Instant funny.

Traffic was backed up for four miles on the southbound lanes of I-35 near Huxley, Iowa on Tuesday afternoon as crews labored to clean up a spilled semitrailer load of Jell-O pudding cups. Meanwhile, a mere 25 miles away, former Jell-O spokesman Bill Cosby was a featured speaker at the Get Motivated "business seminar" in Des Moines. These are indisputable facts, and for some reason, they are funny. Even the Associated Press coverage of the accident, which mentioned neither the brand name Jell-O nor the nearby presence of Cosby, was amusing, mainly due to the line "Pudding cups littered the interstate." The heart of the matter is this: a pudding spill is funny.

Of course, it is unlikely that the semi driver has joined the chorus of chuckles. Although he escaped uninjured, he did endure the harrowing experience of driving down the highway and suddenly discovering that his trailer was on fire. After pulling over to the berm and detaching his cab, he awaited the arrival of emergency crews while his trailer became engulfed in flames. His cargo spilled from the side of the trailer onto the roadway. Far from being amused, the driver was likely grateful to be alive while overwhelmed by the practical implications of the incident. What was the cause of the accident? Who, if anyone, was responsible? Were the trailer and its contents insured? What needs to be done next? Meanwhile, I doubt that cleanup crews found much levity in the unenviable task of removing the mess while impatient motorists backed up mile after mile.

And yet, the pudding bit is funny, at least to the detached observer with no stake in the matter. As Mel Brooks famously observed, "Tragedy is when I cut my finger. Comedy is when you walk into an open sewer and die." A comic exaggeration, to be sure, but it helps to explain the critical role of perspective in perceiving humor. Had anyone been seriously injured or killed, certainly a probable outcome of such an incident, the funniness would have evaporated for most of us, sociopaths excepted. On the other hand, if a responding police officer had sped to the scene and consequently engaged in an ultimately harmless series of 360-degree spins in a quarter-mile pudding skid, we would all be LOL-ing at the viral YouTube footage.

Just hours before the Iowa pudding debacle, a semi truck passing near Dayton, Ohio along I-75 jack-knifed and hit a bridge wall. Its driver was uninjured, but approximately 100 gallons of diesel fuel were spilled into the Great Miami River. Nothing funny here, just a minor environmental tragedy, a lot of inconvenienced motorists, and one lucky truck driver. However, had the trailer been loaded with commercial tubs of Jell-O instant pudding, the contents of which had spilled into the river and whipped the Great Miami into a chocolaty froth, we would all be having our days lightened by grinning co-anchors teasing the story with, "And finally, can you say Jell-NO?"

So when it comes to potentially lethal spills of cargo on the highway, the perceived danger of that cargo is inversely proportional to the humor. Diesel fuel is harmful in nearly every circumstance other than safely burning it as fuel, and therefore it is not funny. Jell-O pudding, however, is tasty, fun, harmful only to the waist, and carries that mirthful Cosby connotation, and therefore it is worthy of a giggle in all but the most extraordinary situations.

Beyond the cargo, though, it also helps one find the funny if the mishap doesn't happen to you. Years ago I was driving home through Columbus on 315, traveling south along what is known among local traffic reporters as "the hospital curve" because of its proximity to Riverside Methodist. Ahead of me in the center lane was a pickup truck with an unsecured wheelbarrow in its bed. Luckily I was maintaining a good bit of distance between us, arguably a lifesaving factor when the wheelbarrow suddenly rose like a kite and clattered onto the pavement. It was one of those adrenaline-filled moments when there is no time to think and just the barest window within which to respond instinctively. I swerved into the next lane without so much as a glance to check for traffic, and thankfully no one was driving in that space. Having narrowly missed a collision with the wheelbarrow, I continued along the highway with a pounding heart and mounting anger at the rubes whose irresponsibility put lives in jeopardy.

Now, it really would not have made any difference to me had that pickup been filled with pudding cups, a case of diapers, or a full load of bananas. Even if these bozos had dropped a shipment of inflatable Brutus Buckeyes and E. Gordon Gee bobbleheads, I would have perceived nothing more than an imminent threat to my safety, and that is not funny. Although I must admit, I can laugh at the thought of my obituary reading, "felled by an airborne bobblehead of E. Gordon Gee." But then I wouldn't be around to tee-hee about it, would I?

It's a fine line, then. Werribee, a small town in Melbourne, Australia, had a cow spill on the very same day as the Iowa pudding spill and Ohio diesel fuel spill. The driver had minor shoulder injuries. Unfortunately, some of the forty cows were killed, and others were injured. Obviously not funny. Had all living creatures escaped unscathed and oncoming drivers were merely inconvenienced by a herd of confused cows, though, we could all have a laugh about it.

A couple days earlier, traffic on the Trans-Canada highway near Sintalua, Saskatchewan was halted by a truck crash and its consequent spill of lobster tails. Minor injuries to the driver and a passenger. Mildly funny due to the incongruity of lobster tails on the roadway.

There were no injuries near Jonesville, Indiana on April 19 when 20,000 pounds of chicken manure were spilled onto Indiana 11. Funny. Not to anyone involved in the cleanup, of course, but otherwise funny.

And then there was the April 30 incident on northbound I-65 outside of Columbus, Indiana. A crash resulted in a semi spilling its load of peanut butter. According to Central Indiana CBS affiliate WISH-TV, "Bartholomew County Sheriff's officials said peanut butter was spread on the roadway for about an eighth of a mile."

Now that's funny.

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I am sitting by the front windows at a table adorned with a small vase of fresh-cut daisies and miniature yellow roses, clacking away at my laptop while sipping from a large mocha espresso. It is mid-morning, well after the breakfast rush and still more than an hour away from the onset of the lunch crowd, yet there has been no scarcity of customers. An ebullient woman dressed as a skeleton and a cocky guy in the garb of a Mardi Gras king are competing for the approval of the audience as Let's Make A Deal unfolds on a flat-screen display. No one pays any attention to the spectacle, though, its raucous proceedings muffled by the general din of conversation and an industrious, cheery staff.

The dining area is a collage of browns, beiges and oranges, offset with bold murals of modern art featuring swaths of black and white, red and yellow, and a high-contrast, monochromatic portrait of a young woman of ambiguous expression staring upward as her negatively silhouetted hand cradles a photorealistic hamburger. Behind the counter is an even more aggressive design scheme: yard-long, rectangular backsplash panels in adjoining fields of midnight black and fire engine red. A light wood grain laminate dominates not only the floor but the walls as well. Unobtrusive lighting recessed within acoustical ceiling tile illuminates a variety of seating options, from a long, tall, wooden table flanked by a dual row of upholstered bar stools to a series of white fiberglass tables adjacent to a long, cushioned bench that runs along the front of the room. It's a quirky mix of variety and uniformity, as though an interior decorator were given complete artistic freedom within severely defined constraints.

