This morning as we pulled into the parking lot at the gym, my son reminded me that starting next week this place would be jam-packed with people newly resolved to shape up and get fit. Judging from previous  years, the nearest parking spot will be in the next county over.  Based upon his having observed this trend for years, he figures that the gym will be back to normal within six weeks.

This got me to thinking about New Year’s resolutions. I don’t make them, partly because adopting the habit would seem to limit making changes to once a year. You can see where this might lead:  “I’m a fat, angry, lazy alcoholic addicted to Animal Planet and YouPorn… but it’s only March. Come New Year’s Eve, I’m gonna do something about this!” I’d rather identify my problems as they come up on the fly and fix them then.

The LA Times is reporting that the Virgin Megastore on Sunset in West Hollywood is closing next month. This may not seem like much of a landmark — it’s been open only about 12 years — but given the closing of Tower Records this time last year, I’m not sure where one could go to buy a physical CD in that immediate area, let alone find out about new artists by browsing racks and displays.

On a more personal note, I’ve spent many happy hours over the years picking through those displays on my lonesome or with my wife or with friends like Trey Nichols and Joe Stafford and Paul Crist, to fill time either before a movie in the Sunset Plaza complex or because traffic was impenetrable and I was hoping for a cessation.

Joe and I visited the freshly minted Sunset Plaza shortly after its opening and had an experience that resulted in one of our favorite catchphrases. Because the operation was new, there was still some doubt about how some aspects of it worked — for one parking attendant on one evening, anyway. We pulled into the underground parking structure, and he wanted to hand us a ticket. Given that an automated ticket machine was directly within reach of my hand, I asked if I shouldn’t just press the green button and get one out of there. He said I could do that, but then I’d have to hand it to him. I wondered aloud why that was, and what he would do with it other than just hand it back to me. He also seemed uncertain how validation might work, which led me to ask if he was expecting me to pay him, which would make no sense because I expected one of the vendors to validate the parking. This entire exchange was pleasant and polite and was conducted in a language that was not this man’s native tongue (which I would estimate to be Urdu). Finally he looked at me, at my car, at Joe in the passenger seat, at the ticket machine, then back to me, then said, “Do whatever it is you do.” And that’s what I did, collecting a ticket from the machine and pulling my car into the structure.

Since then, I’ve made every effort to “Do whatever it is you do,” usually not in an actual sense but in an ideal sense; in other words, Stick to the mission of your daily existence. This excellent advice applies to most things, as Joe and I have discovered. I’m sorry that Virgin Megastore will no longer provide browsing — and buying! — opportunities for me, which means that I will be visiting the Sunset Plaza even less frequently. But I’m glad it has gifted my life with this zen koan, which has a Vonnegutian clarity I like. For 12 years now as we have faced the hills and valleys of our personal and professional lives, Joe and I have reminded each other, “Do whatever it is you do.”

Envisioning the loss of the Virgin Megastore conjures up the refrain from “Cat’s Cradle”: So it goes.

Looking ahead to the New Year, I advise you: Do whatever it is you do.

My daughter Emma and I put in a shift today wrapping presents at the Borders Books in Hollywood as a fundraiser for Moving Arts, my theatre company. It turned out to be one of the most fun holiday experiences of the year.

I have to admit, when Steve Lozier, the theatre’s newly hired managing director (that’s him, on the right), announced this mini-fundraiser during his first company meeting last week, I was leery. It seemed hastily conceived and penny ante. Wrapping Christmas gifts in exchange for donations to the theatre — was that really something we wanted to be doing now? I wanted to be supportive, though, so I checked the signup sheet against my schedule and found the one block of time I could volunteer: noon to two on Christmas Eve. Other company members thought that having my attractive and charming nine-year-old in tow would help raise money, so I dutifully enlisted her.

What I expected was a long line of irritated shoppers taking it out on us. We wouldn’t be alone. I don’t know how your Christmas season has been going, but today I got a dire holiday card from a good friend. It read:

Dear Lee, Valorie & Kids,

Stay away from the malls! People are crazier & meaner than ever this year! A coworker gave me some constructive criticism the other day: “Stop answering the phones like a fucking retard!!!” You get the idea.

(And this is from a man who loves Christmas, someone who takes to heart every moment of the Charlie Brown Christmas Special.)

Instead of that sort of experience with Christmas Eve shoppers, to my surprise what I got was a two-hour series of discussions about books with ardent book lovers. It was like speed dating for bibliophiles, and cemented for me the one key advantage book stores retain over Amazon.com: You can run into people like yourself and share your love for books.

