Get over it, Pats fans

"Listen, I don't mean to be a sore loser, but uh, when it's done if I'm dead, kill him!"

- Paul Newman as Butch Cassidy in the movie, "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid."

AUBURN, Maine — There was still snow on the ground Monday morning. The wood stove was hot as hell, providing comforting heat as I ambled toward the coffee pot to pour myself a hot one. Our silly cat was clawing at the door. I reached for the morning newspaper in the cold air.

Nothing had changed since Sunday night when the New England Patriots lost a heart breaker to the New York Giants. It's been seven days, and if you are still brooding or whining, get some professional help. There are plenty of shrinks in the phone book.

I didn't turn to the bottle for a little Southern Comfort or call my family in tears. No finger pointing from my sofa seat. No loud cursing. No banging on the stop sign outside my home on a quiet street in Mayberry RFD.

I am betting some fans wanted to throw themselves off a bridge Sunday. 

Not me! I hit the sack and drifted off without any tossing and turning.

I was over the Patriots' loss as soon I flipped the television channel to watch Masterpiece Theater on PBS. OK, I am a snob and enjoy watching British-made mysteries.

It's not that I didn't give a damn. I am not a disgruntled fan shopping around for another NFL team to root for next season. I will always be a Pats fan. Hell, I grew up in the Greater Boston area in a town that is a stone's throw away from Fenway Park.

Give up on the Pats? Never, god damn it! I am from Massachusetts, god damn it! That's like turning my back on the Bruins, Celtics and Red Sox. That would make me a communist, a traitor or even worse — a member of the Republican Party.

Look, Tom Brady and the rest of his crew marched off with a truck load of cash that you or I will never see in this lifetime. Nobody died and it was game that kept us all on the edge, especially when Brady launched a long-distance pass into the end zone. I knew it was a long shot, but that didn't stop me from acting like Pollyanna while the ball sailed into the air. I crossed my fingers and promised to give up four-letter words or never touch a drop of dark beer.

Well, not really.

Sure, watching New York take one Giant step past the Pats left me gut shot with a hole the size of cannon ball. But my wounds quickly healed with a strong cup of coffee and the love of a good woman.

I made no plans to travel to New York to disrupt the Giants' celebration. I am not a sore loser. I wish the Giants and Eli well in their next endeavor.

Of course, there will be THOSE fans who want to make a villain out of Wes Welker and label him a Bill Buckner, who was crucified by overzealous Red Sox fans who seemed to take pleasure in punishing this man.

So Welker didn't catch the ball and there were other dropped passes during those crucial 57 seconds. You know that that means — these guys are human. Anybody can screw up. Leave this man alone. He probably feels worse than any rabid Patriots fan covered in face paint.

You feel let down by the Pats' loss. Get a frigging life. Remember, knucklehead, it's a game. Accept it!

In Boston, it was sad to see that a handful of people were arrested after the game for acting like morons. So your team loses a close one, and that gives you an excuse to turn over cars and shoot up the neighborhood? Forget jail. Stick them in a deep hole in the woods.

Look, New England, we took it on the chin this time.

The best remedy for our broken hearts is to throw our full support behind the Celtics or Bruins.

Better yet, spring training is around the corner. Before you know it, the Boys of Summer will be back on the diamond and the memory of that cold day in Indianapolis will fade in the summer sunshine.

Goodfellows52: Patriot games

Goodfellows52: Patriot games: AUBURN, Maine — Sports bars will be packed with customers who will be three sheets to wind by halftime. Pizza joints and liquor store...

Patriot games

    AUBURN, Maine — Sports bars will be packed with customers who will be three sheets to the wind by halftime. Pizza joints and liquor stores will experience their own version of Black Friday. 

   And the good citizens of America will open their homes to anybody with a six-pack of beer and a bucket of chicken wings, as we all gather to watch the New England Patriots and the New York Giants beat each other up in the Super Bowl on Sunday night.

   
   It is the Coliseum in the heart of Rome all over again — without the spears, axes and swords. There is no battle to the death in this matchup. These Spartans are spared and will head to the bank with cold, hard cash in their pockets. And the Game is in Indianapolis, but it still feels like the Coliseum.

