Goodbye to All That, or New Lang Syne

As I've stated before, this has been the best year of the decade for me, especially the last six month, which were replete with winnings up and down. Aside from me and Brian Cashman (and James Cameron) it may not have worked out for everyone else, but every dog has his day. Speaking of this stupid decade, I have been referring to it as the "Oughts," though it rightfully should be spelled the "Aughts," as though anyone ever uses that word in normal conversation. I aught to know better.

A few stray thoughts to end the year with, as I glide very low-key through the New Year's period:

1. The best movie of the decade may have been the last one I saw. James Cameron's "Avatar," which I approached with high expectations due to the months of hype, actually met those expectations. Though its story is derivative and predictable, the experience of watching, with or without the 3D augmentation, is breathtaking. The thought and detail that goes into every frame is remarkable--I kept on wondering what the next visual thrill would be. And it's not just in the imagined scenic world he projects, which is of course beautiful. But even in the quotidian scenes of workers in a lab with their computer screens, the imagery is eye-popping. This is visionary filmmaking in every sense of the word. I'm going back to see it next week, on an even bigger screen.

2. The best TV comedy of the year is not "Modern Family," which is agreeable but burdened by the "Office" contrivance of a mockumentary that allows characters to speak directly to the camera to reveal their thoughts, rather than act them out in dialogue. The honor goes to ABC's "Better Off Ted," which is fast-paced and hilarious. In its cynicism it is like "Arrested Development," only exponentially funnier. The actors manage the broad comedy turns very deftly. I hope it maintains an audience, though.

3. The hullabaloo over the Christmas near-bombing of the Detroit-bound airliner reflects our nation's continued overstated obsession with terrorism--the enduring angst of the decade. Not that we shouldn't be vigilant. Not that this asshole shouldn't have been stopped in Amsterdam. But what is the scorecard here? One person was able to sneak through the barriers, and in such a restricted way that he was unable to actually detonate his payload. Just like the shoe bomber. No one was killed. The perpetrator was arrested.

Janet Napolitano's original p.r. statement that the "system worked" was obviously bogus, but she was woman enough to retract it the next day. You see, Democrats can actually admit to mistakes. But George W. is still probably maintaining that Brownie did a good job. Now of course the Republicans are trying to have everyone in the Obama administration fired over the incident, even though the system was implemented by their guy, and the Dutch and Ugandans were the lax agents.

But what's most inane was the overreaction of the TSA and its instant implementation of new rules to protect us form such a similar incident, including keeping everyone stuck in his seat, with no access to electronics, personal luggage, or the bathroom for the final hour of a flight--simply because setting off the explosives in the last hour was this jerk's plan. Did it occur to any of the TSA functionaries that an explosive can be set off at any point during a flight--and that the 9/11 attackers perpetrated their evil in the first hour?

I don't mind walking through a body scanner before my next flight, but I'll be damned if I have to sit like a Tibetan monk in a trance for 60 minutes while the flight attendants police the aisles. So once again, by making our lives that much more stressful, the terrorists win, even without harming a fly.

4. Why are there no New Year's Eve songs, except for the obvious "Auld Lang Syne"? That ditty is 250 years old and not sounding any fresher. It seems to me that this would be a good area for a contest, or at least a skit on SNL.

Three Good Years

An amusing cartoon today's L.A. Times pictured two ancient Mayans, one holding the famous round calendar he'd just fashioned and apologizing to the other that he ran out of room after Dec. 21, 2012. The other Mayan chuckles and says "That ought to create a lot of panic some day."

And contribute, as well, to the coffers of producers wise enough to tap into our cultural zeitgeist. After beginning my blog in 2005 with thoughts about apocalyptic theory, and then following up on the 2012 phenomenon, I finally got to see Hollywood's take on the End Times, a Megadisaster flick called "2012."

Given the conventions of disaster movies, especially of the Roland Emmerich variety ("Independence Day," "The Day After Tomorrow"), my expectations were medium-to-low. But I was not disappointed. Sure there were were the ludicrous plot contrivances, hair-breadth escapes by the lead (John Cusack, channeling Tom Cruise from "War of the Worlds"), and the Golden Rule of Cinema Destruction: "No children or Dogs shall die on screen." A corollary for this film, at least--if you have a Russian accent, look out.

