PMSimon.com

About two months ago, my Slingbox died. It was the second one to fry, and I tried everything to fix it. I flashed the firmware. I checked the network connection, replaced the cable, did soft and hard resets. And, after several days' worth of trying, I just plain gave up.

Today, I needed to open up Word Mobile on my cell phone and my finger slipped, launching Sling Mobile instead. Out of curiosity, I checked to see if it would connect to the dead Slingbox...

...and there it was, video streaming from my cable box. Better than ever. No, I have absolutely no idea why it stopped working, nor why it's working now. It just is. And I won't argue, because the convenience of having MLB Network on my phone or on my computers without a converter box is one of life's little pleasures.

But before the thing magically repaired itself, I thought about replacing it again, and that would have been a no-brainer a year ago. Of COURSE I'd replace it, I would have thought. I don't use it all that much, but it's wonderful to know it's there. It's a lot easier and, ultimately, cheaper than renting a digital cable box just for the computer, and having cable TV on my cell phone makes waiting rooms and travel a little more pleasant. And when you're stuck in a hotel room someplace and the hotel TV has twelve channels, none of which you want to watch, having the Slingbox streaming whatever's on your home cable box and DVR is a valuable thing.

So why had I decided not to bother with a new one? That's what a cratering economy will do. My priorities aren't what they were before. Getting live TV wherever I might be seems like a luxury, even though it does amount to a necessity for my work when I need to have access to news and sports coverage. But I was willing to make do without it, and even the deteriorating performance of the TV cards in my desktop PC and the continually crashing XP Media Center wasn't making me pull out the credit card to drop another couple hundred on a new Slingbox. Just...not what I want to spend my money on these days.

Everybody's doing that, passing up even marginally necessary purchases. That's not great for the economy, but it has to happen. I was talking to Joe the other day about the NBA bailout -- something like 12 to 15 teams are getting emergency loans to get through the season -- and we agreed that this is going to be a major issue in pro sports for the next few years, and maybe longer, and may necessitate things like contraction. Of all the unnecessary expenses one can make, tickets to a pro sporting event would be right up at the top: way too expensive for the "privilege." I don't begrudge players for making a fortune -- after all, they generate the cash for the owners, so they deserve their fair share -- but when the gravy train derails, and it is right now, those salaries are a cruel joke.

Which, of course, raises the Manny question, and whether Manny and Boras were crazy/stupid/greedy to turn down $45 million for two years or whether the Dodgers were disingenuous in neglecting to mention that they intended to defer most of the money. The answer is that they're all living in another world, and it's more distasteful when you look at Dodger Stadium this weekend, where thousands of people descended on the park for a job fair to get one of 500 low-wage, seasonal jobs. Most weren't there as fans; they were there because they needed work, needed the money, needed the dignity of getting up in the morning with a place to go. Manny being Manny and hitting homers and helping the Dodgers into the playoffs, that's nice. But it's not that important. Not now.

At least, however, I can now watch whoever ends up on the Dodgers on my computer or cell phone. Didn't have to buy another Slingbox after all. But it'll have to last, because I'm not planning on replacing it any time soon.

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Not a lot of time today for such trifles as writing an entry here, or anything else, for that matter. So...

Chuck McCann!

"Wonderama," with Ali vs. Frazier... in marbles!:

Bozo on "What's My Line?"!:

That's enough for today.

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Not a lot of time today for such trifles as writing an entry here, or anything else, for that matter. So...

Chuck McCann!

"Wonderama," with Ali vs. Frazier... in marbles!:

Bozo on "What's My Line?"!:

That's enough for today.

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Not a lot of time today for such trifles as writing an entry here, or anything else, for that matter. So...

Chuck McCann!

"Wonderama," with Ali vs. Frazier... in marbles!:

Bozo on "What's My Line?"!:

That's enough for today.

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Not a lot of time today for such trifles as writing an entry here, or anything else, for that matter. So...

Chuck McCann!

