I feel so safe right now, I could spit. I could run through Grand Central Station with my pants half off, asking for directions. That's how safe I feel. There are so many people out here trying to help me and, with the crime rate so low, they have time to protect me from things I never even thought about. High sodium, for example. And cellulite. And smoking in bowling alleys.

Especially smoking in bowling alleys. Bowling alleys around the country have decided to get all touchy-feely organic and stuff. So there's no smoking on Saturdays at T-Bowl lanes in Wayne, they're about to ban it in bowling alleys and just about everywhere else in Princeton and they're cutting down on the smoking lanes at the AMF bowling centers in Wisconsin. Imagine Wisconsin giving a damn about anything.

During the Cold War, we were all so busy making nuclear bombs shaped like baby carriages and dissecting hippies in biology class and memorizing episodes of the Brady Bunch so that someday we'd know when to laugh during the Brady Bunch Movie. That was really hard work, man. So we just had to let that whole smoking-in-the-bowling-alley thing slide by.

But now we're taking back our alleys. And by itself, that's fine. We're treating bowling more seriously as a sport this way -- a sport that is kind of like basketball, except fat guys can win. And besides, the smoke gets in your hair, it gets in your clothes, it doesn't take more than a cigarette 20 feet away to leave you smelling like Keith Richards' guest towels.

But it's not just the smoking in bowling alleys. It's also the cars that drive themselves. Princeton University professor Alain Kornhauser, who also founded his own transportation technology firm (and must be a real riot at parties), predicts that by 2025 cars will do all the driving. They'll find the best route and do all the steering, freeing drivers to hold meetings in their cars without even looking at the road, thus incidentally making Volvo drivers look normal.

And again, by itself, this is good. Anyone who takes away freedom of choice from New York cab drivers -- something that will, for example, pick a lane for them -- can smoke in my apartment anytime, and even bowl there.

Except it's not just the cars that drive themselves, either. It's all those goody-two-shoes teenagers who never do anything wrong. Evidently, Passaic County now has an underground music scene of pierced, tattooed, slam-dancing teenagers who've sworn off drugs, booze, tobacco, meat and loose sex. . . or is it sex and loose meat? In any case, this again, by itself, is fine. It's their life. If they don't want to get hooked on heroin just to entertain the rest of us, that's okay. I guess.

But look at the sheer accumulation of these things. It's almost as if we're trying to be too safe -- probably a sign that the aging Baby Boomers are getting scared and crotchety, and as usual are dragging the rest of us with them. No smoking, no driving, no drinking. The tattoos kids are getting say things like ``Math homework rocks!'' and ``Buy milk, eggs. Feed cat.'' It's as if we're being held prisoner in grandma's house, locked in a bright playroom of childproofed furniture and soft plastic toys.

It reminds me of a poem I learned in religious school, written by Martin Niemoller, who was found cowering outside an AMF bowling alley, eating a loose meat sandwich and arguing with his car. The poem speaks to us about social responsibility and bowling, but mostly about loose meat sandwiches, which taste a lot better than they sound:

``They came for the smokers,
And I didn't object, for I wasn't a smoker.
They came for the drinkers,
And I didn't object,
For I had already gotten a buzz on at home.
They came for the communists, Jews, Catholics and homosexuals.
But I was in the bathroom and missed it, so you can't fault me on that one.
Then they came for me, and there was no one left to object,
because it was league night
and my God, have you ever
tried talking to those people
about anything?''