The Tortoise has been running on a suspended registration for longer than I care to admit. I got pulled over in front of the stupid Royal Farms on Fleet Street last year by a city cop who apologetically wrote me a ticket for a busted taillight, saying that the state poopers were cracking down on them. I got caught up in moving and so forgot all about the ticket until I realized that the sticker on my license plate was a month out of date. At this point, every time I got behind the wheel, I became Steve McQueen in The Great Escape, constantly searching over my shoulder for the cops on motorcycles to chase me over the hill firing guns. So this Saturday I got the work order inspected, and ventured down to the MVA this morning to get my new registration. I brought three books, figuring I’d be trapped in the usual Soviet-era queue hell, but surprisingly I was in and out in twenty minutes—the longest I waited was for a parking spot.

Thoughts on the Superbowl.

• Good frickin’ game.
• Who the hell is Puff Daddy and why is he famous?
• The commercials, which were hyped as much as the game, were mediocre.
• No, seriously. Puff Daddy? My Dad could rap better than that guy. And who the hell is ‘Nelly’?
• Adam Viniateri is breathing a huge sigh of relief this morning.
• Jen’s brother Rob called me right after the halftime show to ask me if I had also seen Janet Jackson’s boob pop out. Unfortunately I was washing a bowl at that time, so I missed it.
• The Panthers, who I was not rooting for, played a hell of a game.