"Wonderama," with Ali vs. Frazier... in marbles!:

Bozo on "What's My Line?"!:

That's enough for today.

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Today's highlights: car problems and a sort-of Kindle.

First, the car problems: when it was time to head for the gym for a midday workout, I flipped my stuff into the car, turned the key, and... nothing. The dashboard lights came on, the radio played, but the car just wouldn't start. I didn't like the fact that it didn't click, because that made me think I was in for a starter repair. I ended up calling AAA when my attempts to jump the car failed. Happy ending, for now, at least: The mechanic was able to jump the car in seconds. I ran the car for a half hour, and, as of this evening, it still works. Crisis averted, at least for now. I'll count that in the plus column for now.

And then there's the sort-of Kindle. I'm not in the market to buy the new Kindle 2, not at $399 or whatever they're charging for it. At that price, I'd rather buy regular old books. But the concept of an e-reader has my attention, at least, so when they announced the Kindle for iPhone application, I was intrigued. Sure, the screen is tiny, but if you could download and read books, and you already have the gear, that might just work. And, it turns out, I do have an iPod Touch, and the app works on the Touch, so I went ahead and downloaded it for a test run.

You can get the first chapter of books to see if you're interested, so I decided to do that, to see if the app and screen would be readable or unwieldy and too small. My choice was appropriate for the times, "The Forgotten Man" by Amity Shlaes, a history of the Great Depression, and one with a great first chapter that lays out her thesis and, not incidentally, makes you wonder about the present federal plans for the recession.

The process is surprisingly simple: You go to Amazon.com, pick a book, and click the link that downloads the free chapter. The page gives you a pull down menu on which your iPhone or iPod Touch is listed, and when you click the link, it tells you that the book will wirelessly appear on your device the next time you connect. You fire up the iPod Touch, turn on Wi-Fi, open the Kindle app, and it downloads in seconds.

But is it readable? So far, yes. The default typeface is large and clear, the background bright and white. Menus are visible when you touch the screen and disappear with another touch, meaning that when you're reading, the type fills the whole screen. You don't get a lot of words on each page, but changing "pages" is fast and simple, just a swipe of the finger. Type size can be adjusted, and at the end of the (substantial) sample, a link is provided to buy the whole thing.

Negatives? It would be nice if the page would rotate to landscape when you turn the device; you'd think they'd have remembered that there IS an accelerometer inside. I haven't tried to read the thing for a full book, and although I'm a fast reader, I wonder what it would be like to read stuff for, say, the length of a plane ride. There were a few typos, too, hyphens left in from the print version that only split words that didn't need to be split in the Kindle version. And you can't get newspapers or magazines, as you can with the Kindle itself; in static use like at home, that's not a problem, because you can go onto the Net for reading material like that, but for travel use, it would be nice to load a bunch of magazines onto the iPod Touch.

But I'm happy with this thing, and I might even buy some books for it. I won't, however, if they keep pricing the way it is; "The Forgotten Man" is the same price for the paperback as for the Kindle version, yet there's no paper, no packaging, no delivery involved other than a Wi-Fi signal (not even the Sprint EVDO used for the actual Kindle). It should cost less. Maybe that'll happen someday. For now, though, a lightly qualified thumbs up for the Kindle for iPhone app.

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This week's All Access newsletter recalls the legend and tries to make a point that's somewhat related, and is somewhat successful in doing so, somewhat:

Everybody can do a Paul Harvey impression. That's not to say everyone can do a GOOD Paul Harvey impression, but if you were playing a game and trying to get the other person to say "Paul Harvey!," you'd know how to do it. "Stand by for NEWS!" or "Good DAY!" or "And now you know... the REST of the story," that's all you'd have to say. And you'd know about "page two" or the Bose Wave radio or the long pause between "Paul Harvey" and "Good DAY!" Whether you were a fan listening religiously or your parents listened while you squirmed in the back seat waiting for the music to start again or just occasionally happened upon him while scanning the dial, he was part of your consciousness. Still is, and probably always will be. It's the people who sound like nobody else that you always remember.

