More to Come

I do not exit this year with the same blogging enthusiasm with which I entered it. However, the completion of another solar rotation requires some sort of recapitulation, I suppose. 2005 was not as good a year as I was hoping, nor as bad as it has been for many others. Mostly it will be noted for being water-logged. From the retreating tidal waters of last December's epic Asian tsunami, through the soggy wet Los Angeles winter that took out Southland homes in a variety of mudslides, and then culminating in the barrage of horrendous hurricanes unlike anything this country has ever seen, our major life-giving element has been especially surly. And today it's reported that Tropical Storm Zeta has formed in the Atlantic Ocean, a month after the "official" hurricane season is supposed to have ended. The Age of Aquarius indeed.

Of course this has nothing to do with global warming, which our oh-so-wise Administration discounts as scientific whimsy, like the theory of evolution. But the tide, to keep the metaphor going, seems to be turning a bit. This year Americans started to see some cracks in the levee of Republican statesmanship. Bush was overwhelmed by forces of nature and of cupidity, as his congressional cohorts and staff members were inundated with scandals. "Brownie, you're doing a heckuva job!" has been declared by media pundits as the quote of the year. Hardly the "Mission Accomplished" smugness of 2003. By year's end Bush's fortunes seem to have bottomed out, with another Iraqi election to convey the veneer of democratic reform. Yeah, but they vote in China too. Well, we got through the year without a 9/11 attack or an avian flu pandemic, so that's something.

It was also a bad year for Tom Cruise, Raphael Palmeiro, Arnold Schwarzeneggar, Terrell Owens, Judith Miller, that fraudulent Korean biologist, Tookie Williams, Terri Schiavo (and everyone else who died). It was a good year for Ozzie Guillen, Ang Lee, George Clooney, Tom Brady, Lance Armstrong and the new co-anchors at ABC. Also, my one-time correspondent Mark Treitel, whose runner-up pilot for "Operation: Sitcom" actually was picked up by ABC, albeit with a new title and cast. It will now star Jane Leeves, a good instinctive comic actress, and a promising deadpan foil for whomever is cast as the rowdy "sperm donor." At least I trust this is the same project, since the description I read in TV Guide's "winter preview" edition reads exactly the same. Mark, if you're out there, I hope you're involved--or at least well-compensated.

For my part, this year is most distinctive in its introduction of Sudoku, the Japanese logic puzzle sensation that is sweeping the world in a benign pandemic. I have hardly mastered the form, but this is good, since the challenge is what makes it so involving. The Sudoku has now replaced the crossword puzzle as the great time-consuming gimmick for waiting rooms and airports. They are so engrossing that time passes by in huge parcels, and I don't even hear the jabbering on the cell phones around me. It's interesting that I had never heard the word "Sudoku" before 2005. It's my catchword of 2005, as "blog" was of 2004. To my Nipponese friends, first sushi and then Sudoku. You light up my life!

No predictions here for 2006, as I am in some trepidation about what it offers. One friend, of like pessimism, fears a terrorist attack in Los Angeles, especially after reported chatter has mentioned our city as a specific target. I am also wary of a potential earthquake, as the San Andreas is way overdue. As 2005 taught us effectively, we are all subject to the nasty whims of nature, as well as to the idiocy of our species.

I Can See Clearly Now

Christmas is done, but Hanukkah lingers on (as is its historical point). The late arrival of Hanukkah is a result of the quirky Hebrew calendar that adds a month. Its first day hasn't coincided with Christmas since 1959. This fact evokes a series of childhood memories. For one, my parents, in the spirit of assimilation, always presented their Hanukkah gifts to my brother and me on Christmas morning. We had no tree--there were no Chritsmas trees in a six block radius of our upscale Jewish ghetto in Rego Park--but the gift boxes would be piled up on a throwaway couch in the foyer. 1959 would have been particularly special for that reason, as we could celebrate congruently with all the Christians we saw on TV.

