ROOKIE MISTAKES

I have yet to see Casino Royale, the new James Bond flick that chronicles 007's first mission. Much has been made about the how-Bond-became-Bond angle, yet I'm more interested in seeing what sort of rookie mistakes he makes.

For instance, does the traditional opening sequence in which a camera tracks a tuxedoed Bond who is strolling along until he suddenly pivots and fires a killing shot at the person behind the camera come off without a hitch? Or when Bond pulls out his pistol does it fly out of his hand, leaving him to menace his unseen foe with his thumb and forefinger? Does his shot miss and hit a nun shepherding schoolchildren? Personally, I hope this sequence is unaffected. The summary and possibly unprovoked killing of photographers appeals to me as a layout editor.

Because a casino plays a central role in the movie, I guess I can expect to see Bond at his customary place at the baccarat table, looking impossibly magnificent in formal wear. But suppose someone who is a little rougher around the edges is Bond's handler. Suppose this person tells Bond he'll need to wear a "penguin suit" to the casino. Suppose Bond at this time is tragically literal-minded and so shows up dressed as Antarctic water fowl. Suppose Bond waddles up to the baccarat table dressed as an emperor penguin (Bond face framed by the mouth of the costume, of course) and then tries to verbally spar with the villain. Imagine the mortified look on the Bond girl, who eventually tries to salvage some pride by hooking up with a bus boy.

And speaking of Bond chicks, does Bond slip up and start hitting on a cross-dresser? Is Bond unable to spot a drag queen?

(This brings me to an analysis of Bond's sex life. Like any entity overflowing with statistical data, 007's womanizing can be categorized. Near as I can see it, Bond's women fit into four categories. There are Incidental Bond Chicks, Eye-to-Eye Bond Chicks, Redemptive-Sex Bond Chicks and Evil Bond Chicks. The Incidentals are there simply to provide an outlet for Bond's towering libido, like the nurse at the beginning of Thunderball. The Eye-to-Eyes are the Bond Chicks who have exceptional qualities and so legitimize his bed-hopping ways. See, Bond is not the sort of secret agent who is threatened by strong women. And somebody has to say "Oh, James" at the end. The Redemptive Sex chicks are women who are somehow aligned with the bad guy and have sex with Bond. In the afterglow, they see the error of their ways and pledge undying loyalty to Bond. They are inevitably killed for switching allegiance, thereby infusing Bond's mission with a sort of righteous vengeance. The Evils are women somehow aligned with the bad guy and have sex with Bond yet are unrepentant of their ways after. As a moral lesson to all women in the movie audience, these chicks have to die.)

And what of Bond's usual greeting? Did he always say, "Bond. James Bond"? Or does he say in this movie, "Hey there! I'm Jimmy Bond." Or does he lapse into a Cockney accent: " 'ello, guv. Bond's the name, Jim Bond."

Watching a transformation from the coarse into the polished is always cool. But I think the Bond legend could only have been enhanced if he had had to come from such a long way down.

COLD, HARD MATH

Some weeks ago, I went to the funeral of my uncle's sister. It was a simple yet moving service for a gracious woman who had lived a long life without getting married and having kids. But her niece and three nephews -- my cousins -- were very fond of their Aunt Sara and had done much to help her and care for her. Each spoke about her, and their words came from the heart.

My own relations with Aunt Sara were distant but cordial. We were not blood kin, and so her death did not have the same weight upon me that it had upon my cousins, aunt and uncle. She was a woman whom I had respected, but that was not enough to keep my mind from wandering during the service, especially whenever the minister spoke.

At first, I was distracted by the video screens that were set up on each side of the funeral home chapel for those sitting in bad sight lines. I was thinking I could perhaps get ESPN on one of the screens, but quickly nixed that idea. Had I tried to do so, my mother, though about 150 miles distant, would have sensed my boorishness immediately, and our next meeting would have been marked by a feral bellowing that would have cowed a grizzly bear.

My meditations soon began to take a more serious turn, however, when I began seeing a big similarity between Aunt Sara's life and mine: She had lived without a family of her own, and I had managed to stumble into middle age without ever marrying and having kids. So I wondered about old age and my funeral. Would there be anybody to care for me, as my cousins had for her? And would there be anybody to speak movingly about me when I am dead?

I began to do some cold, hard math. Unless I get married and start cranking out kids pretty soon, it looks all I'm going to be able to count on in my old age are my three nephews, who live in Decatur with my sister and brother-in-law and are 7, 7 and 4 years old. I figure one of the kids will be devoted to his mother and one of the kids will be devoted to his father, which leaves one of the nephews in play. I say the kid is in play because my brother-in-law has a brother who is situated like me: single in middle age. But only one of us can claim the allegiance of a nephew who will keep the perils and sorrows of the winter years at bay. The other one will get handed a pack of adult diapers, shoved into a wheelchair and pushed down the hill to the Groaning Acres Nursing Home.

Now, I'm already at a distinct disadvantage. Steven, my brother-in-law's brother, makes well into six figures a year working at Google. Right now, he can afford to buy the boys the coolest toys out there. And when they're teenagers, he'll be able to buy them cars and hookers for their birthdays. I work at a newspaper. I can afford to buy my nephews, oh, a bag of balloons. And when they're teenagers, I will be able to afford to buy them, oh, a bag of balloons.

The first thought I had to turn this around was to switch tags at Christmas -- make his gifts to the nephews from me and vice versa. The simplicity of this plan is its strength. If Steven says nothing about the subterfuge, I win; if he decides to protest, I can simply crush him by saying, "Steven, I'm shocked at you! This is not a competition! I 'm surprised that you would treat your nephews like poker chips, mere items to be won!" But this could only be done once or twice. Steven is very smart, and it's quite likely that he would start putting severed heads and cobras into Christmas boxes.

