Thought I’d share this. The shot above is of the sinkhole in Florida that consumed a man five days ago.

Sinkholes are evidently more common than I thought — as you can can see in this slideshow of the most alarming examples in recent years.

I remember the one that opened about 20 years ago here in Los Angeles on Vermont Avenue. The cause? Construction of the Red Line subway system. And I remember a narrow but deep chasm that opened in my back yard following the 1994; it was eerie looking into the inner workings of the earth. My then 3-year-old son was pretty shaken by that. He wasn’t alone.

Glad I saw The Beach Boys last year when I had the chance (and in one of the flat-out best shows I’ve ever seen), because now Brian Wilson is saying sail on, sailor, to the notion of the band ever getting together again. Wilson made the announcement last night while accepting a Grammy for the band’s work last year, announcing the end of reunions.

At one point, I would have been glad for that, because the thing touring the U.S. as “The Beach Boys Band” is in no way The Beach Boys — it’s Mike Love, Bruce Johnston, and some other guys, with nary a Wilson brother in site. (Let alone founding members Al Jardine or David Marks.) But last year’s tour, and the accompanying album of new music, were surprisingly strong. Now, though, there are no good vibrations left among the true Beach Boys. The 2012 outing will be their last, and That’s Why God Made the Radio will remain their career-capping recording. But don’t worry, baby, there’s a lot of great music still out there, and a fine legacy to look back on.

Surf’s up.

Here’s my friend Gwydion Suilebhan with thoughts on how the arts can extend their influence (and their shelf life) by recognizing how much arts consumption has changed.

Joe Stafford. A man of taste.

(I didn’t say good taste.)

Is this a vision of those boys’ future?

I got my first newspaper job at age 14, taking classified ads over the phone. I did that all through the rest of high school, and went full-time for a bit right after high school.

While in college, I started stringing for Gannett. I wrote for two daily newspapers and five weeklies, and was sometimes syndicated more widely by the company. That’s because at the time, Gannett owned newspapers across the U.S., including the Detroit News and USA Today. (Now it bills itself as “a media and marketing solutions company.” I understand why; I truly do.)

After that, I was hired by the Press of Atlantic City (which some of us remember as The Atlantic City Press) as a copy editor. I thrived in that role, partly no doubt because the hours were 6 p.m. to 2 a.m.

After moving to Los Angeles in 1988, I kept freelancing for newspapers and magazines for five or 10 years, including some of the papers I had worked for, plus the Los Angeles Times, the Arkansas Democrat Gazette and others. Gradually, both the theatre and other interests related to changing the world (business, politics) swept me away. But to this day, I read the Los Angeles Times and the Wall Street Journal daily, and check in on other newspapers frequently.

All this background is by way of telling you how much I love newspapers. Many of my plays feature newspapers, much to the detriment of their lastability.

This is also by way of preamble to something I saw last night that should have come as no surprise, but which confirmed everything that has happened to journalism in recent years.

My daughter and I are watching House of Cards on Netflix. I saw the original British version on PBS back in the 90s, and again about six years ago. This new version stars Kevin Spacey as a conniving Congressional majority whip who beds a budding journalist named Zoe and uses her to further his ends. The young reporter’s rash behavior puts her at odds with the executive editor at The Washington “Herald” (which seems much like The Washington Post, right down to the plummy female publisher), who fires her. Upon being fired, the reporter fires off a tweet mentioning that the editor called her “a cunt,” and that action, backed by the exclusives she’s been landing thanks to her relationship with the majority whip, lands her her choice of new positions elsewhere.

So, of course, she takes a job with something called Slugline. Slugline, it seems, is like Politico, as done by TMZ. That’s implied both in words by the reporter Zoe and by the actions of the “editor” who hires her. To wit:  Zoe submits her first story to the editor for editing and review; the editor comes out and tells her that she can write — and post — what she wants, with no editorial review needed.

Zoe gets this message, by the way, while sitting on the floor in a large common work space, a space where writers sit on the floor or on bean bag cushions. No offices, no desks, no chairs, no file cabinets. No editors. I’m aware of this sort of workspace, naturally, and have seen some of them. But seeing it depicted as the next generation of journalism made my heart shrivel. It also helped me understand, again, why so much in the news is wrong and so quickly:  no editors. Not for grammar, not for spelling, not for names, and not for facts. That isn’t the case everywhere, and it never will be, not so long as major news organizations want to preserve their reputation. But I will note that two weeks ago I gave a speech in Glendale, and the local paper came to cover it. The little writeup was riddled with errors, right down to my company’s name:  “Counterintuity LCC.” An “LLC” is a limited liability company; what’s an “LCC”? It’s an admission that you have no editor. Who owns the paper? The Los Angeles Times.

