It looks like Iraqi officials may have captured Saddam Hussein and placed him under arrest. That's what the Associated Press is reporting, by way of IRNA, Iran's official news agency.

As that idiot with the dopey hat would say: "Developing . . . "

I can't help but wonder: Is this a good thing for the Rumsfeld-Wolfowitz administration? What will Saddam have to say about "weapons of mass destruction"? Watch for a gag order.

This directive request won’t apply to most readers, but I hope you will at least keep it in mind over the next several days, weeks, or months, as long as it takes: If you happen to drive by the Medical College of Pennsylvania Hospital in Philadelphia (owned by Tenet Healthcare Corp.) and you see striking nurses walking the picket line out front, honk in support, because, well, they would appreciate it, the whole thing is getting really ugly, which is not the nurses’ fault, and besides, it’s cold outside. And it’s almost Christmas.

We bloggers, who are viewed as either “blowhard[s], any old varmint[s], pipsqueak[s], [and] half-wits,”* or “freewheeling and full of attitude,” take our victories and accomplishments where we can.

With that in mind, I’m putting all authors on notice: I can make you or break you.

How so? Well, on Thursday I wrote favorably about three books -- The Speed of Light, The Meaning of Everything, and The Professor and the Madman -- and within two days at least one copy, and as many as five (!) copies, of each book was purchased from Amazon.com through links provided by Rittenhouse.

Pretty impressive, huh? Now just imagine how many copies were purchased through other means! It’s gotta’ be a whole lot, dontcha’ think?

So, yes, authors, I can make you or break you, if only at the rate of one copy of one book at a time.

Authors, editors, and publicists seeking my mailing address may click here.

(* Norah Vincent. Published after her failed foray into the blogosphere.)

[Note: Reports to me from Amazon.com reveal which items Rittenhouse readers have purchased through links from this site, but the identity of the buyers cannot in any way be determined.]

As I’m sure you already know, it’s awards season in the blogosphere. As noted here Friday, Mary Beth Williams and Dwight Meredith of Wampum are taking nominations for the most prestigious, coveted, and respected awards for those working in this medium: The Second Annual Koufax Awards.

Meanwhile, I learned, just tonight, of another batch of awards, The Wizbang Weblog Awards.

I’m not sure how seriously to take the Wizbang Awards. A casual visitor to the site might think the nominations fairly encompass the entire blogosphere, but they do not. In all categories the nominations skew heavily toward right wingers and self-styled anti-terrorism, pro-war-anywhere bloggers. At least the Koufax organization, which gives awards to liberal/left bloggers, is honest about its selectivity.

For example, Meryl Yourish is leading in the tally for Wizbang’s “best female[-]authored blog.” Yeah, right. And “Jane Galt,” who doesn’t know her “that” from her “which,” though I give her credit for trying, is in second place.

Not on the ballot in this category are such superior women bloggers as Brooke Biggs, Amy Carlton, Avedon Carol, Margaret Cho, Jeanne d’Arc, Gail Davis, Lisa English, Jane Finch, Jo Fish, Vanessa Gatsch, “Interesting Monstah” Laura, Madeleine Kane, Pam Mack, Susan Madrak, Major Barbara, Ginger Mayerson, Jeralyn Merritt, Diana Moon, Teresa Nielsen Hayden, Kim Osterwalder, Diane Patterson, Janet Petrik, Elayne Riggs, “Sisyphus Shrugged” Julia, Natalie Solent, Maru Soze, Mary Beth Williams, Anne Zook, and the women behind Byzantium Shores, Jar of Pencils, Pacific Views, Sasha Undercover, The Mahablog, and World O’ Crap, to name just a few on a list that could go on and on and on . . . (To be fair, a few of these women were nominated for awards in other categories.)

And what passes for humor on the other side, i.e. the right wing, is incredible, though I was relieved to see the entirely unfunny James Lileks, despite his right-wing, pro-war, but-nothing-is-going-to-happen-in-Minnesota-let-alone-my-nearest-Target-store-anyway bona fides wasn’t included in this group. (And no, neither InstaLinker nor Andrew Sullivan were nominated in this category. Actually, Anger Management, which received a nomination but is lagging in the voting, is a good site. But he links to “Little Green Snotballs” and you know what that’s all about.)

