From: Ari Gold

Subject: Your Oscar Speech

Dear Al:

Before I go any further here, allow me to apologize in advance for calling you “Al,” as opposed to “Mr. Vice President.”

Sure, it might seem overly familiar.

But Al—dude—VeepMan—now that you’ve got the Oscar nomination and you’re officially in show business, the local working rules apply. We call everybody by their first name, whether we know ’em or not: Jack. Marty. Steven. Harvey. Gustav. (The G-Man is my biofuels connection over at the Benz dealership over on Beverly. If you’re looking for an ethanol conversion, just say the word, I’ll hook you up.)

Anyway, Al, let me come to the point: As you, of all people, know, few things in this life are certain. Marty for Best Picture this year? Done. Borat II? In the works. Your Oscar for Best Doc?

It’s in the swag bag.

So, as you and Flipper fly out here (and no, that’s not a typo—one of my partners represents the dolphin, and I hear he’s booked to present the award), I’m sure you’re looking forward to the free jeans, the free iPods and the free pedicures at one of the celeb lounges (just go with it, dude). But I’ve got two words of warning for you:

Roberto Benigni.

Who’s Roberto Benigni, you ask? Precisely my point: He’s the Italian guy who climbed over the seats to pick up the Oscar for Life Is Beautiful in 1999—after which he vaporized and disappeared into the ozone like yesterday’s carbon emissions. (Yeah, I know that’s not exactly right. But you know what I mean.)

The thing of it is, Al, the morning after you get the statue, every studio in this town is going to be asking: What do you want to do next? A sequel? A remake? Another Inconvenient Truth? But this time, they’re going to expect you to do it bigger, and better, with lots of special effects: Change the carbon emissions to meteorites; switch out the oil lobby for aliens; tweak the McGuffin, from man-made environmental catastrophe to the Big Bang theory and the impending collapse of the universe. Bruce Willis and Michael Bay, here we come.

But somehow, Al, I know it’s not you. It’s not where your career should be heading.

All of which is why I think you should skip the usual Oscar speech and announce that you’re running for President—even if I can’t commission the salary.

C’mon, Al. Don’t laugh. You know you’re thinking about it. And it’s a hell of a lot better than making the announcement on (please, somebody stop them!) The Daily Show. So bear with me here:

Sure, Obama just got in the race. And he’s got some support. But on the ground out here in L.A., outside the old “Friends of Bill,” Hillary’s campaign is a non-starter. Too divisive, too much baggage, too much triangulation. When she kicked off her campaign with the line “Let the conversation begin” (written by a New York ad guy), we groaned, because it sounded as if it was written by a New York ad guy. When she said she’d “resent it” if George Bush didn’t get us out of Iraq by January 2009, she sounded petulant. In the age of viral marketing and the Internet (no joke here, just take credit already), where voters want to feel empowered and power bubbles up, it feels like she’s running an old ward-boss campaign. And when she says “It’s time for a woman president,” we agree—but answer “Yes, but not you.” Entitlement is not a job qualification. (And before you ask: Yes, Marty is “entitled” to the Oscar this year, and he’ll probably get it. But not because he said so.)

Moreover, we still don’t know where she stands on the war. And while we’ll always have a soft spot for Bill, it’s time to move on. We don’t want to relive the 90’s; we don’t want to get dragged through the mud over every dime he’s taken over the past eight years in speaking fees. (Remember when Hillary was bewailing the proposed takeover of our ports by a Dubai-based firm while Bill was advising the company? It’s something we’d rather forget.)

Then there’s you, Al:

—You’re on the right side of the war.

—You own the environment.

—You’ve already won the popular vote once before.

So, for all of our sakes, give it a think. Make the speech short and self-deprecating (no reason to bring in Naomi Wolf; go with the classic black tux) and say something to the effect of: “I think I’m supposed to say it’s nice to be nominated. But having been ‘nominated’ once before, I’ve got to tell you: It’s a lot better to win …. Which is why, tonight, I’m announcing my candidacy for President. Together, with your help, we can return to the kind of people we once were, and go forward to become the kind of great nation were always destined to be.”

And that’s it. Over, done and out. And by the time you show up Graydon’s, there won’t be a full checkbook in the house.

Get back to me as soon as you can on this, Al. Obama is waiting in the wings. But in the meantime, keep one thing in mind:

There’s only one thing Hollywood loves more than a winner:

A comeback.

Hug it out, babe,

Ari.

Forget overexposure. These things quickly clock past cliché and head right into the Green Zone (ding—there’s one!) of cultural irrelevancy.

This year, in an attempt to get ahead of the curve (ding—two!) here’s a list of targets that are already due for a pre-emptive strike (three!) from the lexicon:

• Surge. Troop surge, resurgent Democrats, insurgent forces, or any other derivation, including Nancy Pelosi as a surge protector, or Hillary/Obama/John Edwards surging forth in a poll. It’s only January, but there are already 48 million citations like this on Google. (Yes, it’s the word of the year.) And so far, as the war goes, why don’t we all just agree to call it “Iraq III: This time, we mean it. Sort of.”

• Listening Tour and Exploratory Committee. Enough already. This ain’t our first rodeo; we’ve been down this road before, and it’s thoroughly proscribed: I talk, you listen, you get to ask a few questions, I tell you what you want to hear—and then we all go home happy, in my case with a sack full of campaign contributions. C’mon: In the history of modern political campaigns, has any “exploratory committee” or “listening tour” ever resulted in anything but an announcement that someone is running for office?

• 2.0 Anything. Internet 2.0, Hillary 2.0, Iraq 2.0. Can’t anybody here count anymore? This convention is woefully overused, not to mention that it usually represents a gross undercount. My advice: Given the surprising success of Rocky VI (a.k.a. Rocky Balboa), Roman numerals will always remain a stylish and classy alternative.

• Exit Strategy. Maybe it’s just me, but it occurs to your correspondent that the recently deposed C.E.O. of Home Depot, Bob Nardelli, is the only guy to come up with a winning exit strategy for anything in years: He ran the company into the ground, yet managed to get paid almost $200 million to take a hike. My take on this: Put him in charge of Iraq. We’ve already run the country into the ground; our reputation is trashed. With Mr. Nardelli at the helm, things certainly won’t get any better—but maybe they’ll pay us to leave.

• Political Movement. Moving to the center, moving to the right, moving to the left, shoring up the base. Henceforth, let’s all agree to use the far more accurate and concise terminology: pandering.