   
   But I want no part of watching a game at a tavern. I don't want to listen to annoying, tipsy patrons give me their take on the game. Every bar-stool critic will offer his prediction with words slurred by booze. Back off you boobs. Tell it to someone who gives a damn.

  

    I haven't invited a soul to my house to watch the Big Game on a big TV. I have a small TV. I don't want friends or relatives distracting me when it is a critical fourth-and-2 situation on the 30-yard line for the Patriots. I don't want to feel pressured to make my home spotless or cook for 30 people who might leave my house in a stupor and get behind the wheel of a car.

   
   Keep it!

   
   I will be home watching the game with my son, Anthony, and wife, Terri, who won't holler at the television. They won't disown the Patriots when Tom Brady throws a rare interception in the first quarter.

   
    I won't be hammering away on Facebook during the game. I don't have an account. I don't need updates via email about a Game I am also viewing. My laptop will be off.

   
    Before I tied the knot, I watched games at local establishments. What I found just as amusing are intoxicated fans stumbling from one bar stool to another to get in some one's face about the Game. The noise level was insane and patrons were more focused on their chicken wings than the Game.

   
   Whenever I have been invited to enjoy the Big Game at some one's home, I couldn't concentrate with people carrying on about the weather or politics. 

   Too much background noise.

   
   So I will be home and I won't be alone. I will cook a good meal. I might have a libation as the Pats do their best to knock down the formidable Giants.

   
    I will not install huge signs on my lawn, buy a Patriots cap or shirt, or attach a bumper sticker with a Patriots logo on my vehicle. I don't need to proclaim my allegiance to New England by becoming a spectacle in my neighborhood. 

   There will be no body painting in my home. I am not the wacko auto mechanic David Puddy who scared a priest to death with his New Jersey Devils face painting in a heart-warming "Seinfeld" episode.

   I am a quiet Patriot who walks softly and carries a 12-ounce beer in his hand.
   

   I want quiet.

  
   But if you do show up at my home with beer and pizza in your outstretched arms Sunday evening, that just might get you in the door.

His dream continues

"Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that."

-  Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

AUBURN, Maine - My mother was listening to the radio while performing the mundane chore of ironing on a Thursday evening. The announcer mentioned that Martin Luther King, Jr. was about to leave his hotel room in Memphis, Tenn.

I was eight years and I wasn't really sure who Martin Luther King was or why he was in Tennessee. It was my birthday, April 4, 1968, and my new toys and bouncing around the parlor floor were my only concerns.

I watched my mom barrel through a pile of clean clothes with her hot iron. She loved listening to radio and thought television was a big waste of time.

It still is!

The radio was her ear to the world, and of course, there was her music, which I grew to love later in life.

For some reason, and I can't explain it to this day, I also turned my attention to the radio for one historical moment when the announcer, in a panicked-stricken voice began reporting that King was shot in the face. I looked at my mother. She appeared frightened.

A few moments later I learned that King was gunned down on a balcony at the Lorraine Motel. I couldn't understand why anybody would want to shoot him. I didn't know or care that he was black. I was an eight year old who suddenly felt sad that somebody was murdered.

I don't remember the rioting that followed after King's assassination. For the next several days, this eight year old listened to the grownups talk about his death. It would be years before I would come to fully understand what a remarkable man Martin Luther King truly was and appreciate his personal sacrifices.

King was one of the iconic and charismatic leaders who was cut down along John and Robert Kennedy during of the tumultuous 1960s. I was too young to comprehend how one man rallied people of all colors through his writing, peaceful marches and rousing oratorial skills.

Ever read some of his writings? 

His "I have a dream" speech is remarkable until you read his writings from "Where do we go from here" or the "Lincoln Memorial Address." These are outstanding works that raised the level of debate about equality and injustice in a nation that was coming apart over the Civil Rights movement and the Vietnam War.

Fast forward to my son who had just entered the fourth grade at Washburn Elementary School. Anthony is a reader, and one day he pulled a book about Mr. King from the shelves of his school library. His class was studying King's accomplishments, but Anthony went further to learn more about this role model. I was impressed with my son who has always thought outside the box when it comes to research.

