Binging

At the urging of my two sons, I have thrust myself into the world of streaming television. I was aware of how popular certain series were, but I had carefully avoided them on the grounds that life, especially with a heart condition, is too short. However, the boys, whose opinions I value, told me that I was missing an important part of contemporary culture, and so began my binging odyssey.

On their recommendation, I started with Mad Men, a series set in the world of Madison Avenue advertising in the Sixties. Thinking I would just give it a try, it quickly proved to be an addiction. Very well written, acted and directed, it recreated the era in which I was raised, and I found the verisimilitude exacting. The characters, though all of them loathsome, were engaging, and, despite my best intentions, I watched it through to the end. Why? Because I just had to find out what happened to the members of this odd and predatory sub-species.

Having had a taste of the binge, I next turned to Breaking Bad, which both boys assured me was well worth my limited time. Though a bit more uneven than Mad Men, it shared two salient characteristics: it was well written, acted and directed, and the characters were all despicable. But again, I was hooked, and I endured to the end to see how the creators would resolve this complex puzzle of contemptible people engaged in the worst sorts of anti-social behavior.

Now thoroughly infected with the binge bug, I undertook the Breaking Bad spin-off, Better Call Saul, which traces the prequel career of the sleazy lawyer, Saul Goodman, explaining (at least to the extent that it has reached) his journey from failed ambulance-chaser to monumental disgrace to his profession. Again, the show, though less even than either of the others, was engaging, well acted and written, and generally well directed. It was a brilliant idea: anyone who had watched Breaking Bad would be unable to resist the backstory of the meth master's attorney-cum-confidant, played with charming unscrupulousness by a very good actor, Bob Odenkirk.

Since Saul has yet to play itself out, I next turned my attention to House of Cards, though neither son favored it especially. However, I know that it has had an important influence on our culture, and especially on the popular view of politics, and so I thought I'd give it a whirl. I didn't make it through the second season. Unlike the others, it is rather poorly written, and since each episode is directed by a different person, it is inconsistent in tone and look. The acting varies from very good (Spacey and Robin Wright) to adequate to amateurish. Once again, all of the characters are flawed, and most of the important ones are revolting. But in the pursuit of venality, House of Cards goes over the top. The Kevin Spacey character, Underwood, is deliberately, calculatedly vile, lacking the kind of scurrilous spontaneity of Walter White or Don Draper or Saul. Where the other shows give the impression of following dark truths about humanity, House seems forced and overly-plotted. These political vermin are evil, the show tells us, so let's sit back and enjoy them devouring one another. Well, I found it rather unenjoyable, and some of the plot devices, such as Underwood's murders and the whole subplot of replacing the vice president and killing off the cross-addicted, whoring would-be Pennsylvania governor simply unbelievable. It was all too much. Even evil must be moderated if it is to be entertaining; otherwise it is just a tepid bath in dirty water.

What interests me about these series as a cultural phenomenon is that each one draws you irresistibly into a world of unredeemable characters. Walt, the fallen high-school chemistry teacher who slides eagerly into drug-dealing, Don Draper and his  ad-world colleagues, who satiate themselves leech-like upon the vulnerability of consumers, and Jimmy McGill, aka Saul Goodman, who, despite a residue of altruism which occasionally bubbles to the surface, finds his true moral home in craven dereliction. So, why? Why are we fascinated by these archetypes of evil-doing, though we would never dream of associating which such creatures in real life? Why do we feel compelled to follow their footsteps through the mire episode after episode?

I think the answer is rather complex. First, audiences have always had a soft spot for the villain - Iago, Lady Macbeth and Richard III come to mind - and it is a truism of drama that villains always get the best lines. We identify with their foibles, even with their depravity, as a vicarious thrill, though we have been acculturated to expect them to meet justice in the end. Some of the horrid creatures in Breaking Bad do end badly, though others survive and even prevail. In Mad Men, since it is the times and the profession that are the real locus of evil, everyone gets away Scott free in the sense that, to the very end, few of the characters learn anything worth knowing, and Madison Avenue continues to flourish and exploit.

(Now I must add that much depends on how you interpret the final scenes of Mad Men. Personally, I saw them as a broad condemnation of the era and its values, but I have gradually come to the suspicion that the last image is, in fact, an affirmation of everything hateful about the period. Mediocrity prevails; manipulation makes its masterpiece. Though I had resisted this conclusion for a while, I now realize that the cynical view is the one more consistent with the tone and experience of the series.)

