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This week's All Access newsletter tries to coax radio hosts into letting listeners see their true selves, plus a gratuitous swipe at a pop icon:

This week's lecture: stop apologizing for talking about "American Idol"!

Next week: A heartfelt apology to Billy Joel, his fans, and Long Island.

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One week, January 22-28, 1977, one TV Guide:

Steve Railsback's finest moment:

Future Nuts of America!:

They dance! They sing! They embarrass! Featuring Kaptain Kool and the Kongs (featuring Michael Lembeck and Louise DuArt!), Rip Taylor, and the Krofftette Dancers!:

The powerful personality of Daryl Dragon!:

Roz Kelly, the True Hollywood Story!:

And some show with Ed Asner:

What's amazing about "Roots" to me is that you're talking about a show that had Sandy Duncan, Boom-Boom Washington, Robert Reed, Shaft, Morticia Addams, Burl Ives, and George Hamilton, and it's STILL considered great TV.

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Went to "Whale of a Day" today- that's the event they hold every year down the street for kids to learn about the ocean and ecology and stuff. Fran does the publicity for it, and it was very nice indeed.

But the highlight was this:

Everybody run!

Always nice to be a target for the Youth of America.

But boys will, of course, always be boys:

I predict big things for this kid.

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Ladies and gentlemen, shot on location and wholly unscripted, here it is, the long-awaited world premiere of the major motion picture...

"The Dog."

"Never heard of it!"- Richard Roeper, Chicago Sun-Times

"I thought I told you not to bother me at work!"- Manohla Dargis, New York Times

"Who is this, anyway?"- Carina Chocano, Los Angeles Times

Featuring The Kid In Pink Jeans as His/Herself!

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Trust me, I'm in no mood to write anything right now.

I spent much of the day either on the phone with Sprint tech support or in the Sprint store waiting for my Treo 700wx to be fixed. The sequence:

1. Went running, pulled out phone, checked e-mail, wouldn't connect to Internet.
2. Tried several times. Nothing.
3. Called tech support. 10 minutes on hold, talked to CSR, 10 more minutes on hold, talked to another CSR, hung up and waited for call back, got call back, 10 minutes on hold.
4. Tech support guy had me sync phone, then hard reset, then resync. Now no Internet, no phone calls, all programs gone, all e-mail accounts wiped, all speed dials wiped.
5. Reinstalled some programs. Still no calls, no Internet.
6. Drove to Sprint store. Got calls working. No Internet.
7. Left phone with tech department. Went home. Worked. Felt naked and isolated without cell phone.
8. Went back to Sprint store. Phone works! Eureka! But still have to reinstall stuff.

And now I'm aggravated and behind on work. But at least the phone works. For now.

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Lord, am I unmotivated tonight. Too busy. And I can't even get anything going by perusing the old reliable TV Guides for scan material.

Well, here's one from October 10, 1957:

I watched "Zorro" as a kid. It was a few years after this, of course- they reran the thing into the ground. But even though I remember watching it, all I can remember is what everyone can remember:

Zzzp-zzzp-ZZZP!

Three swipes of the sword. La Gran Z. That's all. I remember nothing else of it. I'll bet 90% of people my age remember watching it but can only remember the Z.

Who was Zorro? Why was he masked and running around slashing Zs into everything?

Dunno. Just remember the Z. Sorry.

I TOLD you I had nothing today.

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I want a soft pretzel.

Not one of those Superpretzels in the frozen food case- those are ballpark pretzels, too soft.

Not the kind you get from a cart in New York, toasted on foil along with chestnuts nobody ever actually buys.

Not Auntie Anne's or any other mall knockoff of the kind you get at Fisher's in Reading Terminal Market- Fisher's is fantastic, but that's not what I want.

Not hard pretzels. I have a box of Snyder's hard sourdough pretzels- good, tasty, not what I want.

I want a soft pretzel.

Like these. Or these. Or these. The kind you get at the end of the off ramps off I-95 in a paper bag. The kind you get at the Wawa along with your Daily News and a bottle of Mountain Dew. The kind you squirt French's yellow mustard all over. The kind that are harder than "soft" but softer than hard- you know what I mean. Doughy, dense, chewy. A real authentic Philly soft pretzel. That's what I want.

