Who? You!

Just because it's Christmas Eve is no reason to pass Frank Rich's regular Sunday column by. He also starts off riffing on Time magazine's lame year-end stunt, entitling this week's essay, "Yes, You Are the Person of the Year!" But after a few shots at the idea, he comes around to realizing that maybe Time was right.

So in Time's defense, let me say that the more I reflected on its 2006 Person of the Year — or perhaps the more that Mylar cover reflected back at me — the more I realized that the magazine wasn't as out of touch as it first seemed. Time made the right choice, albeit for the wrong reasons.

As our country sinks deeper into a quagmire — and even a conclusive Election Day repudiation of the war proves powerless to stop it — we the people, and that includes, yes, you, will seek out any escape hatch we can find. In the Iraq era, the dropout nostrums of choice are not the drugs and drug culture of Vietnam but the equally masturbatory and narcissistic (if less psychedelic) pastimes of the Internet. Why not spend hour upon hour passionately venting in the blogosphere, as Time suggests, about our "state of mind or the state of the nation or the steak-frites at the new bistro down the street"? Or an afternoon surfing from video to video on YouTube, where short-attention-span fluff is infinite? It's more fun than the nightly news, which, as Laura Bush reminded us this month, has been criminally lax in unearthing all those "good things that are happening" in Baghdad.

As of Friday morning, "Britney Spears Nude on Beach" had been viewed 1,041,776 times by YouTube's visitors. The count for YouTube video clips tagged with "Iraq" was 22,783. Not that there is anything wrong with that. But compulsive blogging and free soft-core porn are not, as Time would have it, indications of how much you, I and that glassy-eyed teenage boy hiding in his bedroom are in control of the Information Age. They are indicators instead of how eager we are to flee from brutal real-world information that makes us depressed and angry.

From there, he moves over to what our escapist tendencies have produced this year: Borat, Casino Royale, and schadenfreude over the plights of Mel Gibson, Michael Richards, James Frey, and Judith Regan.

FAR be it for me to defend any of them; Mr. Gibson once threatened to have my "intestines on a stick" after I raised the notion that the author of "The Passion of the Christ" might be an anti-Semite. But our over-the-top pleasure in their comeuppance still seems like escapist fare. It may be satisfying to see "Apocalypto" fade fast after its opening weekend or watch Ms. Regan lose her job after enriching O. J. Simpson for a sleazy book project. Yet something is out of whack when these relatively minor miscreants are publicly stoned and the architects of a needless catastrophe that has cost thousands of American and Iraqi lives escape scot-free. On the same day that Ms. Regan was canned, the fired Donald Rumsfeld was given a 19-gun salute and showered with presidential praise in a farewell ceremony at the Pentagon.

Yes, something is out of balance. But maybe we (unlike Time, I'm willing to be inclusive) can live up to the magazine's faith in us and do something about it.

[A holiday hat tip to Wealthy Frenchman for once again making the Rich column available.]