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And sometimes, all it takes is a little of this:



I've been irritable since, I suppose, shortly before the last time I told you I was irritable, which was quite a while ago. There's been no particular reason- I've just been getting up on the wrong side of the bed, on the wrong side of 5 am. Clearly, a change of scenery was required.

You get there from Los Angeles via any freeway heading east in unreasonably slow, aggravating traffic through the grandly-named Inland Empire (motto: "(cough)") and through the San Gorgonio Pass into the desert, which is, um, "there." You have a few choices out that way- you can head into Palm Springs, where they've imported grass and trees where they probably shouldn't be and where silver-haired retirees in "resort wear" and gay men in Tom of Finland gear stroll down Palm Canyon Way to the theatre to see entertainers you thought had passed on long ago perform vaudeville routines, or you can head up through the Morongo Valley past the Wal-Marts and Carl's Jr.'s of Yucca Valley into Joshua Tree park, which looks like what you might imagine the moonscape to be. Either way, it's over 100 degrees (a dry heat, but it's still way hot); either way, you either love it or loathe it. We're in the "love it" category. The rocky foothills beneath snow-capped mountains, the heat rising in visible waves off the car and the pavement, sitting on the patio of the Blue Coyote under the mist machines in the late-afternoon sun with a cold drink... aaaaahhh. Oh, yes. Lovely.

Everyone has their getaway. Ours happens to be brutally, don't-sit-on-the-leather-car-seat-in-shorts hot. There's nothing like it.

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We were about 20 miles from home when I realized I'd forgotten my phone. My phone! My lifeline to the world! My pocket Internet connection, e-mail fetcher, link to my address book and sports scores and long-distance calls. "That's OK," Fran said, "I have mine." No, that's NOT OK. It's not MY phone. Not MY contacts, MY e-mail, MY precious PDA phone.

I should go without that thing more often. It was nice not to take calls, not to be linked to the world, not to be bothered for a day. I was... free, at least for a day.

Naturally, the moment I walked through the door when we got home, the computer went on immediately, the phone was switched on, the lifeline reestablished. There's only so long I can be Nature Boy.

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No baseball today. Oh, sure, there were games on, but there wasn't baseball the way baseball used to be on Memorial Day. They don't play doubleheaders anymore, of course, and, in a dollop of additional blasphemy, there were several teams that DIDN'T EVEN PLAY today. The Dodgers were off, so were the Angels, and the Padres were in Arizona. No baseball in Southern California on a day synonymous with baseball.

It really sank in at barbecue time. After the honoring of those who have given their lives to protect us and to preserve America, Memorial Day means barbecuing on the backyard grill while the transistor radio- no boombox, no stereo, just a cheap pocket AM radio- sends the sounds of Vin or Harry or Scooter echoing across the patio. Memorial Day demands the presence of Vin Scully. I checked. No Vin. Vin was off, and Ross and Mo were, too. So were Rory and Terry on the Angels network. There was a pre-game show for the Padres game, but it wasn't the same.

This is, of course, a minor loss. The sun was still shining, the meat sizzling over the flame, the beer still cold, the memory of the valiant soldiers still clear and sobering. I can live, ultimately, without a local ballgame on the radio- it's just another Thing That Isn't There Anymore, something remembered fondly and wistfully but with a certain amount of resignation. But Major League Baseball is crazy if it thinks this is no great loss. In the paper today, an MLB spokesperson was quoted as saying that, well, teams don't want to play on Memorial Day because- she said this, seriously- they fear that attendance will be low, because people are off doing other things. Low attendance? On Memorial Day? You gotta be kidding. At least Dodgers VP Derrick Hall said the opposite, that he wished everyone WAS playing and that attendance would be good- SOMEONE in baseball gets it. But as interest in the sport continues to shrink and kids turn to other things- not just other team sports, but video games, "extreme" sports, "The Matrix Reloaded," anything- the people who run it need to think about what they're doing. There are many traditions that had no reason to survive, but the big Memorial Day baseball game did not need to go away. That it did is suicidal. On a day when millions of kids and adults are ready to come on out to the old ball game, the old ball game locks the gates and shoos away the customers. That's no way to run a business, and no way to treat a tradition worth saving.

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The Mysteries of Southern California: An Archaeological Odyssey

Chapter 5: The Pyramid of Palos Verdes and Swinghenge



These structures were recently unearthed at a site near the coastline on the Palos Verdes Peninsula, approximately 30 miles south of the center of Los Angeles. Research has thus far failed to determine what the significance of the objects are, although the pyramid (far right) is believed to be a form of memorial or tomb constructed to celebrate the life of only the most powerful or culturally significant Socalians, such as Spielbergkhamen. The other structures remain mysterious, as is the pattern of their construction- is the order of their placement significant? Is the presence of two identical figures (first and fourth from left) at a 90 degree angle meant to signify any religious message, and why are the two structures separated by what appears to be a variant on the sundial set three hours forward and a white curved sculpture of indeterminate utility (the four structures known collectively as "Swinghenge")? One may never know the answers to this mystery of the ages, and one may presume that the Socalians of the era were not fully able to explain the significance of the Pyramid either.