Beyond that, we are now living in a divisive and contentious time. It is sufficient for a hero or a moral icon to emerge from the daily round for him or her to be strip-searched and desecrated in the public sphere. Gorky once said of the Russian people that they would much rather tear someone else down than elevate themselves. We are doing that now. With the surfeit of electronic media, the meanest minds and most cynical voices rise to the surface and choke out real introspection and expression. For every model of selflessness there are hundreds of selfish brutes ready and eager to lash out and destroy. And so, I think, the villains of the streaming series merely reflect the worst of our societal ethos: the bad guys are not only the new heroes, they are what we ourselves envy and would gladly emulate but for fear of punishment.

Finally, I think that the vile characters who inhabit the binge-worthy shows represent a new era in literature: the era of the anti-hero as surrogate hero. Unable to sustain heroism in the face of the twenty-four-hour news cycle and the social media circus, we substitute for heroism in the traditional sense this image of the successful monster, the charming Frankenstein. He or she becomes our fantasy, our guilty daydream. If only we could screw society out of every hard-earned penny and get rich and drunk and laid, they make us think. Why slave away at a job we hate when we could so easily turn to the most heinous crimes - drug-dealing, even murder - and make a fortune, and, like Walt's young partner Jesse, just walk away into the night? And if power corrupts then absolute power must be the rationale for every deceit and hypocrisy imaginable, up to and including homicide.

These are the messages that the binge-shows are sending to us, and, given the leaking, rudderless nature of contemporary society, they are messages which we are only too eager to hear. Walt and Don and Saul would have been secondary characters in the arts of the past; today they are offered as our role models, not shining and inspiring, but dark and demoralizing; and, God help us, we love them.

Having said all this, there is one exception - I would have said one bright spot, but it is in fact even darker than the rest - Chernobyl. Both of my boys and all of the critics insisted I must see it, and so, dutifully if doubtfully, I plunged in. It is brilliant - not uplifting or inspiring, but soul-searing in its drama, and awesome in its execution. As in the other series, the characters are despicable; in fact, since they are almost all Soviet bureaucrats, they are the definition of evil banality. Nonetheless, out of this radioactive heap of human rubble three characters manage to emerge, and to reach a kind of nobility: the physicist Legasov, the academician Khomyuk, and the apparatchik Shcherbina. The last of these is, in some ways, the most interesting since he mutates under the truth of the cataclysm from a soulless functionary into a human being; no mean trick for a career Soviet official.

Chernobyl is an enigma of catharsis. How did it become so successful, given that it is darkness descending into darkness? How did it get made, with its unrelieved tragedy, an almost entirely male cast, a mere splash of a love story in which the boy literally melts before our eyes, and given that it is a period piece which takes place in a country we know little about and about which we care even less? The series is not only a marvel of storytelling, it is a miracle of production. That it managed to make it to the screen, and that it boasts such extraordinary production values is, to me as a filmmaker, astonishing.

Good as the other binge-series are, Chernobyl outstrips them in every regard. The cast is extraordinary, especially Jared Harris (who was wonderful in Mad Men) and Stellan Skarsgard. The directing is flawless, the art direction is beyond impressive, and the sheer size and scope of the recreation of the period and place and of the disaster are breathtaking. One wonders how it is possible to watch such a darkly powerful tale as entertainment, yet it is impossible to take one's eyes from it. And not, as in the other series, just to find out what happens next, but to experience the fear and danger, and to learn from them through the characters' eyes. This is why I say that Chernobyl is catharsis, in the ancient Greek sense of the word: an experience of horror the depth of which scours our souls and leaves us feeling not wearied but wiser, not entertained but edified.

But what impressed me every bit as much as the intense drama, the historical context and the character development is the fact that, for all its darkness, Chernobyl serves as an antidote to the anthropomorphism of the undercurrent of evil in our society. Even out of this massive, murderous climate of lies and destruction and death, it seems to be saying that something valuable may be learned and something noble may arise. From the toxic rubble of Chernobyl comes something to be admired and even cherished: the spirit of goodness which resides in each of us and which, even in the most horrific circumstances, may yet take wings and fly, if only for a moment.

Timing

As I grow old and grey and full of sleep (to borrow from Yeats), my attention is increasingly divided between the very long past and the foreshortening future. Inevitably, this is a time of regret for that which has not been, and trepidation for that which is bound to be. I often think these days that I wish I had the years to do over again, but almost immediately realize that I would just make the same stupid mistakes, and so the longing for bygone years is pointless.