1959 was also the year that my father brought into our home an RCA color TV, at the time a sensational novelty. If we were not the first family on our block to own one, we were certainly nos. 2 or 3. I recall that no other fellow pupils were so blessed. So we became a meeting ground for friends and neighbors who'd converge night after night to ogle at the smattering of colorized programming available. My brother and I called them "The Moochers," and would joke every evening at the dinner table about which moochers would be ringing our bells to see "Kraft Music Hall," "Racing at Hialeah", "The Arthur Murray Dance Hour" or "Bonanza". But in fact this hi-tech pioneering spirit was a family tradition, as my Dad had also purchased an early post-War black and white TV in 1948 and was similarly barraged by friends and relatives fascinated by the new toy.

It's taken me nearly half a century and a good chunk of my current budget to revive the tradition, but I now believe that I am the first person on my condo floor to own an HDTV, an imposing Sony WEGA purchased, along with a warranty, at the relative bargain rate of $3000.
It now gobbles up an large chunk of my living room floor space as did its progenitor, a 50-inch Mitsubishi widescreeen ourchased for about the same price in 1990. The question is, does the improved quality of the picture justify the expense and the general hoopla?

Well, my initial impressions is that it does. Boosters of the technology said its effect would be roughly that of putting on spectacles after a lifetime of nearsightedness. The crystalline clarity of the high-def signal does startle and engage me, though I certainly had my previews in the TV showrooms I visited. I'm also reminded of the testimony of persons whose cataracts were replaced and for whom spectacular color suddenly returned. I was particularly enamored of the Discovery Hi-Def channel, with the shimmering natural scenery, and the clearly delineated leaves and flowers. In fact the effect was totally mesmerizing, almost as though I were on LSD (which for the record, I've never done). It took a while for me to realize that the Sony people had preset the color range to vivid levels that produced a saturated, intensified color effect like on scenic postcards and the digital photos I upgrade on Photoshop. I've been able to dial these levels back to realistic (and very fine quality) color, but I'm tempted to return to the Vivid settings when I'm looking for a cheap non-drug hallucinogetic kick.

Football games are also impressive, with an immediacy and acuity that revs up the experience; however I was most impressed that I could see the expressions on every fan in attendance and could read the writing on the Gatorade thermoses. As for standard programming, it all looks excellent, with the added feature that the picture is oblong rather than the squarish analog form, so the impression is more cinematic. It made "Desperate Housewives" look fresher (which is a good thing, as that series is getting stale faster than a Kaiser roll left out on a shelf). "The Simpsons" was fascinating in its garish colors--and I really grokked the yellowness of all its characters' skin tones. Even awful commercials I'd automatically gloss or tape over seemed vivid in their enhanced detail.

An extra benefit is that "non" hi-def programming that is broadcast digitally is, while not as detailed as the hi-def programming, very vivid and decidedly superior to how it appears on a standard television. This is because the increased numbers of lines provided on the Sonyscreen help bring out the enhancements of the digital signal. The same effect applies to standard DVDs. They look good enough on an older model, but are very impressive on the hi-def. It makes my old chestnut DVDs worth a repeat look or two, before they all have to be replaced by officially hi-definition DVDs. Currently there is a nasty battle going on between hi-def DVD formats so I'll sit that out until a winner arises from the cockfight, lest I be victimized as I was in the famous Beta-VHS war, choosing the finer but less popular alternative.

I am also trying to bring in friends and neighbors to gape admiringly at the set, but the fascination so far is not as overwhelming as it was in 1959. Most have nodded cooperatively, uttering a few admiring comments and then politely excusing themselves. Yeah, well just wait until the Super Bowl, people. And the Winter Olympics. And the Oscars. And "The Sopranos." It will be a very finely-tuned Feburary. But by then, I'm afraid, my own delight may have faded as my eyes become inured to the enhanced picture and spoiled in regard to any other kind of transmission. Sono I won't be able to watch anyone else's puny retrograde TVs without blinking and wiping my glasses in a vain attempt to recapture the acuity to which I am accustomed.