Next week begins the 2009 industry convention season; I'm not sure what the schedule is going to be, but I'll do my best to get a column out in time, and the site will update as usual. Talk to you then, maybe.

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We reach the end of the week with a description of the sheer excitement that was my Friday evening:

1. Drive to the auto parts store to pick up a car battery charger that the web site says they have in stock. They don't have one, but the computer says that another store does.
2. Drive to the other auto parts store, in a scary neighborhood with practically no lighting and bars on windows. Shelf for battery charger is empty.
3. Ask clerk if any are in stock. He becomes confused; computer says yes, shelf says no. He confers with manager.
4. Manager goes to back, roots around. Surprise! It's there. "You want it?" he asks. Yeah, that would pretty much figure, considering that I drove all the way from the other store to get it.
5. Successful purchase! Next exciting stop: Popular discount store with red bulls-eye logo.
6. Soap! Almonds! Batteries! Successful purchase! Next!
7. At the produce 'n' "natural" food market that isn't Whole Foods: produce 'n' "natural" foods. Successful purchase! Next!
8. Home.

The end.

Yeah, sometimes you gotta put the glamour and excitement of life in Southern California aside for a little bit and accomplish the mundane. In our case, "a little bit" means "all the time." We wouldn't have it any other way. There are advantages to laying low. You don't have to dress up and you don't have to travel very far. Plus, it's extremely unlikely that you'll run into Brody Jenner. That can't be emphasized enough.

And that brings us to the merciful close of a stressful week. Saturday, I have work to do, but if you have kids, I recommend taking them to Whale of a Day, down here by the ocean at the Point Vicente Interpretive Center in RPV, always fun for the kids and free. Plug over, week over. Good night!

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Sorry, but I'm working late tonight (yes, Saturday night... that's my life), and while I do have something I want to write about here (with photos!), I don't have time.

Tomorrow: some musings about music, prompted by a few minutes at "Whale of a Day." Tonight: More work, then bed. That's how it goes sometimes. Actually, all the time. But in this economy, somehow, that seems comforting.

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I arrived late to yesterday's "Whale of a Day," and Fran was showing a little of a sunburn while working at her booth, which was not, as she had indicated, under the shade of an awning but rather in the direct sunlight. "We were over there," she said, pointing at a shady site, "but we had to move because of that." "That," it turned out, was this:

Popeye, Olive, and their friend were playing folk music on the banjo, and it was loud enough that Fran's booth couldn't function to effectively raise money for the folks who run the center and the event. Now, I like folk music, and I...

...no, wait. I hate folk music. The guy to the left seems to be at the center for every event, and he plays "This Land is Your Land" and other folk standards all day; I swear that I've never heard him do a song I like. Folk music generally conjures up images of jolly Marxists singing simple paeans to the collective. Collect this, Painty the Pirate.

Was there more music, you ask? Certainly:

There's nothing that approximates the sound of sheet metal being dragged at high speed in the car pool lane on the 110 freeway like a bunch of school kids scratching out "What Shall We Do with a Drunken Sailor?" on the violin. Nineteen Jack Bennys, not a single one playing with any virtuosity... that's entertainment.

There may be nothing more cruel than making a child play an instrument. That's not to say that kids shouldn't play music, but most shouldn't. You should know within 30 seconds of a child picking up an instrument whether he or she will have the aptitude to play it well. Either your kid has the coordination and ear for music, or he or she doesn't. And even if there was a way to develop into a decent player, why would you? Unless you're in an orchestra or band, will you really ever need to display your abilities with a violin, an oboe, a bassoon when you're past, say, 12 years old? If you know the kid's career path won't include the Philadelphia Orchestra, save him or her the heartache of displaying an inability to play an instrument in front of classmates and parents.

