be fingerprinted. It is clear right away that the elder of the two cops involved is teaching the other how it's done, but they have no success getting my large fingers to read on their scanner. Is it because the electricity from the taser left my body through these fingers, causing some burning? This thought gives me some measure of comfort: You fuckers tried to kill me and failed! I have a mug shot taken, for the first time in my life. I try to look like like everything is fine. It doesn't work.

Back to the cell. I quickly realize that I must sit sideways on the bench so that I can rest my outstretched right leg on it. Within minutes, I am comfortable in my new surroundings. So this is what being locked up is like, huh? I can do this. I can take this. My thoughts turn to how long I will be here. Hours or days? Months even? Can they do this to me? Time passes, a guard comes and brings me back to the main booking room. He tells me I can bail myself out with $50. Since I've been on the run for only a week or so, I have plenty of cash left in my wallet and pay the man. How lucky am I that I have the necessary cash on me?

I'm led out to a waiting cruiser. Two young, beefy, intense looking cops are seated in front. They are obviously the heavy hitters I have been waiting for all night. I think of them as my personal ass kickers. They could be Secret Service, FBI, military, anything. As long as they know what they are doing, everything will be fine. And I am amazed that the markings on the car appear legit: how did the government do this all so quickly? Anyways, cool. Finally, some action. The snow is falling heavily, and it is still night. The ass kicker who is driving pulls slowly away from the police station, driving carefully, obviously due to both the conditions and his important cargo.

Nothing is said on our drive. We arrive at Portsmouth Regional Hospital ten minutes later. I'm brought to the emergency room, a place I am familiar with due to my many stays at The Pavilion, the hospital's psych unit, and am led to a large rectangular room I've never been in. The ass kickers, whom I have come quickly to feel are my protectors, are at the door, saying nothing. Minutes pass, then a young looking nurse appears. She has a very serious demeanor: this must be a big assignment for her; maybe she's in over her head so I better be nice. She questions me about what happened that night, and seems angry with me, as if I have actually done something wrong. I notice one of the ass kickers at the door instinctively reach his gun hand down to his weapon when she presses a point. He's clearly on my side, and would die to protect me. The nurse draws blood, takes my vitals, leaves. Ten minutes later she returns, all smiles. Did somebody tell her who I am? How important I am? Her face is now one of tenderness and compassion; she starts referring to me as "honey." Yes, somebody certainly got to her, thankfully. Maybe it's gonna be alright

As I wait some new cops arrive and begin to mill around outside in the hallway. I listen intently to their talk, trying to get a clue as to where they are taking me next. I hear discussion of how "This happens all the time." Piecing together what I hear, fear begins to take hold. I realize that it was no coincidence I saw all those National Guardsmen at the Hampton the other night: they were supposed to hold a field exercise over the weekend, but my harassment and arrest have caused serious turmoil. The thought jumps to my mind, based on snippets from what I hear from the hallway, that there there are a lot of folks angry that I've been treated so poorly. And others who just as badly want to do me harm. Military people. Important people. Folks with whom no one fucks with. Is it possible that the ass kickers are there to protect me from some faction within the government? I know that the US government is peopled by many different fiefdoms, all with their own agendas, for whom assassinating me would be quite the trophy pelt. Now I'm scared. Could there even be a civil war over this, my arrest? I won't live through the night, I think.

The nurse wishes me well. I'm sure treating me will give her a great story to tell her children someday, and am happy for her. The ass kickers lead me out the back door of the ER, to a waiting cruiser. But it's a different one than I came in. I'm handed off to two older, portly, and slightly unsanitary looking cops, who seat me in the back. Why are the two pros, whom I have developed such a crush on, giving me up now? I ask no questions, am hoping just to survive the night. I'll figure this all out come daylight.

We drive for what seems like hours, through awful weather. Again, there is no conversation from the officers. They are serious in their work, thankfully. We travel west from Portsmouth, getting off the highway in Concord. Road signs tell me that we are at the New Hampshire State Hospital. I have begun to obsess over the chance of being assassinated, by a disgruntled soldier, by a spook who is just following orders, by a crazy who doesn't like what I've been saying about the war on my blog. Lots of possibilities, many worries.

After we park outside what appears to be the main hospital building, the older, heftier cop gets out of car, looks left and right (snipers?), and walks the thirty feet to a side door. It opens from within. My heart is racing because I know I will have to walk from the car to the waiting door, and my brain is telling me that I might be assassinated in the attempt. The snow has turned to rain, increasing the gloominess of the night. I take a tentative step out of the vehicle. No gun shots. Another step, towards the door. And another. So much effort, but I am able to find the courage. And I make it. Thanks to the officers for getting me out of harm's way. They did an incredible job of protecting me, I know.

