Visitors

I've lived in Hollywood for over 25 years now and one of the most amazing statistics over that period is the number of Halloween visitors I've received: zero. That owes partly to the fact that I live in a security building with very few young families (those who have kids old enough to trick-or-treat generally move them to the Valley or out of town). But even when I lived in a more vulnerable apartment house on Beachwood Drive, just yards away from an elementary school, never once has my doorbell signalled the demands of young costumed extortionists.

This anomaly contrasts sharply with the apparent emergence of Halloween as the second most important commercial holiday of the year, outpublicized only by its spiritual opposite, Christmas. When I was a kid Halloween was a quaint peculiarity, observed simply and traditionally, as my brother and friends would wander through the halls of our apartment building ringing doorbells and collecting Tootsie Roll pops and candy corn. The only element of fright was the anticipation of confronting the mean neighbor who would scowl through the unopened door. It was the urban version of the conventional Candy Quest as depicted in Americana movies such as "Meet Me in St. Louis" and "E.T." We weren't even aware of such hidden dangers--perhaps even urban legends--concerning razor blades in apples and Ex Lax substituted for Hershey bars.

But today Halloween is an excuse for a weekend of partying, a huge parade down Santa Monica Boulevard, de rigeur costumes in banks and school and other secular institutions, and the backdrop theme of every episodic television show. Even I was guilty of penning at least one Halloween episode of a sitcom, and I have a prop helmet left over from one of the costumes which I will occasionally don to give my neighbors a start (it always works). It has become more of an adult holiday than a child's, which is both a shame and somewhat forboding. I always thought of this day as a time to satirize our cultural superstitions, but in our modern society, which is ruled by the Supernaturalists in the Senate and the Red States, those superstitions seem to be gaining adherents. Certainly the emergence of all those TV programs concerning the occult is a by-product of our gullibility.

Perhaps we are simply catching up with the pagan rituals from which Halloween emerged. The Mexican Day of the Dead, which is actually tomorrow, is devoted to honoring our ancestors, which is never a terrible idea. And a day when everyone's imagination is challenged to create an alternate exterior at least provides mental stimulation and active participation, as opposed to sitting home and watching a marathon of "Medium" episodes on NBC (though one could do worse than watch that well-scripted procedural). But I never quite bought the moral underpinnings of trick-or-treating and of Mischief Night, both of which only function as safety valves to our gluttonous and perverse instincts.

Yesterday my doorbell rang and instead of little kids costumed as George Bush or Weapons of Mass Destruction (both very scary), it was my new Japanese neighbors from across the hall, who actually handed me a bag of Japanese goodies. Of course there is something sublime about the courtesy of Asian cultures that makes us look like the troglodytes that we are. But it made me think that a reverse Halloween would be a nice variation on the grubbiness that we celebrate institutionally. So I put on my Halloween helmet and went to my neighbors and gave them both a laugh and a bag of Nestles's Crunch juniors.

I still have a lot of candy left over for my phantom visitors in case they should materialize. And in case they don't, I will likely indulge in what has become my 25-year Halloween tradition, which is stuffing my face with Milky Ways for the entire month of November.

Meanwhile Back on Earth

I have undergone my traditional Day of Mourning following the conclusion of the baseball season and now I heave a deep sigh to face the horsehide-less horizon for the next six months. I am somewhat happy for the White Sox and their fans, but listlessly so, not even enough to raise a glass of wine to toast the South Siders. They did play well, though, down to the final out (processed elegantly by former Bronx Cheer Juan Uribe).

Kevin and I were bittersweetly amused by how well most of our veterans on the two lineups performed, including All-Time Cheers disaster Jermaine Dye, who batted .162 (really) in his three months as a Bronx Cheer, and then hit .430 in this World Series. Konerko, Crede, Uribe, Podsednik, Garcia, Contreras and Pettitte all did well. But Roy Oswalt fumbled the ball, to mix a sports metaphor, and Morgan Ensberg, the big Cheers disappointment of 2004 when he hit no home runs for the entire spring, was just awful for the Astros this October. Although he did manage a homer somewhere in the detritus of Game Two, a few hits in clutch situations by this cleanup batter might have turned the entire series into a scintillating seven-game contest instead of a sweep.

Okay, done. Now it's back to the world, to Harriet Miers' ouster by the determined Red State Fundamentalists, to Scooter Libby's indictment for "perjury" in the Valerie Plame case, to Iran's official declaration of a Fatwa to the State of Israel. Bush's head must be spinning in several directions at once. Which is hazardous, given his Brain is still awaiting possible indictment too.

The ramifications of the above events provide a mixed forecast. Miers' nomination will almost certainly be followed by that of a more Conservatively Correct judge, this one at least with some experience on the bench, but likely to much more strident, leading to a Democratic resistance that could culminate in another Filibuster battle. Yawn. Ultimately Bush will get someone to his liking, but until then O'Connor remains on the Court, serving as a less divisive force in deciding issues involving parental consent for abortions and the legality of Oregon's assisted suicide law.

