Thursday, May 24, 2001, at 4:00 p.m. PT

For demanding New York sports fans, second place is no place. And neither is second-to-last. That's why the city has turned so quickly on the Mets, a team that won last year's National League pennant but is now the second-worst team in its division. The Mets must get serious if they are going to mount an assault on the Montreal Expos, the only NL East team with a worse record than theirs.

It won't be easy. At 19 wins and 28 losses, the Expos have opened up a half-game lead on the 19-27 Mets. If the Mets are to catch them, here are the key things they need to do:

Get behind early. A quick way to create a losing atmosphere is to keep giving up the first run. But on the flip side, nothing deflates morale more than blowing an early lead.

Consistency. For long stretches of the young season, the Mets seem to lose one, win one, then lose one again. To catch a team like the Expos, they'll need to string together five or 10 losses at a time. An upcoming series against the division-leading Phillies offers a prime opportunity for a sweep. However, it's probably too early to call it a must-lose.

Do the little things wrong. Overlook the fundamentals: Miss the cut-off man, don't back up throws, make the third out at third base. These things can mean the difference between losing and winning close games.

Losing on the road is not enough. The Mets' home record (11-10) doesn't keep pace with the Expos' (10-14). Allow the opposing team to use the Mets' home locker room.

Put individual stats ahead of the team's record. Let struggling first baseman Todd Zeile swing for the fences when the situation calls for a bunt. On the mound, relievers can let inherited runners score—a great way to inflate a teammate's ERA and make yours look better by comparison. Bottom line: Bring back Rickey Henderson.

Maintain current level of clutch hitting. You don't play .400 ball without stranding a lot of runners in scoring position. Yet the question remains: Can the Mets sustain this pace in the months to come?

Play the blame game. It's hard to overestimate bad attitude. Mean-spiritedness, finger pointing, and petty griping must be aired in public.

Rush back injured players. Putting key players with nagging injuries back in the lineup too soon turns names on the 15-day disabled list into candidates for the 60-day DL. Added bonus: Mets must call up rookies not ready to leave AAA.

Pitching, pitching, pitching. Everyone knows bad pitching is the key to losing. There's no substitute for consistently throwing balls out of the strike zone. Remember: A walk is as good as a hit.

Woo back Dallas Green. Manager Bobby Valentine may have lost a lot this season, but he is not a proven loser over time. Nobody blows the easy games like former Mets skipper Dallas Green. An upcoming three-game weekend series against the Tampa Bay Devil Rays could be crucial. Dallas Green would lose them all.

Mark Katz, a speechwriter and humorist, describes himself as a Reform Jew and an orthodox Yankees fan.

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A butler, a stateroom and the best bananas on board. Mark Katz finds he has arrived for the cruise of his life 30 years too early. By MARK KATZ

I think it's safe to say that people booked on a lavish 12-day, 6-star cruise have done something right with their lives.Their presence on board suggests they have achieved wealth, cultivated a taste for fine foods, become accustomed to attentive service and accumulated ample leisure time. A cruise ship passenger can smile at circumstance the way a lifelong Greyhound traveler might find cause to lament it.

As one among the 960 passengers on the Crystal Harmony, I've also done well. But my good fortune came in the form of a phone call from an editor asking if I would like to tag along on a fashion shoot aboard a cruise set for Alaska and chronicle its pampering lifestyle. Was I available? If need be, I'd have rescheduled a kidney transplant to become available. His search for a writer was over.

DAY 1: Departure, Victoria,
British Columbia

The first hint that I was out of my element came on the docks. The weathered green duffel that has carried my stuff for years stood out from the rows of gleaming, sturdy Louis Vuittons. I have seen many rolling suitcases before, but none with rack-and-pinion steering. Of all the people boarding this ship, I was the only one who looked like someone dropping off laundry.

Within minutes of crossing the gangway, it was plain to see that the passenger population consisted principally of two groups: senior citizens and their parents. Evidently I had arrived on this cruise three decades too soon. The bell captain pretended not to be surprised when I gave him my room number, 1028, on the exclusive penthouse deck, where spacious cabins come equipped with Jacuzzis and verandas (a fortuitous upgrade when someone called to cancel). Here among the venerable well-to-do, this punk and his plebian luggage were doing better than most.

Before I could unzip my duffel, I heard a gentle knock on the cabin door. I opened it to reveal a neatly groomed, bespectacled man standing before me in a tuxedo with tails. "Good day, my name is Cetin, and I am your butler," he said. A moment of silence passed that suggested he was completely serious. In his distinctive Turkish accent, Cetin (pronounced CHET-in) enumerated the many kinds of valet services and personal assistance that constituted his job. A little disconcerted, I talked him out of unpacking my clothes.

------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mark Katz, a humorist who has written for
President Clinton, is currently writing for the
ABC sitcom "Madigan Men."
------------------------------------------------------------------------

My butler excused, my attention turned to an abundant platter of fruit he'd left behind. I examined it with specific interest in the bananas on top. It just so happens that I love bananas. I love them pulled from the bunch, sliced onto cereal, made into pies, puddings, ice cream and tarts. Yet I've stopped buying bananas -- at least at the supermarket -- because I've become frustrated at how quickly they turn brown. When I want a banana, I take a special trip to the fruit stand on my block and select the prima banana, the largest, yellowest specimen at the very peak of freshness. Bananas exactly like these gorgeous three my butler had brought for me this day.

I had yet to peel open my prize before Cetin returned. With him he had a platter of glistening, oversize shrimp decoratively arranged in a coconut shell and accompanied by a side of cocktail sauce. I quickly forgot about the stupid bananas.

