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The political signs were up at the corner of Western and Weymouth in San Pedro. I saw them on the way to the stadium this evening, big blue and white and red banners lashed to the storm fence, but they weren't for Bush or Kerry or any Congressional candidate. These candidates are running for a higher office.

They're running for Mary Star Fiesta Queen.

I didn't know what that is. It sounded important.

And, undoubtedly, it is for them. I used to laugh at stuff like this- how quaint, this ritual for the little people. But now it sends my condescension detector off. The Mary Star Fiesta Queen turns out to be the Queen of the Mary Star of the Sea Parish Fiesta, a carnival held behind a church in San Pedro every year. The Queens are, naturally, teen girls, and they're not picked in a beauty pageant- they compete by raising money in raffles and car washes and stuff. Yes, it's small-towny. Yes, it's corny. Yes, it's the kind of thing that Hollywood loves to ridicule. Yes, it may be the highlight of lives doomed to blue-collar drudgery. So what? It may be all some of these kids have, but it's something, and, in their world, it's an achievement.

Besides, it's a lot more fun to follow than the presidential race, and Michael Moore hasn't made a movie about it. Yet. Maybe it's my kinder/gentler mood these days, but I'm all for the Mary Star Fiesta Queens. Long may they reign over whatever it is they reign over. I'll bet it's more than YOU reign over.

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Is this a holiday weekend? Why, yes, yes it is. So who's indoors reading this stuff? Nobody, I hope. Therefore, the following discussion of breaking news:

There are Otter Pops in the freezer. Otter Pops are good- they bring me back to childhood, to refreshment at the Preakness Valley Swim Club's snack bar on hot summer days, sucking on the plastic tubes to get the last drops of grape melt. Otter Pops come in six flavors, with the following character names:

1. Alexander the Grape. OK, obvious one. Historical reference. Could be worse ("The Grape Santini," "Grape Balls of Fire").

2. Strawberry Short Kook. Not good. Weak play on words. Besides, should mental illness be a selling point for frozen sugar water?

3. Little Orphan Orange. Has Tribune Media Services ever sued over this one? Again, weak, and using parentlessness as a selling point is rather disturbing.

4. Poncho Punch. Ethnic stereotyping. (Memo to the Otter Pops company: it's spelled "Pancho," unless you mean the article of clothing, which I don't believe you do)

5. Louie-Bloo Raspberry. What the hell is THAT supposed to mean? I have no idea. Is this a clever play on a name nobody remembers? Doubt it- I think they just couldn't come up with a suitable raspberry-related gag name. ("William Raspberry"? Only for Washington Post readers)

6. Sir Isaac Lime. Sir Isaac Lime? Okay, you have the whole Otter Pops development team in a conference room, and they get to lime. Hmm, what name can they... Sir Isaac Lime?!? What hallucinogenic would produce that? How do you get from Newton to Lime? What genius said "I've got it! Sir Isaac Lime! It's perfect!" And the rest of the marketing geniuses said yes? Why not General George S. Lime? President John Fitzgerald Lime? Little Stevie Lime? Franklin Delano Lime? Hey, they make as much sense as Sir Isaac Freakin' Lime.

I hope they add flavors, because I want to name them. "John Blueberry Hinckley." "Lynette Squeaky Watermelon." "Pear Wayne Gacy." You know you'd buy them.

(Whaddya want? It's a long holiday weekend. Iraq and the economy are for work days. July 3rd? Otter Pops)

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So, what did you do for the Fourth?

We did, um, not a whole lot. Bought some new sunglasses for running, a couple of pairs of shorts, a book. Ate a burger and a hot dog. Watched TV. Listened to the fireworks echo across the cove from San Pedro. Listened to the sirens of the emergency vehicles.

See, that there's why not to leave the house on a holiday. Someone probably lost some fingers there.

But it's a holiday, and most of you will have Monday off. Go enjoy it. Try to keep your fingers attached.

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I was born on this date several years ago. Back then, the world was in black and white and grainy, and people played bongos and smoked and stuff. Then I came along, and all hell broke loose. It has not stopped breaking loose since then.

Glad to be of assistance.

Anyway, I celebrated the big event by doing virtually nothing but working and trying (so far, with limited success) to convert a PAL video to NTSC to be burned to a DVD and sitting around in a remarkably bad mood unrelated to the blessed event. Shoulda gone to the Dodger game to watch Gagne finally blow a save, but sulked instead. I'm good at sulking.

Back to the regular work grind tomorrow. I suspect we'll all be in vacation mode for the rest of the week- short week in summer equals little of value accomplished. You can be the judge of that- see you tomorrow.

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Poor Eric Douglas.

He could never live up to his father Kirk's image. His brother Michael got the looks, the talent, the Catherine Zeta-Jones. Eric was a B-movie actor/comedian who ended up addicted, unemployed, and, now, dead.

Nobody tells you that you have to outdo your family. And, in truth, you don't have to. If you're Eric Douglas, you get people asking what you're up to, wondering why you're not, you know, Michael. And you have to make a choice- you either laugh it off, do your own thing, stop measuring yourself against your sibling and your dad, or you drink and drug yourself into oblivion. The former's hard. The latter's way too easy.

