Detroit Free Press

After awhile, even journalists get tired of bad news. It seems as if every time you pick up a paper, the stories are shocking, depressing or disgusting. And that's just the sports pages.Wouldn't it be nice if, just once, you could control the news flow? Then we might see stories such as these:

The year was 1968. The nation was rumbling. War. Riots. Free love. And music, always music. Folk rock. Motown. And then there was this song. It began with a churning electric guitar, a locomotive sound that dug straight into your belly. You found yourself reaching for handlebars, gunning your engine. Then a growling voice came through the speakers. "Get your motor runnin' . . . Get out on the highway . . . Looking for adventure . . . in whatever comes our way . . . "

NEW YORK -- So there we were with nothing to do on a Monday night in Boston except maybe eat another lobster and talk about Bill Buckner's spring training when I suddenly turned to Mary Schroeder, our ace photographer, and said, "Say, Mary. I've got a smashing idea. Let's jet on down to the Big Apple for the premiere of that hot new comic sensation that everyone is talking about. Won't that be a stitch!"And Mary said: "Spiffy!"And I said: "James, call the limo!"

I have good news for Elvis fans. He is not dead. Jim Arnold says so. Jim also says he and Elvis are good friends. ...

I want my money back. Really. I'm tired of sports stars complaining this is not enough and that is not enough, they want five years not three years, caviar not steak, Jaguar not Mercedes -- and then they break a toenail and spend two months on the disabled list.Andre Ware is unhappy. He wants more money. Lawrence Taylor is unhappy. He wants more money. Rickey Henderson is unhappy. He wants at least as much money as Jose Canseco, who will no doubt be unhappy if Henderson gets it. Now maybe these guys deserve the dollars. But what if they don't?

Twice a week, in the early morning, he takes his cane and tries to walk around the block. His steps are labored, his movements stiff and exaggerated, like a puppet yanked by strings. He passes the red brick house and the one with aluminum siding. Cane. Step. Cane. Step. You can do it, he's thinking. But by the time he turns the corner, he is sweating. Soon he is short of breath. Past the silver fence now. Around the next corner. Cane. Step.