STUCK IN A FOXHOLE WITH LARA LOGAN

If I inexplicably found myself in a battle zone, that's the place I'd like to be. For those not familiar with CBS News' Chief Foreign Correspondent (and according to the ratings, many are not) Lara Logan is a South African, who grew up detesting her country's hideous racial policies. She's been covering the wars in both Afghanistan and Iraq for most of this decade. Lara is a tough, intelligent, tenacious reporter, with a kind of courage that is rare to find. Oh yeah: she's really, reeeeeeeeallllly pretty, too. I'd be lying if I denied that this has a lot to do with her appeal. It is CBS she works for, not AP. I read where Bob Scheiffer was quite concerned with her safety, and I'll admit that without knowing the woman, I am, too. This war has cost the lives of more journalists from around the world than any other. That nightly TV presences like ABC's Bob Woodruff and CBS's Kimberly Dozier survived the serious wounds they suffered is a credit to the skill of Army doctors, and grace from above. Yeah, I see Lara Logan, soak in the brave, fearless reports from Iraq or Afghanistan, and (like an old-fashioned guy) surmise that a woman that good-looking shouldn't be in harm's way. The troops on the ground love her for trying to tell their story. Regardless of the fact she's a knock-out, I admire her honesty. Lara Logan is the real deal.

As was Tim Russert. It's been a week since he died suddenly, and for anyone who watched "Meet the Press" on a weekly basis, as I have, it's tragic loss. The man was unfailingly fair minded, in a medium that has developed strong voices to the right and the left (regardless of what conservatives think, the majority of the partisan noise blows in from the right). Each Sunday, Tim Russert, a lawyer and NBC Washington Bureau Chief, would sit with the political movers and shakers of the 21st Century, and grill 'em like a stack of burgers on the 4th of July. Russert would research his subject, and confront them with their own words. He was so focused but respectful and even-handed, they had to take it and make as much of a public accounting as a politician can ( meaning to say, they had to think fast to talk their way around the truth). Tim Russert will be missed by friends and family and colleagues...and by those of us who admired (here's that word again) his honesty. And he will not be easily replaced. What a blow to political journalism. What a blow.

I can't let the losses of two other media figures go by without some comment. Jim McKay was 86 years old when he died, June 7th. He'd last been seen in a 2003 HBO special on his life and times, a special he wrote and narrated. When I was 11 years old, I spent a late Saturday afternoon watching Jim McKay present old black and white tape clips during a 10th Anniversary episode of ABC's Wide World of Sports. From that point on, until I got into high school, at least, Wide World became appointment TV for me. Jim McKay's enthusiasm was so contagious, he made then obscure sports like gymnastics and figure skating compelling. His gift for language made his descriptions effusive, lyrical.

Like this from coverage of the 19th Olympiad in Mexico City, 1968:

"Bill Toomey...running in the cold and the dark of Mexico City...winning the decathlon!"

His words and inflections brimmed with pride, but also provided the perfect caption for the picture of an exhausted Toomey, breaking the tape of his final event, then falling into the arms of his closest competitor. Jim McKay proved that in TV, pictures may tell a tale, but a great announcer provides the perspective.

Working as a newspaper reporter following a stint in the navy during World War II, Jim moved to TV in its infancy. So many great TV presences like McKay, like Walter Cronkite, were writers before they stepped in front of those brand new, black and white TV cameras, and set the standard for what we have, today. That's why they were so special, I suppose. I'd like to think we have a large place in our hearts for pioneers.

A little something about another sports announcer who left us in June: Charley Jones. Football fans will recall Charley's gravelly delivery and play-by-play over NBC for years and years. He was one of those working broadcasters with whom you were familiar and took for granted. After calling AFL/AFC games on ABC and NBC for 35 years, I'd say his most memorable moments came in the games of the 24th Olympiad in Seoul, South Korea, 1988. Charley called the track and field events, which had been moved to the morning hours to facilitate live broadcasts to the United States in prime time over NBC. You never heard a more stirring call than that of Charley describing Ben Johnson winning the 100 Meter dash in '88--only to have Johnson disqualified for using steroids. Because of that tainted race, Charley's Tour-De-force description of those seconds has been lost to the mists of time. I certainly hope Charley Jones isn't. He was 77.

HERE COMES SUMMER

There's a heatwave in Southern California as the summer begins, and fittingly so. Some of the best summers in life were those when I was a teenager--not working, done with summer school, hanging out, all day and night. The summer of '76, in particular, was great. I more or less tried to re-live that one over and over again, with mixed results. As work and adulthood ensued, summer came to mean something else: a few precious days at the beach, taking in movies, maybe a few vacation days For some reason, the summer of '89 stands out. Even though I worked my tail off that year, I think the fact it was my first full summer in Ventura County, with its relatively cool temperatures and nearby beaches made it special. I spent weeknights on the air, playing the hits, or in the studio, making funny, one-minute bits for my countdown show. Weekends, I hit Ventura clubs in pursuit of vodka and female companionship (the vodka was always easier to get, though there were some memorable moments).

Over the last decade, summer came to mean filling in on the air while others took vacations, or trying to sleep in the daytime as I toiled over the radio all night. Not much fun except for last year, when I chose to hit the beach every Sunday and have some semblance of a summer-like amusement. And I dug it. Sitting in a canvas beach chair, listening to Vin Scully call three innings of a Sunday afternoon Dodger game as the waves crashed. And of course there were the bikini-clad denizens of the sand...which made me fairly happy, as well.

As summer '08 dawns, I find myself at liberty most of the week, and filling the nether hours at my former employer just to keep some sort of income, on Saturday and Sunday. The weekends are a sleep deprived wash. It's brutal, and need at least a day and a half afterward to recover from it. I halfway suspected that most of my attempts to grab another worthwhile gig would result in failure, because that's the way it is. But while I have time to bide, I will enjoy the sights, the sounds and the sand of the beach, and have, as the misguided youth of the early 1970's would say, "a bitchin' summer."