• Bipartisanship. If polonium has a half-life in the human body of about 50 days before it decays, bipartisanship in the governing body lasts about two seconds—just slightly longer than the time it takes to echo through a campaign rally. In other words, it’s a phrase that vaporizes instantly, sort of like “responsible government,” “term limits,” “civil unions,” “campaign reform,” “compassionate conservatism,” “victory,” “staying the course,” “cut and run,” “we’ll stand down when they stand up” or “universal health care.” More prosaically, it joins a list of words like “luxury,” “exclusive,” “gourmet” and “deluxe,” which signify absolutely nothing, save perhaps for: “Want fries with that?”

• Bono as World Savior. I won’t argue that U2 isn’t the world’s greatest rock band. But on the other hand, did anyone else notice that for all the millions of dollars and full-page newspaper ads that the Gap took out promoting the singer’s Red Campaign, the retailer’s same-store sales still tanked? In other words, is it possible that the baby boomer’s musical messiah is viewed by the younger generations as a tax-dodging old geezer? Just a thought. If nothing else, the mitigating news here is that at least he had the good sense to adopt all of Africa, wholesale, rather than just retailing it and picking up a single African orphan.

• “I”-anything. Such as: iPods, i-music, i-phones, i-video—anything with an “I” in front of it, save possibly for “I-backdated-my-stock-options.”

• Hedge Funds Saving Hollywood. Pssst: Wanna know a dirty little West Coast secret? Hedge-fund managers are the new German dentists. In the 1980’s, Texas oil money was going to save Hollywood; in the 1990’s, it was German tax shelters; now, it’s hedge funds. Either way, the outcome is always the same: We take the money, spend it all, and the hedge-fund guys won’t even be able to get into the roped-off section at the Premier. The names change, but one thing stays the same: The fastest way to earn $5 million in Hollywood is to come out here with ten.

• Hypothetical Books. For example, If I Did It, A Million Little Pieces, The Iraq Study Group Report: A New Approach. Yes, sir—along with the first two Bob Woodward books on the Bush administration (Bush at War and Plan of Attack), it seems like the time for this new interesting book category has come and gone. Let’s get Obama writing again, fast. And in the meantime, here’s a not-so-hypothetical question: If (I should posit when) Judith Regan writes her memoirs this year, how long do you think it will be before she winds up on Oprah?

• Starchitect Buildings. See “Bipartisanship.” But instead of “You want fries with that?”, substitute the phrase “How do you like those granite countertops?”

• Any Kind of “Bubble.” The Internet bubble, the real-estate bubble, George Bush living in a Presidential bubble. Personally, I prefer “-mania,” as in “tulipmania,” but either way, the psychological underpinning is the same: Ignorance is bliss. And while we’re at it here, let’s make a deal: Let’s all agree to shoot the first TV news anchor who offers up the exact number of standing ovations and interruptions-by-applause that George Bush receives during his upcoming State of the Union address. (On the other hand, don’t worry about it: Dick Cheney will probably take care of it, particularly if the count is too low.)

• Trying to explain the difference between Shiites and Sunnis. Enough, unless the story somehow miraculously incorporates the phrase “both agreed to the cessation of hostilities.”

• The Tragedy of Katie Couric. Ah, the unfairness, the inhumanity, the sadness of it all. Has it occurred to anyone else that the very people who are now writing these articles about Her Anchorship’s grounding are also the very selfsame scribes who over-hyped her rise in the first place? No matter. Trust me, by the end of year, we’re bound to see the story “No Exit Strategy Here—Katie 2.0, the Sequel: Moving to the center, restoring her base, she’s surging in the ratings …. ”

In a series of hard-hitting articles, the paper has examined everything from the tyranny of new money on old friendships to the netherworld of executive compensation, to the painful socioeconomic choices being made by people like Denise and Robert Glassman, from his dashed dreams of a Nobel Prize when he abandoned private medical practice for investment banking to the couple’s current heart-wrenching dilemma: whether to abandon the ’hood for a more income-appropriate community, or continue to tough it out in a four-bedroom home on the mean streets of Short Hills, N.J.

The question remains, as it always does for aspirational New Yorkers: Where do I fit in here? Where do I stand in the pecking order? Am I part of the alpha-overlord plutocracy? Or someone destined for outer-borough ignominy?

By answering these 10 simple questions, the answer will quickly become apparent.

1) You’re flying somewhere over the United States when the pilot announces that your destination airport is socked in. Your response is to:

A) Press the flight-attendant call button and see if you can buy another $4 snack box of beef jerky.

B) Fire up the laptop and continue to work on that PowerPoint for tomorrow’s sales conference in Cincinnati.

C) Ask the stewardess for another glass of Champagne, and hit on the movie star in the next seat.

D) Tell the pilot to switch course: You’re spending the night at the house in Telluride.

2) Brooklyn is:

A) My current residence.

B) My nightmare, after we have the second kid.

C) Trendy, right?

D) Someplace that I’m working with Frank Gehry to develop.

3) Which best describes your relationship with your nanny?

A) I am the nanny.

B) Nanny? What nanny? We use daycare.

C) We’re so worried about Conchita writing a tell-all book that we’ve asked her to sign a non-disclosure agreement.

D) We prefer to call her “the governess.”

4) A hip restaurant has just opened in your neighborhood. Your reaction is:

A) I’m still waiting for Drew Nieporent to introduce a line of frozen shrimp scampi at Costco.

B) I’m pissed off at the town cars clogging the block, but waiting for the Times review before we decide to splurge.

C) Sure, it was $1,200 for dinner, but worth every penny. Especially since I took the senior V.P. for ethics compliance and wrote the whole thing off.

D) I’m an investor. Need a table?

5) Which best describes your personal security measures?

A) Bars on the windows.

B) Concealed-carry permit.

C) Frantic phone call to 911.

D) Safe room, armored limo, heat-seeking missiles on the chopper.

6) Disgruntled with the current state of American politics, you decide to make a difference by:

A) Donating $25 to MoveOn.org.

B) Donating $200 to Hillary2008.Org.

C) Giving $2,000 to Barack Obama.

D) Taking your bonus money from Goldman Sachs and buying a governorship.

7) Disgruntled with the current state of The New York Times, you decide to register your unhappiness by:

A) No longer stealing your neighbor’s newspaper every morning.

B) Writing a really scathing letter to the editor.

C) Instructing your P.R. people to compose a withering op-ed piece.

D) Buying up 10 percent of the Class A common stock and launching an unfriendly takeover.

8) Which character do you most resemble in this morning’s op-ed column by Tom Friedman?

A) Mustafa, the Third World cabdriver who picked Tom up at the airport and gave him new insight into the global economy by describing the cell-phone service he’s starting.

