Return of the Cheers

Reader Alert: This is an entirely self-indulgent entry about baseball.

May is coming to an end in a triumphant comfirmation of the fact that the first two months of the baseball season are largely preamble. All the sturm und drang of fans unhappy with their team's performance over the first third-or-so of the season is soon to be forgotten in the sturm und drang of the final two-thirds. Records are still based on a small sampling of the season's challenges, but a sufficiently large sample by which, at least, to gauge general trends.

A perfect example is that of the Yankees, so thoroughly lambasted in an earlier blog, after losing 19 of their first 30 games. Too old, too fat, too rich, too complacent, the critics and I screamed. Well the team apparently took it all to heart, and after a weird line-up adjustment whose main contribution was removing Bernie Williams as a regular, the Yanks scooted ahead to win 16 of the next 20 games--a precise mirror image of the first two months of their largely successful 2003 campaign. Brian Cashman also saw fit to introduce two minor leaguers to the team for more than the usual showcase purposes. Pitcher Chien Min Wang (sic) and second baseman Robinson Cano helped rejuvenate the Yanks with their energetic application of talent despite earning only a few thousand dollars per game. Kevin Brown returned from the Dead, his hand apparently now healed, to win four straight. Tino Martinez hit eight homers in eight games, though not consecutively. Arod started to hit hard and frequently, and occasionally even meaningfully, as he raised his stats to triple-crown-threatening levels. Gary Sheffield--well he was always good, and boy are his homers interesting to watch.

On the down side, Randy Johnson has muddled through but not impressed as the Hall of Famer he will be (or as Roger Clemens is still performing in Houston). Mike Mussina and Carl Pavano have been good but subject to inconsistency bordering on the awful. The admirable Hideki Matsui hit three homers in his first two games in April, but not one since. Jaret Wright is slowly recovereing, but not slowly enough for this team. And despite their overdue standings correction, they are still struggling against the Red Sox, who massacred them in two of the three games they played over Memorial Day weekend. (The Red Sox have their own problems, mostly pitching, and seem to flag when not hyped by the Yankee rivalry).

A new element to the Eastern Division mix is the continuing success of the Baltimore Orioles, whose pitching and young hitters are maturing concurrently. They have a very competent blend of youth and experience, from Brian Roberts and Jay Gibbons to Sammy Sosa and Miguel Tejada. Throw in the underrated Melvin Mora and Raphael Palmeiro and a good closer in B.J. Ryan, and this is a team that should stay neck-and-neck with the older warhorses from those northern cities. It will make for a very good pennant race, but the upshot is that since these teams will be slicing and dicing each other so many times, their records will reflect it, with the second-place team probably not be winning enough to make the Wild Card. That team will probably be Los Angeles or Texas.

As for my other divisional selections, my success is a mixed bag. I foresaw the preeminence of the finely-tuned San Diego Padres and the Angels, but entirely missed the revival of the White Sox. The Sox took a page from Florida and amped up their speed at the cost of some power. Helped by a sturdy pitching corps this formula has worked tremendously and they have baseball's best record, even without Frank Thomas. Minnesota is still in the race, but Cleveland, a team I touted, got out of the gate slowly with a disappointing offense, especially form their catcher Victor Martinez.

Down in Florida the Marlins are playing well in a strong division. There's no bad team there, but somehow I expect the Braves to sneak ahead again. The Mets haven't quite put their pieces together. Maybe it will help when Carlos Beltran gets familiar with the league's pitchers. I also liked the Cubbies, but their pitchers all crashed and even a triple crown surge by Derrek Lee will not overcome that problem, not to mention the Cardinals, who are great again.

But enough about real baseball, let's talk Fantasy. As discussed in a recent blog, our team jokingly renamed itself The Beatles when all the other teams started re-dubbing themselves after famous singers or prophets. "Let's see how fast we can rise in the charts" I said to Kevin.
We agreed that we still liked our old name but would wait until The Beatles got bigger than Jesus before we'd return to the original moniker. Well, it took exactly two weeks for our team not only to pass Jesus but to rise to the top of the heap. In all we went from 11th place to First in three weeks. Part of this steep climb is attributable to an early season, when huge shifts are possible. Part owes to the cleverness of our team management. Part is dumb luck (okay, a large part). But how much to the salutory effect of the Name Change? I guess we will learn as we plunge into the summer months, as the Bronx Cheers Redux.

This Is the End

That's just a title, not a statement. It refers to the fact that the Memorial Day weekend is an annual demarcation point between the conclusion of the Entertainment season and the onset of the summer doldrums. The networks have concluded their basic episodic schedule and are prepping summer replacement try-outs and previewing their fall premieres. They offer more of What Was Successful This Year (meaning supernatural dramas, gory procedurals and youth-oriented sitcoms). Send in the clones.

Last week, with a great collective exhalation from the viewers, all the Sweeps favorites climaxed with champions crowned or artificial cliffhangers. Even the game shows. "Jeopardy" broadcast a one-time-only Mega Tournament of Champions to showcase their 2004 star Ken Jennings, whose wondrous winning streak earned him valuable commercial endorsements and a chance to host his own Comedy Central game show, Ben Stein-style. Unfortunately he was bested by a Pennsylvanian clerk named Brad Rutter. Now will it be the Ken and Brad Show? Stay tuned. And "American Idol" culminated in the long-awaited but underwhelming victory of bland but dentally advantaged Carrie Underwood over Bo Bice. I rooted for Bo because his name rhymed precisely with the title of one of my blogs (see "No Dice," above). Winners all, actually, after all that exposure.

My two favorite episodic dramas concluded with highly-touted episodes, one rather successfully, the other disappointingly. "24," which had floundered a bit after its scintillating first weeks (shouldn't've killed off Dina, guys) recovered with a sufficiently entertaining finale that, for a change, didn't leave us mourning some beloved character. Sneakily one of the show's flaks had leaked false information that two regulars were going to die in the last hour, so I was already writing the obits for Michelle and Tony. Ha ha on me, they both survived, though shakily. And they swore they'd leave CTU and return to civilian life. Well, that ought to work until episode 7 or 8 next year when the desperate writers will call them back into the fray.