Anyway, despite the right-wing bias, The Rittenhouse Review was nominated for best weblog in the category, “Best Playful Primates Ecosystem[-]Level Blog,” a category that stems from this site’s ranking -- #50! In the world! (I guess.) -- in the Truth Laid Bear’s Blogosphere Ecosystem.

If you think The Rittenhouse Review is worthy of the honor and is better than its competitors in the polling, which include -- Yikes! Stiff competition! -- such admirable sites as Alas a Blog, Body and Soul, Mark Kleiman, MaxSpeak, Nathan Newman, Orcinus, and Pandagon, to whom I would any day happily transfer votes for Rittenhouse, please stop by Wizbang and cast your vote in the Playful Primates category.

Do it now, though, because voting ends today at 5:00 p.m. (Eastern Time).

Several readers have asked for additional details and/or required clarification about the mugging that I discussed here on Monday.

First, and this will mean little to those who do not live in Philadelphia, it occurred near the intersection of Broad and Spruce Streets. (I may have told an e-mailer Broad and Locust, but that was not correct.) This is not an unsafe area, but it can be rather desolate late at night.

The robbery occurred on Sunday night, not Monday night, at about 11:15 p.m.

I was not stabbed. The “painful gash on my left palm” that I mentioned resulted from my using my hands to break the fall after the mugger pushed me to the ground. My palms hit a patch of ice, leaving a deep and nasty abrasion on my left palm and a small scratch on my right.

I felt okay about it all on Sunday night, but beginning Monday afternoon I started getting skittish about the whole thing. I didn’t see the perpetrator’s face but I know he has a beard because I could feel it on the back of my neck while he was going through my pockets. (Yuck. Scrubbed that off real good!) I could feel his beard again, and that, obviously, was creepy.

Fortunately, I guess, he got me when I was heading to an ATM machine and not after I had withdrawn cash, so I didn’t lose too much. And in a welcome display of karma (I think it’s karma) a reader who saw my Monday write-up subsequently hit the tip box with the exact same amount of money I had in my wallet at the time.

And Ginger Mayerson of The Hackenblog, in an incredibly thoughtful gesture, arranged for Così to send me a gift package to help replace the buy-ten-get-one-free card I lost in the incident. Bloggers really are among your better classes of people.

(Oh, I forgot to mention earlier that the wallet itself was a big loss. It was a snappy Prada number that I got as a gift several years ago. Idiot probably sold it for two bucks.)

In a way, I was almost overdue for this. I’ve been living in large cities since 1986 and I’ve never been robbed or even bothered on the street.

So, rest assured, I’m fine. My left hand is still bandaged, but I’m fine. And I still love Philadelphia.

POLITICAL NOTES: You would think asking James A. Baker to sever certain business connections -- “Baker is senior counselor to the Carlyle Group, a global investment company that has done business with the Saudi royal family. He is also a partner in Baker Botts, a Houston law firm whose client list includes Halliburton” (New York Times, December 12) -- would be a no-brainer, wouldn’t you? More evidence of the Age of Unseriousness. . . . Paul Krugman on the unbearably obnoxious and gratuitously offensive Undersecretary of Defense Paul Wolfowitz: “Mr. Wolfowitz’s official rationale for the contract policy is astonishingly cynical: ‘Limiting competition for prime contracts will encourage the expansion of international cooperation in Iraq and in future efforts’ -- future efforts? -- and ‘should encourage the continued cooperation of coalition members.’ Translation: we can bribe other nations to send troops.” . . . Gen. Wesley Clark: A “quick study.” . . . Deepak Choprah, Ricky Martin, Betty Williams, et al., “peace cells,” “gift accounts”: It could work. . . . Quote of the Day: World O’ Crap on Ollie North: “I guess an article using one ‘F-word’ can be considered ‘profanity-laced,’ but only by someone whose background is felony-laced.”