Inside the hospital, I am led to a very large but dour looking and foul smelling room, where half a dozen or so staffers are seated in row facing a single chair. I sit down on it, trying to gauge the temperature of the room. Who is the leader here? What is their rank? Any generals or colonels? The slightly built middle aged man dressed in a cheap, ill fitting, brown suit speaking to me seems to not be officer material. Is he in charge of all this? This lightweight? After a few perfunctory questions from him, I am led out of the room, to what appears to be the main psych unit, and to my room. I'm given a bright colored yellow blanket. Why is it so noticeable, so eye catching? This seems odd, troubling, frightening. It occurs to me that I am being made a target, that the blanket is a way for someone outside to pick my form out through the window. The assassination didn't happen in the parking lot, it would happen in my sleep. I am too tired to run, to analyze. I think to myself, "If I'm going to die tonight, then so be it. I can't fight them all off forever. If no one wants to be in my corner then fuck it. Everyone dies."

I have a roommate. He must be in on this too, but he doesn't move a muscle or make a sound in his bed, the one closest to the door. I'm on the bed next to the window, where anyone can see in, can do what they want to me. Fighting off sleep, trying to come up with a plan that will get me out of this shit storm, I can only come up with these thoughts: "This is the last night of my life. This is how it all ends. They're going to kill me tonight." I drift off to sleep.

Seemingly minutes later, I wake. I've made it through the night.

Once Upon A Time In My Life: March 2007

It's midmorning on a clear, brisk, late winter day in southern Maine. I'm driving quickly on Route 1 through the outskirts of Ogunquit, and the scary looking pickup behind me is following me. Shit. Are they friend or foe? I heard a minute ago on the radio that Brad Delp, lead singer for Boston, committed suicide last night. It's my fault. He ended his life because he was so distraught over my persecution, my plight, all the people who want to do me harm.

I'm not sure where I'm going, only that I need to lose that fucking pickup. I make a quick left at the middle of town. I hear the pickup honk at me but I'm not turning around. Heading south on the twists and turns of Shore Road, driving too fast. I run into some construction. That's why the guy was honking. He must have been a friend who was trying to steer me clear of this. Losing my way I wind up near the ocean, not sure what road I'm on. There's a construction worker ahead, eyeing my Corolla nervously. Should I risk asking him for directions? Fuck it, he doesn't look too dangerous. He tells me how to get back to Route 1.

I make my way to the Coachman Inn in Kittery, rent a room for the night, not sure of my plans for tomorrow. I've got about three grand in the checking account, enough to last a few weeks if I'm smart. The million dollar check I'm waiting for from my Hollywood connections should be coming soon, I'm sure. At the Oscars a few weeks back a collection had been taken up for me, this I know. The bleeding hearts in LA were sympatico with my plight, and had given big. Once I got that money I'd be set for life. Just had to hold on until it was delivered, hopefully by Ellen and Melissa E. The couple of times in the past two weeks I was sure they were coming to visit me up in Portland at my place, those false alarms, that was just nerves playing tricks on me. They knew me, they knew I needed money. And they were coming. Just a matter of time. It was all gonna work out just fine.

That night at the Coachman my school, Miami U, was playing in the finals of the MAC tourney on tv. They win on a last second shot! The fuckers listening in on and watching my room have no idea how happy this makes me. I raise a beer to them: take that, assholes! I'm going to be rich and you'll still be a government snoop, spying on innocent heroes like me. I find myself sitting in a chair in the furthest corner of the rather sizable single I've got for the night, protecting my flanks like a good infantryman, curtains drawn tight, locks set. I can hear the snoops laughing at me for the longest time, then silence. Silence for the first time in weeks. Maybe months. They finally understand who they are dealing with. I'm a bad fucker who is willing to take this all as far as it has to be taken.

A thump against the wall across from me. I am sure that all the rooms in the motel have been rented out to spooks, sent to either protect me or harm me, I'm not sure. Better scare 'em: "Don't fuck with me!" I snarl to the wall. They get the message and there are no more distractions the rest of the evening. Finally, late, I fall asleep drunk. Get my usual three hours. Up early. Where to now?

Mom's place is in Kittery. Maybe that's why I've been heading south from my home in Portland. She is safe but her house is bugged too. The cameras are pretty much everywhere, watching my every move. I go to her home, hoping she will save me, protect me. She seems as scared as I am, and asks me for the key to her house back. She doesn't trust me with it. What the hell is going on? My Mom is turning her back on me when all these fuckers are out to get me, to harm me, to help me? I tell her, "I just need some time." I have an idea.

I get a room at the Hampton Inn in Portsmouth, just across the New Hampshire line off I95. The clerk smiles knowingly when I get the key to my room. I feel safe; there are National Guardsmen all over the place. Are they getting ready for some type of operation, or are they there to protect me from all those who want to do me harm? I assume they care about me, that they know how hard I've been fighting for such a long, long time. They won't hurt me, I'm sure. I rent a fridge and stock it with Corona. Gonna be a long night and I need something to make the time go faster. More basketball on tv. I do a load of laundry and someone steals a sock from out of the dryer. No problem, just someone getting a keepsake from a famous guy like me. Maybe there really are folks in the world who don't hate and wish me dead, but instead want me to understand they are with me after all I've been through. Maybe some people actually like me. Get maybe two hours of sleep. Watch videos until daybreak. Gather my stuff to check out. It was a good night, the fucking spooks left me pretty much alone. A giggle here and there, but not much. They took it easy on me. Maybe they finally have some respect for my fight. Gather my stuff and close the room door behind me. Getting on the elevator is a muscled young man, mid twenties, with a sizable backpack slung. He must be my guide, my protector. He says nothing to me as her gets on. Just as it should be. He's obviously a pro. Not going to give anything away. We arrive at the ground floor. He turns left, I turn right. Wait, was I supposed to follow him? Was he going to lead me to the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard, the place I am headed this morning? I check out and the desk clerks do not ask for any money or credit card. Surely this means the government has paid my bill. The least those bastards can do for me. I walk quickly out to the parking lot, looking for that soldier. Nowhere to be seen. I know I've fucked up their plans for me, so I return to the lobby of the Hampton, confused as to what I should do. Sitting on a couch, listening to the commotion of the morning rush. Suddenly I realize that everyone there is an actor. They are all there for my benefit, my safety. Go ahead, pretend to order a coffee and a bagel. I'm on to you guys. Feeling safe, I close my eyes and take a half hour nap. Best sleep I've gotten in weeks.