The Libby indictment will play itself out as expeditiously as his superiors can arrange. Already he has resigned his post; even Bush knows better than to keep his shadow hanging around the White House door. Whether Karl Rove, or even better, Cheney, are swept into the mixer has yet to be seen, but the Federal Prosecutor seems rather reluctant to raise a ruckus. The Democrats can only hope to sustain the stench long enough for it to affect the 2006 elections.

Iran's death sentence to Israel was, surprisingly, condemned by other countries, at least outside the Arab world. It does put the lie on any thoughts or Iranian moderation, unfortunately. This also ups the nuclear ante in the region, and provides fodder for the Bush administration's targeting of Tehran as the next source of (potential) WMDs. More to come on this, I'm afraid.

In lighter news, a woman in Virginia hung herself from a tree two days ago, but nobody bothered to cut her down, thinking her limp body hanging there in tattered clothes was actually a Halloween effigy. As a friend e-mailed to me, the mordancy of this event was positively Hitchcockian. What a shame that the darkness of Hitchcock's view of humanity seems to be pervading so much of what's happening in our world.

October Twilight

First I should acknowledge my one baseball respondent who scoffed (rightfully) at my Astros-in-5 prediction for this year's World Series. Okay, that certainly was a bolux. But he might have at least, for courtesy, given a nod to my touting of Scotty Podsednik, whose homer won Game Two.

So far the White Sox have certainly been confounding my expectations, handling every pitcher the Astros could throw at them. The deluge on Roy Oswalt yesterday was astounding, almost as much so as the Astros' incompetence in clutch situations (Jason Lane notwithstanding). The failure in the bottom of the ninth inning, with Taveras and Ensberg striking out to strand the winning run at third, was probably the nail-in-the-coffin for Houston. I must admit to some minor satisfaction seeing El Duque perform well again in the Series.

Despite the unbalanced results of the first three games, however, aesthetically they have been enjoyable and dramatic. Usually by this time there is at least one boring blow-out, and yesterday's game seemed headed in that direction, but again thewildly inconsistent Joe Crede--he of the .225 batting average as a Bronx Cheer--awakened the Monster, or the ghost of Joe Jackson, or whatever seems to be providing Chicago's unaccountable muscle. I liked the idea of an extra inning game, but like many of this sort, it got to drag on so long that even my dog got impatient. Another unheralded sub--Geoff Blum--finally put it away, a la Aaron Boone, homering as the Houston Neanderthal-looking hurler Ezequial Astacio lost his concentration after a brilliant double play had cleared the bases.

Game two, with its dramatic grand slam by Konerko, the two-out game-tying single by Jose Vizcaino, and the clincher by Scott Podsednik, was a classic match, and the opener had its moments as well. Controversy has been basically limited to a few umpiring mistakes, especially a crucially missed non-tag that crippled an Astro rally in Game 1. The Sox seem to be benefitting by the imperfections of the arbiters, but at least last night the reverse was true--Jason Lane's fly off the center field wall was incorrectly ruled a homer. Unlike Chicago, Houston was not able to parlay their good fortune into an actual win. The other issue, about opening the roof to allow the pleasant October breeze into the stadium, with its resultant diminution of the decibel level, seemed pretty lame. How loud does the cheering have to be before the so-called "home-field advantage" kicks in?

The Astros are now in deep shit, historically speaking. No team has ever recovered from a 3-0 deficit in the World Series, and even if the Astros do rebound with two wins, they will still have to sweep the next two in Chicago. Clemens is ailing and Pettitte isn't too solid either; the staff anchor Oswalt has proved to be all-too-human. Up through yesterday I was still willing to predict an Astro victory, but that would be as silly, as say, assuming the Red Sox could overcome the Yankees edge in last year's ALCS.

But if it happens, that would make this the greatest World Series of all-time. And even so, the TV ratings will still suck eggs, and the seventh game would fall victim to some catfight between Edie and Susan on "Desperate Housewives."

The Dark Age

I was going to continue my ruminations upon the baseball postseason, including an admiring recap of the first two games of the World Series, with their pleasures of intense situations and timely clutch hitting, but I was waylaid by two info bytes from the media. The first was a headline on the AOL home page, and the other was a film snippet from the coverage of Hurricane Wilma.

The AOL headline was this: Majority of Americans Don't Believe in Evolution. This was derived from a smallish survey of 808 respondents, which may or may not represent a genuine sampling, but its conclusion were appalling nevertheless. Over half those polled refused to belieive that evolution played any role in the ascendency of man; instead they simply credited good old God for making us in his image (though exactly which image is not certain--is it Yao Ming? Billy Barty? Anna Nichole Smith?) Of those who did somewhat accept evolution, the majority paired it up with God's work, stubbornly refusing to admit that it could have occurred truly impartially and with no intelligent guidance. People who think like me total less than 30% of the populace. Even most Democrats were not able to accept a Godless Darwinian apparatus.

An interesting correlation to the approximately 51% of Americans who disbelieve in the Origin of Species is the 51% "mandate" majority that President Bush received in 2004. I would imagine that correlation would be in the 90-100% range. And it explains so, so much about why we have such an incompetent President, and why we are so disdained in the world. If, as a country, we are so imprinted in our ignorance, so stubborn in our resistance to scientific principles, and so insistent that a supernatural agent is behind the variety and impermanence of every creaure and phenomenon, then we are quite deserving of the scorn that was encapsulated in the London newspaper's Election Day headline, "How can 56 million Americans Be So Dumb?" Answer: Ask the 70 million Evangelicals out there. Dumb, maybe or maybe not; brainwashed and lazy-minded, for sure.

