BE AFRAID, BE VERY AFRAID

Quick: What’s scarier?

The possibility of civil war in Russia? The portent of flare-ups in South Africa, Northern Ireland and Haiti? Those pesky Kurds, Iraqis, Somalis, Serbs and Bosnians threatening to put down the peace pipe and have us over for rations again?

Or is it knowing that any one of these scenarios, developed into a series and unjudiciously dropped into NBC’s Must-Leave-the-TV-On-for-”ER” 9:30 Thursday slot, would almost certainly get at least a 24 share too?

Whichever sage it was who said that that which we love most is also that which we fear most (Dr. Laura Schlessinger? Cyndi Garvey? Marilyn Manson? . . . we forget), he, she or it never seemed wiser than when we stop to prayerfully survey our love-loathe relationship with mass entertainment in the ‘90s. In a world without much communism to speak of, it’s no wonder we now find the threat right here at home--or, to quote a little girl we once knew, “They’re heeeeeeeee-ere.”

More and more, that which makes us tingle is also that which makes us tremble. When we go see “Twister,” do we choose to marvel fearfully at the culmination of a cinematic century’s visual evolution, as seen in the special effects, or drop our jaws at how terrifyingly paleontologically far back little things like dialogue and character development have regressed, or both? Is the bloody vial half-full or half-empty?

These are the days of miracle and wonder, but when it comes to a coherent aesthetic, consider us spooked, if not amused to death. So, back off, boogaloo: It’s time once again to celebrate Allhallows Eve by nervously cataloging the trends that, as of about half an hour ago, strike us as the 13 Scariest Things About the Entertainment Industry. (And the fact that Ringo is participating in those rock ‘n’ roll fantasy camps isn’t even one of them.) Oh, Hollywood, Hollywood, how dost thou frighten us? Let us count the ways!

1 “Aliens abducted our brains!” cries creative community.

The “grays”--as UFO enthusiasts call the not-so-nice post-E.T. aliens of popular lore--are in. And gray matter is out.

“Faith Ford has proof that aliens exist!” trumpeted the TV movie spots a few weeks back. And here we thought Faith Ford was proof that aliens exist. No matter; kooky Corky is just the latest casualty of the sudden yen for all things paranoiac-slash-otherworldly. The loot is out there--so now, with every production exec suddenly craving Chris Carter’s fortune, “X” marks the spot where originality ends.

While abduction victims describe their terrifying flashbacks to intergalactic medical experiments on any basic cable network you care to mention, we’re suffering equally scary flashbacks--to that big-eyed children painting craze--every time we see one of those evil, noseless spacedudes pop up on a pendant or T-shirt.

Network viewers now get their choice of supernatural poisons, what with “Millennium,” “Dark Skies,” “Profiler” et al--fine shows all, though we liked ‘em a little better the first time around, when they were called “Twin Peaks.”

2 Hollywood’s basketball jones.

Remember when Kareem Abdul-Jabbar was given a small acting role in “Airplane!” because everyone knew that having a basketball player emote in a major motion picture was supposed to be funny?

So, we demand to know, where’s the kidding in Shaq’s rapping and acting career? Superathlete-cum-MTV-chat-show-host Dennis Rodman is just joshin’ us when he says he plans to quit the world of athletics soon to pursue the more rewarding field of action movies, right? Michael Jordan isn’t really a registered trademark of Warner Bros. animation, is he?

Thank the heavens that this crossover is just a recent development and never did previous generations have to suffer teaser trailers announcing that “Pete Maravich is ‘Bullitt.’ ”

3 So few Jane Austen and John Grisham novels, so much time.

It took Albert “Cubby” Broccoli decades to run out of filmable Ian Fleming titles (even if he started jettisoning Fleming’s plots a lot sooner). Here in the ‘90s, it’s taken the mere twinkling of an eye for Hollywood to exhaust the complete works of Austen and Grisham, our favorite post-Stephen King serial adapters. Between all the respective courting comedies and court thrillers, the literary well has run dry.

