"Tube Stakes" Update II

The “Hung” Jury has returned its verdict. The new HBO series premiered on Sunday night (6/28) and it is neither an Updike-ian analysis of American society through the prism of a middle-class man with a humongous hard-on (Rabbit Re: Dicks?) as conjectured in Tube Stakes (6/25) nor, through a supporting character, a fantasy of female empowerment (Erin Cockovich?) as asserted by Alessandra Stanley in the 6/26 NY Times. It is, in fact, not much of anything.

At best, “Hung” is an attempt to exploit the economic securities of the moment for their entertainment value. See the hardworking, middle-class, middle-American white man live in a tent after his house burns down and he has no insurance. See his annoying neighbor, who lives in the McMansion next door. In terms of craft, they run afoul of the Mimetic Fallacy. How do you show someone who is stupid and dull without being stupid and dull? They also begin with the backstory, which one shouldn’t do – that’s why it’s called backstory. As for being a Madoff-era melodrama, they fall far short of what demagogic politicians and demi-brained talk show hosts do with the same material. Meanwhile, the Tube Stakes is running and “Hung,” an early favorite from HBO Farms is fading fast in the back stretch. It may not finish, much less in the money.

Madoff: "The Success of his Secret" Update.

In my first post (5/12) I wrote about Bernard Madoff and the factors that contributed both to his success and, ultimately, his downfall. On June 29, 2009, Bernard Madoff was sentenced to one hundred and fifty years in prison for defrauding thousands of investors out of billions of dollars in a scheme that lasted for twenty years and may be the greatest financial scandal in American history.

The man who collected gold and diamond-encrusted watches is now serving time.

The man who entertained on a royal level is now a guest of the state.

The man who fleeced Nobel Peace Prize Winner, Elie Wiesel, will never know peace.

The man who robbed colleges and universities is now teaching by example.

The man who devoted himself to living the good life may soon be yearning for a merciful death.

The man who swindled Hall of Fame pitcher Sandy Koufax has struck out.

"Tube Stake" Update I

I still haven’t seen the new HBO series, “Hung” – it debuts on Sunday – but Alessandra Stanley reviews it in today’s (6/25) New York Times and provides more information - after a fashion. “Hung” you may remember from my previous post, is the story of Ray Drecker: a lonely, unemployed, middle class man who becomes a male prostitute because he swings more pipe than Joe the plumber. According to Ms. Stanley, we never see the astounding appendage and very little of his sexual transactions. It’s not even the main character’s story, what she calls, “…the fall of the gifted athlete… a romantic-ization of failure that echoes…John Updike’s Rabbit novels.” (Sorry, Ms. Stanley, I beat you to the “Rabbit” punch) When it concentrates on him, she considers the show “slow and off-putting.” Instead, “The pace and humor pick up when Tanya enters Ray’s life.” Tanya Skagle is the mousy proofreader who becomes Ray’s pimp. A fantasy of female empowerment, she is one of the “…heroines [who] begin as losers…and work or will their way to unlikely triumph.” Perhaps, I haven’t seen the show yet, but it seems to me that a subtle clue to Tanya’s character may be hidden in her last name. Like Drecker (“dreck” is Yiddish for “shit”) Skagle could mean a skank who does Kegel exercises.

The Time’s TV critic goes on to be charmed, touched and to find sweetness in the way Ray and Tanya come together. “He’s on a on a slide down from exalted heights, she has no where to go but up.” “It’s an unlikely pairing and at times an exhilarating partnership - a “Romanc-ing the Stone” in the most unromantic of settings.” If I may review the review instead of the show (If you have any doubts, please look at the name and gloriously inflated title on the right) Ms. Stanley is wrong on two counts. First, if you’re going to pick a Kathleen Turner movie about two losers brought together by sex, it should be “Body Heat” (1981). Second, the obvious choice is a completely different movie, “Midnight Cowboy” (1969). Joe Buck, a naïve man who thinks his member gives him privileges, moves to NYC to become a male prostitute and meets the sleazy, yet streetwise, Ratso Rizzo. They bond and each, in his own fashion, takes care of the other. Ratso Rizzo, however, may not be the image of female empowerment that Alessandra Stanley had in mind.

On Sunday night, we’ll see what the creators of “Hung” had in mind. Stay tuned.

Tube Stakes.

The “Race for the Basement” is on! That’s not a reality show, it’s the reality of television ever since the demise of situation comedies and prime time drama. ABC took an early lead with “Dancing With The Stars.” It didn’t win because there still is some entertainment value to watching people dance. Otherwise, the show is a laboratory for turning has-beens into celebrities. (See post, "Dancing With The Star-Crossed" 5/19) Oxygen may pass them on the inside when “Dance Your Ass Off ” premieres June 29. The ass, in this case, is the weight that obese contestants must lose in addition to winning a dance contest. HBO, however, will beat Oxygen out of the gate with their new series, “Hung,” which premieres on June 28. It’s a scripted show, which earns our praise, about a man with an enormous penis, which doesn’t.

According to the HBO web site, “Hung” is about a “…former high school sports legend turned middle-aged high school basketball coach [who] is divorced and struggling to provide for his kids.” Already, it sounds like every novel that John Updike ever wrote. The Pulitzer Prize-winning author died earlier this year, however, so he won’t be writing this series. Instead, it’s about Ray Drecker, a middle-class man who becomes a male prostitute. “Dreck,” by the way, is Yiddish for “shit.”

