WHATARIOT! Perhaps if we didn't happen to be reading a novel about a man who's built a career around "Hitler studies," we wouldn't have viewed this week's feverish celebrations in such an ominous light. Thank God for fiction, keeping us focused on reality. It started with a marching band, or at least the lingering sounds of one. We were drawn out of the shelter of our domicile, down to that cornerstone of modern civilization, the neighborhood Circle K. Something in the rising clamor demanded we seek open space, not unlike the way victims wander aimlessly from their homes in the wake of some natural disaster. First a couple of pick-up trucks sped past, brimming dangerously with young bodies, mouths agape in frenzied whoops and hollers, banners and pom-poms waving. Normal enough. But what unfurled, as we sat watching from the bus stop bench, went from unbridled enthusiasm to something eerily reminiscent of a fascist uprising. It reminded us of something we often try to forget, as participatory members of society: People acting as a group are scary. Traffic, normally a manageable 30 mph down Fifth Street, accelerated to squealing excesses of 50 mph. The rhythmic chant "U-of-A" crackled from the PA system of a speeding Nissan. Another pick-up, woofers working overtime, boomed "Another One Bites The Dust" close behind. Horns blared. And blared. And blared, into one unifying, deafening drone. A bleach-blond boy leapt onto the hood of his truck, snatched the Wildcat flag from its mount on the roof of the Circle K, and ran screaming into the street.... There's a crowd of students, now, descended from their stadium dorm rooms. They line the street at the intersection of Fifth and Cherry, spill into the median, painted yellow lines on asphalt the only thing separating them from motorists blissfully forgetful of open container laws. The street is a sea of bodies, a tunnel of hands outstretched to the honking motorists. There is only acceleration: the speed of cars, the volume of noise, the amount of foot traffic. A small boy in pajamas and socks wanders blearily behind his father, hands clapped over his ears. There's a feeling of spontaneous combustion. The air smells like gunpowder. An hour has passed since people left their televisions to revel in the streets. "Can you believe this?" A glowing young man has seated himself on the bench. We look at him, dazed, unable to speak. We wanted to ask, What makes people act this way? Seeming to sense something threatening in our non-celebratory demeanor, he clutches his Budweiser and declares, "This is the biggest day in Tucson's history!" This adds a whole new level to our confusion. "I've lived here my whole life," (which is, what, maybe 20 years?) he says with authority, "and I've never seen anything like this." Well, something we can agree upon. We almost feel sorry for The Man, driving up and down invisibly, unable to even slow, let alone control, the flow of traffic. People are running, roller-blading, dancing in traffic. Patrol cars have swept stealthily past all night, keeping a low profile; but now the sirens come. The crowd in the street hesitates, then disperses. The honking subsides. But the flashing lights pass straight through, on to some real emergency, and the crowd goes wild. We beat Kentucky. We beat The Man. We are invincible. Hooray. Hallelujah. Praise Lute. It's been more than two hours, now. The celebration is no longer about the game; it's a self-perpetuating frenzy. How will they stop? we wonder. They don't know how to stop. We wait for the inevitable human sacrifice: cars to collide, a body to be ejected from a tailgate or sunroof, a pedestrian felled or a fight to break out. Unchecked, the crowd has grown more aggressive. They block the intersection, arms raised overhead, shaking their fists and chanting at the opposing traffic. Still friendly? They start rocking the cars stopped at the intersection, jumping on fenders and pounding on hoods. A long-haired man in requisite red T-shirt is still running up the line of cars, high-fiving every motorist, as he has for the past two hours. The crowd has usurped the Wildcat flag, and two men run with it in tandem down the middle of the street. Something explodes. Everyone cheers. Rumors of car-tipping and rioting on nearby Fourth Avenue circulate. Emergency vehicles implore the crowd to move out of the road so they can pass. Fountains of bear arc over the intersection, like champagne. Cars are wet as they drive by, swerving dangerously. A cheering fan passes in front of us, turning directly to us to holler, "Smoke dope!" All sorts of causes have taken over. Well past midnight we wander home, unable to stand the suspense any longer. As we climb into bed, the whir of the police chopper overhead, we imagine a death toll in the morning paper, buried somewhere on page 5, behind all the victorious