It's opening day for our newly renovated neighborhood McDonald's, the latest effort in a nationwide, billion-dollar corporate makeover designed to rebrand the chain from an outdated haven for Happy Meals to a comfortable hangout for the tablet-and-latte set. According to Business Insider, an average cost of just over half a million dollars per remodeled restaurant can be expected to raise sales by up to 7% in the first year with further gains in subsequent years. USA Today says that McDonald's has committed to the unprecedented investment with an aim to "quash its rivals, pry customers away from slightly pricier casual chains like Panera and Chipotle, and to begin cementing a new image of McDonald's in the minds of consumers."

Though I am personally skeptical about the degree to which a McDonald's renovation means anything at all to the average consumer, I cannot deny the enthusiasm that I observe emanating from some patrons. "It's so much bigger!" one woman gushes to her companions, venturing toward the perimeter of the dining area to confirm her suspicion of increased square footage. "Look! I'm standing where the patio was!" Apparently embarrassed, one of her entourage turns to another and quietly offers, "This is how we get on Fridays."

Another customer approaches the owner and reveals that her daughter was impatiently awaiting the grand reopening. "Look how happy she is," the mother indicates, adding her glowing assessment of the remodeled interior's beauty. I swear on Ray Kroc's grave that I am not fabricating this exchange.

Of course, I understand the attraction of McDonald's for young children. I am of the first generation of toddlers to have been wooed by the burger chain's successful McDonaldland advertising campaign, the bizarre series of commercials that emulated the work of Sid and Marty Krofft and introduced such memorable characters as Grimace and Mayor McCheese. I am told that I once barricaded myself in the bathroom, taking advantage of a design flaw that enabled anyone to simply open the counter drawers to prevent the door from being opened. For reasons unknown, I refused to come out despite the patient pleading of my parents. Apparently I was finally persuaded to abandon the standoff when Dad promised to reward my compliance with a trip to McDonald's. I'm not sure what the moral of the story is (probably not a good one), but I think my estimation of McDonald's was similar to that of many children at the time. Those golden arches supported a powerfully positive connotation.

My wife and I continued the tradition by taking our daughters to McDonald's when they were very young. They liked the food and loved the play areas, a winning formula that guaranteed a good time at minimal expense.

And there is something to be said for consistency. One of the redeeming virtues of McDonald's is that you can walk into one practically anywhere and know precisely what you're going to get. If you happen to have a craving for the unique flavoring and texture of, say, a Big Mac, you are not going to be disappointed.

But I do wonder if I would be totally ambivalent to the food McDonald's sells if only my brain were not hardwired to associate it with the happiness of my childhood and that of my children. Sure, the fries can be pretty tasty, provided they have been culled from a fresh batch. But have you ever made a hamburger that was even remotely like any of the billions sold by McDonald's? That curious mixture of meat, condiments and bun is so effortlessly digestible that you could lose all your teeth and still gum down a Quarter Pounder. It's unlike food I've consumed anywhere else, and that's a plus for McDonald's, because there is only one place to get it. I suspect that had I never entered a McDonald's until today, I would sample the menu and be appalled. But I have been conditioned to respond otherwise. I occasionally eat at a McDonald's and more often than not enjoy it.

Today, in fact, my espresso is merely an appetizer, allowing me time to soak in the new atmosphere and enjoy a couple hours of complimentary WiFi service before my wife joins me for lunch. Plus, I am curious to check out this new McDonald's philosophy of encouraging customers to linger, as patrons are accustomed to doing at Panera. True to their corporate word, no one hassles me for occupying my seat for so long. In fact, they seem nothing if not pleased to have me there. My wife arrives, and we both settle on the classic combination of a Big Mac and fries.

It is impossible for me to even think about a Big Mac without recalling my favorite piece of political correspondence. As related in Eric Schlosser's Fast Food Nation, Richard Nixon felt compelled to congratulate Ray Kroc upon trying a Big Mac in 1974:

One of the highlights of my sixty-first birthday celebration was when Tricia suggested we needed a 'break' on our drive to Palm Springs, and we turned in at McDonald's. I had heard for years from our girls that the 'Big Mac' was really something special, and while I've often credited Mrs. Nixon with making the best hamburgers in the world, we are both convinced that McDonald's runs a close second.

If only our late President could see the slippery glop that I hold vise-like with both hands now. Sure, it tastes good, in a McDonald's sort of way. The fries, alas, are not a fair representation of the best McDonald's has to offer. The staleness that sets upon them like french fry rigor mortis has already begun to lessen their appeal. Our surroundings are more pleasurable than the food we are eating.

We've all been there, I think. And in that sense, you've already been to one of the renovated McDonald's. Only the environment has been changed, not the food, and it remains to be seen whether a billion dollars worth of remodeling can persuade enough consumers to feel that the big,yellow M stands for more than Meh.

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Growing up in the 70's, I heard my fair share of pop music, mostly as I dawdled over a bowl of cereal while our local AM radio station spun tunes in between news updates and weather forecasts. WIMA programmed an adult contemporary playlist that was as digestible at the breakfast table as it was suitable for dentists' offices. Songs like Feelings, Tie A Yellow Ribbon, Raindrops Keep Fallin' On My Head and Music Box Dancer were mixed with country crossover hits such as The Devil Went Down to Georgia and Southern Nights, all topped off with a liberal sprinkling of Bee Gees hits. From the dawn of disco to its twilight and shortly thereafter, WIMA also kept ABBA in heavy rotation.

I was familiar with ABBA because of their inclusion among the small stack of 45's I had inherited from my siblings. Brownsville Station's Smokin' in the Boys Room. Clint Holmes' Playground in My Mind. The Night Chicago Died by Paper Lace. Something had to go under the needle of my very first record player, and whatever I found around the house was added to the playlist. I still remember the red and black Atlantic Records label revolving as the low-fidelity strains of Waterloo warbled from built-in speakers. It was a happy and infectious tune, and although I had no idea what the song was about, I knew I liked the music. Like most of the ABBA hits that were destined to dominate the airwaves, Waterloo was so catchy that it was hard to forget. Hear it once, and you know it. Hear it twice, and it's stuck in your head.

So I guess you could say that I initially liked ABBA, even as more and more of their singles began to accompany my breakfast routine. Dancing Queen, The Name of the Game, Take a Chance on Me, and other chart-topping titles were the aural sugar that I swallowed along with bowls full of Cap'n Crunch and Cocoa Puffs. It was no worse - nor better - than the other radio fare that I crunched away to, from Muskrat Love to Forever in Blue Jeans. But as time went on, the unmistakable sound of ABBA became a little overbearing, much like disco itself. Even someone with a relentless sweet tooth like myself preferred a bowl of comparatively tame Life now and then. By the end of the decade, it seemed like we'd been listening to ABBA for a long time, and there was no end in sight. Was there no stopping the super-successful Swedish juggernaut?

