Are You Experienced?

National Review Online, August 27, 2000

© Andrew Stuttaford

"Turn left on Mercer and drive for a few blocks. What you are looking for is the blob at the bottom of the Space Needle." My friend Steve may not be an architect, but he knows a blob when he sees one. A few years ago Microsoft billionaire Paul Allen asked Frank Gehry, the creator of the Guggenheim's extraordinary Bilbao extension, to build him a "swoopy" building for Seattle's new rock 'n' roll museum. What he got was a blob. It sits, shining in its multicolored aluminum skin, a crushed jelly-mold duomo. Its campanile, the Space Needle, is all Jetsons geometry, the product of a time when we thought the 21st century would be straight lines, monorails, and Mission Control order. Now that we are arriving there, we believe in a crumpled, curvier, softer future, more Barbarella than Bauhaus, an age, it seems, when gee-whiz museums feature not atom science, but Atomic Rooster.

As blobs go it's impressive, but I'm not sure that Mr. Gehry's new building is quite as innovative as Paul Allen might have hoped. In the aftermath of Bilbao, the Seattle museum looks suspiciously like a retread, a scrunched-up re-run of the earlier Spanish triumph. Maybe this is only justice, as the idea of a rock 'n' roll museum is not exactly novel either. As miffed folk in Ohio will be pointing out, they've had one in Cleveland for a few years now. Its architect, I. M. Pei, was also associated with a dramatic extension to an existing museum, in his case a pyramid at the Louvre. Mr. Pei's construction is meant to be reminiscent of a turntable, Frank Gehry's is said to be inspired by one of Jimi Hendrix's smashed guitars. The two also share something else much more significant: the problem that rock music is a difficult subject for a museum.

Rock music, any music, is about the moment, the moment that may become a memory. It's that rush as an old familiar riff slides out of the speaker, or the dawning excitement one minute, two minutes into a song, when you realize that this new band is very, very good. And it's nostalgia too. There's a sweet pleasure in listening to those tunes that take you back to your first kiss (Rod Stewart, I'm afraid), university days, a trip abroad, or even that one glorious, delirious night in a Tennessee bar. It's the memories, the associations, and, of course, the sheer joy of the music itself that count. Anything else, like the packaging we used to have on CDs, is just so much clutter. Sure, as VH1's current programming shows, the story of rock 'n' roll can be interesting, but its artifacts, unfortunately, are not. Be warned: The Seattle museum has 80,000. It's the Hard Rock Cafe, but with less emphasis on the cheeseburgers.

There are guitars, hundreds of them, some in pieces (thanks, Jimi!), but most are intact, battered, shiny, painted, Gibson, Fender, and Les Paul, the guitars of the famous, the guitars of the obscure. Near the entrance, there is even a sculptured cascade of guitars. Silent, all these instruments are dull, lifeless totems. Like the stuffed animals in our more depressing natural-history museums, there's not a lot of point to them. It's the same way with the museum's prize architectural exhibit, preserved like the Temple of Dendur in New York's Met, the wooden arch that once led to Moe's Mo' Roc' n Cafe (Seattle, 1994-97) or the tatty finery of bygone rock stars (Janis's feather boa, Heart's sort-of-medieval gowns). I mean, who cares? Only the posters and handbills, visual art of a sort, are really still worth a look, miniature reflections of their respective eras: simple text from the plain Jane 1950s, Haight-Ashbury rococo, the angry sub-Constructivism of punk.

Luckily, however, you get more for your $19.95 than this. Sensing, perhaps, that these exhibits might not quite make it into the Tate, Mr. Allen and his team seem hesitant about calling their blob a museum. No, formally, it is an "experience," the "Experience Music Project" (EMP). The name, of course, is a tribute to Jimi Hendrix, a Seattle native and an idol of the software billionaire's, but it also reflects the fact that this display is (probably inevitably, in a project funded by the new economy) "interactive." Now, when I was a boy an "interactive" (not that we used the word) museum exhibit meant pressing some button on a dingy control panel. A number of bulbs would light up, and you would know just a little bit more about the circulation of the blood or the habitats of some dreary animal. Or you wouldn't. Normally several of the bulbs were out, and to your surprise you would discover that no corpuscle ever reached the foot or that the rabbit was extinct.

We have moved on. The EMP features a "sound lab" which "invites your inner musician to come out and play." We all have one, apparently. My inner musician joined the crowd pounding the "Jam-O-Drum" (it generates rhythms and colors) a few times and made a fool of itself on some machine designed to show that any idiot can play the first few chords of Louie, Louie within a few minutes. Not this idiot, apparently.

The inner egomaniac, meanwhile, could be tempted by "On Stage," a high-tech version of the air guitar you used to play (admit it). The visitor is taken to perform in a virtual arena "complete with smoke, hot lights and screaming fans." The instruments are programmed so that even an novice can "play," and "play" the novices did. Those standing in the real and very long line outside could watch their virtual show on closed- circuit TV.

Then there's MEG, the "Museum Exhibit Guide," an extraordinary upgrade of the battered cassette players that are most galleries' "audio tour." MEG is a device that looks a little like a tricorder from the old Star Trek. Point it at many of the exhibits and a menu will pop up, offering much, much more detailed information, often in the shape of oral history and, crucially, snatches of song. It does its best to bring those dead guitars, and the EMP, to life. Rock 'n' roll nerds can even bookmark areas of particular fascination and, using the ticket I.D. number, download yet more material onto their PCs when they get home to their darkened bedrooms.

Technologically, it's spectacular. It's also spectacularly stupid.

All these megabytes to research Megadeth? Conservatives will, correctly, see the EMP as yet more evidence of a dumbed-down society, but they should get some comfort from the fact that in its vaguely new-agey way, the EMP is a squeaky-clean, family-values sort of place. Much of the interior may be rough and unfinished — an attempt, we're told, to recreate the feel of a rock venue — but it fails. This is the rock in Norman Rockwell. There's no spilled beer, vomit, or smell of reefer. It's "smoke-free." Parents and children wander round together, bland in their khaki shorts and pale polos, checking out the B*tthole Surfers' memorabilia together. The heart of the building, its "gathering place [and] personification," a cavernous space, 85 feet tall at its highest, is even described as a church, the "Sky Church." (Well, I did say new-agey.) EMP is also patriotic — British music hardly rates a mention. Those Beatles will never catch on.

Ultimately, EMP is absurd, of course, a ludicrous allocation of $240 million, but so what? There's no need to worry about that. It was Paul Allen's money, his to spend how he wanted, a great, glorious self-indulgence, his reward to himself for entrepreneurial success. And yes, his museum may be a poor tribute to rock 'n' roll, but as an advertisement for the wild energy of the free market, it's right up there, right at the top of the charts.