headlines. Go, Cats. THE PARTY'S OVER: We know Tucsonans are basketball crazy, and that it's the most important thing on earth, but what about the effect on the budgets of local news media that went all out to cover the Big Game? Our spies at The Arizona Daily Star tell us the cost of sending reporters and photographers to the Final Four wasn't included in the yearly budget. So, now that the paper's supposedly over budget, will Star brass cut back on coverage elsewhere? The unconfirmed rumor is that they spent $20,000, and for the rest of the year won't be using much in the way of freelance writing. Love that AP wire feed. There must be a similar effect at the TV stations. KVOA, for example, sent their sports guy and anchor Joe Donlon (who didn't do anything we saw) and presumably some crew to Indianapolis, where they paid for food, lodging and live uplink time. What gets cut at KVOA for the rest of the year? And, of course, all the stories they did could just as easily have been filed by some beer-guzzling guy in his underwear, at home, watching cable TV. We especially liked Bud Foster's riveting pre-contest report on the wonders of Indianapolis through the eyes of a cabbie. Never mind that the town, which looks even duller than Tucson, was shut down tight for the night, and the cabbie wasn't particularly colorful--at least Bud was out there proving once again why he's the big kahuna of local anchors. AS PENANCE, YOU'LL BE LOCKED IN A CLOSET WITH 84 POUNDS OF LUTEFISK: And then there's the man of the hour, Lute Olson. Nice job, sir. But we did get a laugh at Lute's expense out of the ironic juxtaposition of two recent stories in the daily press: First the Arizona Republic carried a pre-tourney story quoting Lute as saying he had no time for fans who didn't believe in the team. Then we see a report from the New York Times News Service reporting Lute was forced to cancel the big family vacation to Acapulco because his Cats had just beaten Providence. Oh ye of little faith--at least you're in good company. DOMESTIC SQUABBLE: Pima County's decision to broaden its health insurance coverage to include "domestic partners," supported by Democratic Supervisors Sharon Bronson, Danny Eckstrom and Raul Grijalva, raises some questions of equity among other county employees. The supes have said county workers will be able to extend health benefits to dependents, as long as they reside at the same address as the covered employee and the pair are in "a long-term and stable relationship." But how precisely does the bureaucracy make that determination? Some conventional marriages currently covered would hardly fit that definition. And does a policy allowing you to insure your "significant other" regardless of gender discriminate if the person who resides with you and needs the coverage is a parent, older child or sibling? Aren't these demonstrably "long-term and stable relationships?" A simple solution to the definition problem, of course, would be to allow gay people to marry, so they could be eligible for the same benefits as married heterosexuals (which, of course, they ought to be). But, since our politicians are convinced that allowing gay marriages would corrupt the "sanctity" of marriage (as if straight folks have never brought shame and hypocrisy to the institution), we're not likely to see an easy answer in the future. Expect more bobbing and weaving while this one sorts itself out. REDHAWK CLARIFICATION: We goofed--Alliance Marana's appeal of the court decision to throw out its petitions to bring the massive Redhawk development to a vote is not before the state Supreme Court, as we said last week. It's been filed, of course, with the state Appelate Court. Currently before the state Supreme Court is another case involving a similar situation concerning the need to attach all of a specific ordinance to a referendum petition-a decision in that case could impact the Redhawk ruling. But either way, it ain't over yet. OH MY GOD! WE'RE SAYING SOMETHING NICE ABOUT A MESA REPUBLICAN! State Sen. Rusty Bowers of Mesa unilaterally killed a bill that passed the state House of Representatives that would have allowed the leadership of the two houses to hike the amount of per diem each pol receives. Attaboy, Rusty. The legislators' per diem is currently $60, tax-free, each day while they're in session or on official business. This bill would have allowed them to grab the IRS maximum, currently $143 a day. Most of Pima County's House delegation voted for it--the greedy little sluts. Bowers invoked his power as chairman of the Senate Appropriations Committee to declare the bill would not be heard this session, thereby killing it. Thanks, Sen. Bowers. Those state pols who think they deserve more money than most of the voters they represent deserve to be slapped down.

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