And of course there is the issue of great style eventually being eclipsed by inferior content, so however striking the image, nothing will be able to make me sit thorough an episode of "Ghost Whisperer." Then again, I can always lay back, turn on the vivid color setting and luxuriate in the Discovery Network's purple mountain majesties and amber waves of grain.

Breathtaking Inanity

This title may become my favorite expression of the year. It was uttered, or rather, released in a court ruling Monday by Federal Judge John Jones III (apparently njo relation to Bob Jones of the University). The reference was to the stance of the Dover, Pa. school board in trying to insinuate a recognition of "Intelligent Design" into the science curriculum of its secondary schools. The suit was brought by concerned parents (yes, thank goodness, this species does still exist) who challenged the school boards supernaturalist position. The Judge, he a conservative and religious--but not a religious conservative--correctly viewed the ID stance as veiled creationsim and religious posturing, inappropriate for public schools, if fitting for religious discussion. To say otherwise is breathtakingly inane. I could not have put it more eloquently!

Interestingly, the point was rather moot, because the parents had already voted the reactionary school board out of office and eighty-sixed the "Intelligent Design" language from its syllabus. But, as we know, the legal process is slow and laborious, and in this case involved dramatic testimonies from both sides of the question, in a redux of the Scopes trial without the star power of Darrow or Bryant. One of the plaintiff's lawyers argues that to attribute Creation vaguely to an intelligent source was no more or less valid than attributing the Red Sox victory over the Yankees in 2004 to a God who just got fed up with George Steinbrenner. Though I am, in my baseball sympathies, uncomfortable with that analogy, and on some level would like to blame God or the Devil, I am glad that this whimsical point helped make the case.

Which takes me, in this unlikely segue, to another piece of good news, unrelated to the Culture Wars but relevant to the Yankee-Red Sox rivalry. Yesterday the Yanks, who had been moribund in the Hot Stove league, suddenly swooped down and took Johnny Damon from the Red Sox to place him in the cavernous Yankee Stadium center field for the next four years. He will now lead off a line-up and be followed, in probable order, by Jeter, Arod, Sheffield, Matsui, Giambi, Posada, Bernie Williams/DH, and Robinson Cano. That's a lot of offense, and it ought to be a lively year in the Bronx, so long as the Yanks don't start off as appallingly as they did last year. Damon is a decent center fielder, does not have a great arm, but does have good speed and a nice left-handed stroke that will work well in Yankee Stadium. I am sure that George Steinbrenner remembers how Damon's two homers, including a Grand Slam, killed the Yanks in the last game of the 2004 ALCS (although he was practically hitless in the first five games). The Yankee front office has spent most of this century gathering post-season Yankee killers into their rosters. I thought this trend had been reversed when they traded way Tony Womack, which was their best post-season move up to this point. They are looking strong for 2006, but they still have to remember how to win in the post-season, a knack that all this talent has failed to muster.

But even more significantly for the short-term, they have dealt the Red Sox a crushing blow. Damon generated a lot of offense and scored a lot of runs in front of Ortiz and Manny Ramirez. He will be difficult to replace. For the step the Sox took picking up Josh Beckett and Mike Lowell from the Marlins, this is a step backward, and Beantown must be seething. Well at least they can look at New York now, crippled by a transit strike, and get a little schadenfreude. But come April it will be hard for Sox fans to watch their favorite Idiot in pinstripes. What I'd like to know is how The Intelligent Creator could have permitted this to happen, after giving the Sox their big break in 2004? Or is such a question simply breathtakingly inane?

