Entry 3:

Dear Peggy, Glen, and Phil,

We've returned to the question of human solidarity that was so prominent two weeks ago. It's a theme that runs through most of the subplots of the episode. Is there anyone you can really count on when the chips are down?  Or are we all trapped in a net of adversarial relations, trying to play the odds in life's great horse race?

Uncle Junior—who is constantly bitching about the lack of help he gets with his infirmities and legal problems—is the most candid about the basic brutality of human relations. When the sly old fox immediately recognizes Janice's predatory designs on Bobby, he quips, "God damn it, each one of us is alone in this world." But at the same time, Junior has no sympathy for Bobby and wants the grieving husband to get back to work as his flunky.

To drive home the point that we all have our positions in the food chain, tonight the writers show us another side of Bobby. Two weeks ago he was presented as an emasculated and pathetic nincompoop—but he was still somehow appealing. Though the other guys mocked him for his naiveté and lack of a goomah, he seemed to be the only one of the whole crowd capable of any love. Now, however, as he does Junior's bidding, the victim morphs into the victimizer. When he intimidates an ordinary working stiff to vote the right way in a union election, Bobby is as menacing as a Paulie or a Furio.

Marriage is one relationship that we hope will at least be marked by a higher level of solidarity and concern. The couple is supposed to stand together in the face of life's cruel contingencies. But as Tony and Carmela's relationship deteriorates, the two partners jockey to promote their own self-interest. With her crusade to create a "diversified portfolio," Carmela claims she's only looking out for the family's welfare in a dangerous investing environment. Carmela's goal seems reasonable: She "only wants peace of mind."

But Tony's accountant Alan Ginsberg warns him that an insurance trust can become a messy trap—especially in the eventuality of a divorce. And Tony senses Carmela's increasing discontent and perhaps her flirtation with Furio. No doubt, he registers the previously unthinkable idea of divorce. Ginsberg tells him to "go with God" and give Carmela a blue-chip portfolio but stay away from the insurance trust. He cheerfully informs Carmela that he is ready to sign the papers. But when it comes down to it, he's willing to place his signature on only two of the documents, not on the insurance trust—the most important one. When she protests, Tony derisively tries to placate Carmela, telling her that two out of three is a good success rate. From that point on, we are presented with typical scenes from a marriage: Carmela sulking around the house in a smoldering rage. As if that weren't enough, Carmela suspects that instead of investing the money in the market, he has put it in a racehorse.

The racetrack is the apotheosis of fortuna. And we see how adept Tony is at strategizing—in horse races as well as Mafia intrigues. His victories aren't the result of lady luck, but of strategic cunning. The schmuck financial adviser only bet to show and lost out on the big purse. That's why Tony's the boss and his capos are constantly coughing up their tithes.

But we are also reminded of Tony's softer side. When the vet refuses to treat the seriously ill horse until he's been paid, Tony complains that "there's no compassion for fucking animals." His tenderness with the horse evokes his infatuation with the ducks. In the final scene, we see him settling down, like a loyal relative, preparing to spend the night with the poor creature, as Dean Martin—the Italian cowboy—sings that nostalgic song about "my rifle, my pony, and me." Could Tony be fantasizing about a simpler time when the monosyllabic Gary Cooper knew right from wrong and acted accordingly?

Joel