Why this event called for a one-year anniversary banquet is beyond me, but even more curious is the way that we always have to come up with names or titles for events like this. In this case, we can no longer just refer to the event as “that crashlanding in the Hudson last year.” No, we now have to refer to it from this point on as “The Miracle on the Hudson.”

So seriously have news announcers intoned these words over the past few days, that one might think that Congress or the president had officially declared the name of the event as we would name a national holiday.

I live in the Spokane, Washington area, and some eight or nine years ago–who knows, maybe it’s been longer than that–we had a fairly severe winter storm that coated much of the region with ice. One of the local network affiliates, in their neverending quest to have the most original and creative television graphics as they report an event like this, came up with an icycle-encrusted logo that appeared on the screen every time they were about to do an update.

“ICESTORM!” proclaimed the cold, blue wordmark on the screen. Not, “The Ice Storm” or “The Spokane Ice Storm” or even, “Severe Winter Storm,” just “ICESTORM!” Before long, all the other television stations and even some national networks began to adopt the phrase “ICESTORM!” in reference to this event.

Today, several years later, if we get a good winter storm that promises to coat one locality or another with ice, somebody at the TV news desk during the 6-o’clock news will invariably ask the meteorologist, “So, is this going to be as bad as ICESTORM! ?” Not, “how does this compare to that big storm in ’02 (or whenever it was). No, the weather event for that year will always be known as “ICESTORM!”

In like fashion, the 2009 plane crash in the Hudson River will now forever be called “The Miracle on the Hudson.”

Reason is, we love to name things. Mountains, highways, airports, holidays, events, inanimate objects; we juct can’t help ourselves. If something promises to get enough publicity over a long enough time, we can even sell sponsorships.

My favorite examples are the sports stadiums all across the country with names reflecting some corporate sponsors. Like, the American Airlines Center in Dalles, or the Staples Center in L.A., or Wachovia Center in Philadelphia. In case you wonder why these places are named after corporations, consider that American Airlines pays the city of Dallas $6.5 million a year for that name on the Stadium’s front door.

Bowl games, too, are blessed with little reminders of the sponsor’s name every time the sports announcer tells us where the game is being held. Some examples: the Tostitos Fiesta Bowl, the FedEx Orange Bowl, the Konica Minolta Bowl, the Outback Steakhouse Bowl, and the Chick Fil-A Bowl.

What really makes me laugh are the sponsored midst-of-the-game announcements like the Birds-Eye Vegetables 30-yard line report, or the Citibank 2-minute warning report. Or the Viagara line-of-scrimmage commentary.

Given our collective penchant for sponsoring virtually everything, it won’t be long before news events are also given sponsorships. Soon, we in the Spokane area will be hearing reports about the “Schuck’s Auto Supply ICESTORM!” In New York next year, viewers will no doubt watch the “Hormel Chili third anniversary of the Miracle on the Hudson.”

Finally, you shouldn’t be at all surprised if one September not too many years from now, somber processions and nationwide memorials accompany our remembrance of the Planters Peanuts 911 attack.

In a sense, since these egomaniancs have achieved some form of recognition, they probably can get along with one name, thanks to our national media who believe it’s their duty to build these people up and worship them like they were doctors or something, not just people playing pretend.

The media have always done this, of course. Look at all the movie stars who became recognized by their last names only in the Golden Age of cinema. People like Bogart, Brando, Gable, Hepburn, Mitchum… Or writers and directors such as Capote, Disney, DeMille, Hitchcock, Huston, Welles and Wilder.

All the above were larger that life both for the films they made and the lives they led. But notice two things: First, the media and the public were the ones who decided these people were worthy of one name, not the celebrities themselves. Secondly, it was their last names that received the emphasis, not their first.  People didn’t rush to the movies to see “Humphrey,” they went to see “Bogart.” They didn’t rush out to see the latest “Alfred” thriller; they went out to see a “Hitchcock” movie.