Hollywood Ten

National Review Online, August 8, 2000

Is there no end to the empathy? It's a long, hard GOP convention for the hard-hearted among us, a grim procession of blind mountaineers, teachers, "the children," breast-cancer advocates, diabetic beauty queens, and deaf ones too. Tonight, though, twenty minutes or so after the showing of a "compassion video," the podium will brighten up. As the Republican's convention website boasts, a "film icon" is coming to town. Hepburn? Bacall? Well, no. It's Bo Derek, actually, more of a poster than an icon, perhaps, but a welcome visitor nonetheless. And who'd have thought it? Bo Derek, a cheerleader for George W. Yes, that's right, THE Bo Derek. You know, cornrows, the 10 girl, sex goddess of the later disco era, the seductress clad in a wet swimsuit, and, often, gloriously, much much less.

It turns out that she's on the right, an unlikely star for an all too strait-laced party. She's a Republican and has been for years. Back in 1996, she was quoted as saying that her heroes included General Schwarzkopf and Presidents Reagan and Bush. As for Bob Dole, well, "the man was an absolute superman. His energy wiped me out." And that was before the Viagra.

Bo's no Barbra Streisand, though. Sure, she'll speak at the convention for a minute or two, but for the most part she's happy to play the supporting role. She isn't a Hollywood wonk, with a program for every problem, hectoring and haranguing the peons as to how they should live their lives. As she has explained to Fox News's Bill O'Reilly, "movie stars…live in a bubble…and for me to give my opinions and maybe influence anybody is absurd."

Her Republicanism seems practical, unideological. As a younger woman she saw herself as a Democrat. She thought the Democrats were "nicer people" who cared about people more. Then filming abroad opened her eyes: "You can't help but compare America to other countries the more you travel, and that's when I just realized in looking [at] different issues that I was a Republican." The free market, she realized, works. Welfare is fine "when people really need help, but as a lifestyle, I don't think it's good for the people receiving it…It discourages dignity and incentives."

She is no social conservative. It would be better to see her as a R-rated Christine Todd Whitman. A (generously illustrated) profile in the current issue of Cigar Aficionado describes her as pro-gay rights, pro-choice and, on occasion, anti-clothes. "We're born nude and it just seems like the most natural thing." There's a brief nod in the direction of some feminist piety (something about women voting the same way), but I suspect that Bo is never going to be one of the sisters. She had an unforgivably happy marriage to a much older guy, she took off her clothes in a lot of movies and, let's face it, she just looks too good.

However, her opinions don't make her look good in notoriously liberal Hollywood. It is even hinted that Bo's politics may have held back her career. Well, maybe, but when that career includes Bolero, Tarzan the Ape Man, and Ghosts Can't Do It, there may be another explanation. Nevertheless, when she describes the reaction to her views, her story rings very true. "It's really tough to have a nice, open conversation," she told O'Reilly. Apparently, her entertainment-industry pals "get really angry…and they treat me as though I'm some hateful monster."

Yes, I bet they do. They are liberals, supporters of that other cigar aficionado, the one in the White House. And, as we all know, the Left doesn't have much time, or respect, for anyone who dares to disagree with them. As Bo's clearly discovered, Democrats are not "nicer people." She's brave to speak her mind, but she's going to be lonely. Conservatives in the movie business are few and far between, and they are likely to stay that way. There's Moses, of course, our own Charlton Heston, and some of the more secular action heroes, Willis, Norris, Schwarzenegger, but these guys do have a touch of the last stand about them. TV isn't much better, although it was good to see Rick Schroder, NYPD Blue's Lieutenant Sorenson, at the convention on Tuesday night. He was smart, compelling, and — unlike most of Republican showbiz — under 40. Otherwise, the Right is only left with a presence in country music (and I'm not so sure about that k. d. lang) and wrestling, of course: the Rock, the thinking man's Jesse Ventura, is in the GOP line-up.

Sadly, this isn't going to be enough, and even more sadly, this matters. In our tranquil, ill-educated times, showbiz sets not only the cultural, but the political agenda. The drip, drip, drip of a predominantly liberal message in the movies, TV, and the other entertainment media is bound to wear through to the ballot box. We saw this in Britain, where a hostile cultural scene proved to be the harbinger of the crushing Conservative defeat in the 1997 election. Writing in the London Sunday Times the following year, the newspaper's then-resident leftist, the writer Robert Harris, noted — with, probably, some satisfaction — that he couldn't think of one single "important" British writer or, for that matter, a film director, theater director, composer ("apart from Lord Lloyd Webber"), actor, or painter who was a Conservative.

As Mr. Harris went on to point out, "the entertainment and fashion industries are now two of the biggest economic sectors in the world. Never have we lived in a time more conscious of style, and never in democratic history has it been less stylish to be on the right."

Now, he was writing in a British context, but, like it or not, it's not too difficult to see the same process gathering pace over here. It's not going to be easy to reverse. On this battlefield, the Right are simply too few. Sure, Republicans have got the Rock, but the Democrats have the (Sharon) Stone. Bo Derek may turn some heads, but she's not enough to turn the tide. Suggesting a solution to this problem is beyond the scope of this article, but to those who say that this all doesn't matter, that substance will prevail over style, I have only three words to offer: William Jefferson Clinton.

The British Are Groaning

The Patriot

National Review Online, July 3, 2000

I may be slow, but I'm beginning to think that there's something about us Brits that Mel Gibson doesn't like. First there was Gallipoli in which he played a plucky Australian soldier sent to fight the Turks in World War I. Mel and his fellow recruits are portrayed as free spirits, condemned to a tragic death by their snobbish and incompetent colonial masters, the English.

Then came Braveheart and the limeys get libeled again. The dust and sun of the Dardanelles may have been replaced by the rain and mud of medieval Scotland, but the bad guys remain the same, duplicitous, callous and very, very English. In Braveheart a curious, ahistorical fable (strangely described in NR and NRO as a conservative movie) Mr. Gibson, who also directed, plays William Wallace as a tartan reprise of his role in Mad Max The Scottish leader is shown as, you guessed it, a virile free spirit, a broadsword-wielding contrast to the cruel, yet foppish, invaders from the south. The English are bad in battle and worse in bed. To underline his hero's masculine superiority over the effete enemy, Gibson has Wallace successfully romancing a proto-Princess Diana, Princess Isabella (Sophie Marceau). As Isabella was French and her husband, the English king's son, was homosexual, Gibson's audience may see this as less of a coup than the star would have liked. They would be wrong. Such an affair would have been a truly remarkable testament to Wallace's powers of attraction as, in real life, the mutinous Scot never actually met Isabella. Mr. Gibson, however, doesn't always worry too much about real life.