Little did I know that the end was nigh. Suddenly disco was dead, New Wave married a pop sensibility to punk, and ABBA had inexplicably vanished, save for the odd K-tel compilation. I must admit that a few years later the songwriting half of ABBA, Benny Andersson and Bjorn Ulvaeus, rose in my estimation due to their collaboration with Tim Rice on the musical Chess. Highlights like I Know Him So Well and Pity the Child represented some of the best pop music to come out of the 80's, and it made me ponder the admirable craftsmanship behind the overplayed ABBA hits of the 70's. Yet it wasn't enough to inspire me to seek out and listen to the stuff. Even the renewed appreciation of ABBA that accompanied the Broadway success of Mama Mia! could not move my indifference.

In recent years, though, perhaps out of sheer nostalgia for a simpler time, my heart has softened toward the Swedish quartet, and I sometimes discover the familiar soft disco of Dancing Queen involuntarily echoing within my cranium. It comes and goes like a sudden craving for a bygone confection. Last Saturday, on a cloudless morning ideal for a solo road trip, I decided to give in to my brain's preoccupation by traveling to the tunes of ABBA Gold: Greatest Hits. The 1992 release includes 19 tracks, and I was surprised to find that a number of them were completely unfamiliar to me, even in name. Gee, it sure seemed like I knew a score of ABBA tunes, but I guess it must have been the same dozen played over and over again. Apparently the success of the compilation spawned a 1993 follow-up called More ABBA Gold: More ABBA Hits. I think a subtitle like Stuff You've Never Heard would be more appropriate. But I digress.

A piano glissando filled the cabin of my Civic as I sped down the highway. It segued into a gentle bass groove overlaid with ethereal background vocals and ham-fisted piano chords, and at last my brain found respite from its Dancing Queen earworm (the aural equivalent of hair o' the dog, sometimes actually listening to the song that loops through your head is the only antidote). I had thought I was thoroughly familiar with the recording, but it was a revelation to hear just how prominently the vocals were mixed. Surely Agnetha Faltskog and Anni-Frid Lyngstad were double-tracked, perhaps even triple-tracked or quadruple-tracked. That peculiarly nasal, all-out vocal assault was the signature sound of ABBA, and it dominated nearly every track on ABBA Gold.

Oh, it was fun at first. I smiled through Knowing Me, Knowing You and Take a Chance on Me, much as I might allow myself to go overboard with a second or third slice of chocolate cake. But by the time I had listened to all of Mama Mia, Lay All Your Love On Me, and Super Trouper, I was starting to feel a little sick. It dawned on me that ABBA is dessert music, not meant to be consumed as a main course, and anyone who wolfs down over an hour of Benny, Bjorn, Agnetha and Anni-Frid is asking for it. I plowed forward, though, even smiling at the overblown theatricality of Money, Money, Money, a gem I hadn't heard in over thirty years. Eventually I succumbed to a fit of aural nausea, barely holding on as I waited to hear the final track, Waterloo. When it finally arrived, its digital data was so near the perimeter of the compact disc that my CD player couldn't smoothly decode it. Despite my valiant effort to finish the business, I ended my journey listening to the same fifteen seconds of ABBA in a torturous loop. Fitting, really.

And so I now feel qualified to render a final verdict on the lasting effects of Sweden's most popular musical export on our culture. There is nothing wrong with ABBA, provided that one takes it in small doses. This is why the ubiquity of their hits eventually became insufferable toward the end of the disco era. May our nation never make that mistake again. No, you may listen to a little ABBA now and then, but only as a small part of a balanced musical diet. For example, you might allow yourself a hearing of Chiquitita after a contemplative rumination over Barber's Adagio for Strings. Or an evening of Tuvan throat singing might steel oneself for the one-two punch of Fernando followed by Voulez-Vous. Much more than this and you are risking overexposure.

Remember, there is a reason why the hedonistic excesses of the late 70's were eventually curtailed by the reins of reason. A body can only take so much. Listen responsibly.

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What do Brad Pitt, Viola Davis, John Goodman and Jessica Chastain have in common? Each of them appears in two of the nine movies nominated for Best Picture of 2011 by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. Four of the films include French settings or characters, three of them use World Wars I or II as plot elements, and two of them feature a boy trying to strengthen ties to his late father by solving the mystery of a missing lock or key. Aside from all that and a pervading air of nostalgia, the field of nominees is most notable for its diversity. Good luck to the Academy trying to sort it all out, because these nine films are nearly incomparable.

The Artist may appear to casual moviegoers as the oddball of the bunch. After all, it's a silent movie shot in black and white. This does not, however, signal pretentiousness. On the contrary, it's a very accessible, entertaining film that's bound to charm anyone who gives it a chance. Best Actor nominee Jean Dujardin and Best Supporting Actress nominee Berenice Bejo are magnetically charismatic as falling and rising stars at the dawn of the talkies. Those with a fondness for silent cinema will enjoy the evocation of that era, but it's not necessary to be a film buff to like The Artist. It's a lightweight yet engaging romance, a rare crowd-pleaser that does not pander to its audience.

Pandering, unfortunately, is the venial sin that corrupts Steven Spielberg's War Horse. As brilliant as a filmmaker Spielberg is, he apparently cannot resist going for schmaltz. Even the magnificent Schindler's List was marred by it, as in the over-the-top scene in which Oskar Schindler publicly chastises himself for not having sold his cuff links to finance the rescue of more victims. In War Horse, there is a contrived dramatic moment that is every bit as embarrassing as the hackneyed employment of a slow, solo clap that builds to a roar of applause.You'll know it when you see it. John Williams' syrupy score and the simplistic portrayal of hardworking peasant folk bring the narrative dangerously close to the unintentional silliness of Far and Away, but thankfully there is much more to War Horse. Its battle scenes are beautifully executed, and though there was surely plenty of CGI work involved (for how else could it have been done?), any digital trickery is undetectable. Hats off to Spielberg, then, for a technically dazzling movie that must have been a bear to make. The artistry and high production values almost make up for the schmaltz.

One might expect a similarly vulgar manipulation of the heartstrings from Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, dealing as it does with the plight of a socially challenged boy who seeks to reconnect with the father he lost in the World Trade Center disaster. That his parents are portrayed by Tom Hanks and Sandra Bullock might seem to reinforce that conviction. Yet Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close takes the high road, never exploiting the tragedy but instead employing it metaphorically as a symbol of all the senseless pain that haunts our everyday lives. Thomas Horn gives a wonderful performance as the helplessly inquisitive boy, and Best Supporting Actor nominee Max Von Sydow shines as the one adult to whom the boy can reveal his shame.

Also devoid of melancholy is The Descendants. Don't be fooled by synopses that promise George Clooney as a father struggling to raise his daughters while his wife vegetates in a coma. The film is actually an unsentimental and messy look at familial loyalty and the societal responsibilities that accompany great privilege. Clooney walks a fine line as a weary man who has finally grown up enough to empathize with everyone in his life, including those who have wronged him. While its gorgeous panoramas of Hawaiian landscapes demand to be appreciated on the big screen, The Descendants also manages to portray a darker side of life in the Aloha State. As an adherent to the maxim that life is simultaneously wonderful and terrible, I found its contrast appealing.