There's an exception, of course. Only one instrument really is worth playing even if you suck at it. Of course, we're talking about the guitar. Chicks dig guitarists. And that's the only reason a young male need possess to play guitar. If you, like me, can't play guitar, you might as well just play "Guitar Hero" and forget about a life of groupies and blow. God forbid you make it to your 30s before realizing that being able to play the cello isn't worth anything unless you're in an orchestra.

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Because I once again have no time, here's a placeholder Goodyear Blimp, as seen overhead on Saturday at "Whale of a Day":

Who doesn't love the blimp?

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Because I once again have no time, here's a placeholder Goodyear Blimp, as seen overhead on Saturday at "Whale of a Day":

Who doesn't love the blimp?

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The next convention is days away. The usual queasy "anticipation" is setting in, but, this time, I have the added entertainment of imagining who's going to be there, because the very idea of spending money to go to a convention when you don't HAVE to is so 2007. In 2009... well, we'll see how many folks will make the trek.

For me, however, the trek will involve driving 45 minutes up the 405, so it won't be too taxing, and escape is just a traffic-choked freeway (or the "scenic route" through the beach towns) away. It's unfortunate that this is coming at a time when I'm really feeling the need to sleep in for a few days, but that's going to have to wait. Such is life.

I could nap in the meeting rooms, but that would be boorish.

So the rest of the week here will be even lighter than usual, but I'll try to get some stuff up on the site anyway, plus a Convention Edition of "The Letter" and random Twitters from the convention. Or I'll just forget. We'll see.

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Once again, I'm left without a lot of time, but I can take the opportunity to refer you to a favorite retro retail site, Pleasant Family Shopping, which has lately been featuring a series, with pictures, on the General Cinema Corporation theaters. Besides being the chain owned by the family of one Jeffrey Lurie, who owns something else these days, it was the chain that owned some of the theaters I grew up with, like the Totowa Cinema, which looked a lot like some of the sketches on that site. In any event, the history's fascinating to a geek like me who remembers all that. Very cool stuff.

Tomorrow... the convention. Maybe even "The Letter" if I can scribble enough material while I'm there.

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It's a late day because of, yes, The Convention, and I just got back and have no time. So stay tuned for "The Letter," which I'll try to have early tomorrow, and I'll be posting stuff on Twitter and Facebook (links to the right).

Letter Preview: I'm annoyed.

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This week's All Access newsletter is what you expect:

Things I've learned so far at the talk radio convention:

And don't forget to sign up for All Access Twitter and text message updates, too. You'll also find me at twitter.com/pmsimon, where I'll be posting messages from the convention. Most will probably involve some variant of "help!" or "send beer."

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There should be a law against extending radio conventions to Saturday. Saturday morning convention sessions are for the kind of guys who wear business suits and ties on, well, Saturday. Saturday morning radio convention sessions are for guys who business suits and ties on Saturday and have deep voices and arrogant attitudes as well. I am a radio guy, I am reasonably prominent on the radio industry, but at something like this, I just feel out of place and sad.

It's interesting to listen to people telling each other how to program radio, manage radio, run radio. It's interesting because a) there's no one surefire way to do things, and b) many of the folks opining about how to do this right don't. There's nothing like people with no ratings expounding on how to be successful. There's nothing like people whose primary quality is arrogance explaining how their way is the best way.

But this, too, did pass, and after an awards ceremony and a brief appearance by Larry King telling some old, old, old stories, it was over. As I drove away, my takeaway was that there isn't much life in the convention thing. It's nice to see all the people I only get to see at conventions, but is that worth whatever they charge? I think there'll be some hard questions asked about that for next year. And what life there is in conventions involves the social aspect, and that can't be replicated by Facebook. My suggestion yesterday about the perpetual cocktail party format might just be the best hope for a convention future.

Oh, yeah, did I mention the cameo appearance by Daphne Zuniga, Diedre Hall, and the drummer from Maroon 5? I swear, sometimes I think that life is directed by Fellini. But I'm back to "normal" now, and I like it here.