But what was equally impressive was that a man who gave his life to help stamp out inequality and racism in a nation that believes: "all men are created equal" was still inspiring young people since his death nearly 40 years ago.

Something new

An optimist stays up until midnight to see the new year in. A pessimist stays up to make sure the old year leaves.”

— Bill Vaughn

AUBURN, Maine — I am hoping this New Year won't be the same old, same old.

There are no guarantees and there will be no resolutions from me. The universe is a funny place and the cosmos makes no promises and could give a damn about you and me!

Resolutions are a crock of ... well I won't use that word because this is a family blog even though I could give the late Harry S. Truman a run for his money when it comes to firing off a round of vulgarities. I admit I am no stranger to the F-word, but I do try to use it sparingly. I know this raunchy word offends people, but as an adjective, it is second to none.

While the rest of humanity was celebrating 2012 with rum and vodka, I spent the evening putting out a major daily metropolitan newspaper about — you guessed it — 2012. Of course, there are many people (please stay away from me) who believe the human race is at the end of its rope because the Mayan calendar expires this year.

For those of you who think 2012 is our epilogue, find a good shrink and ask for those little green pills that will make you happy again. Better yet, get a life.

There are at least dozen ways humans will go the way of the typewriter, but basing armageddon on a group of people who lived hundreds of years ago and sacrificed thousands of their fellow men to deities is simply absurd.

Knowing the show will go on and I remain above ground, I have made goals for this year. There are still many things I want out of life, but many remain out of my reach.

I would like to make more money, but I don't strive to be rich. The almighty dollar is not my Holy Grail. I am already a wealthy man who is married to woman who possesses beauty and brains. My son excels in his academics and is a gentleman who understands why please and thank you might just take him to the top. That makes him priceless. I have three sisters who I consider assets despite our skirmishes.

I want to use the cash to buy experiences, not things. I want to travel more, fix up the house, and pay off the nefarious banks which own the note on my house. I want to make credit cards obsolete — and I am not giving a dime to any politician.

I also realize all the money in the world will not rescue my mother from eternity. Money can't buy back Louise's love and understanding. That also goes for Dorothy Millett — my mother-in-law, who was buried the day after Christmas. I miss her cooking and common sense.

If I had the cash, I would invest in finding a cure for Alzheimer's, which, at this moment, is stripping my father's brain of his precious memories. I am losing bits and pieces of a proud man whose integrity and loyalty seems outdated in a world enveloped in greed, corruption and indifference.

If I could use the money to step back in time, I would intervene on behalf of two acquaintances who committed suicide over money woes brought on by a bad economy.

I figured the quickest and devious way to make money is run for Congress. I like the perks that come with a job, where special interest money comes rolling in and health insurance is guaranteed for life. The job requirements are simple: Promise your constituency everything but give them nothing, and ignore the Greater Good.

I wouldn't mind giving world peace another shot. But I doubt that will happen. The human race seems to enjoy fighting over religion, resources, pride, the Red Sox, the damn Yankees or those sneaky Canadiens. I like peace, and it's cheaper than war.

I am also hoping for no major health emergencies. My wife has had to endure two serious operations. Enough, already!

I am growing a bigger garden this year. Grocery shopping is traumatic. Food prices are ridiculous and the amounts are shrinking even though you are paying more for cereal.

I would like to purchase a car that runs on hot air. There's a huge untapped supply in Washington D.C., and its renewable, too.

What I really want out of this New Year is peace of mind. It's something money can't buy and it isn't asking for too much.

Goodfellows52: 'Tis the season to appreciate your family

Goodfellows52: 'Tis the season to appreciate your family: I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. ~ Charles Dickens AUBURN, Maine — Whenever they walk thro...

'Tis the season to appreciate your family

I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year.  ~ Charles Dickens

AUBURN, Maine — Whenever they walk through the door at the end of a day, I know I am one lucky SOB, and I don’t need a holiday to remind me of my precious family. For me, it is the most wonderful time of the year — all year long.

Losing loved ones and friends have taught us all that there is no certainty in life and our small worlds often change in a heartbeat when tragedy strikes. Nobody is here forever and time has a way of whittling down the herd.