Jack didn't fare so well, losing his girl friend (no tragedy there, what a whiner), and having to fake his own death to avoid extradition to a Chinese prison and head out to Mexican exile until next January's Dreadful Day. His life is like an espionage version of "Brigadoon." In all it was the best, most focused season of "24." My biggest question remains why the terrorists launched their Iowa-based missile toward Los Angeles, which would take three hours to reach its target, rather than a Northeastern city, which could have been wiped out much more quickly and negated CTU's frantic efforts.

"Lost," a cleverly written conceit with more intersecting story lines than a Dostoevsky novel, pulled a few fast ones on its audience and left us all a little dissatisfied. It also benefitted by a false rumor regarding one of its newer characters, a whiny high-school teacher and self-proclaimed weapons expert played by Daniel Roebuck, of whom it was written that he would be a regular next year. He was even given a speech complaining about why he, as well as other extras populating the beach, were not being more fully involved. So just as I was acclimating myself to his presence he was, as John Candy used to put it on "SCTV," blowed up real good. From that point on the story degenerated to some penny-dreadful antics, including a baby kidnaped by the crazed Frenchwoman castaway (played nicely by Mila Furlan, who was the Mingari ambassador Delenn in "Babylon Five"); an unfortunate encounter by the raft crew, who were left bobbing in the ocean; and the final revelation of what was under the famous hatch. (Spoiler alert: it was an abyss).

I don't know--if I had a water cooler, I would not be discussing the plot elements all summer long. The show padded its two hours with more flashbacks of the characters pre-boarding the doomed plane. No great revelations therein. Sure, I'll watch come September. But stop fucking with me, J.J. All questions and no answers make "Lost" a lesser show.

Saving Phineas T. Bluster

I'm about to date myself again (and hey, what a cheap date I am). Let's hop onto the WayBack Machine about 50 years, to the Peanut Gallery hosted by Buffalo Bob and his freckled sidekick, Howdy Doody. For those impossibly ignorant of TV history, Howdy Doody was a popular marionette. There were others in the cast of characters, including humans Clarabell the Clown (first played by Bob Keeshan, formerly the first male cheerleader at my alma mater Forest Hills High School, and later Captain Kangaroo), and Princess SummerFallWinterSpring, who I believe either died prematurely in a traffic accident or appeared at an Oscar Ceremony to decline Marlon Brando's award. Among the puppet characters were Flub-a-Dub and Dilly Dally, two anthropomorphic animals, and Phineas T. Bluster, an erstwhile politician and the usual Heavy in any story lines.

It's only occurred to me recently that Phineas T. Bluster was a play on the word "Filibuster." A filibuster is a procedural strategy used by a minority party to dilly dally while trying to figure out howdy to deal with the doody piled up by the other party. This tactic has come under great scrutiny lately in D.C., where our Opposite-of-Progress has been considering Dubya's choices of right-wing justices to the Federal bench. The Dems want to use the filibuster to delay and frustrate the appointments. The Reps, led by Dr. Frist, put up their dukes and threatened to vote away the filibuster altogether--the "nuclear option." After a lof of posturing, the moderates got together for a compromise, permitting continued use of the filibuster, but allowing several of the selections to go directly to vote, where the majority will approve them. A lot of self-congratulation ensued, but like most compromises, very little satisfaction resulted, except for the rest of us uneasy about the unfelicitious phrase "nuclear option."

I'm kind of glad the Capitol has not been vaporized but I am not so gratified by the preservation of the filibuster. Unlike most of my liberal friends, who've been wringing their hands about the Senate's perfidy, I'm wondering what is so damn great about the Big Stall as a legislative tool. It has no other purpose besides obstructionism. In my historical memory I associate the filibuster with some unseemly antics, such as Southern senators trying to torpedo civil rights legislation in the 1960s; the successful Republican attempt to undo LBJ's appointment of Abe Fortas as Chief Justice (let's face it, it was because he was a Jew); and more Republican efforts to halt judicial appointments by Clinton in the '90s. The only time I can recall a filibuster being used for the General Good was by Jimmy Stewart in Frank Capra's "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington." And even there, the filibuster nearly killed him. Also, it was make-believe.

I'm not alone among moderates who don't revere the filibuster as Parliamentarily productive. Even the liberal Los Angeles Times bemoaned the compromise, seeing the filibuster as a rather odious means to an end, even if the end in this case was preferable to the Democrats. The sad fact is that this is a tool used by both sides in the eternal liberal-conservative struggle, and either side decrying its use is hypocritical. (There--stop the presses, politicians are hypocrites!) I happen to think its existence is a glitch in our legislative system, real baloney of which the Founding Fathers would be heartily ashamed. To me it's the equivalent of a baseball team walking off the field in the fourth inning because they're hopelessly behind and maybe they'll call off the game.

Sure I am unhappy with the reactionary judges Dubya's lackeys have foisted on him, but he is the President (for real this time), and it's tough shit on us Dems that he has a majority support in the Opposite-of-Progress. Maybe we could have convinced more of our Ohio and Florida friends to go out and vote in 2004, or even better, persuaded Democratic party leaders to proffer a more formidable campaign strategy. Now the only battle we have left is the Big One for the next supreme court justice(s), and yippee, the filibuster could conceivably reappear there. And so could the nuclear option.

Now that I've had my say on the filibuster, don't get me started on gerrymandering.

