The Seven Per Cent Dissolution

Tongues are clucking in Tinseltown with the growing concern over the decline in box office receipts in American movie houses. It even reached the critical point where "Nightline" saw fit to feature the issue on Monday night, as though it were almost as significant as the lead item, a brief investigation into Koranic passages that some are blaming for terrorist justification. Not quite the sublime to the ridiculous; more like the maniacal to the mundane.

Producers are fretting over the decline of film viewership, which is down approximately seven per cent from last year, after incremental rises from time immemorial, or at least the '50s. Now everyone is wringing their hands trying to figure out why--as though the problem is significant to anyone who does not work directly in the Industry or own stock in entertainment conglomerates. Here are some of the explanations, with a few of thoughts of my own:

1. Movies are lousy. Well, that never stopped anyone from going. This year's summer films are as accomplished as any in recent years, with "War of the Worlds," "Batman" "Revenge of the Sith," and even "The Fantastic Four" providing typically satisying popcorn thrills. The latter film, incidentally, should be benefitting by an amazingly aggressive marketing tie-in campaign with SBC Communications and Cingular wireless. Every commercial for the latter two seems to include some mention of the movie. Nothing subliminal here. This is the exact inversion of the recent surge of product placement as a subtle way to finance films. Now the movie is placed in the product.

2. Speaking of ads, there was bound to be a reaction against the barrage of pitches forced on moviegoers who arrive at the purported hour of showing only to be fed a "preshow" of commercials for soft drinks, autos and of course, more cellphones. I suppose the soft drink ads are subliminal invites for folks to go out and purchase the overpriced supersized drinks in the lobby and, incidentally, the Jupiter-sized tubs of popcorn. I find myself increasingly aggravated by cinema ads because I can't zap them or fast forward or anything. My antipathy may be shared by other discriminating filmgoers as well. At special theaters like the ultrapretentious ArcLight in Hollywood you pay up to $14 not to have ads. (Just imagine, as a kid I could pay fifty cents at the Midway for no commercials, a cartoon and a double feature. Shit, they really were the good old days.)

3. The growth of large-screen TVs is coinciding with a smaller window between film releases and their DVD debuts, so many folks don't even bother to spend the higher ticket prices, parking fees and babysitter pay when their patience will enable them to forego everything but a Netflix monthly fee four months after a film's opening. And home-zapped popcorn is a hell of a better deal.

4. Films are not benefitting by repeat business. The popcorn movies usually rake in the receipts from all the teenagers who have nothing better to do during the summer than watch Hayden Christensen turn into James Earl Jones over and over. Except that particular experience is not as much fun as seeing the Empire overthrown or Spiderman win the girl. Yet it's not so much the nature of this year's blockbusters that's less enticing. The vicarious experience of action and adventure has become much more accessible to teens through the sophistication of video games and the interactive and time-consuming thrills they provide. Putting aside the video game Easter Eggs like the sex scenes in "Grand Theft Auto" (which Hillary, trying to play Republican, is lobbying against, to her shame), this is a phenomenon that Hollywood hasn't been able to counter. And how long before virtual reality helmets take video games to an even deeper level of addictive immersion?

5. Hollywood is also not factoring in the time teens and Gen Ys seem to spend on their cellphones, as the need for connectivity seems to surge ahead. No cellphones in the theater deprives the masses of their communications fix. It won't be long before filmmakers take the cue from TV producers and start creating product to be viewed on the tiny cellphone screens, to win back this population segment.

The industry needs a totally new approach to the luring of audiences, and I mean either make 3D comfortable and efficient, or put aside the blockbuster mentality forever and return to the creation of good low-budget, low-risk adult movies that will appeal to the forgotten segment of the population. Maybe total box office receipts will be down, but profit margins will increase. With all the alternative amusements available to the public, raising the prices of movies does not seem like a logical route toward increasing demand.

Intoxication

There hasn't been enough information disseminated yet about Bush's Supreme Court choice John Roberts for me to make a thoughtful kneejerk condemnation. He holds his legal opinions very close to his vest, though obviously they are conservative in nature and don't make the Roe advocates very comfortable. By the same token, his experience certainly qualifies him. I choose right now to throw up my hands and hope that his Harvard education at least imbued in him enough humanity not to go the harsh activist directions of the extreme conservatives on the bench. This is the other shoe falling after Bush's election, and we just have to survive it. Let's hope he's more a Kennedy than a Rehnquist, or at least a Scalia with a sense of decency.

