Theory of Everything

Since I'm going on vacation for a while to commune with nature, I need to leave my fans with something substantial to chew upon. (This includes all those who have read my blog except for the asshole who decided to append a financial marketing spam notice to a recent listing, and you can go summarily fuck yourself).

I have not read any books on chaos theory so I'm likely repeating what has been delineated therein, but I believe that our brains are wired in such a way as to impose a sense of organization on the randomness, or chaos, of what we cognitively experience. This can be demonstrated in its most ludicrous example, the Grilled Cheese Madonna. Ten years ago a woman toasting her grilled cheese sandwich noticed that the pattern of grill burn on the toast resembled the face of a woman. Not just any woman, mind you, but The Virgin Mary, though she had no photo of the original to invoke the comparison. Not only did she believe this to be a miracle, but the preserved sandwich was kept in a freezer for ten years, before she could sell it to a casino, the perfect exhibit hall for suckers.

I have seen the face and while it did resemble a woman, it looked a lot more like Betty Boop than whatever the original toaster believed to be the image of Mary (whose real name, for accuracy's sake, was Miriam.) In fact, it was just a simple random pattern of grill burns out of which this woman's hopeful mind concocted something definable--a face--and layered with religious superstition that imposed a specific person. Of course the face of Jesus has been spotted more often than that of Elvis or Lindsay Lohan. And what about that face on the Mars sand dune? Not just any puss, but that of Ted Kennedy.

What's going on here is that the human mind is doing anything it can to impose order on randomness, organization on chaos, familiarity on the alien. This then extends to behavioral organization that underlies every single institution our species has created. From the beginning of our sapience we concocted familiar images out of patterns of stars (Astrology), and formulated the social structures that enabled us to function (the family, the clan, the tribe, the neighborhood).

From those ancient constructs everything else has evolved to sustain that illusory sense of order. Law is merely an elaborate set of codes to keep our social systems stable. Mathematics, Physics, Chemistry and Astronomy categorize the natural world. Religion emerged as a form of comprehending the incomprehensible and giving meaning to the life-and-death cycle that seems so arbitrary and cruel. Language arose to systematize socializing by imbuing the scattered sounds we make with specific meaning.

When that crazy coot saw the Virgin Betty in her whole wheat toast she was not simply being fanatical, she was exhibiting a biological imperative (though taking it to a silly extreme). Our brains, at this juncture in their development, cannot accept the randomness of existence. And all my pontificating about the indifference of fate and a soulless universe will not defuse tht same tendency in my own noggin. But recognizing this is the first step toward a more sophisticated awareness of why humans often do the foolish self-deluding things they do.

Yeah, I'm Sure This Is What Jesus Would Do

They're at it again, those pesky spokesmen for God, the Almighty's self-designated agents who know and interpret his "Word" so accurately. In this case they are embodied in Pat Robertson, founder of the Christian Coalition of America and host of the "700 Club," that messianic version of "The Tonight Show." According to the Rev. Robertson, the President of Venezuela, Hugo Chavez, who says unflattering things about President Bush, ought to be assassinated. Robertson's reasoning was indirect; among the claims of the contrary Mr. Chavez is that the CIA wants to assassinate him, so Pat thinks we may as well do it and save ourselves the inconvenience of war.

How very pragmatic of him, not to mention nobly humanitarian. Frankly, until this morning I'd never heard of President Chavez or knew that Venezuela was applying to the Axis of Evil. As far as being war opponents, they're just gonna have to stand behind Iraq, Iran and those zany pooch-swallowing North Koreans. If we chop off the head of the Venezuelan snake then we have to worry just a little less about rounding up enough troops to man a South American Front in the War on Global Extremist Terror Bush Haters, or whatever this week's Orwellian term will be for our military adventurism. And not far behind is China, who will stop being useful after they lose interest in buying U.S. Treasuries and start pointing their gunboats toward Taiwan. Anybody interested in whacking Hu?

I always thought if there was a potentially insidious country in South America, it would be Argentina, where leftover Nazis could be priming their secret cells for another go at world Jewry. I guess that's why Robertson would prefer to leave them alone. Chile, too, that paragon of Freedom. Well, Venezuela is the leading oil exporter in the Western Hemisphere, and I betcha Rev. Robertson commutes in a big fat SUV and has the gas tank blues. This all figures.

But Robertson, besides being another theological descendent of Torquemada, is a little loony with his history. He assumes that just because the CIA could assassinate Salvador Allende it can proceed eaily with any other high-level hits. If that were the case we couldn't still have Castro around, or Saddam, or Kaddafi, or Bin Laden. Like our President, he suffers a certain disconnect from reality. Besides, where has it ever been demonstrated that bringing about the death of a Head of State automatically turns that government into a freedom-loving, country-music humming puppet of American interests? Hey, most of these regimes, however corrupt and unstable, still have sufficient infrastructure to replace one mercurial leader with another. And, despite what neo-Cons like to think, our sledge-hammer approach to spreading democracy at the point of a howitzer does not endear ourselves to native populations.