So, what’s with the emphasis on first names these days? Why don’t the covers of Hollywood gossip magazines have headlines featuring names like Affleck, Jolie, Pitt and Depp, instead of Ben, Angelina, Brad and Johnny?

I have a theory, and it is that the naming of supposedly influential people by their first names began about the same time as the trend towards being friends with authority figures. Once that trend took hold, suddenly your kid’s teacher was not Mr. Jones, he was “Dave.” The local policeman was not Sargent Johnson, he was the much friendlier, “Officer Bill.” About the same time, psychologists were telling parents that they should be their children’s friends, not their superiors.

So, isn’t it possible that in our enthusiastic quest for a society in which all people are equal, whether black or white, rich or poor, old or young, leader or follower, it became the habit to start referring to celebrities–be they writers, artists, actors, directors, athletes, and even the stars of big business (Martha and Donald, for example)–by their first names?

All I know is that I refuse to accept people who think they can run around with just one name. If the rest of us have to schlepp around the world with two names, why can’t Madonna, Cher, Brad, Ben and Johhny do likewise?

My suggestion is that everyone takes a sharpie with them on every trip to the grocery store. When you get to the checkout stand, take out that pen and add last names to all those individuals whose monikers appear on the covers of the Star, National Enquirer and Globe newspapers. That’ll show them they can’t go around acting like one name is all they need in this two-name society.

Then, just for fun, draw a mustache on Angelina Jolie.

The words “self-denial” can mean many things to different people. The term can be used to describe foregoing pleasure for a higher cause.  It can be a test of your own will-power and strength of character. It can characterize a wholesale rejection of popular culture and the marketing of desire. Or, it can represent a sublime act of becoming conscious of and understanding your own desires. To some people, self-denial is simply a logical, enjoyable way to live.

To avoid becoming a slave to popular culture, it is important to understand the techniques used by marketers of products and services to convince average people that they need those things to live life more completely, to fit in, to “be cool” and to be a valid and important part of contemporary society. Merchandisers tell us that the advertising of products and services is designed to educate and inform us, but it’s also designed to wear us down through repetition.

The only way to completely stop the onslaught of advertising messages is to disconnect completely from advertising. This is effectively impossible in a country where 98 percent of households own television sets. Having no TV is one option, but newspapers, magazines, billboards and internet ads all contribute to the nearly 3,000 ad messages reaching us daily.

Because avoiding these ads altogether is nearly impossible, we must adopt a position of vigilance toward an industry that invades our home as an army might invade a castle. Developing a sense of awareness and caution toward the purveyors of ad messages is step one in using self-denial to reject those messages and do without the products and services they promote.

Many people relate self-denial to religious devotion or the sexual aspects of life. Self-denial conjures up visions of monks at isolated monasteries leading lives of prayer and devotion. Rejection of earthly concerns has traditionally been viewed as a way to show devotion to religious beliefs and God. Self-denial of sexual activities is seen as a sign of moral strength in a world lacking self-control and individual responsibility.

The early Christians shunned meat and fish for six weeks a year during Lent. The Spartans were known for discipline, simplicity, and self-denial; to this warrior culture, civilization brought disorder, weakness, and a decline in moral values. The practice of asceticism by some Buddhist, Christian and Indian sects is a form of self-denial involving renunciation of worldly pursuits to achieve higher intellectual and spiritual goals.

Whether warrior or monk, no one practices self-denial for the sake of practicing self-denial. It is practiced for the purpose of achieving greater enjoyment at a later time. Even monks take vows of chastity, obedience, and poverty for a reason –  it’s because they hope to achieve eternal life in heaven. If you forego a bowl of ice cream, you may have lost the pleasure you would get from eating it, but you gain the pleasure of knowing you are not consuming all that fat and sugar. You also gain a great deal of pleasure from having exerted self control.