Can't get one, not tonight, at least. But I want it.

I was driving home from the gym today when I felt it. The craving hit hard and out of the blue- I have no idea why- and I had to think hard whether there's any place in Los Angeles to get a real Philadelphia soft pretzel. Maybe one of those faux-cheesesteak joints, but we don't have any in the South Bay. You can order boxes of them, but a) that takes time, and b) I don't want THAT many pretzels. OK, I do, but I'd only eat them all in one sitting and I wouldn't be able to fit into my clothes.

I want one soft pretzel. Maybe two. Yeah, two. Right now. Is that too much to ask?

Anyone enterpreneurial enough to open a real pretzel stand in the South Bay will have at least one customer from day one. But tonight, I'm just going to have to fight the craving.

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Today's All Access newsletter is about theft versus "homage," sort of:

Here's where I take something entirely unrelated to radio, labor mightily to make it somehow relevant, fail miserably, and end up just plugging the columns and getting out of here. It's what I do best.

And if you're attending that talk radio thing in Marina del Rey over the next few days, I'll see you there. As usual, just look for the most uncomfortable-looking guy in the room.

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It was a long day at the talk radio convention and I'm way too beat and incoherent to write anything now. To the most frequently-asked question "so, what are you gonna write about from this convention?", the answer is: check back when my brain's working.

But today was a nice day, I saw and/or met many cool people, and while there's still party action going on over in Marina del Rey, I've hit the wall. Waking up at 3:45 am every day will do that to you. G'night.

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I'll probably address some of the substantive issues raised at the Talk Radio Seminar in "The Letter" later in the week. Not discussing them now is a labor-saving device- I'd rather write stuff once and reach both the blog audience and the newsletter subscribers at the same time. Plus, I'm lazy and tired, so later in the week it is.

But while there was actual substance being discussed- not always well, not always effectively, but at least being kicked around for once- the event is always more a social situation, and it's nice to see the friends and acquaintances you only get to see at these things. It's also a great ego boost (yeah, I really need a bigger head) when people who read All Access and this here thing let you know it; I know what the numbers are, but everybody loves to hear it in person. And I met a lot more good people. Good times.

And Stan Freberg was there with his wife Hunter. Stan Freberg sat next to me at lunch. Stan Freakin' Freberg. Pete Puma, "Time For Beany," "St. George and the Dragonet," "Stan Freberg Presents the United States of America," all those commercials. All I could do is smile and be polite, because the only alternative would have been to be a fanboy pestering him about his days working with Daws Butler. Lunch with Stan Freberg.

Good weekend.

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Pardon my treacle for a moment while I allow myself a little stroll down memory lane...

It got hot here today, nineties in the Valley and just very warm here by the ocean. We went for a walk in the neighborhood after dinner, the breeze was fairly stiff and dry and the temperature still hot, the sun was rapidly going down, and I had one of those moments where your senses transport you back to another time. The weather, the surroundings... something triggered this:

It was about 1964 or 1965. We- Mom, Dad, Joan, me- were in the Rambler, pulling into the gravel lot of the Paramus Drive-In on a summer evening. I don't know what movie we would have been seeing, but I could feel the warm breeze with the windows rolled down, I could hear the car wheels grinding to a halt, I could see the clunky speaker/heaters on the poles and the sounds of the playground up by the screen and the smells of the snack bar in the back were as real as they were over 40 years ago. It all came to me in a flash, and left as quickly as they washed over me.

I don't particularly miss the drive-ins. They were far from the best way to see a movie, and by the time I was old enough to have any use for a makeout location, they were mostly gone. They were uncomfortable, the picture was lousy, the sound tinny, the food atrocious, the noise from other cars and people distracting. But it wasn't about the movie experience. It was about the sense of family, of being together, a sense that at the time seemed destined to last forever. That it wouldn't last forever wasn't something on my radar at that age.