I find that as time shortens it slows. Everything seems to move more slowly now, from my perceptions to my joints, from my intuitions to my ambitions. I have less time, and so I want less for myself, though I do still long for the most and best for those I love. And that circle of affection has narrowed almost entirely to my children, and to my new grandchild. For her, above all, since she is so new to the world, so pure and full of promise, I desire and hope for the broadest, deepest, most fulfilling experience of life, for the ecstasy of flowering imagination and the tragedy of unmasked reality. For myself, I must find a way to be content with what I have remaining to me: work, and worry, and a declining sense of wonder. Thus, happiness becomes acceptance of resignation.

My hands no longer work as they once did. I have always admired the prolific virtuosity of human hands; it is amazing what they can accomplish, the wide range of skills and intricate moments of movement which have enabled them to build and to destroy, to sign and shape and make imagination possible. They are capable of everything from musicality to murder, and from cruelty to caress. My hands always served me well, yet now, more and more, they defy my intentions and frustrate my efforts. I drop things, they simply slip from my fingers which once were so fervent in their grasping. I knock things over and lose things, and I look at my hands in a kind of mournful awe. ‘We have done your work,’ they seem to be telling me, ‘and now we will do our own will.’

The past, though it forms the bulk of my consciousness, I try not to dwell upon, for, as Lear said, ‘That way madness lies.’ If I were to allow myself the lurid luxury of living in the past, I would certainly lose such tenuous grip as I have upon the present, and whatever shredded hopes remain to me for the future. I know too well the mistakes that I have made – they haunt me continually like spectral hounds, yowling and yapping after me with greater alacrity as my forward momentum wanes.  For, you see, as time slows toward its end, the past rages closer, feeding on the diminishing momentum to which age condemns you. And so, try as I might, I find it more and more futile to escape the past with its snarling regrets and slavering demand for remorse.

Health and its perils you think more on, of course, and you must make a conscious effort not to talk about them since nothing is more tedious to young people than such talk. Unable to imagine themselves at your age, as you once were unable to imagine yourself as aged, they will at best endure your conversation about your health with kindly toleration. But you cannot help but see in their eyes and facial expressions and incipient movements toward the door or just toward a different subject, their roiling impatience, and so, one of the most pressing truths about yourself becomes a social taboo, and you feel even more isolated in your declining constitution. I have found that it is actually a relief to speak to people my own age since they understand that health is a pressing subject, and that it presses more and more as time grows short. And so, I allow myself to bask in talk of heart and kidneys and spine and mental powers in the rare conversations I have with my contemporaries. It serves to relieve the burden momentarily of the lonely consequence of age.

Looking forward is similar to looking into a mirror. You are reminded in every sag and wrinkle that time cannot reverse itself, and that since there is really nothing in the future for you but oblivion, you must gather all your strength to accomplish as much as you can before the end. And yet, you struggle against your own depleting energy, straddling a steepening fence line between what you feel compelled to do and what you still are capable of. People have often pointed out that I am a workaholic, and though I have never really thought of myself that way, in comparison to what I find that I can do these days, it now seems to have been true. Yes, I still have a headful of ideas and plans and projects, but they must be measured against the yardsticks of energy and time. That would seem to impose a need to devote oneself to the most important affairs, but there is, too, a sense that, having lived so long and worked so hard, I deserve a rest. And so, I find in my waking hours what I often tell myself at bedtime, when I hesitate to turn out the light: ‘You’ll have plenty of time to sleep in the dark soon enough.’

And so I go on working, and worrying about the future (my own and that of my loved ones), and trying to savor what little is left to me of the wonder that has driven my existence since the very first moment that I realized I existed, a moment of great peril and promise that has itself become lost to me in time.

In B Minor

It has been a year since I first watched the YouTube video of Yuja Wang playing the Liszt B-minor piano sonata. (I know it has been a year since I left a public comment on it at the time, something I rarely do.) And I find that I am as moved, awed and transported by her performance now as I was then. The B-minor sonata, which is in one 30-minute-long movement, is a snarling, graceful bear of a piece. I imagine that attempting it is rather like preparing for a championship boxing match, or, perhaps more aptly, an alligator wrestling match, since I think it is a piece that may very well devour you if you are not equal to it.

I have heard many pianists perform the sonata, from Horowitz to Argerich, and each time I delve into it with the pianist in expectation and anxiety. It is the only composition by Liszt which I truly admire, the only time that he attained a height I would call spiritual; and, to me, spirituality is the essence of genius. Bach often created on this level, as did Beethoven; Brahms managed it occasionally, Schubert at the end, Tchaikovsky only once (the Sixth Symphony), and most composers, never. And so, I think it takes – no, I know it takes – an artist capable of both spirituality and genius to undertake the sonata with the skill to perform it, the artistry to interpret it, and the courage to lose herself in it, and emerge victorious.