Self-denial offers psychological rewards such as the sense of accomplishment of having achieved one or more goals; character, by doing something you know is hard for others to do; and a feeling of autonomy through disregarding the expectations of others. Physically, self-denial builds stamina; if real danger or deprivation arrives, the person who has practiced self-denial can better weather it. Self-denial sharpens the senses in the same way that instant gratification dulls them.

Look forward to future blogs explaining how to deny yourself what others crave, all the time enjoying it.

 I realize I’m running against prevailing public opinion here. So popular is Oprah that I’m likely to get the same response as I did when I (very nicely) accused Mr. Rogers of perpetuating the shameless promotion of undeserved self-esteem through his programs directed at American children.

 But I digress…

 I won’t launch my attack on Oprah without noting her positive traits. First, she seems to be honest, sincere, straightforward and likeable. To her credit, she has allowed the public to follow her continual battles with weight gain, when she could have tried to cover them up. She has also humbly shown her fans what she looks like without makeup and casually garbed in less than designer outfits.

 And, she has admitted her mistakes, like backing that abominable liar/writer James Frey, and the laxness she exhibited in funding an African girls’ school where student abuse subsequently occurred because staff members there were not subjected to adequate vetting. (Remind me to write a future piece on how much I loathe the term, vetting.)

 The point is that I don’t dispute Oprah being genuine and likeable. Then again, so is Ed Begley Junior, and that doesn’t stop him from being a certifiable nut. The problem with Oprah is that she has the uncanny ability to reflect all that is abhorrent and imbecilic about modern popular culture.

 Think about it. It was on Oprah that we first learned all about the inate intelligence of superstar Tom Cruise. It was Oprah who called Herman Rosenblatt’s Holocaust tale “the single greatest love story” ever.  Only to find out later that it was a complete hoax. And it was Oprah who urged her viewers to all go home and light candles for spiritual completeness and inspiration. Which prompted an elderly Chicago woman to light her nursing home on fire.

But, people will protest, wasn’t it also Oprah who introduced us all to such contemporary spiritual gurus as Depok Chopra and Eckhart Tolle? Yes it was. And your point is?

Popular culture is a curious mix of crass entertainment, conceit-driven fads, class envy, and blind allegiance to one absurd “spiritual” movement after another. Oprah’s guests have so neatly reflected all the wildly fluxing elements of American popular culture that one could almost picture the Big O and her staff coming up with guests by working off a list of stupid things that people in this country do and believe.

As international branding expert Rob Frakel has written, “Nobody has contributed more to the dumbing down of America and its increase in mediocrity than Oprah Winfrey.” The Wall Street Journal agrees, blaming Oprah for America’s obsession with self-help techniques and addiction to confession. The paper even coined the term, “Oprahfication” which means the practice of employing public confession as a form of therapy.

 Oprah is not alone, of course. From insipid sitcoms that rely on fart jokes to shameless instant psychoanalysis displays on the Dr. Phil show, to so-called “Reality Shows” that feed our collective need for sex, violence and voyeurism—all from the comfort of our living room sofa, of course—there are ample ways in which we can sit on our asses while our collective grey matter is sucked from our skulls.

But Oprah has been the queen of modern popular culture, the only one who took our schizophrenic fascinations, misguided aspirations, and dysfunctional lifestyles and made them all seem acceptable rather than deplorable. This has been done through a neat series of one hour segments featuring “experts” and philosphical spokespersons who made all the weirdness of popular culture seem normal and even desirable to emulate.

Thanks in part to Oprah, we now have our first popular-culture president, elected largely because his inspirational, if vacuous, speeches made a majority of the voters “feel better.”

When Oprah’s reign is over, some will no doubt believe that she represented some positive development in the progress of television entertainment, much as others have touted Playboy creator Hugh Hefner for freeing society from backward moral standards. Thanks Hef. Or people who at one time called Rod McCuen the world’s greatet poet. Snicker. And leisure suits were the ultimate designer statement, defining men’s clothing styles for decades to come. Not.

Suffice to say, each generation makes mistakes in its declarations as to what is significant and what is not; what will last and what will not.