I bet that a majority of Chinese would not poo-poo (or is it pu-pu?) Darwin's thesis. Nor the Japanese. Nor the Germans, the Russians or the French. Whatever restrictions on thought and expression their respective societies and governments impose, a healthy respect for empirical science is not among them. Which is why it has become clear to me that we are indeed in a new Dark Age, the blanket of ignorance being pulled over American society just as the domination of Christian monasteries kept progress at bay for a thousand years between the sacking of Rome and the Renaissance. Unless some miraculous enlightenment can emerge to reverse this process of stultifying religious hegemony on our culture, we will be overwhelmed by other societies in this century.

The other film clip I mentioned was of the damage caused by Hurricane Wilma in Florida, which focused on a church that was destroyed by the wind. Now I ask those who still maintain there was some theistic causation at play here, why would God send a hurricane that would destroy one of his own houses of worship? Isn't that a mite counterproductive? Did he make a mistake? Nah, impossible, because of divine perfection. And isn't he overdoing it a bit with all these Atlantic storms? We're fucking into Hurricane Alpha, already (since meteorologists refuse to name storms Xanthippe, Yolanda or Zelda). Exactly what point is God trying to make? Does he want us to sign the Kyoto Accords? If so, why hasn't he told his messenger on Earth, George W. Bush? And why isn't he attacking the apostatic Blue States?

God only knows.

AstroSox

1959 was the first year in my life that there was no representative from New York City in the World Series. As a typically provincial New Yorker I was stuck for some reason to attend to the Fall Classic, so I entered a Daily News contest predicting the outcome and daily scores of the World Series match between the White Sox and the Los Angeles Dodgers. My prediction that year was "Dodgers in six", so I cheered accordingly. Eventually that forecast proved quite accurate, and I might have won some bucks had I not switched the winners of Games 4 and 5.

Flash forward a few generations to tomorrow's opening night contest of the Astros-White Sox series. (Insert irrelevantly that I had foretold this in an earlier blog). On the surface this match has about as much charisma as Jim Lehrer. Aside from a few interleague matches there is no historical rivalry of which to speak. Neither franchise has distinguished history; quite the opposite. Before 1959, the previous White Sox participants in the Series were the Black Sox of 1919; the Astros franchise has never won a pennant, but has contributed the first domed cookie-cutter stadium, and when the sun couldn't penetrate the covering on the dome, also contributed the invention of Astrodome. Thanks, guys.

But every so often baseball's champioship series takes a breather from the usual suspects like the Braves, Cardinals, Yanks and the Red Sox, and invites some unusual guests. The downside of this is the lack of the intangible "World Series atmosphere"--the chemistry of the contest is more like a spring training game. The upside is that there are no expectations, and a new cast of characters (well, sort of), which can inject some novelty into the tapestry of World Series lore. Other similar "no-name" series have been very exciting, including the Indians-Florida 1997 nail-biter, the 1993 Phillies-Toronto series with that 15-14 game and the Joe Carter walk-off, and the 1991 Braves-Twins classic.

It's likely that with the strength of the two starting pitching staffs we could have another closely fought series. For once the teams with the best rotations have climbed into the finals. As a Yankee fan I find it bittersweet that three of the four pitchers starting Games 1 and 2 were on the Yankee staff in 2003. But its vaguely reassuring to watch Clemens and Pettitte try once again to capture the magic, and Jose Contreras, whom the Yanks discarded last year, perform as we was supposed to have in the Bronx. I just don't know who to root for, so my hopes lie in a dramatic seven-game series with clutch hitting and memorable situations that will satisfy my baseball aesthetic.

I suppose I'm now obligated (to myself and my four readers, who will probably read this after-the-fact) to make my prediction. I hope I'm wrong, but I see the Astros winning in five. I think this team is fired up, as Arizona was in 2001, to win one time for their ancient heroes Craig Biggio and Jeff Bagwell, as well as Clemens. They are sky-high after surviving the Pujols disaster in the NLCS and recovering gamely to rip the Cards in St. Louis in Game Six. Chicago, meanwhile, has had a big lay-off, and their relievers, rendered practically vesitigial in the ALCS, have to be pretty rusty. The Astro's line-up is less formidable than the Angels, but I doubt the White Sox starters will be able to go the distance as they did in the ALCS, especially when they play in Houston and will have to hit. Chicago has a strong hitting team but I don't think they've faced anything like the threesome of Clemens, Pettitte and especially Roy Oswalt. Oswalt is scheduled to go in Game 3 in Houston, so if the White Sox don't sweep the initial two games at home, they will find themselves in a pretty deep hole. I'd be intimidated by a potential seventh game match-up that would almost certainly include Oswalt, unless he were called into an emergency start in Game 6.

As for potential heroes, I have no Aaron Boone-type insight, though I do expect Craig Biggio to step up, and Scotty Podsednik may be a pesky contributor for the White Sox. (Incidentally, both have had their moments on the Bronx Cheers). The MVP will likely be a pitcher. But most importantly, I will be calm and serene, primed to soak up the October Classic rather than dread its results.