MISCELLANY: So, Rush, what was that you were saying about Philadelphia Eagles quarterback Donovan McNabb? . . . Can the Metropolitan Opera find a replacement sponsor for its Sunday afternoon live radio broadcasts, now that ChevronTexaco Corp. has pulled out, the $7 million tab apparently being too much for the company to bear? (The Annenberg Foundation already has pledged $3.5 million.) ChevronTexaco’s profits year-to-date: $5.5 billion. . . . Enough already with Jack Nicholson. Pull quote: “‘I don’t know the name of a club in Los Angeles, never mind have I been to one,’ said Nicholson, 66, who claims to be a homebody these days, spending nights alone or with friends.” [Emphasis added.] Now, is that such a remarkable statement or is it pretty much to be expected of someone who is approaching 70 years of age? . . . If these are “retro” toys, I’d hate to hear what they would call the playthings of my childhood. . . . Today is the Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe, Patroness of the Americas. Say the Rosary in Spanish. (It’s Friday, so use the Sorrowful Mysteries.) . . . No link for this one, just a slice of my life: Let me tell you something, when a 60-pound bulldog doesn’t want to go somewhere, she doesn’t go there.

THE 2003 KOUFAX AWARDS: Mary Beth Williams and Dwight Meredith of Wampum are collecting nominations for the 2003 Koufax Awards. This is the second year for the awards, which represent the highest honor on the liberal/left side of the blogosphere. Stop by Wampum and submit your own nominations in the comments section or by sending an e-mail to either Williams or Meredith.

A READER WRITES: “You’re just as good as Sully [Andrew Sullivan] and he seems to be living the high life with his ‘pledge drives,’ so why don’t you become a full time blogger and get paid for it? You have the writing skills and passion for the issues. Go for it man!” What do you mean, “just as good”?

NUTTY RIGHT-WING BLOGGERS (Again): Go read this.

[Note: Items may be added to “Political Notes” after initial publication.]

Yes, I know, I missed “Tina Brown Thursday” again.

But, come on, just look at the headline on Tina Brown’s weekly Washington Post column: “Paris Hilton, in an Age Beyond Embarrassment.”

Too easy.

POLITICAL NOTES: Gee whiz, even Richard Nixon thought Ronald Reagan was “strange.” And more: Nixon found Reagan not “pleasant to be around,” “an uncomfortable man to be around,” and “not one that wears well,” adding “on a personal basis [Reagan] is terrible.” The quotes come from newly released White House tapes. No surprise: Nixon aide H.R. Haldeman is there agreeing with every word Nixon says. . . . The Washington Post reports today that the CIA is going to create an Iraqi intelligence agency. Down how many roads already traveled, and with disastrous results, does the Bush administration intend to take this country? . . . Message to “Old” Europe: Forgive them their debts but step aside while we take all the good stuff. . . . One of these days maybe a reporter, an editorialist, a columnist, or even a politician will make the fairly obvious observation that “the problem” with the Democratic presidential debates isn’t that there are too many candidates, it’s that the questions are so stupid. . . . Meanwhile, George F. Will may not have copies of the president’s pre-debate briefing books -- yet -- so for now he’ll just play third-base coach, at least until Karl Rove calls. . . . David S. Broder, known respectfully, I think, as “Dean Broder,” is just so confused. “Al Gore’s decision to intervene early -- and especially his call on Howard Dean’s rivals to ‘close ranks’ behind the governor -- is one of the more eccentric developments in modern political history.” Really? “Eccentric”? Ranking right up there, one supposes, with the presidential aspirations of H. Ross Perot and Lyndon LaRouche, George H.W. Bush’s selection of former Sen. Dan Quayle as his running mate, the Republican Senate whip’s cries of “Bring Out Our Nearly Dead” preceding roll call votes so former Sen. Strom Thurmond could be wheeled in to the chamber, Nancy Reagan’s repeated consultations with astrologers, etc., etc., ad nauseum.