It’s hard to know anything else about the series because the trailer and other materials are excessively coy. A lot of shocked expressions, shooting from the waist up and vintage Playboy euphemisms like “assets.” Is “Hung” a comedy, a drama or both? Does it use the man’s church-size organ as a premise for examining middle-class problems or is it one big big dick joke? What do they show, anyway? Do we ever see the real star of the show? It shouldn’t be pornographic, but it should be honest. If it’s just a lot of teasing tell us, if not then wide-screen televisions just got another reason for being.

I’m frankly skeptical about “Hung” and its chances for success. I don’t give it long. In fact, if it lasts more than four hours, I’m not calling my doctor, I’m calling a newspaper.

Ed MacMahon Leaves A Big Space On The Couch.

Ed MacMahon is dead at the age of eighty-six. He was the announcer of The Tonight Show and Johnny Carson’s loyal, laughing sidekick for thirty years. When Carson teased him or made him the butt of a joke, he laughed even louder. For years after, he remained in the public eye as pitchmen for the American Family Publishers Sweepstakes.

He is survived by seventeen bartenders, thirty-two ex-wives and the residents of the Sherman Oaks Nursing home who think Johnny Carson is still on TV.

At his memorial service, “Taps” will be played by “Doc” Severinsen, 82, who also thinks Johnny Carson is still on TV.

His estate, estimated to be zero, is being sued - on principle – by the trusts and estate law firm of Gornisht, Bupkis and Ugatz.

MacMahon wished to be cremated, but his alcohol content would turn him into an eternal flame. Instead, he will be turned into “Buffalo wings” and served to bar patrons at The El Segundo Hilton. He would have wanted it that way.

In lieu of flowers, please send celery sticks and blue cheese sauce to Pepe, c/o The El Segundo Hilton.

Cold Calling.

Sidewalks are the highways of New York City. If you doubt that, try stopping in the middle of one. They’re better than highways, however, because you can run into someone without killing them. It’s done face-to-face instead of head-on and more likely to involve an exchange of pleasantries than of insurance companies. That’s changing, however, and it’s due to cell phones. They have become our “virtual” cars and made living – and walking - here a colder experience.

Walk down any street in Manhattan now and you’ll see people incased in private bubbles of conversation. They’re so unapproachable, they might as well be driving in limos with darkened windows. Partly, that’s intentional and partly, it’s due to the uniquely compelling nature of phones.

Suppose you’re a model or actress, how do you walk down the street without getting attention? A grim expression and marching gait are too subtle and brass knuckles are too obvious. What’s more, they tend to attract all the other people with brass knuckles (You’re not in Kansas.) Yet, somehow, just hold a phone to your ear and onlookers not only stop looking, they make way for you.. What is it about phones that erects an elec-trified fence around the person using one? Simple. We’ve been taught, since we were young, not to interrupt someone when they’re on the phone. Mommy may be gossiping or arranging to kill Daddy for the insurance – it doesn’t matter. We’ve been trained, as children, to wait until she’s done. That’s not true for IPods and Blackberries. One, because you have to be six years old or younger to have been raised with either. Two, because neither product is intimidating. It’s easy for even the most humble and self-denying person to think they’re more important than the music you’re listening to. (Now, think of all the New Yorkers who fit that description.) As for Blackberries, most people use them to play games or check their e-mail, neither of which is crucial. Admit it, there are exactly three people in New York, whose jobs are so important that they have to check their e-mail constantly. They know who they are. You do, too.

Another even more compelling aspect to phones is that they ring. It’s a strong person, indeed, who can hear his phone ring and not, at least, wonder who’s calling. If it rings in a theater or restaurant, you’re obliged to either silence it or take it outside. Not that answering is always the, well, answer. It’s frequently an anti-social activity. Say you’re walking down the street with another person and your cell phone rings. You can either say, “Sorry, I have to take this call” (heavy implication: it’s more important than you!) or look at your caller I.D and laugh derisively before sending whoever it is to voicemail hell.

Is there some way to keep these “virtual” cars from prowling the sidewalks of New York? We can’t cut back on cellular service, that toothpaste is out of the tech-nological tube. It’s not as obvious a threat as dog poop, so a law against it is unlikely. That leaves voluntary prohibition. Let’s all pretend that people on the street deserve as much respect as those in theaters and restaurants. True, it would deprive models and actresses of a useful prop, but there’s always fake mustaches. And isn’t that better than what we have now – a “virtual” Los Angeles, but with lousy weather.

Anatevka Karenina.

A lot of people make ambitious reading plans for the summer. I don’t. I usually have plans left over from last summer and the summer before that. My mountain is Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy. Eight hundred and seventeen pages in the deluxe edition of the critically lauded translation hogging room on my night table. I’ve never made it past fifty pages before I put down the book and watched the movie. I’ve tried rainy days, sunny days, reading on the beach, on a train and on a plane. Nothing ever worked – until now. I was determined to read it this summer and I did! (Please save your applause until the end.) I’ve finally read Anna Karenina from cover to cover. To prove that I’ve read it, I’ve written the following summary. Even if you haven’t read the novel, I urge you to read my synopsis. It may encourage you to climb this particular mountain.You won’t regret it. Thanks.

All happy families are alike; each unhappy family in nineteenth century Russia is Jewish. Especially in the little village of Anatevka, where, on this day in 1875, County Vronsky is leading a pogrom. That means he and his regiment of cavalry are killing every Jew in sight. Vronsky has the local milkman, Tevye, by the beard and is raising his saber, when the frightened man pleads, “Why me? I’m just a poor milkman.”