What is perhaps most interesting is that Oprah is also the queen of modern consumerism, offering a confusing dichotomy with the more spiritual stands she has taken. In one episode, she and her guest will ask viewers to consider a healthier, happier life living closer to nature, then she will segue into a guest touting a new line of beauty products. She has featured guests on her show who preach the benefits of enduring hardship, adopting personal responsibility and shunning mindless possessions in favor of a more spiritual life. Then she announces that under every seat in the theater are keys to a new car!

 As Oprah nears her retirement in a little over a year, some people are saying she will go down in history as one of television’s leaders over the past 25 years.

Others, like Rob Frakel, have remarked that “if she has any leadership ability, it lies in her self-gratifying sustenance via mindless consumerism.”

But at least she’s been honest and sincere about it.

I soon discovered that the Historical Romance novel is more closely associated with the paperback book form than probably any other genre of contemporary literature. For decades, women have bought historical romances to study and reflect upon the lives of their sisters in past eras; to escape from contemporary society and explore an enchanting, bygone age; or simply to use the pretense of historical research in order to sneak a peek at Elizabethan couples getting it on in cold, damp, poorly lit castle bedchambers.

Historical Romances can generally be spotted in a bookstore from 50 yards away because of their distinctive cover art. These vibrant, mini-masterpieces of wishful thinking have always been known for their characteristic portrayal of women suggestively attired in lacy gowns, flowing capes, and deeply cut bodices. These females, in turn, are always depicted in the act of being groped by men with long, flowing hair, chiseled facial features, bulging biceps, rugged good looks and an incredibly coincidental predisposition to have all misplaced their shirts somewhere.

Although the theme for the cover art of Historical Romances is pretty much set in stone, there are numerous varieties found in the illustrations for these books. For example, a random glance at a half-dozen Historical Romances will reveal beautiful peasant women being groped by dukes, princesses being groped by vagabonds, pioneer women being groped by Indian warriors, Indian maidens being groped by white sheriffs, half-naked women being groped by fully dressed men, fully-clothed women being groped by half-naked men…well, you get the picture.

Although most classic Historical Romances have traditionally been set in what some would call the age of lords and ladies, kings and queens, castles and manor houses, dungeons and dungeon keepers (without shirts), today’s novels within this genre can be set in any era from the dark ages to the wild west; from 13^th century Europe to a cattle ranch in 19^th century Montana.

Stories often revolve around a handsome leading man who has vowed never to marry, and the woman who tames him in a manner comparable to that which he himself employed to subdue the magnificent wild stallion he rides across the rugged landscape of a fledgling nation which is full of danger and promise, yet remains open to conquest by rugged, shirtless outdoorsmen like him. Sorry – got carried away there.

There are, of course, variations on these themes, such as the woman who is trapped in a forced marriage to a cold, calculating count—let’s call him Igor of Romavakia—whom she does not love because he cares more about his fortune in gold than he cares for her, not to mention the fact that he will never take his shirt off. This poor heroine—let’s call her Lady Adrianna of  Chantillinia—would much rather spend time with the strong, simple, incredibly handsome stableman, who understands her deepest thoughts and dreams, instinctively knows her needs and desires as a woman, and who always seems to have lost his shirt somewhere. We’ll call him Rod.

Then there’s the woman from one of two warring countries who falls in love with a man from the other side who wants the whole, absurd conflict to end so the two countries can grow and prosper in a renaissance of friendship and new ideas as they enter an age of reason and emotional stability after decades of backwards, tribal conflict which has needlessly stifled any opportunities for meaningful growth and change. Whoops. Again, sorry.

Other themes in Historical Romances include:

• men courting women beneath their station;
• women courting men beneath their station;
• women leaving men at the station;
• couples messing around beneath the big oak tree behind the station;

and so on.

Men in Historical Romances often have formal titles such as Lord Eberley, Captain Carlisle, the Earl of Scruggs, or Viscount Van der Wilde. If they are not part of the upper class, however, the men in these novels are generally referred to by other characters using casual nicknames from the period in question—clever monikers such as scoundrel, rake, blackguard or barbarian.