B) JimBo, the recently laid-off Detroit autoworker who met Tom at a book-signing and confirmed the latter’s theories about the global economy by describing a new career as a Pilates instructor.

C) Hank Smith III, the C.E.O. who fired JimBo after reading Tom’s latest book and coming to the conclusion that it was the only way to compete in the global economy.

D) Alwaleed bin Adballah, the Saudi royal prince who confided his personal plan for peace in the Middle East as he flew Tom to Gstaad on his private 737– which took place after Mustafa dropped Tom off at the palace, and the prince agreed to invest in the cabdriver’s fledgling cell-phone company.

9) Opining about executive compensation on The Times Op-Ed page, Nick Kristof recently called Barry Diller “the laziest man in America”—to which the IAC/Interactive C.E.O. supposedly replied that the columnist’s ideas were “bird-brainy.” Your reaction to this is:

A) Who’s Nick Kristof?

B) Diller is a rapacious greedhead, and I’ve never been able to find a decent bargain on Travelocity anyway.

C) Diller is a risk-taking visionary who’s worth every penny of his compensation package.

D) I am Barry Diller.

10) And finally, your preferred holiday greeting is:

A) Merry Christmas.

B) Happy Hanukkah.

C) Welcome to St. Bart’s.

D) Welcome aboard! I’ll let Felipe show you to your stateroom.

In a series of hard-hitting articles, the paper has examined everything from the tyranny of new money on old friendships to the netherworld of executive compensation, to the painful socioeconomic choices being made by people like Denise and Robert Glassman, from his dashed dreams of a Nobel Prize when he abandoned private medical practice for investment banking to the couple’s current heart-wrenching dilemma: whether to abandon the ’hood for a more income-appropriate community, or continue to tough it out in a four-bedroom home on the mean streets of Short Hills, N.J.

The question remains, as it always does for aspirational New Yorkers: Where do I fit in here? Where do I stand in the pecking order? Am I part of the alpha-overlord plutocracy? Or someone destined for outer-borough ignominy?

By answering these 10 simple questions, the answer will quickly become apparent.

1) You’re flying somewhere over the United States when the pilot announces that your destination airport is socked in. Your response is to:

A) Press the flight-attendant call button and see if you can buy another $4 snack box of beef jerky.

B) Fire up the laptop and continue to work on that PowerPoint for tomorrow’s sales conference in Cincinnati.

C) Ask the stewardess for another glass of Champagne, and hit on the movie star in the next seat.

D) Tell the pilot to switch course: You’re spending the night at the house in Telluride.

2) Brooklyn is:

A) My current residence.

B) My nightmare, after we have the second kid.

C) Trendy, right?

D) Someplace that I’m working with Frank Gehry to develop.

3) Which best describes your relationship with your nanny?

A) I am the nanny.

B) Nanny? What nanny? We use daycare.

C) We’re so worried about Conchita writing a tell-all book that we’ve asked her to sign a non-disclosure agreement.

D) We prefer to call her “the governess.”

4) A hip restaurant has just opened in your neighborhood. Your reaction is:

A) I’m still waiting for Drew Nieporent to introduce a line of frozen shrimp scampi at Costco.

B) I’m pissed off at the town cars clogging the block, but waiting for the Times review before we decide to splurge.

C) Sure, it was $1,200 for dinner, but worth every penny. Especially since I took the senior V.P. for ethics compliance and wrote the whole thing off.

D) I’m an investor. Need a table?

5) Which best describes your personal security measures?

A) Bars on the windows.

B) Concealed-carry permit.

C) Frantic phone call to 911.

D) Safe room, armored limo, heat-seeking missiles on the chopper.

6) Disgruntled with the current state of American politics, you decide to make a difference by:

A) Donating $25 to MoveOn.org.

B) Donating $200 to Hillary2008.Org.

C) Giving $2,000 to Barack Obama.

D) Taking your bonus money from Goldman Sachs and buying a governorship.

7) Disgruntled with the current state of The New York Times, you decide to register your unhappiness by:

A) No longer stealing your neighbor’s newspaper every morning.

B) Writing a really scathing letter to the editor.

C) Instructing your P.R. people to compose a withering op-ed piece.

D) Buying up 10 percent of the Class A common stock and launching an unfriendly takeover.

8) Which character do you most resemble in this morning’s op-ed column by Tom Friedman?

A) Mustafa, the Third World cabdriver who picked Tom up at the airport and gave him new insight into the global economy by describing the cell-phone service he’s starting.

B) JimBo, the recently laid-off Detroit autoworker who met Tom at a book-signing and confirmed the latter’s theories about the global economy by describing a new career as a Pilates instructor.

C) Hank Smith III, the C.E.O. who fired JimBo after reading Tom’s latest book and coming to the conclusion that it was the only way to compete in the global economy.

D) Alwaleed bin Adballah, the Saudi royal prince who confided his personal plan for peace in the Middle East as he flew Tom to Gstaad on his private 737– which took place after Mustafa dropped Tom off at the palace, and the prince agreed to invest in the cabdriver’s fledgling cell-phone company.

9) Opining about executive compensation on The Times Op-Ed page, Nick Kristof recently called Barry Diller “the laziest man in America”—to which the IAC/Interactive C.E.O. supposedly replied that the columnist’s ideas were “bird-brainy.” Your reaction to this is:

A) Who’s Nick Kristof?

B) Diller is a rapacious greedhead, and I’ve never been able to find a decent bargain on Travelocity anyway.

C) Diller is a risk-taking visionary who’s worth every penny of his compensation package.

D) I am Barry Diller.

10) And finally, your preferred holiday greeting is:

A) Merry Christmas.

B) Happy Hanukkah.

C) Welcome to St. Bart’s.

D) Welcome aboard! I’ll let Felipe show you to your stateroom.

Entering this place is madness: I’m greeted by a cacophony of vendors, yelling, baying, cajoling, imploring me to visit their stalls for “the best price.” I’m looking for a Chinese-style silk embroidered jacket for my wife, and a bright pink “Suzy Wong” sheath dress for my 6-year-old daughter, at her request. I find both on the third floor.

“So how much?” I ask a young Chinese woman in a red smock, pointing to a beautiful black jacket lined in blood-red silk. The woman scrutinizes me from toe to head—my shoes, my Omega wristwatch (real), the brass buttons on my Paul Stuart blazer—and then pounds some figures into a hand-held Casio calculator. She thrusts it at me.

“Six hundred yuan,” she demands. “Best price. You buying?”