But come on, who goes to a disaster movie to invest in the characters? The cinema is the only medium that can effectively depict mass destruction in an entertainingly detached manner, and in this regard, "2012" delivers the goods. You want to see Los Angeles slide into the sea? Done. Had a bad day at the Venetian casino in Las Vegas? Not as bad a day as the casino has here. And for the lapsed Catholics in the world, what can be more entertaining than to see St. Peter's Basilica implode and then collapse on all the worshippers in St. Peter's Square? And the White House, already having been blown to bits by aliens in Independence Day," now has to deal with a tidal wave of biblical proportions and a very obstreperous aircraft carrier. Interestingly, the producers were prescient enough to include a black American president for 2012, though this one is Danny Glover, Morgan Freeman being busy limning Nelson Mandela in another movie playing at the multiplex, "Invictus."

As for the appratus by which the Earth is majorly destroyed, there are two elements. One is a fatal does of neutrinos emanating from a burst of solar energy that melts the core of our planet and sets the crust rolling all over. This strikes me as ludicrous. The other major agent is the caldera at Yellowstone, a potential supervolcano that regular explodes every 600,000 years or so and covers the surface of earth with heinous and unbreathable ash. Now, since the volcano has not erupted in 640,000 years, and has lately been showing signs of excess heat, this particular bit of cinema whimsy may be a little too close to the truth for comfort.

I've also been thinking more about the date, Dec. 21, which is suspicious because it is the winter solstice, and not some arbitrary date. Since societies have been worshipping the Winter Solstice event from time immemorial, as it has signified for all peoples the lengthening of days and the return of the life-giving sun, the selection of Dec. 21 as a watershed moment probably has more to do with that superstition and the seasonal manner by which the ancients measured time.

In any event, if my home is about to join the Pacific Ocean, there is precious little I can do about it, except perhaps to move to New Mexico; but even then, I'll be covered by the volcanic ash from Yellowstone. Dr. Wayne Dyer once wrote that "worry" was a useless emotion. I prefer my emotions useful and self-perpetuating. But at least , if the world is to end, I've gotten to see it already on Hollywood Boulevard.

Angels in My Pocket

I opened my mailbox today and, among the thousands of repeat requests for charitable giving, I received a check for $36 from the Bank of America. It was a class-action award for some obscure malfeasance performed by this Bank, the issue of which I had no memory whatsoever. But I shrugged and pocketed the little check, which totaled more than I earned all year in interest from the same bank. That's the way this year has gone for me.

After years and years of serving as Holiday Curmudgeon, this year I am the Anti-Grinch. I realize that it has not been a good year for many of my countrymen, especially the 10% unemployed and the other 10% that has stopped looking. But for me, 2009 has been the oasis of years in the desert of the soon-to-be-unlamented Ought Decade. It's been swell, almost unaccountably pleasant, and I will be a little regretful when the electric ball falls in Times Square.

Part of my emotional resurgence came this year because, unlike in the previous two years, I did not have to oversee the six-month decline and death of a favorite pet or a good friend. All persons within my circle, save for the elderly mother of one friend, survived healthily. My Mom, at 98, not only made it through the year but had a big birthday party where I happily reuned with other thriving relatives. My family visits were agreeable and angst-free. All year I only had one cold, which attacked me recently but with excellent timing, following a spate of vacationing.

In the arenas of competition, in which I get the majority of my thrills, most of the results were highly favorable. My Rotisserie team, at least the more expensive one, did very well, winning the stats if finishing second by the peculiarities of scoring rules. The result was an enjoyable summer of baseball, which culminated of course with a Yankee World Series victory, a necessary component of any Good Year. And my other gaming pursuits were just as successful. After three gambling trips and myriad poker meetings, I traveled to Vegas for my Winterfest approximately even for the year in gaming, a pretty remarkable record.

Prior to that last trip I received a very foolish e-mail chain letter from Benny (not his real name), a member of my poker game. It contained the picture of an angel and promised that she would bring good luck if I passed the e-mail on. Specifically, if I only sent it to two persons, I would receive a "windfall" in four days. Normally I trash these things immediately, but I figured, I'm going to Vegas, that will at least give the windfall a chance to occur. So I apologetically forwarded it to two friends four days prior to my last day in Vegas.

The first two days presented me with little luck, but I did not worry; the irrational was taking hold of me and I half-believed I would receive major luck on the third day. So after midnight I sat at a poker machine with $40 and watched as the machine started hitting fours-of-a-kind one after another. By the time I was done there I'd made nearly $300. And as the day moved on I continued to hit big hand after big hand. As Thursday morning rolled around I had made $900 that day, and was satisfied to head home with it. Boy, was I smug. Windfall, I don't know, but this was the first year ever I actually made a profit gambling.

Uncertain of the supernatural quality of the chain spam, I accosted Benny the next Sunday at our poker game and told him of my good fortune. I asked him if it went as well for him, and he frowned and said "Are you kidding?" And then he went ahead to lose a lot more at the poker game. Actually, I lost a little at that game too. But I got it all back from the Bank of America.

Happy Holidays.