The Better Half of the Color Scheme

When I was a kid the competitive events that most stirred my adrenaline were not Little League games (parentally forbidden to join), nor intramural sports (too scrawny), but the annual summer camp meets known as "Color War." Subsequent history may have made that term as un-p.c. and archaic as "Ayds" diet wafers, but at the time this was an innocent reference to the division of the campers into two teams for athletic and a few intellectual contests. (My performance created a mixed bag of memories. I vividly recall dropping a line drive to lose a crucial softball game; the image is as clear to me now as that of the shark attacking the chum in "Jaws." But then, I annually kicked ass in the Spelling Bee.) The two squads were designated by the camp colors--in the case of Camp Marudy, red and gray. Team members were encouraged to dress appropriately, so one team was clad in monochromatic grays, whites and blacks, and the other donned oranges, pinks and reds. Prepubescent girls would lead the fight songs with lofty lyrics like "We're the red team/we're the red team/We're the better half of the color scheme/We can dance/we can prance/we can tell at a glance/that the other team doesn't stand a chance."

Little did they know that 40 years later some idle researchers would delve into the science of team colors and determine, as reported in the Los Angeles Times last week, that "red" teams do have an advantage over any other color, and have won a disproportionate number of games, in both college and professional sports. I had some trouble reconciling this finding with my experience. Most great professional franchises I've known--the Yankees, Cowboys, Dolphins, Celtics, and Dodgers--fall to the blue/green side of the spectrum. Okay, the Patriots, current football kings, do wear red, as do the Red Sox, though neither has a history of domination. Baseball teams with red trim include the Cardinals, Phillies, Rangers, Angels and (duh) the Reds, a mixed bag skewing slightly favorable. Red does not appear on a lot of NFL jerseys. College teams are more likely to showcase scarlet hues, like my alma mater, Pennsylvania ("Hurrah for the Red and the Blue"). Notably, Penn's athletic program, trifling by NCAA standards, is usually tops in the Ivy League.

Trying to enumerate the performances of all red-hued teams is an exercise better suited for geeky computer statisticians, but it leads me to consider the status of red as perhaps the favorite color of human beings. The preference is not culturally specific. Americans love red, but in China it is even more revered, as denoting good fortune. In fact, didn't we used to call their land mass "Red China" in the pre-Reagan era? The fact that the International Communist movement swathed itself in red banners never really created a cultural backlash in the Capitalist world the way German terms like "sauerkraut" were quashed during World War I or French fries became "Freedom Fries" after Dubya's Iraq invasion. Okay, there was the "Red Menace" and "red-baiting," and we still rolled out the red carpet for swanky events. Red is just too pretty.

I was never a major red rooter, though I do appreciate its standout quality. It always seemed rather garish and unsubtle. I prefer blue, whose myriad shades connote a variety of moods, usually relaxing to the spirit. There aren't as many vareties of red, and all of them tend to excite and convey heat or intensity (whence, perhaps, comes some of its athletic utility). Blue is an ethereal color, the sky providing our universal scenic backdrop, and is reflected in our seas, creating our "Big Blue Marble" planetary icon. Red provides the occasional punctuation on the landscape, in fields of roses, in tomato gardens, and most regrettably, in the blood constantly being shed in the nature's battle for food and mankind's battles for God and Country.

To my eyes red is as much a disquieting, alarmist tone as a hue of luck or beauty. Aren't fire trucks red? When we "see red," it's in anger, not joy (though to be fair, there is also the phrase "feeling blue"). We don't want our finances to be in the red. If you drive a red car you are more likely to be stopped for a traffic infraction than for any other shade. Red is the color of embarrassment. Although the "red carpet" connotes status, do we really want a red carpet in our homes--or on our bedroom walls? For every "red-letter day," there's a scarlet letter on some poor woman's chest. Let's face it, a little red goes a long way. The only place I wear red is in Las Vegas. (Well, a billion Chinese can't all be wrong).

For the record, in my seven years at Camp Marudy, I was on the gray team six times, the red team only once. In those seven year the red team won three times, lost four--a statistic unlikely to have been included in that research project, lest it undermine the final results. But for all the success of the Gray Team, you don't see a lot of professional squads donning the Good Old Gray. Graying is not something our culture likes to celebrate.

By Any Other Name

I am a philappelatalist. I doubt this word actually exists in the OED but any etymologist could easily figure that it means "lover of names." All my life I've had an affinity for names and naming. I find satisfaction in the precise appellation, and believe that we are affected by the names we have been given. How many young men have been burdened by the name Irving or Myron? How much more difficult is it for a guy named Murray or Ichabod to get laid, as opposed to a Steve or a Hank? The problem may not be as acute for women, but I doubt Murgatroids and Myrtles get much action, and Petunias are destined, fittingly enough, to be wallflowers.

One of the laws I would enact if I Ruled the World would be to permit all young people an official self-redesignation at age 21. We're all stuck with indelible labels foisted upon us at birth by our parents, themselves often traumatized by the entire pregnancy/labor ordeal, and usually lacking clear judgment. At the risk of political correctness, I'll generalize that white parents are often far too conformist in their choices (Jacob and Emily have topped the charts for a decade) and African American parents are too often howlingly inappropriate, pulling names helter-skelter out of pharmacopias they find in hospital waiting rooms. (Lavoris! Ephedra! Streptococcus Washington!) I shouldn't complain though--to me it's all a source of cheap laughs.

I find special enjoyment in funny baseball names, for which there's a wealth of examples, especially now that the game has become Asianized and we can enjoy the likes of Seung Song and So Taguchi. Some lineups are becoming veritable Oriental menus, and I expect any day to see Johnny Kim-Chee and Shrimp Har-Kew as the battery for the Mariners. But I don't need Pacific overtures to get my name jollies. From our own continent we have Kevin Mench, J.J. Putz (pronounced Pootz, yeah, sure), Terry Tiffee, the appetizing Coco Crisp, Uggy Urbina, and my all-time favorite, the great Archimedes Pozo, who seems to have faded into the Mexican wilderness like Dick Diver vanishing into New York State in "Tender Is the Night." Apparently the bizarreness of their names has not affected these players' functioning, though I always wondered how former Yankee Mickey Kluttz dealt with fielding criticism.