Mom and Dad are gone. Joan's on the other coast- we're still close and we see each other as much as we can, but we're adults with different lives about 2,500 miles apart. For a moment, though- maybe a split second at most- the breeze brought us all back together in my mind. I might be clinically insane, but there it was, the grey Rambler parked on the gravel, waiting for the sun to finally go down all the way so something in Technicolor could fire up on the screen, debating whether I'd want popcorn or one of those metal-roller hot dogs left over from the Eisenhower administration. There are worse things to recall when the weather brings out what's deep in your memory.

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Heard my old friend Jeff on the radio today explaining why he wouldn't be on the air this week. Last Friday, his stomach started to hurt during his show, and by the time he got home he was puking in mass quantities. But with the pain still there, he did what I'd like to think we all do: he tried to sleep through it until the pain got so intense that he... looked up his symptoms and realized that he might possibly have appendicitis. Which he did. And only then did he haul himself to the hospital.

That's what guys do, of course. We hurt, and we wait, and we tough it out. I think that's because for most of us, we get away with it for the first 40 years. And then we hit the part where the hurt may mean something more, and we don't go to the doctor because parts of our brains are telling us it's nothing, and the other parts are afraid that's not necessarily the case.

I'd like to think I'm getting better about that. The medical incidents of the last 15 years or so have sufficiently scared me into getting things checked out. Every blemish and mole sends me to the dermatologist. Every minor ache and pain gives me an initial scare: gas could be a kidney stone or, worse, some unpronounceable malady, a pulled muscle could be debilitating. The "C" word is, unfortunately, part of our daily discussion now. But I still stall before going to the doctor. I still hesitate, hoping that "it's nothing." And, usually, it is. But the older we get, the more we're tempting fate that way.

I feel okay tonight, though. Maybe I should get that checked out.

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It's late and it was a long day with a lot of driving and much cell-phone-related aggravation. Maybe I need a pick-me-up. From 1973:

That's right, what the liberated woman of 1973 needed was a jolt of caffeine. In today's more enlightened era, we know that what everyone needs is a case of Red Bull. Or some crystal meth.

None of which would keep me awake right now. So I'm not gonna fight the feeling. More tomorrow.

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In my continuing quest to post stuff on pop culture ephemera that nobody else seems to have posted, one question has been a real headscratcher:

Whatever happened to Hank McCune?

The only reason anyone knows the name Hank McCune at all is that he was the star of an eponymous 1950 TV sitcom that was the first TV show to use canned laughter. Do a search on him and that's all that comes up- canned laughter. These people were shown as the studio audience, but they weren't who you heard:

But who the hell was Hank McCune and why did he rate his own TV show?

Beats me. I did some research and found only dribs and drabs: he was the host of a radio show at the time of the TV show. He was Air Force buddies with Sam Arkoff, who helped Hank get his show and who later went on to much B-movie fame as the man behind American International Pictures, producer of the Roger Corman and Frankie-and-Annette flicks. His cast included old reliables Frank Nelson, Larry Keating, and Arthur Q. Bryan- Elmer Fudd!- and the show was a sort of show-within-a-show conceit, with Hank playing himself as the star of a variety show, but with (very unfunny) sketches. He later did a syndicated version of the show in 1953, then some very cheap movies (more on that later), and by the end of the 1950s he'd disappeared. There' seemed to be no trace of Hank McCune after that. Is he still alive (he'd be 90 now)? Apparently not- I found a blog entry that has him dying in the 90's in Oregon.

But he had a TV show. In 1950, he was successful enough to be on NBC.

Not much of the TV show exists today- just some poor public domain video. The opening of the show had a cartoon version of Hank pulling a curtain across the stage:

Keating addressed the audience to set up the show, referring to McCune as "our boy with the king-sized ears." Apparently, that was the comic hook into the world of Hank McCune:

And then came sketches, full of the most obvious and unfunny lines. This sketch with Arthur Q. (in full Fudd mode) featured McCune as "McCunebus" (Columbus) on the way to discovering America and inexplicably chained to Arthur Q. for some terrible slapstick...

...including the piece de resistance: Hank's on the top bunk, Arthur Q. has to puke, Arthur Q. runs to the loo...

...and hilarious consequences ensue.

I did want to post this, though...

...because there is no other picture of Hank McCune on the Internet. EVERYBODY'S on the Internet, but even Hank McCune's IMDB page has very little about the guy.