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Was in the desert all day. Just got back. I'll post some stuff -- maybe even video! -- tomorrow about it. No radio involved, so that's a relief.

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Dilemma: I promised something more substantial today, and that included video. But the camera isn't handy, and I'm really tired. Should I sack up, go get the camera, dump the video into the Mac, edit it, add the voiceover and credits, and post it for your enjoyment, or should I just punt and go lay down?

What do YOU think I would do? Come on, you HAVE to know me by now.

Here, enjoy the opening theme and credits to a busted 1967 pilot for a live action "Dick Tracy," co-starring an extremely young Eve Plumb plus a bunch of actors of whom you've never heard:

"Diiiick TRA-ceeee, he's a good cop!" You now have that implanted firmly into your brain.

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I didn't get the video finished tonight. And it's another busy day, so what I wanted to do was to post clips from "Father Ted" in honor of St. Patrick's Day, because it was about the most blasphemous sitcom ever. And it was set in Ireland. And it was hysterical. But Channel 4 has disabled the embedding function for the clips.

But you can click here for links to the clips. Although you really should get the DVDs. And residents of the UK and Ireland can watch online through Channel 4's video on demand, so there's that.

By the way, I drank no green beer today. Drank no beer at all. Didn't wear green and didn't eat corned beef and cabbage. Turns out I'm not Irish. Imagine that.

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Once again, I got caught up in other stuff, and never got to do the audio track for the video. Trust me, you will be sorely disappointed with the finished product. It's not all that exciting, despite the inclusion of anannoying folkie and an annoying flute player. But I'll get it done someday.

Until then, here's another placeholder, a picture of Ella the World's Most Famous Cat in her new role as a component in our TV system:

High definition cat. Wireless, too.

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We're walking again at USC and the Coliseum on May 9 in the Revlon Run/Walk to raise funds to fight women's cancer. You probably know by now why this is so important to us, but if you don't, my wife Fran is a survivor of breast cancer and walking in this event honors her and all women who have fought cancer, and raises money in the hopes that someday there'll be a cure that doesn't involve surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation, and women won't have to go through that anymore.

If you can give, here's the link: https://www.revlonrunwalk.com/la/secure/MyWebPage.cfm?pID=480054.

Thank you!

And, yes, I'll be mentioning this a lot from now through May 9.

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This week's All Access newsletter is a response to something that's been nagging at me lately. It's not anybody in particular, and it's not specifically about people with whom I deal, but I've heard the same from others, and someone ought to say something. Turns out it's me:

I think we all know by now that the key to finding employment in this job market is networking. Everybody says so. I've said so. People who, unlike me, actually know something about these things say so. Your grandmother says so. She's been on your case to expand your Facebook friends list, and she's getting impatient with you. Networking is the key. Networking, networking, networking.

And now, I'll leave you to tend to your brackets. That IS what you're doing this weekend, isn't it? Hey, as long as Villanova is still alive, I'm happy, although the less said about the first half on Thursday, the better. I love the NCAA tournament, except when I hate it.

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No time. Should I just stop posting on weekends? Gotta think about that.

In the meantime, how 'bout them Villanova Wildcats? I hate those stupid flags fans put on their cars, but I wish I had a couple of 'Nova flags right now, just to rub it in to the whiny UCLA fans -- really, more the whiny media ("Oh, Villanova was hitting our poor players," "the refs gave Villanova all the calls," "it's unfair, they played Villanova in Philadelphia, it's a home game"; yeah, how unfair was it when UCLA played in Anaheim?).

Anyway, if there's any hope of me getting any sleep at all, I gotta go now. My fuzzy meowing alarm clock plans to wake me at 4 am, so the earlier my head hits the pillow, the better.

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Still no time. Worked most of the day, did tax stuff at night. Still not finished. My mind hurts.

Tomorrow, I have work AND a meeting AND a lunch, meaning much of the day will be spent on the 405. Let's see if I can post anything coherent here after that. Let's see if I can post ANYTHING after that.