I have a hard time imagining being in the shoes of an Eric Douglas, a Marcus Vick or a Neil Bush. My sister and I are both reasonably successful but not wildly famous- but if Joan became a superstar (and I'm not ruling that out), I'd be happy for her and I don't think it'd send me to the Lynchburg Lemonade. And at some point, if I was chasing my sibling's footsteps and falling further behind, I'd remind myself that there's no shame in doing something else, that there are benefits to not being famous, not being harassed by fans and the media.

On the other hand, the perks of fame are pretty amazing. You can't help but be a little jealous. Or a lot jealous.

And I'll bet that consumed Eric Douglas, a guy with problems to begin with, a guy who watched his brother become as huge, huger in some ways than their father. He wanted all that, he could taste it, but he wasn't what the public wanted. I want to feel sorry for him, but, dude, nobody owed you a movie career. If you couldn't deal with getting a real job and not being a celebrity, you couldn't deal with the life most people lead. Sorry, man, but that's not enough of a tragedy for me to care.

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Customer service has a new mantra- the customer is not always right. Actually, I beg to differ. They're acting like the customer doesn't matter even a little bit.

I've had to deal with several examples of this lately. (Disclaimer: This is all purely my opinion based on dealings with these companies. Your mileage may differ) Take ING Direct, the on-line-only bank. They're great when you open an account, fine when transferring money INTO their accounts, but when my father passed away, they became, in my opinion, nothing but a pain in the ass. I've provided them with all the documentation they demanded- wills, trusts, death certificates, letters of instruction- and so far, they're just sitting on it. Not nicely, either. (They're not alone- Mellon Financial did the same thing. Not even a nice tone of voice- they seemed annoyed that I would bother them over such trivialities) I finally got a nice CSR on the phone today, three weeks after they received all the documentation they needed, but she put me on hold for 20 minutes (no hold music, even) and passed it all along to someone else. She suggested I call back next week to check on it. I suggested that if they want to keep me as a customer, THEY should call ME. My opinion of ING Direct right now? Not good- unresponsive to my needs, less than cooperative. Let's see if this improves- I'll be the first to say they did a good job if they can fix this. But after all this, I'm skeptical.

And then there's what happens when you buy shareware and need support, and the company doesn't bother to offer it. I'm giving the makers of All Video Converter another few hours before I get really upset- only e-mail support offered, and they just haven't responded.

There's so much more here, but the bottom line is that I'm tired of being treated like an imposition by banks, retailers, financial service companies, waiters... Maybe the customer isn't always right, but in these cases, I AM right, and I think I should be treated with more respect.

Like that'll happen.

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Look! An article about me! With a picture and everything! In a real paper!

http://www.laweekly.com/ink/04/33/considerable.php

Ah, how sweet the feeling of one's ego swelling beyond reason...

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Today's customer service indignity features the staff of Bell South, or, as its logo proclaims, BELLSOUTH. Today, I got a notice that had been forwarded from my father's address:

HAROLD SIMON

We would like to talk with you concerning your service.

Please call our office by JULY 5, 2004.

Account Representative

Uh, okay, except for a few minor things:

1. Harold Simon died over a month ago.
2. He has no phone service now.
3. It's July 9.

So I called BELLSOUTH! and promptly ended up on hold for 5 minutes, then got a cheerful customer service rep, who only heard a few seconds of my dilemma before putting me on hold for about 10 minutes and transferring me to another cheerful customer service rep, who told me I needed to talk to "Collections" and put me on hold, which promptly hung up on me.

All right, no more Mr. Nice Guy. I called back and ended up with another customer service rep, who proceeded to tell me that the problem was that they'd gotten my father's death certificate and were ready to change the account over to his wife's name. All they needed was someone to call and make that happen. Okay, I said, I'm here, let's do it. Uh, no, he replied, only the wife can do that. Okay, but why did you not write HER? I asked. We have to send it to the person who requested the change, he said.

My dad did not request the change, I pointed out, because he's dead. And the death certificate might have been a tip-off to that effect.

The CSR wouldn't budge. We have to send it to the account holder, he said, because he requested the change. No, he didn't, I responded, because he's dead, and his mail isn't going to the house where his wife is, and you're sending notices to a dead man, and will you PLEASE GET ME A SUPERVISOR?

Another 10 minutes on hold.

Got a supervisor, explained everything, she put me on hold (again), called my dad's wife, and straightened everything out. But she couildn't answer why the company, presented with irrefutable proof that the account holder was, indeed, deceased, would not then just change the account as his wife and I were requesting but instead insisted that my dad respond to a vague notice after death.

Aargh.

(On the bright side, "All Video Converter" finally responded, gave me the instructions to remove the watermark from video converted from PAL to NTSC, it worked, done. Why it took so long, I don't know, but the thing works and they're back in my good graces. For now)

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Finally.

No obligations, no major work. The light at the end of the tunnel turns out to be a brilliantly sunny day, warm and lovely. I went to the ballpark today, watched Clemens pitch, saw LoDuca blast one out with two on, hung out. Came back, relaxed, had dinner, now it'll be movies on the TV and no worries.

It's about time.

It's about NOW. Excuse me.