As in:

“Who was that rake?” inquired Lady Silkengown wistfully, as she peered after the galloping stallion making its way across the brooding moor. “What a barbarian he was!”

“It was none other than that scoundrel O’Shaunessy,” replied her lady in waiting, a cross look on her otherwise demure countenance. “He has the reputation of being quite a blackguard, you know.”

If a historical romance takes place in the American wilderness, then the male characters—those who are not captains, lieutenants, senators or wealthy owners of vast, incredibly successful ranches occupying a gazillion acres in lush, green, picturesque valleys framed by towering, breast-like peaks—are instead simple, yet rugged mountain men who don’t wear shirts and have names like Flame or Stone or Hunk.

Whenever a Historical Romance is set in a foreign country, the male characters always have incredibly impressive and regionally authentic names like the Laird, El Capitano, or Field Marshal Reichenstadelhummelschlupper.

Historical Romance novels have always been known to employ richly descriptive language, especially when describing the inner thoughts of the women characters, who generally have names such as Gwendelyn, Allysoun,  Frederica or Lady Chastebody. These captivating damsels generally spend the better part of the book vacillating between two men, or deciding whether they should give themselves to the male protagonist or remain unsoiled by excessive dallying behind the caretaker’s cottage. If they opt for the virtuous life, they will no doubt take pleasure in the high regard offered them by citizens of the kingdom, but will also endure more than their fair share of dreadfully uneventful Saturday nights.

Here are examples of the sorts of carefully crafted language you will find in most Historical Romance novels:

• “the heat of her passion burned in his gaze.”
• “A passionate, uncontrollable yearning urged Alicia to surrender her heart and kingdom to this sun-bronzed warrior.”
• “Though she longed to scorn the arrogant duke, her body recalled too well his searing, sensual touch.”
• “Although Lady Clarice had heard rumors of this knight’s prowess, she could scarce keep from gasping when she first beheld the full length and girth of his mighty sword.”

While there are scarcely any pages in a historical romance that do not hint of romantic encounters to come, the typical book in this genre actually contains just 5.3 actual sexual encounters in the average 363 pages. Far from a crass excursion into Elizabethan porn, most such vignettes are handled with grace and dignity, as evidenced by the following excerpts:

“He bent his head and she arched her back as his lips trailed over the tender skin of her throat. She pulled aside the neck of her tunic to bare the way for him.”

“He drew her toward the bed and she fell back beneath the pressure of his hand. Anger at her obstinacy warred with desire as he looked down at her creamy, sinuous form spread upon the quilted coverlet.”

“He watched as she swung around and walked to the fireplace. Lambient light bathed her slender body, and her flimsy wrapper clung greedily to her very attractive derriere.”

Besides illustrating the extensive use of descriptive, almost poetic, language to frame a scene of passion, the above passages also clearly point out the inherent educational value of the Historical Romance novel. Where else could you read a sensual passage in a book while simultaneously learning about historical details such as tunics, quilted coverlets and lambient lighting?

Historical romances are sold as stand-alone books or as parts of a series. These series often contain dozens of books and deal with many generations of family members living their frequently dysfunctional lives over a period of many centuries. Writing a series of books allows the authors to seamlessly unveil over time their intimate acquaintance with a wide range of fascinating historical periods, while simultaneously allowing readers to savor storylines which might center around anything from knights in armor to men in kilts running across grassy meadows while grasping long poles.

Some of these family sagas include complex family trees inside the front covers of the books. These are designed to help readers remind themselves which characters they read about in book one, while simultaneously reassuring them that they will have at least another 28 generations of fictional family members to read about in the 15 years of sequels to come.

Historical Romances have numerous subcategories. Among these are Gothic, Regency, Medieval, Western, and the relatively recent category of Paranormal. These categories are generally identifiable easily by taking a look at the cover.

