THAT WAS THE MILLENIUM THAT WAS (5 page)

Best Non-Toxic Creative Tool of the Millennium.

Play-Doh. No one outside the manufacturing process know exactly what this stuff might be made out of (it's not clay! It's not dough! It's somewhere
in between
!) but just about everyone has eaten some. When you're four years old, and there's five more minutes between you and your cookies and milk, there's only one toy you have that will quell those annoying tummy rumblings. And as an extra bonus, tomorrow, you're going to have a couple of really creative bathroom moments, too! There's no downside. Thank God someone thought to make it non-toxic.

Blame the smell. You pry off the lid of Play-Doh, and that sweet, unidentifiable aroma wafts out. It almost smells like a number of things, many of them yummy. Some people think it smells a little bit like vanilla. Sure, if it's been rubberized; as good as Plah-Doh smells, it also smells identifiably non-food-like. There's something implicit in the Play-Doh Smell that says, "You know, bud, you're not
supposed
to eat me." Upon further sniffage, however, there's also nothing that says "Nibble on me, and your children will be born with four opposable thumbs." Kids being what they are, that's a green light to drop a ball down the gullet.

Whereupon the big surprise of Play-Doh: It's salty. As an adult, you have to wonder why salt is an ingredient in the stuff. Surely sodium chloride is not being used in its role as a preservative here; hardy sea adventurers did not venture away from sight of land with only Play-Doh and hardtack to sustain them all those months until
 
they
discovered the Pacific Ocean. I think the salt is there specifically to keep kids from eating an entire can of the stuff. Kids will eat anything, but they prefer that anything to be sweet. Salty obsessions come in those teen years. Then kids wolf down Doritos and Sour Cream and Onion chips, which are essentially salt licks for adolescents.

But I've come to praise Play-Doh, not to eat it. Play-Doh is not the only non-toxic creative tool around, after all. If one wished, one could arrange Crayolas into a delightful fan pattern, set a bowl of ranch dressing at the base, and then happily munch away (after the skins had been removed, of course) while watching football or "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire." No, Play-Doh has other qualities besides the gustatory. Number one among them is the fact that it's meant to be played with.

Crayons color and paints paint. But Play-Doh is meant to be squished and squooshed and, if you're up to it, made into something else. You can't squish and squoosh your crayons, at least not without the use of a heating element, like an oven or an open flame. And of course
that's
a big no-no. Now, everyone once and a while a kid
will
make his or her finger
paints into a facial mud pack. But it's not usually intended expressly as such (it's just what it turns out to be). Crayons and paints and markers are conduits; the flow of activity goes
through
them. They are the means, not the ends.

Now take Play-Doh. I mean that literally -- you pick it up, and make a tight little fist and let it ooze through your fingers. Kids spend hours just poking it and squashing it, making little balls of the stuff and then slamming them into thin primary color pancakes (and then eating them). It's tactility with a purpose; once you realize you can
do
just about anything with Play-Doh, you start thinking about what you can
make
with Play-Doh. 

What a moment! God made Adam from the dust of the Earth, a sort of primordial Play-Doh, if you will, although it came in only one color (muddy brown). When little Bobby or Susie sets down to make that first Play-Doh person, it's a moment that recapitulates that first Divine Inspiration. Let's hope Bobby and Susie's Play-Doh planet is a happier and more peaceful than the one we've got. One suspects that God's
modeling
substance had more than one toxic substance in it; it would explain a lot about people. If God
had
made Adam out of Play-Doh, I don't know that we'd be better, but I do know this: When we'd sweat, we'd smell like vanilla.

The makers of Play-D
oh have come out with a lot of different Play-Doh Fun Toys, in which you press the Play-Doh into pre-existing forms or ooze them through holes to make "hair" or whatever. I don't much like these. Some of these playsets are simply ill-advised; the fellow who thought up the Play-Doh McDonaldland Playshop has forgotten that to a kid, a non-toxic modeling substance turned into a McDonald's fry is now actually a fry, ready to be consumed (it's already got salt!). 

More to the point, it's limiting to the Play-Doh. Play-Doh was meant for finer stuff than to be extruded into fries or hair. It's meant to be played with as is: A lump of not-clay, not-dough lying in the hand of a kid, its possibilities limited only by the imagination of the child. And by the amount the child has remaining, after that first exploratory bite.

Best Domesticated Animal of the Millennium.

It's the cat, and I
really
don't want to hear from you doggie folks about it. As the owner of both a dog and a cat, I willingly concede that were I on a desert island with no other sort of companionship, and were given a choice between my dog and my cat, I'd go with the dog. The dog
 
is
friendlier, more fun and, most importantly, has a quite bit more meat on her frame than the cat (come
on
, people. If you're stuck on a desert island, it's not because you
want
to be there). 

