Kim Jong Il is dead but we're sure he approves of the message. (Getty Images)

Twitter users were briefly enthralled Sunday night when North Korea issued a notice that they would be making a special statement. As the world waited without sparing a thought as to why the D.P.R.K. might be so inconsiderate of the western news cycle, speculation was rampant: would the new administration announce a nuclear test? Another rocket launch? Perhaps a threat against South Korea or even more shocking, a threat against South Korea? It was, in the end, the latter:

The special actions of our revolutionary armed forces will start soon to meet the reckless challenge of the group of traitors.

Those actions are an eruption of the public anger and resentment and a sacred war of all service personnel and people to protect the dignity of our supreme leadership.

Their targets are the [South Korean president] Lee Myung Bak group of traitors, the arch criminals, and the group of rat-like elements including conservative media destroying the mainstay of the fair public opinion.

The statement warned that once "special actions" took place they would "reduce all the rat-like groups and the bases for provocations to ashes in three or four minutes."

The statement concluded by warning that North Korea does not bother with "empty talk."

While North Korea has been issuing blustery commentary for decades now, Voice of America journalist Steve Herman seemed to feel this could be more than another idle threat, tweeting that the government broke into regular TV programming for the announcement. "This is not one of those "routine" nasty threats from Pyongyang it seems," wrote Mr. Herman.

Mr. Herman is an experienced reporter and knows the region well but it is still worth noting the North Korean government issued this statement "news article," which has similar but perhaps less overtly threatening language, just 3 days ago.

Colin Powell proposed two links between Iraq and Al Qaeda in his speech to the U.N.: Abu Mussab al-Zarqawi, a chemical and biological warfare adept, wounded in Afghanistan, who sought refuge in Iraq, and Ansar al Islam, a fundamentalist terrorist group that is attacking the Kurds in their Northern Iraq safe haven. Mr. Powell's presentation implies a missing step: Iraq is separated from Afghanistan, Al Qaeda's former base, by hundreds of miles of Iranian territory. If Mr. al-Zarqawi got to Iraq, and if Al Qaeda personnel came to assist Ansar al Islam, they must have done so with Iranian connivance.

When President Bush first described the "axis of evil," it had two countries whose names begin with I-R-A-. In dealing with one, we should not overlook the other. Iranian politics is a strange three-way tug of war. The two smallest parties make up the clerical elite, who have seen their will written into law for over 20 years. They are divided between stand-patters and cosmetic reformers. The largest mass is the bulk of the Iranian public, fed up with their monochrome paradise of insincere prayer and niggling regulation. When student demonstrators are being beaten and free-ish newspapers are being suppressed, the mass has no means of expression. Iran could be a great gain-there for the taking, without military effort.

As early as Sept. 11, 2001, everyone noticed that 15 of the 19 mass murderers were Saudi citizens. The months since have seen a dismaying pattern of Saudi evasion about the sources of anti-American terror in their country and the effectiveness of their measures for dealing with it. The Saudis make the French look like Tony Blair. Finally, the Saudis have decided to face the contradictions of their situation, even if the United States has not. The New York Times reports that the Saudi royal family has decided on a three-point program of change: asking American troops to leave the country; curbing the radical clergy; and introducing some democratic reforms.

The first step is all to the good. Our bases in Saudi Arabia have brought us nothing but frustration. During the first Gulf War, they were a means by which we protected a country that was unable to protect itself. In the run-up to the second Gulf War, they became a bone of contention: Would we be able to use our own bases to protect ourselves against Saddam Hussein's long-term plans for us? No alliance lasts forever. Saudi Arabia is even becoming less important as it steadily loses its central position in the world oil market to new producers in West Africa and the former Soviet Union. Come let us kiss and part, before any more of your aggrieved losers try to blow us up.

I will not hold my breath for democratic reforms and curbing the clergy. Why would a ruling caste seek to marginalize itself, and how can this ruling caste rein in the fanatics who have been their prop and stay since the beginning of the dynasty? But now let it be their problem.