Knowing I'm being watched out for by good people, I decide to make my move: the Shipyard. Driving north I notice a hand colored sign with arrows and letters that I don't quite understand. Must be directions meant for me, but they are nonsensical. They aren't going to make this easy, are they? At least the spooks are trying. I pull into the shipyard's visitors parking lot and wait for someone to come get me. To welcome me and thank me for all the good work I've been doing with my life the past several years. Minutes go by. Nothing. These assholes are incompetent. I'll just have to do this myself, I think, and walk to the visitors center. Seeing no signs to direct me to whoever is in charge I take a number and sit. Finally, I'm called. The friendly, surprisingly relaxed elderly women whom has been given this important assignment pretends like she doesn't know who I am or why am I here. I cry out in exasperation, "Are you going to let me on the base or not?" She looks scared. What the fuck is going on? I run out the door. Another messed up operation by the government; they couldn't bring in one of the most important people on the planet. Me.

Where to now? It's only midday, but I decide to check into a Motel Six. It's located a few hundred yards from the Hampton I stayed in last night, so it should be easy for the spooks to set up their equipment and watch me. Knowing how many people are watching me I decide to give them a treat: I buy a boombox and a Chaka Kahn greatest hits CD. And of course some beer. Go to my room, jar the door open so everyone in the hallway can listen, and crank Chaka. I know I am doing a service to my country, to all the guys paying attention to me through this ordeal, as they listen in through the internet, and the music is a sweet relaxer.

The big item on my agenda for this night was the arrival of a woman from my past that I'm sure the government is bringing in to reward me for my work. I had met L. back when I was in college. She was a type of counselor who knew my father. We had talked often during my freshman year in college and now that I was famous she had realized her love for me. She had, I knew, left her husband and life out in Cleveland and was being transported here, to Portsmouth, tonight, for my benefit. Having met her just once, twenty three years ago, I couldn't believe she still loved me. But she did. And tonight we would spend the night at a Motel Six and sleep together for the first time. That would have to do; maybe not the most romantic setting to come together but it'd have to do. The Hollywood money I had coming would set us up for life; this would just be a pleasant memory to laugh about in the upcoming years of our marital bliss.

I took a nap. When I woke snow was beginning to come down. Heavy. A March snow; how cool. Hopefully this wouldn't mess up L's flight in, but surely the government could handle a few flakes. And they owed me from the fuckup today at the shipyard. I wasn't worried, we'd be together in a few hours. Setting up the room as a kind of bridal suite, I put the Coronas on ice, started the Chaka CD, turned back the covers, and waited for L. to arrive.

Where the fuck was she? Were they going to mess this up, too? I deserved better after all I had put up with.

It was getting late in the day and the snow was piling up; time to investigate. I went down to the lobby and asked the front desk clerk, "Where's my L.? Where is my L." The woman appeared confused and a bit frightened. Another amateur. Two decent sized guys were in the lobby. I knew instinctively they were security. I walked up to the bigger one and chest pumped him, to show him he couldn't do anything to hurt me. They were both there to protect me and couldn't hit back. Man, this was fun! The fuckers scattered and I returned to my third floor room. How could I move this process along and get the damn woman of my dreams into my room and on to the life I'd been obsessing over for so long. The other rooms on my floor obviously were all occupied by government spooks and security personnel. Maybe I could fuck with them a little to show them that I was almost at the end of my rope: I deserved better treatment.

I broke open the door to the room next door to me. They have the nerve to lock me out, so I showed them what was what. And when I shattered the door with my shoulder, the asshole had the nerve to start yelling "Get out!" at me. Didn't he understand what was going on? Books would be written about this night. About my place in the world. He'd regret that.

I returned to my room next door, closed the door and tried to come up with a plan. How long before L. showed up? It was now a nasty snowstorm, so I could understand the delays. But Pease airport was right next door, practically. Couldn't they helicopter her in? Wasn't I important enough?