Quickly, I calculate the exchange rate: about $80. I know the jacket would go for hundreds on Madison Avenue. But this is China; it’s probably worth $20. And negotiating is the local blood sport. “Six hundred?” I exclaim. “Are you crazy? That’s ridiculous. It’s insane.” I punch my counteroffer and shove the calculator back. “I’ll give you 100.” At $13, it’s low, but not so low as to be totally insulting. And now it’s her turn for mock-outrage.

“One hundred? Are you kidding me? You’re the one who’s crazy!” She pounds the calculator. “Make it 300, we’re done.”

At this point, I realize we’re both actually enjoying this. She knows I’m going to buy; I know we’re going to reach a sane price. She’s come down to $38.50, but I’m not finished yet. “C’mon!” I reply. “Get serious! I don’t need this. I’ve got a plane to catch. I can get it cheaper on Canal Street.”

Hearing this, the woman’s eyes go wide. “Canal Street?” She swats the words away with a flip of her hand. “It’s rip-off. Cheap Taiwanese crap.”

Stifling a laugh—she not only knows Canal Street but is scornful of it—I go though several more rounds of negotiation until we end up at $22. She’s satisfied; I’m not unhappy. And as she wraps up the jacket, she hands me her business card, which has a Gmail address, a Web page and four cell phone numbers.

So what is China like for a visiting American? In a word, overwhelming. Overwhelming in size, overwhelming in scope, overwhelming in ambition. Some thumbnails:

• The Beijing skyline is filled with hundreds of construction cranes working 24/7 to prepare for the 2008 Olympics. At 4:30 in the morning, two dozen cement trucks are working in a pit, 23 stories beneath my hotel-room window, pouring the foundation for yet another high-rise.

• I attend the live broadcast of a TV awards show—sort of like our Golden Globes—that boasts an audience of 310 million.

• I receive an e-mail from an otherwise worldly friend wondering if I’ve found a restaurant that serves decent spring rolls. My answer: No. But if you’re looking for a Bentley, a Jaguar, a Starbucks double mochaccino grande latte or a Citibank machine, there’s one on every corner.

• In the week before I arrive, Jacques Chirac is here to announce a “historic friendship agreement” that includes billions in trade and the construction of an Airbus factory in Northern China; on the day that I’m due to leave, my entire hotel is made over in an African theme—including an elephant-and-giraffe diorama in the lobby and African art in the elevators—to herald the arrival of 48 African leaders who will announce another “historic friendship agreement” and still more trade deals in the billions.

• The last time I was here, two years ago, the thing that struck me was the number of cars and trucks on the streets of Beijing, and the realization that we (as Americans) were going to be in competition for oil. But this time, I was struck by something else: a sense of Chinese invincibility. In the English-language news, there’s almost no mention of the war in Iraq, the mid-term elections or North Korean nukes; it’s as if they’re side issues (think of Americans covering Britain’s Boer War in 1880) and tangential to the future. It’s the Chinese century. And however an important trade partner we may be, we represent the past.

This comes out in strange ways—like the Chinese investment banker who asked if I was “yet another American” who was going to accuse China of human-rights violations against the Falun Gong, the Dalai Lama, or in its “one-baby” birth-control policy. Or the way I noticed that the word “superpower” was now used with ironic air quotes.

In the movie business, we sometimes use the phrase “the dog that doesn’t bark.” It’s cribbed from a Sherlock Holmes story, meaning that sometimes the things you don’t see—in a movie trailer or a production announcement, for example—are more telling than the things you do see.

In a conversation with a Chinese official about letting more American movies into China (currently there’s an annual limit of 20), I suggest letting every American film in and letting the marketplace decide—whereupon most American movies will fail to find a mass audience, just as they do at home. But the man’s reply brought me up short: “This isn’t about the marketplace. It’s about your culture and its influence. We don’t think it’s positive.”

And thus the dog that doesn’t bark: If you spend time in almost any Asian city—Tokyo, Bangkok, Singapore—you’re bombarded by billboards for American music, American movies or American movie stars hawking everything from cigarettes to cell phones. But not here. Not a single one.

On the way to the airport to fly home, I pass 10 miles of helium balloons and bunting welcoming the African ministers to China. I sail through immigration, although it’s unsettling to be shunted off into special security lanes where people traveling to America—and only America—are subject to extra scrutiny. But it’s just after this, in a gift shop, that the dog does bark: Near the magazines, next to the stuffed pandas, there’s a pile of war toys: F-16 fighters, B-2 bombers and Black Hawk helicopters. All are emblazoned “USAF.”

I’m not saying it’s our legacy. But it’s the first and only time that I see an American flag in China.

Entering this place is madness: I’m greeted by a cacophony of vendors, yelling, baying, cajoling, imploring me to visit their stalls for “the best price.” I’m looking for a Chinese-style silk embroidered jacket for my wife, and a bright pink “Suzy Wong” sheath dress for my 6-year-old daughter, at her request. I find both on the third floor.

“So how much?” I ask a young Chinese woman in a red smock, pointing to a beautiful black jacket lined in blood-red silk. The woman scrutinizes me from toe to head—my shoes, my Omega wristwatch (real), the brass buttons on my Paul Stuart blazer—and then pounds some figures into a hand-held Casio calculator. She thrusts it at me.

“Six hundred yuan,” she demands. “Best price. You buying?”

Quickly, I calculate the exchange rate: about $80. I know the jacket would go for hundreds on Madison Avenue. But this is China; it’s probably worth $20. And negotiating is the local blood sport. “Six hundred?” I exclaim. “Are you crazy? That’s ridiculous. It’s insane.” I punch my counteroffer and shove the calculator back. “I’ll give you 100.” At $13, it’s low, but not so low as to be totally insulting. And now it’s her turn for mock-outrage.

“One hundred? Are you kidding me? You’re the one who’s crazy!” She pounds the calculator. “Make it 300, we’re done.”

At this point, I realize we’re both actually enjoying this. She knows I’m going to buy; I know we’re going to reach a sane price. She’s come down to $38.50, but I’m not finished yet. “C’mon!” I reply. “Get serious! I don’t need this. I’ve got a plane to catch. I can get it cheaper on Canal Street.”

Hearing this, the woman’s eyes go wide. “Canal Street?” She swats the words away with a flip of her hand. “It’s rip-off. Cheap Taiwanese crap.”

Stifling a laugh—she not only knows Canal Street but is scornful of it—I go though several more rounds of negotiation until we end up at $22. She’s satisfied; I’m not unhappy. And as she wraps up the jacket, she hands me her business card, which has a Gmail address, a Web page and four cell phone numbers.

So what is China like for a visiting American? In a word, overwhelming. Overwhelming in size, overwhelming in scope, overwhelming in ambition. Some thumbnails:

• The Beijing skyline is filled with hundreds of construction cranes working 24/7 to prepare for the 2008 Olympics. At 4:30 in the morning, two dozen cement trucks are working in a pit, 23 stories beneath my hotel-room window, pouring the foundation for yet another high-rise.

