Look on my works, ye mighty, and have another Negra Modelo!

No traces remain. Time's waves have lapped clean the shore. Here in San Diego, a city that spurns history, a city unencumbered by ghosts and memories, a city that fetishizes the present and the future-- it's as if Simon & Simon never existed. There is no statue of AJ. There is no shrine to the red IROC-Z. Hell, it's probably impossible to get "Major Dad" in reruns here.

There will be no big-screen Simon & Simon this summer with Colin Farrell & Jamie Foxx. Another year passes, and our memories fade. Ah, that mismatched pair of fraternal private investigators. It was that brief window in the '80s when being a Vietnam vet was cool. Rick was the mustachioed one, and AJ was the "fastidious" one with blow-dried blonde hair and an appreciation for gewurtztraminer. But he dug chicks, so it was cool. Their buddy was Venus Flytrap, or "Downtown Brown," whose moniker derived from the street savvy afforded him by his pigmentation.

Yeah, wow, that show sucked. But I remember it for some reason. Anyway, I caught a Padres game. The crowd was lackluster until the theatrical entrance of Trevor Hoffman in the 9th: the lights went down, a hush swept over Petco Park, and the gongs of "Hell's Bells" rang as Hoffman emerged from behind the centerfield wall. Male cheerleaders, I jest not, danced on the dugout & waved flags. On the scoreboard, Hoffman's name was emblazoned in a Gothic font before fiery clouds. AC/DC built to a crescendo. The crowd went nuts. Who knew change-up pitchers could be so... evil?