DAY 2: The Inside Passage

In the first, groggy minutes of the day, I pulled back the curtain not a foot from my pillow to reveal a Kodak moment: a gliding vista of inlet waters embanked by densely green forests, set off by snowcapped mountains against a clear blue sky. This view was to become very familiar during the next 16 hours of daylight as we powered up the Inside Passage on our way to Alaska.

The Crystal Harmony is a floating juxtaposition. Against a backdrop of untamed wilderness, passengers enjoy the refined civility of fluffy egg-white omelets for breakfast, musty port wines after dinner, aromatherapy by day and Cole Porter revues by night. Then they return to their cabins, unwrap the truffle on their pillows and slip between their 500-thread-count sheets. After one full day of this routine, I was forced to confront my longstanding discomfort with assiduous service.

Maybe it's self-reliance -- or a streak of egalitarianism -- but I've always preferred my own lackadaisical domestic efforts to the determined attentions of others. But here, resistance was futile. In addition to a butler, I had been assigned a team of stewardesses. With every return to my cabin, I would find wet hanging towels replaced with new ones clean and folded, strewn clothes returned to the (walk-in) closet and the torn toilet tissue left hanging off the dispenser neatly cornered once again. But in my mind each act registered an unspoken rebuke. "See how easy it is to put the toothpaste cap back on the tube?" "Is it really so hard to hang up a shirt?" "The toilet is flushed after each and every use! What kind of animal are you?"

Activities on board seem to fall into two categories: eating and killing time between meals. One of the most popular time-killing techniques is snacking. Among my snacks this day were the marvelously perfect bananas back in my room. I ate only one but carefully inspected the others. Though still bright yellow, I could sense their fragile ripeness approaching the precipice. Curious about their fate, I pulled a pen from my pocket and gave each an innocuous marking just below the stem, tagging them like rare birds in the wild.

DAY 3: Ketchikan, Alaska

I leapt from bed to begin the day that was to bring us into the port of Ketchikan. As I tightened the laces of my snazzy Nike hiking shoes, an eyelet on the left shoe popped, rendering the lace only partly useful. Suddenly things had taken a turn for the worse, and my anger turned to Kathie Lee Gifford and the shoddy workmanship of her minions. (I know that's not entirely fair. Kathie Lee is the spokesperson for an entirely different cruise line.) I had begun to search my cabin for makeshift tools to repair the shoe when I suddenly remembered: I am a guy with a butler! I picked up the phone; in short order Cetin was standing before me. The shoe was repaired before we pulled into port.

On a seaplane ride over mystic fjords and a rolling green landscape of glacier-carved valleys, I oohed and aahed alongside a friendly couple. Patrick, the man's name, was the ship's guest chef, who had prepared the meal served the night before in the main dining room, a meal I had missed because the fashion team had booked a table at the ship's Italian restaurant instead. Patrick recited his menu, from appetizer, salad and entree to, most memorably, dessert: a banana cheesecake draped in a chocolate caramel sauce. Excuse me, did you say "banana"?

Upon return to the ship, I summoned Cetin once again. I had two topics to discuss with him. First, I told him that somewhere on this ship there might be a few precious slices of banana cheesecake, and I challenged him to track them down.

Second, there was the issue of the fruit. Having checked in on my covert banana experiment, I found three perfect bananas on the tray, none with my telltale mark. I asked Cetin for an explanation. He pulled a notepad from his pocket and gave this answer: "Mr. Mark, I notice that you had eaten from the plate one banana and many red grapes. So today I bring you more like this -- plus green grapes, which I thought you might like." The bananas I had marked, he told me, might turn up again sliced into a fruit salad or pureed into a smoothie. At this point, no one could know for sure.

I was very impressed with him at that moment, but my esteem climbed even higher when he returned 10 minutes later with the banana cheesecake. Between cobbling my shoes and hunting for yesterday's dessert, my butler had saved the same day twice.

DAY 4: Glacier Bay

One of the services Cetin seemed especially eager to provide was preparing a party, should I wish to give one. On this day, our ship was to take us through the spectacular glacier bays to a reliable whale-watching site by late afternoon. I told Cetin to plan for a dozen guests -- my fashion-shoot colleagues and a few nice people I'd met by the pool -- at a time that would coincide with prime whale-watching hours. To ascertain when that would be, I found my way to the captain's bridge and explained my query to the ship's navigation officer, Takeshi. Compass in hand, Takeshi leaned over his maps and charts and crunched a few numbers. "Tell your guests optimal time for arrival is 4:45," he instructed. Listening in on our conversation was another uniformed gentleman, Deputy Captain Seiji. He approached to review Takeshi's charts and offered his own estimation: 4:35. Upon further questioning, it turned out Seiji concurred completely with Takeshi's calculation but, in his experience, guests usually arrived 10 minutes late.

Later that afternoon, at exactly 4:53, 20 guests marveling at a family of humpback whales swimming and spewing just 100 feet from my deck raised a glass or a crab claw to toast the excellent work of Officer Takeshi, Deputy Captain Seiji and Butler Cetin.

EPILOGUE: Continental Airlines Flight From Seattle to Newark

Crammed into a middle seat on an overbooked red-eye back to New York, my odyssey to indulgence was officially over. While I suffered from culture shock, at least my luggage could enjoy more familiar surroundings. Following nearly a week of unyielding service and fine food, my dearest wish was that a stewardess would remove my half-eaten Salisbury steak so I might reach for a pillow to cover my ears to mute the shrill of infants crying. Yet the irony of my situation failed to bring a smile to my face.
All I could do was lament my immediate circumstance and wonder how my life had suddenly gone so terribly, terribly wrong.

