19

19 is my favorite number. This has everything to do with the fact that there are two 19s in my birth date, one for the century and one for the day. Whenever I bet a number in Keno or roulette, 19 will always be the first to come to mind. I even have fond remembrances of the Yankees' #19 of the 1950s, "Bullet" Bob Turley.

And now 19 is my favorite proposition. As in Prop 19, the California initiative to legalize small amounts of marijuana for personal use. Although most California propositions lately have been either fiscally irresponsible (Prop 13 and all those restrictions on legislative budgeting), or discriminatory (Prop 187 attacking immigrants and Prop 8 rejecting gay marriage), this one is maybe The Best Ever. It is the first major salvo fired against the insanity of the drug war, and it has major fiduciary advantages as well.

For eons, this natural substance has been cultivated and used for medicinal and palliative purposes, as well as for its pleasant relaxant qualities--unlike alcohol and tobacco, two other much more dangerous and narcotic substances that need to be cured or prepared artificially. Yet tobacco is legal and alcohol is legal and each cause massive illness and deaths in the hundreds of millions. Cannabis has never been known to kill a single person. so, in this insane policy, it is registered as a Class A Drug--the most dangerous and narcotic--by our Drug Enforcement Agency and people have had to live out their lives in prison sentences because of its use.

There is no evidence whatsoever to substantiate any of this proscription. Up till the 1920s cannabis was regularly used for medicinal purposes. Then, when liquor was legalized again in the 1930s, the liquor lobby used the fear of Mexican immigrants in Texas to push through laws associating social unrest with their marijuana usage. Weird fantasies like "Reefer Madness" propagandized the apparent evil of the weed. And so it has stayed, even though Nixon's commission on marijuana suggested that it was not dangerous. He just ignored the findings.

Finally, with the Baby Boomers coming to political prominence, a crack in this insanity permitted the use of marijuana for medicinal purposes again. But politicians have steered clear of suggesting that marijuana be afforded the same legal status of alcohol and cigarettes--even if the control and taxation of pot could have major fiscal benefits to states' budgets.

In California there is not one major politician who supports Prop 19, even Jerry Brown, who certainly has used it. But there are major law enforcement agencies who do state clearly that it would help majorly to deflect their efforts to real crime prevention. Not to mention what would happen to drug cartels--certainly bands of gross evil careening through Mexico and knocking on our borders--who would be crippled when denied this great source of contraband.

If you don't think so, ask about what happened to bootleggers when Prohibition was lifted.

Arguments made against legalization have always been feeble. Yes, it is not a good thing for children to smoke pot, but legalization would probably make it harder rather than easier for kids to get pot, since it wouldn't be sold so much on the street, and their ages would prevent them from purchasing in stores. Just as now, kids can always find their parents' stashes, just as they can find a bottle of beer in the fridge or a pack of Camels in Mom's drawer.

The most idiotic claim is that legalization would "send the wrong message." Claiming marijuana as a "gateway" drug is ridiculous. It's no more a gateway drug than root beer is to a rum and coke. People will always seek food and beverage and drugs to enhance mood. In fact, the human brain has a special receptor to cannaboloids (sic?), the chemical substances in pot, suggesting that there is an evolutionary advantage to its usage. You want to hear a wrong message? How about "smoking makes you look cool?" Or "let's get together with a glass of Schlitz."

If marijuana legalization were to come to pass--putting aside the slow Federal contradiction to local state laws--our penal population would be significantly reduced, enhancing the lives of thousands of victimless "criminals" who have been unjustly imprisoned, and saving the taxpayers their substantial upkeep. Tax monies on pot sales would flow into local coffers. Police forces would divert their resources to actual crime fighting. Drug cartels would be heavily crippled. Those seeking its medicinal benefits would not have to jump through hoops or overcome their anxieties to attain their needed supply.

Would there be greater pot use? Of course. But what's wrong with that?

The Year I Actually Watched the Emmys

It's been 22 years since I last watched the Emmy telecast. And that year I only watched (or rather "taped") the event because I was in attendance, having actually earned a nomination. When I got home to watch the program--after not winning--I only asked the Unseen Showbiz God that my name be spelled correctly if it was displayed onscreen. It was displayed. Incorrectly. So I haven't watched since.