I would like somebody then to explain the difference between the pious Rev. Robertson advocating political murder and the psycho mullahs of extreme Islam who declare fatwas against all Americans, Jews and novelists who don't show appropriate respect for Koranic verses. Oh, that's right. God is on his side, I forgot.

Plunging the Depths

I think it was George Santayana who wrote famously to the effect that those who refuse to learn the lessons of the past are condemned to repeat them. This goes a long way to explain many contemporary bugaboos, including the Iraqi War, the price of gasoline, and most tellingly, "The Battle of the Network Reality Stars."

And it was Edgar Poe who wrote of the "Imp of the Perverse," the little demon inside us that makes us do just the wrong thing out of curiosity to experience it. Only through these brilliant minds can I explain my impulse to tape the "Battle of the Network Reality Stars" and worse, actually watch it. Dog days indeed.

The Bravo network, which experimented bravely a few years ago and produced the breakout hit "Queer Eye," then leapt happily and blindly onto the Reality bandwagon, and is now sporting a schedule of "Situation: Comedy" and Queer Eye and Kathy Griffin overexposures. But this consummate Reality event, "The Battle," is, if not as low as it can get, hopefully a parodic statement on the genre. Now that the cable nets are running out of third-tier celebrities to expose their quotidien lives, they're calling in the old troops to man the battlements.

So hello again to Richard Hatch and Susan Hawk of "Survivor," the equally ubiquitous ubermunchkin Charla and the horrifying alpha couple John and Victoria of "The Amazing Race," various Average Joe Shmoes, some eye candy from the bachelor/bachelorette escapades, along with stray assholes from "The Apprentice," "Big Brother," "The Real Life" and other shows too embarrassing to mention. Thirty-two "celebrity" contestants, representing the cream of the Reality crap. And, for good measure, the sweet Omarosa, a character around whom Shakespeare may well have fashioned a tragicomedy, serving as a commentator. Wow. Maybe Satan really is at work.

My fascination with this program is not the competition itself, but how the extravaganza somehow reflects the most vulgar in American popular culture. Rather like the Super Bowl, except this time I could Tivo through the commercials. The stakes are unbelievably lame--four teams of eight people compete for a combined $10,000. That's not even enough to pay for the transportation to the beachside setting (and I know what the cost of gas is in Malibu). What compels these people to try to extend their fifteen minutes of fame to fifteen years? I understand why Joe Millionaire Evan Marriott, who needs to max out on his good looks before the paunch sets in and the acting possibilities expire, wants to continue his media exposure. But can't the retreads from "The Apprentice," at least, find good paying jobs?

Part of the jaw-dropping, or if you will, transcendent absurdity of this program was its nostalgic salute to its progenitor, the fabulous "Battle of the Network Stars," a summer curiosity from 1979 starring such highTV-Q figures as Farrah Fawcett and Scott Baio (before I knew him). There were numerous flashbacks to the 1979 program, treated with the respect of Olympics highlights. But back in the present, the athletic events themselves were stupefyingly dull, picnic-level events like an obstacle course and a dunking contest. And shy of the dark personality conflicts and machinations that give the reality elimination shows at least a Darwinian tone, there's not much to enjoy about these people.

There is some kind of personality peculiarity in these folks so desperate for universal attention that would probably make them very uncomfortable to know in private. If I met any of them on the street--and living in Hollywood that is always a possibility--I would have nothing to say to them, and I'm sure, vice-versa. Yet these are the elite of the apparently millions of reality contestants and applicants for whom embarrassing television footage seems to be their only outlet from escaping the anonymity of real real life.

I zapped through the second half of the show, only to stumble upon another round of eliminations, so de rigeur in the genre, only to be faked out again by the "twist," (also de rigeur), that sent the banished players to ther teams instead of back to their lonely condos. Finally the show was over, and (punch line!) on the screen appeared the real-time Bravo programming. Guess what? There were Charla and Omarosa and Johnny Fairplay of "Survivor" leering at each other on "Celebrity Poker."

Getting Along

Conservative columnist and radio talker Dennis Prager wrote an Op Ed piece in a recent issue of the Times that made an apparently cogent argument against religious fanaticism. Its gist was that adherents of any faith who use "God's will" as an excuse for killing are not only wrongheaded in their misplaced theology but do severe harm to the profile of religion worldwide. I certainly can't disagree with this premise. Theistic religions are founded on the somewhat shaky grounds of mysticism and mythology, and don't need violence, murder and terrorism on their agendas to inculcate the faithful.

Yet one of Prager's assumptions underscores the flimsiness of narrowminded religiosity. He writes about our "God- based moral code", suggesting that without a divine authority the moral and ethical laws by which we live would lose their compulsion, and we could devolve into evil and chaos. We are, more or less, incapable of ruling ourselves, of establishing legal codes and rules for peaceful social coexistence without the threat of a divine retribution or the need for godly approbation (leading to a reward in the heavenly afterlife).

