Sweeps Stakes

The cruelest month is coming to a close, and May is soon upon us, bringing May flowers, Mother's Day (which also means, in my case, Mae's Flowers); the Triple Crown (featuring another horse that will win the first two legs this year before breaking down at Belmont);but most importantly, the season finales of all of the four commercial networks' major series.

So R.I.P. Raymond, Jag, Enterprise, Arrested Development, Committed, and other series too uninteresting to recall. Also, the next two regulars to die on "24," who will be zapped in the final "hour." (My guess here is Tony and Michelle, departing in a murder-suicide pact. I'd write off William Devane, but he has apparently vanished anyway, or may be the only character in the show to actually try to get some sleep).

What excitement remains will come from the warhorse Reality programs, four of which I've followed sufficiently closely to legitimize my opinions. They all reach their climaxes in the next few weeks, rendering the previous months as insignificant as the regular season in a professional sport. Now we're down to the play-offs. The first show to end will be "The Apprentice," whose eager candidates have been whittled down to three. I've been citing Tana as the likely winner for a long time, mostly because she has no obvious flaws, and most resembles Carolyn. She went to the boardroom for the first time last night and was almost offed by The Donald, but then gave a tempered and articulate speech about why she should remain. Tana is both likeable and a cool customer and the Donald and his cronies seem to prefer agitated people with fire in their eyes, assuming that a benign nature will undercut leadership responsibilities. Well they are going to be hard-pressed to select the condescending and mealy-mouthed Craig, who has succeeded on the womens' coattails (or dress trains, or whatever); or Kendra, who may be the smartest, but does not know how to command respect. The two finalists should be Kendra and Tana; whomever Trump chooses, Melania will approve.

"American Idol" cell phoners have whittled their choices to five fairly bland contestants. Constantine Maroulis, who is vocally the most stylish of the singers, even if his hair is the least stylish, was axed surprisingly last week. Next to go will be Anthony Federov-- who at least combs his hair-- soon to be followed by Scott Savol, whom Simon hates (probably a plus for Savol). In the end, I'm guessing Bo Bice (more bad hair) will edge out the pretty but bland Carrie Underwood and VonZell Solomon, who has gained the most momentum. However, in the scheme of things, I do not care.

"Survivor" is my favorite of all the reality shows but the one whose strategies have become so fossilized that you can see eliminations coming from the remotest continent. I did feel bad for one of the most impassioned players ever, Stephanie, who survived Ishmael-like the destruction of her entire tribe and then manuvered several weeks among the enemy before succumbing to their clannishness last night. She will certainly be considered for the next All Stars edition. I'd have liked to see a finale between her and NYC Fireman Tom, who has hero written all over him and in the Bizarro World of Survivor, Must Be Defeated. Even with all the respect and residual 9/11 good will, the Darwinian choices of his companions will eliminate him soon. Eventually it will come down to the two women--Katie and Jenn--who have been living so far under the radar that even sonar could not locate them. Too bad--the program is becoming too formulaic and predictable that way. And it is a shame that, at least since Ethan won in Australia, the most deserving candidates--the ones who really would survive--are ousted. At least "The Apprentice" has corrected that flaw to the extent that the eventual winner is usually competent.

Finally there is CBS's Emmy-winning "Amazing Race", which, despite its rich and varied production values occasionally makes questionable casting mistakes. This season it was to bring back the detestable Boston Rob (hate that cap!) and his slutty girl friend Amber, who teamed together to win $1,100,000 on "Survivor All-Stars," and whose greed is apparently unquenchable. Hey shitheads, get a job! Unfortunately they are experienced reality players, shamelss and amoral, and use their fame to recruit civilians to help them, putting the others to great disadvantage. In the end I see no way they can lose, although a victory by either the oldsters or the agreeable Ushenne (sic) and Joyce would put a brief smile on my face.

And just in case Rob and Amber falter in their quest we have been assured by the TV Gods that we will all continue in their thrall. Guess what now? We are all going to be invited to their televised nuptials! Isn't that just fucking grand? Don't you want to send them a present? Hey, how about a vial of herpes? Anything to wipe that smug grin off asshole Rob's punum. To think that his main competitor had to surivive in an Iraqi prison camp while he was flaunting--and extending implausibly--his fifteen minutes of fame is highly puke-inducing. I may even start watching the Yankees again.

Bee Killers

I've finally returned from a cross-country sojourn which has interrupted the flow of these magical essays. I'll be commenting on the deteriorating nature of travel shortly, but today I have something else on my mind. I've encountered another one of those "page 26" sidebars that suggests dire ramifications for the future but is not as sexy as the Michael Jackson trial or Tom De Lay's continuing pontifications aiming to hide his moral turpitude. Those could both be, in the parlance of scriptwriting, "A" stories. I'm more intrigued by the "B" story--or rather, the "Bee" Story.

During the '80s and '90s, one of this hemisphere's favorite scientific horror themes was the emergence and spread of the Africanized bees, those vicious swarms carelessly created in a Brazilian lab, which were now devouring chickens and dogs and scaring the beejesus out of farmers and the rest of us as they swathed their way up the continent. A few TV movies and even a feature or two depicted this mini-Armageddon and the valiant efforts of scientists and law enforcement to counterattack. One example, I recall, had a megaswarm invading Houston, where somehow it was coaxed into the Astrodome and frozen to death by the air conditioning system. How ironic that in the next decade the Astros line-up would be populated by Biggio, Bagwell, Beltran and others popularly named the "Killer B's". But I digress.