Pictured (L to R): Swingline I, Westclox Cube, Scotch Modern, Swingline II, Great Pyramid


(OK, I can't explain the two staplers, either, but the clock's for east coast time and the pyramid is a remote control gadget. Satisfied?)

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I'm going to hold the post I was originally going to make for a day or two- I want to think about it and get it right. That's important, because it's way too easy to spout off and post something and later think, geez, I should have said this and shouldn't have said that and... I wrote a very long piece for tonight, took a lot of time on it, and I think it needs editing. So I'm going to knock things off for the evening, if it's OK with you. There'll be more tomorrow. Until then, here's a picture of the palm trees in our driveway.

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There are a few message boards on the other web site for which I write, and, as I've noted here previously, the discourse tends to run towards the coarse, the ad hominem. Much of it is just radio guys sniping at each other, some of it is political, and a lot of it deals with the prevailing mood in the industry, which isn't very bright.

There are a lot of unemployed or underemployed radio people out there, and a common thread running through their posted comments is that, somehow, the industry is to blame for their plight. More to the point, it seems that everyone blames a) consolidation, b) voice tracking, and c) Clear Channel. Most consider a), b), and c) to be the same thing, which may be correct. But I think the people who blame external forces for their own plight are missing something, and I think it's time for some tough love.

Guys, here's the deal: your industry did indeed change, and perhaps it's been for the worse. Fine. And, yes, in many ways there are fewer opportunities. Let's say we agree on all of that. But let's try to understand it by dragging out the old buggy whip example. You're a buggy whip maker, the world's transportation needs change to motorized vehicles, you go out of business. You make slide rules, they invent the calculator, you go out of business. You make anything, someone invents something to replace your product, you go out of business. Right? Well, no, that's not right. You're sitting there with a buggy whip factory, cars come along, you take a look at what you have- leather tanning facility, stockpile of hides, distribution system- and you determine what you can do other than make buggy whips. And your leather jacket, chamois, and belt business becomes a success. You can't tell your friends you make buggy whips anymore, but you're making a living.

Here's a bulletin for small-market or marginally-talented radio personalities: you're making buggy whips. Time to reconsider your career.

But, you say, but, I'm good! And I belong on the radio because I'm better than those guys in New York and L.A.! How DARE anyone suggest I leave the business! Ah, but I'm not saying you should give up. Far from it- I would encourage anyone who really, truly desires to be a radio star to keep plugging away. But instead of cursing Clear Channel and Michael Powell because your local market consists of a bunch of computer-fed voice-tracked stations and no local staff, you should be ready to do two things: move to another market, or at least temporarily get out of the business so you can pay the bills. Unfair? That's life. Nobody owes you a living, and the radio industry doesn't owe you a job.

Think of voice-tracking and satellite and computers and consolidation as the new way the business works, just like cars became the new transportation and calculators became the way people did math. You're making buggy whips, but you can change, even if it's temporary. Instead of sitting around the apartment whining about how you're being beaten down by The Man, get a job doing something else. Write, sell cars, flip burgers, push a mop. As a wise man (OK, it was Atlanta morning radio host Larry Wachs, but the advice was still wise) once told me, there is no shame in doing whatever you have to do to support your family. He told that to me when I was in a between-jobs funk. Shortly thereafter, I found myself doing data entry to pay the rent. The data entry led to a neat job in I/T. After another radio job, the I/T experience led to temp work for a big tech firm and side work for a company I eventually joined in another capacity. The people I met became important as friends and business contacts, and the experience I gained was invaluable. I could have said that all of these jobs were beneath me- I've been a radio programmer in one of the largest markets in the world, I've been on the air, how could I possibly accept a low-wage job typing in vital statistics and crawling behind workstations cracking open Power Macs?- but I took the wise man's advice and never looked back.

I guess this is all an incoherent way of telling my radio brethren to get a grip, to understand that the radio world has changed and whether it's a good or bad thing is irrelevant. Clear Channel didn't "do" anything to you. The FCC isn't "doing" anything to you. So you can't read liner cards and spin records right now. Keep trying to get back in, sure, but in the meantime, swallow your pride and do something else. You might even end up liking it.

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I hit the wall on the Peterson case today. I was writing a story about today's "development"- something to the effect that Laci's family sent friends into the house to get her stuff- and I zoned out about halfway through. Later, in the car, John and Ken were talking about the case on KFI and when Ken said something about decomposition of the body, bothe Fran and I lunged for the button.

All news stories have a shelf life. Even the war had one- a few weeks and people were looking for something else to worry about. This one, on the other hand, is more than just exhaustion with the Peterson case. I just don't care about these true-crime stories any more. I don't want to hear about them. If Robert Blake dropped by to confess in my living room, I might just ask him to quit blocking the TV. I don't want to hear about strangled newborns, limbless bodies, smarmy suspects. I don't want to hear about slimy lawyers, inept prosecutors, satanic-cult theories. I just can't do it anymore. I want happy. I want relaxing. I want stress-free.

