Last night was an important night for the Boston Red Sox. They won for the first time since 1918, breaking the longstanding Curse of the Bambino. Although it was not the first time I've cried over a baseball game, it was the first ballgame not involving the Cubs to bring tears to my eyes. (And usually, when I cry over a Cubs game, I shed tears of frustration rather than joy.)

The Series this year was particularly sweet for me, as Boston beat my least-favorite AL team to win the ALCS in a historic comeback from the Yankees' 3-0 lead, then crushed my least-favorite NL team, Chicago's longtime archrival St. Louis, in four games.
As monumental as this postseason was to the folks in Beantown (and to Yankees and Cardinals haters everywhere), it is perhaps just as important to fans of the Chicago Cubs.

Burdened by the oldest and weirdest curse in baseball, the Cubbies were inches from the NLCS last year when bad things started to happen. It wasn't just the Bartman ball -- knowing victory was imminent, the Cubs did what they do best -- fouled up their potential Game 6 win with poor pitching and numerous fielding errors. They didn't Keep the Faith.

Now, just a year later, the Bosox have accomplished what the Cubs couldn't. If the Cubs had played game to game like Boston, would things have gone differently last year? If the organization had sucked it up and invited the descendant of Billy Sianis' original shunned goat, much as Babe Ruth's old house in Boston was torn down this year, would the Cubs have triumphed over the Marlins and gone on to beat the Yankees?

Wrigleyville needs to take a lesson from Beantown. Keep the Faith. Play every game as if it's the only one that matters. And forgodsakes, LET THE GOAT IN WRIGLEY, ALREADY!

Next year...

Most of you know Peter Jackson as the director of the blockbuster "Lord of the Rings" trilogy, starring baby-goat lookalike Elijah Wood, and the upcoming remake of "King Kong," starring a giant gorilla who doubtless would eat the puny Elijah Wood as an aperitif. Others with a little more movie knowledge recall him as the director of the critically acclaimed true-crime film "Heavenly Creatures," which starred a young Kate Winslet in one of her first roles.

But the Peter Jackson I will always love is the young director who directed the most brilliant horror comedy of our time, 1992's "Dead Alive." The combination of over-the-top gore with humor and heart makes this cult classic the defining film in the grisly but heartwarming zombie/romantic-comedy genre.

Thus, when I saw a trailer for last month's "Shaun of the Dead" and noticed the ringing endorsement from Peter Jackson as the "most entertaining film I've seen all year," I knew that if I saw one movie this fall, it would be the one about the oblivious loser who hangs out in a bar all day until he discovers he's really good at surviving zombie pandemics.

So last night, I headed to the theater, avoiding the siren call of such luminous screen gems as "Ladder 49" and "Shall We Dance?" and even the lure of "Wicker Park" and "Garden State," and purchased tickets for "Shaun of the Dead."

"Wow, someone's finally going to see this movie," the ticket girl commented. Apparently, the film was a huge hit with the kids who work at the theater, but nobody else has bought a ticket in weeks.

Armed with tickets numbers 000001 and 000002, we went into the theater, somehow managed to find decent seats, and laughed our asses off throughout the movie. As loudly as we wanted to, because we were the only ones there.

Sure, "Finding Nemo II: Production Houses on a Played-Out Idea Like Sharks on a Hemophiliac" "Shark Tale" may look a little more original and entertaining, but give "Shaun of the Dead" a chance. It's by turns repulsively gory, knee-slappingly funny, and heartbreakingly sweet, and there's not another movie like it out there.

And after you watch this great romantic comedy/horror flick, watch Peter Jackson's "Dead Alive." It's not as viewer-friendly as the slick and not-too-grisly "Shaun of the Dead," but it will warm your heart even as it turns your stomach. Best of all, there's no sign at all of Elijah Wood.

Amid all the election news, what with Kerry battling accusations of "flip-flopping" and Bush continuously claiming that his unwavering dedication to failure in both foreign and domestic policy constitutes decisive leadership, few in the media have given much attention to the recent decision by the Treasury Department to tighten restrictions on U.S. citizens' consumption of Cuban cigars.

Last month, the House voted not to fund the Bush administration's harsh new restrictions on travel for Cuban Americans who want to visit their relatives. It would seem that now that the administration has taken down Saddam's vast chemical-weapons empire, best to refocus antiterror efforts on a doddering old pinko rather than, oh, say, bringing in Osama bin Laden dead or alive. Undaunted by the failure to secure funding for his draconian rules, Bush has found another way to snuff out any traitorous anti-American activities related to Cuba.

Under the new cigar restrictions, Americans not only are unconditionally barred from importing Cuban tobacco products into the States, but from purchasing and consuming them abroad. This means that, should I happen to spend a lovely weekend on the town in Vancouver and allow my boyfriend to light up a Cuban for me, I could be locked up for 10 years and fined up to $250,000.

Meanwhile, if I should happen to spend a weekend on the town in Phnom Penh paying $2 a pop to molest children, I could expect to serve no more than eight years in the pokey.

Now I realize we're not on the best of terms with Cuba, but this is ridiculous. Saudi Arabia, home to 15 of the 19 Sept. 11 hijackers, is much more imminent a threat to homeland security, but I purchase and consume imported Saudi goods whether I like it or not when I fill my tank.

Interestingly enough, while it is obviously not in my best interests to puff on a Cohiba either in the U.S. or anywhere else, if you rent "Fahrenheit 9/11," watch the scene in which Bush and Prince Bandar of Saudi Arabia relax on the Truman Balcony at the White House two nights after the terrorist attacks. Moore doesn't mention it, but anyone remotely familiar with cigars will be able to easily discern that the two are savoring Cohibas.

Double standard, anyone?

Bush may carry a big stick, but I can't see how he can walk very softly with those flip-flops.