A continent away sits North Korea, readying itself to turn out atom bombs like baked goods for a church social. Here again, disengagement looks like a good preliminary move. For decades, the United States has maintained a garrison of troops in South Korea as a down payment on defending it from any renewed attack from the north. All the regional powers-South Korea, Japan, China and Russia-have come to rely on America as the check on North Korean craziness.

But now if we have to take out North Korean nukes, we don't want symbolic ground troops within easy reprisal range. We should bring our troops home, to give ourselves maximum freedom of action. Such a move would also encourage North Korea's neighbors to take it more seriously. In the long run, South Korea and Japan might feel compelled to arm themselves. Rather than see that, China might take a role in controlling the Hermit Kingdom.

All these alarms are taking place on the edges of consciousness-at the ends of the earth, or behind the glass screen of the television. Meanwhile, we live our lives, watching Michael Jordan, buying clothes or drinking coffee. The disjunction between the daily round and the rumors of apocalypse causes a problem here at home, in our own minds. The beginning of World War II-the period of seeming calm between the fall of Poland and the invasion of France-was called the "Phony War." If we are living in a Phony War now, are we then phony?

A related problem is the aestheticization of life, and of death. Death is final and direct; when it is violent, it is vivid as well. But so much of ordinary life as we know it is pointless, undirected, frivolous. Richer than Croesus, we spend our money on hamburgers. Blessed with more leisure than any class in history, excepting absolute rulers, we listen to the radio. If people ignore ugliness, waste time, and lay up treasures where moths and rust corrupt, then why do they deserve to live? The soldiers who are fighting are certainly better than we are. Perhaps the enemies who would kill them and us are better, too.

The anxious, censorious voice comes from fear of freedom. The minute we take our eyes off the task at hand, the spectacle of everyone else engaged in their own tasks looks like witlessness and confusion. Dare we enjoy it? Dare we act in the defense of such folly? The poet, the philosopher and the scientist-freedom's ancient rivals whenever they are given an inch-are too ready to say, "Stop doing all the crap you're doing; do what I say instead."

I have only two thoughts for the anxiety. First, do your task; when you can, make sure it is worth doing. This is possible; after all, it's a free country. Second, don't worry about the brave men and women on the front lines. The front lines now are everywhere. New Yorkers don't need Tom Ridge's color-coding to tell us that. If the moment comes, we will do our best.

I was at my gym on the cross trainer a few weeks ago when I came across a World Cup game on the mini TV: Portugal vs. South Korea. I was about to switch channels when the camera zoomed in on the faces of a bunch of men from the Portuguese team trotting onto the field. I was brought up short at the sight of them and then turned my attention to the big 30-inch bolted to the wall for confirmation.

It was true. The players were beyond stunning. I noted their chiseled faces, striking eyes and exquisite bodies with awe. "What is this?" I asked myself, wondering if I had stumbled upon some genetically manufactured sports franchise. It was as if God had amassed the best aesthetic attributes he had created since the dawn of time, shouted "Here!" and hefted them all onto one soccer team. The players, impossibly sinewy and cut, ran tirelessly about the field-hair tousling, legs pumping, looking gorgeous and camera-ready all the while.

I saw the game in its entirety. That was how I began, early mornings, to watch World Cup games while I exercised. It didn't take me long to discover that most of the players for the other teams also had inordinately good looks.

In the midst of leg curls one morning, watching David Beckham score another goal, I got an idea. What better place to meet an athletic foreign guy than by watching a World Cup game at the local bar? It always seemed that it was foreigners who were attracted to the game. This was a plus, since I'd grown weary of American men my age-in their 30's-most of whom seemed to be undergoing some twisted, premature midlife crisis and were henceforth fixated on screwing 21-year-olds.