If you see an old castle or mansion in the background, generally surrounded by fog or illuminated only by a full moon, with a cape-clad woman in the foreground, looking warily up at the castle or appearing to be fleeing from the same, you have a Gothic novel in your hands. The plot will likely deal with a family curse, an evil overlord, or a centuries-old secret that reveals the terrifying truth about the old home and its occupants over the past several centuries.

Regency, or Victorian novels are the contemporary counterparts to classic tales such as Daphne DeMaurier’s Rebecca, or—going farther back—the Bronte sisters’ or Jane Austen’s famous novels. Romance pervades these often melodramatic books, but actual sensuality appears only in the form of knowing glances, warm smiles, or—in the more risqué novels—a peck on the cheek. Notably, the women on the covers of these books are tightly wrapped in Victorian garb which has been secured by yards of lacing and dozens of buttons—all securely hooked. The male heroes of these types of books are notable for always having their shirts on.

The covers of Medieval Romances always depict a castle in the distance, with the two chief male and female characters traipsing through a meadow or forest with nary a care in the world, although one can almost see a host of vile knights, evil dukes, wicked soothsayers or envious hobbits hiding in the bushes watching them. No matter where he is or what he may be doing—including seducing his mistress—the male character on the covers of these books always carries with him a lengthy and jewel-bedecked sword, while his mistress is clad in the flimsiest of materials and appears as fresh as the morning dew.  All the glories of medieval times are found in these books, while the plot carefully ignores the realities of no sanitation, rampant disease and a distinct lack of deodorant or disposal razors during this overly exalted period of history.

The Western Romance is generally identified by the appearance on the cover of one of two kinds of heroines—either the helpless blonde city girl in a flimsy flowered dress which is completely inappropriate for a life among rattlesnakes, cactus and cow pies; or the tough, capable rancher’s daughter type, generally dressed in a Daisy Duke type getup consisting of blue jeans (tight in the ass, of course) and a plaid or calico shirt which is stretched to its limit by her bulging bustline, relieved only by a few buttons which always seem to have come undone just in time for a ranch hand named Chud or Luke or some other one-syllable expression of pure testosterone, to come by and gaze down at the bounty of feminine pulchritude so near to him, yet so far out of reach. In the background, phallic saguaro and mammary inspired mountain peaks jut into the sky, almost as if challenging the two characters on the cover to show what they’ve got. Some authors, Cassie Edwards among them, prefer to show the helpless female staring in awe at a magnificent specimen of a Native American brave, dressed in buckskins and no shirt as he stands above her just daring her to try putting him on a reservation.

A relatively new form of historical romance is the Paranormal Romance, in which archetypal horror movie characters such as werewolves, vampires and other undead but still highly sensual male characters pursue damsels in settings such as old mansions, graveyards, urban alleyways and the aisles of Wall-Mart as the clock strikes twelve. Other than the sometimes unsettling romantic encounters made possible by the otherworldly characteristics and powers possessed by these male characters, these books are not a great deal different than a host of other types of romances. Perhaps the only major difference is that the heroine, in attempting to assess the sexual prowess of her deceased lover, generally finds herself appraising the length of his claws and incisors for guidance.

The writers of historical romances seem to have some of the most elaborate and romantic sounding names of any contemporary writers. Names like Alexandria Felicitini or Juliette Chanel Lochlomond are not uncommon. In some cases, their unusual names have actually inspired them to write historical romances, but in other cases, they have adopted pen names to reflect the romantic natures of their souls, even if their given names have never really lived up to that image. Cases in point? The elegant Victoria Alexander is really down-to-earth Cheryl Griffin. The very European sounding Katherine Deauxville is actually a down-home American named Maggie Davis.

All paperbacks take advantage of their back covers to preview the plot of the book using a few dozen carefully crafted words which are woven together in such a way as to compel potential readers to buy the book. Historical Romances are particularly adept at capturing the plot and theme of an entire book by placing a few descriptive words on the outer wrapper. Apparently, however, I’m not a potential reader, because wording like the following only makes me want to gag myself with a spoon. Or, to be more historically conscious, a scabbard or something.