If such modern angst leads one to yearn for simpler times, Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris is a funny and thought-provoking antidote. Now in his mid-seventies, Allen can no longer credibly play a young romantic lead role, and so the reins are handed over to Owen Wilson, who channels his director so successfully that one almost expects him to turn a Parisian corner and bump into Annie Hall. What is new, however, is a sobering acknowledgement that nostalgia is an illusion, a seductive phantasm that can inhibit our one and only chance to enjoy the present. It's a cleverly made point with fun performances along the way. As usual, Allen milks plenty of laughs from the pomposity of artists and critics alike.

And speaking of art, what would the Best Picture nominations be without the inclusion of at least one film that is sure to rattle the popcorn bags of Joe and Jane Average? Apparently there were theater managers who found it necessary to post warning signs to potential patrons of The Tree of Life, noting that the movie features a non-linear narrative that may not appeal to a broad audience. This gave the managers an excuse when disgruntled customers asked for a refund after the first thirty minutes. That's what you get for casting Brad Pitt in an art house movie. Not since Stanley Kubrick's 2001 have audiences been served such a demanding departure from storytelling as we know it. One sequence in particular seems designed to test the limits of a viewer's patience. Yet there are many good things to be said about The Tree of Life, most notably the performance of Hunter McCracken as the eldest son of a troubled father. The way in which director Terrence Malick replicates the recollection of childhood memories is compelling. It is a visually and aurally dynamic film. It may be a movie that requires multiple viewings to be appreciated, though few moviegoers may be interested in sitting through it more than once.

For those who prefer a conventional narrative with clearly delineated characters, look no further than The Help. The adaptation of Kathryn Stockett's novel about southern domestic workers during the civil rights era paints its picture in bold strokes. You will have no trouble distinguishing between the good guys and the bad guys. I understand that Stockett, who is white, was raised by a black domestic worker in the 1980's. Perhaps setting the novel during that time period, when racial discrimination wasn't quite so obvious, would have made for a richer narrative. In any case, Viola Davis, Octavia Spencer and Jessica Chastain turn in performances worthy of their individual acting nominations. The movie also boasts the most memorable line of any of the Best Picture nominees. If you've seen it, you already know it (and you know why I shall not repeat it.)

Then there's The Other Brad Pitt Film, also known as Moneyball. An avid interest in baseball may enhance your enjoyment of the movie, but only remedial knowledge is required. On the surface, it is an account of how general manager Billy Beane overcame the dismal personnel budget of the Oakland A's to create a team that rivaled the most expensive franchises in Major League Baseball. Take a step back,  however, and the true genius and universal appeal of Moneyball is revealed. It's really a film about how conventional wisdom can become institutionalized in any organization, how creative thinking is often discouraged, and how quickly the status quo can turn upside-down when someone dares to try things differently. Best Supporting Actor nominee Jonah Hill steals the show as Beane's cerebral assistant and proponent of an unconventional approach to building a winning team.

Rounding out the Best Picture nominations is Hugo, a rare case of a movie that is better than the book upon which it is based. Brian Selznick's The Invention of Hugo Cabret won the 2008 Caldecott Medal despite the fact that it is as much a novel as it is a picture book. It is graphically arresting, practically a ready-made set of storyboards, though the plot structure is somewhat transparent and contrived. Martin Scorsese transcends the limitations of the printed page by fleshing out the characters and presenting actual clips of what the book could only suggest: the unique footage of early silent cinema. Hugo also exploits its 3D format to maximum effect, no surprise given that the title character lives atop a clock tower at a train station. The result is a homage to cinematic illusion that surely would have pleased pioneering filmmaker Georges Melies, whose A Trip to the Moon (1902) and interest in automatons figure prominently.

Which film will win? Which film should win? I wouldn't lay out my gambling money on this race. There's only one safe bet: the 2011 Best Picture will be a movie worth watching.

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The PTL Club: One of the funniest shows ever? Mark certainly thought so.

John Cleese tells a story about the early days of Monty Python's Flying Circus, when the fledgling series was difficult to catch due to its erratic broadcast schedule. A friend of his from Newcastle managed to tune in one night and laughed at a long and rambling introduction featuring a boring documentarian droning on about Newcastle's ancient monuments. Only after twenty minutes of the program had elapsed did the friend realize that he wasn't watching Python. He had been laughing hysterically at a straight documentary feature.

That incident occurred over forty years ago, yet it illustrates a strange duality that persists in our media-saturated culture. Only a small percentage of all programming appeals to any particular viewer as genuinely entertaining, a perception that leads us to bemoan the paltry amount of worthwhile broadcasts among an ever-increasing buffet of cable channels. Yes, you really can have 100 channels and nothing to watch. But that is true only if we demand to enjoy shows as they are intended by their creators to be enjoyed. The dichotomy of modern television is that a large portion of it is unintentionally entertaining.

This was first brought to my attention when I heard about the TV-watching habits of a friend of my brothers named Mark. He enjoyed a small roster of programs in the conventional manner, but one of his favorite shows was The PTL Club. Apparently he would watch it and howl with laughter, deriving as much jovial benefit from it as he did from the funniest sitcoms. I don't think he ever made a monetary contribution to Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker, but his love gift would have been justified; their work certainly gave him much joy.

Mark's way of thinking about television broadcasting - that it could be heartily enjoyed in a manner that totally subverted the intention of its creators - was a revelation to me. It opened up a whole new world of entertaining possibilities. It was a revolutionary philosophy that made the very worst of television nearly as valuable as the very best. With Mark's liberating perspective, it was possible to watch the most embarrassing, cringe-inducing antics of Jerry Lewis during the MDA Telethon and not change the channel. You could endure horribly produced local commercials while appreciating their sheer awfulness. Even the wasteland of public access television could be a goldmine of unintentionally humorous entertainment.

One of the first programs I recall enjoying precisely because it was bad was a syndicated children's quiz show called Bible Bowl. Host Jack Gray was earnestly attempting to evangelize young and old alike with a program that pitted the "Bible Boys" against the "Gospel Girls" in a cutthroat competition of biblical knowledge. Yet I could not help but be amused when the old man selected contestants from the bleachers by spinning around and chanting, "Eenie, meenie, minie, moe, Jesus tells me you should know!" The drawl of the Tulsa-area kids who participated in the show added to the charm. Best of all, though, was the end of the program, when the winning gender ran from the bleachers to devour an enormous ice cream sundae while the losing team was forced to sit forlornly and observe the celebration. Oh, it was terrible - and terribly entertaining.