But I see no harm in celebrating Christmas — a holiday that forces friends and family to take a timeout from multi-tasking and sit at a dinner table together without the distraction of computers and cell phones.

No Facebook, Twitter, or My Space! When we gather at the dinner table, face-to-face conversations begin — and no topic is taboo. Discussions about sports, religion or the morons who run Congress turn into a war of words as we look into the whites of our eyes. It’s not pretty, but it beats texting or posting nonsense on a social media Web site. There is nothing like a heated discussion at the dinner table. It’s pass the ham and fire off fusillade of acerbic opinions during Christmas dinner.

If you find a way to ignore the commercialism and pressure of emptying your wallet to outspend your family members for gifts, Christmas is a great excuse to sit on the sofa, watch Clarence set George Bailey straight and recover from a tryptophan high from the turkey. It also allows me to ponder the more important questions about “It’s a Wonderful Life.” I always wondered why Clarence didn't kick Potter’s butt all around the county for being so underhanded.

For me, Christmas and all the trimmings makes me realize that I was lucky enough to spend another year with my wife and son. The yuletide is also a not-so subtle reminder that there will come a day when our gatherings will cease.

With 1 and 6 Americans swelling the ranks of the poor, I feel fortunate and guilty at the same time for having enough money to cook a turkey and shrimp linguine for my family. There are gifts under the tree, food on the table and heat in the house. 

I am damn lucky.

I am not an Ebenezer wannabe who saw this holiday as a humbug before a bunch of ghosts ganged up on the old sourpuss. What’s wrong with throwing up a tree and turning your house into a giant neon sign, anyway? Presents are welcomed and a belly full of turkey and an endless stream of pies give me a damn good excuse to make merry on this day.

For years, I travelled down the Maine turnpike to visit my parents and get together with nearly two dozen people on Christmas Eve. It was an event I looked forward to every year until my mother died and my father found out he had Alzheimer's - a cruel disease that is slowly and agonizingly destroying his mind. Over the years, death has whittled down my list of friends and family.

So I decided to remain in Maine and enjoy a quiet holiday. I haven’t stayed at home during Christmas in years, and I don’t miss the two-hour ride to Boston.

The next two days will be spent exchanging presents and eating good food on a cold winter mornings in front of a wood stove heated by ash wood that was given to me from a generous neighbor. I will chop wood, cook a big breakfast and large dinner — just the three of us on Christmas Day.

And when the tree comes down and the holiday lights are packed away, the memories of another loving Christmas with my son and wife will see me through the new year.

Goodfellows52: It's beginning to look like insanity

Goodfellows52: It's beginning to look like insanity: Our tree, outdoor lights and Anthony and Terri make three. “ The best Christmas of all is the presence of a happy family all ...

It's beginning to look like insanity

Our tree, outdoor lights and Anthony and Terri make three.

“The best Christmas of all is the presence of a happy family all wrapped up with one another.”

- author unknown

AUBURN, Maine — The warning signs began appearing just before Halloween.

I didn't notice the first few clues of impending mayhem as I meandered around the aisles. But there they were there, right in front of my face.I figured all that madness was still a month and a half away.

When Halloween passed, that's when all hell broke loose!

Perhaps it was in the dead of night and under the cover of darkness when retailers gave the order to remove all Halloween decorations and replace them with trinkets of good cheer.

Thanksgiving was about to take a back seat to the craziest holiday of all — Christmas.

After all, Christmas was ONLY 55 days away, and there was not a moment to lose when battering consumers with good cheer. Thanks to greed, commercialism and capitalism run amok, the most wonderful time of year has become an orgy of spending.

For nearly 60 days, blatant reminders are in your face 24-7. It always begins with a just few aisles featuring Christmas decorations before all department stores reach Defcon 5, which is a level of commercial readiness that would keep the U.S. Marines on their toes. Stores go right to work ambushing customers with deals on toys, clothes and appliances.

Thanksgiving has become the gateway holiday to the most ludicrous day of all — Black Friday — a day that usually lives in infamy. Stuffed and groggy consumers rise early and venture into the night to shove aside or mace their fellow man to muscle their way in line to buy a flat-screen TV. Christmas cheer turns into jeers as herds of shoppers wait in the cold for the doors to open. They can act like lunatics during a shopping frenzy that would make any serial killer turn around and walk out the door.