Meanwhile the world shakes with a new wave of terrorist bombings in England and Egypt, but our big feature in the L.A. Times today was about a study asserting that the most popular alcoholic beverage in America is no longer beer, but red wine. This was pretty startling, actually, if one judges by the exposure of brews on the airwaves and in billboards in ballparks. Of course for reasons unknown there has been an advertising ban for as long as memory holds on any liquor besides beer. This arbitrariness is consistent only with the other seeming arbitrary attitudes that allow legal liquor but put marijuana and cocaine users into the category of dangerous criminals. (And why not? Doesn't marijuana cause 40,000 deaths a year on the highways, and cirrhosis and liver deterioration, and drunken brawls and broken homes, whereas nobody ever got killed smoking a bottle of bourbon!)

But let's get out of Topsy Turvy land, in other words the real America of inverted and irrational values, and try to understand how red wine suddenly took primacy over beer in the Heartland. The article gave some credit to the movie "Sideways," which seems ludicrous. The last popular movie to have any lasting cultural effect was ""Love Story," which caused the naming of an entire generation of girl babies "Jennifer." It can hardly be the influence of the Hated French, whose preference for claret and merlot, etc. was projected onto John Kerry with the connotations of effeteness and antiAmericanism by the brilliant Republican strategists who foisted the Swift Boat Liars and other insults upon our population and are now being rewarded with John Roberts and the Iraqi insurgency.

The purported health benefits of red wine could have some influence on this new preference, but since when have Americans chosen a food for its salutary effects on our sytems? Americans don't drink alcohol to feel better; they drink to feel high. In most bars I'm sure that beer is served far more often than wine; it is cheaper and more filling. All right, restaurants probably push their wine lists before their beer selections, which are shunted down to the bottom of the menu. And when there is a big festival to be celebrated, such as July 4th or Super Bowl Sunday, it seems that the beer flows a lot more readily. Drinking a rare burgundy during the third quarter seems practically unpatriotic (and we can expect a Constitutional Amendment about that soon enough).

One reason beer has been so dominant in our society is that it is Anglo-Saxon in origin, stemming from the breweries of England and Germany, whence our heartier ancestors emerged. Wine is a product of the sunnier climes, such as the grape regions of the Mediterranean, where the ethnically questionable Latinate people enjoyed a subtler, less caloric drink. The waves of the southern Europeans long followed those originally from the northern climes who first settled and colonized our continent. The resistance to the influence of the Romantic cultures is slowly breaking down, mainstreaming their beverage choices.

Also, it's possible that many more women figured in these latest surveys, and I may be wrong but I assume that women prefer the more subtle and variegated flavors of vino. You sure don't see a lot of gals chugging down the brews like the simian morons in Bud Light commercials or wearing face paint and cheese hats in Lambeau Field. There is a patina of civility to the imbibing of wine that is not part of the beer-guzzling experience. Perhaps for the interests of our floundering society, this shift is a hopeful sign.

Six Feet Asunder

I was almost going to title this "Six Feet Blunder" but that would have been too severe. The fact remains that viewing this season's collection of episodes of one of HBO's two classic dramatic series does not provide the same satisfaction as in the past. Oh sure, it's a welcome relief from the brainless miasma of network reality clones-of-clones-of clones that make the memory of summer reruns a nostalgic treat. But either the creator of the series, the brilliant Alan Ball, has lost interest in the dispositions of his well-drawn characters or he's succumbed to creative exhaustion like so many of the finer, overworked TV mavens as David Kelly and Steve Bochco.

"Six Feet Under" has often kept me enthralled with its emphasis on the psychological complexity of the Fisher family and their friends and cohabitors. As a creative outgrowth of Ball's Oscar-winning American Gothic movie "American Beauty," it wended its way along a darker path, eschewing much of the humor for the grim irony of well-meaning characters struggling while in the constant shadow of death. Funerals provide their sustenance and meaning, which ought to intensify their appreciation of life. But the lugubrious finds its way into every existence. For four years we've watched these folks deal, somewhat successfully, with their inhibitions, only to recede into self-doubts, often embodied in ghostly visitations from guest characters who've died in previous episodes, like the spouses of Nate and Ruth. These excursions, and other fantasy sequences, could be labeled self-indulgent but have largely been effective in illuminating the characters.

