THE BELL CURVE -- joseph n. bell

People who make their living as professional writers -- as I’ve

done for almost 50 years -- seldom show their work to anyone prior to

submitting it for publication. Unless there is a deliberate

collaboration, teamwork is anathema to a writer. The buck begins and

stops here.

But I have a curious writing relationship with my wife, who is a fine and

highly skilled writer and editor. I only show her work in progress if I’m

dubious about it. That’s why the column you’re reading now is not the

column I originally wrote for this space. I knew that one didn’t work,

but it was finished, and I could go on to other things. So I made her

tell me to kill it.

She did -- although this was a cowardly act on my part that I will

probably repeat when and if similar circumstances arise. There is a

period of irritation after this happens that I can direct at her rather

than my work before I acknowledge that she’s right and get on with a new

approach.

The column that died aborning grew out of a phone call we received from

my stepson, Erik, who had just returned to college after spending a

weekend at home. He called to tell us that we were not acting responsibly

by failing to prepare for some sort of Armageddon that will take place

when our technology collapses at the turn of the millennium.

Specifically, he urged us to set aside a supply of fresh water, keep an

adequate supply of cash on hand and stay off the streets at midnight.

He was only half joking, and it struck me how otherwise rational people

are running scared of this witching hour, preparing for unknown

disasters, most of which are both out of their control and extremely

unlikely to happen. So the column I killed took off from this point to

offer a list of things we should really worry about in the millennium

year. And that turned out to be a mean-spirited laundry list of people

and activities I don’t like. Cheap shots, if you will.

So I’ll spread them out over the year, but the millennium paranoia still

fascinates me. The disaster syndrome. We have in our garage an earthquake

box. It has been there for 10 years, and I have no idea what is in it. It

is there because my wife insisted on assembling and storing it. She

considers this common sense. I consider it an unnecessary waste of space

and energy because I tend to play the odds -- and the odds that an

earthquake will destroy our home are long enough for me to lay off the

earthquake box, a view she shares about the millennium.

Still the general uneasiness persists and continues to grow as we

approach the end of the year. Why? Some theories occur to me that may be

studied posthumously if Armageddon does, indeed, take place Jan. 1.

The millennium paranoia is rooted in two kinds of soil especially fertile

for our neuroses: technology and the unknown. Earthquakes and other

natural phenomena are tangible. We can see, feel and touch them. They

have a history, and we have either experienced or read about them. They

may be fearsome, but they are familiar. That’s why people rebuild

shattered homes.

But the evil force threatening to run out of control at the turn of the

century is technology, which man created and now can’t control. Because a

lot of technical geniuses having a field day a few decades ago didn’t see

and program for the crisis of a new century, our machines -- we are told

-- are going to turn on us and God knows what havoc they might wreak.

Maybe living through the Great Depression has inured me against worrying

about such matters. Franklin Roosevelt told us then that “the only thing

we have to fear is fear itself.” This may not strike the most profound

philosophical note of the century, but it resonated deeply in a country

where millions of people faced the possibility of not eating. And it

seems just as applicable to the millennium fears. What might happen isn’t

nearly as dangerous and upsetting as our fear of what might happen.

And so you get Psychology 101 here today instead of cheap shots. If you

aren’t convinced, go stock up on bottled water and tell us to buzz off if

we come around asking for a drink a few days into the new millennium.

Meanwhile, we plan to go to a party on New Year’s Eve, and my stepson has

announced that he will be staying home, sipping his bottled water,

counting his cash and watching the carnage on TV as the country’s

computers implode and our economy collapses.

Because I believe in hedging my bets whenever possible, I still plan to

bury a small box in our backyard of especially treasured possessions just

in case the pillage and burning get into this neighborhood. The only foul

ball I ever got in 50 years of watching major league baseball, my flight

log books, my Anaheim Stadium “Brick Donor” certificate. Things like

that.

Meanwhile, I won’t be showing my wife any advance copy for quite awhile.

* JOSEPH N. BELL is a Santa Ana Heights resident. His column runs

Thursdays.