It turns out that, although the Africans did migrate northward into America--and some even sat threateningly in a tree down the block from me--their continued breeding with the milder varieties eventually diluted their temper and their menace. Now we are faced with terrorists, Marburyg's disease, bird flu and Christian fundamentalists, all of which make the bee problem seem laughable. Until now--for the bees are back in the news. Last night I heard a report that half the honey bee population in the United States has been destroyed by a parasitic mite that is no longer susceptible to commonly used insecticides. Half the bee population! Are they kidding?

I do not want to be alarmist, but aren't bees perhaps the most sigificant biological vector in our ecosystem? Aren't they needed to effectively pollinate our flowers and fruit trees and give us food? The news report interviewed a few farmers who were shaking their heads with some concern about blossoms dying on the vine, or wherever, for lack of efficient pollination. Well, duh! It's not like we can go reeducate other insects to pick up the slack. If half the bees are already dead, how long are the rest of the swarms going to hold off the parasites? Scientists are working on breeding some honey bees who naturally select and pick off those infected within their hive, but that selective activity will take years to be effective, and even if it works, what are we supposed to do in the meantime?

I wish this were some sort of satire, but it is not. I'm no agronomist so I don't know how seriously our food supply is threatened, but if envirnomentalists go ballistic over the possible demise of a snail darter, how will they react to this? I'm not concerned about paying extra for my annual jar of honey, but at the very least, for the foreseeable future, produce prices are going to be astronomical, and our trade imbalance is going to get more desperate than even the lame policies of our president can perpetrate.

With the Radical right wing singing the praises of Judgment Day, and series like "Revelations" and "Left Behind" gaining bewildering legitimacy, it's discouraging to observe a phenomenon that does seem to have some Biblical proportion potential. If bees are swept off the face of the continent--then what next? The world? No bees, no flowers, no fruits or veggies, cattle can't feed. Oy vey. Get ready for kelp.

Absolute Power

I've never been the President of anything, and never had the desire to be. I was once the de facto show runner on a sitcom for about an hour, after the executive producers and co-supervising producer quit, and the surge of adrenalin that dominant position gave me was hardly heady. I suppose I never craved the stress of leadership, or the responsibility, or the screwed-up priorities that such a role entails.

Which leads me to several examples of persons in power who are not quite clear on the concept of restraint and responsible exercise of said position. For instance, there is a Superior Court judge who works in the same building where last month I briefly served jury duty of sorts. It seems he was presiding over the jury selection process in an attempted-murder trial, when one of the jury candidates emitted a loud, gesticulatory yawn that briefly interrupted the proceedings. The judge asked the juror why he yawned, and the juror replied that he was bored--at which point the judge testily fined him $1000. The juror balked, and was taken to a holding room for several hours, where he was finally allowed to leave with a fine of merely $100.

In the realm of judicial activism this is perhaps less heinous than Bush v. Gore, but it still seems highly unfair. Okay, perhaps the juror was a jerk. Besides making him the perfect candidate for the jury, that should not cost him such an amount--especially considering how yawn-inducing the experience is, and that he probably gave up a day's salary to fulfill his civic duty. More than 40% of those called do not even respond, so I think the judge should have exercised a little more restraint and consideration. But he couldn't resist slamming tha gavel and reminding everybody who's the boss.

Then there's old George Steinbrenner, about whom I've always had mixed feelings. As imperious as Donald Trump (without the arm candy), he has roared and roared in his role as UberYankee. His overbearing interference has had mixed results, and he's clearly an asshole, but his passionate devotion to buiding a juggernaut has at least resulted in many successful seasons and six world championships during his reign. This last week, after the Yankees were blown out embarrassingly in Baltimore, George lambasted the team as underperforming slugs. He was right of course, although two weeks do not a season make. The immediate result after his diatribe was a 13-run inning against Tampa Bay leading to an eventual 19-8 win. 19-8, incidentally, was the score of the last post-season game the Yankees won against Boston, before their historic collapse. That kind of romp is indicative of a trashy team, one that can't save some of those runs for when they're needed, such asyesterday's game, when they lost despite pitching Randy Johnson. George's legions are going to hear a lot from him this year, as he realizes he has overspent for veterans no longer suitably motivated. Whatever his bluster, they are under contract--contracts he insisted upon. Oops.

Then, finally, there is Pope Benedict (as opposed to Paul Benedict, who played the doorman on "The Jeffersons"). He was just elected by the College of Cardinals. (Why the Cardinals? Why not the Pirates or the Cubs? Who did Larry Walker vote for? And Albert Pujols?) The winner is this German guy who served in the Hitler Youth during World War II, despite what the spin doctors say was his family's opposition to the Nazi regime. I don't know whether to give him a pass on that--he was only a kid. But from what I read about him, he is a pretty intractable conservative chosen to direct this retrograde institution into the 21st century. I can't see where his leadership is going to improve the lot of civilization. In fact, his major targets are creeping secularism and moral relativism, both to which I heartily subscribe. So if he is going to battle freedom of choice, rationalism and population control, the only way I can aptly respond is to say Popie, sieg heil, and up your heinie.