More than any series ever on television, this one is focused on character and character growth, rarely on plot machinations. It is an intellectual soap opera. Interestingly, it has had very few villains. An early subplot about a funeral conglomerate threatening the family business has long since faded. We tend to like all the characters, or at least find grounds for sympathy. The demons in this show are largely those of their own making. This is what has made this program so compelling. An extraordinary episode last season, one which divided the viewers because of its harsh intensity, followed the kidnapping of gay son David by a deranged hitchhiker. But more than a standard story of terror, this one dared to suggest that David--a kindly, sympathetic fellow--brought on some of the trouble through his own uncontrollable lust. He was actually hot for the hitchhiker. Literary critics would call this a blending of Eros and Thanatos--love and death. And it's only because the actor had a contract that his character did not end up brutally castrated or have his head shot from his shoulders. This was pulse-pounding, throat-grabbing television. And almost as gripping was the mental breakdown experienced by Ruth's husband, George, played by the estimable James Cromwell. His professor succumbed to paranoid schizophrenia by figuratively and literally retreating to a bomb shelter.

But what do we have this season? Almost a 180-degree reversal of fortunes. Halfway through this final season the problems of the Fisher clan have softened to familiar domestic scenarios that would barely be pitched in the writer's rooms of "The O.C" or "Seventh Heaven." Nate is now married to long-time unstable girlfriend Brenda, whom he wed largely to provide a mother for his daughter by his murdered wife. Their issue is that he's insufficiently excited about their pregnancy, especially since there may be a genetic problem with the fetus. Actually this is a bit of a red-herring, as it's clear that he is falling in love with George's daughter Maggie. Mother Ruth is torn between lusting for independence and avoiding the loneliness caused by her abandonment of George. David and his lover Keith are exploring domesticity and parenthood. Their issue is finding the right tone of discipline for their foster sons. Funeral home partner Rico is trying to patch up his marriage after an affair alienated his wife. And rebellious daughter Claire, whose early adulthood has mixed striving for love and art in a druggy, bohemian climate, is now working as an automaton in a generic office that "Dilbert" could satirize, and is falling for a corporate lawyer. Are we yawning yet?

Perhaps because it's the series' final season, the writers don't want to dabble in high octane plot lines with difficult deus-ex-machina resolutions, but want to idle these folks down into some kind of conventional satisfaction before they bury them in the afterlife of DVDs and FX reruns. We do want them to be happy, of course, but I miss the sturm und drang of their adventures. It's as though the next season of "24" centered on the robbery of a 7/11.

There is still much to admire, though, especially in the acting. The first season had the startling performance of Rachel Griffiths as the highly conflicted, sexy and smart Brenda Chenoweth. As her character has been somewhat tamed, her role has become less interesting, though she is being primed for some major breakdown. The real revelation has been Frances Conroy as mother Ruth, so inhibited in the first season that she hardly spoke an intelligent phrase. Now, after the harrowing experience caretaking a madman, she seems to be the character with the most potential energy, whose every utterance is unexpected and whose moods are the wildest. Maybe as Ball has grown older he has come to appreciate the conflicts of the middle-aged Baby Boomers and uses her as his mouthpiece. She avails herself brilliantly and has earned herself a lucrative film career as a character actress now that the show has shut down. I don't think the other cast members have much to worry about either. But Alan Ball probably needs a year or two out on Maui to recharge his batteries.

Bright Ideas

Today's L.A. Times, as typical of Monday editions--especially those during summer months--was bereft of major news (coming after the International Day of Rest). Instead there were several articles reflecting the cultural wars that are going on not just in Red State/Blue State America but throughout the world.

The topics were the usual suspects. An old conservative and a young liberal were joining forces to compel federal legislatures to reconsider the medical marijuana laws, railing against all the congressmen who refuse to acknowledge the mountains of evidence of THC's efficacy in alleviating symptoms. Spain observed the first official gay marriage ceremony (and shockingly, all the heterosexual marriages in Iberia did not instantly crumble as a result of this insult). Most interesting to me, though, was the Column One feature about the struggles atheists are having to keep their voices heard and their heads attached during this era of theocratic cultural conservatism.