MISCELLANY: It looks like Campbell Soup Co. heiress Mrs. Samuel M.V. (Mary Louise Dorrance Hill) Hamilton, known affectionately, I think, as “DoDo,” might be in some trouble arising from her investment in The Moshulu, a restaurant on a ship docked in Philadelphia at Pier 34 when that same pier collapsed into the Delaware River in May 2000, killing three people . . . Enough already with Hugh Heffner. Who cares what he does, says, or thinks? . . . QVC’s favorite designer, Diane von Furstenberg, can’t imagine a woman heading Gucci. What does she know? She’s married to Barry Diller. . . Hey, Pledge Week, what a great idea!

BOOK NOTES: I just finished reading two books that I highly recommend. First, The Speed of Dark by Elizabeth Moon (mentioned here November 26, though that was after I had completed the first four chapters), an extraordinary novel that takes you into the mind of an exceptional autistic man, his search for identity, self-respect, dignity, love, and a possible cure. . . . Second, The Meaning of Everything, by Simon Winchester (a gift from a generous reader), a history of the making of the Oxford English Dictionary, which is far more interesting than it sounds, and written in prose clear and precise enough to keep you firmly within its grasp, but interspersed with enough unfamiliar words to make you long for your own copy of the OED, or at least teach you a thing or two. Winchester, author of the also excellent (and related) book, The Professor and the Madman, redeemed himself with The Meaning of Everything, squashing painful memories of his just plain awful Krakatoa.

They used to say a neonconservative is a liberal who has been mugged by reality.

Last night I was mugged. Mugged by reality in the form of a mugger.

There’s not much to say really, it all happened so fast. A man grabbed me from behind, extending his left arm across my chest. “I want your wallet,” he said, or something like that, I can’t remember exactly, and then he went for my back right-hand pocket, which is where my wallet normally is, but it wasn’t last night. Then he reached into the right-hand pocket of my coat, which isn’t where my wallet usually is, but it was last night. And then he knocked me to the ground and ran off.

And that was it.

An ugly and painful gash on my left palm and some cash and easily replaceable ATM and library cards gone, along with my buy-ten-sandwiches-or-salads-get-the-next-one-free card from Cosí, just recently stamped for the tenth time.

The biggest annoyance: losing my driver’s license. It was my New York driver’s license and it expired a few months ago. One can replace an expired out-of-state license with a Pennsylvania license with little hassle as long as the expiration date is within the past six months. Now, however, unless I can get a replacement from New York, which is unlikely since I no longer live there, I’ll probably have to start from scratch. I knew I should have taken care of this a long time ago.

Do you remember that incident, relayed in David Brock’s Blinded By The Right and reported elsewhere, about Laura Ingraham and a certain Georgetown townhouse and the mail slot and the garden hose and the water and, most important, the water sent spewing through the garden hose through the mail slot into the townhouse?

Well, I’m not one to brag about being in on it all or anything, because I rarely am, but I recently received independent confirmation of the identity of the offending party and her victim by not one, not two, but now three different individuals, none of whom knows the other.

Furthermore, I now feel confident in saying not only that, yes, the nasty episode really occurred, but that I know to whom the townhouse, the mail slot, the garden hose, and even the water belonged.

I don’t know what reminded me of this particular remark today, but several months ago I was having lunch with a friend during which I made an offhand, but apparently interesting (to her), comment I no longer can recall.

And while I don’t remember what I said, I remember, and probably always will, her response: “You notice everything,” she said. “You see everything.”

No one had ever said that to me before, or anything like it, and I was taken aback.

Her remarks have stayed with me.

Mulling her aspirations in hindsight I see now, in the midst of organizing my things in preparation for what I dread will be an inevitable move out of Philadelphia and into the middle of nowhere, that I have notes, notebooks, jottings, and unfinished projects -- and a year plus of two different weblogs -- that indicate my friend wasn’t merely “close” in her observation, she was dead on.

I do notice, I realized, if not everything, at least a lot, and probably much more than the “average” person, I think.

Is this the inevitable fate of the introvert? The unavoidable destiny of the usually quiet guy who stands back . . . observing? Or is it something more?

