Yep, it was dark green and I nicknamed it “Gracie.” Because my mother used to say Mike and I reminded her of George Burns & Gracie Allen.

ADDED: Holy Crap, I just did a Google search for a picture of one and found out Jay Leno has one (1976) in his collection.

I loved the “like driving a rock” comment. Made me think of a phrase my hubby attributed to some really cheap bed pillows we had long ago: Soft Rocks.

And you’re right, it’s not really the game officials. Belichek lobbied the league to change the holding rules all last offseason. And he had a plan. Pats were called exactly 11 times on the entire season. Now, there’s almost no such thing as offensive holding against a Pats lineman.

Rooting for Eli ought to be the new national pastime. As he sinks he rises. I don’t necessarily think NYC is the belly of the beast, but it spawned Rudy 911, and without Brooklyn, it’s got no soul. If you root for the Pats, it’s like rooting for W. You deny the Constitution and the laws of physics when it suits your greedy needs. People in New England wouldn’t like the comparison, but the Pats are the epitome of the Wadministration. You change the rules in your favor and tell everybody else to including Congress to f**k off if they object. And then you eavesdrop.

But, it’s only football.

This is why I tell everyone, me and the Chargers are dating, we just ain’t goin’ steady anymore. In fact, we’re breaking up for the summer.

Damn, that’s seriously irresponsible Jeff. I admit it helps to be loaded when gravity fails and negativity won’t pull you through. Pot’s better than brewskis, though. It’s all in slo-mo and it seems like you’re on the side of the angels.

I’m doomed or blessed (”it’s a blessing and a curse, you’ll thank me later”, A. Monk), to never take inclement weather news (both weather and news) with more than a moue. We lived in a Boston satellite town (there are no suburbs) through the blizzard of ‘78.

I was managing a solid waste transfer station (garbage truck dump on the way to the landfill). We served most of metropolitan Boston, and we couldn’t close until the last of the 40 yd. trucks dumped their loads. You can’t leave a compacted load of garbage on a truck. Methane forms, spontaneous combustion is inevitable, the first thing that burns is the hydraulic lines, and a $125k truck is toast. So I watched the snow mount, for hours.

We had a Triumph Spitfire, wonderful roadster, but it cleared clear ground by about 8 in. By the time I got out of there, accumulation was around 24 in. It took me three hours to get home, maybe 3.5 miles from work. When I got home, I poured a large Lynchburg elixir, and after one sip, the phone rang.

My brother Mark was calling from somewhere he could “see the Citgo sign”. I had thought he was safe in Georgia. I went out to find him. Mark had a very large Chrysler. We learned to drive doing donuts after dates in the Motor City, both of us could handle the weather. I got him safely back to our apartment in Watertown. Then we thought about the ramifications of the storm and realized a heroic effort was necessary.

We went back out, but this time in the Chrysler tank, with a toboggan. We bought several cases of Molson’s Golden (and it’s OK, but I sure wish they had Sam back in the day.) We bought several cases of DeKuper cherry brandy half-pints. We loaded what we could in the trunk of the beast and the rest lashed to the toboggan. Got home safely, unloaded our cache, and put on Back in ‘72.

Around 6am, I was wide awake and realized we had neglected food. Wind was 45-50 mph, but I put on wondrous new Thinsulate boots and about half the clothing I owned and headed out. Chest high drifts in open spaces, but somehow reached a local mom and pop. I despise ski-mobiles, but I was ecstatic to see one parked in front of whatever the Italian version of a bodega is, with vapor clouds coming from the boiler stack.

So I bought about 15 lbs. of cappacola, mortadella and Old-World hard salami, and all the provolone in sight. And all the day old bread. Slogged it home in a big trash bag, in the pillion seat of a Ski-Doo. When I got home, the storm had cleared, there were 48 in. of snow, and people had awakened and ventured out. I was personally iced in. I mean, my face, my beard, my clothes.

We fed and watered the community. After a day or two, the landscape was pristine, gorgeous, and the sun broke through. Our street was a glacier about three feet thick, until emergency workers showed up with heavy equioment. The first few assaultsn the icepak by backhoe were hilarious. The Caterpillars bounced off.

Much-maligned Michael Dukakis managed this pretty well, even if his ubiquitous TV presence in the infuriating crew-neck sweaters infuriated everyone. (Probably deserved a Presidential Medal of Freedom for a ‘good job’.) Nonetheless, cabin fever set in, despite the alcohol and the great sandwiches. On the fourth day, the sun began to melt our icy bars. We went out en masse, everybody on foot, and laid waste to the frozen bread dough section at the supermarket. It was like 28 Days Later without the zombies.

So I say: Lake Effect? Try the Atlantic. Cruel mistress. If Gordon Lightfoot thinks there’s something about the Lake that comes close to the wave that cleared the lighthouse in Boston’s inner harbour, his idea of a real storm is pretty wimpy. And I grew up with ice-storms in Detroit.

Yep, Michigan’s colder than New England in Winter. But the pure whim and inchoate violent urge of North Atlantic weather make those Detroit ice storms seem trivial. Cold is something with which modern man can deal. Being buried in precipitation isn’t, especially when the wind conspires.

Maybe Michigan is headed for turning arctic. Maybe not. I sure don’t know. I’m not a scientist. Anybody stupid enough to claim human behavior has no effect on global climate is either a sophist ahole, or a wackjob, or both.

Claiming these things have happened before is the saddest refuge of ideocrats, and, logically, makes the opposition case. Why now? When it happened before, did Manhattan rule the world below the new sea level?