Since then, I have been able to derive plenty of enjoyment from the blandest offerings to hit the airwaves. While on a week's vacation at a family cottage in Michigan, my wife and I made a habit of adjusting the rabbit ears on the archaic television just so we could bring in the snowy signal of a nightly news broadcast that featured a remarkably unappealing anchor. Each evening, we giggled at the heavy-lidded woman who delivered the news with a complete lack of enthusiasm, as though she were a jaded flight attendant rattling off air safety instructions for the umpteenth time. Whenever we visited my hometown, we took just as much enjoyment in a now-defunct channel that offered nothing more than an unending slide show of local real estate deals. It became our ritual to take in a few minutes of "realty TV" before bedtime, snickering at how it was actually possible to buy a non-condemned home for less than $30,000.

These days, I continue to follow Mark's lead by tuning in to some programs to enjoy them in a manner that their creators would not appreciate. Lately, my daughter Melinda and I have made it a point to catch The Lawrence Welk Show on Saturday evenings. I'll admit that some of the content is truly entertaining as it was meant to be. After all, good music is good music. But I doubt that Mr. Welk would have been amused by all of the derisive snorts and belly laughs with which we greet the outrageous fashions, cheesy arrangements, and politically incorrect remarks ("Und now, say hello to our little Mexican senorita, Anacani!") that make the show a total anachronism among the rest of the programming on PBS. Cracking jokes as Bobby and Cissy dance the tarantella, Melinda and I are like our very own Mystery Science Theater 3000 peanut gallery.

Ultimately, the key to this kind of enjoyment lies in recognizing absurdity, a quality that is perhaps even more abundant on television than it is in real life. For there is little more absurd than observing people taking themselves and their activities far too seriously, and you can find plenty of that on TV. The sillier the behavior and the more serious its practitioners, the higher the quality of unintentional entertainment. Thus, Bible Bowl becomes great television. A German bandleader's awkward introduction of his Mexican protege becomes a highlight of the show. And nearly everything about the self-important local news broadcasts has the potential to be funnier than the most popular comedies.

Perhaps John Cleese, reflecting on his Newcastle friend's experience, put it best. "The nicest thing anybody ever said about Python was that they could never watch the news after it," he recalled in David Morgan's Monty Python Speaks! "You get in a certain frame of mind and then almost anything's funny!"

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Encamped at opposite poles of the English-speaking world are extremists whose habits annoy the general population. At one end are those who are either profoundly ignorant of correct usage or completely indifferent to it. Tell one of them that he just misused the possessive your in place of the contraction you're, and he may clap a palm to his forehead and exclaim, "I should of known!" Less forgivable is the tendency of their nemeses, the strict grammarians, to point out linguistic transgressions at every opportunity. They're the ones who won't let this whole lie versus lay business lie. Or lay. Whatever.

In between is the vast spectrum of English users and abusers, each of us harboring a unique sense of that which is laudable, that which is permissible, and that which must be condemned. To trample over one of our beloved conventions is to commit a heresy. Conversely, correcting any of our colorful colloquialisms is boorish dogmatism. That is the crux of the problem with grammatical debate. It's impossible to define a universally appealing set of standards.

For example, my father, no stickler for proper usage, nevertheless has always been irked by the folksy replacement of going to with gonna. "We're gonna do this, and we're gonna do that," he mocks. "Even the nightly news anchors use it!" Yet there are others who perceive a consistent adherence to going to as robotic speech. Who knows? Who cares? Well, my father does. But he knows it's a losing battle.

"Mr. Hunt!' one of my students will exclaim. "You can't start a sentence with but or and!" The little William Safire will point an accusing finger at an offending passage and look to me for sympathetic indignation. "Ah, yes," I'll acknowledge, "that is what you've been taught, and I'm sure Jerry Spinelli (or Kate DiCamillo, or Louis Sachar, or whomever else we may be reading) knows that rule, too. Once you've shown you know the rules, though, you might sometimes have a good reason to break one now and then." The poor kid is inevitably disappointed. We want the scofflaws who break our rules to be punished.

Which brings me to my pronouncement of a personal peeve, merely one of a great many, of course, yet abominable in its growing popularity. I speak of an ubiquitous phrase that was once a pleasantly employed metaphor but is now a linguistic crutch upon which far too many educated speakers are limping. I have witnessed its use in professional circles by successful types who surely possess the creativity to avoid it. It is the supreme cliche of the new millennium:

At the end of the day...

Oh, you have heard it many times, I am certain, or else it has become so ingrained in your everyday experience that you have failed to notice it, as a commuter may never observe the proliferation of litter on the route to work. I first detected its overuse at a professional development seminar during which a presenter uttered the phrase several times an hour throughout the day. When the end of that day did finally arrive, I was most grateful. Its repetition had become so obvious that I was no longer attending to the speaker's ideas but became fixated on catching the next recurrence.

Since that challenging day, I have become especially sensitive to the prevalence of ATEOTD. The figure of speech is well suited to summarizing one's point of view on any controversial issue. It is especially practical when used in rebuttal to a debater who has become mired in detail while blind to a larger truth:

That may be true, Senator, but ATEOTD...

And where, I ask you, does one typically hear a barrage of commentators and interviewees justifying their opinions? Why, National Public Radio, of course! Yes, the insidious ATEOTD has infected the hallowed signal of NPR. I confess that it may be appearing even more blatantly on CNN, MSNBC and comparable media outlets, but I long ago abandoned the contentious and uncivil landscape of television punditry in favor of the placid discourse of Morning Edition and All Things Considered. I wouldn't say that you necessarily hear ATEOTD on NPR every day, but let me put it this way: I wouldn't put money on not hearing it. It certainly happens often enough to raise my hackles.

Now, I don't wish to be so pedantic as to call for a moratorium on the overused phrase. Much as I'm tired of hearing it, people have the right to say it. Moreover, if we banned every bit of speech we find annoying, there wouldn't be much left to say. No, I think a more productive strategy is simply to educate. Let us call people's attention to the ubiquity of ATEOTD. Then, like a self-conscious teenager who is mortified upon discovering that her dialect is dominated by repetitions of you know, America will take pause and resolve to think before it speaks.

Therefore, I call upon the FCC to implement the official ATEOTD Bell. It is nothing elaborate, I assure you, just an ordinary, push-button bell of the variety found on hotel front desks and customer service counters. Those little devices pack a wallop that belies their size. A sharp slap on the button delivers a crisp ding! that cuts through all the aural clutter and demands to be recognized. And that's exactly what I want our nation to do: recognize just how often we are tossing out ATEOTD.

Here's how easily it could be achieved. Imagine a typical installment of Morning Edition. Host Renee Montagne is getting the latest political scoop from NPR senior news analyst Cokie Roberts.

Renee Montagne: What do these primary results say about Rick Santorum's likelihood of becoming the GOP nominee?

Cokie Roberts: This is certainly an uptick for the Santorum campaign, Renee, but at the end of the day-

DING!

And then Cokie can go on with whatever else she wishes to say, while a vital point will have been made with minimal intrusion.