Musical (Rocking) Chairs

I experienced, and basically enjoyed, two musical productions this past weekend. One was a Showtime-produced version of the low-budget satire "Reefer Madness," which originated in Hollywood; the other was a theatrical revue called "Bark!", still playing in its L.A. birthplace. The former was about pot; the latter about dogs. All I needed was to watch "Damn Yankees!" and "Guys and Dolls" to complete a musicalized experience of all my favorite things (until someone, probably that damn Lloyd Webber, composes a musical salute to sushi).

Okay, even to admit I attend musicals, much less like them, is a confession of my generational advancement. I can't help it--I grew up with them, as I did baseball, in the glorious decade of New York City, the '50s. Now it's a declaration of self-fossilization. When a recent "American Idol" featured show tunes, you could see the judges all squirming, not to mention the contestants, who were asked to cope with tonal melodies and lyrics that didn't sound like 4th-grade schoolyard rhymes. Okay, time marches on (which doesn't stop me currently from writing my own musical, but hey, it's my life) .

"Reefer Madness" was an interesting vehicle, not overwhelming, because it pressed its satiric point repeatedly. Too many production numbers were of the same broad tenor--pot smoking turns everything into an evil phantasmagoria of lust and gluttony. Perhaps because our current population has lost its sense of irony, the writers used a sledgehammer approach. The original "Reefer Madness" was so over-the-top that this would seem unnecessary. Still, it was fun, and attempted at times to point out parallels between that hysteria and current regrettable cultural trends of ignorance and moral posturing trumping common sense. And it's largley preaching to the choir. My own view is that marijuana laws are among the most insane and cruel impositions of law upon the libertarian rights of individuals to enjoy what nature provides. As a caveat, though, I must admit that I also disapprove of marijuana use by minors--they do not need that kind of distraction.

The doggie show, "Bark," was highly touted. It's basically a low-rent version of its diametrically opposed cousin, "Cats," without the garbage cans. Six pooches in doggie day-care sing various numbers about their lives. I found the show to be ingratiating but having a lot more bark than bite. Except for one number that was spoken, there was no dialogue. Not that you want to have dogs yapping at each other about who gets the chew toy, but the lack of confilcts within the doggie relationships mitigated the humor and any dramatic tension. This made for a rather truncated show--no more than 75 minutes, which at $40 a pop is not a lot of theater (unless you are in Gotham or Vegas).

The dogs were of very fine voice, though. I was impressed that a local equity theater could cast so many talented singers, with significant credits in film and on Broadway. And there was one very trenchant moment, predictably, with a penultimate song by an aging dog ready to give up the ghost, and singing goodbye to its owner. Now imagine a theater filled with dog-lovers, all of whom have probably owned a dog and seen it put down or (like me) are dreading the upcoming inevitability. "Not a dry eye in the house" was the literal result, myself included. Although there was a typically upbeat finale, the lingering effects of the melancholy song, and the reality it suggested, dampened the mood as we exited.

When "Reefer Madness" opened in New York, it was three days before September 11, and of course the show, with its jaundiced view of governmental idiocy, could not survive the trauma. It may have a better life in Showtime reruns. As for "Bark," its local success will certainly encourage a move to the Boig Apple, but I predict it will not succeed there because of the softeness at its core; it needs to be more textured and substantial. I rather dread the potential reviews, whose archness I can already foresee--from "Happiness Is Not a Warm Puppy" through "A Dog of a Show" to "Put This One to Sleep." Yeah, keep this a local phenomenon and everyone will be happy.

Desperate Characters

In an earlier column I labeled the TV series "Las Vegas" the best bad show on television. I could have easily said the same of "Desperate Housewives," but since that slot was filled, I'll call "Housewives" the worst good show on the tube. Not that there is any substantive difference in this arbitrary distinction along the qualitative continuum. They are much more similar then, say, a liberal Republican and a conservative Democrat.

Both shows are essentially hour-long comedies using dramatic devices to pad the plots. Both are replete with improbable storylines engaging extremely attractive casts. Both are unchallenging and as easy to digest as hot cocoa, with about the same nutritional value. I think where "Housewives" scores more successfully is in the delineation of its characters. This is partly owing to the creator, Mark Cherry's experience in sitcom writing. He was a staff writer on "The Golden Girls"--a credit he and I actually share--and he learned from that well-conceived show how to differentiate female characters (notably, the rather bland males in "Housewives" are not nearly as distinguishable).

Cherry had trouble selling his concept, which is essentially a hybrid of soap opera and comedy (as opposed to a "Mary Hartman" satire of the genre). The closest model seems to be the Oscar-winning "American Beauty," which balanced domestic comedy and tragedy in a harmonious suburban setting, and also used the device of a deceased voice-over narrator to provide pungent ironic commentary. Stylistically, the recent, less successful "Stepford Wives" may have had some influence as well. Fortunately this season, ABC had nothing to lose and Fox-like, decided to gamble on some off-beat programming choices. Now Sunday is theirs. Robert Iger is pleased.

I do not believe "Housewives" has the staying power of other successes from this year, such as "Lost" or "Medium." Already the story lines are running into each other and are forgettable. The murder mystery involving Mrs. Hooper (not exactly a mystery, more of a when-are-they-gonna-catch-him) has been dangled uninterestingly and sustained far too long, possibly because this gives them a reason to continue using Harriet Sansom Harris, a fine character actor whose every smile reeks of venom. They are also using Kathryn Joosten, the famous dead Mrs. Van Landinham of "West Wing" and Joan of Arcadia's favorite God incarnation, and Leslie Ann Warren as Susan's pfedicatably meddlesom Mom. I've read that, perhaps in the interest of multiethnic appeal, the producers are hiring Alfre Woodard as a regular for next season. Adding extra regulars so early in a show's life indicates a concern that stories are not leaping out of the word processors. It's the equivalent of a sitcom couple having a baby.