• I got into a discussion with one man about both Christopher Hitchens (whom I’ve read, and met) and Alain de Botton (whom I’ve read); the discussion led into the war in Iraq — which we thought Hitchens had been attractively eloquent but dead wrong about — and the relative merits of Proust versus Henry James. (I’ll take James.)
• Someone else was buying the new Robert Plant / Alison Kraus disc as a gift. “I hear that’s good,” I said. He countered, “I have too. Surprising, because I wouldn’t buy a record by either one of them.”
• One of the books we wrapped was a beautiful large softcover coffee table book, remaindered, that promised to share The History of Art. It was stunning. I took a break and ran to the back of the store to buy my own copy, but they were gone.
• When I saw Steve wrapping a copy of Cormac McCarthy’s post-apocalyptic novel “The Road” for someone, I of course piped in to say that I’d read that. “That’s a cheery holiday pick-me-up,” I volunteered. The customer responded that he’d read all of McCarthy and was trying to get his girlfriend involved in the author. “If she reads it,” I said, “she won’t forget that one.”
• Someone else bought two Dick Francis paperbacks and a how-to on plot development — these were presents for an aspiring writer of genre. The purchaser said that his friend is good with characters and dialogue, but she needs help with plot and he wanted to support her. I told him that I teach writing and in my experience, writers do need support — the image of the writer living and working in utter solitude is a canard; a good workshop with supportive colleagues provides a crucial advantage. Then I referred him to my friend Sid Stebel‘s workshop — Sid has launched many a career. The man was grateful and tipped the jar again.
• One young man asked me to wrap an alluring deluxe hardcover of pinups by Vargas. It was, he said, for his mom. “How old’s your mom?” I asked. “Forty-one,” he said. “Oh,” I replied, “mine is 83.” And, it went without saying, wouldn’t have the slightest interest in a book of pinups. He then told me that his relationship with his mother is new; that he was adopted, but when he turned 18 he was allowed access to his adoption records and he tracked his birth mother down to Orange County. Since then, he’s found that they have a lot of shared interests, Vargas being one of them. “That’s a good story,” I said, “one I’m going to tell.” And now I have.

This Christmas season, I spent exactly 15 minutes in the mall shopping for presents — and that was to pick up a toy to drop off at my local Assemblyman’s office so he and his staff could wrap it and give it to some kid who otherwise wouldn’t have much of a Christmas. That was it. So my experience has not been the norm. But I will say this: From what I saw in two hours today at Borders Books in Hollywood, people are thoughtful and gracious. At least, if they’re passionate about books.

Oh, and they’re generous, too: Before Emma and I even started, the theatre had made almost $500. If you look at the tip jar in front of Steve, you see money rising to the brim. Many of those bills are fives and twenties. When I find out the final tally, I’ll let you know what it was.

We’ve got more polls and surveys and pop quizzes than ever, and though the results seem more widely reported than ever, they have never been more meaningless. That’s partly because of the way these polls and surveys and pop quizzes are constructed: with variations on the “when did you stop beating your wife?” question.

If you’ve been reading this blog, you already know how I feel about political polls. They exist to build interest — and therefore viewership, and therefore advertising dollars — for the 24/7 round-the-calendar presidential race (with state and local races serving as junior versions of this dynamic). (Or, perhaps more insidiously, for the fundraising machines.)

Last night (well, early this morning), I finished watching my Netflix rental of the Jane Campion film “Holy Smoke” starring Kate Winslet and Harvey Keitel. I don’t know why the system recommended the film to me, but I do really enjoy Harvey Keitel, partly because I can’t decide whether he’s really good or really bad. (I think the latter, and so every time I see him with his stilted delivery and oafish physicality and average looks, I imagine that maybe I’ll jump into movie stardom late in life. Except, for all that, he has a weird charisma I can’t fully identify, and he has turned up in a large number of offbeat films I love, such as “Smoke” and “City of Industry” — which is a further reason I keep watching him.) “Holy Smoke” is not a good movie. It is ostensibly about cult deprogramming, Keitel’s character being hired by the family of Kate Winslet’s character to deprogram her after she falls aswoon of an Indian guru, but it isn’t really about that at all. I have great difficulty telling you what it’s about, or even how it’s about that. The supporting characters are flown in from some far zanier outback comedy (Campion is an Aussie), while the leads play an admixture of straight-on high-drama desperate need or something even further — something out of “Mommie Dearest,” with metaphoric ax and all. The movie is a mess. Early in it there are antic speedups, a la the Keystone Kops (I’m not making this up), while toward the end we get a slo-mo scene of Keitel striking Winslet. Later, when we find her in the trunk of his car I’m not sure if it’s supposed to be funny or dramatic. I don’t think the director or writers are sure, either. In fact, I’m not sure they’re sure about anything.