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I had a lunch and a meeting up in Pacific Palisades today, and that meant, once again, I would have to do what everyone else does, namely, leave the house and drive. I DO leave the house and drive every day, but for me, that usually means staying within a 10 mile radius (180 degrees of which are the Pacific Ocean, so it's more a 10 mile half-circle). Today, it was to the Palisades I had to go.

Traffic wasn't THAT bad. It was bad, but except for a couple of spots, it moved all right. My problem is that after years of long commutes (90 miles each way and, later, a 40 miles-each-way commute in Jersey, a 30 mile and a 45 mile one-way commute in L.A.), I've been telecommuting so long that even a hint of delay causes me to get aggravated. A slowdown gives me a tension headache. Stop-and-go on the freeway and I get a migraine. I can't handle it anymore.

And that was the deal going to and, especially, from the Palisades. The trip up the freeway included a long stretch where traffic occasionally just stopped for no apparent reason other than volume. Coming back, there was the aggravatingly long wait on the downslope at Chautauqua to get on PCH, the seemingly blind merging and lane-changing on the 10 in Santa Monica (greetings to the white-bearded guy in the PT Cruiser -- thanks for veering back into your lane when I honked the horn to stop you from sideswiping me), the sluggish semi-jam on the South Bay Curve, the stop-and-stop-and-stop-and-go on Hawthorne Blvd.... I can't do that anymore.

Although I probably could, to tell the truth. When I commuted to Koreatown and Pasadena, long commutes both, I got used to the game. I knew where on the 110 to get all the way to the right, then when to shift to the left, and where to bail when traffic got too slow. I knew all the back routes, including neighborhoods the guidebooks wouldn't ever send you through. After a while, I did it on autopilot; turns and lane changes happened without the benefit of attention, they just happened, and I would end up at home and remember nothing of the trip.

So it can be done, and I could probably get back into that rhythm. But I don't want to. After braving the roads today, being a hermit down here just feels right. And I can do this on autopilot too.

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I spent the evening cleaning the office, because the cleaning people will be coming tomorrow to clean the house. Yes, I clean for the cleaners. I wouldn't want to give them the wrong impression.

That, of course, is a psychological problem. If you're paying people to come in and deep-clean the house, you really don't need to di any straightening up yourself, right? Of course, but I can't help it. I don't want people I don't know and may never see again to look around and snicker and think "these people are pigs." No, I want them to come in and think "I hope they pay in cash." Or some such other thought that isn't about our challenged sense of hygiene.

Not that we're not generally clean. We are. But we have a cat -- strike one -- and I have always had a notoriously messy desk -- strike two. Plus, I'm in the midst of doing taxes, with a zillion receipts and stacks of paperwork to consult -- strike three. And then there's the simple fact that I have more books and papers than I really have room to keep, especially in the office -- we're already out of strikes. And I haven't even gotten to my lack of drawer space for all my clothes.

So that's been my primary accomplishment for the day. The office is now still messy, but presentable, and by that I mean the cleaning folks can at least vacuum part of the carpet. Not all of it -- the crates of tax material and the stacks of paperwork at my feet cover some of the carpeted area -- but some. I didn't do a great job, but for now, it's good enough. I take my pride where I can get it. If the cleaners come and go without laughing or making disgusted faces, that'll work for me.

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The car wouldn't start again. I do not need more car trouble, but I went out in the afternoon to go run some errands and slipped in the key and turned it and click... nothing. I checked with a battery meter and it was seriously discharged. I ran my plug-in charger out to the car, jacked it to the insta-start mode, and... nothing. Damn. So I set the charger to just charge the battery, took Fran's car to the post office and Ralphs, came home, tried again... nothing.

The cash register in my head kept ringing up what this was going to cost. Alternator? Ignition system? Something worse? I called AAA to get a truck out here, then sadly, in total resignation, trudged out to the car to take the charger off. When I reached the car, I looked at the charger and thought, hey, what do I have to lose, let's try one more time. And I jacked the charger to top power, hopped in, turned the key, and...

clickTHUDclickrr...rrr...rrrrrrPOPrrrVROOM!