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May 17, 2000

At 6:15 this morning, Jed Stinger, an up-and-coming investigative media-journalist, rolled off his futon, fired up his laptop and listened to the bingbongs of his modem announce the new day. He began the hard work of research by typing "Jed Stinger" into a search engine to see what turned up.

Paydirt. Yesterday's lead story posted on www.mediawatercooler.com -- "JED STINGER SCORES LUNCH AT JUDSON GRILL WITH BOOK AGENT FROM WILLIAM MORRIS" -- had been hyperlinked on www.medialunchshmoozers.com.

It was just the kind of heat he had been trying to generate, buoying his hope that his book proposal for "The Inside Story on How a Hot Young Media-Journalist Published His First Book on the Media" might be published after all. If not, he would have to retreat to his fallback topic: "The Inside Story on How a Hot Young Media-Journalist Never Got His Book on the Media Published," which he envisioned as a more modest trade paperback.

But Jed Stinger also had a new project in mind: a big think piece about the media's fascination with the media. As an investigative media-journalist, he had long been fascinated by the subject. Why are the media so fascinated with the media? When did the media's fascination with the media begin? Is the media's coverage of the media's fascination with the media affected by the fascination itself? Each question was more interesting than the next.

His angle was innovative as well: tracing the origins of Jed Stinger's fascination with the media's fascination with the media. Stinger knew that this was the piece that only he could write.

Stinger hoped that his article might find placement on a media-savvy site like Slate, Salon or Inside.com. But he also knew that the rejection of his piece might also make news on salonscuttlebutt.com, slatescoop.com or insideinside.com. Stinger could actually feel a palpable buzz, until he discovered he had mistakenly set his beeper to vibrate.

Stinger felt proud. "This is exactly the kind of journalism I've longed to do since the early days of my career," he said as he waited for his Pop-Tart to cool.

It was a career now well into its sixth month. Stinger's meteoric rise had been well documented. In November, he had operated the deep fryer at the NBC commissary, but he found quick notoriety with a posting on www.msnbc/messageboard/media exposing the rank hypocrisy of Tom Brokaw. Brokaw, Stinger revealed, still enjoyed a daily dose of onion rings despite bragging about his devotion to the Atkins diet on Conan O'Brien. This story was the lead headline on mediabigcheese.com for nine hours straight, establishing Stinger as the media darling that he is today.

Despite this scoop, Stinger found no takers for his meta-media fascination piece. All the media Web pages were preoccupied with the parlor game of guessing the author of Joe Klein's new book.

As Stinger stared out the window of his studio apartment, sipping the day's third cup of coffee, he found this development discouraging. "Honestly, it makes me wonder why I ever got into serious journalism in the first place."

Mark Katz, a speechwriter and humorist, recently co-wrote President Clinton's farewell video to the Washington press corps.

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June 7, 1999

I may be the only person who has ever invested in Dell Computer and lost money. Three weeks ago I purchased my very first stock, buying $3,000 worth of Dell that's worth $2,300 today. As of now, a darling stock of the delirious market has me $700 in the hole. Admittedly, I've arrived late to personal investing. I'm one of those people who live their lives at the dusk of the day. As a teen-ager, I began watching "Charlie's Angels" when it featured Tanya Roberts. In the 80's, I was the last guy I knew wearing stubble and pastels. By the time I staked my claim on the Internet, AOL had run out of screen names that began with the letter M. And just a short time ago, news of the surging stock market was brought to my attention.

It happened one day at lunch, when my friend Paul quietly revealed to me that, three years after investing his pension by himself, he had made a million dollars on America Online. A million! Even in the era of $4 cappuccinos (a deliciously frothy coffee drink I've recently discovered), that's a lot of money, not to mention a pretty good return for a dentist investing from home on a Wednesday afternoon.

I like Paul, but I was devastated by his good fortune. Before that day I had been vaguely aware that the market was strong. I read the papers every day. I knew that the Dow had passed 10,000 in the same way I understood that our trade deficit is large and the speed of light is fast. Those numbers had none of the relevance of Paul's 1,000,000. In those zeros I saw the incredulous eyes of my progeny, demanding to know how I had managed to sleepwalk through the greatest market we've ever known.

That lunch set in motion a process that began with a 10-day self-taught crash course in picking stocks and ended the morning the price for Dell Computer, a company regarded as the General Motors of the new economy, fell below $40 a share. Gazing into the monitor of my desktop computer, I bought a piece of the action.

That was the day the "greater fool" theory found its greatest fool yet. My selection of that particular stock at that particular price was the product of blind faith, trivia and superstition: faith in the infinite expansion of a transcendent economy, trivial knowledge that Michael Dell is, like me, a thirtysomething son of an orthodontist and a superstitious notion that if this company had brought billions to my parallel-life soul mate, I too could expect a healthy return. There was no more science to this transaction than the time I put $50 down on 23 black in honor of my favorite Yankee.

Three weeks later, I could have bought a Dell computer with the money I'd lost, just as I would have been better off buying box seats behind first base with my $50.

I believe I've demonstrated the specific ways in which I'm a dangerously stupid investor, but correct me if I am wrong about this: for the stock market to rise, it requires demand to outpace supply. To sustain its incredible performance, the market requires more investments each day. An eager new recruit who will gladly buy your Yahoo stock at the precise moment it might otherwise succumb to the gravity of logic -- with another dupe just like him only a mouse click behind. I've already disposed of my disposable income, but where will the many other rubes come from? I only have two brothers and a sister.