It's not that I don't appreciate the TV awards show. In fact, I am one of those people who actually votes, year after year. But after screening and rescreening so many episodes, all of which I had already seen during the fall or spring, I usually suffer from video exhaustion. Just like the years I worked in my local polling place for 15 hours and couldn't devote one iota of interest in the actual election returns of the evening. But yesterday a neighbor asked to watch the show with me, so I politely acquiesced.

Usually the only awards shows I can tolerate are the Oscars, for their marquis value, and the Tonys, for a taste of the New York theater. But to my surprise this Emmy show was up to them if not in epic scope, then in pace and wit. In fact, the whole program was cleverly and carefully scripted, especially the quickie intros of the winners as they climbed to the podium.

For the two categories in which I voted--I'm not supposed to be more specific publicly--I chose the winner each time. (Hint: I went with the favorite). This did not make me feel particularly smug, though it did afford me the right to yell at the TV screen "You're welcome!" the two times the executive producer accepted his award and did not mention me on stage.

But I'm not bitter.

I appreciated the pacing of the show, which kept it at precisely three hours. Various thoughts: all the winners were given their proper due without lingering. The only exception was Matthew Weiner's snarky reaction to being cut short in one of his speeches. I have a feeling he is not a wonderful person. Temple Grandin's sincere enthusiasm was amusing and touching. I realized how much I was going to miss "Lost" when they showed Hurley--I mean Jorge Garcia--joining the "Glee" opening number. I wondered about the absence of Chris Lloyd, co-creator of "Modern Family" and the only current writing winner I'd ever worked with. Especially when the annual Death Reel included his legendary father, David Lloyd, who scripted "Chuckles Bites the Dust" on the Mary Tyler Moore Show. I also cringed at the applause-o-meter reactions to each dead person as their face appeared. Please withhold your reactions to the end, folks!

And then there was Betty White, looking great in her front-row placement, though by now we kind of expect a throne, or the Kennedy Center Honors. She was amusing as ever in the opening sequence, and managed to avoid an awkward standing ovation possibility by having her Emmy win for SNL awarded last week. I don't mean to sound snide here. Full disclosure, I have had the experience of working with her a couple of decades back, and I recall her as being funny and tart and professional, close to her public persona. My two major memories are of her graciously coming to congratulate me after a successful taping of one of my shows; also, of a less successful table reading at which I was impressed at how hard she tried to make the material funny. The number of quality people I have known in Hollywood I can count on one hand, and she's one of the fingers.

Add to these qualities her dedicated work for animal causes, and I find her National Aggrandizement quite edifying and cheery. Rather the way George Burns was celebrated in his latter years. And what's also remarkable is that you will not be able to find anyone who disagrees. In this contentious and polarized national climate, her late success is a phenomenon which every American--aw shit, everyone everywhere-- can unanimously applaud. Someone 88 can be pretty and smart and active. How cool is that. And she is still funny.

So I guess this is one time a standing ovation--rather than the de rigeur, stuttering audience rise for Ubermensch George Clooney--would actually not be an embarrassment.

But for the actual awards, come Friday I will have no recollection of who won.

Pleading the First

Samuel Johnson famously wrote, and I'm sure I have repeated it here, that "patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel." I would like to add the corollary that citing the First Amendment may be the next-to-last, but I need to equivocate slightly, given the recent controversies that have dominated the news this silly summer season.

First there's that reprobate faux-psychologist Laura Schlessinger (she of the Ph.D. in physiology) who generated a storm by her strange tone-deaf rant that included the repetition of the "N" word--even I can't write it here--ten times to a bewildered caller, and all the attendant listeners who actually think she has something worthwhile to add to our social discourse. Dr. Laura eventually decided to get off the stage, or the mike, and blamed the critics for her decision, as though she was without fault (must be a Republican).

She ultimately defaulted to the argument that her First Amendment rights were being violated because she was not allowed to say politically incorrect things. This was wrong on more levels even than Rush Limbaugh's debunking of Climate Change based on a Washington D.C. blizzard last year. First of all, she was not fired. Secondly, she seems to imply that others had no right to criticize her--forgetting that they live under the constitutional guarantees of fee speech as well.
Thirdly, her argument represents a misunderstanding of the actual wording of the First Amendment, which says that the Government can pass no laws that would abridge the right of free speech. Now if the Federal Government shut down her program, yeah, she'd have an argument. But even that overreaching Fascist Communist Socialist Moslem, Kenyan-born President has made no such efforts, nor has any other government agency.