• I attend the live broadcast of a TV awards show—sort of like our Golden Globes—that boasts an audience of 310 million.

• I receive an e-mail from an otherwise worldly friend wondering if I’ve found a restaurant that serves decent spring rolls. My answer: No. But if you’re looking for a Bentley, a Jaguar, a Starbucks double mochaccino grande latte or a Citibank machine, there’s one on every corner.

• In the week before I arrive, Jacques Chirac is here to announce a “historic friendship agreement” that includes billions in trade and the construction of an Airbus factory in Northern China; on the day that I’m due to leave, my entire hotel is made over in an African theme—including an elephant-and-giraffe diorama in the lobby and African art in the elevators—to herald the arrival of 48 African leaders who will announce another “historic friendship agreement” and still more trade deals in the billions.

• The last time I was here, two years ago, the thing that struck me was the number of cars and trucks on the streets of Beijing, and the realization that we (as Americans) were going to be in competition for oil. But this time, I was struck by something else: a sense of Chinese invincibility. In the English-language news, there’s almost no mention of the war in Iraq, the mid-term elections or North Korean nukes; it’s as if they’re side issues (think of Americans covering Britain’s Boer War in 1880) and tangential to the future. It’s the Chinese century. And however an important trade partner we may be, we represent the past.

This comes out in strange ways—like the Chinese investment banker who asked if I was “yet another American” who was going to accuse China of human-rights violations against the Falun Gong, the Dalai Lama, or in its “one-baby” birth-control policy. Or the way I noticed that the word “superpower” was now used with ironic air quotes.

In the movie business, we sometimes use the phrase “the dog that doesn’t bark.” It’s cribbed from a Sherlock Holmes story, meaning that sometimes the things you don’t see—in a movie trailer or a production announcement, for example—are more telling than the things you do see.

In a conversation with a Chinese official about letting more American movies into China (currently there’s an annual limit of 20), I suggest letting every American film in and letting the marketplace decide—whereupon most American movies will fail to find a mass audience, just as they do at home. But the man’s reply brought me up short: “This isn’t about the marketplace. It’s about your culture and its influence. We don’t think it’s positive.”

And thus the dog that doesn’t bark: If you spend time in almost any Asian city—Tokyo, Bangkok, Singapore—you’re bombarded by billboards for American music, American movies or American movie stars hawking everything from cigarettes to cell phones. But not here. Not a single one.

On the way to the airport to fly home, I pass 10 miles of helium balloons and bunting welcoming the African ministers to China. I sail through immigration, although it’s unsettling to be shunted off into special security lanes where people traveling to America—and only America—are subject to extra scrutiny. But it’s just after this, in a gift shop, that the dog does bark: Near the magazines, next to the stuffed pandas, there’s a pile of war toys: F-16 fighters, B-2 bombers and Black Hawk helicopters. All are emblazoned “USAF.”

I’m not saying it’s our legacy. But it’s the first and only time that I see an American flag in China.

Example No. 1: Government Correspondence. How to communicate effectively and concisely in the wake of a crisis.

ExRepFoley@Hotmale.Com: Yo! Denny! What R U wearing today?

Spkr4Ever_Hastert@RNC.org: A thin cloak of deniability, thanx to U.

ExRepFoley@Hotmale.Com: U think U should resign?

Spkr4Ever_Hastert@RNC.org: DEGT. [Don’t even go there.]

ExRepFoley@Hotmale.Com: Well, if things get 2 hot, you always can take a page from my book: Blame alcohol. Child abuse. Trst Me: U can get away w/anything these days w the right xcuse.

Spkr4Ever_Hastert@RNC.org: LOL. [Laughing out loud.] Not. NNT. [Nothing new there.]

ExRepFoley@Hotmale.Com: H8 to run, but I’m late for a D8. SYOTBT. [See you on the book tour.]

Spkr4Ever_Hastert@RNC.org: U2. AA. [Adios, amigo.]

Example No. 2: Diplomatic Correspondence. While the previous example illustrated the advantages of a simple one-on-one conversation, it’s also possible to have “I.M. conference calls” should you have good news to spread.

Lil_Kim@NukesRUs.Gov.NK: Yo! Homies! We set off a nuke! Made the GR8 leap 4Ward!

Ahmadinejad1@SlaughterTheInfidels.Iraq.Gov: Way 2 go! APTA! [All praise to Allah!] When can I buy one?

Hugo_“Smells_like_Sulfur_in_Here”_Chavez@VZ.Gov: Me2!

Osama@Pashtoon.Mtns.Net: WAM! [Wait a minute!] STBIH. [Sorry to break in here.] But I was first in line!

Ahmadinejad1@SlaughterTheInfidels.Iraq.Gov: Osama, baby! LTNS! [Long time no see!]

Lil_Kim@NukesRUs.Gov.NK: Ditto! Why don’t we all get 2gether for a F2F [face to face]?

Osama@Pashtoon.Mtns.Net: ROTCFL. [Rolling on the cave floor, laughing.]

Ahmadinejad1@SlaughterTheInfidels.Gov.Iraq: Let’s smote the infidels!

Lil_Kim@NukesRUs.Gov.NK: Let’s kill the running-dog imperialists!

Hugo_“Smells_like_Sulfur_in_Here”_Chavez@VZ.Gov: STSTF. [Sorry to spoil the fun.] But do you take PayPal?

Lil_Kim@NukesRUs.Gov.NK: Yes. But there’s just 1 prob: The blast wasn’t as big as we Xpected.

Osama@Pashtoon.Mtns.Net: I H8 it when that happens! Didn’t you listen to me? Didn’t I warn you: RTFM! [Read the fucking manual!]

Example No. 3: Political Correspondence. Wherein we examine a conversation between two political professionals—precise, clear and (as yet) still unclassified. Think of it as two virtuosos of voting. A classic performance: “The R.N.C., Unplugged.”

KRove@MasterOfAllEvil.Net: Yo. KM! Whatup?

Melhman@RNC.ORG: U nervous about the election? NK nukes? Foley? Iran? Iraq? Lebanon? Woodward? Housing prices? Loss of the House and Senate and who-knows how many governorships?

KRove@MasterOfAllEvil.Net: Whoa! Slo down! TMI! [Too much information!] DMML. [Don’t make me laugh.] SSLAB. [Still sleeping like a baby.] Between M&U, it’s all going to blow over. Trust me: By Nov 7, Pelosi is going 2B way more frightening than we R. Remember: WMCJ. [White men can’t jump.]

