I'm asking you, pleading with you, for God's sake I'm begging you: Please take cover. Hide before it's too late.
Come today, our entire city, indeed, our very way of life, is officially under siege. The invaders have landed at Logan Airport, carrying microphones and makeup cases, ready to recite quippy little lines they've had stashed in their brains for the last four years. They will emit so much hot air over the next 24 hours that the climatological characteristics of New England may very well change. Think flowerbuds in October.
I am talking, of course, of the political pundits, the unfortunate byproduct of this wonderful, quadrennial show tonight called the Presidential Debate.
They are all over, these commentators, in our hotels and restaurants and in makeshift studios next to the John F. Kennedy Library, sidling up to each other in the press facility to joyfully reminisce about that time Ronald Reagan thought he had just taken a trolley to Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood in the 1984 debate.
They fully, firmly believe that the American public is constitutionally incapable of rendering a coherent thought without their help, unable to cast a vote without their electoral guidance.
Already, before a question is asked in the debate, the pundits would have us believe that George W. Bush is going to arrive tonight in a toga and have trouble pronouncing his own name, and that Al Gore may begin necking again with his wife as the closing credits scrawl across your TV screen.
Even those predictions have been revised, and now they're saying that if Bush can just blurt out words like ''puppy'' and ''bunny'' and remember the White House is in Washington, he will likely exceed all their expectations and be deemed the clear, incontrovertible winner. Go figure.
Meet one of these pundits in the street and they'll analyze the shirt right off your back (''Looks to be Pima cotton, Cokie, professionally laundered, medium starch. I think he's trying to tell us he's in favor of a flat tax.''). They are so omnipresent that the Bush campaign sent out a media advisory yesterday offering Governor Marc Racicot of Montana, free of charge, for pre- or post-debate commentary. Where do we sign up?
Before the debate even ends, the candidates' lackeys - Paul Cellucci among them - will start filing into the press center to explain to hundreds of reporters what just happened. Do they think most of my brethren were in the restroom or helping themselves to the press buffet for the prior 90 minutes?
Some backbench congressman from the Midwest will say, ''The vice president hit a homerun tonight. He was clear and personable. You saw the real Al Gore on that stage.'' Interpreted: ''Oh God, please let Gore win so that he'll lift me from the obnoxious anonymity of Congress and make me the Secretary of the Interior.''
Then the heavyweights will hit the airwaves. One of the candidates will have said, ''Middle-class families are overworked and overstressed. They need tax relief from Washington.''
Immediately after, the multiple interpretations will include:
George Will: ''Sam, there is a Sophoclean tendency among modern-day politicians to bridge great and seemingly intractable divides.''
Bill O'Reilly: ''You should buy my new book.''
James Carville: ''You know, it's like I always said, you can slap a wet hog on the rump, but you can't always make a sow wear dancing shoes.''
Well, OK, there are exceptions, the most notable being Mark Shields, a native of South Weymouth, who always has something insightful to say. But a debate is that rare and wonderful political occasion when you don't need someone telling you about that which you just saw.
After the event, shut off the TV. Let all that meaningless analysis evaporate. Then make up your own mind. Your opportunity. Your vote. Your president.
Brian McGrory's email address
is mcgrory@globe.com