But dog owners should also concede that by and large, it's been a pretty good millennium for their favored pet. The Ed McMahon to our Johnny, the Paul Allen to our Bill Gates, the Captain to our Tennille, dogs have prospered inordinately from their relationship with humans over the last thousand years. Dozens of breeds have shot out of the dog's disturbingly plastic gene pool, gracing us with animals that range in size from handbag to a Volkswagen Beetle yet which are all supposedly the same species (does anyone really think that would stop a Rottweiler from eating a Chihuahua? Drop the chalupa, indeed). There've been a few episodes of human bad behavior concerning dogs over the last thousand years, yes, usually coinciding with a war so devastating that it reminded folks that Man's Best Friend was wearing a fur coat, which it wouldn't need after it was fried up right nice. By and large, however, it's been smooth sailing.

The same cannot said about the cat. The cat has spent a goodly chunk of the last thousand years being killed in depressingly creative ways by the very humans
who
were benefitting from its presence. These deep valleys of feline persecution were interrupted by wan peaks of
enthusiasm
: by the sailors, who valued the cat's companionship on long voyages, and by millers and other folks who stored grain, and were thus happy to see someone killing all those rats. But mostly, for the cat, this second millennium was all about being kicked.

Who to blame? Christianity (which I've noticed is responsible for quite a lot of things this millennium, actually). Seems that when Christianity was busy sweeping across the European continent in the millennium previous to this one, one of the ways it would compete with other religions would be to demonize the deities of those religions -- a perfectly logical course of action when on
e
is trading in monotheism, of course. If your god is the
only
god, then all those other gods have to be, well, you know, false idols and all that. Thus the former gods fell into disfavor, as did their accouterments.

Including cats. Cats were intimately associated with the Norse goddess Freya, who you might know from her association with the last day of the work week (that's right, thank a Goddess it's Friday).  Freya was surrounded by cats everywhere she went, and her wain was pulled by two very large and one assumes somewhat tractable cats. Cats also
played a role in her religious ceremonies. You can see what's coming. Freya was relegated to a demon (the world's first "crazy cat lady"), and all those cats, her cute and furry little demonic friends, were labeled "familiars," conduits to the "To Do" list of ol' Scratch himself.

Cats were in such bad odor during the medieval times (ironic, considering innate cleanliness of the cat, and general stink of the humans of that era) that it's been estimated that the cat population of Europe decreased 90% as people killed them, quick and slow. Some cats were even tried as witches, and you can see how unfair that would be to the cat. It clearly couldn't speak in its defense, and if it could, it would just be bolstering the prosecution's case.

Europe paid for its crimes. You've probably heard about a little something called
the Black Plague
; the Plague was transmitted by fleas, which used rats as their public transportation system. Normally the cats would kill the rats, but all the cats were busy dying or being interrogated by the Inquisition. Rats had free rein, the fleas infected humans, and humans died horrible stench-filled deaths. Call it Freya's revenge.

Cats clearly could not have stopped the plague from coming, but they probably could have limited its impact by eliminating a main vector of infection. In fact, that's what they did: in all the zaniness and hub-bub surrounding the Black Death, people were too busy counting their buboes and their days to worry about slaughtering cats. The cat population went up and went after the rats (who, as you might imagine, were doing very well in those days); the rat population went down and with it the main avenue of plague transmission. Did the humans thank the cats afterwards? Hell, no. As soon as they were feeling better, they went back to their cat-burning ways. Stupid humans.

People eventually stopped their wholesale cat extermination policy, although felines were still never entirely trusted. Start with the black cat superstitions and move to the one about cats sucking the life out of babies and you've got yourself an animal who is even now on humanity's "double secret probation" list -- one false move and it's back to the stake with them. And don't think they don't know it. Cats are famously standoffish, but maybe that's just because they've learned the value of a running start when it comes to dealing with humans.

Admittedly, cats often don't help their case. They're not pack animals like dogs, designed down to the genetic code to follow the leader. Your dog would follow you off a cliff, because if it's good enough for you, it's good enough for him. As opposed to your cat, who would watch you all the way down, staring at you like you're the dumbass you so obviously are. Your cat likes you and may even love you (depending on how well it's fed). That doesn't mean it's going to back you up on every damn fool move you make. Cats have their own agenda, and while it's generally simple (eat, sleep, kill something its own size or smaller), it doesn't mean it's any less important than yours.

It's this element of cat nature (combined with the fact people have pretty much stopped believing cats are the Devil's own furry telephone into this world) that have finally given cats an edge in this last half of the 20th Century. We're all somewhat more independent these days, less inclined to follow the leader. The cat has the attitude of the age, and that's why this beleaguered animal has managed, finally, to make it to the top of the heap. Don't think your cat's not enjoying it. Don't think your cat is under the illusion it will last, either. More than any other animal, the cat knows the danger of human nature.

Best Buddy Team of the Millennium.

Samuel Johnson and James Boswell. Sorry to disappoint all of you who were rooting for Shields and Yarnell.