Angry, I returned to the hallway. Fuckers think they can slow this shit down. I'm sick of waiting. Four or five cops appeared at the end of the hallway. Thank god; somebody was taking this shit seriously. The cops were here and L. was sure to follow. To show them I wasn't afraid, I picked out the biggest, baddest looking policeman. As they approached I slowly walked over and gave him a congratulatory love bump with my chest. My saviors were here! I bumped him again. "Taser...taser!" I heard from someone. The cops backed away from me. A gun fired, I felt a small sting in my chest. Then pain. As much pain as I'd ever felt. As much pain as anyone had ever felt. I went down on all fours. Confusion. Anger: they were fuckups, too! "Hit me again!" was all I could think to yell. They did: the second taser hit was worse than the first. I was face down on the ground with boots on my neck and back, preventing me from moving a muscle. Why were the people sent to save me being so cruel to me, just when I was about to have the life I'd dreamed of: L., the money from the good people out in Hollywood, Maybe a house in the Berkshires. Time to read, time to write. Time to travel, to spend with my Mom. Why were these cops fucking with me when it was all close.

All I could hear in my head was the same thought, going round and round: "Why? Why" Why?"

That heat, so fine. -- My First Crush

I hadn't ever had a date or even been interested in a girl until I met Joanne during spring semester 1986, my sophomore year at Miami University.

It was some random history class in a cold, damp classroom in the middle of campus in early January. On the second day of class I was late arriving and couldn't find a place to sit. "I stole your seat!" someone said. This very pretty girl with friendly eyes and long, blond, curly hair was looking up at me from her seat and smiling. She was in the chair I had used the prior meeting.

Was she talking to me? Was she making fun of me?

I don't remember if I smiled back, or even what I did next. Probably just took a chair and tried to be invisible, as the prof had already been lecturing for a few minutes prior to my arrival and I didn't want anyone to notice me in my usual awkwardness.

-----

Somehow we wound up walking next to each other after class. What did I say to her, other than "My name is Joe."? I don't know. What did she say to me, other than, "Hey, that's my name, too."? No clue. But something was happening that felt good, that made me look forward to the next time I would see her.


===========
===========

In middle school, I remember the biggest, ballsiest girl in our grade asking me, mockingly, "Why don't you ever talk to girls?" In high school I was completely miserable and fearful of everyone, most of all young girls who were suddenly becoming women, so dating was out of the question. There was some masturbation and interest in pornography, but actually being interested in having a girlfriend, no, that was for other boys, not a loser freak like me. I had plenty of problems in my teenage years, lack of interest in girls being just one of many. So when I arrived at Miami in 1984 I had never been kissed, never been on a date, never really had even a meaningful conversation with a female peer.

===========
===========

I started pretty quickly on making sure that I got to that history class early in order to move Joanne's favorite chair close to mine, so that our legs, our feet, our hips would touch as we listened to the lecture. It was almost involuntary. She didn't have a problem being close to me, apparently. This was all so new and wonderful.

There came a day when I got the courage to ask her if she wanted to study for an upcoming exam. Now, Joanne was a pretty indifferent student. She was technically a senior but had told me she wasn't going to graduate with her class, and what's more, she was not bothered by this. So I felt like I was taking a bit of a chance asking her to actually study for a test. But she agreed. I asked her if Burger King was okay.

Yes, Burger King. In the "Uptown" section of Oxford, so named because it was uphill from the Miami campus, on High Street.

Nerves are a funny thing: they show that you care, that something is important. And you better believe that I was plenty nervous waiting for Joanne to show up that first time we had a study date.

Things went well. She must have felt comfortable with me because she put her adorably tiny feet up against my knees from across the table at some point. I was becoming hooked on this kind of feeling.

I remember her long, wild, blond hair, which fell almost to her waist. I remember her complaining once that she had forgotten to shave her underarms that week. She even showed me, thinking I would share her revulsion. They looked pretty good to me. And who knew that women shaved there? I had no clue. I remember finding out that she was from St. Louis, and missed her family. She drove a massive four door sedan that must have belonged to her parents at some point. And was a waitress part time at a Mexican restaurant uptown. She loved "The Cosby Show", which had just come on the air and which I was sure was pap. Joanne was a member of a sorority, the Kappas, but wasn't too involved anymore as a senior. I found out later that the Kappa Kappa Gammas were the glamour girls of Miami sorority life, something that impressed me and my dorm friends to no end. She and her roommate called the bedroom of their apartment the "Love Pit", which took me aback until I realized she was being sarcastic. She once wore a sun dress to class and I heard the girl behind us laugh. I thought maybe she was laughing at Joanne's clothes. What a strange thing: I was paranoid even way back then, being afraid of people laughing at us. I remember her smile.

-----

Having no idea of what to do next, I sought advice from the guys in my hall back at the dorm. "You gotta ask her out" I remember being advised. What a terrifying idea.

The opportunity came when I found out the famed Second City comedy troupe, from Chicago, would be playing a show on campus. Would she like to go? Of course she quickly and enthusiastically said "Yes."

My first date, at 19 years old. Do I remember anything about the actual show? Not really. I remember not being able to laugh too much due to my heart being in my throat the entire night. Was I able to make coherent conversation? Not sure.

The show ended and we walked out. She lived in the opposite direction of town from me. She stopped and turned to me. What was I going to do? I said something along the likes of "Thanks for coming. I had a nice time." A whiff. No kiss. No "Can we do this again?". A wasted opportunity.