Oh, it may not make much of an impact the first dozen or so times. But as more and more heads turn to the tone of the ATEOTD Bell, a nation may purge this verbal detritus from its language.

And if it works especially well, I'll tell my father to request a Gonna Bell.

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If the mixture of articles selected for inclusion in this weekend's USA Today meaningfully reflects a diverse population's collective interests, then ours is a nation of strange priorities. The current issue runs an unusually hefty 54 pages, thanks to a special section highlighting Super Bowl XLVI. The 14-page supplement, longer than any one of the self-billed Nation's Newspaper's customary News, Money, Sports, and Life sections, includes detailed analyses of the upcoming game, in-depth profiles of players, and even a cutaway diagram of host venue Lucas Oil Stadium. As hyped as the Super Bowl is, it's an understandable - and I imagine rather profitable - editorial concession.

But the spotlight on Super Bowl Sunday is not contained within its designated section. A quarter of the Sports section provides further insights, including Madonna's tantalizing comments on the nature of her highly anticipated halftime performance. A lead article on the relationship of New England Patriots coach Bill Belichick and quarterback Tom Brady dominates the front of the News section and continues over the whole of page two. The Money Section boasts a cover story about Super Bowl advertising, accompanied by a look at related smart-phone promotions and some insights on the rising popularity of chicken wings as a game day staple. Even the Life section is not exempt, lest a lightweight patron of the arts somehow miss the news that there is a very important football game this Sunday. There in the Travel subsection is a list of Larry Bird's favorite haunts in Indianapolis, which, by the way, just happens to be hosting the Super Bowl this weekend.

Overkill? I should think so. Yet USA Today does manage to cover a few other newsworthy items in its weekend edition. Political squabbling, non-Super Bowl sports, market data and entertainment news comprise the bulk of stories not emanating from Indianapolis. There is, however, some notable information on the third page of the News section. An article by Cincinnati Enquirer reporter Mark Curnutte (USA Today parent Gannet Company, Inc. owns the Enquirer, along with The Indianapolis Star, The Detroit Free Press, and over half a dozen other leading newspapers) details the plight of the National Underground Railroad Freedom Center, which is in such a precarious financial situation that it may be forced to close. The celebrated Cincinnati museum, not yet ten years old, is limping along on little more than a third of its inaugural budget and roughly a quarter of its initial full-time employees.

Apparently the museum has not been embraced by the locals. Of the 1.135 million guests who visited the Freedom Center through 2010, merely a third came from the surrounding metro area. There is an organized movement that seeks to block any tax dollars from funding the facility. And some suggest that a museum dedicated to the experience of enslaved African Americans does not hold a universally relevant appeal. State Senator Bill Seitz, reportedly an advocate of broadening the museum's focus to include the freedom fighters of World War II, is quoted as saying, "If [the Freedom Center] widens its appeal to draw a broader audience, then some African Americans aren't happy. And it's a victim in the larger white community, which can see it as a black museum and not go."

Yes, you read that correctly.

I can only hope that anyone who has willfully ignored the National Underground Railroad Freedom Center will have the opportunity of personally experiencing it. I strongly doubt that any thoughtful person, no matter their ethnicity, can take in the exhibits of this "black museum" and not find it deeply moving and chillingly relevant. The same line of reasoning espoused by Seitz's "larger white community" would suggest that the National Holocaust Museum is primarily a destination for those of Jewish ancestry rather than a sobering history lesson for all of humanity. Of course that's not the case. Neither is it true that the Freedom Center is exclusive. Like the Holocaust Museum, the Freedom Center is vitally important regardless of its mass appeal. It offers a thorough and unflinching look at a shameful contradiction of our national principles, an institutionalized injustice that continues to undermine our society more than a century after the federal abolition of slavery. No, it's not a pleasant way to pass an afternoon. But it's a worthwhile destination.

I have seen these lessons hit home in the eyes of students whom I have accompanied to the Freedom Center. In a darkened theater made to look as though it rests on the banks of the Ohio River, they see a film that dramatizes one slave couple's attempted escape. Afterwards the students step out onto the balcony of the museum and look across the real Ohio River for themselves, imagining what it must have been like to perceive the waterway as the border between slavery and freedom. An actress portraying a slave invites students to sit down and listen. She tells them about her experiences and stays in character as the children ask questions. In another area of the museum, a reconstructed slave pen provides concrete evidence of the cold trade of chattel slavery. It is disturbing, indeed, to stand within the structure and gaze up at the iron rings on the rafters, knowing that human beings were chained within these very walls. If you didn't get it when you read about it in your Social Studies textbook, you can't help but gain an understanding here.

Yet somehow there exists the unfortunate perception that the Underground Railroad Freedom Center is "a black museum." A round of applause to USA Today for bringing the museum's survival struggle to the attention of the nation. On the other hand, a chorus of raspberries for cashing in their political correctness chips by emblazoning the article with a Black History Month logo. For the sake of John Brown's a-moulderin' body, when will our society accept slavery and its abolition as everyone's history?

Often the sad truth is buried between the lines. In this weekend's USA Today, it can be found somewhere within the paragraphs about a cash-strapped museum printed on page A3, among stories detailing the largesse of super PAC contributors, the wisdom of investing in Facebook's impending IPO, and the effect of the NBA lockout on the subsequent quality of basketball. Oh, and there's something about the Super Bowl, too.

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Creativity is an enticingly rewarding yet elusive pursuit. It seems to spring into existence like a strange and wondrous flowering plant, popping up in our gardens now and then regardless of whether or not we attempt to cultivate it. Those of us who appreciate the blooming presence of creative inspiration do all that we can to nurture it, to keep it alive and thriving for as long as possible. Despite our efforts, creativity withers, dies, and springs anew according to its own natural laws, an unfathomable set of principles that we sense yet cannot know. How is it that one can be all fired up to create something one day yet utterly unmotivated and bereft of ideas the next? The answer is as difficult to grasp as the creative muse itself.

While I cannot pin down the cause of creativity, I can vouch for its beneficial effect on my psyche:  creating something (almost anything) simply makes me feel better. Conversely, enduring a period of creative stagnation makes me feel worse. As this correlation has gradually become apparent to me over the years, I have concluded that there is a physiological basis for it, hence the tagline for my blog: Stories. Commentary. Endorphins. Endorphins are naturally occurring substances that are released by the brain. They are known to deaden sensations of pain and are thought to produce feelings of well-being. Some people think endorphins foster creativity, but I suspect it also works in the opposite direction. I know that I need to be in a good frame of mind in order to write well, yet I also know that I always feel better after I write well than I did before I started. So, Stories. Commentary. Endorphins. The stories and commentary are for you, and the endorphins are for me.