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A woman- not, it turns out, Jewish- gets assaulted on a French train, her hair chopped off and swastikas magic-markered on her stomach as other train riders watch and do nothing.

The government is making plans to be able to delay election day in an emergency, which it, alone, has the ability to determine.

Another bus attack in Israel. One dead, many injured.

Three G.I.s killed in Iraq. Ambushed.

Clear Channel, apparently unaware that for several years they've aired, and promoted, and syndicated a show that uses racial humor in a satirical context, makes the hosts go to "sensitivity training" to drain the last bits of creativity and edginess from their act.

I'd have a lot more to say about each of these if I wasn't so tired of it all. Every day, there's a new outrage. Every day, I have my own things with which to deal. Every day, I have no time to even pause and catch my breath. It's my job. Hey, I'm the "wisecracking cyber-radio guru and pundit." I HAVE to have an opinion on everything.

So a) it's the result of French cultivation of anti-Semitism for decades and its embrace of radical militant Muslim ideas, b) they'd better not try hijacking the election- I'm talking about both the terrorists AND the Bush administration, c) it will never end, d) it will never end, and e) that's a great way to tell your talent that when push comes to shove, you'll do the shoving.

There. Wisecracks from the cyber-radio guru. Time to catch my breath.

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I went to the Home Run Derby a few years ago in Atlanta, and it was fun. Sosa was cranking 'em out, we were in the left field stands right where the blasts were heading, and it was like a party.

I guess you have to be there. I tried watching the derby tonight, and it had its moments- Lance Berkman and Miguel Tejada going on extended monster-shot jags- but I got bored fast. I think the thing's run its course, like the slam dunk contest ran its course and the three-point shooting contest ran its course and... do they even do anything like that at the Pro Bowl? (And who would notice? Have you ever actually watched that thing? Neither have I) Yeah, we know, they can hit 60 mph letter-high beach balls over the fence, over the back wall, over the moon. Fine. They do it in BP every day.

Let 'em do it in a game.

Perhaps this is part of my long-standing Epic Bad Mood of 2004, but I couldn't care much about this one. It was nice to see the Hall of Famers trot out there (say hey, Willie, how about shaking the hands of the players you pass instead of walking by as if they don't exist?), and that's... just... about... it. And tomorrow's the All Star Game itself, with the reminder painted right on the field that THIS ONE COUNTS, as if the representatives of the Expos or Rockies or Mariners could care less whether the representatives of their league get home field advantage for a World Series in which they won't play. Hey, Ichiro, howsabout busting your ass so the Yankees can get home field? Yeah, this one counts. (And it really counted for the A.L. last year, huh?)

Next year, let everyone have a three day vacation instead of an All Star Game. That way, there's no embarrassing we-had-to-pay-Barry-to-do-the-Derby incidents, no phantom injuries letting guys off the hook, no complaints that the Yankees and Indians (!) are hogging the rosters, no how-could-you-leave-this-guy-off-the-roster situations. Just... end it now. The whole thing's run its course.

(And you know I'll probably watch it anyway. Can't help myself.)

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That French woman who claimed she'd been attacked and swastikas drawn on her belly? Made it up.

Doesn't mean France doesn't have an severe anti-Semitism problem. Does mean that she took lessons from the Morton Downey Jr. Memorial School of Getting Attention. Tip: Don't use a mirror when drawing stuff on yourself- you'll get it all backwards.

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Okay, now, how the hell does one get rid of a flock of fruit flies in one's kitchen?

We don't generally have problems with insects. True, we live on what is essentially one large anthill, but we have Terminix for that and it's not a problem. But about a week ago, the flies showed up- I think it must be because we bought a load of fresh produce, and they probably hitched a ride from Albertson's on a head of lettuce- and now they're hovering around the garbage can (even when it's empty and Lysoled out), Ella's food, the sink, all over the place.

In a vain attempt to self-medicate, we went to the Home Depot to consult the insecticide aisle, and we found... nothing. Nothing we'd use, anyway. They had foggers- no way in hell we use those in a kitchen (gas pilot plus fogger equals blammo), or anywhere else (cat, us). They had sprays- no way we're inhaling that crap, and most of it has to be sprayed on the insects (harder than Whack-a-Mole). You can't use No-Pest Strips (they still make those? I thought they were banned) in a kitchen. The only other option: fly strips. Sticky fly strips dangling from the ceiling.

And that's what we'll try next. Our kitchen will thus resemble the garage at the house in which I was raised, sans the '63 Rambler or the '66 Corvair or the tools hanging from pegs on the wall. I'm guessing the flies will take one look and laugh their little fly laugh, marveling at the stupidity of those big pink things that hung the strips there- do they think we flies are STUPID?- and neatly skirting the goo to land squarely on the Fancy Feast Sardines-in-Aspic. But it's worth a shot. We'll see how well we spent our two bucks.

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And today, we know that the NBA has formally anointed the New Jersey Nets as the Clippers East.

Oh, sure, that's what they used to be called, but the Kidd-Martin-Jefferson days and two finals appearances had wiped that out. No, this is league-approved, in the person of Bruce Ratner. And the similarity has less to do with the one-sided sign-and-trade that essentially gave Kenyon Martin to the Nuggets for three undoubtedly non-lottery picks and more to do with economics.