And there's a little more. Those movies he made? One's called "Wetbacks"- no, really- starring Lloyd Bridges (!) and Harold "The Great Gildersleeve" Peary as "Juan Ortega"(!) in a tale, directed by McCune, of illegal immigrant smuggling. The guy was prescient! He also made a movie you can see online, "A Life At Stake," a "Double Indemnity"-style thriller with Angela Lansbury (!) and Keith Andes for which McCune wrote the story. And he took one last shot at acting stardom, playing "himself" in a 1956 movie "The Go-Getter," with Arthur Q., Ellen Corby (Grandma Walton!), and still-active character actress Beverly Garland in the cast. That's when the trail runs cold.

But not really. Remember that blog entry? That was the key, because it was about a boat that he'd owned that someone ended up buying: turns out he went into boat making. He designed and built boats. And there's a Wikipedia page- as yet uncategorized- headlined "Hank McCune Built Yachts." And so he did.

And there ya go, more about Hank McCune in one place than ever before. It's your One-Stop Shop for Hank McCune information- a celebrity of yesteryear immortalized on the World Wide Web. Someone had to do it.

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This week's All Access newsletter takes radio to task for the lameness of the average station web site, as if this one's much better (it hasn't gone out yet as of early this evening, so this is a sneak preview for some):

Would you have all of the shows on your station talk about stuff that's months or even years old?

There were other things that came up last weekend, but I'll save 'em for next week. I've done enough kvetching for now.

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It's late and I got nothin'. The Villanova game is not on here- USC-Arkansas gets the nod for L.A.- and I'm not in much of a mood to write anything amusing right now.

So go here and enjoy the World's Worst Children's Songs Ever, as performed by Grandma Lipstick. The segment is from the late lamented Regular Guys show on the late, less lamented 96 Rock in Atlanta, and in the clip you'll hear such musical genius as the Paper Bag Trilogy, including the unforgettable "Paper Bag Lunch," which will haunt you to your grave. Will someone just hire Larry Wachs already? The world needs radio like this.

Tomorrow: I enrich myself with the arts. Don't ask.

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Ladies and gentlemen, as promised, a little culture for your weekend.

Welcome to the La Quinta Arts Festival in La Quinta, California...

...where the temperature was a cool, comfortable 104 this afternoon. The temptation was to jump in here...

...but the water was probably bacteria-laden. Besides, there was much art to be experienced. Art, for instance, like this guy:

He had stilts AND wings and flounced around as if we were supposed to recognize him as art or something. Er, yeah. And he had an accomplice:

No, I didn't really get her, either.

But here's me with art:

Kinda looks like the Esquire guy. The art, that is, not me. Here's me with more art:

I'd been there for all of 10 minutes and the sweat was beginning to gush. Dry heat, my ass. 104 is freakin' hot. I tried to reason with this guy, but he showed no sympathy:

Okay, I was hallucinating. But there was so much more to see, and I was determined to see it all.

Couldn't see anything there, though. Just looked like random squiggles.

All right, I'm being stupid. There was a lot of culture there. I was especially impressed with this display:

People were walking in and out of there, doing their business. Won't they be surprised to discover that it was all an art installation! It WAS an art installation, wasn't it? It wasn't? Then what was that where I went to the... oh, geez. Sorry.

But it wasn't all paintings and pottery and stuff. There was also music.

This guy's booth claimed he's "Bend, Oregon's Favorite Musician." I have no reason to doubt it. But how hard can it be to achieve that? What's the competition? He wasn't at his booth, and there weren't even samples, so I didn't get to hear what's cutting edge in Bend, Oregon these days. Pity.

I have no idea what this guy's act is:

A flimsy orange robe, dreads and beard... er, okay. Whatever, dude. You're an "artist," so you get to wear whatever you want. Good for you.

Here's a piece of art that caught my eye:

Number 2. I guess it belongs on the wall of someone with an inferiority complex. A display of license plate twos, for the discerning art collector who'll settle for second best.