That is what Yuja Wang does. And that is why it is so important to watch her play the piece as well as hear her play it. In her face, her body language, her expressions of lips and arms and shoulders, is not just total absorption in the music, but a genuine spiritual connection to it. She does not just play the sonata, she lives it, embodies it, makes love to it. There are those who have commented on the performance that there is here and there a missed note, but that is like saying that life is not perfect. But life is vast and deep, joyous and tragic, filled with terrors and ecstasies, perfect in its imperfection. And so is Yuja Wang’s performance of the Liszt. A Russian Literature professor of mine once said that Madame Bovary is art, but Anna Karenina is life.  I feel much the same way about her performance.

The piece, though in a single, prolonged movement, is, in fact, divided into several phases, intricate in their interconnection and breathtaking in their mingled delicacy and passion. If it were possible to hold one’s breath for 30 minutes, I suppose this would be the time to do it. And yet Yuja Wang remains utterly focused, sublimely transported, masterfully attentive both to detail and to the sweeping emotions, gentle reflections and bombastic outbursts of the piece. She is playing it from inside; not a brilliant technician approaching it from a distance, but a complex and sensitive soul making itself at one with the piece. And the result is a melding of art and music, artistry and poetry, poetry and profound insight that is at once powerful and touching.

How this young woman manages to keep all of that complex and demanding music in her mind, let alone under her control, is a mystery to me. But that she does, and does so with a clarity of vision and unity of expression, is nothing short of miraculous. I urge all of you to take 30 minutes out of your busy lives and demanding schedules, and sit in wonder and awe with Yuja Wang as she guides you through the vast complexities and delicate intricacies of this marvelous sonata, rather like a guide conducting you on a private tour of Yosemite in winter, or a wingless angel showing you the way into a world beyond the mortal.

Unreliable Sources

I have been a news junkie since my teenage years. I simply never felt comfortable unless I had a grasp on what was happening in the world around me. And for this, I relied on the mainstream media – newsprint, television and, more recently, alternative media. But now, I find, the media are no longer reliable. In fact, more and more, they strike me as downright deceptive.

I search the U.S. media in vain for news of the world. I have been trying to follow events in Venezuela, for example, and in the Middle East, Southeast Asia and North Korea. But now the mainstream media is all-Trump-all-the-time. Trump hating, Trump impeachment, the Mueller Report, Attorney General Barr, Trump’s taxes, Trump’s staff testifying before Congress, Trump-this and Trump-that! And the truth of it is that it is almost entirely speculation, not reporting.

The bias in the media has become so blatant, so bald and transparent, that the commentators and even the reporters no longer try to hide their contempt for the president and for their profession. Journalism, for the most part, is no longer objective, it is obsessive; it is no longer professional, it is overtly political. The facts have been sacrificed on the bloody altar of political agenda, and it is we, the public who seek information not indoctrination, who suffer.

Bias is everywhere now, and suffocatingly so, not only in the words the journalists use, but in their choice of stories, choice of guests, body language and facial expressions. Their disdain for the president, but beyond that, for professionalism, is so obvious that it is simply not possible to view them with any credibility at all. And so, I do not. The only news source I trust now is NHK, the English-language Japanese news service. It is there I go to get the headlines on U.S. news, and stories about all the other underserved parts of the world.

Of course, it is no surprise that the poll rating of the news media has now dropped to the level of that of Congress. And the reason for this is simple: the mainstream media are behaving like children. Trump won and Hillary didn’t, and they can’t forget or forgive the fact. Trump calls them names, and, like third-graders, they hate him and want to hurt him. Trump’s policies are working, and this drives them crazy in the same way that an ex-spouse’s successful remarriage drives the former spouse crazy. They feel bullied, scorned, vindictive and jealous. And they take it out not only on Trump, but on the rest of us.

Now, I will say again as I often have on this blog: I am not a Trump supporter. I could not vote for either candidate in 2016. But this juvenile obsession with undoing Trump’s presidency, marginalizing him, destroying him as a person and as a political figure, is disgraceful. I am old enough to remember Huntley and Brinkley, Walter Cronkite and even, vaguely, Edward R. Murrow.  In my recollection, they could be depended on for a factual presentation of the news. But now, gaggling puppets like Don Lemon, Rachel Maddow and Chris Cuomo, whose entire ethos is the demeaning and destruction of Trump, are simply unendurable.