Let's go back to the beginning, in 1981, when Donald Sterling bought the San Diego Clippers and immediately began to lobby a reluctant NBA to allow him to move the team to Los Angeles. The league didn't want him to do that, considering that there already WAS a team in Los Angeles, but he insisted and eventually won the right- after the NBA sued him- to move the team to L.A. Now, why would he do that when there were so many other cities without basketball franchises at the time where he could have the market to himself? Why L.A.?

Simple. He bought into the league at San Diego- medium market- prices and, by moving the team north, changed the valuation to Los Angeles levels. It didn't matter that the Clippers wouldn't ever be the top dog in the market, didn't matter that he'd have to play at the deteriorating, depressing Sports Arena on Figueroa, didn't matter that for most of the time he'd draw tiny crowds that made the ones in San Diego look respectable. Didn't matter. He now owned an L.A. franchise. As a real estate guy, he knew that the real money wasn't in the day-to-day operations, it was in the appreciation of valuation. This was like buying a shack in a rundown area just before gentrification made values shoot up. It's like hitting the Lotto. Winning? Why? Why bother? He had his L.A. team bought at San Diego prices- THAT'S winning.

So now the Nets are in the hands of another real estate guy who saw the same thing in the team that Sterling saw in the Clips. He saw the chance to buy a New York team at New Jersey prices, and, better yet, with its lease ending and the league in no mood to stop him, he would be able to turn the New Jersey Nets back into the New York Nets without any resistance, and could even get the city and state of New York to help pay to clear out part of Brooklyn for a new arena and mixed-use development- of COURSE they would, it's bringing major league sports back to Brooklyn!

It was all a master stroke, except for one thing- unlike the Clippers, there was no vacant arena waiting for the Nets to occupy on a temporary basis in New York. The Garden's booked, Nassau Coliseum is definitely not New York City- might as well stay in Jersey, it's closer- and, well, there is no other indoor arena option there. So here's what Ratner had now: a winning team with three expensive stars, stuck in a lame-duck situation at the Meadowlands where what fans were left are not inclined to support a team they know is moving, and a Brooklyn situation that's proving more difficult to complete than previously assumed, because those pesky local activists won't go away no matter HOW much money's thrown at them. What to do?

Cut costs, that's what. So it'll kill them on the court. So what. Remember, they DON'T HAVE TO WIN ANYMORE. They're a REAL ESTATE investment, not a basketball team. And by the time the place in Brooklyn's ready, IF IT EVER IS, even Richard Jefferson will be closer to the end than the beginning of his career. Winning? Won't make Ratner money, so that's no longer important.

'Bye, K-Mart. Hello, three first rounders from a likely playoff team. Hello, lottery. Hello, trading down so you don't have to pay lottery salaries to your rookies.

Hello, Clipperdom.

If I were a Nets fan, I wouldn't be anymore, and I'm not even that big of a K-Mart guy. On the other hand, there are still Clipper fans, meaning that there are people who'll pay to see, basically, an investment. It's cheaper to take a seat at the bank and watch people make deposits. Same thing.

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So I forgot to tell you about what happened with the flies. Can't let stories hang like that, so...

The fly strips didn't work. No flies. I think they're smarter than that- they take a look, think "this isn't feces and this isn't rotting food, so I'm not interested" and they go searching for turds or decomposing comestibles. And there seemed to be more flies, and I was just about out of ideas when I noticed something I hadn't noticed before- an ooze. There was a brown ooze coming from the compartment under the microwave cart, a compartment I never open. And there seemed to be flies hovering around the door. So I opened it and YEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCHHHHHHHHHH- a zillion flies, a horrific smell, a white plastic Ralphs bag and OH LORD I'M GOING TO PUKE.

"Oh," said my lovely wife. "Those must have been the potatoes."

WHAT POTATOES?

"There were potatoes there."

WHY?

"I... there was no place else to put them."

WHEN did you put them there?

"Uh, I don't... a long time ago, I guess."

I'd sacked up, gotten a trash bag, held my breath, reached in amidst the flies, and bagged the offending brew. I was on my hands and knees cleaning up the disaster- thank you, inventor of disinfectant wipes and sprays.

"So," she asked while I scrubbed the area down, "were those the potatoes?"

HOW THE HELL SHOULD I KNOW? WAS I SUPPOSED TO OPEN THAT BAG TO LOOK? DID I REALLY NEEED TO KNOW WHAT WAS IN THERE? THERE WAS DECOMPOSED FOOD. THERE WERE MAGGOTS, I ASSUME. THERE WERE FLIES. I'M GOING TO PUKE.

But I didn't. And it's clean, the flies are gone, the area's sparkling, and Ella the World's Most Famous Cat has started eating her food again instead of looking at me as if to say "are you insane? I'm not eating over there! There are maggot-infested potatoes in that corner, you dolt."

Sorry, Ella.

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I wasn't going to write much today- still won't- but then I got on the 10-items-or-less line at the Albertson's in Redondo and a woman in front of me had about 40 items- a full cart. My Lord! It's the Bad Standup Comic's World of Horrors!