This would be news to the drafters of the American Constitution, the French Declaration of the Rights of Man, and Hammurabi, among others, all of whom were able to draft workable rules for citizenship and neighborly cooperation that we collectively call the Common Good. Now most codes of human behavior that have survived are perhaps tinged with some religiously inspired sense of communal decency. Even Hammurabi, the great Babylonian king who first codified laws four thousand years, probably had idols in his palace portraying the horned gods of his contemporary mythology. Whether or not Moses existed, the Torah that was attributed to him is a compendium of rules derived from Hammurabi's first civilizing code, with a thousand years of experience adding to the framework. Following him in importance was Jesus Christ, who, as a Jew, modified the Mosaic code with a layer of humanism, though still claiming divine inspiration; and Buddha and Confucius among other non-Westerners, whose insights into the role of humans in a natural world were profound but not purportedly inspired by a specific divinity.

You know what? All these guys, Hammurabi, Moses, Jesus, Confucius and Buddha were pretty smart guys, and they were all human! (Well, some would say only halfway for Jesus). And they, along with the Athenians Democrats and Roman Republicans and a slew of other anonymous judges and legislators throughout history have labored very hard to establish the common rules of ethics by which civilizations survive. I'd be happy to honor all these representatives of my species who have contributed to our security and prosperity, without having to attribute it all back to that great Mythological Intelligent Designer in the Sky. Some of us done good.

A letter in response to Prager's column states compellingly, "He just doesn't get that the world over, without input from the gods, people have concluded that thou shalt not murder, steal, bear false witness or covet. Belief in God is not the beginning of righteousness; it is the source of self-righteousness and the justification for imposing one's will on another." I like that.

For all the ink spilled (not to mention the blood) over the establishment of accepted legal doctrine in modern human society, the simplest most concise rule has always been "Do unto others as you would have others do unto you." What a great Commandment that would have made! Have empathy, and you won't do ill. That could emerge from the sensibilities of a child; we don't need a Creator for that. Common sense of common courtesy are apparent, even in the least articulate of human souls. It was, in fact, a very flawed human being--Rodney King-- who uttered one of the great profundities of modern times: "Can't we all just get along?'

I Can't Say

At a recent poker game I was divvying out some chips and made a slight miscue which I instantly corrected. At the time I announced, very deliberately, "My bad," to establish my responsibility. To which most of the parties at the table squirmed, and another proclaimed, "Sorry, but anyone over a certain age is not allowed to say 'My bad,' especially if it's going to be self-conscious."

I wasn't automatically offended by the squelch; in fact I generally agreed with it, and apologized (with "sorry," not "my bad") by assuring everyone that the utterance was slow and sarcastic. But this led to a discussion of words and phrases which sound uncomfortable emerging from the mouthes of Baby Boomers and older. I don't know how "My bad" became almost as ubiquitous as "basically," but it most likely has Black hip-hop roots. Hip hop has become the Yiddish of the late 20th century, contributing colorful dialectic words that hip (or should I say hip-hop) whites decided to adopt into their everyday vocabulary.

"My bad" is not a very euphonious expletive, but it is short and to the point. Since I live somewhat in isolation from the culture from which it emerged, I hadn't heard its everyday use until it popped up in a very mainstream commercial on a CNBC financial network during the happy '90s (when it was fun to watch the market channels). It was uttered by a white actor playing an accountant, so I took notice of the phraseology as something new but acceptable. Still, it never felt right coming from my lips. Neither did the words "bling-bling," which I understand is now shortened, reasonably, to "bling". I've not uttered the popular verb "dissing," which is pretty old actually, but useful and not too ungrammatical-sounding. (Frankly, from my ivory tower, it'll take a decade for any kind of street argot to penetrate my awareness, unless I decide to watch BET and MTV more often. And by that time there's an entirely new set of expletives and salutary adjectives, and "phat" and "bad" will likely start to mean "fat" and "bad" again.)

Generation X, which follows my own, is famous for its backward baseball caps--everyone thinking they're Yogi Berra--and the word "Dude." I cannot at all bring myself to say "Dude," even at gun point. I'd rather say "My bad" a thousand times. "Dude" makes me entirely self-conscious; I associate it with dude ranches like in the "City Slicker" movies. When I was a kid, "dude" meant a "dandy," dressed up inappropriately to the nines and ordering whiskey sours in a frontier saloon. For me it's not a common term of friendship, like "Man," which I also find a little pretentious, though more contemporary with my Beatnik/Hippie-era upbringing.

Then there's "Sup," which also, as far as I can tell, found its genesis in those beer commercials of the 90s with lunatics screaming in their phones (before they were cellphones) "Whassap!!!???" Thankfully the "Whas," was dropped like a tadpole's tail leading to the abbreviated but inane "Sup?" Though "Sup" is no more innocuous than "How are you," and somewhat less annoying than the incipient "No problem," replacement phrase for "You're welcome." That idiom is pretty obnoxious and I will only use "No problem" when I mean, specifically, that effecting the act that generates the gratitude truly does not cause me difficulty.

I'm extremely grateful that there are some words whose common parlance seems to span generations and never lose currency. The best example of this is "cool," which I am pretty much reduced to using as my default praise word when I'm afraid to lapse into "neat" or "swell" or "swift" or other codger-specific terms. Generation Y's favorite word "sweet" is not too off-putting for me to say, though it doesn't arise naturally. I always thought the word "smooth" would one day replace "cool" in common parlance, but that day hasn't happened yet. Meanwhile I retreat to my literary world where archaic terms still retain a certain hoary respectability, even if they're never uttered or text-messaged into Motorola Razors on the street.