Should I pursue this strange thing, one I’m hesitant to call a gift, assuming it even exists? Shall I follow the safe, secure path, or the take-a-chance route? Should I just get a job as a waiter or a car salesman or apply for one of those jobs at Home Depot, about the only positions for which I feel even remotely qualified lately?

Now and then I look back on my life so far and after doing so I think that every time I’ve had to make a big decision I’ve made the wrong one. So I suppose I should sit down and write out and then weigh all of the positives and negatives of each option before me and, when I’ve reached my decision, write that decision down.

And then do the exact opposite.

Have you ever wondered what might be the easiest job in the world?

For a long time I thought being a psychotherapist was the easiest job in the world. Lord knows I’ve bored -- and fooled -- enough of them in my day. You sit, you listen to some loser (or some neurotic, insecure overachiever) drone on for 45 or 50 minutes, maybe take a few notes, though that’s completely optional, and then when time’s up, well, just say so. And you’re done, at least with that loser (or neurotic overachiever).

These people don’t even have to check their watches. They smugly pretend the client doesn’t know there’s a clock over his right shoulder, a delusion we just really have to explore in depth at some point, but, like I said, with much empathy, “Our time is up for this week.”

Then I decided the easiest job in the world is drugstore pharmacist.

Notwithstanding the white coat -- you know, a stethoscope around the neck would be a nice and equally unnecessary, touch -- it seemed they did little besides punching something into a terminal, counting pills, typing labels, and taping said labels onto little amber-colored plastic bottles.

Later I noticed the stores began employing “pharmacy assistants,” a group of well meaning people who appeared to have, as their paying assignment, fetching bottles of pills for the pharmacist, typing and affixing the labels, and sometimes even counting out the dosage, which would then be confirmed by the white-coat-wearing pharmacist, leaving the pharmacist to . . . give me a second . . . oh, punch something into the terminal.

Hmm, I thought, this easy job is getting even easier.

Then the drugstores began installing pill-counting machines, a development I would have thought, with the addition of a little bar-coding here and there, would have wiped both professions off the map. And yet . . . no.

(An aside: Can no one in the pharmaceutical and drugstore businesses, to say nothing of the ancillary industries of information technology and machine-automation, devise a more efficient method for sorting filled prescriptions than the current system, which I would summarize as: “just throw all the little white matching bags with minute type printed on small stickers into a bunch of bins and hope for the best”?)

By the way, what the hell do they study for, what is it, five or six years, in pharmacy school? Seems kind of excessive to me. Wouldn’t some kind of, I don’t know, certificate program serve us all just as well? And, yeah, I know all about the laws of supply and demand, but $90,000 a year for pill counters? (Or, more accurately, terminal punchers.) My doctor, at least when he’s in a good or generous mood, does virtually the same thing for me . . . for free.

Anyway, then, all of a sudden, I found myself with a lot more free time on my hands, time that allowed me to read sections of the newspapers that I normally skipped. The comics, for example, which, when you consider the garbage that fills those pages each day, takes very little time. And also “Dear Abby” and “Ann Landers,” neither of which, I’m sure you know, is produced by either Abby or Ann, what with the twins being dead and all, not that the features ever were edited by “Abby” or “Ann,” since those were fake names from the get go.

Now this is an easy job, I thought. Sort through a bunch of mail -- or sort through a bunch of mail that has been reviewed previously by a group of paid assistants, or just make the letters up, because I remember either Abby or Ann did that, or maybe both -- decide which letters to print, come up with a wise or wise-ass response, and pass the pile along to an editor.

That’s somebody’s job?

Okay, I’ll admit, sometimes either Abby or Ann or whoever it is that’s running those shows these days touches a nerve. A letter to “Dear Abby,” published on Friday, certainly hit home with me:

Dear Abby: I have a son who is 33. He has four children and lives in another state. About a year ago, he asked me to co-sign on a house loan. I refused. Now he won’t speak to me. He didn’t even attend his grandmother’s funeral. I don’t know how to bridge this gap between us except by signing the note. I really can’t afford it, but I miss my son and grandchildren. -- Hurting in Ohio

Dear Hurting: Under no circumstances should you give in to your son’s emotional blackmail, particularly since you cannot afford it. Continue to send your grandchildren birthday and holiday greetings, and let’s hope your son grows up before they do.