This year's festival, measured against past festivals, was somewhat disappointing: it was smaller, had fewer artists, and had a much, much smaller crowd than we've seen in past years. But it was special to us nonetheless, because a year ago at this time, we were neck deep in medical drama. We missed last year's because we were dealing with far more pressing problems. That we were able to show up this year is an achievement for which we're beyond grateful. 104 degrees? No problem. Beats what things were like this time last year.

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And because I had to work all day today- I've about had it with working on Sunday, you know- here's another highlight from yesterday's trip to La Quinta, a little Shakyvision video from my pocket digital camera of the entertainment for the afternoon. Enjoy!

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Bad mood again. I reserve the right to remain silent.

So I will.

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What kind of a day has it been?

Glad you asked. Right now, the plumber's still trying to unclog the drain that is presently blocking the only shower and tub we have, plus the toilet and sinks. No amount of snaking from either end seems to be making a dent. Unless the pipe's being blocked by cement, I can't imagine what the problem is. It's not where roots are a problem, we don't flush anything but what's supposed to be flushed (e.g., stuff that breaks down in a short time), but so far, it's still plugged up. Can't find the blockage. When the plumber is baffled, you know it's going to be a long, tough ride.

So put that atop everything else and I'm in, if anything, a worse mood than yesterday. I haven't left the house all day, I desperately need a shower, I can't even wash off utensils (or my hands) to eat... not good.

YOU try to write funny stuff under these circumstances.

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A nation- nay, the world awaits the result of the Great Plumbing Nightmare of '07. Unfortunately, there is no news yet- they're under the house, they've cut away pipe, and Fran heard them say something to the effect of "that's the biggest mass I've ever seen." Fran immediately blamed me.

Don't hate me because I'm regular.

Anyway, I'm still kinda stuck here. I don't know when they're going to be done. In the meantime, that's all I got.

===============

Oh, and farewell, Cathy Seipp. Her writing and attitude and courage in the face of cancer were, to resort to the lamest of terms, an inspiration. Clearly, I am not alone in my opinion.

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Drain works! Drain works! Shower, toilet, sinks work! I'm several hundred dollars poorer! And I have to go out and get gallons of bleach and disinfectant to remove layers of sludge and clouds of odor from the bathroom tonight! Hooray!

I swear, if I don't start getting better news soon... although 2007 IS better than last year. The bar's been set pretty low.

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That'll teach me to post anything positive.

This morning, I flushed the newly re-functional toilet and heard a gurgle from the shower drain.

Yep. Back to square one.

I'm going to the Y to exercise and shower now. Maybe there'll be some convenient walls to punch.

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This week's All Access newsletter is about how I learned to stop worrying and love the... er, tolerate celebrity talk radio shows:

I'm going through a difficult week that involves the kind of plumbing problems where you just cower in a corner clutching your checkbook and weeping while a plumber hacks away at pipes under your house and occasionally just stands there scratching his head and saying things like "you know, I've never seen anything like THIS before." So I don't have a lot of time to write anything profound this week, but I wanted to get something out anyway. Apologies in advance for short length and lack of coherent thought, but being without a functioning shower or bath for three days with no end in sight will do that to you.

Next week: I finally get to take a shower at home. Maybe. You don't happen to have a really good plunger, do you?

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I hesitate to declare victory. After all, two nights ago, I thought I was out of the woods, little realizing that I was in for two more days of clogged-pipe hell. But so far, today's adventure- several more hours, several more hundreds of dollars- ended with me listening to rushing water flow through the cleanouts on the front lawn, a sign that the water running through the shower and bath drains was making it to the sewer system and freedom. It is very possible that the ordeal is over.

But I won't do the victory lap until... well, I'm not sure, but I'm going to keep an eye on the drains for a while. I've had more than enough visions of bubbling brown goo coming up from there to last a lifetime. But it's Friday night, so let's call it a week. This one couldn't end fast enough.

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Don't have much today. After a week consumed with plumbing catastrophes, there's nothing much rattling around inmy head other than "can we flush the toilet now?" and "please, please, shower, don't start backing up on us again." So far, we're clear, and while I STILL won't take a chance on declaring the situation stable, we're feeling more confident by the hour.

But I'm still wary about it. Paranoid might be a better word. I just know that the moment I stop obsessing about it, disaster will reoccur.