Which brings me to The Patriot, Mel's latest assault on the evil empire (London edition). In this Revolutionary War epic Mr. Gibson plays, yet again, a splendid free spirit, Colonel Benjamin Martin, a South Carolina farmer loosely based on Francis Marion, one of the heroes of the American war of independence. Martin is a good father, industrious farmer and all-round upright citizen. After the usual agonized "war is bad" introspection required of the fighting man in contemporary entertainment culture, he is also a devastatingly effective warrior — Mad Max in a tricorn.

His opponent, Bad Max, is the beastly English colonel, William Tavington. He too is meant to be based on a real person, the ridiculously named Banastre Tarleton. All sneer and saber, Tavington torches churches, burns congregations alive and shoots children in the back. The closest we get to a sympathetic Redcoat is, unpromisingly, Lord Cornwallis, but he, sadly, bears the stigmata of the typical Gibson Englishman. He's a fop (there's a lot of fuss about his clothes), a loser in war, and a loser in love — his two Great Danes are seduced away from him by Colonel Martin. In a manner rather reminiscent of Princess Isabella they then spend the rest of the movie chasing after Mr. Gibson with their tongues hanging out.

There are others, however, on Mel's tail. A small, rather less friendly, posse of British journalists is also in pursuit, citing the numerous historical inaccuracies that litter the movie. Well, why not? The Patriot can easily be seen as a crude caricature of the English. A few snippy comments from London are to be expected. We're used to Mr. Gibson by now, but his film has come at a bad time. In Saving Private Ryan Steven Spielberg wrote the British out of D-Day, and you had to wait until the final credits to discover that the all-American heroics of the recent U-571 were based on a British exploit.

Now there's a movie planned on the German POW camp at Colditz, with some successful American escapees mysteriously added to the historical record. How, I wonder, would America react, if the English treated U.S. history in this way, making, perhaps, a movie about 'Nigel' McCain (played perhaps by Ralph Fiennes), the RAF's man in the Hanoi Hilton? Not well, I think. We English on the other hand, can take this punishment with only a grumble or two. We beat Hitler (by ourselves, actually, according to my latest film script) and we can survive Hollywood.

So, do your worst, trash our past. We don't care. We've got plenty to spare. And it's not just the past, Brits are bad in the most recent Mission Impossible, a Die Hard or two, even Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Spike, the really nasty vampire). And you don't have to stop with villains who are at least nominally English — Josef Mengele, Darth Vader, Hannibal Lecter — we'll take your money and play them all.

Is it a nasty stereotype? You bet, but the English won't complain (much). It's the Americans, who probably should, however. In the culture wars, the movies' constant characterization of the British as venal, effete and vicious is, I suspect, a last kick at the United States' faded WASP ascendancy, a sly reminder that, in Hollywood's view, this country's Anglo roots should no longer count for very much.

But, unsurprisingly, they do with me, which is why I could enjoy The Patriot without too many (English) patriotic qualms. In many ways the American Revolution was a continuation of a long argument over how Britons should be ruled, the second round, if you like, of the seventeenth century civil war in England. Yes, the troops sent across the Atlantic by (German) George III were sent packing — but it was by folks called Washington, Gates and Pickens. It hurt at the time, but when we British consider our history, a defeat only counts when it's to people with names like Schmidt, Watanabe or Depardieu. In the Revolutionary War, you see, we Brits essentially lost to ourselves, and that's not so bad. We just won't mention that Lafayette fellow.

So in The Patriot, you watch two opposing armies, both of which march under the red, white and blue — the English of the Philadelphia regime against the English of the London government. In the end, the better Englishmen won. The away team, my team, left the pitch at Yorktown and went off to establish a second, wider, empire — a remarkable achievement, Mel, for such a feeble race. The victors, meanwhile, went on to build a country that has inspired the world. So, this year, as I always do, I'll celebrate the fourth of July. Drink in hand, I'll toast the men who made this possible, the founding fathers who wrote, in that Declaration of Independence, some of the finest words that have ever been written in the English language.

Yes, that's right, the English language. My language.

Loud and Clear

National Review Online, June 16, 2000

The ‘wolf pack’ attacks in Central Park were a disgrace. The reaction to them — an unappetizing blend of ethnic politics and PC posturing — has not been much better, evidence of a mindset that, if it didn't exactly cause last Sunday's nightmare, certainly paved the way for it. Key to it is the idea that the police are always in the wrong. If they make an arrest they've gone in too hard, probably, it will be alleged, from racist motives. Any mistake will bring vilification, maybe prosecution, and certainly Al Sharpton. As for the cops involved in the Diallo tragedy, their bonus was pre-trial condemnation as murderers by the First Lady of the United States.

If, on the other hand, the police do nothing, they are also to blame. They are lazy bums, we will be told, more interested in their next doughnut than helping the public. And this, of course, became the spin on Central Park. Leftist lawyer Ron Kuby, a newcomer to the law-and-order crowd, worried that the police may have been sitting 'on their fat butts' rather than doing their jobs. Ah, what sweet liberal relief.

Awkward questions over the Puerto Rican parade could be glossed over as the media turned on an easier target — the police. The story became not what the bad boys did do, but what the NYPD didn't do, the "Cop Out" as the Daily News put it. Inevitably, Reverend Al caught the mood, appearing as an adviser to two of the victims in a $5,000,000 lawsuit against, not, naturally, the assailants, but the city.

Of course, much of the criticism was unfair. Rudy Giuliani's claim that 2,500 bottles of beer had been confiscated may have had the ring of desperation about it, but most cops did a good job. Also, it must be remembered that it's not easy to see what's going on in the middle of a huge crowd. Spotted from a couple of hundred yards away wilding can all too easily be mistaken for high jinks, spring-break fun, rather than feral nastiness.

Besides, if the police had moved in and acted pre-emptively, what would have been recorded by all those amateur video cameramen in the park? Not women, naked, humiliated, and in tears, but white cops pushing their way through a minority crowd, and I think we know how the evening news would have played that story. Somebody else would have sued for $5,000,000. The police explanation that the mob was about to get out of control would have been rejected, as being based on derogatory, racist assumptions.