Co-signing mortgages? No, I don’t know anything about that. Emotional blackmail? Oh yeah, that I know.

Ah, but then there’s “Heloise.”

The latest from Heloise that I saw was published in the Philadelphia Daily News on Thursday, under the headline “Children’s Tapes Become Keepsakes”:

Alicia of Omaha, Neb., writes to tell Heloise how pleased she was to receive letters and tapes her mother (Alicia’s mother, not Heloise’s mother) had stowed away for years after the fact.

Jan, apparently “of no fixed address,” as they say, advised readers paying credit-card bills not to write the full account number on their checks but only the last four digits. (Listen up, Heloise, and you too, Jan: I don’t write anything like that on my checks. I figure it’s just another example of companies asking their customers to do their employees’ jobs. And so I refuse. You want my account number on my check? Pick up a pen and write it down yourself after you’ve received my payment.)

Patty Reitz of Houston, who really, really doesn’t like to get her hands dirty or sticky or anything, offers a valuable manicure-saving tip on packing lunches for the kids.

And Carolyn Seibert of Orange, Texas, tells us that when making microwave pecan brittle (Yes, there is such a thing, and Carolyn discovered it all by herself! The pecan part anyway.), it’s okay to use dark corn syrup instead of light corn syrup.

Heloise published all four letters without comment.

And that, my friends, is the easiest job in the world.

People who obsess about the food they eat are irritating. People who obsess about the food others eat are contemptible.

With those observations in mind, I’m trying to decide who’s more annoying: the “Fat! Fat! Oh my God, do you know how much fat is in that? There must be at least 12 grams of fat in there!” people of the `90s or the “Carbs! Carbs! Oh my God, do you know how many carbs are in that? There must be at least 30 grams of carbs in there!” people of the `00s.

It’s a close call, but I think the anti-carbohydrate freaks are winning. (I like saying the full word -- carbohydrates -- around these types. They get visibly antsy and disdainful, realizing they’re in the company of one who is not “a true believer.”)

About six or seven years ago, when this craze was a mere fad, I worked with a woman who, I swear, counted the number of grapes and peanuts she included in her lunch. Little did I know what we were in for.

On a related note, let me add the sidewalks in many parts of Philadelphia are narrow, this being an old city and all, and are made even more narrow, or more narrowly passable, when large portions are covered with ice, as they are on this 25-degree morning.

If you and your friends want to jog -- excuse me, go running -- on these narrow sidewalks under such conditions, and insist upon doing so three abreast, I feel pretty confident I’m not the one who is obligated to yield the right of way. (And to the joggers from this morning, don’t worry, my arm doesn’t hurt too much, thanks for asking. Oh, wait, you didn’t ask. Never mind.)

That’s all. Tipping the scales at a healthy 132 pounds (BMI=19.5) today, I’m signing off with the message, “Moderation in everything.”

[Note: This post was published earlier today at TRR: The Lighter Side of Rittenhouse.]

I know I’ve been mentioning the site quite a bit lately, but I can’t help it, I’m just a big fan of World O’ Crap.

Besides, as best I can tell she hasn’t posted any contact information at her blog, so I can’t send the proprietor the kind of mash notes I’d like to.

I have to do all of this out in the open, which, considering I’ve already been exposed as an “oversexed whore[] who enjoy[s] the bedtime company of pigs,” -- as if that were an insult and not the story of my life, one I’ll tell you after my blessed mother passes on -- isn’t really such a big deal.

Anyway, to be filed under “great minds think alike,” let’s add another.

Today WOC posts a piece about Paul Harvey with the heading, “We Thought He Was Dead,” which is really cool because last year I made passing mention of Harvey as follows: “Paul Harvey is still living. He really is. I just heard him on the radio at the corner bodega. I had no idea.”