And when I'm on the street, the bill of my cap still faces forward--not backward, nor at a raffish angle. It may pinpoint my generational loyalty, but it also helps prevent skin cancer from growing on my nose.

Light in August

Gee, everything does seemed to have slowed down to a crawl this time of year, except of course the Los Angeles traffic, which never sped up. Perhaps that will lighten a bit too, as more of us opt for rapid transit. Meanwhile, coincidentally, the top Times headline on this slow news day is the increasing cost of gasoline. I actually saw the first $3 gas signs this week. It will only get worse, we are warned. Perhaps the astronomical rates will give SUV buyers second thoughts. Of course most SUV buyers don't even have first thoughts.

This is, globally, a time of sapped strength and vacations. If it's not the dire heat in the northern hemisphere, it's the harsh equivalent of February down south, where the penguins (according to that very popular nature film) are all clustering together to keep their hatchlings warm. So they're not working either. President Bush is taking a month-long vacation. This somewhat brings to mind Dorothy Parker's famous quote when she heard that Calvin Coolidge had died--"How can they tell?" Not quite precise in this case, for Bush is hardly a do-nothing President. Know-nothing, certainly. Maybe he can take a summer course in Evolutionary theory.

What is it about this time of year that slows us down inertially? Hard to say, but it seems a universal experience. The Dog Days are upon us (referring not to the Superior Species, but to the Dog Star, whichever one that is). Even I've found my springtime fascinations losing their lustre around now. This especially applies to my baseball fixation. Two-thirds into the season, some ennui is beginning to set in. This coincides with a lapse in the fortunes of my Rotisserie team, the Bronx Cheers, who have fallen into second place to a worthy opponent named "Elvis." Jesus is still behind us, but I'm considering recalling the "Beatles" title to help us climb back on top. Problem is, that's about all the work I care to do in that arena. My eyes now grow bleary after four months of staring at minute-by-minute scoring details, not to mention daily roster transactions. But unless we can pick up the pace (or better yet, have our slumping hitters reenergize), I will not receive that big cash prize at the end of the year.

Cash prizes are not likely either for the pathetic New York Yankees, who are slowly sinking in the East. But why should they care, as the roster metes out its $200 million in basic salary, even before the endorsement bucks come in? But there will be no postseason glory for the Bombers this year. Despite a healthy and productive lineup, their pitching problems intensify every week. Now Pavano is out for the season, as is probably Chien Ming Wang, thankfully Kevin Brown, and hopefully Jaret Wright. Even Randy Johnson is aching (surprise, surprise), and missing his turn. God, the Yankee's budget has been so wastefully inefficient this year you'd think it was conceived by the Pentagon. They are reduced to starting AAA veterans like Aaron Small, oldsters like Al Leiter and a Colorado emigre, Shawn Chacon. Ironically, the subs have pitched gamely, but then the long relievers have pooped out. (Memo to the Yankees--stop picking up old Red Sox pitchers like Gordon and Embree. They are moles, released intentionally by Theo Epstein in order to undermine the Yankee's success). I'm afraid the Yanks' outlook is not encouraging, since they can't win this year, nor can they trade off some of their overpriced players for promising young pitchers, which is their direst need.

So the Red Sox, with sufficient team spirit despite Manny's obtuseness, should coast to a division title and a chance to defend their championship, which is as it should be. Oddly, the last three World Series champs didn't even qualify for October play in their subsequent season. The Cardinals are setting up, with tighter pitching, for a World Series rematch that could be quite entertaining. The White Sox and Braves, both playing excellently in the clutch, will advance. This leaves the questions in the West. The A's have recovered miraculously, thanks to the inspired play of Billy Beane's newest recruits. We'll see if they have peaked too early. Also repeating last year's second half surge are the Astros, whose pitching threesome of Oswalt, Clemens and a healthy Pettitte (ick, two ex-Yanks) should make them a significant play-off threat. As for the NL west, the worst division in the history of divisional play, the Padres still have a slight advantage, but don't merit much attention.

Sadly, my pennant bet, the Nationals, have played more like their progenitor Expos since July, and don't look like they have the talent or durability to compete into October. Likewise the Orioles, the first-haf wonders, are in the midst of a free fall. And what of the Dodgers, who started the season at 12-2? They are now 13 games under .500 and their only distinction is having four players named Jason in the line-up at the same time (Phillips, Grabowski, Werth, and Repko). We'll know the season is over when they add Jason Bere to their rotation.

And what of Raphael Palmeiro and his steroid problem? More ink has been spilled on this than on the Iraqi war, and frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn. I just wonder if steroids are contraindicated for Viagra?

Musings from the Edge of the Sphere

I suppose it was as self-deluding of me to assume my blog would remain a secret today as it was when I began that it would become a worldwide sensation. The point of a blog is to publicize one's private opinions. The Internet is for the exchange of information and blather, and not only, as the song from "Avenue Q" states, for porn.