Mind you, it appears that, on this occasion there is something to the criticism: Too many of the police were those crucial couple of hundred yards away, at the perimeter rather than in the action. Police treatment of some of the victims also left much to be desired and added to reports of crowd control that seemed strangely detached, "lackadaisical" in the words of one witness. A disturbing number of New York's Finest just did not want to get involved. In short, NYPD blew it, and if you believe the conspiracy theorists, they did so, because they were told to.

This has been denied, and believably so. There was no need: The police are getting the message. Why take that risk, why go down that darkened alley, when your only reward is Geraldo to Couric to Rosie criticism on the TV? The constant agitation is taking its toll. Cheap shots at the police claim more victims than just the boys in blue. It's no coincidence that Big Apple crime figures are on the rise, and not only in Central Park. Across the Atlantic the Brits have gone down the same anti-police route, culminating in the publication of an official report of absurd political correctness. The consequences? Street crime in London is running at twice last year's levels.

And if there was a day for a cowed New York police force to be careful, restrained and low profile it was last Sunday. At the National Puerto Rican Day Parade there can be no room for anything that could be remotely interpreted as a Sipowicz moment. Ethnic parades are a weird phenomenon, more Serbia than Central Park, yet they are the principal symbols of New York's ruling ideology, the "glorious mosaic" of former mayor David Dinkins, a vision of racial harmony best represented by that old Coke commercial ("I'd like to teach the world to sing"). In reality, of course, such a view is not the real thing. So the police normally take a pretty tough line with parades, confiscating drinks, lining the streets, and generally delivering a message of zero tolerance. Just ask the folks on St. Patrick's Day.

But there wasn't enough of that last Sunday. Zero tolerance was, at times, replaced with anything goes. Revelers may have been 2,500 bottles short, but as one onlooker explained, "alcohol was all over the place." It wasn't supposed to be that way, but then with the Puerto Rican Day parade it rarely is. For the authorities want us to believe that this parade is the jewel in the mosaic, "an annual celebration", as Hillary's website puts it, "of Puerto Rican culture, music and ethnic pride," a happy and enjoyable day for all. In reality, as is inevitable with almost any large gathering, the picture is more tricky than that. Mentioning that fact beyond, perhaps, a coy reference to "exuberance," is not part of the liberal script. It was fascinating to see that, as the first serious reports of trouble emerged, New York politicians were quick to defend the parade. There had been problems, certainly, but they couldn't be allowed to get in the way of the greater 'truth' that they wanted us to hear. The day had been a success, they soothed in the tone of voice that they would have used to tell Mrs. Lincoln that, yes indeed, the play had been a smash.

And sadly, the police had learned their lines too well.

Moms Away: The new brand of gun nut

National Review, June 5, 2000

 © Andrew Stuttaford

IT'S not so much what they said (although that was bad enough), but how they said it. Several hundred thousand gun nuts were gathered on the Mall. They were hectoring, self-righteous, and, when it came to firearms, quite incapable of rational discussion. I'm referring, of course, to the "Million Moms" and their march. It was Mother's Day 2000. The Moms were in D.C. to call for "commonsense" gun control—licensing, registration, the usual thin edges of the wedge. There was opposition from the Second Amendment Sisters, but theirs was only a small rebel encampment, all baseball caps and American flags.

 © Andrew Stuttaford

This day belonged to the other side, to the pink and white T-shirts of the Million Mom March. It was a triumph for Donna Dees-Thomases, the self-styled "suburban mom" who organized the march. It had taken around nine months to set up. As Mrs. Dees-Thomases, a publicist by trade, likes to say, "women understand what you can create in nine months." The march itself (which was really more of a rally) was impressive, seemingly flush with cash (thanks for the free bottled water!), and well organized. There were tents, placards, posters, pink banners (but rarely the Stars and Stripes) fluttering in the breeze. Charlton Heston didn't show, but there were plenty of other celebrities, all under the command of a stern-faced Rosie O'Donnell. The Moms themselves were a disciplined bunch, standing for hours under a hot early-summer sun, attentive to the speeches coming from a large stage. They could also gaze at a number of giant screens dotted around the Mall that showed images of the audience, the speakers, and, from time to time, misleading statistics of the "if you have a gun in the house you are doomed" variety. This being the United States of Oprah, there were occasional moments of tears and communal hugging, but not too many. This was a disproportionately upscale group, more restrained, Katie Couric rather than Erin Brockovich.

 © Andrew Stuttaford

It was also a crowd of dupes. The Million Mom March was brilliantly manipulative agitprop, a textbook example of how the Left will find a potentially popular, modest-sounding issue and twist it in a way to help along their agenda.

Not that they will admit it. These campaigns are always portrayed as being above mere politics. Donna Dees-Thomases is at pains to stress that her cause is "bipartisan." It is, of course, unfair, very unfair, to draw any conclusions from the fact that her sister-in- law is Susan Thomases, a longtime confidante of Hillary Rodham Clinton, but if this rally was independent it was only in a very NPR sort of way. Hillary herself attended the march, and her husband videotaped a message of support. Gore 2000 stickers and signs were everywhere. I did see one placard concerning George W, but it suggested that he "wasn't fit to run a laundromat." On the podium the (so to speak) big guns were more discreet. Susan Sarandon briefly slipped the leash with a speech that seemed to be headed in the direction of five-year plans and the collectivization of agriculture, but most speakers stuck to the subject—"commonsense," limited firearms legislation. That was their single issue, they claimed, and "in November" they want it to go the Moms' too. If it is, Al Gore will be in the White House and, ultimately, the Bill of Rights will be in the outhouse.

 © Andrew Stuttaford

They may succeed. Gun control resonates with all those suburban moms who feel that firearms are, well, icky. Back in the early 1980s, their mothers or aunts or older sisters used to feel the same way about cruise missiles. Disarmament then, and now, is a perfect wedge issue that can be pitched purely at the emotional level. Speaker after speaker talked of an epidemic of gun violence. Singer Melissa Etheridge kept "hearing a lot of fear." Well, yes, Melissa. That's because of events like this march. Death, we were led to believe, stalks the suburbs and the schoolyard, and he's packing heat. In fact, over the last 20 years the murder rate's down and firearms-related accidents have fallen dramatically. All this at a time when gun ownership has greatly expanded. Even schools are safer. But you won't have heard those facts at this rally.

The Moms aren't big on facts or reasoned argument. Their spin kit ("Public Relations 101") has firm instructions for supporters wanting to publicize the march on TV or in the newspaper: "Before your interview, inform the local media contact that you will not engage in debate with others." To discussion, these mothers, like others in the "progressive" camp, prefer the coercive language of crisis (health care, global warming, you name it) to push their agenda. It's an approach that works best when it can be tied in with real tragedies. And so it was on the Mall. Homemade placards bore the pictures of murdered loved ones. Speakers included a teacher from Columbine, grieving mothers, and crippled children, a trail of tears designed to lead to only one conclusion. There was, of course, no mention of those thousands whose lives have been saved by the defensive use of guns.

