it's been a strange summer. Not exactly the "summer of terror" the media seem to want us to experience, but weird.

The world watched with fingers crossed, breath held, hearts aflutter. Well, now "Emma" has finally opened, and after her performance in the title role, the unanimous answer is -- yes! Gwyneth Paltrow is more than just Brad Pitt's girlfriend. I needed a nap after that hand-wringer!

Speaking of highly charged, suspenseful, highly commercialized events, the Olympics occurred: Young girls in skimpy outfits spun through the air, athletes around the world worked through their pain and a bomb went off.

In the aftermath of the explosion, the media and the kinder, gentler FBI busily try to implicate some attention-hungry security guard schlub. Thanks to the proper authorities' tipping of their hand, and the subsequent swamping of the possible perp by video crews from around the globe, the suspect has surrounded himself with as many lawyers as media attention will allow. As a result, this may turn into yet another trial of the century.

(The old mantra used to be "Freeze! FBI!" Today it's "Oops! FBI!" If it weren't for Sculley and Mulder, they wouldn't have no kind of luck at all.)

In the former Soviet Union, meanwhile, Pravda folded. This former so-called newspaper was actually the unofficial organ for state-generated disinformation. How much more fortunate we are in the free world! Our disinformation generates itself.

Bob Dole remains Bob Dole, and Bill Clinton -- the alleged draft-dodger, adulterer, graft receiver, staff drug abuser harborer, influence peddler and cover-upper -- looks like a cinch for a second term. America doesn't seem to care if he killed Vince Foster or not. Maybe there's hope for us yet.

On the other hand, a pal of the former drummer for the Stone Temple Pilots died from an overdose of heroin (drug of choice for the millennium). As a result, there was a surge in demand for Red Rum, the street name for the opiate that killed him.

Red Rum, of course, is "murder" spelled backwards (as featured in "The Shining" by Stephen King and the feature film by Stanley Kubrick). That I have my share of bad habits I won't deny, but to actively seek out a substance that has destroyed another is a junkie trait that I don't even pretend to understand.

Maybe it has something to do with what they call the "copycat" syndrome. Many critics have worried, for example, that the recent Scottish film "Trainspotting," which features the antics of young addicted rotters, may encourage those who see it to take up heroin addiction as a lifestyle. Certainly from all I've read, "Trainspotting" does sound like "A Hard Day's Night" with smack. ("That heroin looks like fun!" says Modern Youth. "Let's buy some now!")

Has copycatting achieved pathological dimensions? Any time a character in a movie lights a butt, there are frantic letters to the editor about "role models" and so forth. (Today's teen approaches every decision with, "What would Brad Pitt do?") Any time a bomb goes off, dozens of bomb threats are made across the land. Police give up details of crimes grudgingly, because hordes of innocent schlubs out there will confess to the worst behavior humanity can offer just to get a little attention.

Maybe it was always this way. But it used to be a little more innocent. Clark Gable took his shirt off in "It Happened One Night," revealing a bare chest, and t-shirt sales plummeted. The Beatles set off more godawful fashion trends than the entire run of the Renaissance. Farrah Fawcett-Majors' hair appeared on "Charlie's Angels," giving birth to Miss Piggy's coiffure and a style that still occasionally occurs on the heads of Mormon cheerleaders today.

Does taste still operate? Are we watching movies based on Jane Austen novels because we are still a literary society? Or is it because Alicia Silverstone did "Emma" first, or that "Pride and Prejudice" kicked butt in England? Do planes explode only because others have? Do we ignore vile accusations because we've heard vile accusations before? Or do we half-believe them for the same reason?

Do terrorists do focus groups? Is Brad Pitt just a pale photocopy of a photocopy of Robert Redford? Is Gwyneth Paltrow really his girlfriend or something more sinister?

Take the loud but strangely dull "Independence Day." Maybe I was on heroin at the time, but I found myself nodding off as Los Angeles was being vaporized.

Many critics have complained that "Independence Day" is just a throwback to the paranoid science fiction movies of the '50s. Gee, what clued them in? They went out and rented "War of the Worlds," or "Earth vs. The Flying Saucers?" "Independence Day" was a mishmash clone of pretty much every movie I've ever seen, including "Alien," "Predator," any World War II movie that featured dogfights, and "Star Wars," which was itself a copycat of movie serials from the '30s and '40s. (As was the "Indiana Jones" series, although it didn't have any aliens in it.)

Then there was the quiet but strangely dull "Lone Star," which was a copycat of "High Noon," "The Last Picture Show" and Sam Shepard plays with all weirdness removed.

And haven't we had terror at the Olympics before? Haven't planes blown up before? Haven't we legislated against, arrested those responsible for and vented our opinions on terrorism before? Why then won't terror just, you know, go away?

Perhaps "Multiplicity" says it all: The more clones you make, the dumber they get. Maybe evolution just isn't what it's cracked up to be. Ditto Gwyneth Paltrow, John Sayles and heroin. Jane Austen, however, still rules.