For those who scrutinize leading market indicators, my bid to ride the bull market cannot be good news. If my past is prologue, we've just arrived at the end of a trend. Which means this boom may end with nearly everyone a millionaire and me left holding the bag. Or maybe we can prolong the prosperity by bringing to the market the last few people more clueless than me.
Seek them out at outlet malls. Comb the beaches for those who don't wear sunscreen. We can target those whose only response to one of America's lowest moments was, "Where can I buy that lip liner?"

Remember what's at stake: the 14-year-old who smoked his first cigarette today could be the one chasing up the price of your biotech stock tomorrow. I say we get out there and help Charles Schwab recruit fresh troops of self-taught investors with more cash than brains. It might just be our last, best hope of getting Dell Computer back up to 39 3/8.

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APRIL 5, 1998

MCCURRY: OK you bastards, give me your best shot. Mike?

ISIKOFF (NEWSWEEK): Newsweek’s ace reporter has learned Kenneth Starr is looking into the relationship between Socks and Buddy. More specifically, he’s exploring possible perjury charges over statements made under oath characterizing their relationship. Can you comment?

MCCURRY: I know nothing about it. I’ve been immersed in a sensory deprivation tank since the last briefing. Helen?

THOMAS (UPI): Mike, do you have independent knowledge of inappropriate contact between them?

MCCURRY: I know of no improper relationship between Buddy and Socks. Or any other household pets, for that matter. You in the front row. I keep forgetting your name.

DONALDSON (ABC): Mike, what about the report that upon greeting the Secretary of State, Buddy -- how do I put this delicately? -- wrinkled her pants suit?

MCCURRY: What about it?

DONALDSON: Well, on the heels of an alleged hairball found on Buddy’s front left paw, don’t you think it paints a damaging picture?

MCCURRY: I’ve already said Socks and Buddy have never had an improper relationship and I’ll let that statement speak for itself. John.

HUNT (AP) Mike, people who’ve met Buddy have commented on his friendly demeanor and his propensity to lick faces.

MCCURRY: Buddy, as his name suggests, is a friendly puppy.

BLOOM(NBC): And when you say ‘friendly" does that mean....

MCCURRY: (interrupting) I’m not going to parse "friendly" for you, David. Wolf and then Paul.

BLITZER (CNN) Mike, does the White House have a response to the clip running on CNN of Buddy giving himself a bath?

McCURRY: Yes: "Yecchh."

BEDARD (WASHINGTON TIMES) Mike, there is an item on the Drudge Report --

MCCURRY: (interrupting) Next question.

BEDARD: OK. There is an item on the internet that cites a guy who’s wife is in a book club with someone who heard from an unnamed source that Buddy was seen leaving the home of George and Barbara Bush shortly before the sudden -- and some say curious -- death of Millie. Comment?

MCCURRY: Run with it. Who’s next? Mara?

LIASSON (NPR) Mike, if these allegations prove true, do you think Buddy should be --

MCCURRY: It’s much too early to get into that. It’s a very sensitive area. Scott.

PELLY (CBS) Mike, do you --

MCCURRY: (interrupting) Asked and answered. Sara?

McCLENDON (McCLENDON NEWS SERVICE): Mike, isn’t it possible that that -- if this report is true -- that it could be part of a larger plot by the president’s enemies? Is there anything to the rumor that Buddy came from a puppy farm operated by a breeder with ties to the Revernd Jerry Falwell?

McCURRY: I have no knowledge of that, Sara. Jay?

CARNEY (TIME): Mike, does the White House plan to cooperate with all the aspects of Starr’s investigation?

MCCURRY: If you check yesterday’s briefing transcript, you’ll see I referred you to Thursday’s transcript.

KING (CNN) Does the president ever leave Socks and Buddy alone unsupervised?

MCCURRY: The President strongly believes Buddy is a fine dog and that Socks is an exemplary cat.

PELLY (CBS): Mike, could you be a little more vague?

MCCURRY: No.

BLOOM (NBC): Mike, why can’t you be any more specific?

MCCURRY: Because, according to your polls, the less I say, the higher my approval ratings go.

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November 28, 1997

This morning, as America awakes from a food coma and rubs its eyes from its tryptophan-haze, I jump from bed and smack my lips in anticipation of this holiday's most glorious bounty: leftovers.

T.G.I.F.A.T. Thank God It's the Friday After Thanksgiving.

More than by a holiday table covered with freshly cooked food, I am warmed by the sight of a refrigerator well stocked with the chilled remembrances of yestermeal. Modern refrigeration has introduced a joy of Thanksgiving unknown to the Pilgrims and Indians: the remnants of the harvest feast that are harvested from the table and feasted upon the rest of the month and into early December.

That's why today is the real Thanksgiving for people who live exclusively on leftovers, takeout and food prepared by others. People who could cook for themselves but -- thank heaven -- don't have to. People who verify Dr. Pavlov's findings every time the doorman rings up from the front desk. People like me, a grown gourmand who has never cooked a meal.

For a single person who lives alone, the Upper West Side is an a la carte buffet. Each day I slide my tray down its avenues and select from tempting bins of burgers, sushi and sandwich wraps. My face and favorite dishes are so well known to local food merchants, this year I felt obliged to send a Mother's Day card to that nice lady at Empire Szechuan Garden.

Experience has taught me to order more than I can eat because the only thing better than a delivery of hot food is the next day's cold remains. My years of research have revealed that pizza, pasta and creaky prawns in orange sauce gain in flavor what they lose in Fahrenheit. I may not cook, but I have skillfully chilled many spectacular dishes. Many friends rave about my cold cold sesame noodles.