The push-and-shove conflict erupts in departments stores across the U.S. and garners nationwide TV coverage. For me, it is one of those "who gives a damn" stories that dominates the news cycle for 24 hours. And it gives network cheerleaders an excuse to report that the nation has clawed its way out of this endless depression. Of course, we all know that is not true.

But all this shopping hijinks is a pleasant distraction from a planet in peril and the bunch of fools who screwed up Congress.

I avoid all stores at all costs on this particular day. I would be a no-show even if stores were giving away their products. The last thing I want to do after stuffing my face with turkey is get up at 3 a.m. and have a throw-down with ravenous consumers in the middle of a congested mall.

Black Friday is also TV's and radio's cue to begin working over consumers with 30 days of Christmas music and specials that make me want to take my chances with the Ghost of Christmas future. I search the radio dial in vain to find a rock-and-roll song. Eric Clapton's "I feel free" works for me.

But I do not subscribe to Scrooge's warped thinking. He was one SOB before three ghosts took the old man out for walk and scared the living crap out of him.

There is a beautiful tree taking up most of my parlor and outdoor Christmas lights illuminating cold winter nights. So I won't need a visit from Jacob Marley to convince me about the importance of this holiday.

For me, Christmas is a celebration of family and an opportunity share some time with those who are still here. All the hoopla surrounding this holiday is like the trimmings on a Christmas tree. For many Americans who are unemployed or lost loved ones, this is not the most wonderful time of year. There are empty seats at the dinner table, and many of us are celebrating the holiday with a skimpy dinner that Bob Cratchit would find impossible to enjoy.

All this good cheer and hope lasts a mere 30 days, and then we all jump back into the rat race. We quickly pack away decorations and throw out the tree, acting like nothing ever happened.

But I can't help wondering why we all can't keep this frame of mind throughout the year. Why only 30 days? How about making it a full 365 for the greater good? Why does all this goodwill toward men suddenly disappear?

Dickens had it right when he wrote: "and it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God Bless Us, Every One!"

And oh by the way — Merry Christmas.

Goodfellows52: A state with a glorious history

Goodfellows52: A state with a glorious history: The menacing Gatling gun at the Maine Historical Society in Augusta. Muskets used during the American Revolution. Another view o...

A state with a glorious history

The menacing Gatling gun at the Maine Historical Society in Augusta.

Muskets used during the American Revolution.

Another view of the menacing Gatling gun at the Maine Historical Society in Augusta.

Union colonel Joshua Chamberlain's revolver is on display.

A make-shift Maine cannon is on display.

Water-cooled machine guns line the wall at the Maine Historical Society.

A Hotchkiss cannon is a featured piece at the Society

A Japanese mountain Howitzer is an eye-opener. There is hole in the protective shield that was pierced by an American shell, killing the gun crew.

A Lewis machine gun, featured the movie, "The Sand Pebbles," is now a museum artifact.

My wife and son stand under a Huey helicopter, the perfect symbol of the Vietnam War, is mounted just outside the Maine Military Historical Society.

My wife and I stand next to a battle tank at Camp Keyes.

"History, despite its wrenching pain, cannot be unlived, but if faced with courage, need not be lived again."

Maya Angelou

AUGUSTA — We have read about these devastating weapons of the past in library books, but we never thought we would find ourselves staring down the barrels of a Gatlin gun or Hotchkiss cannon.

These were the weapons of their day, wreaking havoc on battlefields across the world, and here we were, getting up close and personal with hundreds wartime museum pieces, which are on display at the Maine Military Historical Society. The area is crowded with donated relics from wars involving Mainers who put it all on the line for their country. There are displays of artifacts from each war Mainers have served in since America's independence.

The Society is located next to Augusta Airport and Camp Keyes where a mounted Huey helicopter — the perfect symbol of the Vietnam war — stands outside the doors. The unique historical society is only open the first Sunday of the month for four hours, but appointments can be made to visit the site.

