''The Wire'': An Irish Wake

Two things about my Sunday were making me sick. The first was Joshua Ferris' novel Then We Came to the End, whose mordantly funny story of job insecurity made me queasy and want to schedule doctors' appointments while I still had insurance. Then — good Christ, I was shaky from 4 o'clock on — then I had the finale of my favorite show to stare down. Wire finales are always killers, with montages that leave you red eyed like Nicky Sobotka. What would the Baltimore boys do to me tonight, and how would I unsplurch myself from the floor to write about my misery?

But dang, people, that 90 minutes of TV was darn near warmhearted. All of David Simon's disgust over his fair city's broken bureaucracies was still there. Yes, Valchek, a fish-smelling potato of a man, rose in the end. Yes, Levy swilled champagne and lived to ooze another day. Yes, Templeton and his pinheads won themselves a glass door knocker. Yes, our dear Dukie had rubber wrapped around his upper arm by night's end. But there was great mercy in this episode. After showing Dukie rip off Prez — bearded and brimming with his sophomore-year chops at school — they kept the boy's plummet off screen, except for that one fuzzy shot toward the end.

Let them, the boobs and the pushers, think they've won. But McNulty, in his own way, was right. They don't get to win. We get to.

Because this wasn't a night for tragedy. Not with all the shots of Baltimore, scenes with such energy and life and blood that anyone who watched them and doesn't already live in a big, broken, beautiful city must have wanted to book a ticket to one fast. This wasn't just a season finale; it was the series bloody ender, so it finished not with hand-wringing or mudslinging, but with an affectionate, drunken, I-love-you-brother hug to Baltimore itself. From the quote by the city's sage, H.L. Mencken, at the beginning to McNulty's dreamy ''Let's go home'' to Larry at the end, the finale, like the five seasons that preceded it, was a humble bow to a cursed city. And, as the credits rolled, you may too have found yourself a little dopey, a little neckless and cross-eyed like poor Larry. Your show is over.

Oh, I'll throw a wine bottle at the TV if The Wire doesn't win any Emmys this year. If that blasted Monk wins another award and my boys don't even get nominated, I'll boycott popular entertainment itself. From now on, if the only time I get to see these amazing actors is in bit parts on various Law & Orders, I'll make like McNulty and take to the message boards of all those crap shows too many people watch and launch a phony spoiler campaign.

But there I go, giving a f--- when it ain't my turn to give a f---. Who cares if the junk TV shows win? Who cares if Rawls went all the way to the top and Governor Carcetti couldn't look him in the eye when he shook his hand? Who cares if the mayor's office still demanded juked stats so that meant Daniels had to walk away with his head held high? (''They said it was for family reasons.'' ''Guess I got some kids I don't even know about.'') He became a lawyer, his girl got to wear a judge's robes, and good man Carver got a promotion. There are still some forces of good in the justice world. And Cheese may have been barking about a game without nostalgia, but Slim Charles cut his rant short in the name of Joe. I thought for a second Levy was on to Herc's cell-phone-number snitch, and I worried that he might lace the brisket. But Herc lives, happy to pull in toxic money, and at least he spends it buying rounds for his buddies. Lester may have had to retire after 32 years and 4 months of service, but he gets to go home to Shardene at night, and she wears sexy cardigans and likes to nuzzle him on the neck while he tends to his miniatures. Omar may be dead, but at least that little twerp Kenard was in handcuffs by the end.

NEXT: Finding their way home

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