Melhman@RNC.ORG: Xlent! GTH! [Good to hear!]

KRove@MasterOfAllEvil.Net: BTW [by the way], heard anything about Abramoff L8ly?

Melhman@RNC.ORG: Who?

KRove@MasterOfAllEvil.Net: Xactly. C what I mean?

Melhman@RNC.ORG: K-Man, U always B right!

KRove@MasterOfAllEvil.Net: Told U. CuL8R! Nothing to worry abt!

Example No. 4: Journalism. A short look at the work of a master journalist.

Anonymous743@AnonymousSource.Net: So tell me again, Bob. B4 I talk, why should I trust U?

Woodward_Sometimes@TheWashingtonPost.Com: Because I’m your new BF [best friend]. 4Ever!

Anonymous743@AnonymousSource.Net: In that case, DQMOT [don’t quote me on this], but Bush is crazy, Cheney is a loon and Rummy’s gotten hit by 1-too-many squash balls.

Woodward_Sometimes@TheWashingtonPost.Com: Thanx! Gotta run! L8 for Larry King! CU at my book party!

Example No. 5: Broadcast News. Wherein we witness the coining of a new acronym: AFAB (Always Fair and Balanced).

Hannity@FoxNews.Com: Sir. I’m sorry to interrupt. But I see we’ve got all these new young female pundits on our shows. Lip-gloss girls. “Democratic Operatives.” “Republican Strategists.” WADR [With all due respect], who R these women? Where did they come from? What R their credentials?

HeWhoAilesThem@FoxNews.Com: I-Candy.

Hannity@FoxNews.Com: I-Candy???

HeWhoAilesThem@FoxNews.Com: Eye candy, Sean. We all know what everybody’s going to spout today, on every issue. Dems: “The NK nuke is Bush’s fault.” Republicans: “You think Clinton was bet-R? Lil’ Kim broke the agreement in 10 minutes.” So why not have some I-Candy deliver the PTP’s?

Hannity@FoxNews.Com: PTP’s?

HeWhoAilesThem@FoxNews.Com: Predictable talking points. CW: conventional wisdom. HA: hot air. I mean who would you rather watch? Two US [usual suspects] from DC yelling past each other, or two lip-glossed babes in a cat fight?

Hannity@FoxNews.Com: Brill, sir. Just brill.

HeWhoAilesThem@FoxNews.Com: AFAB, Sean. AFAB. Always Fair and Balanced.

The blue-and-white-tiled building—with an imposing four-story minaret that resembles a USAF Delta missile—was built on Washington Boulevard in 1998 to accommodate 2,000 worshipers. It sits in the middle of a working-class neighborhood whose bungalows were once occupied by defense workers, but have become increasingly gentrified over the past decade. My dental hygienist lives there now and has flipped several houses, at great profit.

On Sunday, Sept. 10, as the local streets were marked by realtors’ pennants indicating houses for sale by people trying to catch the last wave of the turning market, the neighborhood was also the site of a peculiar community event.

Last month, a political group called the United American Committee (“Keeping America Safe, and Working for a Better Tomorrow,”) challenged the mosque to issue a fatwa repudiating Osama bin Laden and other terrorists by name. When the mosque refused, the committee decided to press the issue and commemorate 9/11 by hanging bin Laden in effigy outside.

At 4 p.m., there were slightly fewer than 100 protesters from the U.A.C. on the west side of Huron Street (the mosque is located at the corner of Huron and Washington,) carrying American flags and chanting, “Remember 9/11! Remember 9/11!” It was a predominantly white, middle-aged crowd—a few blacks, a couple of Hell’s Angels, a handful of college kids (protesting for women’s rights in Islamic countries) and a smattering of paramilitary types. Occasionally, the chant would change to “No more jihad!” or a communal singing of “God Bless America.”

On the east side of the street, directly in front of the mosque, there were two distinct groups: First, 70 or so racially mixed counter-protesters of both sexes, many of whom identified themselves as being with the International Socialist Organization—in other words, old lefties in spirit if not age. Through a bullhorn, this group taunted the American flag-carriers with counter-chants, alternating between “Racists go home!” and “You are Nazis—can’t you see? Muslims aren’t the enemy!” Their banner du jour declared “U.S./U.K./Israel—The Real Axis of Evil.”

And separated from this group—again, on the mosque side of the street—was a scrum of clergymen, primarily from the United Methodist Church of Southern California, giving interviews to the press.

Curiously, there were no police in sight: not a single cruiser blocking the street, no cops standing around just in case. The only protection (in the loosest sense of the word) seemed to be that both sides had dozens of video cameras and were intent on scanning every face in the crowd for use later on, if need be.

After 20 minutes, a silver-haired minister stepped into the street to confront the protesters. He was wearing a long white robe that revealed a pair of blue jeans sticking out above his sandaled feet. “We need understanding,” he pleaded. “We need to be able to talk to each other.” At which point, a fortysomething man in olive combat boots and a Mossad T-shirt (though not Jewish) got directly in his face: “You’re a dupe!” he said, all but snorting. “Do you think they’d let you preach in Mecca? Tell me: How many churches, how many temples, how many Methodists are there in Saudi Arabia?” Rather than answer directly, the Reverend just repeated himself. “We need to be able to talk to each other.”

Nearby, a spokesman for the mosque, Usman Madha, watched with an unreadable smile. “Osama is a criminal,” he said. “We have absolutely nothing to do with him. We were the first mosque to condemn 9/11 and kicked out a few people who didn’t agree with us.”

Maybe. Because what I've out here is some the some back story on the King Fahd mosque. According to The Washington Post, it was funded by the King of Saudi Arabia and his son, for $8 million, to promote Wahhabism. According to the 9/11 Commission Report, two of the hijackers—Nawaf al-Hazmi and Khalid Almihdhar—spent time there while in Southern California. The National Review links the mosque to Sgt. Asan Akbar, who threw grenades at his fellow U.S. soldiers in Iraq in 2003. And according to the Los Angeles Times, the mosque’s former imam, Fahad al Thumairy, was deported that same year for terrorism links.

As the protest continued, the ministers, along with the mosque spokesman, gathered on a terrace overlooking the street, where Pastor Rich Bolin of Culver Palms United Methodist Church asked them all to join hands “in solidarity with our brothers” as he led the group in a chorus of “Amazing Grace.”

Watching this, two other things struck me as odd on this already odd afternoon: First, there was the apparent absence of an imam—a robed official, a clear authority figure, as opposed to a media spokesman—from the mosque; and second, there was a lack of what would (politely) be called “Middle Eastern men between the ages of 18 and 26.” They were nowhere in sight. At least not yet.