While slipping this disc into its sleeve to return to Netflix, I wondered what I was going to rate this in their system of one to five stars. After all, getting these ratings right is essential to their disc-recommendation system. It was that system that suggested this film — rightly so — and it is that system that will analyze my score on this and then suggest other discs. The system does a good job. On Day One of my Netflix account it suggested a Jim Carrey film, but once I entered my reaction to that and some other similar recommendations, such an outrage never recurred. I will say, though, that if there is some documentary somewhere about the horrors of the world that I haven’t seen, it’s probably waiting in my queue along with strange cinema from around the world: Korean films with one guy beating up 29 other guys in a hallway, Brazilian films about old ladies who are police informants and so forth. As my son said, “Does Netflix just keep recommending all this weird foreign shit?” Well, buddy, it beats the Cineplex.

The problem with my rating “Holy Smoke” is this: I really liked the movie. Oh, it’s undeniably bad, but in a puzzling and entertaining way. The scenes of driving through the Australian brush — of kangaroos hopping across the road at night — brought to mind the many times my truck or car was almost hit by deer where I grew up. I love the isolated halfway hut where Keitel is trying to deprogram Winslet. I like the early deprogramming scenes where he cuts away the fabric of her illusions. (If they’re illusions — I also remain unclear whether we’re supposed to believe that her “cult” is a good thing or a bad thing.) I certainly like the many shots of Kate Winslet full-bodied and naked cavorting around in the dirt, weeping, or laughing, and trying to seduce Keitel (either because she genuinely falls for him, or because she’s trying to reprogram him himself — another confusing point). Given all the enjoyment the film renders, it seems churlish to give it a bad rating. But I don’t want to confuse “Liked it” or “Really liked it” with “good.” No, it’s BAD — and I really liked it. Like The Three Stooges.

I’m not the only one with this dilemma. Here are two sample reviews from Netflix:

3.0 Stars
Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times
“The film isn’t really about cults at all, but about the struggle between men and women, and it’s a little surprising, although not boring, when it turns from a mystic travelogue into a feminist parable.”

3.0 Stars
Janet Maslin, The New York Times
“As Holy Smoke moves from its early mix of rapture and humor into this more serious, confrontational stage, it runs into trouble.”

I looked at those reviews and, abetted by their both giving three stars, I followed suit. It seemed to make sense. But I do wish Netflix had options that clarified that one might Really Like a movie and believe it’s Utter Shit at the same time.

Then this morning I came across the following poll on MSNBC.com. Morgan Spurlock’s new documentary details his personal search for Osama bin Laden. The Weinstein Company snapped up the distribution rights to the film, and there have been news reports around the web strongly suggesting that Spurlock did what Bush and company have been unable to do: find bin Laden. Now, I don’t believe that Bush and company are looking all that hard for bin Laden, because most of us know where he is: in the mountains of Pakistan, well within reach of our good ally Pervez Musharraf. (And a hearty thanks to him, and here’s another $4 billion for all your help.) Finding bin Laden is akin to trying to find the last strawberry yogurt in the dairy case — it’s right there. Given what I know of the Weinsteins, I believe less that Spurlock has “found” him than that I believe their publicity machine is doing another fine job of conjuring controversy and rumor to drive box-office sales. So, hats off to them. So my inclination on the survey would be to respond that this is a publicity scheme. But here are my radio-button choices — and you’ll note that not one of them is a fair choice:

Are you intrigued enough by the possibility that bin Laden may have been found to see the documentary?

1. Absolutely. It would be a fascinating watch, regardless of whether Spurlock really finds Osama.
2. No way. This is just hype. The Bush Administration is doing all that it can to find the man.
3. It sounds interesting, but I’ll wait until the reviews are out to decide whether or not to see it.