Yes, thousands, probably far more. But as Mrs. Dees-Thomases understands, what politician is brave enough to raise that point with a teacher from Columbine? Just in case someone does dare, the Moms' leader bas another arrow in her quiver. She bas labeled her march a campaign for "safe kids." As she knows, Americans seem to accept any number of restrictions on their freedom so long as they are allegedly for the benefit of "the children," the Trojan Ponies of our liberty. To this end, the Moms' keynote deceptive statistic (every campaign should have one) is that twelve "kids" are killed every day by gunfire (to reach that number, you have to include tots of 19). At the rally itself, the imagery was child-centered. There was a stroller march down the Mall and a sing-along with Raffi. Up on the stage, it was W. C. Fields's hell; kids making speeches, kids singing songs, and even kids lining up to ring a sort of reverse Liberty Bell (it was made from melted-down guns). For those who had not already had enough of little children, the viewing screens would occasionally show footage of yet more.

The only people able to speak for all these youngsters, it was argued, are mothers. They have to be the right sort of mothers, of course. Pistol-packing mamas need not apply. Dads, of course, didn't rate a mention.

For the Moms, this is seductive stuff. It tells them that they are a uniquely moral force, that they are important, custodians of the future or something like that. No wonder they are lapping it up. The implications for the rest of us are not so great. The underlying message of the march was that society has to be run, first and foremost, in the interests of its children as determined by (approved) moms. And whatever else that means, it means more gun control. To those who ask why, writer Anna Quindlen had one. revealing answer: "because I said so." The crowd went wild—laughing, cheering, and repeating the phrase. They forgot one thing. The American people are not all children.

Or are they?

David Horowitz: Hating Whitey and Other Progressive Causes.

National Review, May 22, 2000

WAS there a David Horowitz in Bosnia, a Cassandra warning of the cataclysm to come? For most ethnic conflicts are fairly predictable, and it's not too difficult to identify who is going to start them. The underlying message of this collection of essays is that race relations in this country too are being deliberately poisoned, with potentially disastrous results. The culprits are a grubby group of demagogues and ideological hucksters, given their opportunity by the development of identity politics. It is worth reading what Horowitz has to say. After all, he was once a prominent '60s radical, a "progressive" pur et dur. Now, thankfully, he's a conservative (of sorts), but he still writes like an old-fashioned left-wing polemicist. His prose is splendidly savage and invigoratingly rude. David Horowitz has a message to deliver, and if he offends someone in the process, that's just too bad.

This is an angry book, and with good reason. The "progressive causes" related by the author are full of bullying, career destruction, race baiting, rape, and murder. We may giggle about political correctness, but it is, as Horowitz explains, no less than "the stuff that totalitarian dreams are made of." As a former Leninist, he understands how the Left plays the game and the tactics it uses.

The most worrying of these is the manipulation of ethnic antagonism. Today's diversity politics have often been reduced to little more than the "expression of racial paranoia." The consequences could be terrifying. For as Horowitz warns, "by projecting their fear and aggression onto those around them, paranoids create enemies too."

Sure sounds like Bosnia to me.

Andy, Get Your Gun

National Review, February 21, 2000

I DIDN'T want to be Bernie Goetz. I just wanted a handgun. Legally. Something to keep at home. A move within Manhattan had taken me away from the comforts of doorman security (you know how it is). A little extra protection seemed prudent, 911 calls can take a while to answer, and Rudy isn't going to be mayor forever. Should be pretty straightforward, I thought. In my native Britain it would be impossible. But this is the United States, home of the Second Amendment, land of liberty. Government knows its place. They do things differently in America. But then there's New York City, a place where the old constitutional certainties have been replaced by the rules of the NYPD, License Division. If you believe that this is a local problem, a Big Apple nightmare that could never apply to you, think again, A dozen states already insist on handgun permits. Citing as always "the children," it is clear that Candidates Gore and Bradley want to expand on this at the federal level. The Brady Act was not enough. There's earnest talk of licensing, registration, additional checks to which, allegedly, only the unreasonable could object.

But the unreasonable have a point. New York City's licensing system has turned a right into a privilege. Like all privileges, it's enjoyed only by the few. There may be more than 7 million people in the five boroughs, but only 40,000 have valid handgun permits. Licensing isn't the thin end. It is the wedge. If you want to find out what that modest-sounding licensing requirement can mean in the hands of a bureaucracy that doesn't want you to have a handgun, come here, to the City.

It starts with a form, of course—PD 643-041 (Rev. 1-94) h1. Some of the questions are obvious (arrest record and, excitingly, "aliases"). Others are odd ("Have you ever been denied appointment in a civil service system?") or, seemingly, aimed at members of the Clinton administration (list any incidents of "Temporary Loss of Memory"). Watch out for question 19: "Have you ever had or applied for any type of license or permit issued to you by any City, State or Federal agency?" You haven't? Well, if you are a driver you have. Forget to mention your driver's license and you will be rejected and have to start all over again.

Next, submit the form. This, naturally, can be done only in one place, and in person: Room 110 at Police Headquarters, Manhattan. Nowhere else will do—not Room 109, and certainly not Room 111 Anywhere in Brooklyn, Queens, Staten Island, or the Bronx is out of the question (although Queens—and nowhere else— is where you must go for your rifle or shotgun permit). The form needs supporting documentation: yes, including that driver's license. It is not enough, however, merely to present your driver's license. A notarized statement certifying that you did indeed apply for that driver's license is also essential. The fact that your photograph and signature are on the license is irrelevant. No notary, and it's no go.

It's at this point that capitalism comes to the rescue. Even in New York. There is no need to struggle through this process alone. A small industry of license consultants has sprung up. Some, doubtless, add little value, but the repeated official warnings against them are very reminiscent of something chat might have come from a pre-Miranda cop explaining that, no, no, you really don't need that fancy lawyer. I opted for the pistol-consultant equivalent ($395 all-in) of a fancy lawyer, Larry Goodson of License Services, "Specialists in Firearms Licensing, Training, Selection and Safety," an outfit in Queens. We never met. Like Charlie in Charlie's Angels, he was a mysterious voice over the phone. I imagined him as one of those drill sergeants in an old war movie, dispensing the gruff advice that would see his rookies through their grueling ordeal. Much of which, we know, would consist of waiting for that encounter with destiny.

