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There's a fishing access point near my house. We're on the cliffs above coves that line this part of the Pacific coast- you have to go up the coast a couple of miles for a proper sandy beach, but if you want to fish or pitch rocks into the surf on a sunny spring day, we have that. You get down there by long sandy switchback paths that go down the 100 or 150 feet to the rocks, and the drop off the side of those paths is fairly treacherous. There is, naturally, a short wooden fence to prevent hikers from plummeting down the cliff.

Was a fence, to be exact. And will be a fence, too, but the one that was there has been painstakingly removed by California Conservation Corps workers to be repaired. They left the fence unrepaired for the weekend, threw some yellow "CAUTION" tape across the trailhead and went off to do whatever it is they do when they're not repairing a fence.

So the trail is pretty obviously not supposed to be used for now, because it's kinda sorta unsafe. And I watched two petite middle-aged women walk up to the tape, look at it, look at each other, turn, see that the coast was clear, and, when they were sure nobody was watching, slip under the tape and head down the trail. Told by all indications that the trail was unsafe, the women took a look, decided to take their chances, and forged ahead.

That's American. That's what we do.

In Iraq, others see freeing the oppressed as impossible. They see the warning signs of dictatorship, brutality, military abuses, propaganda, and potentially escalated terrorism and they shy away, turn around, tell themselves they didn't need to go there anyway. Americans see those signs as clearly as those women saw the yellow tape. And like the women, we slip right past the tape and forge ahead.

It may not be the safest thing to do, nor, possibly, the smartest, but we're going down that path anyway. We just have to remember not to look down.

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Sometimes, something's so bad that you just lose any ability to put it into words.

I'm watching a Fox sitcom debut, a series called "The Pitts" that is beyond horrible. I don't have the time to write all the details, and I really don't have the words. Shorthand: witless, poorly acted (Dylan Baker as a sitcom dad? Who thought THAT would work? Did they ever see "Happiness"?), one-note joke, and the loudest, phoniest laugh track since... ever.

If I ever recover from this, I'll do a more extensive review in which I'll... no, on second thought, I won't put you, or myself, through that. Just take my word for it and keep moving. Nothing to look at here.

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It's hot out here.

That might not seem like such a hardship to those of you still experiencing the last vestiges of winter, but it's unseasonably hot here, and I'm drained. I normally like warm weather, but there's something less pleasant about this early heat wave. Maybe it's the brown haze of pollution blown in this direction by the Santa Ana winds- we usually have clean air at the coast, but today there was a layer of brown shrouding the mountains of Catalina about 2/3 of the way up. Or maybe it's how, despite being in shorts and t-shirt and it being late and dark here, I'm sweating and uncomfortable (no, we don't have air conditioning- rarely need it). And there's the matter of sleeping when, no matter what position into which you contort yourself, you can never feel comfortable, non-sticky, cool. In this weather, there IS no "cool side" of the pillow.

So I'm cranky. Tired, lots of work, taxes, refinancing, more work- I don't have the energy to deal with anything right now. The heat's supposed to break in the morning- dense fog, cooler temps, back to the 70-and-sunny that is our birthright- but at the moment, I'm adhering to the office chair.

But the Phillies won on opening day. Therefore, life is good.

Check back in with me when they go on a losing streak. Oh, they will, they will.

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Hi, Dad! (Dad at the Dodgers-Cardinals spring training game in Vero Beach a few weeks ago, with thanks to Tom Boman)

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By the way, I noticed some TV critics actually LIKED that show I trashed yesterday, "The Pitts." They say it was hilarious and people either get it or they don't. I get it, and I STILL think it's terrible.

And I'm always right about these things.

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I was going to write a long piece on the print media's obsession with finding nefarious doings underneath the proliferating "Rally for America" trend, and the big radio company's implied use of the rallies and stations to further its political something-or-other. I have no horse in that race, but I have worked for several years in radio, so I have some insight about how radio works, and I'm fairly certain that the reporters insinuating some corporate plot are full of it.

