Am I the only one who thinks Greg should solve his problems with Dharma by seeking advice from Robert Blake?

I saw Aerosmith on some cable channel talking about how computers make recording their music a lot easier. One of them lays down a track, pops out their hard drive and then runs over to another band memberís home studio and slams it in their computer. And you wonder why rock and roll has become so sterile and bland.

Robert Downey Dumbass, Jr. is trying to strike a deal with prosecutors in hopes of keeping his sorry ass out of jail. In exchange for a suspended sentence and community service, Downey must agree to keep his drug busts down to one every twelve months and seek counseling.

The other day I held a DVD audio copy of Rumours in my hands. "Put it down and just walk away," said a little voice in my head. And I did. But when I got home later that night, I swear I heard my CD collection murmuring behind my back.

Donít you just hate the token hug? I know I do. When someone hugs me I want it to mean something. I want body parts rubbing and true affection being transmitted from one hugger to the other in both directions. None of this, "Here are my arms around you but donít mess up my blouse" crap. And I also hate the hug thatís given to make me feel better. You know, the one I get when a woman suddenly notices I look like I a need a hug. Yeah, that always makes the sky a lot bluer.

Be afraid, be very afraid. I read somewhere that singer Celine Dione is plotting her comeback. Itís not scheduled until sometime in they year 2002, so thereís still time to find her lair and drive a stake through her heart before she rises from the dead.

Doesnít Elvis Costello have anything better to do than show up on the final episode of 3rd Rock From The Sun and sing "Fly Me To The Moon"? Apparently not. The man needs to get himself a new agent for sure and, judging by his waistline, a personal trainer. Well, at least thereís one crappy unfunny show we donít have to worry about anymore. And let's hope that everyone on it has become so typecast in their roles that theyíll never appear in another long running series again. (French Stewart, Iíd like you to meet Jamie Farr.)

Speaking of crappy unfunny shows, I caught a lame episode of Just Shoot Me the other night. Okay, so the lead chick has big hooters. But I can find those surfing the Internet and I wonít have to listen to David Spade yammer like a kitty riding a codeine high. (And yes "lame episode of Just Shoot Me" is redundant.)

Did anyone happen to catch the big Friends wedding? Donít worry, Monica and Chandler got hitched all right, but the big surprise is - wait for it! - Rachel is pregnant!! I wonder if Ross will do the noble thing and marry her? Or, at the very least, put a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. Okay, so that wouldnít help Rachel out, but it might increase the showís ratings and get some major laughs.

A record 587 Tony nominations for The Producers and Mel Brooks is not done yet. Next up, a PlayStation game based on the 1975 TV flop When Things Were Rotten.

Prior to release, some parts of Pearl Harbor were edited out because they were considered unfavorable to the Japanese. Yeah, I guess the movie made it look like they killed all those Americans on purpose. Maybe they should have replaced the Japanese bomber pilots in the film with cute little cartoon mice. And while theyíre at it, perhaps they should re-cut Schindlerís List and make it more sympathetic to the Nazis.

Hereís another thing I donít understand. A woman in a halter top with her ass hanging out of her cutoffs complaining that men are only interested in her body and not her mind. Duh?!

This just in - a new possible motive in the murder of Robert Blakeís wife: She was about to reveal that the real father of Blakeís baby was David Crosby. (And for those of you who read that too fast, no, David Crosby is not the father of the Blake Babies.)

For the second month in a row, Ice magazine got it wrong. Check it out. On the cover is a big color picture of Stone Temple Pilots, but up in the corner is just a dinky little shot of Buffalo Springfield. Maybe STP will help broaden their readership to include people with really bad taste, but the publishers shouldnít turn their backs on the subscribers that were with them from the beginning. And do they really think the folks who picked up the issue with Tool on cover last month are gonna go out and buy all those remastered CDs by The Band, The Four Seasons and Bob Marley that are advertised inside? Me donít think so, Mon.

And finally, F&R ends on a happy note with birthday greetings to Bob Dylan, who turned 60 during the week and celebrated quietly with his usual poker game at Wilford Brimleyís house. Happy Birthday, Bob. Hereís hopiní you wonít be knockiní on heavenís door for a real long time.