From that night until the end of the semester things were different between us. We still sat oh so close to each other, delicately touching, but when I asked her to come study with me sometimes she wouldn't show up. She was mentally moving on, I think. Getting ready for graduation and whatever life was going to hold for her after she left the school we lovingly call "Mother Miami." She will always be special to me.

------------

There is a famous scene in "Citizen Kane" is which one of the peripheral characters talks about spying a beautiful women in the distance, on a ferry, when he was a young man and subsequently thinking about this woman at least once a week for the rest of his life. I have the same experience with my first crush, Joanne L of St. Louis, Missouri and the "Love Pit." Thanks, J, for the memory.

"Dear John" - Dear God, Make Them Stop

The late winter/early spring is the great dumping ground for crappy movies. "When In Rome", "Valentine's Day" (which I was actually looking forward to seeing. Nice call, 'Pent!), "From Paris With Love", and "Tooth Fairy" are just some of the dreck currently playing in Portland. But I still love going to the movies and am always willing to give a film a chance in the hopes of getting surprised. Having a younger brother who is involved in moviemaking lets me know that a lot of the time the folks making the film are trying very, very hard to make a quality product but oftentimes are just as confused in their jobs as you and I are in our lives.

-----

Yesterday afternoon I had a couple of hours to kill and thought to myself, "Just how bad can 'Dear John' be?" I mean, I knew it would be suck, just a question of to what degree. But I'm a sucker for a good love story and was a bit desperate for entertainment.

What a mistake. It was bad in a way that brings new meaning to the word "bad." We here at The 'Pent will attempt to come up with a new word for "bad" to be used in reviews of shitty movies, much like Woody Allen tried to invent a new world to describe his love for his girlfriend in "Manhattan" ("Loouuff", as I recall). How about "baad?" Maybe "awe-ful?" Or "crap-nova?" The staff here at The 'Pent will work on it through the night.

The stars of "Dear John", Channing Tatum and Amanda Seyfried, seem likable enough young actors. But Tatum brings new meaning to the term "morose." Nobody will know if this dude ever tries botox since his facial muscles never seem to move more than a millimeter in any direction. And Seyfried, as pleasant and earnest as she is, simply lacks sex appeal. You don't wanna sleep with her, to put in bluntly.

I recast this movie in my mind as I was watching the first few minutes. Megan Fox would have potentially killed as the lovelorn girl. She certainly has "it" as far as sexiness, but she also needs to branch her career out from the naughty nasties she currently plays to more likable and enduring characters.

And as for the role of hunk, I would have preferred a Ryan. Maybe Ryan Gosling or Ryan Phillippe, two of the underrated young actors around. Either one would have been fine. In fact, dozens of good actors could have nailed this role. Tatum does not. As I mentioned, his facial expressions are, to put it mildly, limited. He's got the bod but not the steam to make it work.

----

I lasted about half an hour with this one, then went out in my car and took a nap. I was fatigued from the awfulness of "Dear John." Such is life.

Would Portland be a Better Sports City Without the Pirates?

A recent article in the Portland Press Herald noted that the AHL team's lease expires this summer, with the expected haggling over a new agreement. And I am wondering if the city would be better off simply letting the team go.

The reason I say this is the lack of leadership in the Pirates front office in terms of providing a quality fan experience. And when you talk about the team lacking direction and energy, you have to point the finger squarely at the man in charge, team CEO Brian Petrovek.

Under his guidance, games at the Civic Center are boring affairs in which horribly outdated music is played repeatedly and ridiculous promotions are run by half hearted employees who seem to be as lacking in energy as the fans. For example, I was at a game earlier this season watching the between period promotion where plastic pucks are thrown by fans on to a mat laid at center ice. If the fans hit certain spots they win prizes. And incredibly, the announcer had the nerve to kick one puck off the mat, since it was apparently only halfway "on" the prize spot. He seemed to get a chuckle out of depriving some paying customer of a free pizza or whatever it was. I was shocked at the callousness of this. How much does a pizza cost? It actually costs the Pirates nothing, since it is a sponsor's responsibility. How hard would it have been for the announcer to say, "The puck is only halfway on, whatdya guys say we give it to them anyway?" to the crowd? That would have been a nice thing to do, and would have been the smart thing to do as well, since it would have made the fan experience a better one, leading to more tickets sales.

------

The Pirates are threatening to move out of town? Let 'em go!

The city can either move the awesomeness that is the Maine Red Claws from the 3,000 seat Expo to the 7,000 seat Civic Center and see what Jon Jennings and his staff do with the increased revenue and media attention, or get another AHL team to move in, which shouldn't be very difficult considering the success of minor league sports in this town.

The city of Portland would be better off without Brian Petrovek and the passionless Portland Pirates.

Why Dwight Howard Sucks

"Superman" won the NBA's Defensive Player of the Year Award last season.

Ridiculous.

----

Every time Howard blocks a shot he sends it as far up into the court side seats as possible. This is, without a doubt, the dumbest play in basketball because the offensive team retains possession. Should they score (and that is likely 50% of the time) the block becomes a meaningless stat since it prevented or changed nothing.

If I was "Superman's" coach I would sit his butt on the bench for the rest of the quarter every single time he did this stupid manuever.