What does it take to be a successful buddy team? Well, as years of violently formulaic motion pictures tells us, you need at least a couple of the following elements:

a)
One "buddy" has to be older
and established, the other young and brash. At least one of the two has to be a loose cannon; usually the younger one, but the older one will do in a pinch. Sometimes the two buddies can be the same age, but one has to
act
older.

b) The "buddies" have to hate each other in the beginning but eventually develop a grudging respect for each other and their abilities, which usually involve guns or martial arts.

c) The buddies undertake a long and arduous quest (or police investigation) together.

d) The two "buddies" bicker like an old married couple, leading to the inevitable intimations of homoerotic undertones, even when the buddies are in fact of the opposite sex. Hey, I'm not making up the rules. I'm just telling you what they are.

Thus, we are provided with any number of famous buddy teams: Riggs and Murtaugh. Mulder and Scully. Spock and Bones. C-3PO and R2D2. Bert and Ernie. Any two members of the Superfriends, mixed and matched. But these, of course, are fictional folks. It's much harder to match up these qualities with real people (real people being more complicated than fictional people for some unexplainable reason). Yet Johnson and Boswell had it all. They were a true 18th century dynamic duo. Just look at what they were like, when first they met in 1763:

Johnson: The grizzled veteran of the 18th century intellectual wars, famous thoughout London for both his rapid fire wit and his hulking physical presence. He could take you to town intellectually and then throw you the hell out of the saloon! Sure, he was a loose cannon in his younger days, but when you were a Tory during a Hanoveran monarchy, you had to back up your politics with your fists! Now Johnson has
received
a 300-pounds yearly stipend from the King, "not given you for anything you are to do, but for what you have done," notes Prime Minister Lord Bute. A symbol of gratitude from a nation...or hush money from the higher ups? Johnson will take the money. Hey! He's got drinking to do! But he'll never quell his wild intellect -- not even for the King!

Boswell: The new kid in town with something to prove! He's ditched dusty old Edinburgh for the glitzy lights of London -- but not before cutting a swath through the ladies! In London, he hung out with some pretty radical dudes, like Oliver Goldsmith and John Wilkes. They were young, they were wild, they didn't want to just wait around for the old guard to die! When you're 22, smart, and have a way with the ladies...
who's gonna stand in your way?

The two have their first meeting at in the parlor of actor Thomas Davies. Did they get along? As if!

Boswell
(knowing Johnson has poor opinions of Scots): Mr. Johnson,
 
I
do indeed come from Scotland, but I cannot help it.

Johnson:
That, Sir, I find, is what a very great many of your countrymen cannot help.

Zing! They spend the rest of the evening quarreling about actor David Garrick and other issues, and then Johnson, easily stomping Boswell's young and silly head, takes his leave. Notes Thomas to Boswell, with perfect ironic timing (he
is
an actor): "I can see he likes you."

But Boswell is not dissuaded. He calls on Johnson a few days later, and from there a friendship begins, one full of bickering, zany adventures in bars, and even an extended trip together to the Hebrides, a frosty island chain in the north of Scotland. Any screenwriter worth his salt would have concocted a mystery for them to solve while they were there ("Johnson and Boswell came for relaxation. They got framed for murder. Now they're fighting back...and this time, it's
personal
."). But mostly they just ate and drank themselves silly, and kept the blazing gunfights to a minimum.

But it was more than just friendship (and no, not in
that
way), since Boswell, unbeknownst to everyone at the time, was an inveterate diarist. For the next 21 years, until Johnson dies in 1784, Boswell commits every
bon mot
that passes from Johnson lips to memory, goes home and scribbles it down. Boswell's not merely a sycophant with a detailed memory: His diaries project a sense of documentary immediacy. You are there when Johnson whacks at Boswell when they first meet. You are there while Johnson deconstructs the literary lights of his day, from Alexander Pope to Colley Cibber (who between them had their own little literary tiff, of which we shan't concern ourselves with, except to say --
mrrrow
, girlfriends. Just get yourselves a room, already). You are there when Johnson does just about anything, and Johnson comes through bigger than life and twice as natural.

Boswell's diaries are so good that Boswell himself ends up looking bad. When Boswell published his diary entires, first in 1785 with
The Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides, with Samuel Johnson, LL.D.
and then in 1791 with his magnum opus
The Life of Samuel Johnson
, Boswell makes Johnson look good in part by exposing his own weaknesses of personality as a natural part of the narrative. He was observing himself observing Johnson -- just the sort of thing Norman Mailer would do 150 years later, though Mailer wouldn't bother trying to pair up with another literary light (Mailer and his fists!
That's
the buddy team, pal!). This made people think that although Boswell's books were excellent, the author himself was something of an ass. It's not entirely incorrect (Boswell was a loud, messy drunk, among other things), but it's
still
mean.

Johnson and Boswell had their own separate lives independent of each other of course -- Johnson in particular, as he went some 54 years before even meeting Boswell. But the two are now indisputably tied together. It's Boswell's doing, of course (and good for him, as otherwise he'd be only a minor literary figure instead of the pre-eminent diarist of the 18th Century), but Johnson's reputation certainly didn't suffer out of it. Their relationship ended up making the both of them look good. And ultimately, that's what being a buddy team is all about.