Eureka!

I took the charger off, called AAA off, and took the car directly to my local mechanic (that'd be the fine Greg at Miraleste Automotive) and he quickly diagnosed it as a dead battery and replaced it. Under partial warranty. In minutes. It wasn't even long enough to call All Access headquarters to say I'd be out for a while. It wasn't even a while. I was back at the office in no time at all.

And that, in 2009, is a resounding win. I'm $48 lighter, lost some time with all the charging and jumping, yet I'm happy it wasn't worse. Managing expectations, that's the key. I feared the worst, it wasn't that bad, I'm happy. That's... actually, that's the stock market in the last week or so. You mean, the world didn't end? Buy!

Of course, the world COULD end tomorrow. And the engine could fall out of my car, too. But right now, Earth is still spinning in its normal fashion and the Volvo is working. That's good enough for a celebration. OK, maybe just a smile or a contented sigh. I'll take it.

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I've gotten most of the weekly column done, but... you ever write something and then read it and re-read it and think, you know, I need to think about this and sleep on it and get it right. That'll translate to going into the other room to watch the rest of the Nova-Duke game and sleeping, and procrastinating and then wanting to rewrite the whole thing but not having time and finally just patching it up and sending it out.

Just like always. Hard-fast deadlines force the issue, but this flexible thing just lets me indulge my lazier instincts. I'd be ashamed if I wasn't so tired, and the game wasn't on.

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This week's All Access newsletter is about the very Future of Radio, subject to my retaining the right to change my mind:

I knew that last week's column about staying in touch and returning calls and e-mails and not waiting until you NEED someone's help would strike a chord, and it did. And, as a line in that column presaged, I knew that the folks whose e-mails or calls I hadn't yet managed to return would point a finger at me for that same transgression. It didn't take long. A friend who'd asked me to write something for a class she's teaching pointed out that I'd promised and promised and....

Oh, yeah, Go Wildcats. Villanova, that is.

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Villanova's going to the Final Four. The last time they made it was in 1985. In March 1985, I was in my final days as a law student at Villanova, lurching towards graduation, and I remember the 1985 equivalent of this moment. They announced ticket availability for the games in Lexington, and the thought briefly flashed in my head to go camp out for tickets and convince someone to let me hitch a ride to get to Kentucky, but exams and other commitments made that seem ludicrous. And, after all, Memphis State could -- probably would -- knock us out on Saturday, and it wouldn't be fun to go all that way for that, would it?

But Nova beat Memphis State, and beat Georgetown, and when they did, I was visiting friends on campus and I remember the noise and the celebration when the game was over. I remember Lancaster Avenue packed sidewalk-to-sidewalk with celebrating students, some hanging off traffic lights, all going absolutely berserk with joy whenever channel 6 or channel 10 turned on the camera. It took me a long time to get home and a long time to get to sleep. It didn't matter. It was just plain joyous.

I don't know if this edition of the Cats can do the same. I love their tough style, the way that they make other teams pay dearly in bruises for every attempt to drive the lane, the fearlessness that keeps them going toe-to-toe with competitors who have more talent. But the competition this year will be equally tough. I just hope that the kids on campus today get a chance to experience what it was like in 1985. Every generation deserves that feeling.

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It wasn't a few hours before the Villanova alumni association sent an e-mail offering tickets for the Final Four. Of course, there's a catch. You need to "donate" $500 to the athletic department before you can pay between $995 (four-to-a-room) to $2,755 (charter from Philly, hotel, tickets, single occupancy) for the packages. Yeah, that's going to happen.