Of course Idiot Sarah Palin offered her illiterate support of Laura's battle to keep her "First Amendment" rights in Sarah's blog. Yeah, like Sarah has any idea what's in the Constitution. No need for further comment, except for an agreeable irony that two years ago Dr. Laura strongly criticized the selection of Sarah Palin as Vice Presidential candidate because she was so underqualified and intellectually lacking. So at least in that one instance Dr. Laura was correct, and Sarah's current knee-jerk support only confirms it. Tra-la.

Then there's the sad current wedge issue created by right-wing bloggers concerning the "appropriateness" of building a Muslim community center a couple of blocks from Ground Zero. I guess I should weigh in, with the full disolosure that I am not a big fan of Islam, of how it treats women, of how the Arab's invaded Israel on Yom Kippur, how the Egyptians made a popular miniseries of the bogus anti-Jewish tract "The Protocols of the Elders of Zion," how Hamas still wants to drive Israel into the sea, etc. But given all that, my only reaction to the so-called controversy was "The First Amendment! Freedom of Religion!" And that's that.

Yet my own counterargument clouds the issue. There is no threat here of the government trying to abridge the right of Imam and other Muslim community leaders to erect this center. Even most Republicans have backtracked and relented on the constitutional rights of the Muslims. (Except for Newt Gingrich, who wants to somehow prevent the building of mosques anywhere in this country so long as their is similar intolerance to churches and synagogues in many Arab countries). The argument instead becomes one, essentially, of "good taste" and "appropriateness," and not hurting the feelings of those who lost loved ones on 9/11.

Perhaps I am too emotionally distant to appreciate that argument, though I'd understand it more if there was actually a tribute to Islam or Al Qaeda on the actual site of the destruction. That would be somewhat problematic. But the underlying issue is Islamaphobia, and the painting of every Moslem as being associated with the attack, as opposed to the radicalized group which is as much a fringe group as the John Birch Society used to be. And the building itself, sort of an Islamic YMCA or YMHA, is pretty innocuous, even benevolent. The Imam has worked with the two administrations, including Bush's, as a bridge-builder to moderate Muslims, and this affair is not likely to encourage him to continue that useful pursuit.

The bottom line is that the Republicans and conservative bloggers have tried to use this issue as a political football, though I don't see how many more votes they will gain simply from Arab-baiting. But much worse, the image of America among the billion Arabs in the world, which was finally recovering from the Bush double-war "Crusade" thanks to Obama's diplomatic efforts, has taken a serious hit. Sure, Sarah, Newt and Rush, drumming up race and religious hatred is a really effective tool to generate political activism. But it also helps to bring down tall buildings and destroy millions of innocent lives.

Words, Words, Words

One of my favorite moments in Shakespeare is the scene early in "Hamlet" when Polonius encounters the supposedly mad Danish prince perusing a book, and asks him "What are you reading, my Lord?" To which Hamlet replies "Words, words, words." It is one of those tricky lines that challenges every actor to put his own spin on them, and scholars to throw in their thoughts.

I bring this up because of the recent bout with words evidenced by Sarah Palin, she of the "refudiate" tweet, who later compared her proclivity to making up words to that of Shakespeare. Her gall level, already stratospheric, shot out into space with that one, though full disclosure, I was somewhat relieved to learn that she had actually heard of Shakespeare.

Now she is not the first one to make up a word that sounds right but isn't one of the milion-or-so that officially constitute the English language. In an earlier blog from 2005 I suggested the word "clut" as a nearly profane but descriptive combination of "clod" and "slut." (Ironically, though that was before Palin was known, that word could well apply to her). But my portmanteaus always come with an apology and an explanation. Hers come with her usual hauteur and indignation of a self-important proto-demagogue.

Her previous attempt at word coinage, the "lamestream media" has not exactly caught on, even on Fox (where it also applies most descriptively). Incidentally, great job on the Shirley Sherrod, case, Andrew Breitbart and Rupert and Roger and all you Fox wingnuts. Lamestream is kind of hard to say, even with a mealy mouth.

There is a political tradition of malapropisms entering into our lexicon. The most notable was the word "normalcy," which was accidentally invented by Warren G. Harding when he misread the word "normality" in a speech. Now given that Harding is considered one of the worst presidents, except for George W--he of "misunderestimate"--this kind of whmsical word invention is not necessarily a badge of honor.

