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I was browsing in Borders this afternoon when I got panhandled. I wasn't walking in or out, and the beggar wasn't sitting outside by the door looking for change- I was all the way in the back of the store, and this guy, in dirty clothes and with an odor that preceded him, just walked right up to me and asked for money. I shook my head and he moved further into the store, latching onto someone in the DVD section while I moved in another direction.

The problem here is not a homeless guy's right to ask for change. If he wants to sit outside the store and beg, fine. And it's not that he was in the store- sometimes, when the staff is otherwise occupied, someone can slip past them. That happens. But this is not an isolated instance. This particular store, in Torrance, always seems to have a couple of homeless guys in the store asking shoppers for money. It may be the same two guys- one plops down in the magazine section, the other wanders the aisles. They're not shopping for books or CDs or DVDs, they're shopping for soft touches, guilty suburbanites with spare paper money overflowing from their pockets and purses.

Someone ought to throw them out.

Nobody does.

This is not a freedom issue. It's not a public library, it's a private business. They can throw anyone out. But think about the kind of people who work in bookstores- liberal, ultra-tolerant, peace-and-love people. They probably don't call the men "homeless" or "beggars"- I'm sure they use a more tolerant term. But it's evidently the policy of the manager of this store to allow the homeless guys to hang out and panhandle in the store, and I'm not comfortable with that. I want to feel safe in a store. I don't want someone to ask me for money when I'm just trying to check out a book. I don't want anyone doing the same to my wife. I certainly don't want to experience the smell of a guy whose clothes are caked in dirt and bodily emissions while I'm shopping.

No, I didn't complain. I should have- would have, if there was any manager at the information desk- but I've seen these guys at least the last three or four times I've walked into that store. I can only assume that the store's regular practice is to permit panhandling. It's nice that the manager of that store is so compassionate towards the less fortunate (or less willing to work, or more willing to fry their brains with drugs) among us. I'm sure he or she'll get extra points when competing to get into heaven. But they just lost themselves a customer.

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The Phillies scored 13 runs in one inning today.

It is my lot in life as a Philadelphia sports fan to note, sadly, that they did not score in any other inning.

Philadelphia sports fans do not accept success, because there's always failure right around the corner, and you have to be prepared to point fingers and curse the fates. The Whiz Kids' pennant? Swept in the Series, in the cellar for the next decade. Holding an almost insurmountable lead into the final weeks of the 1964 season? Chico Ruiz stole home, Gene Mauch burns out his starting pitching, the Cardinals win the pennant. Division champs in the 70's? Didn't beat the Dodgers. Pennants in '83 and '93? The Orioles won the '83 series, and need I mention Mitch Williams? And I can do the same for the Eagles (like for this season), the Sixers (they owed us more than one), the Flyers (what have they won lately?)...

Of course, you could bring up the 1980 Phillies, the '67 and '83 Sixers, the Flyers' cups in the 70's. But the true Philadelphia sports fan will point out that the '81 Phils got ripped off by the strike and forced playoff with the Expos, the Sixers crashed and burned in '68 and set an all-time worst-record mark within 5 years, and the Flyers got swept in '76 and have been to four more finals without a win since then. Every silver lining has a cloud. The glass is half empty and draining fast. We're always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But that being said, I put $20. on the Phillies to win the NL pennant this year, so I must have some hope deep down. On the other hand, I don't expect to collect. Of course not. I'm a Philadelphia sports fan. What did you expect?

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I will say this about the income tax process- when you're finished with the receipts and the cancelled checks and the invoices and the calculations and the fine print, you feel a great weight lifted from your back. And your wallet.

Feeding my masochism, I'm doing a refinance now. There's no rest for the weary.

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Yeah, yeah, I know. Southern Californians can't handle rain, treat it like a blizzard, accidents in a light mist. I won't even argue whether the stereotypes are true. They are. Well, it's raining now in Southern California, raining hard. I'm sure people are sliding into each other on the 405, the TV reporters are standing along the 101 or by the Los Angeles "River" in comical yellow rain slickers and hip boots doing the "Storm Watch 2003" thing, people are standing 12 deep in the checkout line at Ralphs with carts full of milk and diapers. That's not what I'm doing.

I love the rain.