Everybody Hates Christmas

The trouble with democracy is not so much that the majority always rules, but that the majority is so often composed of dunderheads. If science were ruled by the majority, they'd be teaching creationism in allour universities. And, as the London Daily Mirror wrote after the 2004 American election, "How could 56 million people be so dumb?" Well, their stupidity was tonic to Bush and his cronies; but perhaps the Neocons cannot expect so felicitous a result from the burgeoning "democracies" that are being encouraged in the Middle East. For when those crazies go out to vote, sure as shit they will vote eventually for the religious leadership that promises them a reward in Heaven. Democracy in the Middle East will not lead to the secular leadership that would be desirable if the advance of militant Islamism is to be stemmed. Religion is simply too important to too many people.

Bush and company wisely recognized this when they turned their campaign into a Christianist crusade. Who can forget Bush's response in a debate when asked who was his greatest political exemplar? It was, of course, Jesus Christ. Subsequently one might wonder where that guidance went astray, because Jesus preached "turning the other cheek," and only fought once, against the Money changers at the Temple. By that example, Bush should only have waged war against Ameriquest. But no matter. His Red State Mandate gave heart to those who like to say that this is a Christian nation (much as that appellation would make the Founding Fathers cringe). It is certainly a nation with a lot of Christians, many of them very good people, and some of them irrational and dangerously prejudiced zealots.

For the latter, no religious confrontation is worth ducking, so after the Terri Schiavo defeat they were itching for some battle, any battle. And it has crystallized over Christmas--or rather, the perceived attack by secular humanists on the religious aspects of Christmas observance. This includes the removals of creches (along with menorahs) from public spaces, and the replacement of "Merry Christmas" wishes on ubiquitous cards and posters with "Happy Holidays." This defensiveness is a humongous waste of energy but zealots need irrational crusades like sharks need to keep on swimming.

It's not as if the ACLU and their advocates comprise a confederacy of Grinches, though I like them better when they act to protect rights rather than limit them. The Christianists are terrified that somehow the diminution of Christmas by equating it with Kwaanza and Hanukkah constitutes apostasy. Not likely. Christmas has been around for 1500 years, after being codified by some Pope or other on December 25 (adopting a centuries-old winter solstice celebration). It is now an international event, with mostly commercial implications. If the Christianists really wished to honor the religious connotations of the holiday, they would protest its intense commercialization and sacrifice the idea of gift-giving to replace it with pious prayer. Yeah, that'll happen.

As a Jew raised in a largely Christian society, I've gone through phases of resentment against Gentile hegemony and feelings of exclusion and loneliness that are all a part of the Christmas experience. For a while, as a younger person with nowhere to go on Christmas Day and no tree or gifts to speak of, I would indulge in that other great tradition, Christmas Depression. I'd celebrate it by going to see the most demoralizing movie playing in theaters, so that I'd feel elated compared to the anguish on screen. This is how I got to enjoy "Sophie's Choice" and "Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer." After a while I outgrew that dolorous attitude and just tried to endure the relentless onslaught of gooey TV Christmas specials and ubiquitous Christmas carols, which followed me from the 7-11 to the casinos of Las Vegas. "Jingle Bell Rock" still gives me hives, and for the life of me I don't see the fascination in "It's a Wonderful Life." You want to see a good Christmas movie? Try "A Christmas Story." Second best: "Bad Santa."

By now I am mellower, so inured to the Yuletide season that it's hard for me to believe that others think it is truly under attack. If someone wishes me "Merry Christmas" I smile and return the wish. If they want to say "Happy Hanukkah" or "Season's Greetings" I nod just as pleasantly. I think Chritsmas trees are pretty, if somewhat dangerous, and I don't even mind the festooning of houses with colored lights. Nothing I do can change the overwhelming import of Christmas on Western Civilization, and I don't really care, especially if we can eke out a Santa Claus rally on the NYSE. But I do resent establishing the variation of observance of the holiday as one more battlefield of the tiresome and destructive Culture War that began with the 2000 election. I'm reminded of the line from "Hannah and Her Sisters"--if Jesus knew all the things that were being done in his name, he would never stop throwing up."

Oh Shut Up

A lot of blather in the news, as institutions start to close shop for the holidays (brick-and-mortar stores notwithstanding), and the insistent chirpiness of Christmas music makes the purchase of an Ipod seem more reasonable, if only to drown out the din. Best to retreat to the quietude of my home where I can rail most effectively with this voiceless blog.