“You may well ask,“ replies Vronsky, “I’ll tell you. I don’t know, but it’s a tradition!” The cavalry join him in a lusty chorus of “Tradition."

In a Moscow train station, it’s love at first sight for Count Vronsky and Anna Karenina. Her chiseled features part the steam like an icebreaker. He’s no zhlub himself (he’s a colonel) and exceptionally dashing in his uniform. Anna, however, rejects him because she has a husband and child back in St. Petersburg. In addition to getting his heart broken, Vronsky sees a man run over by a train and his mother arrives for a long visit. “Now I Have Everything,” he sings.

When it’s time for Anna to return home, Vronsky insists on joining her and won’t take nyet for an answer. That plus quitting his regiment are enough to overwhelm Anna’s fragile morality. They arrive in St. Petersburg on a Sunday - to the evident joy of her son, a noisome cherub of the Freddy Bartholomew variety and the seething displeasure of her husband, who looks like Basil Rathbone and acts like Dick Cheney. A high-ranking paskudnyak in the Czar’s government, he’s a proud man. He’s also not into swinging, so he gives his wife an ultimatum: either give up Vronsky or never see your son again. She agrees to stop seeing Vronsky, but secretly wishes her husband would die in a samovar explosion. “Sabbath Prayer.

When the house of cards that Anna calls her character collapses in record time, she and Vronsky are lovers once more. Seeing no future in St. Petersburg, they plan to run away together. London or Paris, anywhere as long as it’s “Far From The Home That I love.” They decide on Venice and in no time, they’re canoodling on the Grand Canal. To further escape detection, they pretend to be a Jewish couple from Fairlawn, New Jersey. Toasting each other with Bellinis at Harry’s Bar, they sing, “L’Chaim.” Meanwhile, back in St. Petersburg, Anna’s husband goes to the matchmaker and demands his money back.

“I got you a wife who looks like Greta Garbo, “ she yells, “I should have charged you double!”

“But she’s cheating on me with a man who looks like Frederick March!”

“I didn’t say you’d be happy. I’m not Doctor Philsky.”

Mr. Karenin pleads his case musically:

“Matchmaker/Matchmaker/Make me another match.

Find me another find/Catch me another catch.”

“Listen, Kerensky –“

“Karenin.”

“Whatever. I want my customers to be happy, but I can’t start giving refunds or I’ll go out of business.”

“Then how about a wife – for the night.”

“I’m a matchmaker, not a pimp!”

“And the difference is?”

“Making me angry won’t help.”

“Sorry.”

“Mr. Korsakov –“

“Karenin.”

“Whatever. I’m not out to cheat anyone, so, I’ll give you half your money back. Half! But you’ve got to promise not to tell anyone. Okay? “

Karenin agrees and sings, “Miracle of Miracles.” Then he goes home and tells his son that the reason the boy’s mother is missing is because she’s dead. The winsome tot refuses to believe him. Preferring, instead, to believe that it’s a “Rumor.”

Anna Karenina has no money of her own and Count Vronsky is rich in title only, so they run through their cash presto. On the train back to St. Petersburg, Vronsky muses on what their life would be like “If I Were A Rich Man.”

Anna is overjoyed to see her son again. He responds with a display of filial devotion matched only, perhaps, by Anthony Perkins in “Psycho.” As Anna is leaving, she meets her husband coming up the stairs. He banishes her forever, refuses to give her a divorce and tells her that she’s gained weight. She reprises, “Far From The Home That I love.”

Fortunately, Count Vronsky has a friend, Madame Ranevskaya, who invites the couple to stay at her country home. Anna loves spending time in the cherry orchard, but Vronsky, a man of action, grows restless. He tells Anna that his old regiment is planning a pogrom in Lithuania and that he’d like to join them.

“That’s just an excuse,” she says, “You want to leave me.”

“No, it’s very important that I go. There’s a cantor and kosher slaughterer who must be nipped in the bud before he has great grandchildren.”

“Admit it. You’re bored with me and can’t wait to leave.”

“It’s a small town near Vilna. We’ll demolish it quickly and I’ll come right back. I promise.”

“Do you love me?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you love me?”

“Do I love you?/With no cherries left to pick/

And there’s trouble back in town/You’re upset/

You’re worn out/go inside/go lie down/

Maybe it’s indigestion?”

“Vronsky, I’m asking you a question/

Do you love me?”

The Count is so frustrated that, instead of answering, he picks up an axe and chops down a local merchant named Lopatkin. (This later turns out to have been a good idea, but that’s another story.)

Vronsky goes back to Moscow and rejoins his regiment. Regretting their argument, Anna follows. She gets to the train station just in time. His train is about to leave, when Vronsky sees her. He jumps off and they embrace. As they apologize and promise to love each other, the train starts to move. Vronsky is so happy, he reprises, “Now, I Have Everything.” The train begins to speed up, but before he can jump back on, three women named Hodel, Tseital and Chava push him under the train, killing him. They are Tevye’s daughters. Anna Karenina briefly considers throwing herself under the same train, but comes to her senses. Taking the long view, she sings the touching, “Sunrise, Sunset.”

"The Too Fat Polka."