What all three issues have in common is the current sway of ignorance over reality, intolerance over reason, superstition over naturalism. It's really a sad state of affairs that says nothing favorable about so-called civilization, which is apparently still in the infancy of its awareness. In the case of atheists, the situation is especially dire. They are perhaps hated even more than gays, for simply not buying into the sanctioned mind set of religious mythology. To suggest that there may not be a Supreme Being is so threatening to the mental comfort of the masses that it is widely considered a social illness. Atheists like Madalyn Murray O'Hare, sort of an Anti-Saint, bravely declare their principles of ethical living for the sake of ethical living, rather than for afterlife reward, and are routinely marginalized, or in her case, murdered. As were Jews in Auschwitz, young women in Salem, Tutsis in Rwanda, Protestants in Spain, Christians in Rome, Gentiles in Judah, yada yada yada.

What a species! Maybe those aliens in "War of the Worlds" had the right idea.

Meanwhile the atheists have come slowly to realize that part of their problem is linguistic. The words "atheist" and "godless" are both inflammatory and menacing to the "believers." So a cadre of academic atheists, led by a professor from Oxford, have suggested minting meaning for a new word--a "meme"--from an otherwise neutral word, to designate a class of people in a less jarring way. A typical successful "meme" is gay, which borrowed an adjective that had countless other synonyms and applied it to a trait of sexual orientation. The atheist are trying to establish the meme "bright" as a common term applying to anyone whose world view is naturalistic, rather than supernaturally based. There is even a website for these folks, The-Brights.net. I have subscribed to this site to support the rights of freethinkers and rational people, even if the battle is pretty desperate. The aim of The Brights is not to convert the Believers to non-belief, only to stand up for their rights not to subscribe to irrational mythology.

I do like the meme "bright" because it is more aptly descriptive than "gay." Since there are certainly homosexual men and women who are unhappy, there is conflict between the current and original meanings of the word "gay." But if someone is brave and thoughtful enough to distinguish between the rational view of a naturalist universe vs. the tyranny of theistic superstition, I think that "bright" applies to that person in every sense of the word, old or new. And there is now a renewed significance to the phrase, "Any bright ideas?"

War of the Words

This obvious typo has appeared on numerous marquees this season, and one such example was cited in Steve Harvey's "Only in L.A." column in the Times, a daily compendium of funny regional typos and malapropisms. Dropping the "L" from the Spielberg movie title is appropriate enough, if the "L" stands for literacy. This effort, though as usual, technically superb, lacked anything resembling Logic in its storytelling, and represents Spielberg at his Lesser self.

While I was watching this update of the H.G. Wells/Orson Welles/George Pal warhorse I was thinking to myself, "Wow, this is fun!" Spielberg's skill at creating kinetic cinema and editing for maximal visceral thrills is always something to admire. The sequence that starts the invasion, with the aliens exploding up through the cracks in the pavement while the onlookers gaze dumbly, is masterful, as is the entire set piece involving the ferry boat "escape." But the movie had serious flaws, which emerge only after you're leaving the theater and try to fill some of the plot holes.

Now I'm not asking for Dostoevskian motivations or Charley Kaufmanish clever plot convolutions, just a little sense. I'd like not to have to ask what happened to the subplot involving Tom Cruise's implacable son, or what actually occurred between Tom and Tim Robbins that he didn't want Dakota Fanning to hear. I kind of figured out how Tom's car was the only one to escape New Jersey. Something to do with a solenoid, whatever that is. Then there is H.G. Wells' resolution of the story, which no producer has ever tried to alter, because it seems perfectly plausible. Aliens would probably succumb to the microbes on a distant planet. This is why such intense measures were taken to sterilize anything and anybody who came back from the Moon. But if NASA, which hasn't exactly been clear on faulty o-rings or metric conversion, could be astute enough to understand biological contamination--wouldn't Nearly Omnipotent Aliens planning this invasion for a million years have taken similar precautions? It's like that appalling contradiction in M. Night Shamalyan's "Signs." These awful invaders from Planet Arrakis or whatever decide to colonize Earth even though they are allergic to water. Hello? Wouldn't they have figured out that the Big Blue Marble was a pretty poor candidate for setting up shop? I'd sure fire the Head of their NASA.

