Out of Fashion Gripes

This, hopefully, will be the only blog in which I mention Paris Hilton. Up until a few years ago I'd never heard of the world's Bustiest Trust Baby, even after she did a TV reality show. Now her presence is as ubiquitous as palm trees in Hollywood. Because I despised the triviality she embodied in a world otherwise wrought with problems I had little patience with the mention of her name. I'd yell at my neighbors or poker buddies if they brought her up, as though they were speaking the Name That Shall Not Be Uttered.

Then I backtracked and tried to get some perspective. The media's fascination with her reminds me of the trivialities that washed across our common experiences during the 90s, when Times Were Good. Maybe this signals that we are not living in a destructive decade after all. Maybe the Iraq War, global warming, the fire-evoking drought, immigration concerns aren't really happening. Or maybe--much more likely--we are in desperate need of such idiotic diversions. In any case I thought to give the ingenue a chance. Anyone who allowed herself to be bifurcated by a spear in a horror movie at least has some sense of humor about herself. Could it be that perhaps she is an intelligent young woman who knows how to manipulate the media? Dare I hope that she devote her ample fortune and personality to philanthropic deeds, like Angelina Joie and Bono?

So I listened to a portion of an interview with Larry King, in which she announced that she had never tried drugs (despite being arrested for drunken driving, because alcohol is not a drug.) Then she claimed to be a daily Bible reader, but when asked which passage she most liked, refused to elaborate. So, in the end, she is simply a liar and a bimbo, just as I suspected. Hey, Little Rich Girl, here's a Bible book even this atheist can recommend. It's called "Ecclesiastes, and its theme is "All Is Vanity."

Then there's Ann Coulter, who is still blathering viciously with the invective of the truly demented. She represents the most vitriolically vacant of the Republican apologists. In fact, she doesn't apologize for anything anymore; even she must suspect her Commander in Chief is a moron. Wall she has left is the caustic insult, which for some reason she has been reserving mostly for John Edwards, whom she first called a faggot, and then when is wife disagreed, expressed the wish that he die at the hands of terrorists.

Here's what I have to say about Ann Coulter. To call her a RABID SCUM-SUCKING CUNT would be wildly overpraising her. The extreme distastefulness of her ongoing commentary has probably marginalized her to the point that only the most desperate Bushies will nod in tacit, if embarrassed agreement. Soon, it is hoped, her memory will be relegated to the Ash Heap of History, along with Father Coughlins and other extremist assholes and purveyors of hatred.

Finally I move, in a transitional non-sequitur, to the disappearance of socks. Yes, that famous haberdashery item that has covered men's feet for centuries is suddenly being demoted by the fashionistas. I saw an article in the L.A. Times indicating that Italian designers are suggesting that suits been worn with out socks so that bare ankles become prominently displayed. The photos of the model looked, well, ridiculous, but so do all radical fashion trends.

What am I supposed to do about this? In Los Angeles, for years, bare feet in flip-flops have been practically de rigeur, although I never bought into that style. I prefer not to have my feet sweat into shoes, and then acquire ultra-violet sunburns. Do you know that most melanomas appear in the balls of the feet? And how does one buy new shoes if one does not know whether they are going to worn with or without dress socks or athletic socks? What are the New Rules? I am just getting used to the idea that no man on the West Coast under 40 tucks his shirt into his pants. Now, are tube socks going to be another signal of incipient senescence? And what is so fucking great about ankles?

What Would Jesus Drive?

Well, the experts have spoken again. The Vatican-sponsored Pontifical Council for Migrants and Travelers has issued ten commandments for good drivers, and a DMV manual it is not. Since there was nothing in the New Testament about motoring etiquette, not even a passage from 2500 years ago to misinterpret as religionists do so well, some modern experts were recruited to take up the slack. Recognizing that the PCMT consists primarily of Italians, I don't have to say that my tongue is firmly in my cheek as I deconstruct their Holy Admonitions about traffic dos-and-don'ts.

1. You shall not kill. Well, okay, but a rip-off of the original, and Moses isn't around to sue.

2. The road shall be for you a means of communion between people and not of mortal harm. I guess that means you can chew wafers and sip wine, but stay under the legal limit.

3. Courtesy, uprightness and prudence will help you deal with unforeseen events. Yes, that and adjusting your side-view mirror.

4. Be charitable and help your neighbor in need, especially victims of accidents. But don't give actual first-aid, especially if you're a doctor, cause you'll be sued for sure.

5. Cars shall not be for you an expression of power and domination, and an occasion of sin. This is all Vatican code for penis stuff. Anyone who lives in California knows the size of a car is inversely proportional to size of the male driver's penis. As for sin, well, try and stop a billion teen-agers from using the back seat for, um, private matters.

6. Charitably convince the young and the not so young not to drive when they are not in fitting condition to do so. Can't argue with that, but what does charity have to with it?

