“On Ground Zero”, “On Awards for Porn Movies” and on “Bullshit” (the book).

Also, watch for our 10-part series, which will start soon, on divorce/custody law as practiced in New York (although we assume it’s true elsewhere as well). How lawyers, social workers, psychiatrists and the courts destroy the very lives they are charged to protect. How this “industry”---and it is an industry---is accountable to no one while making millions of dollars on the anguish of parents and children. It is a national tragedy.

It would be fair to assume that students at universities throughout the country over the years have complained that many courses they took were, to use the vernacular, plain “bullshit.”

So when Princeton University Professor Harold G. Frankfurt recently created a mini-stir in the publishing world with his “book”, On Bullshit, many might conclude before reading it that he is responding to students’ complaints or taking a tongue-in-cheek to this subject.

Another possibility: He was looking for one more advanced degree with this thesis---a subject, while engaged in unmercilessly by academia, is an unusual topic to be dissected by the intelligentsia.

Or maybe his work was a compilation of bullshit excuses his students gave for being absent, missing deadlines, etc. When it comes bemoaning their fate, university students are outstanding---A+. If only they would expend as much energy on their studies as they do on developing heart rendering arguments for not meeting course requirements.

Well, none of the above speculations on Professor Frankfurt’s work would be on the mark.

The good professor actually examines the role “bullshit” plays in our society and he does so seriously. That’s no bullshit.

Why he takes on this task, unfortunately, is not clear. Do we really need such a thesis when, all of us, are all familiar with the subject? One might add, too familiar.

Indeed, we spent most of our lives sifting through it, sapping much of our energies that could be better spent on more productive endeavors.

It comes at us from all directions---at work, on dates, through our different communication systems---TV, radio, newspapers, magazines, the Internet, talk shows and books.

Ninety-nine percent of talk show “expert” guests are bullshitters. The best ones make a name for themselves if they hit the big time by appearing on Oprah, whose host is not too bad at the subject herself.

The real good ones can say anything, contradict themselves and still bring audiences to their feet.

Example: “You should leave your adulterous husband/wife.” Audience goes wild.

Five minutes later in the interview, “You need to communicate with each other; work it out.” Standing ovation.

Politicians shovel their fair share of it, particularly during campaigns at election time.

The debates between opposing candidates that receive so much coverage are usually no more than 90-minutes of bullshit carefully delivered according to special rules.

The reason the media and TV viewers have difficult times deciding who won or lost is because the candidates are all experts in answering questions by bullshitting.

Ask them about the war in Iraq, and they respond: “Excellent question. Let me say this about that. We need jobs, jobs, jobs. And to create jobs, we need tax cuts.”

Those posing the questions apparently aren’t bothered by evasive responses because they never retort: “Sir, that’s bullshit. I asked you about Iraq.”

Yes, bullshit is all over the place. There is, unfortunately, no end to it.

In this atmosphere comes Professor Frankfurt who is described in the book as a “renowned moral professor” and professor emeritus at Princeton University whose press put its imprint on Professor Frankfurt’s work.

Notice the use of the word “moral” as an adjective. He’s not a professor teaching morals but a “moral professor.” There is it: bullshit.

The book has landed the professor on talk shows and the national media have begged for interviews not only because the title and subject touches our funny bone but because the subject is taken on by a university philosophy professor--- and a moral one at that.

Be advised the title is the best part of the book. From there, to use a bullshit cliché, it goes down hill.

Why? Because, the good university professor, actually tries to define---seriously---bullshit.

He works hard at explaining the difference between lies and bullshit; misrepresentations and bullshit; deception and bullshit.

Come on, now. Is this really necessary? Given that we wallow in bullshit all our lives, we know every nuance of bullshit.

We ask bullshitters daily to cut the crap. We recognize it instantly. We are all experts. Anyone out there who does not know the difference between a lie and bullshit? More importantly, does anyone really care?

Have any parent ever sat down with their child and said: “Now, son/daughter, let us explain to you the difference between telling a lie and bullshit. It’s really important that you know.”

When George Washington confessed that he cut down the cherry tree, stating he could not tell a lie, it would have been just a good if he had said: “I’m not a bullshitter, mommy and daddy, I did it.”

“George,” his parents probably would have replied, “we are delighted you told the truth but you’re a bullshitter. You’re bullshitting right now. You are confessing because you know you would have been caught. But you are good at bullshitting and we expect big things from you in politics. Given your expertise in the subject, one day you may even be the father of this country. And we’re not bullshitting.”

True, a quote by Georgie boy using the word “bullshitter” may have not become part of history. But then again, who knows? It might just have made even bigger news.

Bullshit is bullshit, professor. Come off your high academic horse.

The eminent and late U.S. Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart once said while discussing pornography: I may not be able to define it but I know it when I see it.

Applying this historic Supreme Court precedent to bullshit, we can say without reservation there is no need to define it because we know it when we hear it.

Further, it’s bullshit to call this a book. It is four inches by six inches with a little more than about 100 words to a page for a total of about 9,000. That’s about as long as a news story on a routine traffic accident in the New York Times. (That’s bullshit but it makes the point). We might point out this bullshit article---we mean this article on bullshit---is about 1,400 words long.