On the one hand, I can’t blame the mosque for not rising to the demands of a fringe group of protesters. They have no obligation to heed every call for them to repudiate Osama bin Laden. But on the other hand, I can’t help but feel that if this had been a Jewish temple or a Catholic church, the rabbi or priest would have been out there leading the way on that terrace. They wouldn’t have let someone else do their bidding.

At 4:45 p.m., a white U-Haul pick-up truck appeared with an improvised gallows and a Halloween-masked effigy of Mr. bin Laden. Standing in the back was Ted Hayes, a dreadlocked black Republican, an advocate for the homeless and former leftist who now preaches the Bill Cosby gospel of personal responsibility. “My fellow believers in God—Muslims, Christians and Jews—we bring you the terrorist who hijacked Islam,” he said. “Bin Laden betrayed the people—my people, your people. Come join us.”

“Racist!” the taunts came back. “No more lynchings!” Mr. Hayes smiled at his detractors. “The Arab street taught us to do this. To burn the flags, to hang the criminals.” As he said this, a handful of young, bearded, Middle Eastern–looking men emerged from inside the mosque, onto the terrace, to watch.

And so bin Laden was hung; shoes were thrown; “The Star Spangled Banner” was sung. Some of the young men on the terrace laughed, and others glowered, as if what they were witnessing was both a joke and irrelevant.

As the demonstration broke up, an LAPD helicopter appeared overhead; the protestors moved on to a 7-Eleven parking lot across Washington Boulevard; two blond, middle-aged Joni Mitchell types stood on the mosque terrace, holding their palms out toward the protesters to “deflect the negative energy.” This is California, after all.

On the way back to my car, I passed a silver Chrysler minivan parked in an alleyway facing the mosque. Inside: two Culver City police officers, taking pictures with digital binoculars. Not of the protesters, but of the men on the terrace.

The blue-and-white-tiled building—with an imposing four-story minaret that resembles a USAF Delta missile—was built on Washington Boulevard in 1998 to accommodate 2,000 worshipers. It sits in the middle of a working-class neighborhood whose bungalows were once occupied by defense workers, but have become increasingly gentrified over the past decade. My dental hygienist lives there now and has flipped several houses, at great profit.

On Sunday, Sept. 10, as the local streets were marked by realtors’ pennants indicating houses for sale by people trying to catch the last wave of the turning market, the neighborhood was also the site of a peculiar community event.

Last month, a political group called the United American Committee (“Keeping America Safe, and Working for a Better Tomorrow,”) challenged the mosque to issue a fatwa repudiating Osama bin Laden and other terrorists by name. When the mosque refused, the committee decided to press the issue and commemorate 9/11 by hanging bin Laden in effigy outside.

At 4 p.m., there were slightly fewer than 100 protesters from the U.A.C. on the west side of Huron Street (the mosque is located at the corner of Huron and Washington,) carrying American flags and chanting, “Remember 9/11! Remember 9/11!” It was a predominantly white, middle-aged crowd—a few blacks, a couple of Hell’s Angels, a handful of college kids (protesting for women’s rights in Islamic countries) and a smattering of paramilitary types. Occasionally, the chant would change to “No more jihad!” or a communal singing of “God Bless America.”

On the east side of the street, directly in front of the mosque, there were two distinct groups: First, 70 or so racially mixed counter-protesters of both sexes, many of whom identified themselves as being with the International Socialist Organization—in other words, old lefties in spirit if not age. Through a bullhorn, this group taunted the American flag-carriers with counter-chants, alternating between “Racists go home!” and “You are Nazis—can’t you see? Muslims aren’t the enemy!” Their banner du jour declared “U.S./U.K./Israel—The Real Axis of Evil.”

And separated from this group—again, on the mosque side of the street—was a scrum of clergymen, primarily from the United Methodist Church of Southern California, giving interviews to the press.

Curiously, there were no police in sight: not a single cruiser blocking the street, no cops standing around just in case. The only protection (in the loosest sense of the word) seemed to be that both sides had dozens of video cameras and were intent on scanning every face in the crowd for use later on, if need be.

After 20 minutes, a silver-haired minister stepped into the street to confront the protesters. He was wearing a long white robe that revealed a pair of blue jeans sticking out above his sandaled feet. “We need understanding,” he pleaded. “We need to be able to talk to each other.” At which point, a fortysomething man in olive combat boots and a Mossad T-shirt (though not Jewish) got directly in his face: “You’re a dupe!” he said, all but snorting. “Do you think they’d let you preach in Mecca? Tell me: How many churches, how many temples, how many Methodists are there in Saudi Arabia?” Rather than answer directly, the Reverend just repeated himself. “We need to be able to talk to each other.”

Nearby, a spokesman for the mosque, Usman Madha, watched with an unreadable smile. “Osama is a criminal,” he said. “We have absolutely nothing to do with him. We were the first mosque to condemn 9/11 and kicked out a few people who didn’t agree with us.”

Maybe. Because what I've out here is some the some back story on the King Fahd mosque. According to The Washington Post, it was funded by the King of Saudi Arabia and his son, for $8 million, to promote Wahhabism. According to the 9/11 Commission Report, two of the hijackers—Nawaf al-Hazmi and Khalid Almihdhar—spent time there while in Southern California. The National Review links the mosque to Sgt. Asan Akbar, who threw grenades at his fellow U.S. soldiers in Iraq in 2003. And according to the Los Angeles Times, the mosque’s former imam, Fahad al Thumairy, was deported that same year for terrorism links.

As the protest continued, the ministers, along with the mosque spokesman, gathered on a terrace overlooking the street, where Pastor Rich Bolin of Culver Palms United Methodist Church asked them all to join hands “in solidarity with our brothers” as he led the group in a chorus of “Amazing Grace.”

Watching this, two other things struck me as odd on this already odd afternoon: First, there was the apparent absence of an imam—a robed official, a clear authority figure, as opposed to a media spokesman—from the mosque; and second, there was a lack of what would (politely) be called “Middle Eastern men between the ages of 18 and 26.” They were nowhere in sight. At least not yet.

On the one hand, I can’t blame the mosque for not rising to the demands of a fringe group of protesters. They have no obligation to heed every call for them to repudiate Osama bin Laden. But on the other hand, I can’t help but feel that if this had been a Jewish temple or a Catholic church, the rabbi or priest would have been out there leading the way on that terrace. They wouldn’t have let someone else do their bidding.