Is a Little TV a Dangerous Thing?

Last week the tech world was abuzz over Apple's latest Ipod innovation, the inclusion of a video component to its stupendously popular line of portable entertainment devices. I suppose the company had to depart from its ongoing production track of miniaturizing Ipods. Once they were down to gumstick size they couldn't get any smaller (of course they could, but try to decipher a readout on a thumbnail-sized Nano).

Hi-tech Luddite that I am, I didn't find this announcement all that intriguing, though the news commentators were lauding it like the second coming. That mystified me a bit, because as I recall, the Ipod of the previous generation, the Sony Walkman, did not evolve comfortably when it became a Watchman. All those folks striding down the street or peddling on their bikes were not likely to gaze for too long at the tiny screen for fear of running over a dog or a pedestrian or stumbling on a sidewalk crack. And how much fun was watching a tiny screen, not to mention the eye strain?

I figure the same limitations apply to the Ipod video screen. Reviewers have said that the image is crystal clear (one would hope, if it's three inches wide), but the glory of the Ipod was that it can be played while multitasking, providing musical accompaniment to the drudgery of daily tasks. Diverting one's attention to a video screen to watch an episode of "Desperate Housewives" pretty much disqualifies other activities, if safety is any consideration, and diminution of Eva Longoria's boobs is not a plus. For the present, available videos are limited to a few Disney/ABC programs, to be downloaded each for $1.99. The corporate thinking is that this will enable people who missed the original showing to catch up. My take is that with all the alternative TIVOs, DVRs, VCRs and webcasts--likely available to a person who owns an Ipod--the tiny TV is not all that seductive. Apparently the Apple execs thought so too, because they didn't raise the price on the renovated Ipod hardware.

My kneejerk reaction to the enhanced Ipodization of our culture was negative, but I've come to think that there may be a benefit, even to my glazed-eye perspective. I've realized that there are places where a mini-TV could be useful, especially in waiting rooms and staionery bikes in the gym and, of course, airports and planes. The key to all of this is the earphone. If there's no noise to distract me, I'm glad for others to occupy themselves with the doings on Wisteria Lane or on "Lost"'s island. It might even--cross my fingers--get them off the fucking cell phones with the interminable invasive yakking that makes me want to die. And with airlines economizing so radically, the end of in-flight movies is upon us, so the ability to view content on a personal little screen will keep passengers silent and air fares reasonable--maybe even helping some of the carriers out of bankruptcy.

Some time in the year 2006 or 2007 I might even be convinced to purchase a video Ipod, though I think I'd want one with extended capacity that could pack a few movies onto the hard drive. Of course this is not a major technical hurdle. Then all will be well with the world, until some asshole terrorist designs an Ipod out of plastic explosives. And don't think they're not trying already.

Ode to a Homer

Like individual memory, a broad extended canvas highlighted by those occasional moments that leave a lasting impression, so is the history of the sport of baseball like a continuous tapestry with sparkling, defining moments. One of those moments occurred last night, justifying the long slog through an undistinguished post-season noted mainly for sloppy umpiring. Fortunately (I guess), now that my emotinal involvement in the results have withered along with the elimination of the Yankees, I can enjoy the sport on a purely objective, even aesthetic basis.

Baseball does have its moments of beauty. These usually involve the balletic motion of fielders, the pivot/jump of a second baseman turning a double play, as in the finale of the NLCS fourth game on Sunday; the elegant last-second lunge of an outfielder for an uncatchable ball, proved catchable by Jim Edmonds or Willie Mays or Ron Swoboda; even an awkward backflip specialized by Derek Jeter. Offensively there is nothing more graceful than the high arc of a booming home run. These instances are of course intensified by the drama of the moment, and are never more in focus than during championship play-offs.

In last night's ninth inning of the Houston-St. Louis series, with the Astros one strike away from achieving a forty-five year goal of a World Series berth, circumstances produced another crystalline gem of a moment. The stands were rocking, the white flags were waving (don't the Texans know white flags mean surrender?), former President Bush and First Lady/Mother Barbara, sitting in the not-so-underprivileged box seats behind the Astro dugout, were beaming smugly. After two easy strikeouts, expert closer Brad Lidge had two strikes on pesky David Eckstein, who managed to squib a hit between Ensberg and Everett. That brought up Jim Edmonds with the potential tying run, so Lidge pitched too carefully to him and walked him. Bad idea. On deck was the best hitter in baseball, the prodigious Albert Pujols. After swinging badly at a Lidge slider, Pujols--whom the camera had spotted earliler in the inning staring in a dismal funk--caught the poorly thrown slider perfectly and rocketed it almost supernaturally far above the onlookers in the left field porch. It hit the top of the rear wall as Minute Maid Park turned deathly silent and the Cards held on to win, 5-4. The Astros, totally discombobulated, barely made contact in the bottom of the ninth.