Here was the opportunity for the good professor to have some fun with the subject---as the title implies---but he ruins it by attempting to win the Nobel Prize For Literature trying to develop a definition for bullshit.

But in the process, the professor proves that he is pretty good at the subject himself. Consider this observation at the end of his thesis:

“These ‘antirealist’ doctrines undermine confidence in the value of disinterested efforts to determine what is true and what is false, and even in the intelligibility of the notion of objective inquiry.”

Anyone out there who does not recognize what that is? I did not think so.

Or this:

“But it is preposterous to imagine that we ourselves are determinate, and hence susceptible both to correct and to incorrect descriptions, while supposing that the ascription of determinacy to anything else has been exposed as a mistake.”

With that kind of writing we would like to bestow the honor of “bullshit artist” to Professor Frankfurt. Unfortunately, we can’t. You have to know your bullshitting to receive such an award. A good bullshitter takes pride in what he does. And Professor Frankfurt doesn’t; he doesn’t even know he is doing it.

We reread part of the book to make sure that he wasn’t being subtle. Maybe he was the best bullshitter in history. We must report on further examination that we were disappointed. Yep, he’s serious. That saddens us---deeply--- and that’s not bullshit.

Before we reached that conclusion, we considered recommending that Princeton award him an honorary degree in the subject. He thought that would be nice irreverent touch.

We can just imagine the scene with the president of Princeton proudly announcing: “Now, for the first time in the history of this university---any university---we bestow an honorary degree for bullshit…”

We believe all the students would listen to the respective acceptance speech at graduation ceremonies---another first--- a speech that we would hope would be full of bullshit in keeping with the award.

But awarding such a degree to Professor Frankfurt would be a terrible mistake because---unlike the duck---although he walks, talks and writes like a bullshitter, he really isn’t one.

What the professor did with his treatise on bullshitting is make it a serious subject, thereby taking all the fun out of it.

We hope Princeton does not make his book required reading.

(A former political reporter for The Detroit news, Berl Falbaum, author of several books and a play, is a freelance writer who has taught journalism parttime at Wayne State University since 1968. He proudly admits, he has written his share of bullshit.)

What people fear the most, according to many studies, is public speaking.

Tyla Wynn, an “actress”---notice the quotation marks---is no exception.

“Speaking in front of people is hard,” said Ms. Wynn, as she won what is described as the equivalent of an Oscar for: pornographic movies. Her category: multi-person sex scenes.

Yep, she has no problem doing her thing on film for millions to watch but she had some problems saying thank you for the “Oscar” for being the best actress in an orgy scene.

Well, we all have our problems. What a challenge for psychiatrists. Possible treatment: participation in a sex scene---multi-person, of course, since that’s her specialty---at a podium.

Apparently, she is not the only porn star that has problems with public speaking. This phobia must be widespread in the “industry.” When chosen to co-host the AVN award ceremony, Jesse Jane, said she was honored---yes, honored, adding, “I’m so happy, I don’t even know what to say.”

I assume she could have said, “no” but apparently this girl can’t.

You probably think I made this up. If only… Ms. Wynn “victory” was announced at the 23rd annual AVN Awards---AVN is the name of the trophy---so this is not the first time that we, as a society, honored the best in pornography.

As you read this you are probably wondering, as I did when I read a news story on the awards: How does one judge this talent? What’s the criteria?

We can’t---we really don’t want to---get into this in great detail. But are pants and groans counted? You can speculate what “acting” criteria is used to bestow these awards.

There are about a 100 categories and they are similar to those defined at that other award show. You know, the Academy Awards. As you might suspect, the categories are a little different.

Judging scripts in adult films must offer a special challenge. The pornographic movies and videos I watched at university fraternity and bachelor parties lacked what I would call “sophistication.”

It usually went something like this:

Female lead looking for a job: “Hi, my name is Jane Smith. I am applying to be your secretary.”

Boss: “I am glad you came.”

End of dialogue and into the act.

Or this:

Florist at door: “Here are your flowers, ma’m.”

“Thank you. They are beautiful.”

End of dialogue and into the act.

These two examples, frankly, are a little more complex that the ones I heard. And the lines were delivered in a fashion that you thought the actors were dead until, of course, they stopped talking and, well… Then I knew they weren’t dead.

Any dialogue that continued for three or four exchanges brought boos from the audience and shouts, “get on with it.”

One thing the writers for pornographic movies do not have the worry about is

the ending in these encounters. All end in the same way.

Ms. Wynn acknowledged that the plots are somewhat pedestrian, implying she would like more intricate story lines. Ah, ever striving for greater career challenges.

As for directing---another category honored by the industry ---that’s another matter. The movie genius, Alfred Hitchcock, frequently made cameo appearances in his films. Well, the directors of pornographic films, outdo him: Frequently, you can hear them shout directions, and the actors look towards the camera for instructions which must be disconcerting to their partners.