Very incidentally, I do not like the word "blog," which, for the uninformed--not including anyone savvy enough to visit this arena--is an abbreviation of "web log." It does not fall pleasantly on the ears, and sounds more like the name of a Ferengi on "Star Trek: Deep Space Nine." But we're stuck with it.

Now, as for those visitors to my blog... welcome! Since I do not advertise this site, and I'm not cognizant of any links to it, I did not expect anyone outside of a stray Blogspot participant, scanning other samples, to happen upon it. And of course the few friends and family members with whom I care to share my rantings. My actual purpose was not to add one more strident voice to the cacophonous chorus of ten million worldwide bloggers, but to exercise my expository and analytical writing skills. And for the first six months of contributions I received the minimum of feedback--two comments, both from close relatives. Then my first reaction from a stranger popped up, which was literate but off-topic, and read more like a zany self-promotion.

So I proceeded as the voice in the wilderness spouting off to an audience of six, I thought, until a recent posting discussing the Bravo reality show "Situation: Comedy." To my amazement I received a comment from Mark Treitel, one of the young finalists of the competition. His note was brief but gracious; in return I'd like to tell Mark that I thought his pilot's concept seemed well-considered, and he and his partner's demeanor on the show--at least as it is edited--makes me want to root for him. The "Sperm Donor" writers project at least a surface affability and willingness to process criticism. They've suppressed the disdain they likely hold toward the veterans and network suits who want to alter their precious property. I hope it works out for you guys. Just remember--the most intense and dangerous relationship in Hollywood is the love affair between the writer and his words. It's okay to let go. TV scripts are infinitely improvable.

Another sidebar--both reality shows I praised in that article have turned out very disappointing ratings-wise. NBC has already dropped the slick and watchable "Law Firm," after two showings, and exiled it to late-night Bravo airings sometime deep into the decade. And Bravo has moved "Situation: Comedy" to 7 P.M. on Friday, which we used to know in network TV as a death slot. So what's going on here? Do people not want to watch real-life lawyers even as they lap up James Spader and William Shatner? Do they not care to visit the inner workings of their favorite enterainment medium? The popularity of the E! network would seem to say otherwise. But perhaps there's something more obvious happening here--the inevitable, and long overdue satiation of reality programming. Still, the Tuesday "Situation: Comedy" time slot has been usurped by one of two reality shows featuring Kathy Griffin. Now Griffin is a moderately amusing entertainer, but a reality special and a series? I hope she's paying her agent generously.

The essay I wrote yesterday concerning the manipulation of language for political ends was the first to receive more than one response. That was gratifying, since it was heartfelt and one of my better efforts. The reactions were brief but laudatory, and one of them came from Germany. The latter fact would impress me more if I weren't also aware that, according to the log in my McAfee firewall, my computer is being pinged every ten seconds from hackers from Rumania to Botswana.

I do not know how Mark Treitel, or the German net surfer, came upon my blog, but the Googlized world is way beyond my puny comprehension. I just have to accept that my words and thoughts are out there. Now if I could only sell them my novel.

Words Words Words

This blog's title comes, as some of you literati might recognize, from "Hamlet." Polonius asks the obsessive prince, deeply involved in some text, what he's reading, and the contemptuous young Dane responds "Words, words, words..." This has always been a difficult test for actors, as the line could be read in countless ways. The potential power of words and their multiple interpretations is both a boon and a bane to our language. Three and a half centuries later George Orwell wrote his major essay "Politics and the English Language," elucidating on the potential persuasive energy contained in the lexicon. This theme is central to his masterwork, "1984," in which the power of the oligarchy depends largely on its (ab)use of language for propaganda purposes.

Which brings me to the current Republican spin machine, which has been largely successful in enacting Orwellian principles. Their sloganizing has not always been as devious as it is currently; the phrase "Contract with America" was great Madison Avenue, clear and concise, and sold really well, unlike Democratic claptrap such as "Hope is on the way." But since Dubya has been in Command, more or less, the use of language has become much more sinister, when not downright clumsy and insulting.

For instance, after 9/11, the President spoke loudly about a "Crusade," totally nebulous to how offensive that word was to the one billion Moslems whose simmering resentments against Christian First World hegemony found their most dire culmination in the terrorist attacks. He backed off of this quickly, but then promoted the bill that became known as The "Patriot Act." This was pure Orwellian lingo. Forget that Samuel Johnson called patriotism "the last refuge of a scoundrel." ("Who's Samuel Johnson ?" I'm sure Dubya would ask. "Didn't he pitch for the Padres?") The term "Patriot Act" clearly implies that anyone who disagrees with it is unpatriotic, however draconian its terms. Now I do believe that our current security system needed to be upgraded, and some aspects of the "Patriot Act" are valid; I am not even opposed to a certain degree of racial profiling, however distasteful. Its potential to intrude on our already beleaguered personal privacy is its major flaw. I resent, however, the implication that any disagreement with so severe a law makes a citizen unpatriotic, or worse, a traitor (which Ann Coulter would certainly suggest). For accuracy's sake, the set of regulations would have been more properly labeled "The Security Act," but its successful knife-through-butter path as legislation was due largely to its title. What congressman would vote against a Patriot Act?

