Ed Driscoll

I Know, It's Only Nine to Five, But I Like It

On the flip-side, listening to classic rock on FM can be a riot in the Bay Area, if only for the commercials. It’s always fun to hear a “go green” PSA hectoring the listener to scale back his lifestyle, followed by an ad for a detox center, followed by a song from the 1970s performed by a drug and booze-addled band that toured in a private jet and raced (and crashed) Ferraris while their fleets of tractor-trailers filled with 50,000 watts of lighting and amplification drove between giant concrete hockey arenas.

But then, the same thing is true of the world of journalism, which still profess fealty to the boozy visages of Lou Grant, Mencken, and the hard-drinking boys in the newsroom of Ben Hecht’s The Front Page, but as James Lileks wrote a decade ago, “My God, if I pulled a bottle of scotch out of my desk and screwed a cigar in my mug they’d take me to a conference room for an intervention.”