What combines the best qualities of marathon dancing and malnutrition and is more entertaining than both? "Dance Your Ass Off," premiering June 29 on the Oxygen Network. It's either a dance competition for morbidly (but not morosely) obese people or a weight loss contest for those who can do a passable pasa doble. It's two - two - two shows in one. It starts with twelve contestants weighing a total of almost three thousand pounds. They train and perform with professional dancers, are judged by the usual trio of heat-seeking demi-celebrities and then must weigh in to reveal their weekly weight loss. Both numbers are combined for an overall score and the loser is sent packing.

By offering twice the humiliation of either "Dancing With The Stars" or "The Biggest Loser," this show should be twice as successful, right? Yes, but I still think the producers of "Dance Your Ass Off" are being lazy. They're merely picking the low-hanging fruit of human degradation. If they really want to exploit the full entertainment value of this concept, there are two steps they can take. One is combining the two competitions, so the contestants can only lose weight by dancing. How is that possible? A marathon dance - people dance until they collapse. What's more, there are regularly scheduled "steeplechases," in which the dance teams must race each other around the stage. Talk about "Sweating to the Oldies." It's Depression-era entertainment for an economy trembling on the brink. Should that idea prove, somehow, unappetizing, there's a less extreme alternative. "Dance Your Ass Off" should show what the losers do after they leave the studio. The damage to bakeries, alone, would guarantee newsworthy footage. (Call me cynical, but I don't think salad bars would be effected.)

It's not all fun and games, however. There's a poignant aspect to "Dance Your Ass Off." Who will host this show? Who would want to? How about a TONY Award-winning actress? Impossible, you say? Ridiculous, you scoff? Very possible, I reply. The host will be Marissa Jaret Winokur. But she starred in a broadway show! She won Best Actress in a Musical for "Hairspray!" Why would she do this - unless (the poignant part) it's the best thing she's been offered. I hope, for her sake, that Marissa makes millions and that the public-hanging sensibility of this show doesn't cling to her. Not withstanding, I hope the show tanks and TV goes back to scripted entertainment. It won't turn the idiot box into a Greek theater, but it won't be the Roman coliseum that it is now.

Ain't Worth Changing The Flag For.

Not since Amy Fisher and Joey Buttafuoco lent their tainted glamor to it, has Long Island received such dubious attention. This suburb of New York City wants to be the nation's fifty-first state. Why does this land of paved-over potato fields entertain such a ridiculous notion? The root cause is - hold on - taxes. I know it's shocking, but someone in this country is unhappy about their taxes. In particular, Suffolk County legislator, Edward Romaine, who complained to Samantha Bee of the Daily Show (6/15) that Long Island pays $5 billion in state taxes and only gets $2 billion back in state services. His solution is to secede from New York. He's not alone. On may 12, 2009, the Suffolk County legislature passed a home rule resolution calling for a study and referendum on the merits of Long Island seceding from the state. Prima facie, this extravagant notion has too many problems to be taken seriously.

First, how can Long Island afford it? If the plan doesn't include a steep reduction in taxes, no one will approve it. A mere billion less won't satisfy anyone and if you lower it to $2 billion, there's no point in seceding. Let's split the difference and say the new state has a budget of $3 billion. Infrastructure costs alone will go through that like Sherman through Georgia. Long Island will be completely responsible for maintaining its eponymous railroad and expressway. The former hasn't posted a profit since the Kennedy administration. Parts of the latter have been under construction for about the same time. Seced-ing is expensive and Long Island doesn't have the clams.

Suppose, for argument's sake, Long Island secedes without reducing taxes. Deciding what to do with the money poses another severe challenge. How much do you think some rich doctor from Suffolk County wants to support Hempstead, Valley Stream and other less than regal communities in Nassau County? Likewise, do you think the rich stockbrokers in Garden City care about the struggling fishermen in Montauk? Not if you gave them free lobsters. And what about the idle youth of both counties? The ones who like to drop heavy objects from overpasses and watch them smash through the windshields of passing cars? Amusing them takes money, arresting them takes even more. While we're on the topic, how about educating them? No, really, how about some education?

Assuming that a state assembly of great wisdom agrees on a set of priorities, who will have the power to make sure that they're met? Who will govern this separate isle, this royal throne of drag racers, this strip mall set in a silver sound? Al D'Amato? I hope not. "Senator Pothole" may be Long Island down to his bib from The Jolly Fisherman, but so are mile-long traffic jams and summer blackouts - especially after a hurricane. How about the pride of Massapequa? Those golden boys, the Baldwin Brothers? Okay, Alec may not be as bad as the boss he plays on Thirty Rock. I'll give you him, but it still won't be Fourth Century Athens.

Does anyone really take the idea of secession seriously? I doubt it. Did anyone ever? Maybe, but those dreams are as gone as Nathan's in Oceanside. (And mourned a lot less, I'll be bound.) Talk about statehood is a thinly disguised version of the most boring, useless and vulgar form of expression known to man: tax-whining.

News Bites.

Not, I hasten to say, news sucks. Merely bite-size pieces of news from the front page of today's (6/15) New York Times.

THE WAITING ROOM LOBBY

President Obama thinks he can get the American Medical Association to support health care reform. The key, he believes, is in offering doctors protection from malpractice lawsuits. If the President succeeds, health care will be available to more Americans than every before. Lousy health care because doctors will have no incentive to avoid malpractice, but health care nonetheless. If that seems cynical, remember whom he's dealing with. The AMA is so conservative and intent on protecting it's power, that it makes the Vatican look like a commune celebrating the fortieth anniversary of Woodstock.

BLOOD, BUT NO GORE.