Which can take a while. There aren't many gun-license applications each year (between one and two thousand), but when it comes to processing them, the city that never sleeps, dozes off. The applicant just has to wait, hoping that his home can be a castle even without a cannon. And if the Grandson of Sam came crashing through the door? Well, a friend of mine recently managed to frighten away an intruder from his apartment, but he had a loud voice, a sand wedge, and, crucially, a cowardly burglar. Would I be so lucky? A lifetime of avoiding hand-to-hand combat would mean that any brawl would be likely to turn out badly. The only weapons in my place were kitchen utensils, a Swiss Army knife, and, perhaps, a very heavy book.

The weeks passed, safely, but without any word from Police Headquarters. Finally, after five months, a letter arrived. I had to contact the License Division within "five days of receipt" to fix up an interview in, you guessed it. Room 110. "Failure to respond and/or comply with this notice will result in disapproval of your application." Away on vacation? That, probably, would be too bad. Do not pass Go, do not collect handgun.

The interview is to be taken seriously. This is not just a quick check for drool on the chin or blood on the hands. The police want to be sure that the would-be gun owner knows the law, and they might, warned pistol consultant Larry, try to trip me up. Try they did. The interviewing officer was courteous, friendly even, but it didn't stop him from asking whether I would be taking my gun to the target range every weekend once I received my premises residence license (with target endorsement). It was a trick. As, fortunately, I remembered, holders of such permits can take their guns to the range only twice a month (unloaded, in a locked box). At the end of the interview, there is little clue as to how you have done ("That's to avoid incidents," explained Larry). Next, two more officers have to review the case.

Which they did for another three months. Then, finally, the great day arrived, if not the permit. I had been approved, but the permit has to be picked up in person at Police Headquarters in, for variety, Room 152. Neglect to claim the permit within 30 days and it will he canceled, and the applicant is back to square one, Room 110. With the permit comes a handgun-purchase authorization. This entitles the holder to purchase a gun from another licensee, a licensed dealer, a policeman, or, so long as the deceased held a valid license, a corpse. Fail to buy a gun within 30 days, and the authorization is canceled, along with the pistol license that it took eight months to obtain.

Finding somewhere to buy a gun legally in Manhattan is not much less challenging than looking for a liquor store in Saudi Arabia. Early negotiations with a fellow called "Chop" in a Midtown outlet didn't work out, but a trip to New York Ironworks hit, so to speak, the target. It's a store where the NYPD crowd goes to buy weapons, extra equipment, and fashion essentials such as "Frisk 'Em" gloves. It is also just around the comer from Police Headquarters, which matters, because that is where, for the fourth time in this process, the new gun owner has to return. Within 72 hours and packing heat (so long as the heat is unloaded and in a locked box). It's a quick pass through the metal detectors (yes, they do work) and then back to Room 152 (so long as it's Monday to Friday, between the hours of noon and 2 P.M.). The pistol will be poked and prodded, and the bill of sale perused. Survive this and the process is complete. The gun can be kept at home. So there it sits, gripped by its newly mandatory trigger lock, a last line of defense.

For the time being anyway. The pistol license, of course, is issued subject to certain conditions. And the first of these, listed right at the top of the Police Department's little handbook for licensees? The license "is revocable at any time."

It's Witchcraft

J. K. Rowling: Harry Potter and The Sorcerer's Stone

J. K. Rowling: Harry Potter And The Chamber of Secrets

J.K. Rowling : Harry Potter And The Prisoner of Azkaban

National Review, October 11, 1999

IT’S enough to make you choke on your fava beans. In bookstore new-fiction aisles, this was meant to be the summer of Hannibal Lecter: aesthete. Renaissance scholar, and serial killer. Instead he has had to share the limelight with Harry Potter, the schoolboy hero of a series of British children's books. The second of these, The Chamber of Secrets, was released in the U.S. at about the same time as Thomas Harris's Hannibal. On September 19, more than three months later, it was Number Three on the New York Times bestseller list, five places ahead of the unfortunate Dr. Lecter. The same week, the first Harry Potter (The Sorcerer’s Stone), which has been on the list for the better part of a year, came in at Number Two. That's pretty good for works of very English fantasy, and astonishing for books aimed at children. To add to the cannibal's misery, the most recent Harry Potter, The Prisoner of Azkaban, has now arrived in America, released early by its U.S. publishers as a result of the large number of copies of the British edition that were making their way across the Atlantic. Probably by broomstick. For the Harry Potter books are about witches and wizards. In the finest tradition of children's stories, Harry is an 11-year- old orphan being brought up under appalling conditions by grotesque relatives. But, as always in these tales, our hero discovers that be has another, greater destiny. To find his future Arthur pulled a sword out of a stone. Young Potter just receives letters, hundreds of them, delivered by owls. Harry Potter, it turns out, is a wizard, and he is required to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Not least because he has an enemy, Voldemort (the splendidly chosen names are one of the strengths of these books), a great wizard who has gone over, as George Lucas would recognize, to the dark side. Voldemort was responsible for the deaths of Harry's parents and wants to finish off the son. It Harry is to survive, he will need all the training he can get in the magical arts. The books (there will eventually be one for each of the seven years Harry is due to spend at Hogwarts) detail his adventures at the school and the intensifying struggle with the forces of the wicked Voldemort.

So far, so good, but this is unexceptional stuff, not enough to explain why so many people are wild about Harry. Part of the answer, of course, lies in skillful marketing, not only of the novels but their author. And why not? Hers is a story almost as magical as Harry's.

J. K. Rowling was a divorced single mother on welfare at the time she wrote The Sorcerer's Stone, mainly, it is said, in an Edinbugh cafe (her apartment was too cold). A Kinko's Cinderella, she couldn't even afford to photocopy her manuscript. She typed it out twice on, naturally, a battered old typewriter. In interviews she comes across as a pleasant sort, the only worrying note coming when she describes her books as "moral."

Moral? In the sanctimonious world of contemporary children's literature, that's a frightening word, all too often a synonym for "politically correct." Rowling does her best to oblige. Minority characters are carefully included in a saga that is otherwise inescapably Anglo-Saxon. Unusually for an English boarding school, Hogwarts is coeducational. Its principal sport, the enjoyably savage Quidditch (a sort of aerial hockey), can be played by both sexes. Harry's boarding house includes girls on its team; Their unpleasant opponents at Slytherin House do not.