The photo above is of three delighted new subscribers to Mad magazine, courtesy of me. They arrived home from whatever it is they get up to during the day — who knows? could be anything — and found this surprise waiting for them alongside stacks of bills and mail appeals intended for their parents.

Who are those parents? They are my niece and her husband. Which makes these three my Great Nephews. Used in this way, though, the term may be misleading — I think they’re really pretty good, but “Great” seems like overstepping — so better to say that I’m their Great Uncle. (Much better.)

Why did I buy them an unsolicited subscription to Mad magazine? To ruin their youth, that’s why. Mad magazine has been a thumb in the eye to parents for 60 years and counting, and I’m proud to help continue that tradition. (That, plus I got a great deal on gift subscriptions.) Look again at the burst of excitement etched across their faces. I wish I could go back in time and do it again! It’s sure to be pandemonium in that house for quite some time.

It’s not just my niece I’m bedeviling with my mischief. Here’s a photo of another happy new subscriber, who was also surprised with a subscription that began on the same day:

Clearly, the derangement took hold immediately. (The leering Mexican demon masks in the background of the photo can’t hold a candle to this lunacy.) Here’s another shot from the same milieu, taken later that night:

No video games in sight. The Usual Gang of Idiots must be proud. Later, I saw this boy’s adolescent-anxiety-drenched sister reading this copy of the magazine, and then when I went looking for it later it was gone. I found out that my wife had taken it to read at work. Where does she work? She’s a respiratory therapist. At a hospital. (I have visions of patients dropping like flies while co-workers struggle to do the Mad Fold-In.) Seems everyone in our family is mad about Mad.

The voice of Charlie Brown has been arrested on suspicion of stalking. And no, it wasn’t the little red-haired girl he’s accused of stalking.

Two warnings about these irresistible nut clusters.

1. They are irresistible. I bought them tonight at the supermarket, then had to hide them from myself before I ate more, but unfortunately, I knew where I had hid them, so then I ate more.
2. Evidently, they are produced in a facility that also handles Milk, Soy, Wheat and Peanuts. It says so right on the back. So if you’re eating these nuts, and you have an allergic reaction to nuts, you have only yourself to blame.

Legendary southern California broadcaster and on-screen tour guide Huell Howser died unexpectedly today at age 67. I don’t know if his death was unexpected to those in his personal sphere, but it certainly seems to have been unexpected to the rest of us; right up until his recent surprising retirement, he seemed as robust as ever.

For three decades, Mr. Howser brought gosh-golly-gee-whiz introductions to the lesser-known highlights of southern California: little eateries and specialty shops, the misbegotten weed-entangled park beloved by one local caretaker, the guy whose job it is to paint the bridge, and the local bee-keeper and such. (The photo above is from his visit to Pie n’ Burger, also in Pasadena.) He delivered all his stories with remarkable enthusiasm, couched in a Huckleberry Hound accent, but every iota of it was genuine. He was genuinely adored by “Simpsons” creator Matt Groening, who saw fit to feature Mr. Howser in not one, but two, episodes of his show. In small towns and backwaters throughout southern California, a visit by Huell Howser meant redemption of some sort.

For those outside the reach of local Los Angeles telecasts, this may help in understanding the odd appeal of Huell Howser:

That’s him two years ago, belting one out on behalf of his beloved adopted state.

Below you’ll find a 5-minute video from a 1988 episode of his early show “Videolog” (pronounced as “Vid-EE-oh-LAWG,” with molasses poured around it). This 5-minute bit, of Howser touring a peach-cobbler shop in Pasadena, sticks with me for several reasons. First, it was one of my earliest exposures to the bewildering phenomenon that Mr. Howser was to become. (I moved to this state in 1988.) Second, I was struck then, as I am now, by how little story there is to be had in the tale of this cobbler shop, and how little he does to find more. His journalistic approach was terribly zen. Third, of course, I was bowled over by his rampant enthusiasm, which surely had to be faked (evidently, it wasn’t). And finally, because I was newly here, and in grad school, and didn’t have children and didn’t own a business, i.e., because whims were my coin of the realm, I got into my car and drove out to Pasadena specifically to sample the wares of The Cobbler Factory after seeing this bit on TV. Here’s what I discovered: The peach cobbler was okay. It was nowhere near the mystical constructs rendered by Mr. Howser in his television program. In fact, I thought it was too sweet — brutally sweet.

I’ll miss knowing he’s around, and catching him on TV now and then. The world has grown a little dimmer without that 1000-watt smile. Thankfully, we still have the Internet. There is a great deal of Huell Howser there for you to enjoy.