I should clarify that- I don't especially like being out IN the rain. I have, however, always liked the sound of the rain as it hits the roof, drips off the eaves, splashes in puddles on the driveway. When I was a kid (forgive me another nostalgia run), I used to stand by our house under an awning as thunderstorms approached, watching the lightning in the western sky and counting the seconds between flash and boom. I'd open the garage door, lean against the Corvair or Chevette and watch the rain come down, the street eerily quiet except for the woosh of the occasional car rushing up Greenrale Avenue. And in all the years I lived back east, there was the crackle of approaching storms on the AM radio, rain not yet in the neighborhood but coming attractions interfering with the ballgame: "pitch low and away, 2 and 2 to Bowa. Sunday is Bat Day at the Vet CCCCRRRRKKKKK on sale at CCCCRRRRKKK and at all Ticketron outlets. Koosman kicks and deals, fouled off CCCCCCCCRRRRRRKKKKK."

Now that I live in a place where rain is rare and thunderstorms come, briefly, once every few years, I miss the sounds, the thunder, the quiet. It's here now, however briefly, and if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go listen.

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Oh, yeah, you might want to pay a visit to ALL ACCESS TALK TOPICS, where the New York Yankees are trading with the enemy, we discover that there are Jews in Baghdad, live chickens are being dropped into woodchippers, and, my stars, there's so much more to experience.

The buck starts here.

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Scott Peterson is not Gary Condit. The difference: timing. 9/11 took the heat off of Condit, and the lack of evidence for over a year allowed the case to fade into obscurity. Peterson had the war for public distraction, but the Republican Guard and the bodies didn't cooperate- the war ended sooner than Peterson needed, and the bodies, assuming they're Laci and the unborn child, turned up too soon.

There's no reason I should be paying any attention to the Laci Peterson case. I don't know the Petersons, I don't know what happened, and I can't think of a single way this case will impact my life. It's a tragedy, sure, but it isn't germane to anything beyond Modesto and Berkeley, beyond the families and friends. But here I am, listening to press conferences, passing judgement as if I was the jury foreman or the prosecutor.

We care about these high profile deaths because we always have. Trials were entertainment long before Court TV. For every trial that really does have an impact on people's lives- Scopes', maybe, or spy cases like the Rosenbergs', or police brutality cases like the Rodney King cops'- there are many more that the public follows for no other reason than that it's interesting, amusing, a break from the everyday. Whether Sam Sheppard got railroaded or not wouldn't have had any impact on anyone outside northeastern Ohio but for the intense news coverage. You can argue that the only impact the O.J. trials had were to prove that a court and prosecutors could completely fold under the scrutiny of a national audience. The Blake and Jayson Williams trials won't be relevant to most lives, either. You will, however, watch.

And so will I. It's like watching a ballgame, or war- you pick a side and root for them to win. I do, however, recognize the waste of time, the utter uselessness of paying attention to whether some guy in Modesto killed his wife, or some washed-up character actor is responsible for his wife's execution. It's going to be up to a higher authority to keep some perspective on this stuff, namely my wife. The night Princess Di died, we were watching the BBC coverage for hours when she turned the volume down, turned to me, and said "You know, this is sad and all, but it really doesn't have anything to do with my life." And she turned the channel to Nick at Nite.

Sometimes you watch the news, and sometimes you just have to change the channel to an Andy Griffith rerun. Now, that's philosophy.

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My mental fog hasn't lifted- work, taxes, refi, too much to handle at once. And a perfect example is this: until late this afternoon, I was totally unaware that, this season, the Phillies will be coming here not only to play the Dodgers, but will play a three game set against the Angels at Edison Field in June. Why wasn't I informed of this before now? Heads will roll!

Naturally, I immediately bought tickets. But I'm embarrassed- this is something I should have known. It's almost enough to get my Philadelphia sports fan credentials revoked. Almost. I'll have to go boo something to make up for this.

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Now on that which mortals call ALL ACCESS TALK TOPICS: Beat the umpire, kick the Easter Bunny's ass, play ping-pong with Jose Canseco, take a call from Jacques Chirac, fall off a bridge, drive into a house with a drunk Rodney King, and run around naked on a freeway.

Obviously, you need to be here.

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The Australian Foreign Affairs Department is warning Australians that travel to the Middle East- Syria, Kuwait, Iran, Lebanon- should be deferred unless essential.

I would think most folks would know to cross Syria, Kuwait, Iran, and Lebanon off their vacation lists. Or maybe not. You get so little time off, and when money's tight, you're going to look for a deal: The Park Hotel in Shiraz, Iran has rooms for $45. a night (single)- you're in a historic hotel (built in 1920) in the middle of a city of great antiquity, 2,500 years old, and you get elevators, a gift shop, fax service, a car rental desk, dry cleaning service, and 24 hour security.