This year my philappely has focused on team monikers. The universe is still chortling at the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim (though it hasn't affected their performance). But you'll notice that most baseball teams are relatively macho or anthropomorphic. I still do not know what "Phillies" means, unless spelled with an F. They are in last place. The fact that three of the division leaders are the Angels, Cardinals and Padres suggests another sign of the Second Coming, a thought I'd rather not pursue. The As have become a bad team, and boring too, so maybe they should rename themseves the Zs.

Then there's the situation of my Rotisserie League, called the Showbiz League. Here we have a collection of privileged writers, producers and other purportedly creative types, who've been underwhelmingly unclever in the creation of their team names. Kevin (NOT his real name) and I took the moniker "Bronx Cheers" from the facts that we were both Yankee fans, Kevin hails from the Bronx, and a Bronx Cheer is a renowned New York expression of sarcastic contempt. It did us well along the way, while other teams, tired of their names, began to fiddle with changes. The most dramatic was when a team of historic also-ran status called the Holy Cowboys renamed themseves "Elvis" at the beginning of a season, to the distaste of most of the other competitors. The mood changed when Elvis went on to win the title.

The trend continued this year when "The Beserkers" rechristened themselves (literally) "Jesus." It made for an amusing auction and joke string on Website commentary. But the last laugh (Is It I, Lord?) seems to be going to Jesus, who Has Risen in the standings. As I watched the continued success of Elvis and Jesus I suggested jokingly to Kevin that perhaps the only way to pass them was to rename our team "The Beatles," recalling John Lennon's remark about the relative popularity of the Fab Four vs. the King of Kings. Kevin was highly amused at the suggestion, so for the fun of it, I inputted it onto the Website and put "Bronx Cheers" temporarily into mothballs. And wouldn't you know, since that day we have soared in fortune, leaping from tenth place to fifth in less than a week, passing Elvis and nipping on the heels of Jesus (if not washing his feet). Boy, the Beatles sure know how to climb the charts. I'd like to return to the Bronx Cheers at some juncture but not at the risk of jinxing our recent Fantasy fortune, or having to change the name of this Blog to Ric's Beatles, which has a proprietary feel that doesn't quite seem right.

Tidy Bowl

Just what the world needs now is another reason for a billion Muslims to riot. Not that it takes a lot. I mean, thse folks are the most sensitive people outside of the Bubble Boy. And it's true, they have bad weather, a lot of nasty governments and retrograde social restrictions that would make anyone surly. But oh, do we have to stir the pot?

A recent item in Newsweek's "Periscope" news recap suggested that Muslim prisoners in Guantanomo were subjected to the sight of a Koran being dumped into a toilet. Compared with the standard torture being administered, apparently to little avail if the point is to catch Bin Laden or Zarqawi, this would seem a minor offense. But the insult was deemed so severe that it caused riots throughtout Muslimdom, leading to fifteen deaths in Afghanistan, a nation perhaps resentful that it's no longer the focus of American intervention, except to keep their poppies mowed under and their farmers idle and indigent.

After the hyper-reaction to this desecration, and some Condoleeza lip service to try to assuage the Saudi "allies," Newsweek eventually printed a mea culpa retraction. Definitely this was closing the barn door after the horses escaped. Arab hostiles were not impressed. Whether or not this happened, it was plausible, and just another Occidental slap-in-the-face. Now we're hated even more than ever, and not even an edition devoted solely to the Koran (which Newsweek actually has issued) could do anything to mollify the anger. It's a mess. So who's at fault here?

First, there's Newsweek itself. The editors should have been extremely careful, recognizing the incendiary potential of such charges, to verify them completely. They relied on assurances from the Pentagon (The Citadel of Truth) which now appear to have been as reliable as the old WMD guarantees that so embarrassed Colin Powell. On the other hand, I believe the event actually did happen. After Abu Ghraib, why should we doubt some military policeman's dunderheaded attempt at prisoner humiliation? But did they really, really have to report it?

Then there's American policy, still simpleminded and Christian-centric, believing in the sledgehammer approach to the entire terrorism problem. Bonk 'em on the head enough and they'll give. This is an extension of our condescending, polarized view of the entire Muslim world that has so enraged the Arabs that nothing we will say for the next twenty years, benign or condemnatory, will have any different reaction.

Then, of course, there are the Muslims themselves, whose spiritual beliefs hold them in such desperate thrall that they can't allow themselves to see any light but that which shines through the mosques. Sure, there are aspects of this religion that are as wise and humane and pacific as anything the daddy religions Judaism and Christianity could proffer. But they take this sprituality oh so damn seriously. What's with all the fatwas? Fatwa for this, fatwa for that. It's the 21st century and they're still lashing out at infidels. (Not that Christian fundamentalists are much of an improvement, but they are not precisely flinging out universal death sentences to everyone who commits a thought crime). And the stultifying rituals of this faith make Catholicism seem positively Unitarian. Hey people, get a life. Or at least, get a Reformation.
Isn't it enough that a few of your radicals set in motion events that will alter the course of American and world history, and not for the better? Lighten the fuck up, will you? It's only a book. It's only a mythology. There ain't no seventy-two virgins in Heaven. You won't even find seventy-two virgins in Syracuse. But at least there is a Syracuse.

Justice League

The network moguls are all in New York this week as pilot season culminates in the announcements of the fall TV schedules for exhibition to potential advertisers. These ad execs are the same geniuses who last spring snickered at "Lost" and "Desperate Housewives" but threw wads of cash at "Joey." Well, as William Goldman famously said about the business, "Nobody knows anything about anything," or words to that effect. Meanwhile for us viewers the May sweeps period is now climaxing with season and series-ending episodes worthy at least of TIVOing. Tonight marks the end of "Raymond," pretty much a non-event for me. If I want I can watch the entire nine seasons in endless syndication cycles.