Still, the actors portraying the "Housewives" manage to make these self-absorbed suburbanettes somewhat appealing, even if the scripts render them less than sympathetic. Teri Hatcher's Susan, the closest to a protagonist, overdoes the klutziness but maintains some likeability. Likeable does not apply to Felicity Huffman's overwhelmed, clueless baby machine, but we believe the fundamental intelligence of her character and wish she could have pursued that career that now will elude her forever. Eve Longoria's vixen is fun to watch in the prurient sense, but her one-note character needs some shading. She is at present, the broadest of broads.

The best performance so far is Marcia Cross's ice princess Bree, with the immaculately coiffed hairdo that looks like it was applied by CGI effects. Cross really digs into the contradictions of her character. It's a kick to watch her blanch at the idea of an S/M relationship with her husband while turning right around to practice firing her .45 caliber pistol at the local range. Her ambivalent feelings toward her reprobate son, who had done pretty much everything to fuck with her mind, from fleeing a hit-and-run killing to roughing her up in his room and, for extra credit, coming out gay, actually evoke more sympathy than perhaps her character deserves. Yet she plows ahead with that grim tight-assed determination to project the perfect life.

Oddly, the most sympathetic character to emerge so far is Nicolette Sheridan's local slut and adversary to Susan. Her singleness seems to offend the other regulars and they've excluded her from their socializing. Maybe they also resent her for that promotional locker room tie-in with Terrell Owens. Yet she was awfully forgiving of Susan, who not ony stole the hunky Mike from her initial clutches, but also accidentally burned down her house while doing so. All she asked in return was to be included in the weekly poker game. Not a lot to ask. If necessary, she could come to mine. But since conflict is necessary for comedy, the writers have revved up her feuding with Susan again. Ah well, had to be.

I enjoy "Desperate Housewives" but do not consider it appointment TV, because of its predictability and thinness of story. It will even compare less favorably with my true Sunday special treat, "Six Feet Under," the brainchild of "American Beauty's" Alan Ball, who doesn't have to deal with Standards and Practices and can make his tragicomic characters much more trenchant. But "Six Feet Under" has one year to go, and "Housewives" has eight or nine, at which time Wisteria Lane will probably be populated by Avril Lavigne, the Olsen twins and Tori Spelling.

Death and Taxes

As we glide through a week marked by historical anniversaries, including those of Lincoln's assassination and the Titanic's unfortunate engagement with that iceberg, thoughts are turning back away from baseball to somewhat more substantive matters. This Friday is Income Tax Day, or rather the deadline for those unfortunate enough to owe taxes. This includes a smattering of souls who have to pay a large chunk of money inherited from deceased relatives who were clever enough in their lives to amass what Tevye in "Fiddler oin the Roof" called "a small fortune."

The issue of the estate tax--or what the Republican hacks darkly and wisely renamed the "Death Tax" for ultimate emotional impact--is one where I tend to fall on the Right side of the ledger. I am not one to think our population is overtaxed. Compared to most Western nations we have a rather low tax rates, which accounts for our crumbling infrastructure and appalling educational decline, among other national embarrassments. The Republican ideological mantra of "No New Taxes" is hopelessly rigid and will be self-defeating unless we can find a way to float above the ocean of federal deficits. However, the justification for taxing private estates completely eludes me.

In the interest of full disclosure I must admit that I stand to inherit some money within the decade, and would prefer not to share it with Uncle Sam. The amount I'd have to relinquish would not be significant. But this is not about me; this is about fairness.

A very liberal friend of mine--one who, incidentally has been doling out her hefty share of some inherited wealth to the tax man--tried to explain the rationale of the estate tax. "The children never earned this money," she says. "Why should they keep all of it?" Why? Because that was the will of the decedent, that's why. Because that is money saved after it has been initially taxed once, sometimes twice if it's from dividends or interest. The remainder--the net income--should remain as the safety net for the family, if that is the will of the individual. The responsible parent always has the welfare of the child in mind. This is one more form of social security, and should be preserved. If the decedent wants to leave a portion of his estate to the government, nothing stops him (though I've never heard of such a thing). But where, oh where, does the government get a right to snatch the family jewels?

This is not a pragmatic view. Advocates of the estate tax claim that its gradual dissolution could cost the Feds thirty billion dollars a year. This might be overstating the case, because much of the interest, at least, gained by the heirs through their expanded accounts will see its way onto the tax rolls. But as it stands now, the estate tax is a monster to those small-business owners and small farmers who have to liquidate their businesses to pay the estate tax, which currently is about 49% of the amount over the $1.5 million exemption. For the super-rich this is no crisis; they'd give comparable amounts to charity for tax write-off purposes. But for a significant minority this is patently destructive.