A photo on the front page (above the fold - for everyone schooled in the arcane art of reading a newspaper) shows Iranians protesting the results of a rigged Presidential election. A man on the ground is being beaten by four others, whom the caption describes as "the authorities." A woman, clad from head to toe in black, seems intent upon attacking them. The way the picture is cropped makes it difficult to see what she's threatening them with. It looks like her dry cleaning, but there's something green, too, so it could be a Barnes and Noble bag as well. The authorities are not wearing uniforms, but their clubs look official enough. Altogether, "Badges? We need no stinkin' badges!"

OM LA NBA CHAM PIO NS OM.

Another photo (below the fold) shows Kobe Bryant leading The Los Angeles Lakers to their fifteenth NBA Championship. This win makes their star player, a hero; coach, Phil Jackson, a legend and their number one fan, Jack Nicholson, a god. Jackson, whose many distinctions include being a Buddhist, has also made the Dalai Lama very happy. (What is the sound of two hands clapping?) But if this championship makes Jack a god, what does it make Spike Lee, number one fan for the embrassingly bad New York Knicks?

I AINT GONNA STUDY WAR NO MORE.

I'm not going to knock Thomas Friedman off the shelf, but when it comes to the Middle East, I have some cred. Pita, hummus, falafel? I ate them all before they were popular. Golda Meir and Benjamin Netanyahu? Loved her, hated him. "Bibi" has always been so hawkish and hardline in his policies that a more appropriate nickname would be, "The Metal Matzoh." Yet, the newly elected Prime Minister of Israel has just come out in favor of Palestinian Statehood. True, there are conditions attached, but this is the Middle East, where bargaining is a way of life. If conditions weren't attached, no one would believe him. It could be like Nixon going to China - if the Palestinians agree to negotiate. If not, it's like Nixon going to a Chinese restaurant. What diplomats call an "overture" and what chefs call an "appetizer."

If I Were A Carpenter And You Were A Salesman.

“I don’t need a reciprocating saw and it doesn’t need me. Is that how the tool got its name?”

“No,” said Joe, my friendly salesman at the first Home Depot to open in Manhattan, “It means the blade goes back and forth.”

“But don’t all saws do that?”

“If they have crosscut blades. A ripsaw, for instance, is better suited for moving in one direction.”

“Can a reciprocating saw have a rip blade?”

“That would be difficult.”

“It can make a big loop like an elliptical trainer.”

I trace loops through the air with my hands while Joe grips invisible hammers with his.

“I’m sorry, you want Salon Depot,” he sneers, “where people discuss tools instead of buying them.”

Actually, he doesn’t say that, but it’s possible because, as I’m sure Joe realizes, I don’t need any tools. I’m there strictly as a tourist. To me, the new Home Depot is a suburban theme park, where I can imagine owning a house and yard. After puzzling over laser operated measuring devices (Why don’t they shoot holes through walls?) and racking my brain for a reason to buy one (“Honey, it’s so much more accurate than our old, steel tape measure.”) I need a new department. Someplace where I can impress the sales help with my knowledge.

Within minutes, I am confronted by an attractive, young woman with a perky, blonde bob and an orange apron. Her name tag says, "Becky Sue.”

“Can I help you?”

“Yes.” I strike a casual pose. “My second floor lintels between the lally columns. I’m thinking of rabbeting them.”

“That hot water heater you’re leaning on won’t help.”

I tilt my head forward and look up at her (which is hard because she’s shorter than me) and fix her with my most superior “I can’t believe you said that” look.

“When I work, I need strong coffee and,” rapping twice on the heater, “lots of it.”

Becky Sue snorts (that could be her full name) and I decide to seek more familiar environs – like sinks and toilets.

Too familiar, I’m afraid. Even my apartment has a bathroom and a kitchen; I want something exotic. Something with hidden glamour that your typical homeowner takes for granted. Like gutters and downspouts. So, I go over to home improvements and if there’s any glamour in gutters, it’s well hidden. I consider returning to tools, when I see them - my goal, my destiny. Propped up next to the shovels (trenching, round point and wide mouth) are exactly what I’ve come for - a gleaming row of axes.

There’s only one thing to do with an axe – heft it. So, I pick one up by its bright yellow, fiberglass handle and feel the weight. There’s something deeply satisfying about hefting an axe. It also feeds into several of my fantasies. As I stand there, hefting, I realize two of my favorites are merging into one in which, wearing a hockey mask and dancing like Jacques D’Amboise, I chase Jane Powell through the woods of Oregon, screaming for blood.

Unfortunately, my lips are moving as I daydream. Returning to reality, I notice shoppers slowly moving away and a crouching security guard approaching. Now, I think, may be a good time to leave.

I walk slowly, but purposefully to the front door, carefully avoiding the grills. I enjoy grilled food, but I prefer not cook it myself owing to an experience several summers ago when I poured lighter fluid onto a gas grill. Not, I should add, the holocaust you’d expect. It just wouldn’t go out for several days.

Although I’m leaving empty-handed, I consider my trip a success. After all, every home repair that I do is one less job for a struggling plumber or carpenter. Not buying anything at Home Depot is, in its way, a silent vote for the working man. Yet, I am denied even this fantasy. As I walk out the front door, I see a man in an “Acme Plumbing” T-shirt loading three pipe wrenches and a reciprocating saw into the back of his Rolls Royce.

The Buena Vista Justice Club.