Here's why, in a short version because it's late and I'm tired:

HOW THESE THINGS WORK, according to the reporters: fat cats smoking cigars in three piece suits with pocket watch chains dangling and Tony Lamas propped up on the conference room table send memo from Texas headquarters ordering local program directors (who resemble C3PO) to organize right-wing rally. Robot PDs organize rally and incessantly promote same. Robot listeners march to assigned location for rally. Radio station news department reports smashing success and ignores far more important "peace" rally across town. Conservative agenda furthered.

HOW THESE THINGS WORK, real world: host, producer, and PD sit in cluttered jock lounge kicking around ideas. Host remembers reading about pro-war rally in another market, suggests it might work here. PD says sure, let me ask the GM. Goes to GM, GM says no way, too expensive, too short-notice, can't be done. PD pleads, joined by host. GM says he'll think about it, immediately forgets it. GM goes to lunch with sales manager, who says a) how about that 10,000-listener rally in that other market, and b) boy, if we did that, I could sell sponsorships out the wazoo. GM suddenly gets religion, rushes back to the station, tells PD it's a go, acts like he came up with the idea. Host blurts rally date on air. Promotions Director's hair turns white realizing she/he has to arrange venue, hire security, book talent, order banners, order flags, order giveaways, arrange sound/lighting, all in a few days. Event somehow occurs, pictures posted on website, local papers write stories, GM faxes stories to corporate, corporate managers pass faxes around conference table, thoughtfully puff on their cigars while fingering their watch fobs and tapping their Tony Lamas, agree it sounds like a promotion that worked, tag faxes for distribution to whoever is assembling annual report for inclusion. Host goes in for raise, gets shot down. PD has one "off" book and gets fired. Someone in another market "borrows" the idea and gets all the credit. The end.

Sorry to break it to the conspiracy theorists, but radio people are the last people you can expect to take over the world, because they'd be too busy arguing over logistics, fighting for credit, and trying to figure out how to make money doing it to actually accomplish the goal. But you gotta admit, they can put on a hell of a decent rally when they put their minds to it.

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Tonight in ALL ACCESS' TALK TOPICS ("so nice they named it, er, once, and badly"): war stuff, the Michigan State basketball riot, more war stuff, baseball in the snow, war, teacher sues student, more war, Cher says something for some reason, extra war, and Yakov Smirnoff on Broadway. Plus war.

Cruise your missile here.

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This morning, Rush Limbaugh used the term "madcap terrorists."

"Madcap"?

Isn't that like "wacky terrorists" or "goofy terrorists" or "Jerry Lewis-like terrorists"?

He did use it correctly, I suppose. But still- "madcap"? When was the last time you heard someone use the term "madcap"?

Zany.

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I'm old.

Not THAT old. I'm too old to be a real X-Games fan, too young to watch Pax TV. But I'm feeling a little TOO adult right now.

Evidence:



1. I'm filling out forms to refinance our house. Mortgages are not part of the Young Experience. People who guzzle Red Bull and know who Tony Hawk is do not have mortgages. Their parents have mortgages.



2. When I walk through the Young Men's department at Macy's, I realize that even if I could fit into those clothes, which I don't, I could not get away with it. I would be the embarrassing adult trying to act like The Youth of Today. I know the music, the style, the slang, but I will never let on that I do, much less dress the part. I may sometimes listen to Power 106 and KROQ, but I do it in a Volvo. Softly. With the windows rolled up. (It's getting hot in herre... so crank the a/c) (For further reference, please check my friend Greg Behrendt's website and standup act- he does some great material on this very topic)



3. I now own one of those plastic seven-day pill things. This is the first time in my life that I have enough pills and vitamins to fill one of those. This one- $4.99 at Ralphs- has compartments for am and pm, all of which are filled. This became necessary because I started to forget to take what I need to take when I needed to take it. That's memory loss, which is... which... what?