Spielberg--whose oeuvre I certainly admire ("Close Encounters" is about my favorite film, and "Schindler's List" is a meteoric achievement), seems to be falling into a Woody Allen sort of rut, repeating his own exercises. The scene in "Worlds" of clackety aliens chasing Tim, Tom and Dakota around the farmhouse recalled very similar choreography of the velociraptors hunting down the kids in the galley of the first "Jurassic Park." And the chases through the streets were redux of similar action in the San Diego section of "Jurassic Park II." However expensive and brilliantly realistic these special effects dynamics are, they tend to blend together in the brain of the observer. Immediate thrills, yes; lasting impressions, not at all. Oh well, I guess that is the meaning of a summer popcorn movie, and any other significance the director may try to imbue in the scenario, such as cautionary urgings about responsible parenthood and civil reaction to terrorism, are pretty specious elements.

Spielberg is now at work finishing post for his winter release, a much more sobering film about the Munich massacre of Israeli athletes and the Israeli revenge. I'm sure it will be compelling (and hopefully stress the latter section, not the still-painful Olympics events). It won't make the box office of "Worlds" but will probably vie for Oscars. It seems that Speilberg has evolved to the point that his work is satisfying only in its most serious mode. When I leave the theater in December after viewing that film, it is a lot less likely that my first words, as they were this week, will be "Where do you want to eat?"

Requiem for Nookie

Minds out of the gutter, folks, this is not a salute to promiscuity but rather a tribute to an old friend of mine who passed away yesterday. His name was Nookie, he was a scruffy black terrier/schnauzer mix, descendent of a thousand breeds. My good friend Sherry adopted him twelve years ago after he followed her wandering in the street from his previous untold existence. She gave him the moniker "Nookie" after his repeated attempts to mount any other dog he encountered. This activity, actually a conventional canine act of dominance, was his signature behavior.

Not many obituaries are written for dogs. Given how much they contribute to our lives, how they become de facto family members, eternal children with an unlimited capacity for love and loyalty, not honoring them in Memorium seems inhumanely negligent. There will be no funeral oration for Nookie, whose remains will be cremated and then kept in an urn by his guardian. But for the happiness his existence imparted upon Sherry and the rest of us he deserves at least this much recognition.

Nookie was a very feisty little fellow, not above a scuffle with a larger dog who would apparently threaten him or his mistress. His aggressive nature evolved from his early life struggles to survive, so common among found street dogs. He even had one or two human bite victims among his tussle partners. To a certain extent Nookie was what we would call many decades back a "juvenile delinquent." But as he aged and mellowed his capacity and need for love emerged as genuinely as in any pooch, and he fell comfortably into the role of lapdog.

It was my role to babysit Nookie when my friend went off on trips, so for long stretches, even a few weeks, he would become a de facto member of my family, sharing food and sustenance with my own dog, Josie. His visits would be marked by subtle territorial battles with Josie, most of which he would win. Traditionally I would have to scuttle all of Josie's toys because of Nookie's predilection to eat them through until he found the creamy foam center. And rarely a visit went by when he didn't, uh, consecrate my carpet with some personal deposit. But I got used to his quirks and we easily came to terms with each other. Then I would sit back and laugh while watching Nookie's unending attempts to mount Josie, who would coquettishly escape from his clutches in apparent indifference to his advances. Even cuter were his similar mountings of Sherry's cat Louis, a giant white hair ball twice Nookie's size. Nookie would hump away until Louis suddenly turned around to slap Nookie's face with his paw. Funniest thing I've seen since "South Park."

I got to say goodbye to Nookie as his lifeless body lay in his bed before delivery to the vet. It was an emotional moment for me, as I had also bonded with him over the years, and was surprised how moved I was at his passing. I gazed at his stiff corpse and still expressive face, contemplating the life force that had simply vanished, and my thoughts turned metaphysical for a moment. I expressed a wish to him that there really was a Doggie Heaven, though that possibility does not fit comfortably into my naturalistic atheism. Then I comforted myself with the thought that his last twelve years had been lived in Doggie Heaven, which is the home of a loving human, and that his passing, which had been expected, came after a long and satisfying life.

I have said and will say again, in the realm of nature, there is nothing more beautiful than the tie between humans and dogs, the perfect symbiotic relationship. Their simple needs and contributions to our lives represent everything positive; they are a truly honorable species. Nookie Boy, we thank you.