It's no surprise, therefore, when Rowling reveals leftish social prejudices all too typical of the British intelligentsia. Harry's main rival at the school, nasty Draco Malfoy is—two strikes—both rich and aristocratic. Meanwhile, the dysfunctional Dursleys, Harry's ghastly family, are a caricature of the vicious bourgeoisie that would have delighted Vyshinsky. They are contrasted with the poor-but-happy Weasleys, a wizard household that befriends Harry. Old man Dursley is a brutish capitalist, director of a company that makes drills. The Bob Cratchit-like Mr. Weasley, on the other hand, is a good government type, a noble, underpaid bureaucrat at the Ministry of Magic.

But by the standards of our irritating era this is mild. Neither Harry nor any of his circle appears to have two mommies, inner-city malaise is confined to the sinister folk in Knockturn Alley, and no one hugs a Whomping Willow tree (if would hit back). The Potter phenomenon is, in fact, reassuring. The lad's no pinko. There is plenty here for the more traditionally minded, and tradition sells, it would seem. Part of the appeal of these books is that they offer fantasy, but within a reassuring structure. There are rules.

Hogwarts School is strict, and its exams are tough. Strip away the contemporary trimmings, and the reader is left with a rather old-fashioned English boarding-school tale, even down to the feasts. Harry "had never seen so many things be liked to eat on one table: roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages, bacon steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, fries, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup, and for some strange reason, peppermint humbugs." This is not a school for our tofu times.

Nor is it for wimps. There are plenty of challenges for Harry, almost none of which can be resolved by "counseling." Undaunted, he tries to do the Right Thing. This is a boy who sticks by his friends, and they stick by him. There is evil and betrayal, but by the final page, the bad guys are generally in disarray. Children still like a happy ending and a hero to cheer for. And who better than Harry? He is no comic-book savage. Laudably enough, he wants to avenge his parents, but he doesn't want to lose his humanity (if that's the word for a wizard) in so doing.

And Rowling does not lose sight of her principal objective, which is to tell a good story well. The writing is vivid and of high quality—it has to be to hold a child's attention for over 300 pages (books in R. L. Stine's bestselling Goosebumps series are around 150 pages each). The lesson of Harry Potter is that well-crafted, intelligent stories can indeed flourish in the marketplace—if the gatekeepers of our contemporary culture give them a chance. Tellingly, a British publisher that rejected The Sorcerer's Stone did so because it was "too literary."

If this is another way of saying that the author doesn't patronize her readers, it is true. Unlike many writers of children's books, she doesn't talk down to her audience. She is not, however, writing for their parents. Harry's adult fans (so many in the U.K. that the British publisher produced an edition with a more "grown- up" cover to allow them to read it in public) need to get a grip. Comparisons between Harry Potter and the immortals of children's literature should also be treated with care. The greatest of the classics retain their appeal over the years. They are more than a craze. With the much-hyped Harry it is still too early to say, although the signs are good that Hogwarts will stand the test of time. But what's the hurry? We don't yet know how the saga will end. Voldemort still lives.

Dressed To Kill

National Review, September 13, 1999

Tough chicks are in. Check out a poster for Nickleodeon on New York City telephone kiosks, which portrays the cable channel's ideal viewer: A young girl with straight hair and big glasses, she "rides a unicycle . . . [and] picked out the family computer." The clincher? She "can belch on command." A Little Woman no longer, this girl has arrived in Boys' Town, where she will, so the new stereotype goes, beat the guys at their own games: sports, computers, coarseness, and, it would seem from a clutch of TV shows, killing. Of course, dramas about lethal ladies are nothing new. Just ask Hamlet's father. But those earlier murderous models were mere freelancers. The new bunch are organized, trained, and are probably, in some not so subliminal way, advertisements for women in the military. Sigourney Weaver, battling monsters in the four Alien movies, was a prototype. Since then, her character, Ripley, has been joined by an entire regiment. There's Captain Kathryn Janeway of Star Trek: Voyager, ably assisted by Amazons such as the USA Network's La Femme Nikita (secret agent, kills people) and WB's Buffy the Vampire Slayer (high-school senior, kills dead people). Interestingly, the violence on offer is often very hands-on. These women are not afraid of good brawl. There is plenty of fist fighting, kick boxing, and, in Buffy's case, staking through the heart.

But if they took on Xena, the Warrior Princess, they would be crushed. Of all the rough girls, Xena is the roughest. Madeleine Albright claims to have adopted her as a role model—clearly without much success. Xena would have chopped up Saddam and Slobodan years ago. At times the show has been television's highest-rated first-run syndicated drama (which means it would have been watched in about 5 million households). Now beginning its fifth season, it has spawned a Xenaverse of websites, fan fiction, conventions, and Xenarabilia.

Played by Lucy Lawless, a former Miss New Zealand, Xena began life as a character in an episode of another syndicated series, Hercules: The Legendary Journeys. In the space of one hour, she killed six people, was referred to as a "murdering harlot," seduced Hercules' friend Iolaus, and ended up being awarded her own TV show. Xena itself is set in some vaguely classical past, with appearances by Greek gods, centaurs, and Prometheus, but with a time line so wobbly that it would embarrass Johnnie Cochran. As befits a TV heroine in an age with only the vaguest grasp of history, Xena, a person with a presumably normal life span, is at the siege of Troy, finds Moses' tablets of stone, helps David kill Goliath, has sex with Julius Caesar, and runs into the Knights of the Round Table. Widely traveled for a woman from the time of the trireme, Xena even manages to reach China, and, disastrously, India. (A Hindu group complained that, among other offenses, a "snide" warrior princess treated Krishna "in an extremely condescending manner": The episode was later pulled from rebroadcast.)

Through it all --clad, as the statuesque and nearly 6-foot tall Miss Lawless once put it, in a "corset and a whip"—Xena manages to rout all comers. She will use weapons, notably a sharp-edged discus called a chakram. Her favorite approach, however, is a punch-up, generally heralded by somersaults and a war cry of "yi yi yi."

The weaker sex, men, are either feeble, needing Xena's help, or wicked, en route to a drubbing from her. The only man in Xena's regular entourage is a ludicrous, Jar Jar Binks-like figure, Joxer the Mighty. His main function is to wear a stupid hat and to be periodically humiliated. Even Hercules seems a little effete when compared with a heroine who, in one memorable episode, kills a rat with her teeth and then (while still bound in chains) uses the dead rodent as a sort of missile.

In matters of the heart, the male sex likewise comes off as second best. For, it is implied, Xena has given her love to her trusty traveling companion Gabrielle—a petite blonde, girly, certainly, but still someone you'd want to avoid tangling with in hand-to-hand combat. The romance between the two is never explicit. It is, fans like to say, a "subtext." Sub? Episodes of Xena feature enough smoldering looks, "sisterly" kisses, and bathtub scenes to bring a smile even to the grim features of the late Mrs. Roosevelt.