Six detainees from Guantanamo Bay are now free to return to their own countries. Together with Ahmed Khalfan Ghailani, who was released to face trial in New York City, it's an encouraging start for Pres. Obama's plan to close the detainment center completely. It's also a vast improvement over our government's policy of only five years ago. As The New York Times reported on 7/8/04, " . . . detainees will be provided with personal representatives, not lawyers, to help them consider their legal options." It was not a popular program. In fact, only person took advantage of it. This is his story.

A tall, well-groomed man with graying sideburns and a butterscotch tan enters an interrogation room at the U.S. Detainment Center in Guantánamo Bay, Cuba. He is wearing a pinstripe suit with an open collar shirt and matching pocket square. Facing him across the table is a skinny, swarthy man in an orange jumpsuit and manacles.

“Good morning, Mr…Akbar. I’m here to help you challenge your status as an enemy combatant.”

“Is it com - BAT- ant or comba -TONT?”

“There’s no point in seeming French, is there?”

“I guess not, Mr…?”

“Call me Mr. Carlos.”

“Are you a lawyer?”

“No, a hairdresser.”

“So, how can you help me?”

“You’re appearing before a tribunal and I can improve your appearance.”

“Okay, what do I do?”

“First, we’ll wash your hair, probably twice. Then I’ll blow you out.”

“Does that mean what I think it means?”

“You get one hairdresser joke and that was it.”

“Sorry.”

“For a style, I see something short and dignified.”

“Not too short.”

“Very short, I’m afraid. It’s a military tribunal.”

“How about my beard?”

“They mistrust facial hair, too.”

“Can I keep my mustache? Please?”

“That depends. What are you charged with?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’d take it off. Just in case. Have you ever had a facial?”

“No.”

“Good. I know a woman named Olga, who will leave your face red, white and a little blue.”

“Is that good?”

“It’ll make you look American.”

“But I am American.”

“You are?”

“I’m a citizen. Born and raised in Detroit.”

“Hmm. I have an inspiration. Wait a minute.”

Mr. Carlos digs around in his leather shoulder bag until he finds a glossy fashion magazine. He opens it and points to a picture.

“How about that look instead?”

“That’s Omar Sharif.”

“Fine-looking man.”

“But he’s Egyptian! That won't help.”

“The only thing our government hates more than a terrorist is admitting that you shouldn't be here. If we give them any reason to suspect you, they may show mercy.”

“What kind of mercy?”

“I don’t want to promise anything, but it could mean…a trial…with a lawyer and, don’t get your hopes up, maybe even the presumption of innocence.”

“Okay, Sharif, but not like in Funny Girl.”

Where's Batman When You Need Him?

People are weak and give into temptation, that's why corruption is shocking, but not surprising. If you're a high-profile person who's brazenly corrupt like former Illinois Governor, Rod Blagojevich, it's both shocking and surprising. He didn't even bother to disguise the fact that he was selling a U.S. Senate seat for cash. The same is true for discreet, yet studiously corrupt people like Barnard Madoff, who spend their lives devising and implementing intricate (but unoriginal) plans to cheat investors out of billions. What if you're both? What if you're a corrupt politician, so shameless and yet so calculating that your lucre forms revenue streams? Then it's shocking, surprising and newsworthy. Meet New York City Councilman Larry B. Seabrook.

It's difficult to summarize his activities, but Ray Rivera and Russ Buettner come close in their article on the front page of today's (6/11) New York Times. They claim that a non-profit organization that Seabrook created ten years ago, The African-American Bronx Unity Day Parade, ". . . never received I.R.S. approval to actually operate as a non-profit. It has never filed a tax return. And, it seems, it has never run a parade. But in recent years it has netted more than $100,000 in city money by leasing space at one price from Bronx landlords and then subleasing it at a far higher price to three nonprofit groups whose rents were later reimbursed by the city. . . And the nonprofit groups. . . were all affiliated with Mr.Seabrook. He helped secure government contracts for them and financed them with city funds he controlled, and each of them paid at least one of his relatives either salaries or consulting fees." If that isn't clear, there's an accompanying chart with four paragraphs of description, eleven graphic elements, sixteen different sums of money and arrows going in every direction. We're getting into "The Joker" territory, here. Worse, Jack Nicholson as "The Joker."

Schemes like Seabrook's make me yearn for the charms of a simpler, but no less corrupt, era in New York City. 1858-67, to be exact, when William M. "Boss" Tweed was leader of the Democratic political machine called Tammany Hall and George Washington Plunkett was ward boss for the fifteenth assembly district. In a series of talks, set down by William Riordan and published in book form as Plunkett of Tammany Hall, the ward boss explains his theory of "Honest Graft." Briefly stated and at no risk of oversimplifying, it's, "If my friend gets his contract, I get my kickback and the city gets their bridge, whose out?" Not only did Plunkett put his theory into action, he believed in it until his dying day. "If my worst enemy was given the job of writin' my epitaph when I'm gone," he said, "he couldn't do more than write: 'George W.Plunkitt. He seen his opportunities and he took 'em.'" Yes, his tactics were illegal and immoral, but they resulted in The Washington Bridge, the 155th street Viaduct, the grading of Eighth Avenue north of Fifty-Seventh Street and additions to the Museum of Natural History among other public works.

Councilman Larry Seabrook wouldn't even give African-Americans a parade. A lousy parade! In the Bronx! That's low.

Avedon: The Stuff Of Which Dreams Are Made.

There's a show of Richard Avedon's fashion photography at the International Center for Photography in Manhattan. His work in the Forties and Fifties is dazzling, yet the current issues of Vogue and Harper's Bazaar suffer in comparison. Why? Is it a phenomenon - the work of a genius aided by other geniuses, does nostalgia color our perception of black-and-white pictures or have our dreams truly become impoverished?