And the Living Is Easy

This is the first week that the marine layer creating the "June Gloom" effect on early-morning L.A. has dissipated, signalling the true beginning of summer. So for a while I will succumb to the mental sloth of a vacation period--even if I reside in Vacation Central--and loll in the midsummer traditions of baseball and popcorn movies. Today's primary entertainment feature is the Major League All-Star Game. Tonight HBO is airing a special about Mickey Mantle. This is as close as the nation comes to saluting the erstwhile National Pastime, and while it has about 1 per cent of the cachet of Super Bowl Sunday, it's enough to justify my self-indulgence in my mid-season baseball musings.

The All Star Game is like a porno movie in that it's intriguing to watch the blended rosters play alongside rather than against each other for a few innings; then a certain tedium sets in. The gimmick added recently by Bud Selig to hype the game by giving the winning league the "home field advantage" in the series is pretty bogus; the last two years it was applied there was no seventh game for it to matter. I do enjoy seeing the American League on its streak, after having to endure outrageous domination by the NLers for three decades.

My pennant predictions have been a mixed bag. The Angels, Cards and Padres are doing well, and ought to outlast any opposition. The Padres are in an enfeebled division, with no Barry Bonds to liven the Giants, and Arizona as their closest competitors. This should give them an easy path to the play-offs. The Cardinals are exhibiting capable professionalism, especially with a consistent pitching staff, and the National Central is otherwise a jumble of overachievers and underachievers hovering in the .500 range. The NL East, with Atlanta recovering from its usual early-season slump, will probably end up as it has the last thirteen years, though I'm hoping Washington, with its great closer Chad Cordero, can sneak into the Wild Card.

The Angels, though slipping as of late, should fend off the Rangers. The AL Central has the best future of the divisions, with three teams improving to join the Twins, but this year the chips have fallen pleasantly for the Chisox, and their fundamental balance and pitching maturity should help them glide into October. Both Cleveland and Detroit are building good teams, especially the Indians, who have duplicated the feat of the early '90s in amassing a cadre of future All Stars like Victor Martinez, Travis Hafner and Coco Crisp who will contend for many seasons to come. In the AL East, it seems likely the Red Sox will pull away, especially with the return of Schilling and perhaps a healthier Wade Miller bolstering their pitching. Relief is still a problem, though. The Orioles, as I foresaw, have been competitive, but their age and shaky mound corps will see them fade in August and September.

Then of course there are the Yankees, my reluctant, rote pre-season choice. They have never been so bipolar as this year, lapsing into comatose streaks of futility in which they'd be swept by Tampa Bay and Kansas City, then recovering to pound the Cubs and the Indians. Brian Cashman has relented to the call of youth by promoting three young players, pitcher Chien-Ming Wang, or whatever; infielder Robinson Cano and center fielder Melki Cabrera. Wang has been a success, moreso than any of the other starters brought in over the winter, including disappointing Tall Ugly Lefty Randy Johnson. Cano has been lively and energetic, but Cabrera is still too green to take over comfortably from rapidly aging Bernie Williams. A surprising resurgence by Jason Giambi, whose body seems finally to have purged itself from the kickback effects of steriod deprivation, along with contributions by the excellent Matsui and mercurial Arod, always gives this seem potential to surge. But their aged and fragile pitchers will probably not provide enough support to overcome the Red Sox or any one of several teams that will vie for the Wild Card. My guess for the AL Wild Card team this year? The Indians.

And finally a word about the Bronx Cheers, my Rotisserie club. I thought I'd be obsessing tediously in these blogs about my team, to the indifference of everyone but "Kevin", but the fact is there's little to say when a team has been this successful, and gloating is both unseemly and karmacally hazardous. We are twelve-and-a-half points in first place, leading a group of squads bunched in the center. We share roughly the same position as the White Sox and Cardinals, which is a good place to be. Of course we have been very lucky with injuries, not having been victimized by absurd twisted ankles and broken shin bones and dislocated shoulders that have disabled other star players on competing teams. The second half of the season may see that situation change, and we could suffer. But for now, thanks Chad Cordero, whose obscurity enabled us to purchase your skills so cheaply; likewise Chris Capuano, another unknown hurler who's won 10 games for Milwaukee; a salute to David Ortiz, Hank Blalock, Paul Konerko and Frank Thomas, whose legs can barely carry them around the bases but who have been generous with the dingers. Stay off your feet, guys, as long as you can!