I was irritated by the recent plea, after Tookie's fatal injections, by another Death Row client, a 75-year-old whose basis for appeal is that he is too "frail" for execution. Now, putting aside my basic objection to capital punishment, this is the work of a very desperate or simplylame lawyer. What's going to happen if his body has to deal with a fatal invasion of barbiturates? Is it gonna kill him? Probably, and a lot more easily than it might have done to a stronger and resistant Tookie. Since when does a murderer get a Senior Citizen discount? That is, assuming he is guilty, which in this guy's case, is likely.

Almost as lame, though at least slightly different, is Dubya's admission yesterday that he indeed was misled by bad intelligence before he signed off on the Iraqi invasion. It was impossible to spin that part of the story any other way, so he tried to take a page from Reagan's Iran-Contra book and admit to some responsibility. It's hard not to view this admission cynically, especially as the President still insisted that the war was justifiable, and did not apologize for the Administration's demonization of all those who dissented, from Wilson to Powell. More chillingly, Bush promised to improve our intelligence-gathering services, which given what a splendid job his management of FEMA, the Department of Homeland Security and the Iraqi occupation, does not exactly instill confidence.

Most irritating, though tragically predictable, was the declaration of the Iranian president Mahmoud Amahdinejad that the Holocaust was a myth perpetrated by Europeans to jusitfy the creation of Israel. I am generally an advocate of free speech but sorry, this pushes the one button that is personally unacceptable. It is probably widely accepted among the Muslim fanatics that this event never occurred, since they are not allowed to see 'Schindler's List" or visit Holocaust museums, and enjoy watching the Egyptian miniseries about the Protocols of the Elders of Zion. Diabolical ignorance is a tool used effectively by despots Eastern and Western; it is only the matter of degree.

What's most distressing about this maniac's oratory is that it will further serve to demonize his country in the eyes of the world, underscoring--even confirming--Dubya's characterization of Iran as being in the so-called "axis of evil." Whatever difficult negotiations regarding Iran's nuclear potential ensue will be colored by this nation's fanaticism, and that is not likely to defuse the explosive potential of Mideast conflict. It was just a few years ago that one of the justifications of Democracy-building in Iraq was that it was likely to spread to other nearby nations with vested interest in Middle East stability; Iran would be the next Democratic domino to fall, as the students' movement and a reformist government seemed pointed in that direction. No more, though. Next to Iraq is a land of hostility and intransigence. And if we don't have the military resources to deal with this country's more palpable threat, then perhaps Israel may have to intercede, as its right to survive is daily assailed.

Winter Perk

This is a time of year traditionally burdened by gift frenzy, catalogue overfill and Christmas music overkill. My one refuge this season is indulging in the spate of Oscar-contending movies, which I generally can screen gratis because of my Writers' Guild membership. Yesterday, as I drove toward the Writers Guild theater, with the midday sun shining intensely through my windshield, it felt exactly like a summer day, especially as I was headed to see a "summer movie," in this case Peter Jackson's renditon of "King Kong."

This was more than just a screening; it was an event, since the film had yet to open citywide. This meant the modest WGA theater was the Los Angeles nexus of "Kong" mania, which had sprung from enthusiastic early reviews. Unlike a normal WGA presentation, which involves staid, bitter overaged writers staring disapprovingly at the screen and waiting for dialogue howlers to hoot down, the mood of this crowd was like that of giddy teens anticipating the next "Star Wars" segment. The line extended way down Doheny Drive, and there were, for goodness sake, security people making sure that nobody entered with recording instruments. Those bearing cellphones with digital photo capacity were asked to return them to their autos. Fortunately for me I've yet to upgrade in that area, so I could enter unscathed, waving my hopelessly archaic Nokia like a press pass.