She may have become a lesbian idol, but at least Xena is wittier than Ellen and (much) more attractive than Alice B. Toklas. With episode titles like "A Comedy of Eros" and a supporting cast that could pass muster on Baywatch, Xena doesn't seem to be a program that takes itself too seriously. Yes, yes, there's a message, but we can get over that. The show is fun, with plenty of pretty girls to bring in those vilified, but necessary, male viewers. Even as the Decade of Irony draws to a close, irony is, at least on the surface, the name of Xena’s game. The characters speak in a sub-Melrose patois, interspersed with wisecracks and snatches of dialogue that could be pasted whole into one of those old movies about the Argonauts, Samson, or Richard the Lionhearted.

But sadly, for ail the ironic overay, the Nineties have really been a rather earnest and didactic little era. Women, we are told, need role models to help them overcome the everyday oppression of a brutish patriarchal society. Turning, as always, to the distinguished journal called HUES ("Hear Us Emerging Sisters"), we learn that women "should take the lead from [their] silver screen and TV sisters, and learn to physically defend [themselves], to become women of action rather than passive victims." And what better example than Xena? We should not be surprised that those who propagate one fantasy, that of male oppression, have turned to another for inspiration

Well, in Hollywood, when it comes to the pieties of the age, a certain hushed and opportunistic respect is in the end always the rule. Irony has its limits. So Studios USA, Xena's distributor, claims that the show has become "the preeminent symbol of female empowerment." Meanwhile, in an interview. Miss Lawless solemnly intones that she gets a "lot of letters from women who tell [her] that, after watching Xena, they have bought the Harley-Davidson they always wanted or left an abusive relationship."

Oh, yi yi yi.

Illustrated Men

National Review, august 9, 1999

THE German was heavily tattooed, a North Sea Queequeg, but it was when he pulled his trousers down that the crowd finally reacted—with gasps, squeals, nervous laughter. It was not that Theodor—aus Hamburg—was particularly well endowed, just that he was hung like a chandelier designed by Torquemada. There were chains, studs, odd metal piercings, distinguishing characteristics that even Bill Clinton couldn't deny. Theodor's little striptease took place at the Second Annual New York City Tattoo Convention, three inky days in the Roseland Ballroom. Entering that gray, gloomy building you notice a plaque "In Honor of the Married Couples Who First Met Here," a list of names each with the date of that first happy encounter. What, I wondered, would the Lubes (from 1927) or even the Fortgangs (1961) have thought of Theodor?

They would have seen tattoos before. There have been professional tattooists in Manhattan for over 150 years. The Bowery's Sam O'Reilly invented the electric tattoo machine over a century ago. Its descendants were there at the Roseland, the sound of their needles like a swarm of wasps, their sting leaving not venom, but tiny dots of color.

Tattooing was a part of the rough carnival subculture that has long been an American staple, its vaudeville-era stars tattooists with names like "Painless Jack" Tryon, "Sailor George" Fosdick, and Lew "The Jew" Alberts. It may have been banned by God (Leviticus 19:28, since you ask), but in the United States tattooing was a small, half-licensed rebellion, a male-bonding process for tough guys. Marines, the boys in the fleet, even England's George V, a navy veteran, wore one.

The designs reflected tough-guy tastes. Anchors, devils, sailing ships, boxing gloves, daggers, Old Glory, a pair of dice, and, of course, "Mother." Other gals on view might include a busty "Miss Liberty," a bare-breasted mermaid, or a Hawaiian maiden with only a ukulele for modesty.

This brand of macho chic lives on. You could hear it in the Led Zeppelin that thundered through the Roseland's speakers. You could taste it in the Ballroom's bar, where people were drinking Bud and (glorious vision!) smoking. You could see it on the forearms and biceps of the bulky thirtysomethings in the crowd, burly dudes, all ponytails, denim, and tattoo.

But what was Theodor doing here. There was nothing very macho about him. He may have had an Iron Cross hanging from his nipple, but he was pretty weedy, not the sort of man that I'd want in my Wehrmacht. What he was, however, was an illustration of a society in evolution.

We tend to view cultural shifts in terms of some dramatic event: the arrival, say, of Marcel Duchamp at the Armory Show, or Elvis at Sun Records. But history isn't really like that. The greatest changes are, like Theodor's body, marked in countless tiny, mostly unpredictable ways.

And so the endless, tedious campaign against Western values has resulted not in their defeat in some watershed event, but in their gradual transformation, a transformation achieved by innumerable microscopic reevaluations of our culture. Even tattoos have now been reinterpreted. To be sure, there are many for whom a spot of ink is nothing more than what it always was: a bit of fun or, these days, a fashionably naughty gesture. We all know the type, the college girl with a flower above the ankle, the investment banker with enigmatic Chinese calligraphy on his shoulder. According to one estimate, 20 million Americans have been tattooed. But for another, smaller, more self-important crowd, the tattoo means something else. It is part of an imagined "tribal renaissance," an attempt to tap into the (allegedly) superior authenticity of those primitive folk who never left the squalor of the rain forest, mud hut, or atoll.

The problem is that these original noble savages were really just people with too much time on their hands and too few toys. They played with what they had, and what they had was their bodies. Consequently they didn't just tattoo. They pierced, they stretched, they cut, and they scarred.

And so, argue neo-tribalists, should we. At the Roseland, one man posed for gawkers by the door, his bald head a riot of color, his nose, in a nod to headhunter cool, pierced by a bone.

Others milled around inside, the sort of people, I suspected, unable to get through airport metal detectors without drama. Cheek rings glinting in the fluorescent light, these modern primitives searched for specialized merchandise tables, eyeing the latest in septum tusks and nostril screws from Pleasurable Piercings. If you're thinking this sounds more S & M than Samoa, you're probably right. This is not an authenticity that has to be accurate. It just has to annoy, alarm, or provoke. And so tattoos are also creeping across the body, far beyond the point where they can be concealed by a rolled-down sleeve or a buttoned shirt. That would imply discretion, the opposite of this definition of authenticity. The man with a tattooed face is walking graffiti, and we, hopeless conformists, are the bland, blank wall.

Or so he would like to believe. In fact, he's rebelling against an authority that exists only in his imagination. He's messed himself up for nothing. This illustrated man may be a primitive, yes, but only in the sense that he hasn't kept up with the times, in reality, as he fails to understand, nobody really cares what he does to himself. He'll regret it one day. He should get over it.

Oh, that's right. He can't. They don't come off.