London Bridge Is Falling Down

Just when it seemed that it was safe to go back into the water--metaphorically meaning that current sociopolitical events had "stabilized" enough so that the world could confront common geo-economic concerns as global warming, third-world poverty and epidemiological remedies--the mad bombers have struck again. They administered a one-two-three-four punch to the renowned London transit system, blowing up innocent commuters with relatively small but lethal sacks of dynamite. Given the fears of dirty bombs, poisoned water systems and anthrax dispersal, this type of terrorism was surprisingly, almost reassuringly low-tech, but a terrible reminder of the fractious world that still exists.

I find it somewhat disconcerting that this particular event seemed to arouse much more sympathy in American circles than a much bloodier terrorist attack in Madrid that killed over 200 people in a train station. That probably reflects our Anglocentric culture. After all, the people in Madrid spoke Spanish, an inferior tongue. And although the fifty-or-so fatalities in thse bombings was a horrendous toll, it is only slight compared to the weekly total of people blown up by the insurgents in Iraq. But those deaths are among Moslems and who don't even use our alphabet, and probably fought at one time to defend Saddam, so the hell with them, right?

The hand-wringing in America is to a certain extent genuine, but also fraught with a degree of, if not schadenfreuden, relief that terrorists found another target rather than Shea Stadium or the Mall of America. We in this country are still traumatized by 9/11, and demand some magical preventive; but Londoners, who have experienced their town blasted before, and frequently, from the Luftwaffe to the I.R.A., and have learned the proper stoical response that would most frustrate the terrorists. They just sally forth, realizing that terrorism is one of unfortunate illnesses of society and has no apparent remedy.

The comparison to trying to exterminate the cockroach is, by now, banal but apt. Six billion persons in a world beset by inequity, starvation, and the mental and emotional slavery of unyielding religious orthodoxy, will produce the conditions that promote this kind of behavior.
There will always be the have-nots, the rage, the misdirected suicidal impulses. History reveals a dark calvacade of terrorist movements, some reviled, some forgiven. Think Jericho, Spartacus, The American Revolution, Harper's Ferry, Sarajevo, the Irgun, Munich, the IRA, and now Al Qaeda. Is patriotism the last refuge of a scoundrel, or is it terrorism? Each of these movements had their adherents and their detractors. But, as a character says in Woody Allen's "Crimes and Misdemeanors," "History is written by the winners."

There are those narrow thinkers, like our current president, who use the omnipresence of the terrorist threat for political purposes, to justify foreign entanglements and to rouse the negative emotions of fear and vengeance that rally people to the polls. Senator Kerry last year was lambasted for suggesting that terrorism may at best have to be limited to an occasional nuisance. The braying of the neo-Cons suggests somehow that the War on Terrorism can actually be won, as though we and a properly chastened Bin Laden could meet some day on the Battleship Missouri and sign a treaty ending terrorism forever. Reality check--terrorism does not respect any political boundaries or affiliations. Rather, it is an illness of the human spirit, a failing of our arrogance in assuming we are the masters of the planet, when we are much more a virus doing everything we can to poison the biosphere and self-destruct.

Connectivity

I experienced another of those generation-defining moments at a local Costco last week. I wandered by a cellphone kiosk and was drawn in to survey some of the newer models they were exhibiting. Although I hardly ever use my cellphone I was considering upgrading to something that would at least display those cool blue lights that could be useful during a blackout. Plus, the instant photo feature could come in handy if I were ever to have a traffic accident and needed some quickie shots of the damage. Well, as I was questioning the salesperson she asked to see my current cellphone, and I responded that I didn't have it on my person; I'd left it in the car. She returned a look combining condescension and disbelief at my lameness. How could I not have my telephone on my person? How could anyone wander through the modern world so hopelessly disconnected?

I have, and will continue in these blogs, to bemoan the ubiquity of cellphones in our society. There is hardly anywhere I can travel where an insipid personal conversation has not impinged upon my private space. I cannot read at an airport any more because of the myriad chatting of others. There are the distracting instances of folks seeming to dementedly be talking to themselves in the aisles of supermarkets who are actually speaking into a mouthpiece. And in restaurants. And in movie theaters. And of course, in their autos and SUVs, trying to make a left turn (though I was heartened today to read about by a six-million-dollar damage award against a driver who was distracted in such a way). But I also have to admit that they are helpful in emergencies, and like them or not, they are not going away.