Although I studied Logic in college, I didn’t need that training to cut these syllogisms in half. Number 1 is not true because I have no way of knowing whether or not it will be a “fascinating watch” (or even an interesting timepiece) without seeing it first. Number 2 is not true because while it IS hype, the Bush Administration is NOT doing all it can. Number 3 is not true because whether or not I see the film has nothing to do with reviews. So for me there is no good way to answer this poll. But because I wanted to see what others had said, I finally chose Number 3 because it seemed less offensive (with saying the “The Bush Administration is doing all that it can…” being most offensive). Here are the results:

Absolutely. It would be a fascinating watch, regardless of whether Spurlock really finds Osama.
48%
No way. This is just hype. The Bush Administration is doing all that it can to find the man.
21%
It sounds interesting, but I’ll wait until the reviews are out to decide whether or not to see it.
31%

Does this poll tell us anything? No.

Does the Netflix poll tell us anything? No. Not even about my preferences, in this particular case.

Do the polls popping up every day about the presidential race mean anything? No — except to the people putting them out and profiting from the system.

Even before I read George Orwell’s “Politics and the English Language,” I had the cranky notion that words should mean what they say, and should say what they mean. So you can imagine how I have felt these past few weeks as the nominee for Attorney General has hemmed and hawed over whether or not waterboarding is torture. Let’s see if we can cut through the flim-flam by posing this question: Would he want it done to himself? Or his daughter? I thought not.

The subtext to this embarrassing flimflammery — a sham that subverts our entire meaning as a nation — is that if he agrees that waterboarding is torture, and then becomes Attorney General, then the Justice Department, the CIA, the Administration, and, if we’re lucky, Dick Cheney’s pack of hypocritical gay-attacking family members and friends and business accomplices, will all be sued by people who have been tortured supposedly in the name of each and every one of us reading these words. I don’t want anyone tortured in my name — or in your name — because not only is torture vile, it is ridiculous. If Galileo could be forced to recant and yet the sun continued on its own path, what is the value of threat and torture? So I say, let them sue. Let them all sue. When you have nothing to hide you have nothing to fear. When you have done something deserving of retribution, someone should seek recourse. Let them sue and let them win and let’s put an end to this debacle and start to work our way free of our own shame.

In the meantime, should you harbor any doubt about waterboarding, here’s a video for your edification.

Twenty years ago today, I married the woman in this photo. It was my best decision ever.

It was also further proof that no matter how hard-fought your struggle to be rational may be, sometimes it’s best to go with your gut. Once I had decided to ask her to marry me I also decided to wait two weeks and say nothing so that I could be sure I was doing the right thing. I still remember what those two weeks felt like: pure hell and raging insecurity at the notion that she’d leave me while I was still secretly mulling it over or just say no once I’d asked. Finally asking her and then hearing her agree brought waves of relief. I’m not exaggerating.

Today is our twentieth wedding anniversary. Twenty years is a long time. Through all the ups and downs of those twenty years one thing that has sustained me is being able to call up those emotions and know that I still have them. (I worry about Valorie’s side of this equation at times, because she has nowhere near the memory power I have.) Another thing that has sustained me is recognizing the values we share, values that I think have resulted in three children we can be proud of, and an abiding love for things like “Doctor Who” and “Black Adder.”

Twenty years. Yes, we got married on Halloween. The invitations, which were mailed mostly unannounced even to our closest friends and relatives, were to a Halloween costume ball “with wedding.” We were theatre people and wanted to do something festive and celebratory and different. Initially our families thought we were heading off on a dangerous lark. I don’t recall her parents being too thrilled by the idea, and my family was positively resistant. As I grew more and more heated over their response, my wise older brother Ray finally said quietly, “Ehhh…. I’ll come in costume.” And that was it. Everyone followed suit. I still owe him for that. About 200 guests followed, all in costume (as well as reporters from three separate newspapers and a television news crew). The bridal party was dressed in 18th century court clothes, the father of the bride was a medieval king, the mother of the bride came as a Hawaiian queen, my father was a clown (and that was his costume), and my mother was a witch (in costume alone). My brother Michael came outfitted as a butler; many of the guests assumed he was waitstaff and ordered him around all night. He was gracious in his compliance. Joe Stafford, who sometimes comments on this blog and who entertains me like no one else, came as a jester and Rich Roesberg, who also comments here, came as Groucho with his wife Ruth in tow as Mae West; in all three cases I felt their inner natures were truly revealed for all to see.

Too many of the people who came to the wedding have either died or faded from our lives, but the wedding itself has had remarkable staying power, as attested to by the three children and the persistent deep well of affection in our marriage. We don’t have enough time together lately, and we don’t have enough time with friends the way we used to. Those are things I’d like to correct before our twenty-first anniversary. I never expected to stay married 20 years. For me the goal was always 50, or more: the furthest limits of what is possible. I’m looking forward to that.