I could probably do it -- I could prevail upon my friends in Detroit to let me crash there, I could find scalped tickets or try to pick up some from folks whose teams didn't make it -- but there are a few things in the way, namely 1) there are a million other things I'd rather spend my money on, like, say, paying bills; 2) the appeal of seeing the game from a distant seat in a stadium built not for basketball but for football is limited at best; 3) I can easily see the game in my own living room in high definition with no travel and no lines for the bathroom; 4) did I mention that they're charging a lot of money for tickets?; and 5) if I go all the way to Detroit and they lose in the first round, that would suck.

So I'm not going. I'm staying here in L.A. and watching on TV, and I'm perfectly happy with that, just as I was happy to watch the 1985 final on a little TV set in a crowded dorm room on the Villanova campus. Unless, that is, some news organization or radio station wants me to go report on the event and will pay my way. I'm open to changing my mind, as long as someone else foots the bill.

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I suppose I should explain the Mr. Peanut thing.

Okay, let me backtrack. I posted something on Twitter earlier today about a dream I had last night. I remember nothing about it other than that making a cameo appearance in the dream was Mr. Peanut, the Planters mascot. He just appeared, stood there, I remember thinking "oh, there's Mr. Peanut," and then I woke up.

Mr. Peanut? Why?

I went through the obvious possibilities. No, I hadn't seen Mr. Peanut on TV, or on a label, or online, or anywhere lately. I didn't eat peanuts before bedtime. I did nothing remotely peanut-related on Sunday. I did not encounter a man in a monocle and top hat; I didn't play Monopoly.

Clearly, Mr. Peanut wasn't there representing Mr. Peanut. He was symbolic.

But, Mr. Freud, what was he symbolizing? I am usually a pretty good judge of what a dream might mean, but in this case, I was stumped. So I went to a website that specializes in dream analysis, DreamMoods.com, where I entered "peanut" in the search box and got this:

Peanuts To see peanuts in your dream, symbolize the need to get to the truth or core of something. You may also need to start pushing yourself and utilizing your full potential, Consider the peanuts in your dream to be a pun for money and what little you have of it. It may represent your financial difficulties.

Hmm. Well, beyond the translated-from-the-non-English writing style, there might be something in this. I do think that I haven't yet reached my full potential, considering that I have yet to win a Pulitzer or an Emmy or whatever other awards I have absolutely no shot at winning. And financial concerns are a given in 2009. Mr. Peanut is one huge legume. We're in one huge economic downturn. Makes sense.

Or not. Just because "peanuts" can mean "a small amount of money" ("working for peanuts") doesn't mean Mr. Peanut means anything about money. It's not peanuts, it's Mister Goddamn Peanut. It's the big-ass peanut. It's King Peanut. And he wasn't doing anything. I remember no context. He was just... there.

I checked Sleeps.com, another dream interpretation website. Nope, no peanuts. So I tried Googling "Mr. Peanut dream," and that's when I found this:

Gullet swears his first "tingly dream" was about Mr. Peanut. No touching, no sexual over or undertones, just Mr. Peanut, walking along handsome and dapper in his monocle and hat. Gullet woke up wanting to take a bath, wanting to be warm and wet all over.

Well, ew. And, furthermore... eeeewwwwww. No. This was not a "tingly dream." I did not want to take a bath and be "warm and wet all over." (Ew.) And now, I am totally and completely revulsed by the very thought of Mr. Peanut. You can bet that I will banish him from my thoughts.

Or I'll just stay awake forever. No use taking chances. Today, Mr. Peanut; tomorrow, a "special massage" from Count Chocula. I can't allow that.

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Because I've been dealing with work, other necessary operations, and a balky computer (unrelated to the Conficker worm), I'm out of time tonight. But a CRITICAL UPDATE: Mr. Peanut did not reappear in my dream yesterday. In fact, I did not remember any dream last night. I just slept fitfully, as usual, and woke up without an image of an advertising mascot burned into my brain.

So maybe I'm past the Peanut. But there's no guarantee. He could reappear tonight, doing the Mashed Potato with the Pillsbury Doughboy. They're known to break out into 1960's dance crazes, those ad mascots.

I'll go now.

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