But need it? High time, we say, to hire some new writers “inspired by” Jane and John and keep their book-to-film franchises in business. Maybe even combine them somehow: Idealistic young 19th century lawyer with a lot to learn about conspiracy theories defends brashly independent society gal headed for the electric chair--in a simply electrifying corset!--for the capital offense of turning down too many ineffectual suitors.

4 It’s not the picture tubes that got bigger--it’s the stars that got smaller.

Calling all TV cameramen: Don’t shoot till you see the whites of their tails between their legs. We’re speaking, of course, of all those TV stars who finagle their way out of their network contracts upon hearing the siren call of the movies, only to bomb and beg to be taken back, bloodied but unchastened.

Some, we greet like long-awaited prodigal children: “Hey, Michael J. Fox! Loved you in . . . uh . . . what was that picture with . . . er . . . well, anyway, come on in, you adorable scalawag!” Others, like Shelley Long, we prefer to play harder to get with upon their return. And do we really want to slay the fatted calf for David Caruso, returning soon to a 13-inch theater near you?

5 Is that a stogie in your mouth, or are we just unhappy to see you?

Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. And sometimes it’s an incredibly annoying, health-threatening, mind-bogglingly dumb media trend. Demi Moore on the cover of Cigar Aficionado (with her clothes on--she wouldn’t want all that smoke stinking up her skin) is just the latest to jump on the bandwagon. First Schwarzenegger and Letterman, now the world (or the part of it west of La Cienega, anyway). Gals especially, with Sharon Stone, Madonna and Brooke Shields all daringly courting accusations of phallic envy. Give us some breathing room from this status vice.

A reaction to reactionary times? Sure. But who decided this would be the acceptable sin in an otherwise health-obsessed, post-cocaine, post-AA Hollywood? Like, whatever happened to secondhand-effectless vices like Diet Coke?

6 How can we be nostalgic if you won’t go away?

Poor Norma Desmond wasn’t behind her time, as it turns out; she was ahead of it. Or so you’d have to believe after the mega-success of this year’s full-makeup KISS reunion tour, such a monstrous profit-turner the boys are reportedly placing rolls of gold coins in their pants instead of the customary cucumbers.

A spontaneity-free, timed-to-the-second show full of pyrotechnics and devoid of human emotion, with as much distance as possible placed between performer and audience--yes, it took Gene Simmons and company to come back and teach these young alterna-kids what rock ‘n’ roll really is. Then, of course, there were the bands with integrity . . . like, uh, the Sex Pistols.

Eddie Van Halen even found it within himself to kiss and make up with Diamond Dave; when old egos and tempers flared and the guitar hero decided it was time to move into the future after all, the fans practically crucified him for not indulging in nostalgia ad infinitum.

At least the Beatles had the good sense to wait till “Free Like a Bird” and “Real Love” bombed on the charts before quietly announcing that--sorry, kids--there wouldn’t be any more new singles. The Beatles’ mistake was, of course, being of the ‘60s, an era few of today’s kids have the patience for. Instead, it’s all “Dad, tell me about T. Rex!”

The Gen-X set prefers to explore the kooky forgotten crevices of ‘70s pomp and kitsch, while balding boomers alternately wallow in the all-too-well-remembered pools of ‘70s pomp and kitsch. And with the Eagles still out there milking it in every last unexhausted foreign territory, we have to ask: How long till hell warms up again?

7 Hey, here’s an idea! Let’s write a book about . . . “nothing.”

They’re not quite stand-up routines, they’re not quite anecdotal memoirs, and, most definitely of all, they’re not quite books. We’re speaking, of course, of the parade of nonfiction bestsellers from sitcom czars--Roseanne, Reiser, et al.

In interviews, they inevitably tell the same shameful story: I didn’t want to do one; my agent made me, just because Seinfeld and Allen had; once I started typing, I realized I really had something to say.

Next up, no doubt: 412 or so pages of the little things in life that make Brooke Shields smile.