Meanwhile, I didn't do much else today- my sister arrived at LAX, we had dinner, we watched some TV. That's about it. We watched this special on the history of "Top of the Pops," which was pretty good, and a show about Philadelphia on Discovery HD, also good, and other random crap. How's that for SoCal excitement? Hey, when your mind is still somewhere in the pipes under the house, that's all the excitement you can handle.

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I didn't watch any of the NCAA games this weekend. I know I'm probably missing great basketball, but I haven't made time to watch. I think I know why:

1. I had other things to do.
2. No real underdogs left.
3. Don't care.

I do care, though. I just don't care enough. I think reason number 2 is the killer- they're all good teams and I have no rooting interest. I also have no rooting interest AGAINST anyone, either. I can't work up a good hatred for anyone. Duke's out, I don't hate Georgetown like back in the Thompson era, I don't even care to dislike Yannick's kid. It doesn't matter WHO wins. So, why watch?

Because I appreciate well-played, close, exciting games?

I do, but I need more than that right now. I need a better reason. Otherwise, I have better things to do.

And I wonder if I'm starting to feel that way about sports in general. I still watch, I still enjoy it, but I find myself just having less and less time to devote to it. I have less and less time to devote to everything. I have less and less time.

So I took a pass this weekend. The Florida game was on the TV screens at the Lazy Dog Café and I only glanced at it. I just plain forgot to watch Georgetown-North Carolina. Maybe I missed something... maybe I missed a memory that would have lasted a lifetime.

If so, I'll catch it on YouTube sometime.

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I got a congratulatory e-mail from Jennifer today, and for a moment I had no idea what she was talking about. A LONG moment. And then it dawned on me- Saturday was the fourth anniversary of the launch of this Web site.

Four years? I thought I'd been doing it for a dozen. Sometimes it FEELS that way.

I started this thing on March 24, 2003 as sort of a writing exercise- I wanted to see if I could just write about whatever happened to be on my mind every day, a column no newspaper would run, a place to write about what I can't write about at AllAccess.com. And it's evolved into... well, kind of the same thing, only more and more concerned with pop culture ephemera and less with the news and politics. That reflects where my mind's gone- the political battles are turning me off, especially in light of what's happened in my life since 2003.

Since I started writing at pmsimon.com, my dad passed away (which precipitated a legal battle of sorts that consumed more time and energy than I can ever forgive), we endured some major health challenges, and, um, I got four years older. It's been a strange period of my life, but there have been rewards, one of which is the gratitude I feel for having gotten here. There's also the gratitude I feel that people are actually taking this ride along with me- I never really expected an audience, but an audience is what I've found, even folks who aren't acquainted with me through the radio. That's a healthy ego boost, and I can always use that.

The last week or so has been spotty- I've been distracted, as you can tell. But I'll get back on track soon enough. The plumbing's working, for one thing. That has to count for something. Thank you for stopping by for the last four years. I'll try to reward your patronage with more and better content this year. It's about time I started to do that, isn't it?

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See this guy?

We were in a bookstore around lunchtime when this guy started talking on his cell phone in the store. That's no crime- everyone does it- but he was loud. Very loud. Rafter-shaking loud. He was discussing some business procedure, and every word was loud and clear to everyone in the store. Distracting isn't a strong enough word for it. People were trying to ignore him, but he wouldn't shut up.

I couldn't resist. I walked over to the shelves where he was shouting away.

"We have to go to City National Bank," he yelled. "The manager there is Shonda, but she's the only one there who can do it."

"So go to City National and ask Shonda to help you!", I helpfully yelled.

The guy looked at me, in shock. I told him he was an inconsiderate asshole. He turned around... and kept yelling, but slightly softer. And I walked away laughing.

Oh, I know I shouldn't do that. I should just walk away, or if I really can't, I should ask a store employee to do something. But they won't do anything, and I figure I was performing a public service. Someone needed to break it to this guy that he's a jackoff who needs to learn to take loud conversations outside or keep the conversations lower. Really. Dude was asking for it.

Okay, so it's not exactly Charles Bronson. But it needed to be done.