Avedon's work for Harper's Bazaar magazine in the late Forties and early Fifties is uniquely elegant and sophisticated because the people in it express a certain maturity. They smoke and drink and stay out late with authority. They wear evening clothes in a way that says, "What else would you wear in the evening?" Scenes in casinos, nightclubs and fine restaurants suggest that whatever happened to these people (and by implication, an awful lot did) wouldn't be wasted on them. There's nothing tentative or naive about them and they certainly don't worship a Youth Culture. These people enjoy their adult privileges. In fact, they enjoy a lot of privileges because they are unself-consciously elite. They aren't monsters of entitlement, they are gods and goddesses of it. Look at them. Suzy Parker and Dorian Leigh don't live "next door" and they are, most emphatically, not "girls." Dovima is not trying to convince you that she's sixteen. Young as they are, they're women of the world.

Another strong element in Avedon's fashion photography is movement. He either catches his people in mid-action or in the moment just before or after. Even when they're posing or sitting or leaning, there's a tension to his photographs - the tension of a dancer balancing on one foot. More than a ballerina, in fact, the dancer his pictures suggest is Martha Graham. Partly, it's the grandly sweeping fashions of the time. To mark a sharp change from wartime austerity, Christian Dior's "New Look" employed extravagant amounts of fabric. To wear these clothes - and not look like you're wearing a costume - requires equally sweeping gestures and a strong degree of conviction expressed in a detached, almost abstract, way. Since Avedon, Graham and Dior were contemporaries, mutual influence is a possibility.

Avedon didn't work alone, of course. He collaborated with - indeed, owed his career to - some rather exceptional people. The fashion director of Harper's Bazaar, Diana Vreeland; Design director, Alexei Brodovitch and the magazine's editor, a woman with the appetizing name of Carmel Snow. Not only did they recognize Avedon's talent when he was twenty one, TWENTY ONE, they kept him busy and happy for the next twenty years. The fashions themselves are more than major contributors to these photographs, they are the raison d'etre. Yet, I don't want to go into detail. Any discussion of fashions then and now is bound to become a pissing match between fathers and sons, founders and heirs, mentors and students. Suffice it to say that Christian Dior, Balenciaga and their peers were at their peaks and produced exquisite work.

Then, there are the women. Take Dorian Leigh, considered by many to be the first supermodel. A 1949 photograph of her wearing a coat by Dior shows why. She is swaddled up to her neck in a coat with a fur collar and voluminous sleeves. Gloves and a small, fur hat complete the ensemble. A small dog sits patiently in her lap as she sits in the back of a convertible or open carriage, next to a large hatbox. All the movement is internal. She may be sitting, but her mind is racing. What is Dorian Leigh thinking as she gazes down pensively at the smoke curling up from the cigarette clasped in a long, elegant holder? Is she worried, bored or remembering something? Introspecting or waiting for someone? She's not smiling. Does that mean she's unhappy or just momentarily distracted? Is the way the smoke seeps out between her barely parted lips the hottest thing since nuclear fusion? If modeling objectifies women, then Dorian Leigh is a novel - by Colette.

Before we give in completely to the nostlgia induced by these pictures, we may want to consider the society that produced them. It isn't pretty. Not one of the socially progressive movements that we know today was even in existence back then. Racial segregation was legal, antisemitism widely and openly practiced and most of the women alive, Dorian Leigh included, were born without the right to vote. Not a single democratic or equalizing impulse had any influence - including the G.I. Bill of Rights. All the G.I. bill proves is that, in this country, you have to kill someone before the government will help the middle class. Of course, all that's really necessary to fall out of love with the era is to consider what they ate. There was no Italian food, only spaghetti. No Chinese, only chow mein and people smacked their lips over Chicken a la King. This is the kind of food that made Julia Child historically inevitable. Though we may admire the beauty that these ugly conditions produced, it's very hard to feel nostalgia for the real world of that time.

Not impossible, however. If life in 1949 was nasty and brutish if you fell short of the upper class, it was a much bigger world for everyone. Take Paris, the background for many of Avedon's most compelling fashion fantasties. There were far fewer ways to experience the French capital in 1949 than there are today. No television, computers, internet, cell phones, Ipods or DVDs. Tourism, halted by World War II, was only beginning to revive. Commercial air travel was still in its adolescense, not its second delinquenthood like today. So, Richard Avedon didn't have to make Paris seem exotic - it truly was. There's a freshness to these photographs, a sparkle to the City of Light, that appeals to our jaded eyes. Not innocence exactly, more like an innocent view of experience that we can only see in retrospect.

Enough loitering in the past, where are the Avedons of today? The first place to look would be the Vogue and Harper's Bazaar magazines of today. (The former assuming pre-eminence after an exodus of stars - including Vreeland and Avedon - from the latter.) Look carefully, however, because you may not recognize them. Neither crisply elegant nor fashion forward, the June issue of Vogue looks like something Anna Wintour wouldn't read. (How is that possible?) It mentions seven articles on the cover - you won't find more teasing on a fifth grade bus trip. The words - in two colors and a banner appropriately called a "violator" - all but obscure a photo of a beaming Camerson Diaz. Wholesomely dressed in all white, she looks ready for a full day of scrapbooking. Think Family Circle, but with a different kind of dish on the cover. Inside is the usual hash of demi-news and disguised marketing. (Thinly disguised, at best.) The fashions spreads show the usual twelve-year-old models, mugged by their hair and make-up stylists and left to strut against a colored backdrop. Clothes? Yes they're wearing clothes. One particularly edgy layout shows the backdrop itself. You can see that the models are in a photographer's studio. Edgy.