Now the association that presents these awards is obviously very proud of its industry. The celebration, I read, had a red carpet and all at Las Vegas’ Venetian Hotel. I hope they all made it down the walkway before…you know…

Ms. Wynn expressed some concern about her family that she said, “is pretty ashamed of what I do.”

Her relatives are embarrassed, it seems, even though she is among the best in the field. She made it to the top (no pun intended) and yet they are unhappy.

What mother would not be proud to proclaim that her daughter won the best actress award for a multi-person sex scene. Now, she may not want to send photos to relatives and friends but, at least, you would think, she would brag.

You just can’t please some families. And I thought mine was rough on me.

(A public relations executive, Berl Falbaum is a former political reporter who has written five books and a play and teaches journalism at Wayne State Univerwsity in Detroit).

As we climbed the stairs out of the New York City subway at Fulton and Broadway, my daughter said: “Ground Zero is only about a block away. Want to go?”

Amy, who could smell the smoke from her apartment but two miles away on that fateful morning, informed my wife and me by telephone of mankind’s latest depravity. Frustrated that we were unable to understand her story that two jet planes smashed into the Twin Towers, she told us to watch TV.

Amy knew my answer to my question before I responded. As I remained silent, she said, “I did not think so.”

Why do I need to see the vacant land that once teemed with thousands of people, teemed with love, hate, ambition, jealousy, joy, sadness, hopes, dreams? Is there a value in seeing the graveyard of the innocent?

Not for me. I do not need to visit the gas chambers or crematoria of Auschwitz to try and fathom the unfathomable. I do not need to see the industrial machinery used to slaughter millions as quickly and efficiently as (in)humanly possible.

In that context, the television images of 9/11 are all too vivid in my memory. It was reality that I could not digest or comprehend that morning or the four years since then.

We don’t need such “tourist attractions” even if they are created with the best intentions. Better to save the hallowed ground and let no one near it. That would make sense to me.

So, instead, we toured the nearby Seaport which was as alive as the area of the Twin Towers was at 8:45 a.m. September 11, a minute before the first plane---American Airlines Flight 11--carrying husbands, wives, children, lovers---smashed into the North Tower.

But Amy’s question bothered me. After some soul searching, I told her I would visit the site but by myself.

As I approached, my concerns, unfortunately, were confirmed. On that sunny day, the atmosphere was almost festive.

Tourists strolled the fence protecting the site, a fence that features information, photos and timelines of that horrid day.

A 60-some year-old bearded street musician with a flute, leaning against the fence, repeatedly played, for reasons too obvious, “Amazing Grace”.

Then there were the children, some too young to understand what was in front on them. But what about the six to 12 years olds? What do their parents tell them about this crime against humanity while vacationing in the Big Apple? How do they handle such a truth?

Can they handle it?

Many people took photographs, some posing in front of the protective fence. I wondered: What do they do with these photos? Under what category are they filed in the albums at home? Do they show them to friends and say: “This is me at Ground Zero.”

“Wow, how was it?” is a most likely question. What do they answer?

No doubt some visitors are mournful and respectful. But mourning and respect can be displayed anywhere---in homes and houses of worship thousands of miles from this scene.

Then I thought I would ask others. I interviewed about a dozen people, understanding the limitations of such a Q & A. It was admittedly an awkward setting. I told them, courteously, I am a writer and wanted to know why they came and what they felt.

Strangely, the first two people confirmed my thoughts, one stating he felt “guilty” at the site while the other described his visit as “morbid.” Interestingly, both were foreigners, one from the Ukraine and the other England.

A few, inferring some criticism in my questions even though I was purposely soft and gentle, cut me short with: “I really can’t explain my feelings.”

One man, from Massachusetts, said it was his fifth visit and he comes only to see what progress has been made in whatever reconstruction is planned. The progress was not to his liking, he said.

Another Englishman said the visit gave him “a new and special perspective”, a perspective he did not define. A tourist listening leaned over and told me emphatically, “I just needed to see it.” Finally, a woman told me, “I just couldn’t stay away.” She did not explain why.

Again, these interviews were superficial not only because of the awkward dynamics on the street, but I could not challenge these people with follow up questions, digging into their psyche---as much as I would have liked.

Then it hit me: The message of Ground Zero may very well be that the suicide terrorist had created mankind’s ultimate weapon.

Throughout history from clubs and spears to tanks and jet fighters, defensive weapons were always developed as a response.

Our defense against nuclear weapons led to the creation of a strategy called Mutual Assured Destruction (MAD), meaning, “if you annihilate us, we’ll annihilate you.” Mad, indeed. But that’s how we have evolved.

But with suicide terrorists defense is not possible. Terrorists will always find a way to execute their madness; it’s simply impossible to create foolproof protection.

And, unlike with MAD, there obviously can be no punishment or revenge.

The message of Ground Zero, sadly, is that the suicide bomber has brought us the ultimate weapon of destruction.

As I reached this horrendous conclusion, a woman asked me if I would take a photo of her while she joined her family at the fence.

I told her I was not good at that sort of thing. I was not lying.

(A public relations executive, Berl Falbaum is a former political reporter who has written five books and a play and teaches journalism at Wayne State University in Detroit).