 “With neither title nor land, Rhys could not win the hand of Gwennelyn of Segrave. But he would always have her heart. The two are kindred souls… Rhys, a knight with far too many notions of chivalry for his own good. And Gwen, a lover of minstral tales, waiting to be swept away. But Gwen is betrothed to another man, and Rhys fears he will lose her forever, until a surprise offer comes his way—bringing Rhys and Gwen a second chance at love and Another Chance to Dream.”

Fortunately, reading book descriptions like the above also give readers like me another chance—to depart the Historical Romance section of the bookstore as fast as my feet can carry me.

Here’s another great pitch for a book, this one noted on the cover as a “sensuous national bestseller.”

“With ebony hair, blue eyes, silken hair and a luscious body, she is a hot-tempered vixen made for love. Courageous and wise, mistress of a mighty fleet, shrewd overseer of vast wealth, and both friend and foe to Queen Elizabeth, Skye is a woman of incomparable spirit, brave, brilliant, magnificent.”

On the plus side, I might have taken a great deal more enjoyment out of my high school history courses had we learned about historical figures like this Skye woman. On the other hand, I would have flunked high school English had I ever followed this novelist’s lead and used 14 adjectives in a paragraph of just 50 words.

Who reads Historical Romances? The Romance Writers of America (an organization that meets once a year at locations such as white-columned, antebellum mansions flanked by rows of acacia trees, or sprawling Texas ranches with miles of white, split-rail fencing and a host of shirtless cowboys serving as parking attendants) states that Romance novels as a whole generated $1.2 billion in sales in 2004. That’s about 40 % of all fiction sales, and the historical variety account for about 20% of that.

Interestingly, the majority of romance readers (50%) are married women (suggesting that their reading serves the same role as their husband’s football addictions) and more than 20% are between the ages of 35-44, dispelling the notion that romances are read by blue-haired matrons reliving their glory days.

The majority of women buy their romance books at large retailers such as Target and Wal-Mart, suggesting that a sudden urge to buy them may reflect a temporary state of mind during which they are fervently praying, “Please God, grant me some way to escape from these screaming kids and plastic housewares from China!”

Because this book was not intended to be a recitation of statistics, I will leave things as they are here, with the exception of noting one more piece of disturbing data. During the year 2006, 64.6 million women read at least one romance novel. Now, I may be making more of this than is warranted but, to me, this figure seems eerily similar to the 64 million men who visited online gaming sites during that same period. 

What possible attributes do so-called Reality tv shows possess that would generate audiences for these inane video records of really stupid people doing really stupid things?

As a good friend of mine likes to say, “If I want to watch a lot of idiots doing stupid things, I can just spend an hour at K-Mart.”

Maybe, with a compelling scenario and a small number of interesting characters, I could understand the possible interest in a one-time, half-hour documentary dealing with a real family, a real office staff, or a real school classroom.

But a program focusing on dysfuntional people doing embarrassingly stupid things again and again and again, week after week after week? I just don’t get it. I don’t understand what compels people of normal intelligence tuning in to watch these forms of so-called entertainment on  a regular basis.

The theory, or one of them at least, is that we watch reality shows for the same reasons we are compelled to slow down on the freeway to gaze at a car crash; namely, we feel a certain sense of relief that we weren’t the ones who were involved in an accident, or that we aren’t as stupid as the people we see on reality shows.

Then again, the very act of watching a reality show immediately dispels the argument that a viewer is smarter than the people on the show he is watching.

I guess what bothers me most is the idea that people from other countries might see some of these shows and think that the people featured on them are representative of average Americans. How embarrassing for us all!

But even scarier is the possibility that these stupid people really do represent the average American.

Yikes! Maybe we do deserve to see American exceptionalism crashing down around us.