As a self-styled baseball historian I can think of very few home runs that have resounded so dramatically. There is of course Bobby Thompson's 1951 playoff-winner that also turned a 4-2 loss into a 5-4 win, though that was with one out. My personal favorite moment was Yankee Aaron Boone's 2003 ALCS winner against the Red Sox, because, 1) it was against the Red Sox, and 2) I had predicted, on record, an Aaron Boone game-winner. There have been other famous walk-off homers, from Mazeroski to Carlton Fisk to Joe Carter, but none of them came in as desperate a situation as Pujols faced yesterday. And in terms of purely personal drama, the Kirk Gibson homer that beat Dennis Eckersley is perhaps the standout baseball moment because he was utterly crippled, and like Vin Scully said "The impossible" had happened.

The Pujols homer was different from most of the other extreme clutch homers in one aspect--it was so amazingly majestic and emphatic. Boone, Mazeroski, Thompson, Fisk and Carter all hit low line drives into left field; Gibson's had a conventional arc into the right field bleachers. But Pujols' shot was, well, Gargantuan. It was Roy Hobbsian. It was not so much a home run as it was a Statement. The best hitter in the game put personal stamp on a gigantic base hit in an excruciatingly tough moment, and it was truly aesthetic, even awe-inspiring. A few seconds after that shot Kevin called me up to say, simply, "This is why it's great to be a baseball fan." (He also added some carping about LaRussa's benching of Suppan in our last week, which cost us each $500; I agreed on both counts).

It is perfectly possible that the Astros, who still have a 3-2 series lead, could capture one of the final games in St. Louis (as they are starting Oswalt and Clemens against inconsistent Cardinal hurlers) but somehow I think this last-minute twist will be as inspirational to St. Louis as it is demoralizing to Houston. If Houston wins, then the Pujols event will be noted by baseball historians, but not long-remembered. At this juncture, though, it has the feel of a very similar home run by Dave Henderson in the ninth inning of the 1986 Angels-Red Sox playoff that turned the tide of that series; the disheartened Californians sleepwalked through the final two games in Fenway. That homer actually had sad and tragic consequences; sad because it led eventually to the Bill Buckner debacle in the World Series, forever staining his reputation. But more appallingly, the reliever who threw the two-strike gopher ball to Henderson, Donnie Moore, was so devastated that he eventually killed himself a few years later.

It's sobering to see how harsh personal reality can intrude even the frivolous world of sports entertainment, and I sincerely hope that Brad Lidge, a young and talented pitcher, will not have a similar emotional breakdown if Houston loses the series. The spotlight should linger on the hero, Albert Pujols, whose transcendentally exceptional skill is something all of us can admire, and who has graciously contributed another sterling moment to American baseball lore.

Harriet, Hillary and MacKenzie

Twenty-five years after Margaret Thatcher became the British Prime Minister, thirty years after Golda Meir took the reins in Israel, forty years after Indira Gandhi ruled a population of half a billion, and four hundred years after the death of the most successful monarch in English history, Queen Elizabeth I, Americans are still reacting to the concept of a female Head of State as though it's a bizarre and dangerous experiment (unlike electing a dunderhead male, which we're happy to do every couple of decades or so).

Our nation's kneejerk sexism, a byproduct of our stodgy religiosity and cultural conservatism, has rendered exotic the premise of this year's most popular new TV series, "Commander in Chief." This program was an outgrowth of creator Rod Lurie's screenplay for "The Contender," about the bouhaha concerning a female Vice Presidential appointee, much like "The West Wing" was an episodic follow-up to his "American President." Geena Davis plays the lead, President MacKenzie Allen (named after Joan Allen, star of Lurie's movie), and she supplies convincing gravitas in her portrayal. In a concession to our current political climate she is no wish-fulfillment liberal like Jeb Bartlett on "The West Wing," but an "Independent" of Republican/Libertarian sympathies with impossibly photogenic children.

"Commander in Chief" does not have any of the gritty improvisational realism of "The West Wing," but takes a much more middlebrow approach, with broadly drawn characters, the most heinous of whom is the Machiavellian House Speaker played Snidely Whiplash-like by Donald Sutherland. This guy makes Tom DeLay seem like Mister Rogers. And he's never without some appallingly sexist rebuke, which his sycophantic--and female--aide seems to lap up joyously, like Mr. Smithers. Other characters are similarly clear-cut, with no interesting ambiguity at all. The plots seem evenly divided between predictable White House crises and predictable domestic problems of adjustment for the family members. Mackenzie's husband has to adapt to First Spouse spouse status. The kids have their private lives complicated by the Secret Service. Stop the presses!

But because the dialogue is easy to follow, the story lines unchallenging, and the cast just dripping of TVQ, this show's success seems as assured as that of "Desperate Characters" and "Lost," ABC's two other forays into the twisted familiar. And I also find it watchable, along the same lines that I enjoy "Las Vegas," which does not mean I am enriched by the experience. Yet despite the bland pleasantness of this program, it could--just could--become one of the most influential TV shows of all time. Americans are so taken with their televised fantasies, and so apt to eventually confuse them with reality, that in a way this series could acclimate them to the possibility of having a real female First Executive. Conservative pundits and bloggers are already assailing "Commander in Chief" as a smokescreen advocacy for the candidacy of Hillary Clinton. Which, perhaps, it is--but ultimately no more so than it would be for Elizabeth Dole or Condoleeza Rice.