Two of the four major reality series have ended, with results far more satisfying than I would have expected. Last week's "Amazing Race," whose two-hour finale I refused to endure because of the fear that RobandAmber would steal another million, concluded with a surprising twist when the kindly Uchenne and Joyce sprinted past them in the last lap in Miami. My pleasure was shared by most viewers, I expect, as well as the other participants, who were heard muttering "please, Uchenne and Joyce," when they stood at the finish line awaiting the arrival of the winners. And "Survivor" also produced a just conclusion, for a change, when the person who likely would have been a survivor in reality also took the prize. NYC fireman Tom Westman, performing as heroically as we would expect from a 9/11-type veteran, managed to evade the eliminations that usually wipe out the strongest candidates. This group of contestants was the most genial and least maliciously back-stabbing of all the "Survivor" casts. I'm glad that neither show left a bad taste in my mouth. Both will return in September, but there will be variations on the themes in summer reality-elimination clones, if baseball becomes too depressing for me.

Two more reality shows are down to the finals, and also are promising acceptable conclusions. On "The Apprentice," the two women vying for the dubious honor of working for Donald Trump, Kendra and Tana, seem to have been the most deserving candidates, though neither is as persuasive as the previous two male winners. Tana is poised and articulate, but perhaps too candid for her own good. Kendra is extremely smart but rather young, and uncharismatic. Previews edited by Mark Burnett suggest Trump will be leaning to Kendra, which makes Tana the slight favorite. As for the winner of "American Idol"-- also a relative title because all the finalists will be getting lucrative contracts--I predict the contestant with the longest hair will win. That means rocker Bo Bice will edge out C&W Carrie Underwood and R&B Vonzell Solomon. He's the one with the most polish.

A last word about another last show, the finale of "Star Trek: Enterprise." The concluding three episodes presented an acceptable but unstirring narrative describing the founding of the alliance that would transmute into the Federation, creating the final bridge between this generation and that of Captain Kirk. A few gimmicks were interesting, including using a "Next Generation" holodeck frame device to look nostalgically back at the final episode of "Enterprise," which included the sacrificial death of one of the major characters. There was nothing exceptionally creative about these elements, and I was not left starved wanting more. It was also not so good to see how paunchy Jonathan Frakes's Riker had become, although the episode purportedly took place midway during the time line of "Next Generation."

However, the two-parter that preceded the final three was one of the cleverest episodes the franchise has produced since the good old days of "Deep Space Nine." This story involved one of the more intriguing gimmick worlds of the ST mythology, the savage alternate universe that is populated by the same characters, only nastier than anyone ever has been on "Survivor." (Recent "string theory" of the universe, which purports that there are eleven dimensions, gives some added "plausibility" to alternate-reality scenarios). The plot of this episode, involving some literal backstabbing and Machiavellian twists, was somewhat predictable, but the presentation was audacious. Somewhere in the writer's room, while concocting the story line, one of the producers got one of the great light-bulb ideas in his head, which was to redesign the episode as though it were actually being produced in the alternate universe. So the opening scene, using the "First Contact" finale of the Vulcan-human meeting as a launchpad, did a demonic twist on the benevolence of that moment, then segued to a new titles sequence, with flim clips glorifying the violence of the Earth Empire forces, set to a new score that darkly suggested John Williams' "Empire Strikes Back" theme. The plot then proceeded as though the audience--us--was as twisted as the characters, leading to totally different sympathies and an ending that was satisfactory only in that dark dimension.

I was reminded of a line spoken by a characters in Woody Allen's "Crimes and Misdemeanors," which was, "If Hitler had won, the history of World War II would be told very differently." Well duh, sure, but this "Star Trek" episode did a fine job illustrating just that point. (I presume that in the alternate universe, Captain Kirk did manage to save Joan Collins' Edith Keeler from that rambling truck, helping the Nazis win.) I thought it was a brilliant concept, reshaping the subjective sympathies of the audience, and was left only with regret that this kind of inclusive creativity was sorely lacking through most of this show's run. Perhaps the franchise could have lived another season. Sigh. Well, even the Yankees still show up at the plate now and then.

Memo to the Dems

It's very early in the game, but I'm certain the "brain trust" of the Democratic Party is trying to formulate some kind of blueprint to recapture the White House, if not Congress, in 2008. I don't know what the think-tankers Joe Trippi, Nancy Pelosi, James Carville and Rahm Emmanuel may be concocting, but if history is any judge, it will likely be as lame as last year's insipid inspirational chant "Hope is on the way." Please, tell me, what the fuck does that mean? Hope should be around all the time. "Help is on the way" is probably what they meant, but because "The Man from Hope" worked so splendidly as a sobriquet for Bill Clinton, they decided to take the word out of mothballs.

As despairing as I have been about politics, I was heartened by a recent poll suggesting that both sides of the political spectrum are favoring moderate candidates, at least at this early juncture. The potential candidate receiving most support from the Republican electorate was, surprisingly, Rudy Giuliani, whose reputation was salvaged by his 9/11 bravado, just like Dubya's. I actually could live with Rudy, who combines a fundamental toughness with an evolved social consciousness. (But I'm adaptible, and can also live with Dubya, though not very happily). Second choice among Reps is that old spitfire John McCain, who is attractive to many Democrats as well, and coming from a Sun Belt state as opposed to the reviled New York, would probably win easily. He may be too independent for the radical right, though, who are pinning their hopes on either Dr. Frist or Rick Sanctis Santorum. Jeb Bush could edge in there, like that silly race horse Giacomo who sped past competing favorites to win the Derby. But Bush fatigue is likely to set in with more stumbling in the second term.

The rank-and-file Democrats support give most of their support, unsurprisingly, to Hillary Clinton, though last year's also-rans Kerry and Edwards are ready to swing at each other to position themselves as the anti-Hillary. Ironically, despite the media's conception, Hillary is more moderate in her politics than either Kerry or Edwards, but the New York connection and the Health Care fiasco she orchestrated in 1993 will stymie her progress. The electoral red/blue map, so crucially parsed in the last two electoral battles, does not bode well for Hillary. Even if Bill survives and promotes the impression that he will be a Major Advisor to his wife, the south is still likely to go to the Bible Thumpers, and significant voters in blue states could also have problems voting for any woman as Commander in Chief.