7. Support the families of accident victims. A nice thought, but vague. Do they mean with money, with a shoulder to cry on, what? And what if they have no insurance? Isn't that their bad, then?

8. Bring guilty motorists and their victims together, at the appropriate time, so that they can undergo the liberating experience of forgiveness. And while we're at it, let's gather all the Shiites and Sunnis in a Mosque and have them play bingo.

9. On the road, protect the more vulnerable party. I think this means keep a wide swath away from hybrids if you're the shmuck in the SUV.

10. Feel responsible toward others. This certainly was not a codicil added by members of the legal profession or any insurance company, who ask you to do precisely the opposite and NEVER ACCEPT FAULT.

Not meaning to be a total cynic, and even acknowledging the benign nature of the aforementioned guidelines, I suppose I owe my two readers my own list of much more mundane rules for the road. So from the top of my head, here they are:

1. Put away the fucking cell phone!

2. Don't buy an SUV.

3. If you have an SUV, don't complain about gas prices.

4. Allow two cars to go left at the turn of the signal.

5. Move into the intersection if you are going to go left to allow other cars to go past you.

6. Wave or otherwise acknowledge another driver's courtesy.

7. Signal all turns and changes of lanes.

8. If someone signals they want to change lanes, let them and do not drive past them.

9. You may use the isolation of a car environment to scream and vent rage, but do not let that influence your driving.

10 Park inside the lines.

How much better a world it would be if people followed my rules. But I'm not the Pope.

Tony vs. Tony

Forget Dec. 21, 2012. The world came to an abrupt end on Sunday, June 11 at 10:04 P.M. It ended not with a bang (well maybe, not), but with a Cut to Black.

I'm referring of course to the ambiguous ending of the most hyped TV-series conclusion since "M*A*S*H," the finale of "The Sopranos." Every HBO subscriber in America was glued to the event. Since it would become instant news, I doubt it was being recorded on many DVRs for later perusal. In my case, I had the suddenly mandatory device humming while encoding the three-hour Tony Awards show on CBS. I actually watched the first hour live, then left the next two for later viewing. I knew pretty much in advance which shows would win, and didn't care.

The "Tony" event--the theater one, that is--has distinguished itself among all awards show as the most entertaining, albeit insular, of the species of Self-Aggrandizing Showbiz cavalcades. Since I don't get to Broadway too often it is my only opportunity to view snippets of musicals which I may get to see in their West Coast runs or truncated Vegas versions. Like all awards show, it has its downside in the endless thank you speeches to agents, etc., which thankfully could be sped through thanks to the wonderful 30-second jump button on my DVR remote.

I learned the next morning that "The Coast of Utopia" and "Spring Awakening" won their respective Best Play and Best Musical awards. Later on Monday I watched the show and decided that I'd be more interested in seeing Stoppard's play than the neo-rock German expressionist songfest, which seemed more like an 1895 version of "Hair." The Emmy attendees loved the show, though, so maybe when it's at the Ahmanson... Meanwhile I was more intrigued by the upcoming CBS Series "Viva Laughlin," which was aggressively promoted during the lengthy commercial breaks. Hmm. A series with musical overtones about gambling in the town where I had all my peak gambling experiences. Cool.

I also noticed as I flipped through the commercial interludes a few Broadway tributes from eminent New Yorkers claiming "There's a little Broadway in all of us." Among those testifying were Mayor Bloomberg and, of all people, Alex Rodriguez. I presume Arod's slice of Broadway is "Damn Yankees." In any case, the show in its abridged version was a great improvement, but inevitably a ratings loser on "Sopranos" night. Weird prediction: Is there a "Sopranos" musical in our future?

Then there's Mr. Tony Soprano himself, whose wary, alert visage in the homey restaurant is the last image we will ever have of him and his New Jersey adventures. Like every other live viewer I was at first outraged by the abrupt inconclusive ending of a scene constructed out of all our fears and recollections of previous mafia movies and shows. As the tension built, with Meadow's delayed appearance and an onslaught of banal but subtly threatening images, writer David Chase cut everything off. The show met its sudden end. Are we to think Tony did as well, or is going to continue suspiciously eying every bystander as a threat to his life? Either ending is appropriate, neither is definitive. I choose to believe that Tony actually was shot by the sad sack restaurant patron who wandered off to the bathroom, like Al Pacino in "The Godfather."
After all, the patron was staring suspiciously at Tony, seemingly casing his prey. Meadow had not arrived yet so he would have a clear shot as he rose to go to the john. And the hit man never ordered any food at his bar stool.

Of course it doesn't matter; Chase leaving us to argue the conclusion was probably a more interesting choice than a definitive ending. If looking for some kind of karmic consequences for his criminal actions, there's not a lot of difference between Tony extinguished or feeling eternally imperiled by the threat of instant extinction. Only if there is a "Sopranos" movie will we know whether he survived, and even that can be quibbled if the writers choose to go into an earlier period of Tony's regime and bring back all the dead lieutenants and maybe even Adriana.