Not ever, though they will continue to shrink to the poiint that they will resemble the com badges worn on the chests of Star Trek officers. The current generations following the Baby Boomers, the Xs, Ys and Zs, have established universal connectivity as a birthright. Only ancient mariners like myself do not feel naked without some telephone hook-up on my person 24/7. So I will learn to adapt to the new noise pollution, which is often as obnoxious to my ears as leaf blowers or the Angel's broadcasting team. Hey, I can erase the noise with ear plugs, or drown it out with an Ipods (another apparent 21st century required accoutrement which I am resisting). Or move to a Buddish monastery and take the blessed vow of silence.

What's equally disturbing, though, and becoming more apparent, are social behavioral changes emanating from this universal connectivity. I have several Gen-X/Y buddies with whom I play cards regularly, and I've noticed that they are often the most difficult to reach, despite their omnipresent phone devices. Three members of my poker group recently flaked out of a game, causing it to be hopelessly disrupted, although each was perfectly capable of responding via phone or e-mail to my many electronic inquiries as to where the hell they were. The group of us present called numbers, home and cell, left pages, sent text messages, did everything but fucking skywrite across the Hollywood Hills, yet these "correspondents" did not have the courtesy to respond in any form whatsoever. Okay, at a given moment anyone can be indisposed, having sex, suffering an angina attack, whatever, but not for several days in a row. I am trying to grasp the source of such insensitivity and singular (or, I should say Cingular) rudeness in otherwise responsible people.

I do not know whether the endorsement of flakiness is a personal failing among the small sample I mentioned, or a statement of rebelliousness against social convention, or perhaps even an unintentional subliminal rebellion against connectivity itself. For people who have made themselves available every second of their existence, perhaps there is a need for some personally established firewall, a reaction against being expected to respond to every jingle or text buzz or vibration, just as I choose to ignore unsolicited business calls by checking my caller ID globe. That this undermines the entire gestalt of useful connectivity is apparently beside the point. Cellphone use and abuse--the primary sociological feature of the first decade of this century--seems to be an active, rather than a passive preoccupation. Don't call me; I'll call you.

I Have Seen the Future

While rifling through a box of long-forgotten papers for potential recycling I happened on a personal gem, a one-page time machine from the year 1982. Then, as an incipient sitcom writer, I was fiddling with an idea for a sitcom pilot set twenty years in the future, aptly named "2002" (because it was a catchy title). On this particular page I'd jotted down ideas for technological advances that would be part of the mise-en-scene for the sitcom. I do not consider myself psychic in any way, but, if I must toot my horn, I think my prescience is pretty noteworthy. I will list the 24 so-called "Two Thousand Two Advances" I projected then, along with my 21st century assessment of accuracy:

1. male birth-control pills [medically plausible, though I didn't foresee Viagra]

2. high-protein soda pop [available at any gym]

3. gasoline from grass, manure, etc. [not to mention corn]

4. flat projection TV/stereo/3D [two out of three, not bad]

5. plastic money [pretty much the norm now]

6. handheld computer consoles [yup]

7. space shuttle, colonies in space and moon [yes and no, blame Challenger]

8. phone/home TV/compute data link [yes]

9. recombinant DNA--growing insulin, etc. [a bit premature, I missed the stem-cell debate]

10. speaker typewriter [yup]

11. electric mail [bull's-eye]

12. all organ transplants [right, except for the brain and nervous system]

13. bicycle airplanes [pretty whimsical; missed here, but whatever happened to the Segway?]

14. solar energy/coal fuel [well those existed in 1982, so this is a cheat]

15. home holographic film [not quite, but digital photography is almost as cool]

16. telephone dialing worldwide [sure thing]

17. metric system [sorry; I underestimated how dumb and stubborn America would remain]

18. memory pill [does gingko biloba count?]

19. interferon--body's cure for colds, cancer. [I got sucked into early '80s hype]

20. electric car [yeah, but easy guess]

21. synthetic blood [it's around]

22. pocket translator [find them at Brookstones]

23. wrist TV/radio [ditto]

24. genetic engineering for human fetuses [oops, maybe I did foresee the stem cell debate]

I was a lot more accurate then, say, "Back to the Future," which had us running on cold fusion. Yet for all this wisdom I missed the concepts of the ubiquitous cell phone and the SUV. The former could be associated with some of my foreseen innovations; the latter makes no more sense now than it would have then.