Responsible Democrats, who can sense the direction of the wind, are striving now to reach a compromise with the most strident Republicans, who want to kill the tax entirely. Okay, we do need some boosting of the national coffers, so if Bill Gates or, more immediately, Warren Buffet were to kick it, it would do no one any particular harm to shift some of their savings toward the buttressing of bridges or the needs of internal security. The Democrats suggest raising the exemption limit to at least $3 million, and making it permanent, which would exclude most small business owners and spare them of potential personal economic disaster. The concept of the estate tax will never be completely appropriate to my mind, but that would be a Death Tax I could live with.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Christmas in April. That would be the consensus opinion of the thirty-or-so men who gathered in a Studio lot in Studio City last Sunday regarding the occasion, the annual Showbiz League Rotisserie Auction. This was my 16th consecutive year in this rabid-fan exercise that, if it hasn't swept the nation, has gotten big enough to convince Major Legue Baseball to share in some of the ancillary profits. Hey, somebody has to pay for all the drug testing.

Rotisserie, or Fantasy baseball, like its analagous football and basketball versions (not hockey, at least not this year), is great for the participants, but stupefyingly weird and tedious for the uninitiated. I decided to pursue a fantasy team in the late '80s when the team I rooted for, the Yankees, were still wading in the sewers of the American League. So why not get a new team to support? This kind of logic offended many purists, my brother for instance, though eventually he caved in and is now in his eighth or ninth year in his fantasy league. (Point of information, "Rotisserie" comes from the Manhattan restaurant "La Rotisserie," where in the early '80s the first fantasy league was created).

So starting at 9 A.M. on Sunday, representatives of the fifteen rotisserie "franchises" gathered around a large rectangular conference table to purchase, via auction, twenty-one players from all the major league rosters, to populate their fantasy teams. The trick is to spend the allotted $260 wisely enough to amass the most strength at all the positions, including pitchers, so that their accumulated statistics at the end of the year will surpass those of the other teams. This requires not only clever budgeting and bluffing skills, but acquiring considerable knowledge about all the players in the majors. The month preceding the event involves increasingly intense cramming and research regarding injuries, line-up changes, and rumors gleaned from the Rotisserie columns on the Internet, now a fairly major cottage industry. If nothing else, this renders us all very knowledgeable baseball fans. And if none of this sounds legitimate to my few readers still rolling their eyes, let me add that our league's draft was once featured on the NBC Nightly News. Yes, I did a cameo for Tom Brokaw.

It's hard to convey the gleeful anticipation that precedes the event, as well as the fun of the competitive camaraderie. My rotisserie partner, who will be amused that I will be referring to him pseudonymously as Kevin, shares an excellent working relationship with me, and after all these years our teamwork is not only smooth but the envy of other teams. Our team--The Bronx Cheers--has been successful enough for me to name this blog after it. We've won the league twice, more than any other active team, each time collecting a grand each. Our good finishes often result from clever trading and lack of injuries, but the auction is a competition in itself, and we like to leave the lot feeling optimistic, along with the exhaustion.

This year's auction was a very congenial affair, boosted by a comic element introduced by one of the teams' owners, who changed its name to "Jesus." So when the auctioneer was collecting bids he would often announce that a player "goes to Jesus," etc. That team's owner was also very vocal in editorializing about other team's choices, so we all got to say "Jesus loves me," or "what would Jesus do?" at one time or another. Kind of perfect for the Church of Baseball.

Using a disciplined approach and not overspending for too many marquee players, I believe Kevin and I have formulated a pretty good squad, emphasizing speed and batting efficiency. We bought a few celebrated stars like Derek Jeter and David Ortiz, but I have two Red Sox and one Yankee, which shows how objective I have to be. Now my sympathies will be split as I root for the Red Sox sluggers to produce (hopefully their pitchers will suck). But for the first few hours after I returned home, totally drained from the intensity of the auction, the last thing I wanted to hear was any baseball news. I have six months to absorb those statistics.

As the baseball season's first week concluded, we found ourselves in fifth place, a spot cushy enough to allay any early concerns about questionable position players and pitchers. Of course that won't (and hasn't) stopped Kevin from already contacting me about possible replacements. And so it will go. We are the Boys of Summer.

Everything but the Volleyball

That TV is a Vast Wasteland is the hoariest of cliches, by now. The mantra of "Lest Objectionable Programming" has reigned forever in this high-stakes industry, with the result being tepid product and reliance on standard genres peopled with high TVQ talent. Very rarely do the original three nets (unlike FOX) dabble in experimental variations, and it's usually because of the insistence of high-end showrunners like Steven Bochco (until he jumped the shark with "Cop Rock"). But occasionally, by happy accident, the creators and programmers stumble upon a formula that mixes genres in just the right proportion. This is the case this season with ABC, rising out of the lazy doldrums of its Regis Philbin era with this year's hits "Desperate Housewives"--an engaging but thin entertainment--and the more complex and involving "Lost."

"Lost" must have been an easy pitch. "Survivor" without Jeff Probst, as conceived by Stephen King. It didn't hurt that the creator, J.J. Abrams, had a major cult credit in "Alias" (a program I haven't watched, despite my admiration for Jennifer Garner and the show's good rep). "Lost" has a terrifically rich future, because it can branch out into several directions--adventure, science fiction, psychological drama, even travelogue. Not bad for an idea that goes back at least as far as Daniel DeFoe's "Robinson Crusoe"--or for that matter, Homer's "Odyssey."