Besides, it would only be a matter of time before Steven would swamp me with his financial resources, even if he did have to pay for the extensive psychotherapy the boys would need to recover from grisly holiday gifts. The advantage I have over him is distance: He lives in the San Francisco Bay Area, and I live in Macon. That's plenty close enough for brainwashing.

See, what I'm thinking I should do is single out one of the nephews and begin indoctrinating him into the Cult of John. I could read him bedtime stories about two uncles, one named John, who was good, and one named Steven, who sold young boys to organ harvesters. I could give him two pets, one a loyal and protective collie named John, and one a weasel named Steven. I could rig up some sort of remote device that would allow me to shock him whenever someone said, "Steven." Best of all, I could ingratiate myself to him by giving him information on his brothers that would get them into trouble.

Naturally, none of these steps guarantees that I will have a prop in my Golden Years, and maybe none of them are necessary. Maybe I can simply count on the love and warmth that can grow between an uncle and his nephews.

Nah, I think I'll raid the college fund instead.

THE GOOD FIGHT

Like in some dime-store Western novel, trouble blew in with a stranger. About 11 1/2 years ago, I returned from vacation to the newspaper where I worked in North Carolina and saw some dweeby-looking guy walking about the newsroom as though he had full run of the place. The next day, I saw another and began wondering if the paper's basement housed a mad scientist who was creating geeks from the body parts of dead chess club members.

Sadly, the paper wasn't so lucky. The poo-bahs soon told us that the strangers in our midst were consultants who would "help us become more efficient." Naturally, this could lead to "some workers" losing their jobs, but those of us who worked hard had little to fear. It was the first of many lies that the "Reorganization Committee" -- or as I called them, "The Gang of Five" -- shoved down our throats.

The first hint that we were sliding into an Orwellian Bizzaroland came when The Gang of Five began issuing a company newsletter that ostensibly was supposed to be a conduit of straight talk about what was going on. Here's a sample of the straight talk: "Power is organized thought expressed through intelligent effort." That, folks, is gibberish; it might as well be the babblings of a toddler whose parents are motivational speakers. See, I can rearrange the words, and it makes just as much sense: "Intelligence is the organized effort to express powerful thought." "Organized effort is power from intelligent expression and thought."

That mantra made no sense, but it was a powerful tool for a dark purpose: It helped drive down the language. It made it possible for The Gang of Five to use language to conceal rather than reveal. Soon, it was only a short jump to such statements as "You know, sometimes it's a good thing to lose your job." Why? Because some of us were in "low-value jobs," and it was in our best interests (little did we simpletons know) to go out and find our "true value" in the job market. To say that the newsroom responded with contempt to such mallarkey is a gross understatement.

It would have been nice if we had been able to stage armed resistance; with North Carolina's broad interpretation of the Second Amendment, that might have even succeeded. But as it was, we were doomed, and by the end of October 1995 about 90 workers, including me, out of 450 were laid off.

Though I was far from happy to lose my job, I at least agreed with the logic behind the decision to let me go. I was young and I had no family and no mortgage. I was not in desperate need of the health benefits. My prospects of recovery were better than others.

Cut adrift from the American work force, I decided I had to resort to guerrilla tactics. It wasn't my idea to get laid off, and I had done little to deserve it. As I saw it, any means I used to job the system was fair game.

This logic led me to The Letter. To collect unemployment, I had to make two good faith efforts a week to find a job and keep records of whom I had contacted. I could not turn down a suitable job and continue to collect unemployment. Well, the state of North Carolina and I were at odds about what was "suitable." The state seemed to think that anything that paid above $13,500 a year was suitable. Wanting more shelter than a cardboard box, I was after a higher salary.

So I began sending my resume to newspapers with a cover letter that was similar to the following:

Dear Sir or Madam,

I am writing in response to your job opening on the Observer's copy desk. I think you will see from my resume that I am amply qualified to contribute to your paper's continuing success.

As you might have heard, the (name of paper where I worked) recently eliminated about 90 positions in a reorganization. Beyond belief, my job was one of those cut. But my loss of employment had more to do with the carping of inadequate co-workers and obviously threatened superiors than it did with performance.

I can bring many things to your newspaper. Not only am I an experienced copy editor, I am a man of destiny. I eagerly look forward to purging your copy desk of any taint of inferiority.

I await your contact, at which time I will tell you under what terms I will join your staff.

Sincerely,
John Parnell

I would have loved to have seen the paper that would have contacted me after getting that. But that wasn't the point. The point was I stuck to the letter of my agreement with the state. But maybe instead of being in "good faith," it was in "good enough faith."

Sadly, I never did take revenge on The Gang of Five, though I did have ideas. Paul, a fellow casualty of the layoffs, and I would have lunch once a week to get much needed laughs and plot outrageous payback. The best idea we had dame when we were eating at a bohemian dines. This diner had a bulletin board that was full of fliers for poetry slams, bookreadings band performances, etc. Since we knew that one of The Gang of Five had just bought a new house, we thought about putting up a flier that said, "POETRY SLAM!! Come to (address of the new house)! Bring you best verses, and throw them into the arena! Aging performance artist pretending to be outraged homeowner will greet you at door. Ignore or tip him -- your choice."

I look back on those times with no real fondness; nobody who has lost a job would do so. But I did feel like I had made the best of a bad situation, and, in a slightly demented fashion, fought a good fight.