I think I want elevator music. That's not good.

My job requires me to stay informed on these stories, so I guess I'm stuck, but I am absolutaly not happy about it. These stories won't stop coming, and I won't be able to stop covering them. But I can dream, and that dream has lush green grass and flowers and bright primary colors and motion and I think I just dreamt about the Teletubbies. I need a break. Is it the weekend yet? It is? OK, that's it, I'm gone. I wonder if there'll be a line at the next showing of "Finding Nemo."

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A Day At the Home Show



So, how did I end up at the Jerky Hut? Good question. Here's my story.

We decided, on an idle Saturday with nothing in particular on the schedule, to stop by the big Southern California Home Show in Long Beach. This kind of thing happens when you're a homeowner. You go through life without once ever having a single thought about pavers or roof tiles or refinancing, and then you buy a house and WHAM you're suddenly harboring an interest in solar pool heaters and window treatments. That's when Home Depot and Lowe's enter your life, and that's when you're paging through the Press-Telegram and see an ad for the Southern California Home Show and you think, say, why don't we spend an afternoon there? So we did.

Remarkable Thing Number One:



These shows bring out a lot of people. A LOT of people. But, and here I'm going to measure my words carefully lest I insult anybody who happens to a) read this column and b) be a home show habitue, the clientele generally appears not to be the kind of people whose homes are likely to be featured in Architectural Digest. Or HGTV. Maybe Handyman Magazine, or, if there is such a thing, Hovels Illustrated. At least, that's what I assume their homes are like, because I observed this: the crowd at a booth was in inverse proportion to the quality of the goods therein. The Jenn-Air indoor grills, the real-stone, real-slate patio tiles, the high quality goods were being ignored. The battery-free "Forever Flashlight," the "free car" contests that are obvious fronts for time-share pitches, the booth selling a lifesize Elvis statue? Mobbed. Any booth resembling one of those infomercials with some guy shouting the virtues of some miracle spot remover and barbecue sauce had crowds five deep.

Remarkable Thing Number Two:



There were at least six Tempurpedic mattress booths. There were also about four Dish Network sellers, and two dueling National Association for the Self-Employed booths. I gather that all of them use independent local enterpreneurs to sell their goods. That doesn't mean the products are bad- we have Dish Network ourselves and like it a lot- but it does mean that the Home Show takes on an aura of live telemarketing. Memo to the Dish and Tempurpedic people: it makes your products look cheap.

Remarkable Thing Number Three:



There was a booth selling an item that was supposed to help you sleep and feel comfortable on airplanes. Unfortunately, it did not involve anything to do with the space your legs are supposed to occupy. Worse, take a look at the picture above- they're selling a strap to tie your head to your airplane seat. No, really. You slip the band around the headrest and across your forehead. It's S&M Lite!

Remarkable Thing Number Four:



Memo to my radio brethren: if you're going to do a live appearance, at least TRY to drum up some excitement. Make it a show. Have entertainment, music, prizes. Be loud and fun. Give 'em something to look at. And for God's sake, make sure your booth isn't hidden way in the back of the hall behind some it-slices-it-dices thing. This is K-Earth 101's booth at the Home Show- it's the yellow banner in the back, obscured by the demonstration next to it. There's a dispirited, bored DJ back there, sitting behind a card table with a street-teamer. They're not doing anything. I was tempted to put a mirror under their nose to see if they were still breathing. This is why radio is often considered lower on the show business ladder than organ grinders and mimes. If, when I was a kid, I'd seen a radio remote this dull and lifeless, I'd have scratched radio off the list of possible vocations. Even 500 watt Mom-n-Pop daytimer WKER in Pompton Lakes, New Jersey circa 1971 did more impressive appearances. And K-Earth- owned by Viacom!- probably bills more in a week than WKER did in an entire year. Unbelievable.

Remarkable Thing Number Five:



So we ended up at the Jerky Hut. I'm not sure what jerky has to do with home remodeling, but take a look at this booth. There's tons of jerky there. A zillion jerky flavors. Jerky as far as the eye can see, or at least wrapping around the corner, all bagged up and ready to be taken home or consumed on the premises. We looked at a lot of booths, and only one delivered what it promised with no caveats, no preposterous pitches, no qualifications or "special deals" or requirement to fill out a card asking for your income and the names of your children and pets. The Jerky Hut. God bless 'em.

We left with a bag full of brochures we'll never look at again, several companies who will be calling our house every few hours for the next few months trying to sell us something, and... um... that's it. But we highly recommend home shows as weekend entertainment, because they're educational, they're fun, and they're six bucks each we'll never get back, so we'd feel better if all of you got ripped off, too. Misery loves company. And jerky.

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