Which brings me to the cavalcade of Democratic candidates for 2020. As they stumble over one another to prove who wishes more than the others that the United States was like Sweden or Denmark, they make it all the more likely that the Trump they so despise will be reelected. The current mania for socialism, an economic system for the organization of humanity which has failed miserably everywhere it has been tried, is a delusion bordering on psychosis. We have allowed ourselves to be driven 22 trillion dollars in debt, and yet all these latter-day Engels can think of is more and more government spending, more and more government control. Medicare for all, free college for all, the Green New Deal! The more they hawk this pie-in-the-sky nonsense, the more they urge independents into the Trump camp, which they would resist if they had a reasonable alternative.

And that is not Joe Biden. I have paid attention to him since his announcement, and I must say I am baffled. The man is so far behind the times, so unabashedly archaic, so muddled, that I cannot see why anyone would take him seriously. At 76, he is clearly showing his age. He slurs his words, loses his train of thought, and makes gaffes that no one can dare to overlook (China is not a threat!). Yet, according to the polls, he is the Democratic front-runner; and the media, slavishly looking for an alternative to Trump, continue to prop him up. This, of course, is the same media that created Trump in the first place, and, realizing with horror the true nature of its creation, has been trying desperately to destroy ever since.

And so, I have suppressed my lifelong appetite for the news, since there is no honest news left to be had, and gone on a subsistence diet. No longer able to stomach the vindictive tripe which passes itself off as journalism, I now subsist on such crumbs as I can gather from the few news sources which I still find credible. “Reliable sources:” in the news business these days, that has, alas, become an oxymoron.

Un-Agenting

The question I am most often asked by aspiring screenwriters is: How can I get an agent? My answer is always the same: Write something an agent can sell. Agents are hard-working people who must pay all the usual expenses of living, and so they are not inclined to take a chance on unknown writers and unlikely projects. But if you present an agent with a script that she thinks she can sell, she may very well represent you. Finding an agent, and keeping an agent, are among the greatest challenges for a screenwriter, since, without proper representation, you cannot earn a living.

Likewise, unless you are a member of the Writers Guild, you cannot earn a living. And that is why, on Easter Sunday, I fired my agent of many years, under protest. I did so because the Guild ordered me to with the threat of retribution, including even the possibility of expulsion. So, you see the impossible position this puts me, and other writers, in: If I did not fire my agent I couldn’t work; and since I now have no representation, I probably cannot work. I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t. An ironic position to be put in by the union that claims to protect my interests, to say the least.

I won’t go into the details of why the Guild has required all of its members to fire our agents (it’s tedious, and I’m not entirely sure I understand the details myself); however, the action is directed at the four major talent agencies, and the issue seems to be twofold. First, the Guild objects to the big agencies’ practice of “packaging,” that is, putting together the various elements of a production, including script, director and stars, and extracting fees for doing so. This, the Guild claims, has caused the earnings of its members to decline in recent years. Second, the Guild likewise objects to the practice of “affiliation,” which, as I understand it, means the big agencies’ growing partnership with studios and other production entities to participate in and benefit from all aspects of production. In effect, the agents who represent us thereby become our employers as well. This the Guild sees as a conflict of interest. But, since such a conflict of interest violates state or federal work rules, it ought to be resolved in the courts, not in collective action.

Now, it must be understood that packaging and affiliation are two important sources of revenue for the agencies, and the Guild is attempting to force them to divest themselves of this income for the sake of writers. This represents a second irony, in the sense that writers have traditionally been treated by the entertainment industry with disdain bordering on contempt. To say that the integrity of our work is not respected is a colossal understatement. We are routinely rewritten, forced to work for free, and summarily fired and replaced by others over whose work we have no control, even on projects which we ourselves have created. And yet for the sake of this maligned creative underclass, the WGA actually thinks the big agencies will forego hundreds of millions of dollars in income. To my mind, this is nothing short of comical.

In my view, the Guild has made at least two very serious miscalculations in this latest work action. First, it has taken on a fight it cannot win. The agencies are not going to restructure their business model for the sake of writers; it is not in their interest to do so, and writers do not have the clout to compel them to. To put it in a word: The Guild has chosen the wrong hill to die on. Second, in order to prosecute this unwinnable war, the Guild has compelled its members to sever professional relationships which, in many cases, have existed for years, and upon which writers depend for their livelihood. The onus, meanwhile, does not fall on either the Guild’s leadership and the top one percent of its members, or on the agencies, which are owned by multinational conglomerates; it falls on the working writers. And it hits hardest at young writers who have just gotten started in the industry and have either recently found or hope soon to find representation. I feel sorry for such young talent; they have been shanghaied into a war which was not of their choosing and from which they stand to gain less than they are being forced to sacrifice.