So yesterday's Thanksgiving dinner was only the latest in an endless series of meals prepared by others that I've eaten. Only this one was lovingly prepared by that other recipient of my Mother's Day cards, my mother. For more than a week, she's been shopping, chopping, basting and tasting -- and driving from bakery to bakery in search of acceptable pies. Mom served our family a Thanksgiving dinner as delicious as any meal served hot could ever hope to be.

But as we filled our plates with Dad-carved turkey, chestnut stuffing and sweet potato pie covered with melted marshmallows, I couldn't help but think how much better all this would taste the next day. One night in the refrigerator would congeal the turkey juices to a ,flavorful jelly, make crunchy the acorn squash and turn the diced pineapple in the sweet potato pie nicely crisp and tart. I even suspected the nutmeg pumpkin soup would make a lovely seasonal gazpacho if chilled to 45 degrees.

It seems that my preference for cold food has become so strong, I am no longer able to enjoy a nice hot meal. Not even on Thanksgiving.

That's why every year Mom stuffs and cooks a 22-pound bird when the butcher tells her that a 16-pounder would do. With hands still burnt and cut from peeling roasted chestnuts, she fills tubs of Tupperware with surplus turkey and trimmings and sends me back to my apartment with shopping bags full of food.

Once packed, my refrigerator combines the best of both worlds: suddenly it's a takeout place that serves my favorite leftovers -- with no delivery guy to tip.

As next week unfolds, I will carefully manage the contents of the care package knowing at any given moment exactly how many slices of noodle pudding remain. By this time next week, my supply of leftovers will have run out and I will have to go cold turkey. Yet as I stand here in my pajamas in front of an overstuffed double-door refrigerator, I can only take stock of the abundance that greets me and bow my head in thanks.

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February 7, 1999

Something called the Committee to Restore American Values recently asked Republican Presidential hopefuls to fill out a sort of Standardized Litmus Test seeking their views on everything from gambling to gun control. One question asked if the would-be President would place a Nativity scene on the White House lawn even "if ordered to refrain from doing so by the Supreme Court."

Not to be outdone, the Coalition to Heal America's Karma, a splinter group of the Vast Left-Wing Conspiracy, has prepared a similar survey for possible Democratic candidates:

• Whom do you admire more: Sacco or Vanzetti?
  
  
• Will you overturn Executive Order #35986, President Nixon's directive that the musical "Hair" never be staged at the Kennedy Center?
  
  
• Is your spouse or significant other willing to relocate to New York to oppose a Rudolph Giuliani Senate bid?
  
  
• Should the purview of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms be expanded to include any of the following?
  Check those that apply:
  [ ] Caffeinated beverages
  [ ] Nonnatural fibers
  [ ] The Archer Daniels Midland Company
  [ ] Both Bennett Brothers
  [ ] The editorial page of The Wall Street Journal
  
  
• How does one show contempt for the establishment and run it simultaneously? Can you effectively compartmentalize?
  
  
• Do you support real universal health care, or would you limit coverage to planet Earth?
  
  
• Wouldn't it be just perfect if Anita Hill were appointed Solicitor General? Check one:
  [ ] Yes
  [ ] Absolutely yes
  
  
• Do you believe the progressive tax structure can be made more fair by requiring Steve Forbes to pay 18 percentmore than anyone else in the top tax bracket?
  
  
• A train leaves Cambridge, Mass., headed for Berkeley, Calif., traveling at 100 miles per hour.
  
  
• If a car simultaneously departs the Upper West Side at 60 m.p.h. and reaches Hollywood six days later, which mode of transportation has contributed more to the proliferation of global warming? (Show all work.)
  
  
• Since 1994, Kenneth Starr's fishing expeditions have needlessly killed thousands of dolphins. Will you call for a boycott?
  
  
• Do you believe America's Poet Laureate should be\ elevated to Cabinet rank?
  
  
• Which Toni Morrison novel are you currently reading?
• Will you fight to end the discriminatory practice of "no shirt, no shoes, no service"?
  
  
• (1) When will the United States Postal Service honor the art of Robert Mapplethorpe with a postage stamp, and (2) do you know the home address of Senator Jesse Helms?
  
  
• Should the motto "In God we trust" be replaced with "To whom it may concern"?
  
  
• Do you believe that the waste and fraud cut from the defense budget ought to be added directly to the waste and fraud of Social Security budget?
  
  
• Will you pardon the brave dissident in the Senate gallery last week who exclaimed, "God Almighty, take the vote and get it over with!"

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November 26, 1996

Phase One is now complete.'' -- MSNBC on-air promotion.

When NBC and Microsoft joined assets and initials to launch MSNBC, it was news. But it was the old kind of news, the kind that lies there on the page and mocks you for just sitting there, blinking, moving listlessly to the next item. So now the brave young network is finding exciting ways for you to interact with the news. Here is a preview of MSNBC Phase Two:

Startling new uses of interactive technology. Start with a personalized news program titled "Hey [insert your name here] !" Hosted by a digitized likeness of you, it features daily updates on your weight, readouts of people talking about you behind your back and a running timetable of the expiration dates for the stuff in your fridge. CLICK HERE to see your credit rating.


New technology enables viewers to download wardrobes of sharp-yet-casual MSNBC anchors. CLICK HERE for transfer of Ed Gordon's dusty rose foulard tie by Hugo Boss, handcrafted in Italy.