I guess the word "Security" was already coopted in the most egregious of modern American terms, the "Department of Homeland Security." They couldn't have referred to this legitimate extension of the Department of Defense as the Department of Domestic Security? or the Department of National Security? I can't recall the word "Homeland" being uttered by any American politician, right or left, Kennedy or Reagan, because it inevitably evokes images of Nazis goosestepping to the strains of "Deutschland Uber Alles." But I guess that Karl Rove and the neoCons felt that the emotional resonance of the root word "home" would generate universal support, which for a time it did. Joe Goebbels would have been proud.

Then there's the War on Terror, a high-concept phrase of commanding militancy which made no more historical sense than a "War on Cockroaches" (or the lunatic "War on Drugs") yet it fed the vengeful American zeitgeist successfully, and was, well, terse and catchy. Terrorism some day could be eradicated from the human scene, as was smallpox, but the seeds of it will always exist, like the vials of smallpox virus contained in those "secured" labs.

Once the Republicans started faltering in the polls because the high-sounding "War on Terror" had found its real-life analogue in the bottomless War in Iraq, the administration decided to strike the word "war" entirely from the record and start calling the amorphous conflict the "global struggle against violent extremism." In one sense this is a step in the right direction, since it more accurately states the case, and shifts focus to the core problem of supporting moderation and reason rather than the unachievable goal of exterminating fringe maniacs. It also has a more inclusionary tone, admitting to the need of other counties to engage in the same cause. Which of course was John Kerry's main point, but I digress. An editorial in the New Yorker maintains the change was a tacit admission by the administration that its unilateral approach to terrorism, the Middle East and the whole fucking gestalt needs to be overhauled.

Whatever. But the phrase is totally awkward and unpronounceable, and will not serve as an effective rhetorical call to arms. Perhaps they need to shift the words around, to the "Struggle Against Global Extremism," whose acronym, SAGE, would at least carry the suggestion of intelligence.

But

I've come to the conclusion that I'm not a particularly successful blogger. Not because the quality of my prose is lacking, or because I have an audience of four readers, but because this blog hasn't quite conformed to the nature of popular blogs, which is to present doctrinaire, strident comments on critical issues, challenges to the powerful to cleanse their act, or simply manic declarations on cultural topics indicative of fringe lunacy.

Like another version of advocacy journalism, radio's Air America, this blog has suffered from too much moderation, too much objective consideration of the issues, eschewing radical viewpoints or even partisan stridency in the interests of reasoned discourse. That is the way I am personally; I seek out conciliatory positions, always trying to understand disparate viewpoints rather than summarily dismissing them, and trying to find acceptable accord for all to live with. Nothing can ever be gained by polarization, which is the situation in early 21st century America, as the cultural divide widens like the foreboding cracks in the caldera of Mount St. Helens.

After the dismal and depressing election of 2004, whose results were dictated from religious pulpits by spouters of fire and brimstone fantasies, I tried to accept the results pragmatically. We were stuck with a Republican adminstration and a smug Republican congress and nothing short of revolution could change that. And I'd survived and flourished through many more Republican presidents than Democrats over my life span. The undeserving and incredibly lucky George W. Bush had been thrust into his executive CEO role through a combination of oil interests, old boy political networks, a hypocritical Supreme Court majority-of-one and clever but scurrilous manipulators like Karl Rove. Oh well, shit happens, we all die, fa la la la la.

But.

Something snapped in me recently when I read Dubya's comments about the validity of teaching "intelligent design" as an alternative theory in public schools. This is far worse than his insistence that stem cells are incipient human beings whose DNA should be preseved rather than used in research to cure Alzeimer's Disease. That position, even dissed by 2008 presidential aspirant Bill Frist (and wait till flip-flopping gets resurrected in that campaign!), is at least defensible on some spiritual level, however weak the "life-affirming" argument holds from a President who has initiated so much death and destruction in Iraq. When putative leader of the most powerful nation on earth stands up and a) refutes accepted scientific theory on evolution--which he did by subsequently announcing that he believed the universe was God's creation--and 2) suggests that religious dogma be presented as plausible fact in public schools, he steps beyond the level of tolerable. Hey, let's leave the supernatural speculations to catechism class, where they belong, okay? I don't want my tax dollars going to the perpetuation of fantasy as reality.

Georgie, you are an idiot. You have been long before you traded Sammy Sosa. I cannot look at you standing at your podium any more without actually seeing someone else entirely in your stead. That is Howdy Doody. Yes, every time I look at you now all I see is a jolly wooden puppet flailing around, dancing to the strings pulled by the Radical Right. You are a spokesman for Ignorance, for dogmatic theocratic government, for exclusionary social policy.

The Europeans have you pegged correctly. You have turned the White House into a Citadel of Ignorance. When I think that you are, titularly, the most important human being on Earth, it really makes me weep for our species.

If I can credit Dubya with anything, it is making us reconsider what a dignified figure his father made in comparison, not to mention the otherwise doddering but sincere Reagan or the slimy but pragmatic Nixon. Gore Vidal was once quoted as saying that when Bush Jr. leaves office, he will do so as the most repudiated president in our history. There are three years of scary history ahead of us to determine if that will be the case, but I would not doubt it. He is an insult to scientific progress and an embarrassment to modern civilization.