"'Scuse me, ma'am," I said, as a line swiftly grew behind us, "this is the express line. 10 items." I'd made that mistake before, so I was polite and smiling. She looked up at me, then continued to place items on the belt. I thought she'd failed to understand me, so I repeated "Express line. 10 items or less." She didn't look up at me, but she just stopped putting stuff on the belt and moved forward. The guy in front of her was finished, and the checker picked up one of the offender's items.

"Er, she has a lot more than 10 items," I said, feeling like an a-hole- I wouldn't have done it if she had, say, 15 items, even a little more than that. But she was obviously trying to fake the checker out, waiting until the 10 items went through before adding the rest. The checker looked at the woman, then the cart, and told her she had to go to another line.

"But I shouldn't have to move," she said. The line by now included about 10 more people. I'd had enough. "I told her it was an express line and she ignored me," I said, "and there's a long line of people who shouldn't have to wait." The checker agreed, and handed the woman her items.

"Big mouth," the woman snarled at me. "I told you," I said, "and you tried to pull one over on everyone. Keep moving." "F--king big mouth," she snarled as she went away with a full cart. The people behind me tapped me on the shoulder. "Thanks," one said. "Someone had to say it," said another. A hero at last.

It's one thing to misread the signs- everyone does that. But to hold everyone else- ME- up because you just can't be bothered to wait in the right line, well, screw you, lady. It takes a truly ugly-on-the-inside person to deliberately inconvenience a long line of people just because you can.

Hey, this may be ultra-minor to you. I don't win too many victories these days. I have to take what I can get.

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Stranglehold R. Dixielands.

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The Boston Globe ran a long piece today about radio indecency, a topic on which I am considered expert, but they didn't call me.

That may be why Charlie Pierce managed to get through the whole thing without ONCE mentioning the names Michael Copps and Jonathan Adelstein. This is like writing an article about the election without mentioning the names George W. Bush and John Kerry.

Of course, Pierce is very, very liberal, as anyone who reads his entertaining letters to Romanesko's page knows. And Copps and Adelstein, the most vehemently anti-indecency, anti-Stern FCC Commissioners, are liberal Democrats. Any reason Charlie wouldn't want anyone to know that?

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It's been freakishly hot here, hotter than it usually gets this close to the ocean. And without air conditioning, it's a bear, so much so that it's been sucking all creativity right out of my mind, and I didn't have much to spare to begin with.

That is to say, I got nuthin'.

Again.

(If I got paid for this, maybe I'd find the muse. All I got right now are the tree rats scurrying along the fence outside my office window, and all they're inspiring are fantasies of D-Con and Mouse-Prufe. In an air-conditioned world.)

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We stopped by Largo last night to see the inimitable Greg Behrendt's monthly "Bring the Rock" show, featuring the Sklar Brothers admitting to being Huey Lewis and the News fans as kids, random observations from President of Beers candidate Bob Odenkirk, Nina Gordon covering NWA, Grant Lee Phillips doing some comedy along with his music... and then there was Chris Hardwick, my old morning guy when we were both struggling to wake up early enough to do the early shift at Y-107, with a rare live performance of "Rodeohead."

See, he and his friend Greg Phirman ("Hard 'n' Phirm"- yes) were goofing around and came up with the joke name, then, instead of immediately forgetting it like the rest of us would, went out and worked up a full-bore bluegrassy medley of Radiohead songs. You can download it here. If you like Radiohead, or even just know the songs, you will laugh. Amazing. Chris, you done good.

Oh, and a HUGE celebrity sighting just beforehand, at Canter's deli across the street: Shatner. Yes, Shatner. Bill, lay off the cheesecake, dude, you got a gut like mine right now.

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The real crime, we were told over and over again in 1972, wasn't the actual act, it was the coverup. If only Nixon hadn't tried to cover it up, they said, this wouldn't have been so terrible.

Okay, fine. But what if the crime and the coverup are one and the same?

Sandy Berger stuffed classified papers down his pants and into his socks, papers that ended up conveniently "missing," for a reason. He, or someone who sent him in there, did not want anyone to see what was on those papers. And we know that the papers in question involved critical evaluations of the Clinton administration's handling of the terrorist threat.

I don't want to jump to conclusions, but the conclusions are jumping to me.

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From CNN:

Law enforcement sources said archive staff members told FBI agents they saw Berger placing items in his jacket and pants, and one archive staffer told agents that Berger also placed something in his socks.

That latter allegation drew a sharp response from Berger associate and former White House lawyer Lanny Davis, who challenged any unnamed official who makes such an accusation to come forward publicly.

"I suggest that person is lying," he said. "And if that person has the guts, let's see who it is who made the comment that Sandy Berger stuffed something into his socks."

But stuffing something into his jacket and into his pants- that's not a problem, is it, Lanny?

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Hello, Cleveland! Are you ready to RAWWWWWKKKK?