Home phones of MSNBC correspondents for viewers with questions about current events late at night and on weekends. CLICK HERE to interrupt Andrea Mitchell's dinner.


A link to a Web site about anchor John Gibson's hair. CLICK HERE to enter chat room on today's topic, "Brylcream: would it help or hurt?"


Based on the success of televising Don Imus's radio program, MSNBC launches an arresting program of Art Buchwald at his desk typing his column. CLICK HERE to read a paragraph now in progress.


Internet users can register real-time disagreements with on-air "contributors." CLICK HERE to register 20 volts of disagreement with Eric Alterman's call for nationalized meal plans.


Because the manic pace of interactive news makes traditional units of time obsolete, MSNBC unveils its own metric 10-hour-day/10-day-week programming schedule. New system begins two decimers from Jalsday. CLICK HERE to catch up on all the news that has broken since you began reading this article.

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August 18, 1997

Since its foundation in 1981, the Hall of Near-Fame annually honors those contemporary and historical figures whose names are affixed to the asterisks of history*. This year’s induction ceremony will be held on Monday, November 9 in the Buzz Aldrin Auditorium of the Hall of Near-Fame, located just outside Manhattan in Astoria, Queens. The Master of Ceremonies Kitty Dukakis is a 1992 inductee who found near-fame ten years ago when she came within 260 electoral votes of becoming America’s first Jewish First Lady. She is also the wife of 1989 inductee Michael S. Dukakis.

* Except in 1984, 1985, 1988 and 1993-96 when the ceremonies were canceled due to lack of interest or, as was the case in 1991, the Persian Gulf War.

Depending on how many people RSVP, the 1998 Hall of Near-Fame inductees are:

Emilio Baldwin. The youngest of the Baldwin Brothers, Emilio inherited too few of the family’s winning traits and set out to make it on his rough-hewn bad looks. Despite his deficit of appeal and talent, Emilio spent three season playing the part of "Ziggy" the emotionally-scarred math genius on television’s Saved By the Bell: The Bitter Years." In his ample spare time, Emilio stumps for local Democratic school board members and town council candidates in Massapequa, Long Island.

Vidalia. The first and only Amish Supermodel is a woman so heartachingly beautiful, Donald Trump would marry her without a pre-nup. But her modeling career came to an end almost as soon as it began, as her fervent religious belief that the camera steals one’s soul was not well-received in an industry so fervently soulless. The haunting sketch-artist rendition of Vidalia that graced the cover of last year’s Lancaster County Tourism Guide is the only tantalizing hint of a modeling career that might have been.

Ramfir Bar-Ishnay. The only major literary figure still writing in the long-forgotten Semitic tongue of Ugaritic. As a result, no one is certain whether his extraordinarily prolific output (fifty-nine phonebook-thick novels) is filled with deft prose or pure shit. Bar-Ishnay’s best-known work, entitled Shrêwob Phupa Phupa, is on a topic known only to him but believed by scholars to involve at least two Phupas. The whereabouts of Mr. Bar-Ishnay are also a mystery, as he has lived as a recluse since the Ayatollah Khomeini condemned him to death in 1987 just in case there was anything heretical in his writings.

Nigel Best. The older brother of ex-Beatle Pete Best, the ill-fated drummer who John, Paul and George ousted in favor of Ringo. Liverpool legend has it that on October 22, 1960, Nigel Best was set to audition for the Beatles but was confined to bed that day with the shingles. When Nigel sent his brother Pete (also a percussionist) to reschedule, the boys asked Pete to try out instead. And the rest, as they say, is near-history.

Vladimir Pabushkin. A little-noted behavioral scientist often chastised by peers –- including many strongly worded rebukes from his mentor Dr. Ivan Pavlov -- for his sloppy lab techniques. In his one and only published study, he chronicled the "Pabushkin Effect, " the phenomenon of his tendency to salivate whenever his dogs barked, and by doing so, proved nothing of any scientific significance whatsoever.

The Earl of Witherspoon. An eleventh-century English baron who, according to lore, grew hungry during a marathon session of cribbage but did not want the disruption of a sit-down meal. Instead he made this odd request to his servants: place a single piece of bread between two thick slices of roasted meats, slathering each on the exposed outside with condiments and garnish. The result they brought him was such an unwieldy mess, it quickly rendered the playing cards unusable. The experiment was immediately stopped and never spoken of again. Three centuries later, a nobleman residing in the same manor unearthed the original notebook sketches, inversed the design and became the namesake for one of the world’s most enduring and best-loved lunches.

Mediocites. Ancient Greek philosopher credited with inventing the process of procrastination, as well as the mathematic principle of rounding off. As a youth, he declined an invitation to become a disciple of Socrates, choosing instead to become his nuch-shlepper. Like many of the ancients, what we know about Mediocrites survives only in fragments. His name appears but once in the Socratic Dialogues, when in response to a question about the nature of truth, he replied, "Let me get back to you on that one, Socrates." In the wake of tribunals that followed the trial of Socrates, Mediocrites was indicted for his astonishing lack of accomplishment and sentenced to death by his own hand. Intrigued by the notion of becoming a martyr for procrastination, Mediocrites spoke of suicide often, only to die decades later of complications following a broken hip.

"Astonishing" Stan Rohrbacher. The second worst player on the roster of the 1962 expansion Mets, Rohrbacher was eclipsed by "Marvelous" Marv Throneberry in his bid to be the poster boy for the most hapless team in the history of professional sports. An anemic hitter and inadequate fielder, Rohrbacher had only good luck to blame for his slightly favorable season statistics; seven of his total sixteen hits that season left his bat accidentally as he bailed out of the batter’s box for fear of being hit.