So I'm in that breach between sk8r boi and graying boomer, not old enough to join AARP but old enough to start getting the flyers about it. It's all OK with me, though, considering the alternatives- I wouldn't want to be starting out in this era of war and unemployment, I don't look forward to a future of Glucosamine/Chondroitin and working as a Wal-Mart greeter, and I sure don't want the only other possibility, which is why I'm taking all of those pills and vitamins.

No, I'm not ready for Leisure World yet. But that's me driving by in the Volvo, hip-hop on the radio (at a reasonable volume), a/c cranked. It's on the way to my mortgage broker's office.

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Tonight on the incredible vortex of wow that we call ALL ACCESS TALK TOPICS: PETA tells students to ejaculate, how the "peace" movement drives away potential supporters, a really sick prank call, why people aren't going to the movies, and way too much about SARS, plus other crap.

Would it really be such a hardship to check it out?

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Nick at Nite has been running "Wings" marathons all this week.

It's nice to see TV exhibiting a healthy case of nostalgia for the golden age of USA Network.

(See, before it was whatever it is now and before it was the "WWF Raw" network, it ran "Wings" reruns over and over and... ah, forget it)

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In memoriam: Edwin Starr.

WAR! (huh) Good God, y'all! What is it good for?

Stopping Hitler from taking over the world, liberating countries from tyrannical rulers, establishing America as a free and independent nation, defending nations from imperialist invaders, saving people from torture and death.

But that doesn't have a good beat and you can't dance to it.

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TV Guide is celebrating its 50th anniversary, which is cool- in fact, I wish they'd reprint some of those 1950s editions. I like to look at old TV and radio listings. It's a way to visit the past- you can look at a typical Sunday night lineup and imagine Mom, Dad, Junior, Sis, and Grampa settling into their accustomed spots- Dad in his La-Z-Boy with the dad's-butt-shaped crater in the seat, Mom on a less comfortable, sensible chair next to him, the kids sprawled on the carpet, Grampa snoozing in a chair against the far wall, emitting Grampa odors (a peculiar mix of B.O., cigar smoke, bodily functions, and mildew) that will stay with the kids as they age into adulthood, haunting them, reminding them of their joy when he'd some over to the house and bring them Silly Putty and one of those things where you used a magnet to move the iron shavings into mustache position over a cartoon face, their horror when Mom and Dad would take them to the nursing home in Grampa's last days, when...

...what was I talking about?

Oh, right, TV Guide. Yes, well, you look at, say, this:



7:30:

(2)(10) GENTLE BEN- Drama (C)
The family is thrown into turmoil when
Ben mauls Mark (Clint Howard) and must
be shot by Tom (Dennis Weaver). Ellen:
Beth Brickell.

(3)(4) WONDERFUL WORLD OF COLOR (C)
"Mickey's Dark Side," a collection of
little seen early cartoons in which the
beloved mouse indulges in booze and loose
hamsters.

...and suddenly, it's 1967 all over again. You have a blond crew cut, a departure from the Beatle-like 'do you had when you were 4 or 5, and the term "Butch Wax" doesn't make you dissolve into peals of laughter, because there are still people named "Butch" and it hasn't yet come to connote anything besides tough. Dinner's long gone, and you're there in front of the big Capehart black-and-white console, waiting for it to warm up, waiting for "Gentle Ben" to end so you can see Ed Sullivan and maybe there'll be the Dave Clark Five or something, as long as it's not Wayne and Shuster or that embarrassing Topo Gigio- you're seven, and even so, you're way too old and sophisticated for a talking Italian mouse.