If my hunch is right, and my creative productivity is responsible for a physiological response that enhances my well-being, then it is in my best interest to be meaningfully creative as frequently as possible. That is partly why this blog exists, as a means to keep myself regularly productive. More than once I have found my self-imposed Friday deadline to be a very welcome distraction during an otherwise stressful week. Though my profession of elementary education affords many opportunities to be creative and expressive, much of a teacher's work is a series of routines and repetitive tasks. Mulling over creative options regarding my writing is an effective counterbalance to the monotony of grading papers and assembling report cards.

Though there is comfort in routine, it can also be deadening. An absence of novelty and challenge can smother the smallest spark of creativity before it has a chance to start an inspirational fire. But it doesn't take The Great American Novel to get the endorphins firing. Sometimes even a utilitarian chore can do the trick if it requires some meaningful input from one's gray matter. For example, the other night I needed to write an appeal for a denied health insurance claim, not exactly the sort of composition that stokes my imagination. I would have preferred not to do it. In fact, I put it off for at least an hour by fiddling around online and shuffling through relevant papers. When I finally got started, however, that part of my brain that is keen on language and syntax kicked into gear.

I opened with a paragraph stating the purpose of my letter and quoting from the insurance company's denial. Then I embarked upon a brief medical history that identified the providers and their rationale for treatment. Lastly, I made the case for my appeal by noting that the denial appeared to be a contradiction of the insurance company's quoted policy, adding that the provider agreed and would be forwarding pertinent documents. When I was done, I read through what I had written several times and felt that familiar feeling of satisfaction, the neural reward that comes from having realized a creative conception.

Funny, isn't it? You might think that there is little creativity involved in tossing off a perfunctory business letter, and I suppose that might be the case if I were employed in a capacity that required me to write such missives on a regular basis. Once it becomes routine, it's no longer interesting. But in this situation, my brain had to do the same sort of juggling that I demand of it when I'm writing for pure enjoyment. I had to focus on an objective and determine the most economical route to achieve it. I had to mentally reconstruct a series of events and present the chronology in a compelling manner. I needed to be precise in my language and persuasive in my argument. If something wasn't working, I had to have the good sense to cut it out. That's just the sort of mental engagement that makes time evaporate for me, and it seems to be an integral part of the creative process, no matter the scale or nature of the endeavor.

The same satisfaction can be generated by an endless variety of activities. There are the obvious creative projects, such as writing a book, choreographing a dance, composing a photograph or painting a portrait. Then there are those behaviors of subtler creativity, actions that may not seem inherently imaginative because of their utilitarian practicality. Putting together a good meal, planting a garden, and even rearranging furniture or organizing a closet can bring about a similar sense of fulfillment. I have, for example, experienced much the same pleasure I derive from writing by simply devising the optimal arrangement of objects within a desk drawer.

Perhaps that intoxicating release of endorphins comes down to this: an engaging goal, the freedom to reach it any way you choose, and the fulfillment of that goal. Note that engagement is a must. I am quite sure that I do not experience any advantageous change of brain chemistry when I mow the lawn, for example. Maybe I did the time I decided to start in the center and work outward in concentric circles, but the novelty of that wore off pretty quickly. Some tasks are uninteresting no matter how you choose to handle them.

"I finished the letter to the insurance company," I announced to my wife at the dinner table.

"Oh, good," she replied.

"In fact, I hate to admit this, but...I might have even enjoyed it."

She smiled the way one does at nerds, a mixture of admiration and revulsion. "Well, I'm glad you liked it, because I hate doing that kind of thing."

I nodded empathetically. Our conversation ebbed as we focused on our food. And then I felt a rising truth welling within me.

"Alright," I confessed, "I did enjoy it. No, I really did. Would you like to hear my favorite sentence?"

One has to be careful with those endorphin rushes. As with any stimulant, it's easy to get carried away.

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The news came while I was at work, courtesy of a text message from my wife. It was not unexpected. We had been discussing the issue for months, but it took a surprising amount of courage to see our decision through to its implementation. Staring at my phone, I sighed with the knowledge that what was done was done, and life would never be quite the same. "It's official," read the message. "Our land line is no more!"

Maintaining a phone line into our home was costing us $420 a year, an expense that was hard to justify now that everyone in our family of four carries a dedicated cell phone. There were few advantages to keeping things as they were. We did liked the peace of mind that came with communication redundancy, the smug assurance that should sun spots interfere with satellites and cell towers, we still had a sure-fire means of making and receiving calls. Also, it was easier to have someone just pick up an extension rather than engineering a three-way cell phone call. And it's nice to hear the phone ringing throughout the house and be able to answer it quickly without being tethered to a device. But $420 for such luxuries? We realized that never would we have taken on the expense as a new expenditure, and it became clear that we were keeping a land line mostly because we had always had one. Not much of a rationale for spending money that could be better used elsewhere.

So why was our beneficial decision accompanied by subtle shades of melancholy?

I suspect the answer begins in our early childhood. As we prepared to enter kindergarten, our parents anticipated our emerging independence and sought to make us as secure as we had always been while under their watch. They tried to equip us to deal with unexpected crises, such as finding oneself lost among strangers. To that end, we were drilled again and again to clearly state our name, address and phone number. We repeated the vital information until we knew it reflexively, and over the years we were called upon ever more frequently to write what we had memorized onto various documents. For my wife and me, our efforts were a sound investment that continued to pay off well into our adult lives. Our parents never moved into another house, never changed their familiar phone numbers. And in my case, that phone number that I memorized when I was 5 years old still connects me to the parents who taught it to me.

A couple months shy of our second anniversary, Julie and I purchased the house in which we live today. Maybe it was because we had both grown up without ever having known the experience of moving, but I sensed an inevitable permanence in our residence, a new build with no prior inhabitants. No one had lived here before, and I automatically assumed that we would be the sole owners until we reached such an age that the house no longer suited our needs. We were in it for the long haul, if circumstance allowed it. When it came time to arrange our phone service, it seemed like we were about to be given another legendary sequence of seven numbers, a pattern that would be burned into our minds and those of our future children just as surely as we could still recall the phone numbers of our respective homesteads.

I never expected to have any say in determining the septet of digits that would connect callers to our new home, but it turned out that I was allowed to play a small role. The phone company representative informed me that we had moved into an area that was serviced by three different numerical prefixes, and I could choose whichever one I wanted, if indeed it made any difference to me at all. She rattled off my choices, and one of them stood out: 777. I liked the idea of having a prefix composed of the same repeated digit. It would be easy for everyone to memorize: for us, our family, our friends, and one day - our children. The representative gave me the rest of the number: 4765. I went about repeating our new phone number for a few minutes. 777-4765. 777-4765. 777-4765. Like the house itself, there seemed an inevitability about it. It had an appealing rhythm and sounded almost like I had always known it. 777-4765, the number we would always have.

A few years later, we were a family of four. As our daughters grew older and began to assert their independence, we followed the example of our parents and taught the girls to recite our phone number. Meanwhile, our right hands developed a muscle memory for the seven digits that we wrote down again and again on various forms, applications, and correspondence. "Has anything changed?" we were often asked when visiting our doctors, dentists and veterinarians, and the answer was always, "No." We still lived in the same house. You could still reach us at the same number.

