Baked goods, bads, and morally ambiguouses.

So apparently the Mooninites invaded Boston today.

I have mixed feelings about this.

On the one hand, this is a textbook example of overreaction. The devices in question were just light-up boards, they'd been there a while, and the image of Err (or Ignignokt) flipping people off should have been a clue. (Or maybe Boston police don't watch Aqua Teen Hunger Force.) It's also an example of how frightened we've become that a few things that were, in essence, toys can shut down substantial parts of a city. In hindsight, a lot of it does seem like people who were so gung-ho to stop the next Terrist Thret that they didn't check to see what they were looking at.

On the other hand, when I first heard the preliminary reports about devices being found under bridges and in T stations, I was scared. And after learning that it was just a marketing stunt, I feel ashamed of that fear. It's similar to how if a friend jumps out at me wearing a mask and I freak out -- even for a moment -- I'm still kind of pissed off afterward. Neither saying that it was meant as a joke nor pointing out that the mask wasn't even realistic helps with that feeling of angry humiliation.

Perhaps it's just my way of defending that first, visceral reaction, but I would still like to find the marketing exec who okayed this and slap him for a while. And then I'd like to slap whoever was panicky enough to turn the city upside down on account of this. And then I'd like to slap everyone who's had a part in helping our culture become so scared that we jump at shadows.

And no matter what else comes of it, Boston's reputation as a cold and humorless city has been cemented. Great.

I can't help wondering what Dr. Weird would make of this. No, wait, I can imagine. It would involve corn. I'd like to stop imagining it now, please.

Dear Red Sox Nation:

I love you. I am one of you. I intend to go on celebrating this year's World Series win as long as I can, and I hope you do too, in as many ways as you like.

However, for the love of all that is holy, stop writing shitty poetry about it.

I mean, this crap is like William McGonagall reborn. One thing I never dreamed when I got into the newspaper business (even in such a tangential manner as I am now) is how much lousy poetry is out there -- and how desperate we can sometimes get for filler material.

Maybe if I sleep with Beowulf under my pillow, some of the pain will ease.

It still hasn't quite sunk in yet.

It probably won't for another few days.

But I'm happy. And now I know I will never have to hear a coworker droning on about how impossible it is to break the Curse, and how the Sox are just stringing us along to break our hearts even harder, and how we should really root for them to lose just to save us some pain.

We won. I feel like I'm blinking in the sunlight after a very long time indoors.

It feels wonderful.