It is unacceptable that he and so many players do this in today's game. Simply unacceptable.

-----

The greatest basketball player of all time is not MJ, Kobe, Wilt, Kareem, or anyone else you can name. No, the greatest of all ball players and the best team sport athlete in American sports history is Bill Russell. He was famous, in part, for basically inventing the art of the blocked shot. Russ would tap the ball to himself or a teammate like Bob Cousy or Sam Jones, who would lead a fast break often resulting in two points for the C's.

Doubt that Russell was the best ever? He won two NCAA titles while at the University of San Francisco, won a gold medal leading the 1956 USA Olympic team, then ripped off 11 titles in 13 years with the Celtics. The two years he lost in Boston: (1) suffered painfully sprained ankle against the Hawks and Bob Pettit. The C's nearly won the title with a hobbled Russell. (2) Wilt and the Sixers had a real good team but Russ was in his first year as head coach and was learning on the job. The C's would win the title the next two years.

That, my friends, is one bad ass muthafucka! Fourteen championships in sixteen tries.

And the reason Russell won all those rings and medals was not because he was the best athlete. Actually, he was a skinny high school kid in the Bay Area who was surprised when USF offered him a scholarship. But the man became the greatest combination of brains and drive ever seen in American sport.

---

Which brings me back to Dwight Howard. I became convinced "Superman" would never win a ring when, during the dunk contest last year, he allowed Lil' Nate Robinson to dunk over him and win the title. Think Russ or even MJ would have ever allowed themselves to play the fool, even in a meaningless exhibition? The Magic had a good team last year and got to the Finals but were never really a threat to the Lakers, and have regressed this season in exchanging Hedo for Vince Carter. Howard will likely never come as close to a title as last season ever again.

----

Russ came to win. Howard, and mindless players like him, come to entertain.

I predict Dwight Howard will go down as one of the most talented players to never win a title.

Cleaning out the closet my mind. Man.

-- The Olympics started? Really? Where are they being held? Does anyone care?

-- Friday's Truck Day in Boston was so freaking cool. If you are a Red Sox fan and don't know about Truck Day, for shame. It's the day that moving vans in Boston get loaded up with the team's gear and hit I95 for Florida. A very cool day that lets us all know that winter is almost over and good weather is just around the corner. Yeah, Truck Day 2010!!

-- I almost feel sorry for Peyton Manning. Almost.

-- I didn't see it, but the NBA Slam Dunk contest has lost almost all of its cachet. If LeBron had followed through and done it, I would have watched. But the guys competing, save for Lil Nate, were basically no names. Maybe they need to do it like the Olympics and World Cup and hold it every four years.

-- I belong to World Gym down on Marginal Way here in Portland and I have one very serious question: What the hell is the deal with guys wearing their underwear in the showers? I mean really? What gives? If you are afraid folks are checking out your package....well....they'll certainly stare at you and your junk if you wear clothes while washing. Weird. Do they think some gay guy is going to jump them because their dick is so pretty? Believe me, I've seen plenty of penises in men's locker rooms through the years and if you've seen one you've seen them all.

-- Saw "Valentine's Day" on Friday afternoon. Was really looking forward to it, since Garry Marshall is a decent director and the cast is incredible. But what a "disaster", as The New York Times called it. Ashton Kutcher is as talentless an actor as I have ever, ever seen. Boy is he terrible. The amazing Julia Roberts does wonders with a nothing part, and Jessica Biel looks incredible, as always. When I see a movie I try to decide if I can recommend it to friends. And would certainly advise anyone with taste to avoid "Day."

-- But the new Scorcese/DiCaprio is finally out Friday, and will certainly be worth a looksee. "Shutter Island" was supposed to be released in 2009 but for whatever reason, its owners shelved it to the dead time of late winter. Can't wait to see it, but I'm wondering if it's a bad sign that the second most influential living director is turning to horror.

-- And did you know that Leonardo DiCaprio is 35? Thirty freaking five? He's almost as old as me, and I'm OLD. Man, how time flies.

-- Are the Celtics dead? Yes, if you consider, like me, the only worthwhile season is one in which they win a title. They have basically zero chance of winning four series this summer.

-- My pick for a dark horse in the NCAA tournament is Texas. Their midseason slump hopefully teaches them that they have to play hard, as a team, to win. But they have as many good players as anybody. And Damion James is a real talent who may pull a mini-Glen Rice and lead them into the second or third weekend of the Big Dance.

-- But Kansas is the favorite. With Kentucky and Duke my choices for first weekend potential flameouts.

-- My alma mater, Miami University, has been ranked number one in all the college hockey polls basically all season. We lost to BU in the Frozen Four championship last spring in an unforgettable game. Hopefully this season will end with a title, which my school has never won in any NCAA sport.

-- I've often heard folks say that their life is like a Seinfeld episode, and I have an example of something in my life that gives me that same feeling. There was one scene where Elaine complained to Jerry about a male neighbor in her apartment building with whom she had exchanged "hellos" and nods until the guy started ignoring her. Eventually Elaine confronted the dude and wondered why he decided to not be friendly anymore. As I mentioned, I belong to World Gym and there was this older man whom was very friendly to me when I joined about a year ago. As the months went by the nods and "Hi's" became tougher to get out of him. And now now he completely ignores me. As someone who has suffered from self esteem issues, like most folks, it would not be out of the usual for me to wonder what I had done to piss this weirdo off. But I'm sure I've done nothing. Has anyone else had this happen to them? Just venting, I guess.