As for the movie, I'm happy to report that it lived up pretty closely to the hype and was not the letdown one might have expected from a self-involved director with a megahit in his recent past and nothing to prove. I normally have an easy technique for rating a movie. Every time I look at my watch the film loses one grade; one look, it becomes a B movie; two looks, a C, etc. Well I looked at my watch twice during "King Kong," though I'd still grade it an A; the peeks were out of curiosity to see when Jackson's cast would finally reach Skull Island, and when Kong would make his first appearance (answers: 63 minutes and 72 minutes, give or take). One has to go far to justify a three-hour plus film, expecially one that is retelling a story rendered powerfully in 90 minutes back in 1933. Jackson's screenplay allowed for slow development in the pre-Island prologue as we follow the travails of Naomi Watts and the machinations of Jack Black, as the heroine and the megalomaniac anti-hero. The renderings of New York were impressive however, and the sea voyage at least as interesting as that of the Titanic before it sunk (without the lame James Cameron dialogue; no hoary voice-over narrations with transitions like "Little did I know then..."). And it was iterate; one character was reading Joseph Conrad's "Heart of Darkness," which was nice, if a bit on-the-nose.

Once the crew reached Skull Island, I did not have an urge to look at my watch again for a good two hours. Skull Island is a really nasty place; even its boulders have fangs. The Natives are not only restless, they're rabid--in the bad way. The action sequences are simply terrific, and this from someone who customarily zones out as soon as they cut to any chase. There is a long stampede of apatasauruses (they were called brontosauruses, I guess, in 1933) that is not only breathtaking but also darkly slapstick, a sort of "Jurassic Park" meets "Dance of the Hours" from "Fantasia." The spider/insect/leech pit sequence, snipped out of the original, is played out in full glory, and though scary, is not as gory as one might have feared. On the whole, Jackson outdoes Spielberg, not only subsuming his "Jurassic" scenes but also outdoing Spielberg's excellent special effects in his own remake this year, "The War of the Worlds."

One could argue that "Kong" could well have pared a half hour, though its efforts at building characterizations are mostly justified. The love relationship between Kong and Ann is conveyed pictorially through the reflected beauty of sunset, which they learn to appreciate in a spiritual sharing. Watts does a nice job converting Ann Darrow from the screaming ingenue of Fay Wray to a game, gutsy heroine, though I found it hard for her to show such bravado when Kong is dangling her from the 85th floor of the Empire State Building. Jack Black works within his own persona but doesn't seem authentic delivering the film's famous final line. Adrian Brody was a functional "juvenile" hero, a sort of Clifford Odets-turned-Rambo. His role, not nearly so well fleshed-out as the other protagonists, is roughly equivalent to Raoul, the alternative lover in "The Phantom of the Opera." His transition from passive idealist to action superstar is not very convincing. The other minor characters, played by Thomas Kretchmer, Kyle Chandler, Jamie Bell and Colin Hanks were more effective than similar supporters in "Titanic." And Andy Serkis's facial expressions for Kong seemed persuasive enough. Someday we may actually see the real Serkis on screen; by now I think he's earned it.

I did feel a sense of cinematic satiety when the movie ended; I'd have gotten my money's worth even if I'd had to pay Arclight prices. Though not a work of original genius it certainly is a feast for cinema buffs, who'd enjoy its self-aware references; and a corncucopia of familiar but spectacular effects (especially in the authentic 1933 Manhattan aerial sequence). I did not cry upon Kong's demise; I had to remind myself that he did kill a number of people, even more than Tookie Williams. I also missed the elevated train destruction scene from the original, its scariest moment linked to Max Steiner's foreboding score. Kong does get to bust up the borough a bit, but also gets to glide through Central Park with Ann literally in hand. The whimsical touches represent Jackson at his most playful, and it's his light touch that ultimately gives the film its ballast and justifies its garagantuan ambitions.

Requiem for Tookie

The final decision isn't in yet, but Governor Terminator is mulling over the arguments to decide whether four-time killer Stanley "Tookie" Williams should be given a lethal injection next Tuesday or "clemency," which means life imprisonment on the public's dole.