I have an odd emotional reaction to this show. I do not anticipate it as avidly as I do other classy dramas, like the HBO character-driven Sunday shows, or the hyperkinetic "24," (Jesus Christ, they shot down the President this week!) Yet I find the experience of watching "Lost" just as absorbing. I guess it's the gradual pacing of Abram's storytelling, and the knowledge that there may or may not be an interesting revelation, that keep my expectations at bay. You would not have expected, from the pilot episode (in which, ironically, a pilot gets eaten), that the action elements of the show would be subsumed by the characters. It's Abram's genius to spend most of the first season investigating the back stories of the castaways, plotting the events that led each of them onto the doomed aircraft, just like Thorton Wilder's six poor souls who found themselves traipsing onto the Bridge over San Luis Rey just when it collapsed. Consequently the viewers become not only emotionally invested in the cast, but, in a cosmic irony sense, more aware of the cross motivations of these souls than the characters themselves.

Like the more intense and somewhat absurdist "24," the time frame of "Lost" is constricted, so it plays more like a novel than an episodic serial. Maybe a month of "real time" has elapsed since the opening crash, so the male actors have not had to grow ungainly beards, the actresses still have attractive coifs, and no one has become emaciated. More usefully, this deliberate pace will enable the writers to extend the series for a long time. Time is pretty much suspended on Mysterious Island, and the show could run a decade and not encompass more than a year (though they'd have to keep changing the actor playing the newborn baby).

There's a certain degree of cheat in all the elusiveness of the narrative, but it's fairer to call it poetic license. Scary chimeras are introduced, then shelved for several episodes. I do not regret the disappearance of the horrendous "It" monster that threatened the tribe in the pilot; it was almost there for symbolic purposes, representing the great Dread. I prefer the jeopardy of human conflict, which is embodied by the "other" castaways who appear occasionally and maliciously to knock off one of our brood. But Abrams has been influenced by "The X Files" and knows how to titillate with quasi-supernatural elements--the polar bear; the murderous pretty Frenchwoman who's survived sixteen years; the miraculous recovery of Terry O'Quinn's character Locke, who seems to be personally related to the Island.

To be sure, some of this is pitched artificially to encourage Internet buzz. Already various theories have arisen about the story's allegorical elements. My favorite is that these characters are actually dead but allowed to exist in limbo to work out the conflicts of their terrestrial lives. That might explain why their environment is so pretty. Nothing the producers of "Survivor" have chosen can compare with this Oahu north shore setting for visual delight and waterfall exhilaration.

But in the end, as in every successful show, it's the interplay of characters that has to engage us, and "Lost" works extremely well here. Its humanity cross-section includes a driven American doctor; a plucky but amoral Australian bank robberess; a heroic Iraqi Republican Guard veteran; a conflicted black father and son; a troubled Korean couple who gain our sympathy incrementally each week; an English rocker played by a former Hobbit; a porky L.A. Latino who incidentally won a giant Lotto prize; a step brother/sister combo whose underlying attraction will be drastically affected by the brother's recent death; and of course, the eerie Locke. Not to mention The Others, demons and what-not from the other side of the island (where the Outrigger Condos are) who are introduced as necessary to stir things up when our castaways get too cuddly. All this and the major subplot, nearly forgotten, of these people actually trying to escape the island with some makeshift raft, like Tom Hanks.

Abrams has given us a lot to chew on, and even if he jerks us around with ambivalence and a multitude of red herrings, the entertainment value is considerable. Just don't serve me any poi.

I Dreamed Last Night I Was on a Boat to Heaven

The Grim Reaper has been having a busy year. After working doubleplus overtime in Southeast Asia, scooping all those unwary shore-dwellers in December, he's now focusing on higher profile celebrity cases. In just the last week or so the Op Ed pages have been filling up with such diverse subjects as Pope John Paul, Terri Schiavo, Johnny Cochran, Saul Bellow, Prince Rainier of Monaco, and Frank Perdue. It is a measure of our current culture how much ink has been spent on each demise.

The pomp and circumstance of the Pope's funeral is unmatched in my memory--not JFK, nor Reagan, nor any other Pope or political figure has attracted such a barrage of mourners. The line in Rome extended five miles, with a waiting period of fourteen hours, until it was finally shut down. I shudder to think what the airports have been like. Meanwhile, all our sanctimonious leaders--the two Bushes and Clinton--have been bowing at his bier. Carter, also born-again, couldn't make it. Ford is still tripping on the ninth fairway. Prince Charles and his equine girlfriend Camilla have put off their wedding a week in respect. This kind of pageantry--so typical in its splendor for an institution that exploits rural poverty to spread its message--makes my eyes roll in exasperation. At least the funeral hasn't pre-empted "Survivor."

The next most egregious funeral has been Johnny Cochran's. Okay, this guy was a very capable lawyer, and a pillar of pride for the Black community, but he did help a despicable double murderer get off the hook, which ought to at least earn him some waiting time in Limbo. Any African American celebrities not willing to jump on the papal funeral wagon found a substitute here. Look, there's O.J. Simpson! There's Michael Jackson! And Stevie Wonder! Betcha no Fred Goldman.

Saul Bellow's passing was noted only by and for the few literate people who don't get their news from Fox or CNN. His obit in the L.A. Times was respectable, and I did watch a rather dry analysis of his work on PBS. But novelists, ironically, get less print than anyone else. They are the shepherds and cobblers of the modern age of communications, as relevant and familiar to the emerging generation as Victor Herbert or Jerome Kern. I don't think his funeral will be televised.