-- The Maine Red Claws are kicking the Portland Pirates asses as far as being a good fan experience and value for the ticket dollar. I attended my first Claws game last Wednesday and was blown away with how much fun it was. Great athletes, terrific promotions, friendly employees, awesome dance team. Everything one could hope for. I'm still a Pirates fan, but they have a lot of improvements to hammer out before they can hope to compete with what goes on at the Expo. Congrats to Jon Jennings and his staff for all he's done for the city.

-- I. Am. So. Sick. Of. Winter.

Treating The Incurable

I suffer from a couple of treatable but incurable diseases (or, if you like, "diseases").

The first is alcoholism, which I treat by being an active member of AA. I've been sober for about twenty months now.

The second is a little tougher to get a handle on. I refer to it as The Beast. It's a mix of depression with psychotic symptoms that has caused me many stays in psychiatric hospitals for either suicidality or psychosis, or sometimes both. I've taken medication after medication, seen doctor after doctor and therapist after therapist in the last twenty years but it has only been in the last year or so that I have made any real progress.

And now that I'm doing better that question that comes to mind is, "What now?"

Since I feel good today, and yesterday, and the day before that, should I consider myself fixed/cured/whole and discontinue my medications, cancel my upcoming appointments with my therapist and psychiatrist, and try to live the life I've always wanted by looking for the perfect career, perfect woman, perfect car, etc?

I say no. Because maybe the reason I am doing well is because I am treating successfully a psychological disorder that will always be there, waiting for me to allow it back into my life. Maybe my present state of mind is the result of limiting the stress that life throws at us all by not taking on too much, not having too many balls in the air.

It's OK to just be OK, at least at the present moment.

So for now, I think I'll just ride this groove.

304 Pounds...

....that's how much I weigh.

----------

I've been going to the gym religiously for a year now. I try to eat right, though admittedly I indulge my sweet tooth too much. I try to get enough sleep. I drink almost a gallon of water a day.

And still I am obese.

----------

This is not good. My blood pressure and pulse are fine and I have no real health problems aside from dealing with depression/mental health issues. But my weight is beginning to scare me. There aren't any 6 foot 2 inch 300 pound 80 year olds walking around, at least to my knowledge.

----------

Today I have to get serious about my diet. That seems to be the sticking point.

----------

About fifteen years ago I was in the same kind of situation: way overweight and feeling mad/sad about it. In the mid-nineties I got up to about 280. Then I joined a the YMCA in the Manchester, NH area and began to lift and walk on the treadmill. Being an addictive personality type I soon began working harder and harder and began to very slowly shed some pounds. But it wasn't until I joined a more serious gym in town and became friends with the personal trainer there, Roland, that I really made some headway. Roland was a competitive natural bodybuilder with whom I began to work out, as he was training for a show. He gave me workout and diet tips and it wasn't long before I had lost about 60 pounds, down to 215 or so, and was in the best shape of my life. I even thought about competing in a natural show. (For those unfamiliar, natural bodybuilding is steroid free, and in my eyes the competitors look much for attractive than the drug freaks) That never did happen, but I felt good about my condition and the way I looked, though after I moved away and lost touch with Roland I soon put the weight back on and have been close to three bills for about a decade.

-----------

The frustrating thing about spending the last year exercising fairly vigorously is that I'm doing all the right things in the gym, the same stuff I did fifteen years ago that resulted in massive weight loss. And it's not working. I guess I can thank middle age and maybe even the psychiatric drugs I take for my slowing metabolism. But that is no excuse. There is no reason someone who exercises as much as I do and has the knowledge I have to is as fat as I am.
-----------

I need to cut down on my calories. Eliminate breakfast cereals. Eliminate the muffins from Hannaford that I love so much. I need to eat smaller lunches and skip the chicken wings smothered in butter and fat at the grocery store which I so often indulge. I need to eat fruit snacks. I need to greatly reduce the amount of bread I eat. And then maybe it will be OK to eat a regular dinner. I need to stop eating out, especially the cheap, fat laden fast food that sometimes I partake. I need to work harder on the treadmill. I need to be mentally tougher in not indulging my sweet tooth in weak moments. I just need to get serious.

-----------

I have long term goals concerning my workouts and diet. It is my dream to compete in a natural show in the fall of 2011, but that will NEVER happen unless I start to lose a pound or two a week. And just for my own well being I need to reduce the stress on my heart, system, and joints by losing weight.

-----------

Wish me luck. Today is the day.

Next! -- The Upcoming NCAA March Madness Extraveganza

I've compiled a YouTube listing for one of my favorite moments of the sports calender, CBS's "One Shining Moment" video, shown immediately after the NCAA men's basketball championship each April since 1987. (Some years were not available on YouTube though)

------------

2009: UNC win's Deputy Dog's second, the school's fifth. Not much of a game, as the Heels routed Michigan State.