Pure electoral-vote politics would suggest a southern Democratic candidate like Edwards, though his lightweight performance in 2004 was a poor advertisement. Judging by history, one could quickly surmise that since the only Democrats to win the Presidency since Kennedy were southerners, Johnson, Carter and Clinton, the next successful candidate should be whistling Dixie. But I say, let's check back to see what really wins elections. When Clinton triumphed in 1992, George 41 had shot himself in the foot by responsibly compromising on a necessary tax raise. "It's the economy stupid!" trumpeted Clinton through the advice of Carville, who wasn't stupid. But what really defeated Bush was not his patrician demeanor or the way he looked at his watch during a lull in the final debate. It was, front and center, the interference of Ross Perot. That funny munchkin won, unbelievably, nearly 20 per cent of the vote! Most of that had to come from disenchanted Republicans annoyed by George's tax perfidy and deficient charisma. Without Perot, Clinton would have been toast, and Monica would be working at the Target.

Flash ahead then to 2000, when egomaniac Ralph Nader cajoled just enough votes from reckless idealists to swing the states necessary for Dubya to pilfer the election. Remove Ralph from the equation and Florida goes to Gore and Dubya back to the Texas Rangers. Or travel back in time to 1968 when George Wallace corralled all the southern electoral votes that most likely would have gone to Humphrey, for the Republican's southern strategy had not yet matured.

See a pattern emerging? My suggestion to the Democrats is to find an issue that will motivate some reactionary Republicans to run for the sake of God and Morality. This kind of dedicated nut job could, under the best conditions, siphon votes from the more moderate Republicans to alter the electoral map. Let's bring back Pat Robertson, or Ralph Reed, or Bill O'Reilly. Use some of George Soros's money to surreptitiously back the reactionary's campaign and urge him to go third party if the Republican's platform does not demand the death sentence for pot smoking.

The next three years will see many influential news events, including a likely terrorist attack, a big earthquake, continued Iraqi turmoil and Goodness-knows-what from North Korea. If there is no terrorist attack the Republicans will be at some advantage as the party that prevented another 9/11. But an actual calamitous attack will not hurt their position either, because they have already hedged their bets with those happy assurances that more attacks are inevitable. It won't be historical circumstances that determine our next Chief Executive; it will be which party makes the best chess moves.

Now It's Official

Two series currently airing high-profile episodes during May Sweeps represent diametrically opposed emotional mind sets, but their subject matters have nicely dove-tailed. These programs are NBC's miniseries "Revelations" and the best comedy show ever on TV, Fox's "The Simpsons." While the former has dragged us painfully through much of Biblical pseudoprophecy, the latter, as is its great contribution, lampoons current issues inpublic awareness. and does so with intelligence and reasonably good taste (unlike the hilarious but often overwrought "South Park.")

Last night "The Simpsons" graced us with two new high-concept episodes, one a riff on "American Idol," with Homer as a demonic stage father; the other installing Homer as the Harbinger of the Rapture, after viewing a "Left Behind" movie (cleverly retitled "Left Below"). The spoof of the movie was funny enough to provide a month's worth of laughs. Then the newly converted Homer leads Springfield's citizens to a desert mesa (I love Springfield's topography) where they were all to ascend to Heaven. It doesn't happen, but to satisfy the zealots among the TV viewers who are expecting the End Time, Homer is permitted a sneak peak of Heaven through a dream sequence. He runs riot over the entire place, of course, exasperating an extremely patient Deity.

I could devote columns and columns as to why "The Simpsons" is the best TV comedy ever. For now I'll just point out how brilliantly it maximizes the potential for story-telling that animation provides. Characters can go to Hell, to Heaven, to a bizarre Twilight Zone 3-D dimensional nexus, even emerge into filmic reality. It also helps that they never have to age, unless the story demands it. You know, there are perhaps another twenty years of storylines if Bart and Lisa are permitted to become teen-agers. And some day there'll be a "Simpsons" movie, or twenty. A nice prospect to contemplate.

Not so nice to contemplate is the continuing story of "Revelations" on NBC. Now despite my antipathy to chiliastic scenarios, which only serve to underscore the maniacal beliefs of dangerously influential fringe groups, I was willing to give this miniseries a chance. I mean, the End of the World is an inherently intriguing subject, and the critical word on this one was good, as opposed to the "Left Behind" nonsense. It was billed as "The Rapture" meets "The X-Files." I liked both of those, and can be sucked into a well-told suspense tale with supernatural overtones.

We're already four episodes into the six that have been ordered so far, and all I've witnessed is some of the ugliest and sickest doings I've seen on TV, even dwarfing the nasty shenanigans of the terrorists of "24." "Revelations" supposedly documents--if that's the correct word (it isn't)--the miraculous signs of the Second Coming while at the same time the AntiChrist is brewing up trouble in the name of Satan. Okay, Good vs. Evil, standard fare. But we've been served a hell of a lot (right word there) more evil than good. The only potentially uplifting miracles so far are the appearance of a weird shadow on a mountain suggesting the crucifixion, and a bizarre nova trying to recapture Star of Bethlehem cachet. Meanwhile a mysterious baby Jesus, supposedly immaculately conceived, has survived a tragic ferry capsizing and is performing off-stage miracles that we never get to see. And Sister Josepha, the ecstatic nun trying to piece the signs together, is hip-hip-hooraying all the time, as though on an extreme Prozac high.

But then there's the antiChrist figure, a self-avowed Satanist who has already gruesomely sacrificed one daughter of our "skeptical" hero, Harvard Professor Dr. Massey (eerily the actor who plays the villain is also named Massee). After disembowling the girl for a ritual, and then recruiting an army of acolytes from his prison cell, he has commanded others to kidnap the Doctor's stepson for more nefarious purposes. And it turns out that other virgin births are occurring all over the world, not to mention the rape of a poor Croatian woman who apparently was knocked up by Satan in a scene stolen entirely from "Rosemary's Baby," down to the faun-like feet of the demonic rapist. While we are never treated to the uplifiting antics of the good miracle child, we do get treated to the ultrasound of the demon-baby, which looks very much like a velociraptor embryo. Sweet. Now Sister Josepha is "puzzled."