Not vacationy enough for you? The Sheraton Damascus has a pool, tennis, a restaurant, TV with cable, and, most importantly, a mini-bar. Plus, you might be staying next to a celebrity, like one of the Husseins or someone else you've seen on the TV news- there's 24 hour service to Damascus International Airport, for when the paperwork comes through and you have to make the next flight to Paris. $132. for a single- more expensive than Shiraz, sure, but if you want the pool and tennis and Iraqi fugitives, you have to expect to pay for it.

So the Australian Foreign Affairs Department can warn people all they want, but bargain hunting vacationers know a deal when they see it. Besides, you could get hit by a cruise missile in other places, too. Could happen. Isn't Bermuda in the Axis of Evil?

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Michael Jordan's done. Didn't it all seem, I dunno, anticlimactic? I expected a lot more pageantry, ceremony, you know, bringing out all of his old teammates, a "This Is Your Life" kind of thing. Instead, he got a video montage accompanied by Boyz II Men. Boyz II Men? Were the Five Stairsteps and Cubie unavailable?

A blowout loss, long stretches on the bench, his last points coming on free throws from a gift foul in garbage time... it's the kind of sendoff you give a Bill Cartwright or Charles Oakley, not Michael F'in' Jordan himself. No matter how well he played with the Wizards, he should have gone out with The Shot against Utah in the finals. It would have been perfect. It WAS perfect. I expected this one would be something I'd never forget. I got something I'm already hazy on.

Michael who? Can't quite place the name. Was he as good as Kobe?

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Tonight at ALL ACCESS TALK TOPICS: Why getting your kiddie porn developed at the Rite Aid might not be a good idea, why you should drop the knife when the cops tell you to drop the knife, and many other obvious things, plus Hootie 'n' Cooties, a probably phony but nevertheless entertaining item about an S&M exercise class, and other stuff I can't remember.

Go and learn something.

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True Confessions:





Wait, I can explain.

I was in Washington. A friend was opening for her. It was about 2 blocks from my hotel. I got in free. I went backstage. I met Janeane. She was nice. There were many promotional packets of Listerine Breath Strips. I left. The end.

Can't agree with her on practically anything, but I can't rail against her, either. Drum me out of the Rabid Foaming Hawk Society if you must. Sorry.

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There are few things more difficult in a career than when you're failing. It's worse when you know it, know you're going to get the blame for it, and can't really do anything to save yourself.

The other night, after the last game of a really bad season, Toronto Raptors GM Glen Grunwald took to the PA at Air Canada Centre to apologize to fans for the team's performance. He was booed.

I learned in the course of my star-crossed radio career that whether you apologize or not, there are some people who'll catch all the blame whether they're responsible or not, and others who skate right through even if they leave a trail of destruction in their wake. I won't bore you with details (nor will I burn any bridges here), but I've been in situations where I was the only management figure you could reasonably say did not cause the troubles the station was happening, yet I was the sacrifice. I could have pulled a Grunwald- I could have gone on the air and said "you know what? We suck. But we'll fix it. And, oh, by the way, it wasn't my fault." It wouldn't have mattered. Some people get to fail upward- they're usually called "radio general managers"- and some don't. It can make those who don't- like me- bitter as hell.

But you can't let that happen to yourself. Better to cultivate an "I don't care" image than keep complaining and lose all your friends- failure, or the impression of failure, is as contagious as cooties, and nobody wants cooties. Save the apologies, Grunwald. Just stay quiet, do your job until they tell you to collect your personal effects and leave, and keep the sour feelings to yourself. If you can't fail upward, at least LOOK like you failed upward, or at least fail sideways. And save the angry stories for your book. That's what I'm doing. If you were lousy towards me in the past, now would be a good time to start sucking up to me. You can be the Dudley Do-Right of my book, or the Snidely Whiplash. The choice is yours, Snidely.

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Tonight at ALL ACCESS TALK TOPICS: duct tape discipline, another reason to hate Al Davis, a condom with interesting properties, and my final word on Marshmallow Peeps.

Don't forget to go here.

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I made it to the end of the week without major incident. That's an achievement. Between the workload and the taxes and some other aggravations I won't get into now, I was extremely irritated all week.

This is one of the many reasons I'm grateful Fran's around. I rant and rave with steam coming out of my ears and eyes bulging and tongue flapping wildly like a Tex Avery cartoon, and she calmly listens, offers words of wisdom and encouragement, and brings me back to equilibrium. If she wasn't here to keep me restrained, I'd be unemployed, friendless, and most probably roaming the streets haranguing passers-by with a clipboard.