So I like to check out old TV Guides. But they still print the magazine, and I buy it every week. And I DON'T KNOW WHY. It's like Reader's Digest- people buy it, but nobody really reads it, do they? I don't need the listings- I have those on the Dish, in the PVR, in the Times and the Breeze, online, even in my PDA. Yet every Tuesday, when the new issue hits the checkout at Ralphs, I grab a copy and throw it on the checkout belt. I can't explain it. It just is. I don't ask questions. (I bought the new one today- by Saturday, when the listings start, it'll be under a pile of other magazines, catalogs, Pennysavers... gone until the next time Fran orders me to clean the office and I start the recycling pile)

I should save this week's TV Guide. In 30 years, should I still be around, I'll be able to wax nostalgic about the days when Fran and Ella and I would assume our positions on the old grey couch, fire up the dish and PVR, and fast-forward to the important parts of "American Idol." Those were... are... the days.

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Tonight on ALL ACCESS TALK TOPICS: "Nuns Gone Wild," another reason to Blame Canada, and a fleeting reference to "Miami Vice," plus lots o' war stuff.

Mustn't tarry on your way to here.

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U.S. troops have reportedly taken control of Saddam International Airport.

(Warning: Cheap Joke Ahead)

It's already easier to get in and out of than LAX.

(rimshot)

Coming soon: jokes about traffic in greater Baghdad compared to the 405. Topical AND funny!

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It's interesting that anyone in show business could look at what's happened to the Dixie Chicks lately and think "now, THERE's a great career move."

I guess if you're Pearl Jam, any publicity is good publicity these days.

I'm just surprised they still exist. But that's a topic I'll be addressing later, when I have a little more time.

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When does the public's interest in a celebrity go away? For some, the answer is never. And then, there are acts that are riding high in April, shot down in May, so to speak. One day, they're all over the place, huge stars, and the next, they're done. Gone. Not retired, not on vacation, just... finished. How does that work?

I'm asking because, lately, after a number of years of peace and calm, my consciousness has been invaded by- wait for it...

Huey Lewis and the News.

Wait, let me explain.

I was running the other day, listening to the radio, going from station to station in your standard attention deficit disorderly manner, and there, on some AC station in Santa Barbara or San Diego or somewhere, was a Huey Lewis song. Not one of the most familiar hits, either, but another one- I think it was that cover of "But it's Alright" from about 10 years ago. And I filed that under Minor Annoyances, hit the button, changed the station... and on another station, a few minutes later, an ad for a summer concert series mentioned the lineup- LeAnn Rimes, Bill Cosby, Chris Isaak, Huey Lewis and the News, Rick Springfie...

Wait a minute.

Did he say...

Yes, yes, he did.

Huey Lewis and the News.

Now, here's the thing, and, kids, gather 'round the monitor while your kindly Uncle Perry tells you about a magical time when dinosaurs roamed the earth and people complained because the gas cost a dollar a gallon. 'Twas the eighties, and few musical acts were bigger than...

Huey Lewis and the News.

Now, this success was hard to explain. Back then, here's what I thought of Huey and his News:

PROS: His old band Clover, WITHOUT HUEY, played on Elvis Costello's debut album, and he played harmonica on some Dave Edmunds/Rockpile songs.

CONS: Everything else.

The banal lyrics, the bar band musicianship, the blandness of every song, the little I-need-a-urinal-and-I-need-it-NOW dance Huey did in that "Workin' for a Livin'" video:

Workin' for a livin' (workin') Workin' for a livin' (workin') Workin' for a livin', livin' and workin' I'm taking what they giving 'cause I'm working for a livin'.

Uh, yeah.

But you know the song. Chances are, it's stuck in your head right now, and here comes "The Heart of Rock 'n' Roll" and "If This is It" and "Do You Believe in Love" and "HEart and Soul" and "I Want a New Drug" and you see what I'm talking about? When Huey Lewis and the News released a record back then, it was a hit. Period. Every radio station added it, MTV played it, you couldn't escape it.

And then it stopped.

It's not that Huey retired- no, he kept plugging away, touring, releasing albums. And it's not like they broke up- how could they? As long as you had Huey, you were complete. YOU try and name any of the News. No, it was one of those things where the public just decided that we'd had enough. No more hits, Huey. Sorry, News. It happened somewhere around 1987- in '86, they were riding as high as ever. "Stuck With You," "Doing It All For My Baby," and the ultimate Huey Lewis and the News song, the defining moment in the career- no, the life- of Huey Lewis and every individual member of the News, "Hip to Be Square." In 1988, they put out another album, and... nothing. No hit. Finished. There were albums after that- they're still recording today, still touring- but the days of number one hits were over.