(Mild laughter, then confused looks, coughing, murmuring)

If you're a performer and you want to get an audience to love you, you can always resort to pandering to their prejudices, but, at least in America, you'll probably have people rolling their eyes and thinking "shut up and sing," unless you're a) surrounded by like-minded people, like the crowd at a Steve Earle concert, or b) at a Skrewdriver or Toby Keith concert, something like that. It's a cheap way to get a fist pump and a "yeahhhh!", but in most cases, people react like the Aladdin crowd when Linda Ronstadt turned into Roger Ebert (figuratively and physically, apparently) and started touting "Fahrenheit 9/11" on stage- it'll range from head shaking to boos to outright anarchy, but it won't get you the love.

Which brings us to Bonnie Raitt. It's been long established that she's a leftie, which is her right, and she's anti-war, which is fine, too, although people like her never really have an answer when you ask them exactly how they'd fight back against terrorism (they tend to murmur something about "understanding why they're upset at us" and then excuse themselves). But if you're an American performing overseas, it takes zero courage to do this in Sweden:

"We're gonna sing this for George Bush because he's out of here, people!" Raitt crowed Tuesday night before she launched into the opening licks of "Your Good Thing (Is About to End)," a cover that was featured on her 1979 album, "The Glow."

Right. You go where you know the locals hate America (sure, they like American performers and like American money, but the idea of America, where you have to actually work and perform to be paid... no, that won't do at all) and you tell them that, hey, I may be American, but I'm with you, I hate that evil monkey, too, and we're gonna get RID of him and get a nice, passive guy in there who won't fight back when attacked! And you get this:

Raitt's comments resulted in a round of applause and even whistles from among the estimated 3,000 concertgoers at the Swedish capital's annual jazz event held on the banks of the downtown Skeppsholmen island. Swedes are skeptical of Bush, and the Scandinavian country refused to support his efforts in the U.S.-led invasion of Iraq in 2003.

But wait a minute. Don't Europeans whistle when they want to DISapprove of something? Aren't whistles in Europe like boos in Philadelphia?

Yes, they are.

So, was this a mixed reaction?

"Even whistles."

I may be way off, but that sounds mixed to me. Interesting.

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Mr. Larry Wachs of Atlanta, GA writes:

Curb Your Enthusiasm-2nd Season is out, but I bought the first season and have decided that whole seasons of TV shows released on DVD are not my thing for a night's viewing. Part of the joy of TV series viewing is the anticipation of that one precious half-hour a week. Watching them as a marathon is like eating ice cream every meal for a couple of days.

Oh, but you are wrong, sir, or, more precisely, it depends on the show and the use thereof. As an experienced TV-on-DVD guy, allow me to make some suggestions on what to get and how to watch:

1. Family Guy. A must-have. Every once in a while, you'll think, geez, I need a laugh, and, guaranteed, you'll laugh.

2. South Park. Ditto. Comedy Central plays them a lot, but it's not the same as on-demand. Plus, you never know when you'll suddenly think, you know, I'd like to see the one with Cartman in the Hitler outfit.

3. The Office. I never, ever get tired of this show. It's funny each time. And it gives you the option of going directly to some of the best moments, like The Dance or when they leave the girl in the wheelchair in the stairwell during the fire drill or Tim's "Hat FM." Priceless AND reasonably priced at the same time.

4. The Honeymooners. Remember when you were growing up, lonely and miserable late in the evening, looking for something to cheer you up? Okay, YOU didn't, but I did, and that's when Channel 11 in New York and Channels 17 or 29 or 48 (the original, good Channel 48) in Philadelphia would come through with things like "The Odd Couple" or "The Best of Groucho" or, if you were lucky, Ralph and Norton and "Chef of the Future" ("Can it core a apple?") and the $99,000. Answer ("Ed Norton?") and "Do the Hucklebuck" and "Hello, ball." They have the original 39- the only really great ones- all on one set, with better picture quality, a bonus with the original unseen-in-48-years opening and closing sequences, and, once again, you don't sit there watching 6 in a row, you put it in when you really need a Channel 11 night.

5. Green Acres- the First Season. Trust me on this one.

I'd also keep "Curb Your Enthusiasm" around- you'll want to go back and review someday- and "The Simpsons" and "The Flintstones" (first season only, with the Rock Roll and Hot Lips Hannigan and Flintstone Flyer and backyard pool episodes) and maybe "King of the Hill" and "Coupling" (UK version- the US version will never be on DVD, a good thing) and, you know, that should take care of things.

And, actually, having ice cream every meal for a couple of days isn't necessarily a bad thing. Depends on the ice cream.

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I'm supremely unmotivated at the moment- waiting for the plumber (again! And it's preventing me from heading to the Dodger game), bored, idly watching the Phillies game, or, more precisely, the between-innings not-for-air stuff where the commercials normally go (they just showed random shots of Ashburn Alley, punctuated by some trial runs of graphics and a shot of a pretty woman in the field boxes), munching on jerky and trying to stay awake. In short, a typical Friday afternoon for everyone, which is why you gotta hand it to the Bush administration, waiting until Friday afternoon before suddenly announcing that, somehow, by magic, they've found those previously "destroyed" Bush military payroll records. And they say it doesn't show anything new, and doesn't prove or disprove anything about whether he was serving or not during the period in question. Doesn't matter- by releasing it now, too late for the Friday papers, too early for the Sunday papers, just right for the Saturday papers and news shows, which nobody reads or watches. That's S.O.P. for people with something to hide- tell the world about it on Friday afternoon.

