How I wanted baseball back but maybe it's too soon. Anxiety racks my chest in the aftermath of a half-inning commercial for the new Michael (“Lips!”) Douglas movie in which a Desitin-smeared Britanny (“Joplin My Tedium-Flattened Ass”) Murphy continues to lose weight while unwisely inviting comparisons to pre-war American sweetheart Angelina Jolie. Quick cuts and commotion—hospitals—subway trains rushing past—a missing wife—an impression of shattering. Dear Hollywood. We all know you’re going to have to cut it out with the tasteless effects-fests. Please spare us the minutely-reported displays of writhing conscience and the warmed-over Lefties-meet-Congress contortions and the triumph of Right Thought over Wrong to be hosted by Steven Spielberg wearing a shaved head to match the glasses "bequeathed" him by the estate of the (finally) late Philip Johnson and quoting the Buddha in spring 2003—as meanwhile you’ve emptied your shelves of old stock. Thank you. Signed, A Member of the Ticket-Buying Audience.