Tony "Nondescript" Lombardo. An otherwise successful organized crime figure of the 1940’s who defied colorful characterization. At different times during his violent career, he was known as Tony "Tapioca" Lombardo, Tony "Brown Socks" Lombardo, "Dishwater" Tony Lombardo, and Tony "That’s him, the third Guy on the Right" Lombardo.

Zechariah Statën. An early Dutch settler who submitted the second highest bid to the Chicopee Indians in the purchase of Manhattan Island in 1671. Concerned that the island had limited capacity for parking, he offered a collection of trinkets and knickknacks worth approximately $19 in current value. He later successfully purchased another local island from the Indians for a price of $11 and the condition residents would be ferried by canoe back and forth from Manhattan for free in perpetuity.

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BY MARK KATZ
AIR DATE 7/23/97

INTRO:
THE STREETS OF NEW YORK CITY ARE FAMOUS FOR TALL BUILDINGS, GREAT STORE WINDOWS AND PEOPLE WATCHING. IT’S NOT UNUSUAL TO SEE CELEBRITIES SAUNTERING ON THE AVENUES, EATING IN RESTAURANTS AND ENJOYING VARIOUS PUBLIC EVENTS. THE VERY PRESENCE OF THESE TYPES IS AT THE ROOT OF A SPORT UNKNOWN IN OTHER MAJOR CITIES. COMMENTATOR MARK KATZ FILLS US IN ON THE GAME AND ITS RULES.

VO:
RANKING ABOVE GRATUITOUS NAME-DROPPING BUT BENEATH ALTERNATE-SIDE-OF-THE-STREET-PARKING, CELEBRITY SPOTTING STANDS AMONG NEW YORK'S MOST ENDURING PASTIMES. AND LIKE ANY GAME, SOME PLAY IT BETTER THAN OTHERS.

A BELOW-AVERAGE SPOTTER ONCE SUBMITTED THIS REPORT TO HER ROOMMATES: SHE HAD SEEN "A FAMOUS COUPLE -- I CAN'T REMEMBER THEIR NAMES BUT EVERYONE KNOWS THEM -- AT THAT RESTAURANT EVERYONE GOES TO."

THE AGONIZING GAME OF TWENTY QUESTIONS THAT FOLLOWED REVEALED THAT SHE HAD NOT SEEN ALVIN AND HEIDI TOFFLER AT BOB'S BIG BOY -- BUT ALEC BALDWIN AND KIM BASSINGER AT NICK & TONI'S.

LIKE ANY GREAT SPORT, CELEBRITY SPOTTING CAN BE PLAYED AT ALMOST ANY LEVEL OF SKILL. THE REWARDS OF RECOGNITION ARE AVAILABLE TO ALL, FROM THE INEPT TO ADEPT AND ALL THE LEVELS OF EPT IN BETWEEN. BUT AS WITH MOST NEW YORK PURSUITS, WHAT BEGINS AS PLEASURE DEVOLVES TO COMPETITION. ADVANCED SPOTTERS PLAY A GAME ONLY DISTANTLY RELATED TO THAT OF THE NOVICE. THEY ACKNOWLEDGE THE OBVIOUS BUT CHERISH THE OBSCURE, SEEKING THOSE AT THE MARGIN OF CELEBRITY.

TRAINED EYES AT THE CITY'S MOST RENOWN CELEBRITY SOIREE -- A KNICK GAME AT MADISON SQUARE GARDEN -- WASTE LITTLE TIME OBLIGING THE CONSPICUOUS TOM BROKAW, SPIKE LEE AND SHARON STONE. THEY KNOWS THE BIG GAME LURKS IN THE ROWS BEHIND, WHERE ABE BEAM, PETER BOYLE, OR ART GARFUNKEL MIGHT BE WATCHING IN EARNEST. THE RULES ARE SIMPLE: THE MORE OBSCURE THE BETTER. ("IS THAT IRVING R. LEVINE?!?")

ON THE SCORECARD OF THE SERIOUS, MADONNA IS WORTH ONE POINT AND YO-YO MA, ONE HUNDRED.

ONE SUCH VIRTUOSO PUT ON AN EXHIBITION AT WHICH MANY IN THE SPOTTING COMMUNITY STILL MARVEL. ON AN AUGUST EVENING A FEW SUMMERS AGO, TWO YOUNG MEN -- A SPOTTER AND HIS FRIEND WHO WAS VISITING FROM OUT OF TOWN -- SAT DOWN FOR A LATE SUPPER ON THE UPPER WEST SIDE SIDEWALK PATIO OF ISABELLA'S, HOURS AFTER THE SCENE-GOERS HAD LEFT THE SCENE. WITH THE EASY SHIFT OF AN EYE, THE SPOTTER MADE HIS CATCH.

"SEE THE GUY WITH THE MUSTACHE?"
"YEAH."
"PETER MAX."
"THE ARTIST?"
"THAT'S HIM."
"HOW DO YOU KNOW WHAT HE LOOKS LIKE."
"I KNOW HE LOOKS EXACTLY LIKE THAT GUY. THAT'S HIM."
"YOU'RE FULL OF IT."

FINDING UNEQUIVOCAL CERTAINTY A SOURCE OF CONFIDENCE, HE DECLINED TO ARGUE THE POINT AND RETURNED TO HIS PENNE. "OK. I'M FULL OF IT."

A FEW MINUTES LATER, AN EASTWARD GLANCE DOWN 77TH STREET BROUGHT ANOTHER DISPLAY OF EFFORTLESS SPOTTING TALENT.