But it doesn't matter to Sarah and her adoring acolytes. Nothing she can say can be wrong, she is so pretty and so gifted and so experienced and...oh, I'm sorry I drifted off there. What bugs me most about conservatives and Republicans in general is their utter inability to admit to even the slightest mistake, as though to do so is a sign of weakness. In the recent case of Ms. Sherrod, after the heinous out-of-context character assassination was revealed to be bogus, all the Democrats who, very lamely, bowed to the immediate Outrage have simply admitted their mistake and apologized to the offended party. This includes Secretary of Agriculture Vilsack, President Obama, and the NAACP. But the purveyors of the lie? Hardly a peep (though at least Bill O'Reilly issued some half-assed regret before gong on another racist tear). Breitbart defends himself as the aggrieved party and that jawdropping clut Ann Coulter maintains that Breitbart was "set-up." Extraordinary.

When you think that the foremost women in Republican politics now are Sarah Palin, Michelle Bachman, and Ann Coulter--with Michelle Malkin thrown in, I guess, It's hard not to simply press your palms tight against your face and emit a Scream, like in Munch's painting. No words, real or manufactured, can suffice.

Bye George

It is an uncomfortable but fitting coincidence that two of the stalwarts of the Yankee era have passed away within a week of each other. Last week it was longtime P.A. announcer Bob Sheppard, and this morning old George Steinbrenner finally faded away like a good soldier. Given the rule of three, if I were Yogi Berra I'd definitely go in for a check-up.

Of course there is sadness in the passing of each of these Yankee icons, but at least each lived a full and fruitful life and got to observe the results of their efforts and the ultimate appreciation by the public. In Sheppard's case this was a cinch. His mellifluous tones were always an auditory treat, and if not the "Voice of God," as Reggie Jackson called him, it came awfully close for me. Given my quasireligious fervor for baseball, the Yankees, and the grandiose temple that was Yankee Stadium, it's hard not to consider his dulcet announcements as somewhat deific. And Derek Jeter will see to it that as long as he plays it will be Sheppard's recorded voice that announces his plate appearances. Okay, perhaps that speaks of excessive hubris by Jeter, but after all, he is the Captain.

I think that if Sheppard had his way, he would be remembered for the announcements of Mickey Mantle and Jose Valdevioso, two wonderfully mellifluous monikers. And I will be smiling for a long time remembering Sheppard's plaint, "What can you do with 'Steve Sax'? What can you do with 'Mickey Kluttz'? In fact,"What can you do with Mickey Kluttz?" ought to be the name of his biography.

Well he was rewarded for his skill and durability with a 99-yer-life span, exceed by only George Burns, Bob Hope and my mother.

My Mom, in fact, has the same birthday as George Steinbrenner, but celebrated hers last week in far better shape. George had been declining for years, severely enough to cede control of the Yankees to his less manic son Hank. The Steinbrenner mark will continue, though the hunger for victory may not be quite as demanding.

I hold mostly positive feelings about George, acknowledging that I probably would not like him at all as a person or a boss. But he achieves something quite profound in my affective life, which was to bring the Yankees back from the bottom of the pond in their post-1964 depression and create a championship team by 1977. He was a visionary and a mover, and his advocacy of free agency--or at least his adaptation to it after the Messersmith decision--was a literal game changer. He brought Catfish Hunter to the Yankees, then Reggie Jackson, along with talented managers like Billy Martin (over and over) and Bob Lemon.

That success, though, created unreasonable expectations and a profligacy of spending on over-the-hill free agents in the 1980s, when the Yankees could not win a pennant despite the importation of Dave Winfield and Rickey Henderson. Steinbrenner's instinct for pitching talent was not as commensurate, and the Yanks could not climb over teams with better chemistry. He also thought that changing managers like one change linens would somehow improve results, and instead it caused chaos. Given that the Yanks won more games in that decade than any other team, and only got into the series once (1981), there was something amiss in his formula.

It took a judge-imposed hiatus from baseball that loosened his grip on the gene3al management in the early '90s that helped the Yanks realign themselves with the young talent that would produce a championship team in the late '90s, the last baseball dynasty, some of whose start still function admirably today. The "Core Four" or Jeter, Posada, Rivera and Pettitte are still major forces in the team with the best record so far in 2010. If George was less responsible for their development, he deserves credit for bringing in the smartest baseball people, from Gene Michael then to Brian Cashman now. And so we have Arod, Tex, Cano, C.C., Hughes and Gardner.