Terri Schiavo, who passively moved into the history books after no achievement whatsoever but overreating and suffering grotesque consequences, did not have a funeral either. As usual, the two sides arguing over her life-ending procedures are still at it, dickering over the ultimate burial place of her ashes. The disgraceful worldwide brouhaha over her fate has ebbed, thanks in part to the Pope's timely departure. Prince Rainier, who ruled for 57 years over that comic opera principality, would probably have gotten a little more attention funeral-wise had he not died among so much competition, or if Princess Grace had not preceded him by twenty years. He'll be lucky if he attracts Tom DeLay and Queen Noor of Jordan. As for poor Frank Perdue, well, he was long overshadowed by Colonel Sanders, and barely gets a nod of recognition, though he was highly visile on the tube a few decades back.

Although it is highly unlikely that these folks exist in any form other than decomposing protoplasm, it tickles me a bit to imagine them all together rowing in that boat to Heaven, discussing their lives and attitudes, much like the historical characters brought to life in Steve Allen's old "Meeting of the Minds" series. What would Saul Bellow have to say about the Pope's retrograde attitudes? Would Johnny Cochran have a few thoughts regarding Terri Schiavo and/or how our national legislature violated the Constitutional rights of the judiciary in tampering with her case? And wouldn't Terri be just salivating to try one of Frank Perdue's chicken recipes after all those years having curds and whey pumped into her abdomen like so much diesel gas? As for Prince Rainier--well he would be anxious, literally, to see and say "Grace" once more.

An edgy comedy show like SNL might be tempted to produce a sketch based on this concept, but the current spritual zeitgeist would probably prevent it from being aired. Though I think at least Bellow would get a kick out of it--sort of a final bellow laugh.

Juror's Prudence

Well, the Pope died (TV is now All Pope All the Time), and the Yankees beat the Red Sox (and won again today, two in a row, six fucking months too late). I care nothing about the former and a tiny bit about the latter. Which reminds me of the "shocking" statement I once made at a dinner party that baseball was more important to me than religion. Still holds, though I think now my dog takes precedence over both.

Which leads me in absolutely no logical sequence to this week's major topic, which is how I managed to avoid jury duty while coming this close to having to spend over a month in one of the world's most tedious civil cases. Now I am not one to shirk my civic duty, and I always dutifully obey my summons, since it's usually no hardship for me to appear. I've sat on one trial, acting even as the Foreman, so I take this duty seriously. I assume the odds are somehwat against my being selected, and usually even greater against my being kept, as my professional credits usually red flag me into some dismissal.

So Monday I arrived, red-eyed, at 7:30 at the downtown SuperiorCourt building near the gaudy Disney Hall. There was an orientation video and a few desultory remarks by a visiting judge. His speech concluded with the words "so that government by the people, of the people and for the people shall not perish from the Earth." This was very catchy and I bet, to most of those present, sounded rather original. Within an hour my name was selected to join a panel, and fifteen minutes later, in the courtroom, I was chosen as Juror # 5 in the aforesaid civil case.

The case itself was a lawsuit concerning alleged airline maintenance malpractice. I was neutral about the subject matter, being about as mechanically inclined as a Gabor Sister, but I was willing to try to sit in fair judgment. The attorneys were very deliberate in questioning the jury, and found themselves frustrated by many potentials who had no command whatever of English. (Hey the voter rolls, whence come the jury lists, do not designate language of origin). I was singularly amused by the efforts of one lawyer, a benign chap hopelessly enmeshed linguistically in Legalese, try to speak in simple terms to an Iranian woman. He asked her if she believed corporations as well as people had the right to legal redress. "Corporation? What is that" she stammered. "Well," he tried to explain, "a corporation is an entity...." She looked blank. "It's an entity on its own." I nearly slapped my forehead in V-8 exasperation. "Entity???" I mouthed. The judge, at that point, called a recess for lunch. I explained what a corporation was to the woman, using the synonym "business," but in her case it was moot, for she was excused.

As technical and tiresome as the case promised to be, I was willing, almost eager to become involved, because the trial process is rather interesting. But then the Judge dropped the Bomb that the trial would last at least through the month of April. What? An audible gasp came from the juror box. Hands went up all over. Some poor folks simply could not endure four weeks without compensation. In my case, I have an East Coast trip in a few weeks that would have been seriously imperiled, and, well, Mom is not going to be available that much longer. This was a point I made very distinctly, but not well enough to earn my own dismissal. So I had to return again today.

More attorney questioning today brought out the point that I am currently involved myself in two lawsuits--one as a named defendant in a frivolous homeowner's suit from last year regarding mold remediation, and another (for which I am one of many plaintiffs) involving the sale of fraudulent bonds. I also made a few carping comments about how overly litigious our society had become (a cause other jurors agreed with), and perhaps most jarringly, said that I agreed with jury nullification, under certain circumstances. Despite my strong opinions it did not seem that I would be excused, because the jury needed some members who spoke fluent English and were educated enough to understand some of the technical language to be bandied about for a month. Yet miraculously, after this morning's session, my name was listed among six others who were allowed to depart.

I felt a twinge of regret, because I'd have liked to participate and exercise my rational judgment--but this particularly trial promised to be very obnoxious, so I'm far better off without it, and now have my life (and trip) returned to me. But I am considering applying to be on a Grand Jury, which would be both voluntary and reasonably compensated. In my secular world view, if I can't be a sanctimonious acolyte of the Almighty, I can certainly practice actively useful citizenship.