But with Fran's help and the arrival of Friday afternoon, I'm still here and feeling much better now. In fact, I think I'm gonna go get a burrito and celebrate. I'll be back to post something more topical and brilliant later. Feel free to check back in- I'll be here.

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I'm not boycotting French stuff. This is not because I'm not annoyed by the French non-cooperation with the American-British war effort, their tight connection to Saddam, their increasing hatred of all things American, their tradition of anti-Semitism... well, OK, I'm annoyed by all of those things, plus the rudeness we've encountered in Paris and much more. But I'm not boycotting France for a much more practical reason.

I can't think of anything I buy that's French.

I'm fully aware that French bread sold in a Ralphs in Los Angeles isn't baked by French people in France. I know French fries here aren't from France. I even know that a French bistro in, say, Studio City isn't likely to be sending its profits back via wire to Marseilles. So what else from France is there for an American to boycott? I don't drink French wine- I don't really drink Napa wine, either- so that won't work. I don't even know if they sell Peugeots or Citroens here anymore- I haven't seen a Citroen since I saw a vintage 2CV jammed almost sideways between two trucks in London- and I wouldn't buy one anyway, so that isn't it either. Music? Haven't purchased a French record since Fran bought a Guesch Patti tape on our honeymoon. Beer? Now, there's something I could actively boycott. I support our allies by buying Newcastle Brown Ale, and I'll be sure not to buy... not to buy... um... someone help me here, name a French beer...

Aha. Suddenly, I have a theory.

Look at the stereotypes, because that's the kind of analysis we do. American guys: Budweiser, the Raiders, aggressive. British guys: A pint or twelve at the local, Chelsea, aggressive. Australian guys: Carlton or Foster's, that brutal Aussie Rules Football where you kick the crap out of the guy with the ball, aggressive. French guys... there it is. No beer. Not much sports- a little soccer, tennis, that's all. Submissive.

French people and their sympathizers would tell you this is a good thing. But it's the kind of passivity that leads directly to "Yes, sir, Mr. Hitler, right this way. Would you like some Jews to take home with you?" and "If you don't hurt us, Saddam ol' buddy, we'll do whatever you want. Arms? Cash? Ignoring sanctions? Sure, love to, just don't tell the other guys, OK?" Beer drinking sports fans aren't like that. Hitler comes around, we yell "Nazis suck!" with the same gusto as the blue-seaters at the Garden used on Denis Potvin back in the day. Saddam causes trouble, we go over there and kick some Republican Guard ass. You hit us, we hit back. You hit France, they do the rope-a-dope without the part where you hit Foreman back after he tires out.

Stop calling the French "Cheese-Eating Surrender Monkeys." That's wrong. It's "Cheese-Eating Wine-Sipping Non-Sports-Fan Surrender Monkeys." It's all about the beer. If they had any, I'd boycott it. If they had any, they wouldn't roll over for dictators. Someone send that weasel Chirac a case of PBR.

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Tonight, I received unexpected good news. K-Happy was back.

You'll recall a few weeks back when I rhapsodized about the cheesy, less-than-major-market sound of an AM radio station out in Moreno Valley, CA called KHPY ("K-Happy"), 1670 on your dial. Since then, every time I checked that station, it was in the midst of anything BUT the Worst Oldies Ever format I'd heard whenever I listened before that. Spanish religion recorded under what sounds like 20 feet of water. English-language religion. East African Click Language religion. But no awful oldies, no embarrassing talk-ups, none of the small-time, small-market radio that reminded me of the local-yokel stations which fascinated me in my youth. I was about to give up hope.

A few minutes ago, we finished watching a DVD ("Femme Fatale"- the usual Brian dePalma Hitchcock knock-off with some Rebecca Romijn-Stamos lap dancing and lesbian stuff, which I suppose could easily be construed as a recommendation. Skip the plot- you want the bathroom stall scene in the beginning and the bar backroom strip scene about 15 minutes before the end, nothing else) and I volunteered to take it back to Blockbuster so we wouldn't have to rush it back in the morning. While I was driving up the hill, I decided to see if I could find the Sacramento-Utah game on the radio. While I was scanning, I hit 1670, and the game was there on a station from up north, but it was buried under this:

"Hey, here's 'Hooked on a Feeling,' and we're hooked on the feeling of giving you the best oldies on the radio, K-H-P-Y AM 1670, K-Happy."

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