The last pronouncement I heard from Steinbrenner came last week, when he was reported as saying how pleased he was with this year's Yankee performance. And although he was too weak last fall to participate in the Yankee victory parade, the pride and joy he must have felt was certainly merited. Thank you.

The Baseball Gods Must Be Crazy

Gee, I wish I had the literary skills of Roger Angell, sportswriter emeritus for the New Yorker. Only his graceful prose would be commensurate with the high lyrical tragedy that befell two baseball personages whose lives intersected dramatically in Detroit last night.

The incident has become well-known and soon to be an indelible part of baseball lore. Armando Galaragga, a journeyman pitcher struggling to retain his position on the staff of the Detroit Tigers, put together a masterful game (albeit against the horrendous Indians), and went into the 9th inning with 24 consecutive outs.

The 25th out itself was worthy of any highlight reel MLB-TV can compile in the next decade. Center fielder Austin Jackson runs wildly after a long ball headed toward the fence, then makes an astounding grab over his shoulder. In itself it was one of the two or three greatest catches I've ever seen, as close as possible to approximating Willie Mays' famous 1954 World Series play robbing Vic Wertz. The situation magnified its significance, although this was a regular-season game whose outcome was not in doubt. It also, spookily, mirrored a similar perfect-game-saving catch by DeWayne Wise at the same juncture in Mark Buehrle's gem of 2009.

So it appeared a fait accompli after another ground out, and a then a final grounder fielded to his right by Miguel Cabrera and thrown to Galaragga covering. But then umpire Jim Joyce had the weirdest of brain farts and called the runner safe. Why this happened is uncertain. My Rotisserie buddy "Kevin" opined that Joyce was trying too hard not to be sentimental and bent over backward not to give Galaragga a break. Who knows? It was a moment now simultaneously lost forever and captured forever.

It was one of the worst calls I've ever seen, especially given the situation. It compared to Don Denkinger's blown call that lost the World Series for the Cardinals in 1985. It was one of the cruelest moments I've seen in a game, worse than my previous least favorite, the end of Mike Mussina's perfect game bid in 2001 on a flair by Carl Everett with two out in the ninth. But at least that was a real hit.

The practical significance of this event was negligible. Armando still got his shutout, the Tigers won, the Indians lost. The only persons truly affected were Galaragga, who lost his placement--perhaps--in the record books; and Jim Joyce, who will have to bear the infamy of this professional lapse for the rest of his career. Also, the many baseball aficionados fascinated by the preponderance of special pitching performances this season. Had Joyce made the correct call this would have been the third perfect game in a period of a month, a statistical peculiarity that says nothing but that there is a randomness to all events.

And it makes Jackson's amazing catch part of the tragedy. After all, that should have been a hit, and then there would have been no controversy. But controversy abounds now. The Michigan governor issued a ridiculous edict proclaiming the game a Perfect Game. Commissioner Bud Selig has been besieged with demands to overrule Joyce, which won't be happening, but also to reconsider broader instant replay rules, which may.

If there's anything salvageable about this miscarriage of justice, this proof that baseball, like life, just isn't fair, it's the gentlemanly reactions of the two participants. Galaragga was understated, acknowledging with deep irony that "nobody is perfect," and Joyce, to his credit, quickly admitted that he blew the call and apologized tearfully to Galaragga. And when has an umpire ever apologized to a player?

So Galaragga will never get that perfect game, like Roy Halladay and Dallas Braden did earlier this season, but his near-miss will be remembered a lot longer, like Harvey Haddix's unbelievable 12 perfect innings that ended in a 13th-inning loss to the Braves in 1959. And I would not be surprised to see him on the talk-show circuit, for what that's worth.

But as much as I'd like to see Galaragga get his due, there is something hyperbolic about a perfect game that makes it so rare. It requires perfection not just from the pitcher but from every fielder. The slightest bobble could turn such a masterpiece into a less spectacular no-hitter. Now it appears that even the umpires must be flawless.

So, although it's a game, baseball can serve up cruelty as well as any institution. The Cards should have won in 1985. The Yanks should have won in 2001. And beyond the boundaries of the game, where life intervenes, there is much more profound tragedy. Nick Adenhart pitches a shutout for the Angels in front of his father and is killed three hours later by a drunken driver. Roberto Clemente hops a rescue plane to Nicaragua and dies for his efforts, his body never recovered. Donnie Moore gives up a poorly-timed home run and shoots himself a year later. Thurman Munson, Darryl Kile, Cory Lidle, Lyman Bostock, Ken Caminiti, Ray Chapman, etc.