You may not have noticed, but judging from the news coverage the presidential race is over.

I know, you thought there was going to be an election of some sort in 2008. And, barring some reason to cancel it trumped up by Dick Cheney, there will be. But as someone who reads the way the mainstream media is covering this, I’m not sure why we’re going to go through all that. Because apparently Hillary Clinton has already won. She’s pulled ahead in the Iowa poll, and that has put an end to it all. And the other day, Newsweak’s Howard Fineman started picking her running mate, three months before the first primary and a full 11 months before the general election.

Hillary has won not only the primary, but also the general election. That’s because the GOP can’t find a good candidate, the bubble speak goes, because the leading candidate (Giuliani) can’t win.

All of this is disgusting.

It’s disgusting to believe what they would have you believe: that a handful of people in Iowa are truly going to select the next president. If I were in Iowa, at this point I would seek out the candidate furthest from the top of the polls and do everything I could to get that person a higher perch — just to knock the conventional wisdom and give some more time to the process. Front-runner Mike Gravel, anyone? God knows I’ve enjoyed his videos.

More than that, it’s disgusting to watch what has happened to political coverage in the past 30 years. Note to the media: It isn’t a horse race, and it isn’t The World Series of Poker, which ESPN is allowed to cover in this way. It’s about the next four to eight years of this country — and a lot of other countries. It’s about things like effective response to terrorism, and balancing a budget, and protecting resources, and leaving a better world than you found.

Why is it being covered like a horse race? Because announcers need sporting events to make their living.

I’m not especially predisposed against Hillary Clinton, although I don’t think she has a depth of qualification for this position. (The current inhabit did, to some degree, as governor of a large state — and look how that turned out.) But I don’t think the 2008 election is settled, no matter what seemingly every single bit of news would have me think. And I think it’s a more serious matter than their coverage reflects.

Fair warning, this event that I’m emceeing is approaching sold-out status.

It’s your choice to hang out with not just a witty syndicated radio comedienne who happens to be running for vice-president, but also a major scribe for “Superman” who’s running for Congress. True Renaissance people, both of them!

You have been invited. And warned.

According to this story, you’d better bow and scrape if you don’t want to get screwed by an airline ticket agent and sent to Siberia while your luggage heads to a lost-and-found auction. Some of us thought just buying a ticket entitled you to decent service. Guess not.

Here’s a story I found delicious because the misuse of language is only slightly less entertaining than Yogi Berra. The story is headlined “Giuliani faces tough NRA crowd.”

To begin with, reading the story reveals that the “tough crowd” didn’t exactly pepper spray the candidate, or even ask difficult questions; rather, they were reduced to tepid applause and wondering if perhaps they might be able to some day bring themselves to support him even though he’s from New York and “hard” on guns. If Giuliani ever becomes president, he’d better be prepared to face far tougher crowds than this.

Here’s my favorite quote from the story:

“I think he is sincere; I just don’t know if he truly believes it down deep inside,” said Thomas Crum, a retired trucking executive from Scottsdale, Ariz. “I have a little difference with him just beginning to realize what his position really is.”

Mr. Crum, here is what “sincere” means: “free of deceit, hypocrisy, or falseness; earnest.” So if you think he is sincere, then you should know he truly believes it down deep inside. If somehow you think he is sincere but don’t know if he truly believes it, then you are having thoughts that are disconnected from knowledge — not surprising given the environment you found yourself in during Giuliani’s speech. This may be a medical condition called psychosis, one you should have checked out.

Someone else at the NRA event struggled with sincerity’s close kin, truthfulness:

Sitting next to Bell at lunch Friday, Joe Rogers was keeping a scorecard for each of the presidential candidates on the conference’s brochure. While some speakers had check marks, Giuliani was the only one with a zero next to his name. The Wilmington, N.C. salesman said even Democratic presidential candidate and New Mexico Gov. Bill Richardson scored better during his taped remarks.

“I don’t think there’s anything he could have said and been truthful about to win over the crowd,” Rogers said of Giuliani. “To his credit, he spoke the truth.”

From this, I take it that Mr. Rogers is saying Giuliani could have won some of the crowd over had he chosen to lie, something some of the crowd would have welcomed (although not Rogers himself); most of the crowd awards no credit for truth. Given the track record of the GOP from Reagan to present, I believe the crowd is going to be delighted with what it’s getting. And that Giuliani would be better off drinking that particular flavor of Kool-Aid now so he can get used to it for the long months to come.