Hillary Clinton spoke yesterday at a Beverly Hills synagogue during Yom Kippur services, and while the intent was obviously political ($$$), she apparently was very persuasive, humane and articulate. Let's face it, this is one very savvy person, probably smarter than her hubby, which is saying quite a lot. She has functioned efficiently and undivisively as a senator, and has wisely positioned herself in the Democratic center as she prepares for a likely Presidential run. If she were a man she would be a figure of universal respect, political views notwithstanding. But to the Republicans she is considered anathema, the She Devil, the closet Lesbian, whatever. This vituperation has something to do with her husband, but mostly to do with her gender. The Evangelical/Mormon hyperreligious base simply cannot accept a woman--even one whose intellect makes our current POTUS seem as perspicacious as a retarded gnat--exercising executive power.

Of course those Reps who are supporting the nomination of Harriet Miers to the Supreme Court are leaping to the claims that Democratic opposition is largely sexist. They oughta know.

Rhymes with Transmogrified

The Yankess have lapsed into annual doldrums; the Presidency has fallen into narrow-minded luddite incompetence, and now another esteemed American institution has been irrevocably debased by our 21st century culture. I received the first of the new breed of TV Guide in my mailbox yesterday. Its shape was indistinguishable from the Newsweek and Consumer Reports. It's no longer the distinctive paperback size that sat comfortably on the coffee table and was easy to pitch at the TV screen when some unpleasant news blared from the Idiot Box. In appearance it resembles exactly what it's aimed to become--another fanzine.

I have a personal relationship with this magazine. This is not to brag, but to help define my objections. TV Guide was my entry into the journalism field, and I spent the first four years of my working life as an editor and writer in both the Home and Los Angeles offices. I used to be able to boast that I was one of the most widely read writers in the country, and this was no exaggeration. In those days the circulation for the Guide was greater than any other magazine; it was a national habit. And I was one of a crew writing the plot descriptions of the programs (done quite legitimately from reading the actual scripts, not from culling flaks' p.r. releases). Some of my favorite one-liners I've committed to comic memory--"Pepper poses as a prostitute," (Angie Dickinson's "Police Woman"), "An Interview with First Lay Rosalyn Carter" (okay, that was a typo, but a great one).

But guess what? There are no more capsule descriptions. The core raison d'etre of the old TV Guide, its voluminous and accurate listings, has been undercut by the expansion of choices in the cable universe, and it simply became ungainly to try to encapsulate 200 shows for every hour. So the listings have been significantly reduced to one-liners within a hefty grid, just like what you'd see in a Sunday TV supplement. The concept of the "Close-up" (which were always plums for us to write) has been retained in daily highlight paragraphs for the most popular shows. The only improvement over what I'd get in my LA Times Calendar TV section is that the TV Guide grid is now in full color.

The bulk of the magazine is now devoted to flashy full color pix of fave stars alongside bite-sized commentary that includes a generous share of stale news and stupid gossip items. There's even a column now about the fate of TV romances. A few of the popular features, such as "Hits and Misses" and "Cheers and Jeers" remain, and are in bigger print. (What next? "Hunks and Punks"? "Nuts and Sluts"?). The tone of the writing has also taken a 20% dip in IQ. Bet you won't find the word "transmogrified" anywhere in the issue.

It's not that TV Guide was ever an intellectual bastion. Its most enduring item has always been the demented Crossword puzzle, with stumpers like "I ---- Lucy" (Kick? Fuck? Bled?) Of course, that still remains, with bigger boxes. They've added a version of the Sudoku, using letters instead of numbers, assuming I guess that the intended readership can't cope with integers unless they're on a calculator. But there was a certain dignity to the tone of the magazine in the years it was owned by Walter Annenberg, the late Bootleg-heir/philanthropist, who I'm sure is doing anguished twists and turns in his Mausuleum.

TV Guide has simply and intentionally channelled (pun intended) People Magazine. This is the culmination of a trend that has been at work for years, as the magazine slowly became a shill for popular movies and backed away from any thoughtful commentaries on the role of the powerful medium on American life. Ironically, in the early 80s, a flashy TV fanzine called "Panorama" tried to pull off the exact style that the current TV Guide has adopted. It failed in a year, mainly because it couldn't dent the popularity of the Guide and Sunday supplements. Now TV Guide has been absorbed into the indistinguishable world of gossip rags like a victim in a journalistic "Invasion of the Body Snatchers." Even at its bargain basement subscription price of 25 cents an issue, I am certain not to renew. I can save those quarters for the laundry, and get by very well on my LA Times Cable mag.

Wakcy Phemomenons

The baseball season ended last night, at least in terms of my emotional involvement, as the flawed Yankee team exercised what is becoming its annual choke. Thanks, Arod, for your 2 for 15, and especially your double play in the last inning to squelch a possible game-saving rally. For the record, I now predict the Astros to go all the way, probably beating the White Sox. Now with the curtain lowering on the Summer Game I'll be devoting more time to lesser forms of mass entertainment, including the multitude of science fiction programs that were intriguing enough to sample, and among which I am just beginning to distinguish.