I swear we’re not the same person, nor were we separated at birth, nor were we separated at surgery, but if the woman behind WOC ever finds herself in Philadelphia, and that like never happens, dinner’s on me.

While reading the papers’ weekend supplements yesterday I encountered two movies I’ll miss. Miss as in, “I won’t see them,” not miss as in, “It’s a shame they’re gone,” namely “The Last Samurai” and “Angels in America.”

I’ll miss “The Last Samurai” in large part because, as I’ve said before, I don’t enjoy seeing films in theaters. In fact, I’ve seen only one movie in a movie theater in the past four years. But that’s my neurosis.

Regardless, I even doubt I’ll catch “The Last Samurai” when it hits the video stores. First, I’m not a fan of Tom Cruise. Second, the whole project kind of gives me the creeps. And third, I happened to read Stephen Hunter’s review in the Washington Post yesterday.

If my own neuroses and instincts weren’t enough, Hunter’s piece, “Dances With Swords,” easily the most intelligent review of the film I’ve seen yet and one that makes me pine for the words of the late Pauline Kael, will steer me clear in perpetuity.

I’ll also miss “Angels in America,” set to appear on HBO. That’s in large part because, as I’ve said here in the past, I don’t get cable TV. (“Echo,” anyone?)

I missed the show on Broadway, missed as in, “I didn’t see it and didn’t try to see it,” though I should add that I’ve missed pretty much everything that’s been on Broadway during my adult life and, to be honest, I feel I’m no less a person because of it. (After all, this is a business that as of late is pinning its hopes yet again on the likes of Matthew Broderick and Nathan Lane. Need I say more?)

I recall only too well the brouhaha surrounding the initial Broadway run of “Angels in America.” I cringe when I think about it. No, I’m not having an Andrew Sullivan moment, getting all set to spew the usual McCarthyisms, including McCarthyisms, or reverse McCarthyisms, about McCarthy.

Rather, it’s because I remember someone, and I forget who it was -- and I’m afraid to Google it because I’m worried it might turn out to have been a completely odious figure like Hilton Kramer -- warned at the time to steer clear of films and plays that the most enthusiastic of reviewers and fans insist upon abbreviating into a single-word appellation.

“Angels in America,” which was then, is still, and apparently forever will be referred to as, simply, “Angels,” as in, “Have you seen ‘Angels’ yet?”, is a prime and enduring example of this strange quirk.

Even if Kramer said it I think it’s a good rule of thumb, ranking right up there with my rule about “chick flicks,” issued last June upon the release of “Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood”:

No matter how tempting the film may appear, never pay to see a movie that is promoted with trailers that include a scene of three or more women sharing a bonding moment in their underwear. (See also “Practical Magic.”)

Then there’s Meryl Streep, a fine actress and all, but one who, from a p.r. perspective, really shouldn’t be allowed to speak when off set or off stage. Besides, as you may have heard, the thing runs for six hours. Six hours? There aren’t many things that can keep my attention for six hours, and I’m not ashamed to say that a Broadway show adapted to cable TV is unlikely to be one of them.

Anyway, here’s a nonsensical quote from Streep I picked up in yesterday’s Philadelphia Daily News that confirms my apprehension about the whole pretentious-actress/six-hours thing:

I think you should watch three hours, and then watch three hours. Now that they write things on the bottom of your television screen, for all the people that are just surfing through and they see one episode, maybe you should have, like on a fax, “Page 3 of 6,” so that you know you’re on 3 of 6. So you know you’ve got to go back and watch 1 and 2, and you know you’ve got 4, 5 and 6 ahead of you.

You just know when Streep threw out that unscripted line that the flack in the room got all fidgety and started coughing and tapping her foot and crossing her arms and leaning forward and tilting her head to one side, trying to catch the reporter’s eye, and then finally interrupted with a really smooth and casual line like, “Meryl, did you want something from the buffet?”

Oh, and if all that weren’t enough, I have just two more words: Emma Thompson.