I don't mind the depiction of unpleasantness in order to villify the Evil One. A strong repulsive villain is important to emotional involvement and to the basis of the legend of Armageddon itself. But this drama really seems to relish its goriness and vile expression to the point of depression. It's like being forced to watch Hitler at his Nurembeurg rally, or Fellini's "Satyricon", or listen to Slim Whitman. I may or may not watch the final two episodes, which supposedly offer a few optimistic moments among the Boschean tortures. But I'm sure at the same time I can turn onto several of my 800 or so channels and find a "Simpsons" to truly soothe my soul.

That Cincing Feeling

Today is Cinco de Mayo, a festive Mexican holiday celebrating some victory of local Mexicans over European imperialism in the 1860s, either replacing or installing Maximillian as emperor. History largely doesn't give a damn, and it's not as though that triumph led to a century of political stability. Each year I observe this holiday by doing absolutely nothing, rather in the same way I celebrate Shavuous and Flag Day. Not even a margarita, though I wouldn't mind one at any time. On top of that, it's begun to rain again. In May! Apostasy! The meteorological gods are still trying to break the L.A. Basin's annual record rainfall, and we're within an inch. If we do, it will be small comfort. No awards ceremonies, no parades--except, of course, the one today being rained on down on Olvera Street.

Speaking of cinco--or stinko--we segue clumsily to the embodiment of stinko, my beloved Yankees. We're five weeks into the season and they are squirming in fourth place in their division, trying to fend off Tampa Bay. Their record is 10-16. They have lost six or seven series in a row, including three consecutive ones in Yankee Stadium. New York Times articles have begun to use words like "abominable," and justifiably. They are playing exactly as they did the last four games against the Red Sox in 2004--lethargic hitting, inconsistent starting pitching and extremely unreliable relief.

I suppose I should insert some caveats to total capitulation for the year. There is still 80% of the season to go. In 2003 the Yanks had as lame a month of May as they did this year's April, and still won over 100 games (though that was more of a correction after a 18-4 start). In 1995 they were six games under .500 practically at midseason, 34-40, and still managed to make the play-offs. The skills of some of their "younger" stars, such as Jeter, Matsui and Arod, are bound to kick in at some point. (Although Arod tends to contribute only when far ahead or far behind, cementing his status as Roto Whore). And they do have three quality starters, in Randy Johnson, Mike Mussina and Carl Pavano.

But, oh, the bad news. Free agent righty Jaret Wright threw his arm out again, and will no longer be dependable if and when he returns from the DL. Kevin Brown, who used to be a fine pitcher, got into the habit of giving up six runs in the first two innings against Boston last year and now is stuck in that groove. He is 0-4 and is costing Steinbrenner $15 million. Mussina's fast ball has slowed down like traffic on the 405 and he is now pretty mediocre, however intelligently he applies himself to crossword puzzles. Pavano has a .500 lifetime record and only one quality season to his name. Randy Johnson is off to an unimpressive Yankee career, providing gopher balls to startled batters, and now has pulled his groin and is missing starts. The team has been forced to prematurely promote two starters from the minors. The relief corps has been uniformly awful; even Rivera is struggling and looking like his magic has disappeared.

With pitching this rickety there is no chance that the Yanks will perform favorably this season, even if the line-up starts awakening. But as I feared in my worst-scenario projection of April 1, age is really telling on this team. The first base/DH tandem of Tino and Giambi is pretty unproductive. Giambi is hitting .208 and his only contributions have been walks. He did get beaned last night, sort of piling injury upon insult, but at this point we are getting enured to Yankee misfortune, rather the way the Republicans would have us ignore the daily carnage in Iraq. Ruben Sierra went down a while back with a torn bicep. Bernie Williams, a team hero for so long, is about as fit to play center field as Carol Channing is to be a Charlie's Angel. He can't throw any more, so he's been benched, in favor of Tony Womack, a 35-year-old second baseman who's hardly ever played the outfield. Jorge Posada, the most underrated of Yankee stars from this era, is evincing signs of mid-'30s catcher fatigue, and is also hitting like shit. On top of that, Jeter has stopped stealing bases and even Hideki Matsui seems to have lost his batting eye. Every squad the Yanks meet seems younger, swifter, more eager to win. Imperial Rome is being sacked by the Huns and Mongols.

There is a commercial currently airing for a nutritional supplement aimed at athletes. The footage depicts the disturbing image of a healthy runner suddenly disintegrating into small pieces of rubble, like a statue being blasted by a high intensity laser. That iconography of crumbling pretty much conveys what has happened to the Yankee juggernaut. Unfortunately it will take more than a few roster moves or free agent signings to put Humpty Dumpty back together again.

Merry Month of May

So, what cheery news matter should I address today? Haven't heard much lately about the disappearance of the bees. We're probably down to 40% now; that allergy commercial starring the voice of Antonio Banderas as a flirtatious bee looks like it may become a classic of archaic biology. Oh, what about the dozen dead and two U.S. planes missing in Iraq? Yawn. Our national consciousness can't absorb any more daily downers; it's the dawn of glorious democracy in the Middle East, even they have to destroy a country to save it. And then North Korea just shot off a nuclear-sized missile. Tactlessly they aimed it at Japan. Is there a Godzilla in their future? And then I hear that Kansas is remounting the Scopes Trial for Creationists on the School Board so that their glorious mythology can be inserted into their bio texts. Fine--those texts are going to be in a state of flux anyway, as they scramble to find a substitute for the bees in the "bird and bees" section.

Then there are the Freeway Shootings. Ta-da! That's something close to home, since it's our freeways. And what a nice segue from yesterday's diatribe against cell phones. The only things more dangerous on the freeway than cell phones are guns, but the NRA is aglow at the prospect of a 22-calibre in every glove compartment. And why not? Guns are far more useful nowadays than gloves. Has anyone ever held up a bank with a glove? I imagine they are lobbying their favorite auto makers to furnish their SUVs with driver's-side holsters for convenience.