I'll quickly dismiss the Monster-of-the-week entries ("Supernatural," "The Night Stalker,"), both of which are stylish but forgettably episodic. CBS's Friday night opener, "The Ghost Whisperer," is a very stodgy and inappropriately mundane rip-off of "Medium", and to a smaller extent, "The Sixth Sense." The guest ghosts on this show are hardly ectoplasmic; they are lumpen humans whom we are supposed to believe are ghosts because master shots have the ghost whisperer (Jennifer Love Hewitt) speaking and gesticulating to thin air. The stories are boring and the supporting characters are wasted. That this claptrap replaced the thoughtful, beautifully acted and character-rich "Joan of Arcadia" is shameful.

Then there are the three sci-fi mystery serials, "Threshold," "Invasion" and "Surface." 'Threshold" was the most promising of the pilots, sporting a top-notch cast including Carla Gugino, "Star Trek" Hall-of-famer Brent Spiner, and super-dwarf Perter Dinklage, and a nice mystifying interdimensional UFO that emits out malevolent audio signals that alter human DNA. Cool, but each subsequent episode has delved only minorly into the science of the transformation, lapsing instead into routine chase stories trying to winnow out infectees trying to spread the signal. I suppose because of its genesis from "Star Trek" creators such as Exec Brannon Braga, the concept of alien infection is never far from the creative surface.

Speaking of "Surface," the lead-in to NBC's strong Monday lineup, I'm thinking now that Steven Spielberg would be recruiting his lawyers to sue, if he at all needed the dough. The initial episodes about a newly discovered sea creature appropriated one of its subplots heavily from "ET," as a boy adopts a baby Creature and bonds with it while his parents watch cluelessly as all the critter's hiding places continue to explode. And in last night's episode the entire Richard Dreyfus madness section of "Close Encounters" was ripped off, as an obsessed yokel watches his exasperated wife drives off with the kids, comes briefly to his senses, then discovers a picture in the newspaper that matched his recurrent sketches, so he can return to his mania. I wish the show weren't so clumsy in its homages (and I'm being really really kind here) because it does have its entertaining moments, such as the volcanic explosion of Old Faithful.

I also noticed some laughably bad script editing in the first few minutes. One of the characters, a government agent (which may explain it) uses the word "unequivocably," which doesn't exist. Hey man, it's unequivocally. But even worse was the narrative voice over recounting recent series events, and mentions all the "phenomenons" that had occurred. Phenomena, Ms. Script Supervisor, phenomena. This is a show whose native tongue is purportedly English. I was reminded of a great moment in the 1955 "Godzilla," when a Japanese dubbing actor tried to enunciate "phenomenon" but it came out "phemonemon." At least he had a linguistic excuse.

Finally there's "Invasion," ABC's companion piece to the increasingly absurd "Lost," which contains elements of both "Surface" and "Threshold," including elusive undersea creatures and an amorphous alien threat to undermine humanity. It also channels Spielberg in its use of the requisite governmental cover-up and in a female lead's fascination with running water, reminiscent of Dreyfuss's obsession with mashed potatoes and shaving cream. The production values are very convincing in this one, including the pilot's devastating hurricane, so effective that the producers were forced to air an apologetic disclaimer because of the recent weather catastrophes in the Gulf Coast. But this show, lacking the vivid cross-cultural characterizations that enrich "Lost," seems to be following the same tedious path of "Threshold," slowly unfolding the layers of deception to reveal more deceptions underneath, and as yet has not achieved the critical mass of revelations necessary to sustain my interest for much longer.

A common element to all three programs is the theme of secret government operations vs. civic liberty license in discovering the nefarious alien threat. "Invasion" and "Surface" tend to demonize the dark forces much like the Empire in the "Star Wars" sagas, but "Threshold" presents the secretive NSA-like operatives as the protagonists, trying to protect the unwashed and uninformed masses lest there be "panic." I guess its refreshing that the Government gerts equal time; the deeper question is, are these clonish programs worthy of my time?

A Plague for Both Your Houses

On the Culture War front (and let's not fool ourselves, this is like the second American Civil War, only intellectual, pitting Progress against Congress), the unfortunate suffering of Gulf Coasters caused by Federal lethargy may end up having one beneficial effect. That effect is suggested by Newsweek's recent cover alliteratively declaring the woes of the current administration as "The Crisis of Cronyism and Competence."

No longer content to wear the blinders of his esteemed Ignorance, the President has slowly become aware that the public, and worse, History is starting to look askance at his ideological obduracy. This has resulted in the selections of two Supreme Court replacements who are not, as reasonable Americans have feared for five years, ideological replicas of Scalia and Thomas, but perhaps, more sensible conservatives. That seems likely, at least with John Roberts, a jurist of apparently high intelligence and savvy, with a limited agenda--as perspicacious as Scalia, it seems, but without the shellalagh stuck up his ass.

As for Harriet Miers, well the jury, so to speak, is still out, and Bush can certainly be charged with cronyism, nominating his own lawyer. But there's nothing yet to indicate she is truly a horrendous choice, as he might have foisted on us with someone like Janice Brown, who comes across as a nastier Ann Coulter with power. That Miers has no judicial record or any position worth vetting outside of heading the Texas Lottery Commission is Bush's way of trying to minimize Congressional debate and the discord that could come from a partisan filibuster battle. It is also nicely conciliatory that Democratic Senate leader Harry Reid approves of this choice. Both conservatives and liberals probably wish to fill the blank slate of her future decisions with projections of their own wishes. Still, the only thing we really do know about her is that every night she takes off her face to marinate it in pickle juice. Oh, and that she spells her last name wrong.