Damn Yankees

The cover of this week's "New Yorker" sports a drawing of a tall left hander straddling the pitching mound in Yankee Stadium. He is so tall, in fact, that his head exits totally out of frame. Even the uninitiated may realize this is a reference to Randy Johnson, the latest Moses called upon by George Steinbrenner to lead the Yankees back to the Promised Land. The joke is about his gangly height, though perhaps also a suggestion that his scowly features are better left imagined. (Let's face it, the Big Unit is what the p.c.'ers might call "facially challenged," or what Leo Rosten would call a "meeskite.")

Of course his beastliness is part of his intimidation mojo, and he stands proudly among the three Great Pitchers of this era (Clemens, Maddux). He's also one of many star elements going into this baseball season's televised opener this Sunday night. ESPN is all over this match-up, which pits the Yanks against the World Champion (gulp) Boston Red Sox, beginning New York's season in the same arena where it so ignominiously ended last October. Johnson was originally scheduled to pitch against Curt Schilling, he of the blood-stained sock, in a dream contest. But Schilling's ankle is still wobbly so he'll be replaced by, of all people, the once UberYankee David Wells, who for good measure will be wearing Babe Ruth's number #3, right there where the Curse was Reversed. One can positively OD from all the iconic (and ironic) ramifications. And you know what? I don't even feel like watching.

It's not that I'm not eagerly anticipating the return of the baseball season, which is certainly my favorite Rite of Spring. I'm gobbling up the columns and predictions, following the player moves very closely, and poring over line-up changes in advance of my Rotisserie Baseball auction next week. I just don't want to watch the Yankees. I have been trying to come to terms, literally, with my apathy to my favorite team. The term I've come to is "Hangover." After last year's shocking, appalling, despicable collapse in the LCS,--when they had the Red Sox in games 3-0 with a lead in the last of the ninth, then handed it all away--I am, to mix a metaphor, gunshy--or is it battle-scarred. Okay, Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome! It reminds me of when I experienced my first major drunken binge in college. I couldn't look at alcohol for several years. The Yanks are going to have to win be back.

It is hard to expect sympathy as a Yankee supporter. We are an annoying bunch, parading our arrogant sense of entitlement unlike any other fan base. But I can't help it. I was imprinted as a child in mid-century New York City, where a Yankee championship was as much an annual rite as New Year's Eve in Times Square. It took twenty years for another mini-dynasty to emerge in the late '70s, sparked by Reggie Jackson. That was fun. But that team did not compare with the Joe Torre squad that from 1996 to 2000 won four World Series, and then participated, less successfully, in two more. Though I'm all grown up and even middle-aged, this glorious run brought me back in some emotional time warp to the reassuring days of my youth. I've been swept up, since 1996, in whatever vicarious glory my association with this bunch of overpaid athletes in pinstripes could grant me. But now that success has spoiled me, and after the Yanks have failed in four consecutive years to win the post-season tourney, I am a grumbling curmudgeon, finding fault with every new player they import.

There's a book out that details the "end of the Yankee Dynasty," purportedly the day they lost the 7th game of the 2001 series (to Randy Johnson). That's an easy historical call. My brother, also a big fan, points to a game earlier that season when Mike Mussina failed, with two strikes and two outs in the ninth, to conclude a perfect game against Boston. This would have been the third perfect game for this particular group of Yankees (the other two were by David Cone and David Wells, both of whom later joined the Red Sox), and confirmed their aura of magic. But I believe the Dynasty really came to an end last October in that horrific collapse. The stain of that defeat will linger in Yankee history forever. I still smell the stink. It's like the rank stale-beer odor of a fraternity house after a party. Gives me a headache.

Though the Yankees seem loaded this year, they are aging and have several highly-valued players who are heading over the hill, and soon. These include Bernie Williams (who's never had his career year, but sure has had a good career); Mike Mussina (never won a championship); Jorge Posada (with no reasonable back-up); Johnson himself, who has no knee cartilage; 35-year-old Mariano Rivera (the major reason for all those championships); Gary Sheffield, a trouper but 36; and of course, Jason Giambi, whose arrival in 2001 has coincided with Yankee failure, year after year, once he stopped injecting steroids into his glutes. His back-up, returnee Tino Martinez, is a nice throwback to the Good Old Days, but he's more Old than Good.

It's true they still parade some players at their peaks--Jeter, the overrated Rotisserie God Arod; and Hideki Matsui, whose intense professionalism I highly admire. But there is not as much depth, and a few injuries could bring this team down hard, like the awful Yankees of the mid-'60s. As it is, I will not invest a lot of emotion in their seasonal achievements this year, waiting again to plunge into their October adventures. If they collapse and don't make the play-offs, then I can enjoy a perfectly sane autumn; if not, then I will likely be ensnared again in the irrational need for them to win the Last Game of the Season.

I'm usually not so solipsistic that I need to quote myself, but it's fitting here to cite the first piece of personal writing I can document, a short autobiographical essay I wrote 1957 which my Dad tucked away in a stray Playbill and which I discovered (and then framed) just two years ago. The first paragraph begins "In baseball I'm not so good, But I'm smart in it." In that spirit I will venture my divisional pennant predictions for this year: Padres, Cards, Braves and wild-card Mets; Yanks (sigh), Indians, Angels and wild card...drum roll...Twins! I think the Red Sox will finish third behind the thumpers of Baltimore (at least I hope so, ha ha); and that the Mets are underrated right now, with some very good pitching to sustain them.

But this is not my last word on baseball for the year. Hardly.