Somehow, in some illogical and overly sentimental fashion, it seems as though we have betrayed a comforting fragment of our illusory permanence. The world has changed in a way that we never anticipated. When we were growing up, there was one number that everyone who knew us could use to reach any desired member of the family. Sure, you might have to talk to someone else first and ask for the person with whom you wished to converse, but one number worked for all of us. Never did we dream that the yards of telephone cabling that traversed the frames of our homes would ever be any less essential than the plumbing pipes or electrical wires. The very idea of everyone carrying a personal, portable phone was as remote as Dick Tracy's two-way wristwatch.

And perhaps in this age of electronic isolation, there is something sad about our family losing something that we once shared, even if it is nothing more than a silly number.

So long, 777-4765. If it were up to me, you'd be officially retired from service, your legendary digits embroidered on a banner that would hang from the basement rafters. Then one day, we'd ask our visiting grandchildren to power down their onboard communication devices and observe with us a moment of silence in your memory. "Once upon a time," we'd croak, "every family had just one phone number..."

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Ready to "Do It Again"? Beach Boys Wilson, Marks, Johnston, Jardine and Love

Christmas has apparently come early for music lovers in the form of last week's announcement that all of the surviving Beach Boys intend to reunite for a 50-city world tour next summer in recognition of the legendary band's 50th anniversary. That would be founding members Brian Wilson, Mike Love, and Al Jardine, along with Wilson's longtime road replacement Brian Johnston and early Beach Boy David Marks (the one who thought he stood a better chance at success by forming his own band, David and the Marksmen, surely one of the most tragic career missteps in the annals of popular music). The quartet are to be supported by Wilson's backing band, according to Love, who acknowledged that his cousin Brian has vacillated on his commitment to the tour. "He has his moods," said Love, "no doubt about it." All of which means that we can only buy our tickets and keep our fingers crossed.

There was a time when the prospect of a Beach Boys reunion would not have excited me at all. I grew up dismissing them with a dose of contempt, an arrogance born of ignorance along with the fact that I became musically conscious around the same time that the band was hitting its nadir. All that I could discern was a long list of vacuous hits about cars, surfing, and girls. To me, the Beach Boys were the vanilla ice cream in the Baskin-Robbins of pop music. They were a K-tel collection. What a shame that the people who made such a substantial contribution to American music should have seemed frivolous and inconsequential to a young person a mere decade after their prime. But there was a bearded Mike Love prancing about onstage in a stocking cap and bathrobe, and I could not conclude otherwise.

I started to change my tune as a young adult, most notably in the summer of 1989, after I saw the Beach Boys live on a tandem tour with Chicago. There was a bit of historical significance to the event, as the two bands had toured together in 1975, and once again the groups were performing an encore set of songs together. I attended the show for Chicago, who performed first, and I expected to be a bit bored when the Beach Boys took the stage. I was smugly unimpressed as they opened with California Girls, complete with bikini-clad beauties bouncing across the stage as though the music and lyrics by themselves might be too obtuse for the audience to grasp. But then there was Sloop John B and Wouldn't It Be Nice, and it wasn't long before I abandoned my cynical eyes and simply enjoyed the music.

Midway through their set came a number that, incredibly, I had never heard. God Only Knows struck me as a remarkable and captivating song. It was beautiful and, to my uneducated ear, so unlike the Beach Boys. There was a profundity to the lyrics, and the melody and arrangement unfolded in ways I never could have predicted. I was totally won over. For the rest of the show, I listened with a more charitable discernment, and I thoroughly enjoyed what I heard. By the end of the evening, I knew I had some homework to do.

What a joy it was to discover Pet Sounds, as much a rite of classic rock passage as familiarizing oneself with Sgt. Pepper and The Dark Side of the Moon. There was God Only Knows again, and so much more - the pensive daydream of Let's Go Away For Awhile, the mesmerizing intimacy of Don't Talk (Put Your Head On My Shoulder), the cry of the lonely outsider on I Guess I Just Wasn't Made For These Times, and the devastating heartbreak of Caroline, No. How could this fantastic album have escaped me for so many years? As I dug deeper into the Beach Boys' catalog, I began to realize the depth and breadth of what I had missed.

There are dimensions of Brian Wilson's genius that rarely get airplay, hauntingly beautiful tunes like Wonderful, 'Til I Die, Wind Chimes, Let The Wind Blow, Surf's Up and The Warmth Of The Sun. Bizarre creations like Fall Breaks And Back To Winter, She's Goin' Bald, and Vegetables showcase an unrestrained creativity. And then there are what I like to think of as genuine drug casualty songs, including Johnny Carson and Solar System, childishly literal pieces devoid of any poetic metaphor. None of the above resembles the fun-in-the-sun attitude of the Beach Boys' greatest hits, and all of it is fascinating.

Just as compelling is the biographical history of the Beach Boys, especially Brian Wilson's struggles to overcome drug addiction, obesity, stage fright, and mental illness. The band's timeline is fraught with alliances, betrayals, legal squabbles, failures and comebacks. The supporting cast includes strange characters like Wilson's notorious therapist Eugene Landy, who restored his client's health while practically dictating his behavior, and Murry Wilson, the domineering family patriarch and band manager who later sought wealth by submitting an unintentionally humorous, unsolicited jingle to Kentucky Fried Chicken. The tragic losses of Dennis and Carl Wilson punctuate the story with further sadness as well as a large helping of improbability: who would have predicted that Brian would be the last surviving Wilson brother? As I learned, the Beach Boys were not the dull, pin-striped choirboys I had perceived in my youth. Like their music, their lives have been much more complex.

So it turned out the Beach Boys weren't bland after all. I was pleased to see them again in 1993 as headliners following a minor league baseball game. Once again, it was a great show. Afterward my wife and I stopped for a moment outside a fence surrounding the stadium when we noticed people boarding the tour bus. A haggard Carl Wilson acknowledged his fans with the quickest of waves before disappearing into the bus, an image that returned to me when it was announced that he had succumbed to cancer in 1998. In 2000, I had the great fortune to see a concert by Brian Wilson, whose performance was riveting. Backed by an incredibly talented band, the genius behind the Beach Boys delivered a great set, though his fragility was occasionally evident. At one point, he stopped and restarted a song because something was not to his liking. During the encore, he strapped on a green bass, stood stock-still at center stage with the gravest of expressions, and introduced Barbara Ann with an unconvincing, monotone utterance of "Let's rock."

Will the great Brian Wilson truly reunite with his old bandmates for a 50th-anniversary tour? If he does, will the contentious Beach Boys be able to keep their collective dysfunction at bay for the duration? A few generations of fans who have never had the opportunity to see the yin and yang of Wilson and Love on the same stage hope that it all comes to pass as promised. As one of America's musical giants once asked, wouldn't it be nice?

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