Meanwhile the abashed Bush, still smarting from the unpreparedness that led to the New Orleans disaster, is speaking openly and loudly about an incipient threat of an avian flu pandemic. This is actually the most responsible thing he's done in his first five years. After watching a "Nightline" program about the liklihood of a terrible outbreak, I lost a night of sleep and decided that maybe I should spend a little more money on myself before the pestilence descends upon me and my loved ones--and purchase a supply of face masks from the Internet.
Epidemiological experts claim that a new pandemic is as inevitable as a San Andreas earthquake. And the spread of international commerce and travel as potential vectors intensifies the problem. There is good news, that biologists have already devised a serum for the current strain that has killed a handful of Southeast Asians careless enough to handle infected chickens. The bad news is that once the dreaded mutation that will cause easy human-to-human infection has been isolated, it will require our best technology six months to devise, manufacture and disseminate the vaccine. That's an awfully long time to wait, and a lot of Americans will die; by the time the vaccine is available, in fact, the pandemic will almost have run its course.

Bush, as a leader, is in a winnable situation here, as he actually will have the support of both sides of the aisle on this issue, seeing as to how both Frist and Reid are leading the charge in Congress. The question of how to bolster the pre-vaccination effort, including how to isolate the infected, treat them humanely, and of course pay for the whole damn program, is more problematic. As usual, Bush will probably try to lower taxes and defer the balloon payments to the next generation. This is ironic, because if the Avian flu cuts enough of a swath through our population, there will even be less of a future generation to foot the bill.

I hate to say it, but I think it's about time to give up on abolishing the Estate Tax. Somebody at some point has to divvy things up, and it may as well be the Dead.

Uh-Oh, Looks Like God's Been Reading My Blog

Although the lack of comments to my recent posts suggests that with the filtering mechanisms in play my readership has again been reduced to single digits, apparently God Almighty has been poring over my commentary very closely, and it's pissed Him/Her off. That is the only explanation for the circumstances which caused the defeat of my Rotisserie Baseball team in the final week. Virtually tied for the lead at week's beginning (with Jesus), all our squad needed were sufficient wins and strikeouts from our talented staff of seven starters to maintain our point standings. Then, one after another, disaster struck.

Our top strikeout guy, A.J. Burnett, spouted off angrily against the management of the Marlins, and was sent packing. This announcement came five minutes before our final move deadline, and neither Kevin nor I were attentive at that point, or we could have replaced him with another ragged arm, Rich Harden. Turns out had we done so, we would have tied for the championship. This even after three other starters were smitten as well. Rich Helling's wife decided to have labor the day of his final start, dragging him to her bedside; rotation regular Jeff Suppan was benched all week despite a successful season as Tony LaRussa decided to rearrange his staff for the play-offs. Most appallingly, Jorge Sosa, third best pitcher in the league, had his start aborted after one batter from a torrential rain in Florida. If we could've add one win and five strikeouts, Jesus would not be walking away with the trophy.

Good one, God. I'll still get over $500 in prize money, so happy Rosh Hashanah to you.

Actually You might have spent more time helping out the Indians, who needed some divine assistance as they fumbled away their chance to make the play-offs as a Wild Card team and underscore how clever my prognostications were. In truth, they were just okay. My April 1 blog stated my predictions, which were as follows: Padres, Card, Braves, Yanks, Indians and Angels for division titles; Mets and Twins for wild card. Well, that's five out of six correct on divisions, but I missed on the tricky wild card choices as Boston and Houston snuck in on the final day. I foresaw Cleveland's emergence but not that of the White Sox.

Play-off season is now upon us as I put away my stats sheet and actually pay attention to wins and losses. The American League is far too close to call. The Red Sox have guts but probably insufficient pitching, especially among relievers, to go all the way. The White Sox are well-balanced but short on play-off experience. The Yanks and Angels have been the best two teams down the stretch, but are facing off against each other in what should be a very tough divisional contest. Los Angeles has a "home field" advantage and a history of success against the Yankees, who can only pitch Randy Johnson once. The team that wins this series will likely advance to the World Series. For my own constitutionnal health I'm hoping not to have to endure another Yankee-Red Sox ALCS, but if God really has it in for me, he/she'll arrange it.

Among the Nationals, the Cardinals are clearly the class, and have something to prove after their World Series disaster last year, when they were lacking Rolen and Carpenter. Well Rolen is still out but Carpenter is back, and should have enough to hold down the Padres. Houston has the best starting threesome going into the post-season, with Clemens, Pettitte and Oswalt, so Atlanta is likely again to choke away the early series, as the jaded fans in the semi-full outfield seats cheer half-heartedly. The lamentable 3-of-5 divisional series format allows for peculiar outcomes so even the undeserving Padres could advance as flukily as Jesus. But these are religious times, and the Lord seems more interested in faith-based baseball results than in curtailing weather catastrophes, so an ultimate Angels-Cardinals/Padres World Series would be no surprise.