But then there is the odd case of Enrique Wilson, a Yankee reserve in 2001, who was going to stay in New York for the World Series victory parade that never came. So he flew home early to the Dominican Republic. Had the Yankees had that parade, he would have been aboard a plane that crashed in Jamaica Bay with no survivors.

You just never know.

A Pair of Jacks

First let me begin fittingly, with a sidebar: have you noticed the preponderance of TV (and for that matter, film) heroes whose names are Jack, Chuck, Mack, Rick, Buck, Mack Truck, etc? What is it that is so suggestively masculine about names ending in the hard K? There are certainly no feminine names ending in hard K. It's some kind of Jungian association, I guess (though in Comedy, the hard K is very valuable to start jokey words like Kalamazoo and Cucamonga).

The name Jack, in fact, is somewhat bogus, since it is a derivative of John, a name not quite as suggestively bold. If the hero of "24" were named John Bauer it would not strike nearly as much fear in his enemies and associates. As for Jack Shepherd of "Lost," well John Shepherd may have had a more pleasing quasi-Christian aura, just as his father's name "Christian Shepherd" was specifically created to define his ultimate series function.

So the two seminal action shows of the Aughts, "24" and "Lost," produced their series finales this week, and it's taken me a while to process them. Well, not so much for the straightforward "24", which was quickly erased from my DVR as soon as it concluded. I had been a fan of this show as a broad kinetic rollercoaster concoction with laughable inconsistencies that were necessitated by the program's real-time premise. It would have been just another innocuous lark if so many neo-Cons had not taken its reverence for torture so seriously, but that's waterboarding under the bridge.

Throughout the series' run, though,I always assumed that Jack would be dispatched in the end. Especially this season when his cold-blooded thirst for vengeance led him to several brutal murders and his main focus was to destroy an historic peace agreement. Well, he was dispatched, but only by a sympathetic president who sent him packing after he sent her a video full of claptrappy idealism from a very cynical heart. In fact this season he ended up healthier than in most, the better to prep for the movie version. My own cynicism makes me knee-jerk bemoan the prospect, although frankly, the 24-hour conceit will make much more sense in a two-hour film.

And then there was "Lost." Oh my. I am sheepishly confessing to be a "Lostie," one who fell under the spell of the enigmatic story, and I anticipated the finale with the relish of a tweenie girl about to get to see the finals of "American Idol." And amazingly, I was NOT disappointed. It was sad to see Jack/John die, though it was sacrificial and appropriate and symmetrical with the show's opening scene, which had him open his eyes to the horrific beauty of the Island. (If the Island had a name, what would it be? Another unresolved mystery). The final shot of Jack in the same spot, ending his earthly existence while Vincent the dog sat vigil, was a a real throat clutcher. Boy did I hug Sammie when it was over.

Then there's the matter of the "Sideways" plot, which culminated in the happy reconciliation of all the characters who were actually creating their own little communal Limbo throughout the season. That the Sideways world was an afterlife projection of the hopes and dreams of the characters ought to have been obvious from the first, but we viewers really wanted it to be the "real world." Why? Because we cared so much about the characters. The show's creators, JJ Abrams, Carlton Cuse and Daryl Lindelof made sure from the first that character was to be primary in the series, and spent half the script time delving into their characters' pasts (and futures). Very successfully so, because we really came to know them.

Though at first puzzled and uncertain at the bittersweet conclusion, I watched for a second time and found the episode to fall very nicely into place. For a program that still left many plot elements unresolved, the Sideways theme tracked quite well. My only objection was the pain that a few characters (Sun and Locke, especially) had to endure in their way station to Heaven. For most of them, they achieved their dreams or romantic reunions in a sweet, nearly saccharine series of audience-pleasing moments. And I was also moved, but I was more moved by the fact that I was moved. After all, this was as wild and improbable a fiction as TV has ever seen. And when it was done, I lay in bed ruminating about it. It's just a fucking TV show! But boy, was it a good one.

Congratulations, JJ, Carlton and Daryl. I may be an atheist, but I appreciated that this was at heart a spiritual show and kept faithful to that creed. Thanks for the ride, and here's hoping you enjoy your own epiphanies when the time comes.