Freeway shootings have been a relative nuisance for the past decade or two, but lately there has been a rash of them, apparently "unrelated", over the entire freeway system of Los Angeles. Up to now these events usually are connected with road rage, and perhaps occasionally a mob hit. These incidents were scattered and unpredictable and caused fewer fatalities than the usual spate of highway accidents. But now their frequency--some thirty shootings ove the past three months--is finally raising eyebrows and relegating the Michael Jackson trial reports to secondary status on the local newscasts. Law-enforcement officials are attributing the gunplay to road rage, gang violence, and "copy cats," whatever spurrious innocence this kind of activity implies. All of this to allay our fears. What nobody wants to confirm, or even suggest loudly, is that this may be some kind of personal terrorist operation, akin to the sniper who emotionally devastated the D.C. area a few years back.

Those months in the Capitol/Maryland/Virginia region were quite horrific; I have relatives who were truly afraid to emerge into the open to buy gasoline or tread from a parking lot to the post office. Whatever the perpetrators' psychological motives, this was, sad to say, a very effective form of terrorism--something that makes an entire community uncomfortable to proceed with their normal lives. I have wondered, with the population growing and our national psyche so schizophrenic--oh excuse me, "bipolar"--why there haven't been more attempts by similar lunatics to disrupt the lives of their neighbors. It's entirely possible that a small cadre of right-wing extremists or, less likely, angry immigrants, could be purposely raising hell. The more random the shootings, the more terrifying they become. We can't avoid any one freeway; we are leery of anyone who gives us a dirty look in a neighboring car; we purchase more guns to defend ourselves. All of these consequences are likely as our local mood darkens and panic starts to set in.

What won't happen, unfortunately, is the one repercussion that could benefit us--fewer drivers on the freeway! Not even the threat of a bullet in the brain can keep our commuters off their appointed roads. Frankly, that will never happen until 1) we have created an efficient and comprehensive mass-transit system; 2) gas goes to $5 a gallon; or 3) the Big One destroys all our freeway overpasses. Meanwhile, life continues to deteriorate in a world where it is now more likely to get shot in your car than to win your money back on a lottery ticket. Tra-la.

Celling Your Soul

This is going to be a curmudgeonly, fruitless rant, further establishing my credentials as a 20th century fossil, but it's my blog, so shut up.

Last week I rode a Supershuttle limo to Dulles Airport. I shared the ride with a woman who was getting increasingly agitated by the molasses traffic patterns. From time to time her cell phone would ring, orchestrally, to keep me awake, as she updated her correspondent as to her progress. At one point she turned to me and said, "What would we do without our cell phones?" My swift reply was, "Well, drive more carefully and bother fewer people." She did not respond, as her resentment was directed toward the horrible commute. A few minutes later, as the van tried to negotiate a difficult intersection, another car ran a light and nearly collided with us. "Look at him!" the other passenger exclaimed, "Idiot! And he's on the phone too!" I could have said "QED," but that would have been obvious, as well as cryptic.

That ride, incidentally, ended with the woman in a near panic about missing her plane. When the limo stopped in front of my terminal first she started barking at me, "Get out! Get out!" like the priest in Amityville.

I haven't yet decided whether the ubiquitous cell phone is a boon or a bane to modern civilization, but I get the sense it causes more problems than it resolves. I personally have little need for one except for emergencies, since I work out of my home. That it enhances connectivity for every working person is a given, and it certainly provides convenience. I also like the pretty blue lights on the dial. But for every benefit it provides, there seems to be a social consequence.

This goes way beyond the irritating yakker in a restaurant or the fool who forgets to turn off the phone during a symphonic concert. The former usually gets enough icy stares to effectively sense contempt, though I did hear recently of one person who asked diners at a neighboring table to lower their voices so he could hear his phone mate. The latter has been somewhat marginalized, though it has become boringly de rigeur for a cell phone announcement to proceed any kind of performance or any indoor public event, including, I'm sure, weddings and funerals. The latest trend to include cameras in phones, now as practically standard features, can be truly helpful in the case of traffic accidents and serendipitous photo ops, but it also entails the potential for an appalling breach of privacy, from locker rooms to bedrooms. Once everyone has a portable camera we have achieved a "1984" sort of universal exposure--something that no law can really effectively curtail.

In a nation that celebrates the individual and gives lip service to privacy rights, the omnipresence of cell phones is causing a sea change in the nature of socialization. Ever since the Internet exploded I have pretty much surrendered any pretense to retaining privacy of information, but now none of us can emerge outside without the potential for some aural and visual invasion of our space. I highly resent this, and perhaps overreact with a scornful glare at anyone whose own supposedly private conversations pollute my public air. I am also frustrated that there is nothing I can do to counter this trend. The cell phone is the major communication device of the first decade of this century, and its applications are certainly likely to expand further rather than retract.

In a recent episode of "The Apprentice," one of the teams researching useful accessories for teen-agers (the team that sent its three members to the finals) discovered that the most important device to that generation was clearly the cell phone--Ipods be damned. Every kid has one, and uses it as a toy (since the parents pay for it), text messaging, e-mailing, net surfing, shapshooting at will, and calling "American Idol" in endless waves. A child without a cell phone is considered a nerdish or hopelessly indigent pariah. This sad attitude is likely to continue through adulthood.

I'm not sure how to put a good or hopeful spin on this, except to buy more stock in Verizon and hope they can get away with charging so much monthly for "In" plans before the competition drives down the profits. Some day soon cell phones are going to totally replace land lines (not a terrible prospect, at least for wire-a-phobes). But also there is looming the Nuclear Option of the Cell Phone generation, the lifting of calling bans during airline flights. That eventuality is one that makes he hopeful that Armageddon is, as our Friends of the Republicans so avidly insist, as quickly upon us.