Life hasn't been easy for Arnold since his boorish special election was rejected by California voters, and he's apoparently taken a hard turn left (probably also owing to Maria's urging). He recently appalled local Republicans by hiring a Democratic consultant as a Chief of Staff, and now he has the opportunity to lift the hearts of the liberal Blue Staters here by showing his soft side. But it's not an easy decision.

Arnold did not inherit the California death sentence law and would probably live well without it (as of course would "Tookie.") That there has been such a clamor for mercy for this thug is actually fodder for the right wing, as it characterizes Williams' supporters as mushy liberal cranks. My own sympathies are also being tugged by this case. Yes, Williams does seem repentent. Yes, he has written children's books advising them not to get involved in crime (what a concept!) Yes, he has been nominated for the Nobel Prize (though I'm not sure in what category). Well, okay. But so was Hitler.

But there are a few severe problems with Tookie's resume. For one, he killed four people in cold blood. That's the same number that got Capote's protagonists hung in 1964. And Perry Smith was also a good writer. Secondly, Tookie was the founder of The Crips, the most violent and powerful turf gang ever. This is not as laudable as founding, say, the Peace Corps or Habitat for Humanity. It's hard to compute, but one could validly speculate that hundreds of people were murdered, some even innocent bystanders, thanks to Tookie's organizational efforts, even as he now disowns his Gang and the nasty things they do. And would the Bloods have emerged if it weren't for the Crips? Tookie is like the Godfather of Gang Warfare. Not a pretty moniker.

So his attitude has been rehabilitated in prison, under the threat of impending death. Boo-yah. Isn't incarceration supposed to reform one's criminal aptitude? I know that recividism is the usual result of long imprisonment, but sometimes a prisoner may accidentally soften up, looking for a new cause. A hyper A-personality like Williams did about all he could as a major criminal and, looking for new worlds to conquer, stumbled into pontification. Thanks, but I'm not very convinced.

My personal view on capital punishment is negative. I do not believe in state-sponsored killing, and am embarrassed that only our nation, among all western democracies, still condones it (though this is not a surprise given our Bush-led Dark Ages). I suppose there are some heinous people who certainly merit extinction, but I believe parole-less life sentences are adequate, even more appropriate punishment--and provide protection to the public. I don't think the death sentence is a deterrent, since murders rarely are pre-meditated and are acts of extreme uncontrolled emotion. And of course there is the issue of unfair racially-biased sentencing and the occasional innocent who gets shafted by an imperfect judicial system (which, purportedly, could possibly have been the case with the high-profile Williams and a gung-ho prosecutor back in 1979).

So for all these reasons I would not be scandalized if Tookie's sentence was commuted. But I don't buy any of the sympathies expressed toward this human being who has perpetrated so much harm to his species. Let him live and stew in the contemplation of the pain and misery he has caused.

Walking the Walk

I recently tuned in (accidentally) to a taped rerun of the Hollywood Christmas Parade, which I had so strenouously avoided over Thanksgiving weekend. I was confirmed in my skepticism. The event was simply a slow motorcade exhibiting B and C-level TV actors waving lethargically at the onlookers. The convertible I witnessed contained two actresses I did not recognize, and David Michael Kelley, who plays the young Walt, the most lost of the lost on "Lost." It was good to see that he had not yet grown into an awkward adolescence that would totally disqualify him from further participation in the limited time span the series is purported to cover. But growth spurts are a-comin', so his agent had better start circulating those resumes.