"SEE THE GUY WALKING THE DOG? BILLY SQUIRE."
"WHO?"
"BILLY SQUIRE. THE 80'S ROCK STAR. ‘STROKE ME, STROKE ME.’
THAT'S HIM."
"IF I'VE NEVER HEARD OF HIM, HOW DO YOU KNOW WHAT HE LOOKS
LIKE."
"I USED TO WATCH A LOT OF MTV."
"YOU'RE FULL OF IT."
"OK. I'M FULL OF IT."

THE MAN AND HIS BOXER HAD REACHED THE CORNER AND TURNED SOUTH ON COLUMBUS. HIS HEAD TURNED TO THE PATIO AND, IN RECOGNITION, CALLED OUT, "PETER!"
"HEY! BILLY!" CAME THE REPLY.

IN THE PARLANCE OF THE GAME, IT WAS AN AUDIBLE MUTUAL VERIFICATION -- AN OCCURRENCE LONG CONSIDERED THEORETICALLY POSSIBLE BUT NEVER BEFORE DOCUMENTED. THAT'S ONE OF THE MANY JOYS OF PLAYING GAMES IN THE CITY WHERE THE HYPOTHETICAL HAPPENS ALMOST EVERY DAY.

MARK KATZ IS A SPEECHWRITER AND AUTHOR OF THE BOOK, "I AM NOT A CORPSE!" AND OTHER QUOTES NEVER ACTUALLY SAID. HE LIVES IN NEW YORK CITY.

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March 22, 1997

Once teens were barely tolerated, but now we worship the false god of youth.

I mean, it's like, today's teens, they just don't get it!!!! Sure, for them, life is totally phine -- er, phat. They are coming of age in an age that celebrates the coming of age. For every standard issue adolescent yearning, there is a show that explores it on the WB. For each of life's cliched ironies encountered for the first time, there is a chat room to lament it on TeenGripe.com. For every pimply punk buying a pop CD, another kid with a good complexion has just released a debut album. Being a teenager these days is as effortless as being a Renaissance Man during the Renaissance. These kids have no idea how hard it is living in an era that has outgrown grownups. They just.....I dunno. Forget it. Whatever.

It's been twenty years since I was a teenager but if memory serves, my adolescent experience took place in an environment very different from today's. Certainly, I struggled with the same dilemmas that still define this realm: Who am I? Where will my life take me? When will I get naked with a girl? Like everyone else, I had to solve the riddle of defying my elders while conforming to my peers. Until we find a cure for puberty, there will be always be young adults fixated upon these questions; what's new is an entire culture fixated upon those who fixate upon these questions.

The irony, of course, is that the affliction of adolescence is traditionally marked by a pronounced sense of isolation. At some critical moment in every proto-adult life comes a lonely, anguished, heartfelt plea: "Nobody understands me!" How can today's teens truly experience this tortured rite of passage when marketers seek them out relentlessly and programmers understand them so well? And with all those Hollywood talent scouts and Silicon Valley headhunters hunting them down and signing them up, why would they even care if their parents understand them at all? Even the lonely losers of yesteryear are no longer locked in suburban basements playing Dungeons & Dragons; they are in downtown lofts uploading web pages and concocting e-business ventures. There's hardly anyone left in our workforce to mow the lawns and flip the burgers. Today's teenagers hold such a commanding position in our economy, it's only a matter of time before antiquated child-labor laws are inverted to establish a maximum wage and minimum hours. (In fact, the better question may be, is it even fair to keep these kids stuck at home or in a classroom during their peak earning years? How else can they expect to retire by the time they’re thirty?) These are the odd socioeconomic circumstances that place me among the first generation of Americans who strive to do better than their children.

When I came of age, teenagers were not celebrated, only tolerated, as though society had said to us, "Come back to us when your skin clears up and you've shaved that cheesy mustache off your face." Out of ideas about how to deal with us, well-meaning adults herded us into "rap sessions" on the off-chance that we might console ourselves. I spent a good part of my teenage years hoping only to outlive the awkward indignities of adolescence. I prayed for the day when I’d be older –- and please God, taller -- so I might assume the full status of a human being endowed by my Creator with certain unalienable rights, not least among these was staying out past eleven and entering bars at will. I endured my teenage years by placing faith in the future, only to look back and realize that I managed to miss Woodstock not once but twice.

Maybe you can argue that teens should not be shunted aside but I am curious to know how they've come to be worshipped instead. Now that I am fully grown, I sense two prevailing cultural obsessions that ignore me once again. In American culture, there is potential and nostalgia; we are fascinated by prodigies first, and has-beens second. Stuck in the middle are millions like me – living in those awkward years between promising potential and ironic demise. And the parameters of the present keep pushing in. To the tune of discarded disco anthems, our eye pans slowly from one Gap-clad teen to another, and for thirty seconds we cannot bring ourselves to blink. The teens stare back at us brimming with serene self-assurance, mocking anyone who ever made the mistake of turning twenty-two and blissfully unaware that ten years from now, they will be ten years older.

We've come to worship this false god of youth just as wayward, ancient Hebrews once kneeled at the hooves of a Golden Calf. But perhaps there's a lesson there as well: once the world’s darling, that Golden Calf later found herself a tarnished cow, reduced to flashing her sagging udders at circus sideshows. Over time, self-loathing made her lactose-intolerant and she died too-young from an overdose of prescription-strength Dairy-Eaze®. How do I know this? I just watched the whole sad aftermath during teen idols’ week on VH1’s "Where Are They Now?"

Britney Spears: consider yourself warned.

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