2008: Kansas wins the Big Dance. I missed this championship game, as I was in the ER of Maine Medical Center trying to get admitted to the hospital.

2007: The second of Florida's back to back titles. They have not made the tourney since. Another game that I missed, as I was in the hospital suffering from depression.

2006: Florida wins their first NCAA men's title. Memorable because my aunt had scored tickets. We watched the game's from the Hoosier Dome. All three games were blowouts, but I didn't care: I WAS THERE!!

2005: UNC wins the school's fourth title. Roy Williams shows Matt Doherty how to friggin' coach.

2004: UConn wins the school's second title. A great UConn team that won because Okafor's back held up. He was very questionable coming into the tourney, as he had suffered spasms in the Big East tourney and many thought UConn would lose early.

2003: Syracuse wins its first. Will always be remembered by me as a sad time, as my brother Andy and I watched this game from a hospital room in Manchester, NH, where my father lay dying of lung cancer.

2002: Maryland wins. They beat a mediocre Indiana team in the most lackluster championship game of my memory. They should burn the tapes of this one. And Gary Williams today has become one of the foremost sufferers of Rollie Massimino Disease, which happens to a coach who wins the title and begins to coast. Williams and Maryland have done basically nothing since.

2001: Duke wins Coach K's third. I remember watching Jason Williams tear up his ankle late in the season and thinking "That's it for Duke." But as great athletes often do, he recovered quickly from a serious injury and led a terrific Blue Devil team to the win.

2000: Michigan State wins for Tom Izzo. Has any coach followed a legend (Jud Heathcote) better than Coach Izzo? So many guys take over a program that loses its signature head man and come up wanting. Think Indiana, Arizona, Illinois, UCLA for decades, and others. Izzo is amazing and still going strong today.

1999: UConn won its first title, but I can't find the video for "One Shining Moment" on YouTube. Bummer.

1998: Tubby Smith and UK win. Of course a few years later the miserable Kentucky fans ran Tubby out of town on a rail.

1997: Arizona wins in a huge upset. The last year at UK for Rick Pitino, as the Wildcats do down to Arizona in a great final.

1996: Kentucky's historically great squad wins it for Pitino. We may never see another team as good as the 95-96 Wildcat group because so many of the greats leave school early today to go to the NBA draft.

1995: UCLA and Ed O'Bannon win it all. Now we're going back a ways. Great memories for me watching this video, as my alma mater, Miami University, is featured yukking it up. Cool!

1994: It's Arkansas.

1993: It's Dean Smith and UNC beating the Fab Five.

1992: Duke wins the second of their back to back.

1991: Duke takes Coach K's first national title, including a historic upset of the great UNLV team that was led by Larry Johnson.

1990: UNLV tears through the tournament. They destroyed Duke in the final, but people forget that the Rebs were not considered a great team that year until after they were crowned champions.

1989: Michigan wins it for Steve Fischer on Glen Rice's amazing shooting display.

1988: Danny Manning and the Miracles from Kansas take the crown. If Manning hadn't hurt his ankle, or even gotten drafted by the Clippers in the first place, I believe he'd be in the Hall of Fame now. The final versus Oklahoma is famous for the 50-50 halftime score in a wonderful game.

1987: Bob Knight's last really good Indiana team beats Syracuse on Keith Smart's baseline J with 4 seconds left in the final. I remember watching the first part of the tourney from St. Petersburg, Florida during spring break of my junior year at Miami. Great memories, but I wish I hadn't gotten so drunk every night that trip.

Super Bowl: B- Game and A- Halftime

Great job by The Who last night. I had harbored many doubts about the aged duo and how they'd hold up but instead the band kicked some serious ass in their roughly twelve minute show. The mix of grandeur and humility was moving. Long live Daltrey and Townsend. The songs they sang mean so much to folks of my age and older, as the band, along with Zeppelin, was the biggest force in rock back in its 1970s heyday.

A great show, second in my mind only to U2's moving 2002 performance.

And the game wasn't too bad either. No last minute miracle finish for seemingly the first time in a while, but both teams played so damn hard, and pretty well, too.

Before the game I couldn't decide who I would root for: Peyton getting his second ring or the city of New Orleans. But once the hitting started it was a clear choice: pull for the perennial underdog. And of course they came through. Sean Payton didn't make a false move all night, from the onsides kick to start the second half to the replay review which gave them a two point conversion and seven point lead in the fourth quarter. Awesome job by him and his staff. And it was Peyton Manning's pick with about three minutes left that sealed the deal. Strange for a guy who had the reputation early in his career of choking, then later developed a penchant for coming through in big moments, to throw such a bad ball to Porter. But Peyton has big shoulders and will take it like a man, I'm sure. He's already got his ring and spot in the pantheon of all time greats.

Good for the Saints and New Orleans. They certainly deserve to have something special to celebrate.

-----------------

And if I never see another idiotic Doritos ad, it will be too soon. But I guess the obnoxiousness of their spots was precisely the point, in order to make them "memorable." And am I the only one that thought the reliance on slap stick humor as opposed to wit was a downer in so many of the spots?

The Betty White Snickers spot was hilarious, though. Best Super Bowl ad in quite some time.