When I got home, I called my friend Paul, who'd been watching the games at a bar in the East Village. We arranged to meet at 7:00 the following morning to watch Spain vs. Ireland. I went to bed pleased that night, imagining the man I hoped to meet in mere hours: dark-haired , 6-foot-1, multilingual, built both in body and intellect.

When I arrived at our meeting spot, Paul and his two friends, a young Spanish couple, were already there, swaying on the corner like drunk bobblehead dolls. While I had slept, showered and had ample time to coordinate my outfit-sexy yet casual in a punk, I-don't-mind-shots-of-Jack-before-8-a.m. sort of way-Paul and friends hadn't gone to bed, having watched the Sweden vs. Senegal game at 2:30 that morning.

At the bar, there was a doorman and a small group standing out front, which meant we had to wait until some people left. Was my man inside conversing in Spanish and French with his pals, sipping Guinness, I wondered? The city was just rising and the neighborhood still felt serene. A bakery truck idled across the street making morning deliveries, and a young Mexican guy sleepily hosed down the sidewalk in front of a deli.

Twenty minutes later, the bar's door shot open and a group of people scuttled out like cockroaches, running drunkenly in all directions, shouting and yelping and slapping their hands to their eyes like Lot's children in response to the nuclear-bright sunlight. We went in. The place was crowded like the D.M.V. on a Thursday afternoon, but it was electric. There were foreign men, to be sure-brogues and Castillian Spanish abounded-but all eyes were glued to the game. Worse, people weren't making eye contact; the only homage being paid was to the blue TV gods scattered across the room.

What I had forgotten about the World Cup was what a high-stakes game it is. A losing team can find its country plundered overnight, its populace driven to the brink of senility, while winning teams can fly home to find an entirely new civilization has been erected while they've been in transit: young virgins shipped in from all corners of the world, and the dirt roads now streets paved with gold. It didn't take me long to figure out that even if I'd come nude, in red sequined stilettos, not only would I be ignored, someone would probably tell me to move because my head was blocking the screen.

More than 15 minutes into the game, I still hadn't spotted anyone who looked even remotely close to the studly steed I was hunting for. Most men in the place-not unlike your standard bar scene-were either blind drunk or had their arms draped around their girlfriends. My claustrophobia mounting, I decided to cut my losses and head home to watch the game when Paul stuck another pint in my face.

At half-time the buffaloes stampeded the bar, so Paul and our crew made our way to a safe corner. I was enjoying my first unencumbered view of the game when a guy I'd noticed earlier, handsome though still not quite of the caliber I'd had in mind (think David Blaine, without the mouth-breathing, methadone-withdrawal stare), wandered past. Feeling a bit bold after a shot of tequila, I asked if he was Spanish. "Puerto Rican," he said in a New York drawl, smiling. This might be interesting, I thought, as he came closer.

"You looking for some?" he whispered in my ear, and I raised my eyebrows, thinking that with another shot, I might ponder dropping a few of my requirements. " You looking for some?" I slurred, smiling coquettishly, as he took his hand out of his pocket and half-opened it between us to reveal a cluster of pills. "Viagras," he winked. "Great for after you've been up all night watching the Cup, but aren't quite ready to go to bed. For men and women," he added, winking again-twice this time, for extra effect.

I stared at him with disbelief. Viagra? Sure, I had come here to get my blood flow going, but not like that. I turned around, swerved back to Paul and told him I was going home to watch the last half of the game by myself.

Everyone knows that unless you're criminally insane or insanely drunk, bars have always been horrible places to meet men-but now I've learned it gets worse if your potential mate is distracted by the fact that the reputation of his mother country is on the line. My initial, whimsical fantasy of stumbling upon a few doppelgängers for the Portuguese team proved a bit misguided. But even if I had met a stunner, chances are he would've been useless, having blown his wad thanks to the teeth-gnashing, boozing, stomach-churning spectacle that goes hand-in-hand with watching the match. Which, I guess, ultimately makes me the winner.