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No time to do actual writing tonight. So watch this:

I used to see that every day, WABC-TV at 4:30.

Or watch this:

An ABC promo for the season when "The Flintstones" jumped le sharque. Ann Margrock?

Then watch this:

Remember when "stronger than dirt" was a household phrase? Damn, we're old.

They still make at least one of these:

I was too young to realize that Quisp tasted a hell of a lot like Cap'n Crunch. Kinda like how Iams and Eukanuba taste strangely like the store brand.

Enough.

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Sorry, got back late. But one observation: driving down Robertson from Beverly Hills to Culver City this evening, a guy in a blue car was driving alongside us while reading a book.

No, really, he held a paperback in front of the steering wheel. Yes, he was moving. About 35 mph. Reading. I'm serious.

Forget banning cell phones. Now we have to ban books, too.

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This week's All Access newsletter utilizes a bit of hyperbole to make a point about the kind of folks who pine for days gone by to the detriment of new ideas. My classmates at Haverford and Villanova Law should be aware that I'm having some good-natured fun with them for entertainment purposes. Sort of:

I'm on some sort of e-mail list for my college reunion. The next reunion is this year, and my old classmates are all excited about getting back together and revisiting the good old days. They're ticking off names of people who'll be attending, and professors they'd like to invite, and memories of momentous occasions and old habits. It's been interesting to read all of this stuff, except for a few things:

Oh, yeah, one more thing: don't forget, April Fool's Day is Sunday, so if you hear something really stupid, outlandish, and unfunny that day, it's probably intended as a joke. Or it might be the new Will Ferrell movie. Hard to tell.

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It's been one year since a really difficult day. We're out celebrating a year of life and good times right now.

Have I ever told you Fran's my hero?

'Cause she is.

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What was I saying yesterday about nostalgia? (The difference being that I'm not looking to bring anything back for more than a quick trip down memory lane; I don't think airing old TV shows from the early 1960s in prime time would be preferable to more current programming. But you knew that)

Here we go, more old TV Guides, more scans to preserve pop culture ephemera for the Internet age.

From October, 1965, Cleveland edition:

How about that graphic? Okay, they probably got it from someplace else, but it's cool, even if they cut-and-pasted the call letters and information around it. I'd have watched.

And then there's an ad for a chain long gone:

There was a Burger Chef on Route 23 in Wayne, New Jersey, where I was raised, and we never went there. We preferred a couple of local chains, Goody's and Wetson's, and, of course, Gino's for both burgers and KFC, and later Hardee's and Burger King. We didn't get McDonald's until I was in high school- the nearest one was in Fair Lawn. Burger Chef seemed a little Brand X to us. I know it was huge in the Midwest; I don't remember it closing as much as fading away.

And it looks like someone vomited on that burger. M-m-m-m-m-m-m.

Now, to December 1966, Southwest Texas edition:

This station, KHTV Houston, signed on the air on January 6, 1967. It was Houston's first independent of note (there was a Dumont affiliate on channel 39, KNUZ-TV, in the 50's, but it died), and it did well- it's now KHCW, a Tribune-owned CW affiliate.

(UPDATE: Here's a YouTube clip with the history of KHTV/KHCW:)

And up the road in Lake Charles, LA:

A local show, and a fairly big one. Lee Janot (Lenore Janot Rew) died just this past January 21 in Florida- here's the story from her old station and here's the obit from the Orlando Sentinel. There used to be local shows like hers all over the country- easygoing local variety shows featuring whoever happened to be passing through town. Then everything got slicker and talk shows moved towards either big names (and, hence, Hollywood origination) or Donahue-Oprah-style topics or Springer-Maury exploitation, and there wasn't room for the local-yokel show anymore. I guess that was inevitable. Truth be told, the local shows weren't very exciting, and the few present-day stabs at the form (like WCAU-TV Philadelphia's "10!") are pretty painful. But I'd love to see tapes of old local shows like that. I wonder how much of it exists today- probably not much. The stuff just aired and the tapes got erased. I wish they'd have taken better care of TV history, but tapes cost money, so we're left with a picture of an ad from a TV Guide, and that's all. Oh, and some fading memories, of course.

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