See? You stopped reading back at "pretty woman in the field boxes." It's Friday. Nobody cares. Right now, the news is a blur of hostages, Linda Ronstadt, and Sandy Berger's pants. It makes me wonder what's really in those military records, but we'll never find out, because whatever damning evidence there'll be will end up buried on some Friday afternoon.

I'd come up with an ending for this, but it's Friday, and nobody will read it anyway. So I'll save it. Now, where did I put that jerky?

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From the May 30-June 5, 1964 New England edition of TV Guide:

Doesn't this ad seem more like a threat than a promotion?

Of course, you didn't have a huge choice that night- it was the evening of the California primary, so you weren't likely to find a lot of entertainment anyway. But get a load of Bob's scowl. You know there's going to be Comedy Tonight with that face.

Two days after the convention, same channel, this:

Wonder whatever happened to that guy...

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We bought a new bed today.

Oh, yeah, well, what did you do with YOUR Sunday?

I thought it would be more difficult, but a) we needed, at long last, a real soft king-sized bed like real adult couples have, b) we knew what the price ballpark should be, c) we bounced on beds at Macy's first and took notes, and d) we found a good deal and grabbed it. Of course, the price was not exactly small change, but it's only money. Hadda, so did.

There wasn't much dispute over the choice or the cost- we both like the pillow-top, we knew we were in for a big expense. In fact, there was one issue, one thing we had to think of before telling the salesman to wrap it up.

Ella.

Ella the World's Most Famous Cat likes to sleep on our bed. This new bed is substantially higher than the present 12 year old deal, and we had to think about her leaping abilities- after all, we didn't want to have the poor little girl unable to join us in our splendor. Then Fran reminded me that she jumps onto the dresser and the bookshelves, and I remembered that when there's a moth or spider high up on the other side of the glass, she gets up there like Michael Jordan.

Sold!

And now comes the part I hadn't really thought much about. New bed, new size... new bedding. Fran loves this- she's ready to buy all new sheets and comforters and a new headboard and everything. I, on the other hand, trudged through Bed Bath and Beyond and Linens and Things thinking "they get HOW MUCH for this stuff?" And we have to get fitted sheets with extra-big pockets, 18 inchers, sheets that are in short supply and tend to cost more. I think this was part of Fran's secret plan all along.

I'm gonna leave this to her anyway. I've done my share. Instead of going to the Dodger game, I spent my Sunday shopping for mattresses and bedding. That's gotta win me some points on the Good Husband scale, right?

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I'm sorry. Did you say there's a political convention going on? Sorry, I wasn't around to watch any of it. We had to go out shopping for bed sheets. And the Dodger game was on the radio.

The political stuff's been getting to be too uninteresting for me again. That's a dangerous condition for someone who makes a living having an opinion about politics, but I'm going to admit something here that I reserve the right to retract at any time: at the moment, I don't really care about any of it.

It's weird, really, since my friends seem to have gotten more interested in recent days- I've been drawn into several political discussions in the last week. But my heart's not in it, because I have way too many other things on my mind. Iraq? The economy? Gas prices? The NL East race? Please- I can't control any of it, and whatever happens, happens. I'm not involved in war planning, the Treasury, commodities trading, or Larry Bowa's brain trust. I'm just some guy in L.A. with a car that really needs an oil change one of these days, some aching muscles, a scratch on his forearm where the cactus plant was sticking out as he passed on his run, a ton of bills, several arguments with financial institutions over pieces of his father's estate, and the lingering gloom from said father's passing just about two months ago. Clinton's giving a speech? If he's not IN THIS ROOM giving the talk to ME on an individual basis, right now, I just don't care. We have several months left before we get to vote. There's plenty of time.

Besides, what good are conventions anyway? The nominees have been in place for a while, the speeches say nothing new, the platforms are built to be dismantled as soon as the last balloon reaches the rafters. They're places for the elite to meet and the rest of us to... I don't know what the rest of us are supposed to do, but caring isn't on that list. I got my own problems.

So, no, I don't have a pithy, witty comment on Clinton's performance, or Gore's, or anyone else's. Want a comment on Macy's system of ordering merchandise from another store in another state when the size you want is out of stock?

No?

'S all I got right now. Maybe I'll be more motivated tomorrow.

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The L.A. Times has an article this morning about Rev. Al Sharpton. It's more of a loving profile by Robin Abcarian, a former talk radio host who, apparently, has been blinded and bedazzled by the glow of the Rev.'s personality. The article's in the arts-and-leisure Calendar section, meaning that only paid subscribers can access it on the web, so for those of you who can't see it, here's a summary:

Paragraph 1: Rev. is generous.
Paragraph 2: Rev. makes quip about generosity.
Paragraph 3: Rev. has changed, not a reckless demagogue anymore.
Paragraph 4: Rev. is a crowd favorite.
Paragraph 5: Rev. speaks tonight!
Paragraph 6: Rev. has fan in Harvard law professor. Rev. is Fannie Lou Hamer of his generation.
Paragraph 7: Rev. didn't do as well as Carol Moseley Braun and Jesse.
Paragraph 8: Rev. isn't loved by Jesse.
Paragraph 9: Rev. acts triumphant anyway.
Paragraph 10: Rev. didn't even win South Carolina black vote.
Paragraph 11: Rev. has small staff, makes up for it with irrepressible optimism.
Paragraph 12: Rev. has Spike TV, MSNBC deals.
Paragraph 13: Rev.'s fan at Harvard gushes that Rev. will speak at convention.
Paragraph 14: Rev. now backing Kerry.
Paragraph 15: Rev. coy about speech topic. Rev. is family man.
Paragraph 16: Rev. is family man, worries about family safety.
Paragraph 17: Rev. campaigns for Kerry at churches.
Paragraph 18: Rev. meets Bush, trashes Bush.
Paragraph 19: Rev. finishes trashing Bush.