At 4:45 p.m., a white U-Haul pick-up truck appeared with an improvised gallows and a Halloween-masked effigy of Mr. bin Laden. Standing in the back was Ted Hayes, a dreadlocked black Republican, an advocate for the homeless and former leftist who now preaches the Bill Cosby gospel of personal responsibility. “My fellow believers in God—Muslims, Christians and Jews—we bring you the terrorist who hijacked Islam,” he said. “Bin Laden betrayed the people—my people, your people. Come join us.”

“Racist!” the taunts came back. “No more lynchings!” Mr. Hayes smiled at his detractors. “The Arab street taught us to do this. To burn the flags, to hang the criminals.” As he said this, a handful of young, bearded, Middle Eastern–looking men emerged from inside the mosque, onto the terrace, to watch.

And so bin Laden was hung; shoes were thrown; “The Star Spangled Banner” was sung. Some of the young men on the terrace laughed, and others glowered, as if what they were witnessing was both a joke and irrelevant.

As the demonstration broke up, an LAPD helicopter appeared overhead; the protestors moved on to a 7-Eleven parking lot across Washington Boulevard; two blond, middle-aged Joni Mitchell types stood on the mosque terrace, holding their palms out toward the protesters to “deflect the negative energy.” This is California, after all.

On the way back to my car, I passed a silver Chrysler minivan parked in an alleyway facing the mosque. Inside: two Culver City police officers, taking pictures with digital binoculars. Not of the protesters, but of the men on the terrace.

The sky is yellow; the wind is hot; a fine white ash from distant brushfires has begun falling—like summer snowflakes—on cars left outside to broil in the sun.

The power grid has been pushed to its limits; the city has issued a warning to keep the elderly, children and pets indoors. And the night brings no relief: only the flash of distant heat lightning, and the promise of rain that never comes.

On the far fringes of the AM radio dial—past the chatter about Hezbollah and Israel, past the stations broadcasting in Chinese, Korean, Spanish and Farsi—the airwaves reverberate with the talk of the End of Days.

“Praise God, the end is upon us,” a female radio host sings out in an Alabama-laced falsetto from a station in downtown L.A., citing scripture about the Israelites and Armageddon. “Make peace with your maker, accept his salvation. For the earth is on fire, and the apocalypse is here.”

Los Angeles is a city where it’s easy to feel disconnected from reality. We smile, beaming with encouragement, and tell each other that the script is great, the performances were wonderful, the movie is going to be a hit. We avoid the unpleasant truths. But beneath the palm trees and the bougainvillea, there’s an underlying anxiety that reaches right down to the bedrock. We hide it, we bury it, we cover it up. But the real fault line that threatens life in L.A. is rooted not in geology, but the terrain of the human psyche.

In this summer of unrelenting heat and unmoderated war—with Israel fighting as our proxy against Iran, and pink slips falling at talent agencies and movie studios—Hollywood feels more disconnected and anxious than ever.

We muse about the box office; we speculate about the effects of iPods, Mobisodes, MySpace and YouTube; we still blame Bush for every human misfortune and continue to laugh at the same old punch lines—“Cheney,” “Rumsfeld,” “Truthiness”—but the knowing smiles seem somewhat forced these days.

In murmurs and asides, we wince at John Kerry’s tin-eared assertion that the current crisis in the Middle East wouldn’t have happened “if I’d been elected President.” We’re annoyed, because we know that a leading man never makes those kinds of claims. Think Clint Eastwood. He shrugs, he squints: “The President’s doing the best he can. But I’ll be there when the time comes.”

We hold our tongues, in silence, for the things we don’t want to acknowledge or admit to these days: There is no plausible explanation—except for the worst one—for Mel Gibson’s outburst against the Jews. The shooting spree at the Jewish Federation offices in Seattle may well be a harbinger of worse things to come. The Islamic fundamentalists really do want to kill us, and no amount of dialogue or process or negotiation is going to appease them.

So yes, we cheer on Israel—but we do it privately, quietly countenancing things like the military censorship of the press that would have us rioting in the streets if the Bush administration tried the same thing in Iraq. We know there’s no such thing as a measured response when you’re fighting for survival, and asymmetrical war is dirty by definition. But from the phrase “You’ll never work in this town again” to the hiring of thuggish detectives in the normal course of business, Hollywood itself has never shied away from the disproportionate response.

At dinner parties in Bel Air, we ridicule the rubes calling for treason charges to be brought against The New York Times for revealing our financial intelligence operations; but later, as we stand in the street, in twos and threes, waiting for the valet to bring the car, we confess our worries that our security has been compromised. And that’s when we snicker at the editor of the Los Angeles Times for claiming that his paper has no agenda to get George Bush. We’ve been to film school. We understand subtext. And we know that those words belong in the mouth of a character who’s dissembling.

In this summer of angst in L.A., there’s no shortage of local causes for concern: With the consolidation of movie studios and Disney’s decision to cut back on film production, there will be less work for writers and actors; less need for agents and producers; fewer jobs for development executives—not to mention real-estate agents, Pilates instructors and car detailers. In our trickle-down economy, the faucet is about to be tightened.

Still, we drive out to the studios to pitch our projects and tell our beautiful stories—right after we reassure the executives that the villains won’t be Muslim or Al Qaeda. The Sean Hannitys of the world complain that this is due to a lack of patriotism in the movie industry, but they’re wrong: It’s about global consumerism, and the ownership of studios by multinational corporations. “I’m not going to take the hit for losing a single sale of any one of our products anywhere on this earth,” an executive declared recently, ticking off a list that could have included plasma TV’s in Pakistan, theme parks in Asia, cable rights in China or power plants in Dubai. “I’ve got a better idea,” he offered brightly. “Why don’t we make the bad guy an American?”

On the way home in the car, we chat on the cell phone about the waning influence of movie critics. We don’t actually read them any more; we go to rottentomatoes.com for a statistical overview. And as the phone disconnects, we begin to wonder whether movies—like music—have lost their role in driving American culture.

We know the 1960’s are over, and the days of movies like The Graduate or Easy Rider are gone. But there’s a larger, more inconvenient truth that we don’t want to discuss: Six months after we proclaimed that Brokeback Mountain would be the end of homophobia in America, gay marriage is on the verge of being outlawed. And for all the forests that were pulped to promote Al Gore’s film, less than four million people have seen it.

We tell ourselves movies still matter. And then quietly wonder if they don’t. Still, we tell ourselves it’s all going to be all right.

On the weekend, we wipe the ash off the car and drive out to a cocktail party in Malibu, where we muse about box office, avoiding the conversation about Hezbollah, the aggressor as victim and disproportionate response.

In the silence, we gaze out at the Pacific Ocean.

The sunsets are beautiful out here, aren’t they?