But Tony's ultimate disposition was a sample of crystal clarity as compared with the enigmas established in the follow-up Metaphysical Surf drama "John from Cincinnati." Will viewers eight years hence still be wondering who--or what--this character is? Will I care? Dunno. But that would come after Dec. 21, 2012, so it's probably not an issue anyway.

The Professional

Background music: an acoustic guitar.

Situation: the New York Yankees have tumbled from the elite in baseball to an embarrassing collection of overpaid, underperforming stiffs. Currently they are 10 1/2 games behind the division-leading Red Sox, and that's after beating the Sox 4 of the last 6 games. I expected a decline in performance, but nothing of this magnitude, which is cruelly reminiscent of the years 1965 and 1982, when the mini-dynasties unexpectedly crumbled. What is behind this grotesquerie?

It is easy to blame the panoply of injuries which have plagued the team since the tragic death of their pitcher-pilot Cody Lidle last year. Since then every one of their starters has endured some injury, major or minor. Wang and Mussina had leg problems, Pettitte a sore back, the woebegone Carl Pavano's elbow gave out, Jeff Karstens got hit by the first pitch of a game and broke his leg, and Darrell Rasner broke his hand on another early pitch a week later. Super-rookie Phil Hughes was hurling a no-hitter in the seventh inning when his hammie failed him, and now he is out for two months. The Savior Roger Clemens is trying to reenter the fray but every time he is about to start something comes up or goes out, like his groin. At 24-million dollars, that's an expensive groin. On the field, they have lost Jason Giambi to plantar fascitis, and his substitute, Doug Mientkevich, to a broken hand. Johnny Damon has been damaged all year and is playing like it.

Beyond these problems, the musclebound line-up has been performing more like 98-pound weaklings. Last years young studs, Cano and Cabrera, have been slumping, and the brilliant Bobby Abreu, who hit .331 in two months last year as a Yankee, has all of three homers and has broken up countless rallies. This was a line-up (granted, including Gary Sheffield last year), who entered the 2006 play-offs as perhaps the most potent in history. Today, their record is 26-31. At this pace they would lose 90 games.

Ironically, one cannot blame Arod, who has, frankly, been terrific in the clutch this year, with numerous late-winning clouts in tense situations. Jeter has performed to normal expectations, and the heretofore underrated Jorge Posada is leading the league in hitting. The re-upped Pettitte has been brilliant too. But nothing can overcome the dreadful relief pitching of Vizcaino and Mike Myers and, scarily, Mariano Rivera, who has but four saves.

These are the concrete facts. But what the Yankees are really missing is the human element provided by Bernie Williams, who was discarded this year as an extra outfielder when Torre decided to keep an extra reliever in the pen, assuming his starters would all need help after the sixth inning. That extra line-up spot could have gone to Bernie, who would have filled in admirably as he did last year when the outfielders were limping. Now they have Kevin Thompson, of the who?

Bernie would not have only ably performed, but his stoical professionalism could well have uplifted the team's morale during some the game crises that they have not survived. His reassuring dugout presence cannot be overvalued. If you look at the recent history of the Yankees, from their rise in 1993 to contender status, through their championship run of 1996-2000, and their division title streak since then, the only common element of all those teams was Bernie Williams. Of the current Yankees who own World Series rings, all of them--Jeter, Posada and Pettitte-are performing admirably. The rest, Arod aside, are sucking eggs. Goose eggs.

It's time to re-evaluate Bernie, who is living in pleasant retirement now, strumming his acoustical guitar and waiting for the best gigs, while inwardly laughing at the shortsightedness of the Yankee brass who chose Mike Myers over him. Bernie will not make the Hall of Fame; his numbers simply don't qualify him. He did win the batting title once. Once is not enough. He has hit more post-season homers than anyone, but except for a few divisional play-off games, they did not come in memorable moments, like Aaron Boone's or Scott Brosius'. But he was always there, always contributing, even in subtle ways. In the 1996 Series against the Braves, his homer was instrumental in winning Game 3 after the Yanks were blown out in the first two contests. Then, in the pivotal Game 4, after Jim Leyritz homered to put the game into extra innings, Bernie's imposing presence convinced Braves' manager Bobby Cox to walk him and load the bases in a two-out situation, after which Wade Boggs walked in the winning run.

It is too late to bring Bernie back, at least for this year. Instead the Yankee brain trust is hoping that the bats will return (likely, to some extent), and that Clemens' reappearance can do something to elevate the team's morale (not to mention keep the overworked bullpen from having to take over more games in the fourth inning). There is still a chance that they can surge into a Wild Card situation, as Houston did the past couple of years with Pettitte and Clemens working for them. But the ghost of Bernie will linger, and the karma will probably keep them
out of October consideration.