Three Writers

"The Rule of Three" is one of those indefatigable principles by which comedy writers initiate comic runs (the first two items set up a series, establishing an expectation, and the third item undercuts that expectation). There is also a darker version of the "three" doctrine, which is that disasters occur in bunches of three--as do the deaths of celebrities. Though no more demonstrable than any other seemingly coincidental phenomenon, and no less constantly violated in the breach, this bizarre confluence of mortality has affected three local writers with whom I had major dealings in my formative years in Los Angeles. I encountered their obituaries in the Times in the appallingly short span of ten days.

David Shaw, who passed away last week at 62 of a brain lesion, was a prominent columnist for the Los Angeles Times, a witty Renanissance kind of guy whose interests ran from sports to food and wine. Though employed in various capaciities over a 40-year career, he is most noted for his investigations and commentary on the print media, including his own paper, which he savaged for improper dealings with a local sports arena in the early '90s. From this and subsequent writing he acquired the reputation for objectivity, honesty and integrity during an era when journalism began to suffer from the sloppy mischief of ambitious hoaxters such as Stephen Glass.

But apart from establishing a touchstone toward which honest and self-aware reporters could aspire, Shaw was the author of a particular piece that I've never forgotten. I knew him very sketchily, having dined with him and his wife, Ellen Torgerson Shaw, some twenty-five years ago. Ellen was a coworker with me at TV Guide Magazine, a clever, understated and perceptive talent. Tragically she succumbed to a recurrent cancer a few years later. David penned a column in her honor, and it was the most moving, heartfelt and elegant eulogy I'd ever read, surpassing even the famous one written by the early 20th-century journalist William White about his daughter, which had been required reading in college. Shaw's eulogy was testimony to the fact that deep emotions, which so often cloud political reasoning, can also contribute to the deepest artistic expression. I'd always wished to have a reprint of that column, and it would honor David if the Times were to reissue it, along with a collection of his many fine writings.

Danny Simon, best known as the brother of Neil and the model of all the older brother characters in Neil's "Broadway Bound" autobiographical plays, died last week at 86, a reasonably ripe old age. He had an early successful TV career as a writer, though hs most profound impact was mentoring his brother. He was also the prototype for Felix Unger in "The Odd Couple," a play loosely based on an early episode in his life. In the late '50s he started to write the play himself, but had neither the objectivity nor the discipline to complete it, so he handed the project to Neil. The rest is, of course, theater history. "The Odd Couple" is perhaps the greatest pure American comedy of the 20th century, the prime example of the conflict of opposing characterizations. It was somewhat gratifying to read, in his obit, that Neil had at least given him a percentage of the profits--though you'd think those points would have permitted him a more extravagant life style than what I witnessed when I visited him in his comfortable but unremarkable Sherman Oaks condo in the early '80s.

My dealing with Danny were confined to the Comedy Writing class he offered through the aegis of USC. This was a highly competitive course taken by ambitious comedy writers, a TV equivalent to the renowned Robert McKee film seminar popularized in the movie "Adaptation". I enrolled with my writing partner and for ten weeks was drilled with essential comedy writing principles (such as "k" is funny, the "rule of three," etc.) Familiar and formulaic as some of these tenets seemed to be, they did seem to result in success. A spec script we penned at the conclusion of this course led directly to our first paid writing assignment; and several others in the small class also achieved prominence in the both TV and screenwriting. I can't say I would not become a working writer without the input of Danny's principles--he never actually introduced me to anyone--but I wish to give him the posthumous credit he richly deserves.

Bizarrely, a mere week after confronting Danny's obituary, I read today the final notice on Gary Belkin, another lesser writer who devoted himself to teaching neophytes after his career started to falter. He taught his course in a delapidated hotel on Hollywood Boulevard in a makeshift extension school called the Sherwood Oaks Experimental College. The time frame was about the same as when I dined with David and Ellen Shaw. This was my first introduction to the business; the course itself was limited to ten students winnowed through a competition of submitted scripts. In the naive days of my youth, before I even turned 30, I thought to myself (correctly, I think), that if I could not outwrite ten other applicants to this course than I would not be able to compete in the greater industry. When I watch the current reality show "Situation: Comedy," which solicitted thousands of scripts for the reward of having two of them produced, I experienced a sort of deja vu.

Gary's class was less writing-intensive than Danny's; it relled largely on visits and lectures by other members of the biz, including Jimmie Walker of "Dy-no-mite" fame, whose name was attached to the title of the workshop. We were exposed to some of the practical realities of comedy writing and selling, and I wish I had gleaned from that course more wisdom regarding the politics of Hollywood. Still, I encountered some early friends (long vanished) whose cameraderie and shared experiences trying to break through were salutary and emotionally supportive. Like Danny, Gary helped light the way toward my career.