But my essential problem with what the Guild is doing is that it should not have the authority to force me to fire my agent and thereby cripple my ability to earn a living. That, to me, is simply wrong. To strike for cause, yes. But no one should be able to compel me to end a longstanding professional relationship upon which I depend for my livelihood. Given this precedent, the Guild could, theoretically, force  me to terminate any form of professional relationship or collaboration if it deems it necessary. To my mind, this precedent is a very dangerous one.

There is another aspect to this work action that I also resent: It is an action being taken, almost exclusively, for the benefit of television writers. I have never worked in television, and so, as with the last strike, I stand to gain nothing. The world of television writing, with its writers’ rooms and showrunners and sponsors’ interference in the creative process, is alien to me. And so, it is difficult for me now, as it was during the strike, to see why I should be penalized for the sake of writers with whom I have very little in common, and whose potential gains will not accrue to me.

With each contract negotiation it becomes clearer to me that the interests of feature writers and television writers are not coextensive. For example, in the current work action, the Guild has created a Staffing Submission System whereby writers can submit ideas directly to television producers. Nothing has been said about feature film writers; there is no mechanism for us to find work. This is yet more evidence that the Guild exists primarily to protect television writers, while feature writers are relegated to a second-level status.

Since the Guild ordered the mass firing of agents, there have been no negotiations. Instead, the Guild has filed a lawsuit against the big four agencies, which promises to drag on, as such things do, for months or even years. Meanwhile, thousands of writers find themselves without representation, which is to say, the ability to find work and make deals. In forcing writers into this position, it seems to me that the Guild has shot itself in the foot. From what I understand, dissent within the Guild is rising, which may serve to weaken it at a time when it is demanding solidarity. But the truth remains that even those who voted for the Guild’s stand against the agencies did not ask for a lawsuit on their behalf and did not expect to be forced to fire their agents. The unintended consequence of all this may be that the Guild will emerge from its current action a weaker and not a stronger organization.

Under normal circumstances, we fire people for cause. My agent has given me no cause to fire her; on the contrary, I depend on her for my living. She has ever been gracious, conscientious, caring and honest in her dealings with me over more than a decade. I am not represented by one of the big four agencies, my agency rarely packages, and it does not affiliate. I had no reason to fire my agent, and that I should be forced to do so under threat of reprisal by the union that claims to represent my interests is wrong, and in my view, ought to be illegal. Yet both my lawyer and, to her credit, my agent, advised to me do so on the grounds that I would be punished and my career damaged if I did not. This is not collective action; it is coercion.

The College Scam

I woke this morning to a story on the news that I never thought I would see. The FBI had conducted an investigation of a scam among parents, counselors and college officials that enabled wealthy and influential people to cheat their kids' way into elite schools, showing that if you are rich or powerful your kids stand a much better chance of getting in. Now, those of us who have been through the college prep system always knew that this was so. What came as a surprise was that the Justice Department had actually gotten proof and indicted fifty people. From what I have read, the college admissions officials were not involved - it was they who were scammed - and the schools themselves have not been charged with anything. In other words, so far it seems that the admissions departments at these prestigious institutions were not corrupt, but individuals did corrupt the admissions process.

I never wish anyone ill, but I must say that, as someone who has been through the college application derby four times (and soon a fifth time), I am glad this has happened, and I hope those responsible get what they deserve under the law. But there is a larger problem here, of which this sorry scheme is only a part, and that is the process itself. Applying to college, especially to the best colleges, has become a shameful industry that preys on people's hopes, fears and the natural desire that their children succeed. Let's start with the standardized testing scam. And it is, in my view, a scam.

There are two tests for undergraduate admission, the SAT and the ACT. In effect, the companies that administer them have a monopoly on the process. You either take them and do well or you can pretty much kiss your dreams goodbye. I was relieved to learn this year that the SAT is slowly dying; I always thought it was a boondoggle, a way of milking a hefty test-taking fee in return for a number that, for good or ill, will haunt a child all his or her life. I took the SAT fifty years ago, and I still remember my score. But what purpose does the SAT, or for that matter the rather more empathetic ACT, actually serve?

Colleges will answer that it gives them a means of judging the overall readiness of students across the nation and across the board. But the fact that standardized testing is mandatory (a few colleges no longer require it), ascribes far too much importance to the results, and, in turn, applies far too much pressure to students. I have, as I said, had four occasions to deal with the standardized testing companies, and I have found them in general to be impersonal, uncaring bureaucracies staffed by people who give not a damn for individual students, their hopes, dreams, real-life abilities, and actual preparedness for the rich and variegated experience of college. Some of the best-qualified high school students I have known have not done well on the SAT and ACT, and have had their prospects dimmed as a result. The fact is that some students simply don't do well on standardized tests. Yet they are saddled with a number that may or may not determine their futures for years to come.

