"Grease" on sex . . . Church bells noisy . . . Michigan travelogue . . . Bill Murray on the campaign trail . . .

The July '96 report, continued . . .

Greasy spoon . . . The high school just did "Grease," that old-favorite paean to premarital sex. Just saying no took a beating, safe sex got a boost. This wasn't kid stuff, but it was. Kids eat it up, if only as window shopping. But kids having babies (as when "the thing" breaks in mid-career, as happens in the show) and young sex have ramifications. But "Thou shalt not repress" is a major commandment. Repression leads to war and destruction, we all know that.

Some disbelieve it. They don't write shows like "Grease." As for those who produce and direct such shows, they should be willing to discuss above-mentioned ramifications.

Not a paean to premarital sex? Consider the heroic characterization of Rizzo, the girl worried about being knocked up because her "friend" (period) was late. There were worse things she could do, she sings, like being a tease. With worse ramifications?

Consider too the heroic transformation of Sandy Dombrowski, the fugitive from Immaculata, who went from prude who won't go all the way to good ol' girl, popular with the gang. Slam-bam, thank you ma'am, it all came together in the last friendly scene, in which even the dizzy head cheerleader is invited to come along. Nothing like opening up to let the sunshine in.

All in all, let the good times roll . . . And stay away from places like Immaculata (or St. Bernadette, another fish-eater school mentioned), because they repress you.

Bells of St. Catherine's . . . Man in Oak Lawn says he asked the people at St. Catherine of Alexandria RC Church to stop playing music -- recorded bells and hymns three times a day -- because it was driving him up his walls a half block away. They didn't, so he cut the musical wires and will be explaining that to a judge on Aug. 16. He apparently does not realize it takes a whole village to say the Angelus.

What to give again to be in Michigan? . . . One, don't cross the line singing, "On, Wisconsin." Two, money for maps. It's a big state, so the scale on the Triple-A and Rand McNally annuals is smaller than, say, for neighboring Indiana. In addition, the land of Ford, GM, and Chrysler is imaginative in laying out highways and expects you to be imaginative too; they figure a sign wasted is a penny lost. So finding even a nearby interstate can be tricky.

Finally, the native drivers are apparently descended largely from the storied racer Barney Oldfield, who if he were alive today would not be spinning in his grave.

All this is based on a recent two-person, two-day anthropological expedition around the bottom of Lake Michigan. Investigators found the natives not particularly restless, with the exception of wait staff at Rosie's in downtown New Buffalo at Sunday brunch time.

"It's so touristy," said one investigator.

"The way I like it," said the other, gawking.

Michigan! . . . Stevensville, up the road a bit on the Red Arrow Highway, has a wonderful public beach, and the water was fine. Earlier, the investigators' rear-view mirror came unstuck, and one of the them insisted with all the charm at her command on getting it stuck again right away.

Lo and behold, a Voyager dealer loomed in the mist but, alas, five minutes after garage closing time. Not showroom closing time, however. In it several deals were being struck in small glassed-in offices, the salesmen making small talk. The air was filled with the sound of names given for going on dotted lines.

So it was further up the road to a Shell station (Can't help you, Buddy), then to the handy parts store next to it (glue in stock), then up the road some more to a magnificent carry-all store in a sun-splashed mall, where we got rubbing alcohol. Why alcohol? Because the investigator who wanted to replace the mirror right away wanted to do it right.

So what if Daddy Longbeard in the parts store said a good rub would clean it off, without mention of alcohol? The directions, my dear. It's right here in the directions, she explained.

So the two investigators cleaned the vacant windowshield spot as if for surgery, did the same for the rearview-handle surface, waited a decent interval, dropped one drop of glue on the surgically clean surface, held breath, and pressed it against the surgically clean windowshield surface, exactly where it had been before. It felt right good.

This in the middle of sun-splashed mall lot, van turned east away from potentially discomforting afternoon rays.

Dear Reader, they did it right. A few miles from that sun-splashed parking lot, they had themselves a snugly fitting mirror holder, to which in yet another sun-splashed parking lot they fixed the mirror, now reflecting glorious Lake Michigan.

In which lake Investigator #1 immersed his splendid self for some invigorating back-and-forth a few yards from sandy beach, at his own risk there being no guard around, his fellow investigator sitting with a book all the while. The joys of summer, end of story.

Sharp comment . . . "Not the sharpest knife in the drawer," comedian Bill Murray said of State's Atty. Jack O'Malley at a fund-raiser for O'Malley's opponent Dick Devine. Murray said he asked O'Malley what he thought of the witness protection program, O'Malley said he didn't know but wanted to know what time it was on! The joy of politics!

Bold aphorism . . . Activism is the opiate of the conscientious. You heard it here.