I realize that this comparison is unfair in several ways. We're taking the cream of twenty years work and presenting it as art in a museum. Then comparing it with a single, random issue of a magazine, purchased for $3.99 at a newstand. I'm also aware, having worked in advertising, that pragmatic, marketing decisions must be made. And the pressures facing Vogue today are not the same as sixty years ago. Massive differences in style, though, overcome the differences in selection and presentation.

Style? What style? Thanks to Avedon and Harper's Bazaar, we know exactly what was considered stylish in the Forties and Fifties. We have a perfectly rendered set of fantasies that conveys it. What about now? What is stylish in 2009? Is urbanity still valued - even though our shrinking and interconnected world puts it, literally, at your fingertips. How about maturity? Has the Youth Culture, propped up by plastic surgeons and the cosmetics industry, slammed the door on adulthood - or are entitled Boomers trying to close the door on youth as they age? Do people still aspire to elegance and sophistication - or have fifty years of social advancement leveled a field on which no one wants to play anymore? Have we been traveling in coach so long that all we can dream about is legroom? I hope not. Day-to-day life is not so rich that we can do without dreams. Life is not so full of good taste that Donald Trump is a relief.

Interesting Sugar.

My wife doesn't like food shopping with me. She claims I always get 

distracted. I can't help it, I'm always . . . finding things. Take Mom's 

Spaghetti Sauce. Every bottle has a big, beaming picture of Mom on 

the label - including the puttanesca style. Wait, doesn't that mean, 

"Whore-style?" Under the circumstances, you have to take a jar 

off the shelf and say, "Just like mother used to make. Your mother 

the whore!" You have to shout it, too, because if you say it softly, 

it sounds too serious.                                                                                                                                       

She tends to speed through the produce section as well. I like 

to  see what's new, what's in season. I like to experiment (bio-

curious, if you will.) My wife believes you should know how to 

cook something before you buy it. That wasn't the case with 

fiddlehead ferns. We boiled a potfull before we learned you're 

not supposed to boil them. Instead, you should sautee them 

quickly in oil and garlic. We had a similar experience with 

Ramps, a kind of wild onion somewhere between a scallion 

and a leek. I don't remember what we did to them, but we 

shouldn't have done it. Then there's Romesco Broccoli, 

currently starring in the movie, Drag Me To Hell. I haven't 

seen that movie, but I imagine something like this vegetable 

appears in it. Romesco is freaky-looking and I'd be very 

surprised if it doesn't come from "Bad Trip Farms" or some 

place like that. I lost that argument and it's just as well. 

I don't want to go to hell.                                                                                                                                            

Did you know there's an "Interesting Sugar" section in 

Whole Foods? Who buys interesting sugar? Suicidal

diabetics who want to go in style? It's the perfect excuse

to go up to a store employee and say, "I want some 

interesting sugar." Just be careful how you say it and 

be sure the person's name isn't, "Interesting." It's 

possible. I've known people named, "Gracious" and

"Welcome." Suppose you're an exotic sweet yourself?

What's to keep you from lingering under the 

"Interesting Sugar" sign, looking for a company?

Don't linger too long, though. It's not a Saigon bar,

circa 1968.                                                                                                                                                         

I think separate shopping carts might be the answer.

GM: Wreck Of Excellence.

General Motors took one of the world's great brands and drove it into a ditch, yet they expect to reverse all that damage in a month. How is that possible? Even with another $30 billion in federal funds, that's very ambitious. Still, the forecasts are for GM to emerge from bankruptcy thirty to ninety days after entering it. The details are a little hazy, but the goal is clear: the new GM will be smaller, leaner (notice that they don't say meaner) and better able to compete. It will not look like the old GM at all. That, to me, is the key phrase. If bankruptcy succeeds for GM, it won't be as corporate restructuring, but as a kind of witness protection program.

You know how it works. One man approaches another man in a Phoenix supermarket. They both have black hair, olive complexions and prominent noses.

"Excuse me. Aren't you Carmine 'The Shovel?' Didn't you, uh, work for Frankie 'The Icepick?'"

"You must be mistaken. My name is Brian."

"Brian what?"

"O. . . something."

It's the same with General Motors. One day, thanks to your generous GM pension, you're enjoying the Arizona sunshine. The next day, you're wearing an orange vest and helping some old lady buy lightbulbs. (That's also true if you sell GM cars or, worst case, merely own their stock. Worst case because you don't get a salary or commission for your troubles, you just lose money and the only one who's happy is your accountant.) How do you explain a reversal like that? Where do you point the finger? If you try to blame it on GM, no one will believe you - especially if they're young.

"Not that lean and scrappy car company," they'll respond, "with the fabulous line of sexy, but affordable and eco-conscious cars?"

"GM wasn't always like that."

"You mean they were leaner and scrappier?"

"No, they were once the biggest company in the world."

"Get out of here!"

"It's true. They had thousands of factories and dealers across the country and that still wasn't enough. There were waiting lists. People would pay extra to get the model they wanted."

The young employee will look at you with undisguised awe. Normally modest, you permit yourself to beam with pride.

"How old are you?"

At this point, if you're like Carmine, you pick up a shovel.