i was watching "Politically Incorrect" a few weeks back. There I was on the couch, nursing the last tepid beer of the day, using my stunted psychic powers to try to make mental contact with Bill Maher. "Why haven't your people called?" I telepathed. "What am I, chopped liver? I can be as glib about current events of which I am just barely aware as any of those bozos. I work for scale."

Well, one thought led to another, and before you could say, "Don't go there," I was brooding about Dennis Miller. Again.

He's got his own show on HBO. Whenever he goes off on a rant, cash flows into his every pocket.

When I go off on a rant, neighbors call the police. Girlfriends edge away from me slowly. I can't even afford HBO, much less be on it.

On the other hand, in order to have Dennis Miller's career, I'd have to, I dunno, get an agent or something. Besides, if I had my own television show, I'd have to wake up pretty early in the morning, I'll bet. I'd have to buy another sportcoat, and spend more than eight bucks on a haircut. I'd have to hire a staff of writers, and learn how to bark at them when they're not up to snuff, jokewise. Movie stars would be calling me all the time. I hate that. I'd have to nurture my native snideness into full grown smugness.

Sounds too much like work. I'll stick with self-pity, rancor and bitterness, thank you. Holding a grudge might not make much money, but I can nurse it for months without breaking into a sweat.

Anyway, confronted by my personal demons in the witching hour, I did what any sane man would do: I changed the channel.

Charlie Rose was yakking with some bald guy in a bad suit. I didn't catch his name, but apparently he's the financial wizard in charge of getting Swiss bankers to fork over their francs to the heirs of the Holocaust victims their forebears swindled. He referred to his job as "forensic accounting."

You don't hear the word "forensic" that much. Last time I heard it on television was on "Quincy," I believe, the show about the forensic pathologist who really, really cared.

Struck by inspiration, I took out my notebook and wrote down "Quincy Junior: Forensic Accountant." In the morning, I could call somebody with this terrific idea for a television series. If I knew anybody to call.

On second thought, it seemed too good an idea to waste on television. "Forensic Accountant" would be a natural Tom Cruise vehicle. I could just see him in a cute little tank top, kind of sweaty but not in a smelly way, sitting in front of his laptop, hacking into the Mafia's money-laundering database, even as renegade CIA agents were smashing in the door.

On third thought, I worried that the whole laptop/suspense thing had already played itself out. We'd already seen Jeff Goldblum typing in an alien spacecraft, Tom Cruise himself typing in a European apartment ... Macho typing is already old hat.

So I crumpled up my piece of paper and threw it across the room.

"Thanks a lot, inspiration," I sneered to myself. "Thanks for nothing."

In the meantime, Charlie had moved on to his next guest, Robert Ballard, the guy who used robot submersibles to visit the Titanic. He'd just returned from the Mediterranean, where he'd used robot submersibles to visit trading vessels that had sunk thousands of years ago.

By an incredibly strange coincidence, he referred to his robot submersibles as "forensic tools." I'm not sure what he meant by this. I always thought forensic referred to something that could be used in a court of law. Maybe he's afraid of lawsuits from mermaids.

Anyway, I was again struck by an unpleasant insight. Suddenly, everything is a tool.

Think of it! Back when Neanderthals roamed the earth, trying vainly to stave off extinction, the only tool around was a rock. Needed to break something? You used the rock. Needed to do some precision cutting? You went out to the garage and picked up the rock. Needed an edge in hand-to-hand combat with a rival tribe? Use rock! Job done!

From that simple beginning, we gained the hammer, saw, atomic bomb, car, lawn mower and "Home Improvement."

Today? A CD-ROM is a law enforcement tool. A brochure is a public relations tool. You can use development tools to build a Web site that is itself a tool to build product awareness.

Our titanium-tipped hammers gather dust in the tool drawers, and Woolworth's has turned to vapor, but tools fix each other on the Worldwide Web.

Then I had another unpleasant thought.

What if Bill Maher and Dennis Miller have sarcasm tools installed in the hard drives of their personalities? Here I am, booting up with floppies every morning, and they're out there upgrading their humor operating systems on a daily basis.

The only thing to do was get up early, get a jump on the day, get out there with my forensic tools, my robot submersibles, and develop, develop, develop.

I would have done it too, but there was a Robert Mitchum movie on the late show, one I'd only seen three times or so. Well, you know how it goes. Once that Mitchum tool gains functionality, productivity kind of goes out the window.
Aug. 7, 1997

Ian Shoales' new CD, "I Gotta Go," is an anthology of commentaries past, read very fast into a microphone. It is has been released by 2.13.61 Records, and is theoretically available in fine music stores everywhere. It can also be ordered by calling (800) 989-DUCK. Ask for Steve. Tell him Ian sent you.