But in all of this admiration, there are a few missing pieces.

No mention of Tawana Brawley and Steven Pagones.

No mention of Michael Jackson.

No mention of Michael Franzese and the lawsuit.

No mention of how he gets his money.

How do you write a sizeable article about Rev. Al Sharpton and leave out any mention of any of this stuff? It's like writing a profile about Bill Clinton without mentioning the impeachment and the blue dress, like writing an article about George W. without mentioning Iraq. This stuff's critical to the story- the fact that the Democrats are welcoming, celebrating a guy who accused cops of rape and has yet to admit that the story wasn't true belongs in any article about him, yet Abcarian manages to get through 19- 19 paragraphs without even hinting that Sharpton might have some issues deeper than not having won South Carolina or having ticked off Rev. Jesse Jackson in some unspecified way.

And I have to PAY to get this stuff delivered to my driveway.

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I don't know whether it's wise to write about a customer service snafu when you're still freshly seething over it, so I'll keep this brief:

In my opinion, ING Direct, the online banking operation, treats the customer like crap.

I have provided them with more paperwork- 34 PAGES- to close my late father's account and return the money to his brick-and-mortar bank account than I have had to provide to anyone- banks, brokerages, even the State of Florida do not require as much. And it took a FULL MONTH for them to decide that they wanted MORE, MORE THAN EVEN THE STATE OF FLORIDA REQUIRES. And that's not the outrageous part. See, after I sent them that paperwork by Certified Mail, they took a month to decide they wanted more...

...and DIDN'T TELL ME.

They didn't call. They didn't write. They didn't e-mail. AND THEY WEREN'T GOING TO.

So I called to find out what was going on and was told that I had to send more, paperwork I don't have because I didn't need it and in order to GET it, I have to have my attorneys do it at great expense. So I asked them to reconsider, because they were already in full possession of proof that a) my father is dead, b) I'm the executor/personal representative, and c) I've sent instructions on what to do with the account. And the CSR told me someone would get back to me in a day or two with an answer.

A week later, I called to find out why they hadn't gotten back to me. Answer: THEY WEREN'T GOING TO GET BACK TO ME.

Judging by my experience, it seems to me that it's ING Direct's corporate policy NOT to respond to questions, problems, or anything else. I was told by a CSR and a supervisor that consumers may only speak to sales reps, and that the office in Minnesota "doesn't take phone calls." Or give them. Or send e-mails, or take them from customers. It's like they're hermetically sealed up in St. Cloud.

They just don't want to let go of the money, do they?

So here it is, two months after my father died, and there's one financial institution that refuses to make things easier on the survivors. Thank you, ING Direct. I'm sure you have several branches in Hell.

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Speech? What speech? There's a speech on TV?

Screw that. Our new bed showed up.

Excuse me.

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I've been working out with weights lately, because my daily run hasn't been doing it for me lately. I still run every day, but after 23 years, my body doesn't care HOW much cardio I do. You look at me, you don't see a guy who runs 6 miles a day. You see a stocky, flabby guy, not exactly Michael Moore fat, more like a guy with a little bit- okay, more than a little bit- of a gut. And I hate being that out of shape, hence the weight thing. My goal: I don't know. Maybe some toning. Maybe some weight loss. A six-pack isn't going to happen, that's for sure, but I needed to do SOMEthing.

So three times a week, I head for the Y and do some weights, which has become a daily exercise in emasculation. See, I really don't know WHAT I'm doing there. I've gotten advice from friends who lift, I've checked books, I even had a trainer at the Y walk me through the equipment, although I suspect he knew not a whole lot more than I did. The upshot is that I go there and I imagine that I look like a weak, clueless fool. I can't really lift a lot of weight- even using that machine with hooks and pulleys that help you cheat a little with the bar, I can't really do a lot of weight. (Forget the bench with no hooks and pulleys- I can't keep the bar straight, I wobble, I get spastic) I can do the "machines," those circuit things, but so can the elderly and infirm. The Real Man stuff, the free weights in the Real Man corner of the weight room, well, I look like Jerry Lewis out there. And I'm surrounded by guys who KNOW what they're doing, and I just know they're snickering at me.

I understand the appeal of the home gym, really, I do.

But I'm going anyway, because my suspension of vanity for an hour will, I hope, feed my vanity soon enough. I'm never going to look like the guys in Men's Health magazine- I don't WANT to look like that- but at some point I might look like I know what I'm doing in the free weight area. That would be a good start.

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