Why?

It's not like the earlier music was better- it's Huey Lewis and the News, how good or bad or diferent can the songs be? It's not like Huey was caught up in a scandal, or there was a huge British Invasion-like change in pop music. No, the public just decided Huey Lewis and the News was over. And so they were, doomed to surface only as instant cornball nostalgia for people born in 1970.

I understand the one-hit wonders, and the disposable teen pop concept. They're built to be discarded. And I understand when someone falls due to scandal (Jacko) or artistic stubbornness (Prince) or both (George Michael). But to go from superstar to nonexistent for NO APPARENT REASON is a mystery to me. Who made that decision? Was there a meeting? A vote? What drove people away, never to return? Did they all come to the simultaneous realization that the band sucked?

I need to know. There has to be a way to get rid of Avril Lavigne.

Postscript: Hootie and the Blowfish- the Huey Lewis and the News of the nineties- are back on the charts. Can't have that.

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Tonight on ALL ACCESS TALK TOPICS: Kirby Puckett, kids writing their names in wet cement, breast implants, the poetry of Donald Rumsfeld, and a cute widdle kitty.

They all went thataway.

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This is going to sound harsh. Sorry.

All I could think about when I heard Michael Kelly had died in Iraq is about his family. His loss is a shame on any level, a blow to journalism for sure, but all I could think about is the personal.

What the hell was he doing there?

I know, I know, he wanted it, he loved the excitement, he loved being there. He died while doing what he loved. Great. All I know is that a couple of small children just lost a father, and a woman just lost her husband.

Pointless.

I wonder about guys who go out and risk their lives when they have families back home terrified that they'll get The Call informing them of an unfortunate incident. When you get married, when you have children, you're no longer just living for yourself. You have obligations, and going to a war zone for work is antithetical to doing your duty at home.

At some point, work has to come second, or third. If you have a spouse, if you have kids, you just don't do things that put your life at extreme risk.

You owe it to them.

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Tonight on ALL ACCESS TALK TOPICS: Why "I heard a great racist joke. You all don't mind if I tell it" is something you don't want to hear coming from your own mouth, ever, plus violent customer service at JC Penney, female circumcision in Georgia, and the death of Perri the Drunk, Abusive, Homophobic Clown.

Your New York Timeses and Washington Posts were never like this.

For good reason.

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Nice of Marquette to show up today, huh?

They will be told upon their return to Milwaukee that they had a great season, that you can't forget the good stuff because of a bad finish. They, of course, will be wrong. You don't forget that last blowout. You spend the entire summer reliving it, wondering how you could have left everything at home when you went to play the biggest game of your young life so far. And you don't want to see Kansas- they ran it up, they were so unfair- go on and play Syracuse in the game you could have- no, SHOULD have- been playing in yourself.

And eventually you leave school and work in a beer distributorship in Racine. Occasionally, someone brings up that season. You smile, and nod, and it stings a little, and then you remember how cool it was, millions of eyes on you, for a brief shining moment the center of the known universe.

There are worse fates.

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I'm not big on travel.

Oh, I LIKE to BE in different places. It's the hassle and time and expense of GETTING there and back I don't enjoy. I want to just snap my fingers and BANG, I'm in Vegas. No bumpy flight, no interminable drive across the desert, no stopping at the World's Largest Thermometer in the Bun Boy parking lot in Baker to hit the restroom. Just there. And I want to go home when I want to as well- minutes away, right down the hall, steps from the Strip, open a door and there's the familiar home and familiar cat and familiar everything.

Doesn't work that way. So we point the car north on the 15 and hit the road. See you in Vegas for the Guys in Suits convention.

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