As I mentioned, a few colleges have foregone the tests and look instead at the applicant's resume, academic performance, extracurriculars, life experiences and so on. They consider his or her personality as revealed by the essay and an interview. They look at the whole person, not just the numbers he or she has accumulated. And this is as it should be, because you are not admitting a robot, but a human being. However, the process has been muddied by recent developments; I speak specifically of the discrimination practiced by some elite institutions to keep out - imagine this - students who are too qualified. And for that, you may read Asian-American students. I was very pleased to learn of the lawsuits that have been brought against such schools as Harvard and Yale for this reason, and I hope they succeed.

But there is another factor as well. Many state schools, for example the UC system, in order to avoid reverse-discrimination decisions by the courts, have actually fallen back on a numbers-based, student-blind admissions policy. Those with the highest GPA and test scores go to the head of the line. You might as well have a computer make the admissions decisions and fire the human staff. Anybody could do this math on the back of an envelope. But what about the students involved? The ones who have done their best, worked hard and deserve a chance? The problem with machines is that they don't care.

I am now just starting my fifth trip down Application Lane, and as far as I am concerned, the whole process is a pretty big scam itself. It is a game our children are forced to play, a lottery in which numbers determine who wins and who doesn't. I try to explain to my high school junior that there are simply factors which we cannot control in the process, as this latest scandal proves. A lot depends on who your parents are, where they went to school, how much money they have to contribute, and what the schools are looking for to balance and diversify their freshman classes. Do they need another kid of color, do they have too many kids of one color, are they looking for kids whose parents can pay the full freight, do they need a few from the inner city who can't? You never know - only they know, and they never tell you.

So what should we do? Get rid of the standardized tests for a start. Some colleges manage without them, so why not just jump off the number-go-round and focus solely on applicants as human beings? Of course we have to look at their academic performance, but we also must take into account how they've lived their lives, what they want for the future, what kind of people they are, what they have to contribute to a college, what obstacles they have had to overcome, what promise they show. Sure, this will take more time than just looking at numbers, but all of us - parents, students and colleges - will be better off for it. And the crippling artificial pressure now being put on children will perhaps not be removed, but it will be relieved to the point where it is manageable.

There is one more point I would like to make, and that concerns the malicious and destructive myth of the prestige institution. Many parents succumb to this debilitating illusion - that your child has to get into one of the top ten schools or his/her life is over. I have seen the phenomenon many times, and I always cringe at it. I have seen kids suffering and even broken by the pressure it entails. The fact is that the truly prestigious college is the one best-suited to a student's personality, abilities and needs. And there aren't just a handful of them, there are dozens. What is the point of browbeating your child into going to Yale or Stanford if he or she will be miserable there for four years? Do you want a fancy paper to hang on the wall or do you want a child who is happy, productive and fulfilled? The fact is that the Ivy Leagues may be unable to deliver that for your particular student, and so it is your responsibility as a parent to help him/her find a setting that will.

It starts with a good high school counselor, and a willingness to put in the hours to do your research. Chances are that the best school for your child is one you've never heard of, so take the time to go and look for it. Make a short list and visit each campus where you and your student think he/she might be happy and productive. If you can't afford to do so, take virtual online tours and talk to people who know the institutions. Find the college that fits your child, and not one that fits your ego. And then work like crazy, you and your child together, to get in. The payoff will be enormous in the student's future. And never forget: It's not your life, it's your child's, and so college is ultimately his or her choice, not yours.

A New Year

And so 2019 begins, much as its predecessor began, amid social turmoil, political divisiveness, fiscal uncertainty, and threats of war. Yet we celebrate the new year and hope for the best. There is no question that the economy has improved, that fewer people are unemployed, and fewer still unable to find work if they truly desire it. Wages are up, inflation is down, consumer confidence is high. Therein lies reason to celebrate, I suppose, though all of that may be undermined by the continuing malaise of political and social division.

The Democrats resume control of the House with, apparently, the overriding determination to remove the president from office; and while I have said here before that the sooner he leaves office the better for the nation, it cannot be doubted that the prolonged, vituperative effort to do so which commences this week will cripple our politics and throw a deepening pall over the progress we have made economically. I, for one, do not look forward to months of virulent rhetoric and media bias building to a climax of impeachment.