8 Why does Death Row Records have to be so literal?

9 Must-read TV? Uh, isn’t that defeating the whole purpose?

Sony is preparing to push Web TV, a new contraption that links your set to the Internet--the theory being that, for the six out of every 10 Americans who still haven’t bought home computers, all that messy PC stuff will be a little less scary if it comes through the same box where those cute “Friends” live.

Perhaps it hasn’t occurred to the powers that be that these might be the same six out of 10 Americans who still haven’t reset the blinking “12:00” on their VCRs and, moreover, don’t care to. Nonetheless, the determination persists to coax all stragglers off Route 66 and onto the electronic Autobahn. Even presidents are now pledging a Web hookup in every home instead of a chicken in every pot--even if the holdouts have to be dragged kicking and screaming.

Prepare to be patronized by the whole new coming wave of dumbed-down multimedia. Meanwhile, isn’t it comforting to know that the Frankensteinian hybrid MSNBC exists, so that as soon as Tom Brokaw finishes reporting a story on the breakdown of some peace accord or another, we can sign on and visit a chat room to discuss how gray his hair is getting?

10 Speaking of MSNBC . . . Not necessarily the Cable News Network.

Whoever thought the day would come when we’d say there’s too much news? Well, here goes: “There’s too much news.” Not that we’re in any danger of the Herald, the Examiner, the Herald-Examiner or any other defunct combination thereof ever competing for space with milk bottles on our doorsteps again.

Electronically, though, there’s enough saturation coming to make even a hard-core current-events junkie wanna kick altogether. Fox News has just joined MSNBC on the dial. Yet to come this year: ESPN3 and CNN/SI. It’s enough to make Jim Lehrer cry, “I want my MTV!”

11. What hath deregulation wrought? The [expletive] dime lady, that’s what.

Back in the old days, we had just one, and generally one pretty expensive, choice for our long-distance service. And, to quote the grumpy old man, we liked it that way.

Nowadays, things might be cheaper, but oh, what a price we’d pay just to be free of the phone ads that plague our daily lives. Currently, GTE seems determined to make any Beatles fan’s life a living hell with those commercials featuring one of John Lennon’s towering achievements, “Help,” remade by the world’s worst bar band.

We’d switch to the other side, but that would mean putting dimes in the pocket of Sprint’s Candice Bergen, who, all protestations to the contrary, won’t go away. Hide already, Dime Lady. We mean it. Git.

12. From here on out, all public figures will go down in the history books as the sum of their tics.

Twenty-one years ago, when “Saturday Night Live” first appeared, there was palpable exhilaration in sacred cows’ being brattily secularized. The effect on today’s TV landscape has been awesome: Long after the fade of the counterculture, irreverence applies across the board, with every leader ripe for a takedown.

But there’s nothing all that political about the now-omnipresent “political comedy.” Each night, Letterman and Leno do minutes upon minutes spoofing the candidates, but virtually all that’s getting satirized are their personal peccadilloes and bad habits, not their ideas.

What every schoolchild in America knows about the would-be leaders of the free world boils down to: Bill Clinton likes cheeseburgers, pot and chicks; Bob Dole is old, old, old. That’s scary, and more than a little sad.

13. The new night terrors: infomercials.

It used to be that, if you were an insomniac, you could turn on the tube in the middle of the night and count on finding some bad vintage or made-for-TV movie (as we recall, it was usually “Trilogy of Terror”) to lull you back into sweet slumber.

In the mid-’90s, of course, all-night movie-fests are a thing of the past; every local station and cable web has rented itself out to the traveling medicine shows we call infomercials.

And how are we supposed to get back to sleep after those? Now we’re tormented by a whole new breed of national nightmare. The psychic friends--they know where you’ve been sleeping, and they know that you’re awake! Tom Wu--comin’ to getcha! The spot remover that won’t stop! The makeup that turns everyone who wears it into Cher! And the worst nightmare of all: The attack of the Killer Abs you’ll never have.

Sweet dreams.