Besides being instrumental in jumpstarting my writing career, both Gary and Danny served as incidental role models for a post-active teaching avocation. Like those two I spent more than a decade traning, mentoring and lecturing about comedy writing, in universities and seminars and even through the Internet, until the famous dotcom debacle coupled with the decline of network sitcoms made the pastime unviable. That both of these progenitors would expire within a week of each other I find more than morbidly provocative.

Acorns for the Blind Pig

Fortunately I've had enough amusement distractions this summer to avoid most of what television has to provide. Despite the 168-plus stations avaialble it has largely been that Minnowesque "Vast Wasteland" (don't you love these arcane 45-year old cultural references?) But within the parched landscape of TV there are a few acorns upopn which that proverbial blind pig could stumble. And I'm not talking about the totally bizarre revival of ballroom dancing shows (who'd a thunk Arthur Murray would have been a pioneer?) But I have found two quite rivetting reality shows, to my shock and bemusement.

First there is NBC Thursday night entry "The Law Firm," a very tidily produced combination of "People's Court" and "The Apprentice" managing to improve on the most involving elements of both, without the seediness of the former or the cheesiness of Trump. The Trump surrogate here is attorney Roy Black, of whom I've never heard but whom the applicants hold in deep esteem. His persona is much softer than Trump's, though on some level he has to be an asshole. He decides to eliminate two candidates week as the hordes of rapacious but telegenic young lawyers compete for a spot in his office. Like in the Trump (and soon to be Martha Stewart) tournaments, the players have to participate in tasks, in this case representing clients in civil suits, with the decisions legally binding. And the winners are not necessarily spared elimination, if their performance is lacking. Furthermore, the court cases have the same relatable appeal as those that made "People's Court," "Judge Judy" and their ilk so involving.

The executive producer of "The Law Firm" is David Kelley, the lawyer-cum-producer whose credits include "Ally McBeal" and the wonderful "Picket Fences," as well as a marriage to the great beauty Michelle Pfeiffer. Here's a guy who knows what he's doing. And you know what? I'd take Michelle over Melania. Sorry, The Donald.

One problem with this show is that not one of the candidates will excite the least bit of sympathy. As the joke goes, what do you call all the contestants on "The Law Firm" standing at the bottom of the ocean? A good start. But the pace of the show, and the relative short run of the program (eight weeks) represents a producer's learning curve in the reality genre.

The same can't quite be said of Bravo's entry called "Situation: Comedy". This is a variation on HBO's Project Greenlight, which put two novice screenwriters in the enviable position of having their script produced and filmed, just to see how they'd flounder while playing with the Big Boys. A certain smugness there from the mavens of show business, which in this case include myself. Sean Hayes of "Will and Grace" and his coproducer and staff winnowed through thousands of comedy pilots to find ten finalists, two of which would be produced in a presentation form (15 minutes rather than 22), for judgment by the public and hopefully, consideration by NBC. The same NBC geniuses who gave us "Joey" and "Committed"--and those were their best shows. Already the idea is hysterical.

I must admit that, as a former sitcom writer, producer, teacher and seminar leader, this is truly an arena of my expertise, which is why I'm so enraptured by the project, even given its obvious flaws. I know that with small twists of fate I could have been one of the judging executives, or the supervising executives hired to help the finalists (I actually know one of the two who was hired, and consider that person a hissable slimebucket). It fascinates me to watch the neophyte writers trying to balance their innate arrogance with the demands and limitations of production. I have known so many of their like.

Two episodes have been aired so far or a projected six, leading to the showing of the two presentations and the nationwide vote. The first episode was bogus to a certain extent, because when the finalists were pared to five scripts, only two had been written by teams. Now anyone who's watched any reality shows must realize they live and die on the conflicts between the personalities. Therefore it was mandatory for the producers to select as the finalists the two teams, rather than individual writers. Nothing would have made more boring footage than watching a single writer trying to internalize the notes of an NBC executive. A lively, emotional dialectic is absolutely essential. So those poor single writers were dead in the water. Except that they probably could use the exposure, like participants in other talent contests like "American Idol," to get an agent and a foothold in the industry.

The projected ideal of "Situation: Comedy" is to "find the next great American sitcom." This would be laughable if it weren't so uttely sad. With all the unemployed comedy writers floundering around, disenfranchised by the Reality phenomenon, you'd think there wre gold nuggets to be found rather than having to call out to the hinterlands. I have read many many scripts by emerging writers, have taught such students for years, and never found anything close to a marketable script, much less a breakthrough sample to revivify the genre. The two scripts selected by NBC exec Kevin Reilly hardly seemed innovative. One was about a young boy facing the world with great aspirations ("Boy Meets World," "The Wonder Years") and the other is called, provocatively "Sperm Donor," but it's a domestic living-room sitcom about the title character who enters the life of his family (""My Two Dads," "Who's the Boss," ad infinitum).

It's only my intense familiarity with the genre and the aspirant writers that will keep me glued to my seat, but I will be vastly enterained, even as I groan at the ineptitude of the writers when faced with their reality. But at least this program, along with the pseudoreality sitcom "The Comeback," paint an accurate picture of the sitcom world. Yes, writers are stubborn, executives are clueless, and actors are oblivious. Maybe that's why I'm a blogger.