There are so many more things which need to be done, such as curbing violence in this country, housing the homeless, and resolving for once the dreadful crisis at the Southern border, which both parties have kept broiling for decades for petty, transient partisan reasons. Republicans and Democrats alike churn the immigration issue with each new election cycle, sucking such imagined advantage from it as they perceive, while our sovereignty remains uncertain and the lives of poor people are put at risk. It is very similar to the way in which the Arab religionists and potentates perpetuate the Middle East crisis decade after decade for the sake of their own power.

I do hope that 2019 will see an improvement in our lives and those of our neighbors. But I read recently an article which both causes me to doubt it, and points perhaps to an explanation of the reason for this enduring malaise. The article cited a study of the causes of death throughout the world in the past year, and I was stunned to read that, by far, the leading cause of death was abortion. It outstripped cancer by a factor of four or five times. And I wondered, can this be true? And if it is, what does it say about us as humans and about the world in which we live?

Now, the pro-choicers among you will leap to your perennial rationalization that the fetus is not a human being, but this is just self-interested and politically conditioned sophistry. It is an artificial argument concocted to preserve those who hold it from having to face the possibility of infanticide as a cause which they defend. As I have noted here before, the fetus can only be created by humans, can only develop into a human, and so, as a simple matter of cause and effect, it cannot be anything other than human.

Before proceeding, I ought to remind those who have followed this blog, and inform those who have not, that I recognize the complex and often tragic nature of the decision to abort. And I am keenly aware that as a man my view is not entitled to priority. For those reasons, I have argued in the past, and continue to argue, that there must be a cut-off point beyond which abortion cannot but be considered murder. As I have asked rhetorically: Why is it that abortion is not murder on day 90, yet it is on day 91, for example, or that it is not at 11:59 pm on day 95 but it is at 12:01 am on day 96? For all but the most fanatical advocates of abortion on demand at any point of pregnancy do agree that there is a dividing line between potentiality and humanity.

For that reason, I have suggested that the presence of a detectable heartbeat ought to denote the presence of a viable human being. This normally occurs at about six weeks. To my mind, whatever your political views may be, this tiny, discernible rhythm means that the creature living inside the womb is a human being, and thus marks a moral turning point in the discussion. For no one would disagree that when a heart stops beating forever, a human being has died. And so, let us take the first stirrings of the fetal heart as the cut-off point in the development of both the fetus and the discussion. Before it, abortion may not have to be considered infanticide, but after it, a profound moral question arises which no one, no matter his or her political agenda, can afford to deny.

Having said all this, I return to the article which lists abortion as by far the greatest killer of humans. If this is so, then perhaps we are looking at the cause of so much violence, divisiveness and turmoil in our world - a simple lack of respect for the sanctity of human life. If we are willing to murder tens of millions of babies in the womb every year, and not only defend it on political or moral grounds, but actually forward it as a fundamental human right, then there ought, it seems to me, to be no cause to wonder why we greet each new year with the same, inevitable and unending prospect of man's inhumanity to man. Perhaps the rebirth of the human race as a species cleansed of its most destructive instincts should begin where each new life begins - in the womb.

Which brings me to my original intent for this post - respect for the lives of animals. I was going to say that we would no more kill animals than we would kill children, but the statistic in the article intruded to rob me of that analogy. Of course, if we will disrespect the most innocent form of human life on such a scale, we will extend that callousness to other forms of life without a second thought. Yet animals, all animals, but especially those most native to our society and close to our hearts, have the same right to live as infants.

I was going to say that we ought to consider animals in the same light as we consider children - to be protected, nurtured, saved from suffering. Yet, as the article shows, clearly we do not do so. Any society that will condone mass infanticide will not blanch at the killing of animals. I had set out to argue that we should respect the right of animals to live in peace and innocence, even the most vicious of animals (destroying them only if they threaten our lives), but I find that I cannot do so. In fact, if we argue that we should hold the right to life of animals as precious as we do the lives of babies, then we have defeated our own argument. And here arises a great irony: Based on my reading of modern political correctness, I believe that even fervent pro-abortionists would decry the killing of a dog or cat or horse and would try their best to prevent it.

And so I find myself in the curious position of having to argue at this new year that we should extend to unborn humans the same respect for life as we do to domestic animals. I have to suggest that we should no sooner consider stopping the heartbeat of a fetus than we would strangling the family cat or shooting the family dog. And I am content to make this suggestion to my countrymen, even though the very fact that I must do so points, I think, to a larger blemish on our souls and on the face of our society than we can safely attempt to ignore.