I quickly switched the channel and gave Hollywood Boulevard no further thought. For many it is still the Street of Dreams, but for me, a Hollywood denizen of twenty years, simply the name of the nearest cross street I enter when e-reserving a Supershuttle airport pick-up. Occasionally I do find reason to saunter down the boulevard, either to go to the Chinese movie theaters for one of their summer spectaculars, or to head to the metro stop at Hollywood/Highland. This week I had a dentist appointment downtwon, and the subway alternative is far more attractive than dealing withthe bizarre traffic patterns and exhorbitant parking rates on Fifth and Olive. So I proceeded along the Boulevard and, in a more contemplative mood than usual, took in the ambiance. But my perspective was one of a long-time native, not of the googly-eyed tourist or hopeful neophyte, and what I registered was something of a time-lapse reflection of the ascent/descent of the supposedly rehabilitated strip.

The action commences subtly after I pass LaBrea, with the onset of the "Walk of Fame," which has become ludicrously inclusive, so long as the celebrity is able to contribute the $5000 for a star. Not a bad deal for relative immortality. I usually try not to gaze down lest I be mistaken for a tourist, but I did notice this week that a second row of tributes had begun to emerge, which would carry the Walk of Fame well into the next century, and include everyone from the Olsen twins to David Michael Kelly to the actors who portray the reformed honest depositors in the Washington Mutual ads. Since I acted once on a TV episode I wrote, I might consider a 5-spot for me as well.

But as I sigh at the familiar sight of enthralled visitors snapping digital shots of the pavement, I pass an even more pathetic sight, the Hollywood Galaxy Building. This was constructed around 15 years ago as the first effort in the neighborhood commercial redevelopment, and was a disaster from the start. The best thing I can say about it is that it caused the closure of a noted ice cream parlor that sat on that site--C.C. Brown's, which was famous for its fudge sauce (which was actually pretty bland), and the sundaes, which were were one-scoop pygmies. I always called the Galaxy the "Forlorn Theater" because despite its commercially popular movie offerings, it never seemed to draw any people. Nor did its voluminous stores succeed, even as warehouse outlets, despite convenient parking--a major asset in this congested district. The complex does contain an extant nightclub called the "Knitting Factory," so recessed it is almost invisible; and the "Hollywood TV Museum," a subteranean exhibit about as enticing as a 60-year-old prostitute. Currently there's was a major curbside reconstruction project for one of the storefronts. Good luck; the place is cursed.

Moving on depressingly, dodging the camera bugs and the shills for free late-night TV tickets (Jimmy Kimmel plays nearby), one comes upon Lucy Ricardo's favorite Hollywood mecca, the Graumann's Chinese Theater courtyard, with its foot imprints and milling tourists. The area seems denuded since the Highland project renovation, when the colorful red ticket booth was removed, robbing the courtyard of depth and perspective. I try to look impassive as I weave my way through the throngs and past the costumed characters hoping to earn tip money by posing for the most gullible tourists. I don't know whether these folks have been hired by the Hollywood Chamber of Commerce or are freelancing; the icons they represent seem more obscure now, and occasionally unrecognizable. No more can I espy a flat-chested Marilyn Monroe or a scrawny Superman. Now it's a bunch of fantasy figures like (I think) Gandolf from "Lord of the Rings", a storm trooper from "Star Wars," and a mysterious girl in pseudo sexy black police garb bearing some alliterative moniker like "Chief Chick" or something. Maybe it's from a video game. I grow old, I grow old...

My scenic stroll culminates a little beyond the high point of the area, which is the entrance to the Kodak theater, the jewel of the complex and the home of the Oscars. It does not look the same without the red carpet, but at least the entrance bears a certain dignity that's lacking in the other passageway, which leads busily to the white elephant of the Hollywood/Highland mall. I mean "white elephant" both figurateively and literally, as a faux-marble beast looms in the courtyard as an homage to D.W. Griffith's elephantine "Intolerance." It's architectural pastiche at its worst.

And speaking of elephantine (a word, like "denizen"' that I'm not likely to repeat in any forthcoming blog), before I enter the subway, I pass by the latest addition to the Streeet of Commerce, a Virgin Megastore. Lest someone from Mars gert the wrong idea, this is a superstore for CDs and DVDs, and not for the sale of virgins. On Hollywood Boulevard, those would be very rare indeed.