When you step through the door, a polished army jeep from World War II sits off to the right. Across from this rugged jeep rests a menacing Gatlin gun, which was used to train Maine troops during World War II. Although it was obsolete by the turn of the 20th Century, Mainers trained on the vintage gun to prepare for war as hostilities spread across the globe in 1941.

The American Revolution War section features muskets used in combat and other memorabilia from a conflict that opened the door to freedom for Americans eager make their own way in the world without King George III calling the shots.

Civil war artifacts include Union colonel Joshua Chamberlain's six-shot revolver and a handful of rifles used during the Civil War. Chamberlain's heroic bayonet charge down Little Round Top during the battle of Gettysburg is remembered at the Historical Society.

The French-made Hotchkiss cannon, with its narrow barrow mounted on two large carriage wheels, is small but packed a punch with its .42-caliber shell. The cannon was first used in the American Indian and Spanish American wars.

There is also a display of various water-cooled machine guns, including the Colt and Maxim machine guns. There are also  tank-killing guns and a captured Japanese mountain howitzer. There is a hole in the howitzer's protective shield that was pierced by an American shell and killed the cannon's crew.

But astute visitors will realize that the Maine Military Historical Society deserves more than a large room to pay homage to Mainers who went to war for their country.

Goodfellows52: Can't thank them enough

Goodfellows52: Can't thank them enough: Mom and son getting ready for Halloween. " To grow old is to lose everything," - the opening line to a poem called "Affirmation,"...

Can't thank them enough

Mom and son getting ready for Halloween.

"To grow old is to lose everything," 

- the opening line to a poem called "Affirmation," which was written 

by poet Donald Hall

AUBURN, Mass. — Money is tight, the world is a damn mess, our leaders don't know what day it is, and there is a pile of snow on my front lawn that is really pissing me off, and yet, I do have a lot to be thankful for as I pass the peas and gnaw on a turkey leg this Thanksgiving.

And while Mother Nature's hit-and-run tactics are befuddling and the cold is closing in, I am lucky there will be a hot meal on the table and my healthy son and wife will be seated next me as we enjoy my sister's fine cooking and the company of her wonderful children.

I am older and I have lost a handful people along the way, and the holidays have a way of triggering those strong and sad memories of family members and friends who will not be present at our feast this Thanksgiving.

And it really hurts, especially since Terri and I buried our mothers last year. That pain never goes away, but when I see my wife and son laughing and enjoying good food, it makes me realize why I am still here, and I don't plan on going anywhere.

For years, my dad and I would spend Thanksgiving mornings watching Revere and Winthrop knock heads on the gridiron while my mom was multi-tasking over a hot stove long before anyone knew what the hell multi-tasking was. She was cooking turkey, potatoes, carrots and stuffing while father and son were freezing their butts off at Paul Revere Stadium.

I am older now and now I am doing the cooking. My dad and I no longer attend Thanksgiving Day football games because he is older. My mother is gone.

I miss those moments and those people who meant so much to me.

But I know I am helpless when the Grim Reaper snatches another friend or relative from this life.

For years, there were nearly 15 relatives living next to my house. It was like one giant block party on McClure Street during the holidays. Each Thanksgiving or Christmas Eve, I would move from house to house, enjoying my grandmother's or aunts' culinary delights and making sure I shared a glass of wine at each stop.

Like me, the street has changed and all I have are fond memories. Those homes are no longer occupied by my grandmother, Aunt Minnie, B.J. and Eddie Murano, and the Grossos. 

Before Anthony came along, my wife and I excitedly packed up the car and headed from Maine to Massachusetts to see my relatives during the holidays. The aunts would hand Terri small gifts while I sampled the wine and food and listened to my uncle, who was a top-notch pilot during World War II and Korea, talk about his combat experiences.

But I am older now and they are a part of my past. I understand change is inevitable, but there is pain that comes with change.

But one thing that will never change is my love and appreciation for my wife and son, and immediate family.

And they are the reasons why I give thanks on this day.

Last full measure of devotion

Several flags flap in the breeze at Veterans Memorial Park in Lewiston.

Goodfellows52: Goodfellows52: FRIGHT NIGHT

Goodfellows52: Goodfellows52: FRIGHT NIGHT: Goodfellows52: FRIGHT NIGHT : "The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the...