No, I’m not referring to the occasional deference that a celebrity receives by the public when he or she has attained star status. An example of this would be when Humphrey Bogart had become enough of a star to be called simply “Bogie.” Or when Elvis Presley became known as simply “Elvis.” Or even when Charles Lindbergh became known as “Lindy.”

No, what I have in mind is people like Gallagher, or Madonna, or Rhianna. (Actually, I still don’t know who this last person is.) What all of these people have in common is that they decided to call themselves by one name first, then worry about becoming stars later. No doubt a clever marketing manager thought that a single name would distinguish them from all the other nobodys out there who were trying to be stars.

Then there are those celebrities who give themselves silly names to distinguish themselves from other actors, singers and the like. The so-called Queen Latifa is an example of this. Come on, really, what was she thinking when she started calling herself a queen? Has the woman no humility? Or was she simply referring to her “queen sized” wardrobe?

Then there’s that actor (and I use the term loosely) called “The Rock.” I mean, come on, does he actually sign his name that way when he registers at the Holiday Inn, or signs his income tax form?

Members of the news media don’t help matters any when they choose to refer to celebrities by their first names on the covers of magazines or in the lead-ins to television stories. “Brad drops Angelina,” “Britney Bares All,” and “Miley disses Disney,” are a few typical examples.

Even complete nobodys can become one-named stars once the media decides they are worthy of the first-name-only treatment. An example might be: “Kate Demands Child Support from John.” Thanks to America’s sick fascination with other peoples’  lives, most people who see that headline will know exactly who Kate and John are, even though they were complete unknowns just one short year ago.

Politicians rarely get the first name treatment. Apparently people seem to think that initials are more sophisticated with governmental celebrities – like FDR, JFK and LBJ, for example. For reasons that are obvious, only one president will forever be referred to (in a somewhat snubbish tone) by just his last name – NIXON!

There is an old rule in journalism that on first reference in a news story, a person should be called by his or her first and last name, then on future references, by his or her last name only. John Smith, in other words, should be called “John Smith” on first reference, then just “Smith” in subsequent references.

So, what happened, I wonder. in the case of Saddam Hussein? Clearly, if journalists were following the rules of their own profession, they would have called him “Saddam Hussein” on first reference, and “Hussein” in subsequent references. But no, all the news media referred to him as Saddam — his first name — every time they talked or wrote about  him. What was that all about?

Now, if they had referred to George Bush as just “George,” it would have been a different matter, because they would have at least been consistent. But the first-name rule apparently applied only to Iraq’s president.

Incidentally, there is one media outlet (The New York Times) whose archaic style guide calls for inserting a “Mr., ” “Miss,” or “Mrs” before each name they use in the paper. John Smith, for example, would be called “John Smith” the first time, then “Mr. Smith” on all subsequent references. Similarly, Michelle Obama would be called “Mrs. Obama” the second time around.

But when the former president of Iraq was mentioned in the NY Times, their style guide would have dictated that they call him “Mr. Saddam.”

Or maybe, “the late Mr. Saddam.”

Avoiding unnecessary expenditure either of money or of anything else which is to be used or consumed; avoiding waste. The quality of being frugal; prudent economy; thrift; A sparing use; sparingness; the practice of acquiring goods and services in a restrained manner, and resourcefully using already owned economic goods and services, to achieve a longer term goal.

Curmudgeon:

A crusty irascible cantankerous old person full of stubborn ideas; crusty: brusque and surly and forbidding; “crusty remarks,” “a crusty old man,” “his curmudgeonly temper,” “gruff manner,” “a gruff reply,” “an ill-tempered and disagreeable person.”

Like chocolate and peanut butter, Oreos and milk, reality TV and low IQ, few things are as beautifully paired as frugality and curmudgeonliness.

And while I don’t necessarily expect readers to like me, I think you will like this blog if only because it riles you up to the extent that you’ll  take the time to pound out a response.

So keep looking in, because sooner or later you’ll see yourself in the blogs to come.