HAS-BEEN TO ICON - JUST A WEB SITE AWAY.

Byline: David Plotnikoff Knight-Ridder Tribune News Wire

Back in the days before the siren song of the Internet lured me to my destiny, there were few stories on the pop-music beat I loved more than a good, hard-luck comeback-in-the-making. Come to think of it, the only thing I enjoyed more was a pathos-drenched, can't-even-muster-a-comeback story.

You see, I'd learned over the years that the road to the summit of pop culture is fairly predictable. People say the same banal things over and over about the view on the way up. It's only on the backside of the peak, on the long, slow descent, that the ride starts to get interesting.

You know the players: The beloved crooner who's now a doddering old sack of bile who can't remember the words to his most famous hits. The sitcom idol reduced to hawking denture cream or dog food. The cuddly child star whose most recent on-camera appearance was for a police booking photo. The singer who used the royalties from her platinum albums to powder her nose.

There are many stops on the way down the hill - infomercials, cruise-ship gigs, the retirement-village dinner circuit, county fairs, RV shows. And then, there is the place with a potential audience of 30-or-so million people who don't care that your show has been off the air for 17 years. It's the place where nobody remembers the time you were escorted from the telethon for drunk and disorderly behavior. It's the place where nobody needs to know you're living in a trailer park and subsisting on a steady diet of memories and government cheese. Come what may, they still love ya on the Web, babe.

There is a simple reason why the Web is the virtual wax museum of pop culture: Through the magic of hypertext mark-up language, anyone with a half-ounce of twisted ambition and a $30 Net account can set up a digital shrine to their favorite star - and freeze time forever. Those unfortunate incidents with the transvestite prostitute? Never happened. The little weight problem? Forget it. The fourth abusive marriage? Not important. Here, in no particular order, are just a few of the once-notable figures who have found their way to the medium of last resort. Some of these sites have the official blessing of the stars, while others are blessed only by the gods of irony. Some of these celebrities are dead. Others are just resting a little bit before their next comeback bid. Pump up the schmaltz, maestro, because it's time for roll call at used.to.be.famous.com:

Can anyone in their 30s hear the phrase ``Snake River Canyon'' and not think of Evel Knievel? The greatest motorcycle daredevil who ever jumped 13 Greyhound buses appears to have landed quite comfortably at http://www.evelknievel.com. Nostalgic boomers will find fan-club information, photos, sound clips and what passes for news in Knievel's little world - including plugs for his infomercial for a pain-relief device called ``The Stimulator.'' Those who can't wait to catch the infomercial on cable can purchase ``The Stimulator'' in the ``Evel's Emporium'' gift shop right on the site.

Andy Kaufman was one of the darkest comic geniuses ever to inhabit the small screen. The fact that he shuffled off this mortal coil a dozen years ago hasn't done a thing to dim the interest of the 31,000-plus faithful who have trooped through his site, at http://fly.hiwaay.

net/bkm/akhome.htm. In addition to the de rigueur career time line and the frequently asked questions file, there's a painstakingly detailed account of Kaufman's most disturbing television appearance, on the long-forgotten variety show ``Fridays.''

Julia Child, the jolly giant who taught America how to cook, is hardly a has-been. Rarely does a month go by when she isn't in some celebrity roundup, often preaching the gospel of guilt-free gastronomy. Still, she rates an honored place in the Hall of Shame for some of the funnier pronouncements she's let slip on the air. Out-of-context sound clips of the great lady are yours to savor at the Julia Child Uncensored site, http://www-personal.

washtenaw.cc.mi.us/ssusnick/julia.

Little Richard, one of the original wild men of rock 'n' roll, is a certified legend in anyone's book. In recent years, he's also picked up something of a reputation for being a certified head case. (Historical note: He holds the record for the saddest and most bizarre crash-and-burn act I ever had the bad luck to witness in my 10 years of reviewing concerts.) The fanatic Finn who created the Georgia Peach Page, at http://www.sjoki.uta.

fi/latvis/artists/peach.htm, doesn't mention anything more recent than 1988. But he does offer ample evidence to support the theory that rock 'n' roll's Queen Bee was always a little bit ... different. Sensitive surfers may wish to dim their monitor settings before loading the lime-green Little Richard wallpaper.

Juan Valdez is not your garden-variety pop-culture deity. He's not even human, strictly speaking. Nevertheless, there are at least a handful of troubled souls out there who believe Valdez, the invention of a canny Madison Avenue ad agency, can turn water into full-bodied Colombian java. Thus, we have the Church of Juan Valdez, at http://www.geocities.

com/TimesSquare/1999, a cyberspace shrine ``dedicated to worshiping Juan, the Burro and the Bean.'' Yes, Valdez is literally an icon. And if you drink four pots of joe and meditate in front of his enigmatic visage long enough, you'll see Juan and the Burro morph into the current icon for America Online. Creepy, no?

Don Ho's soporific Hawaiian lounge act never really spoke to my musical sensibilities, but his officially sanctioned, downright surreal Web site, at http://www.hohouse.com, sure appeals to my sense of the bizarre. The HoHouse (now, c'mon, how could I make that up?) is a virtual house-of-mirrors, composed of maddening Netscape frames of every variety. The content - if you can find it - is a great example of the celebrity bargain-basement genre: compact discs, videos, show tickets and giveaways galore. You name it and Ho will hawk it. If you find that hard to believe, check out the section titled ``A Special Wish From Hawaii,'' wherein Don the Concierge boasts he can arrange anything you want - for a price. The minimum charge for that service at the HoHouse is $30, and yes, they take plastic on the site. Aloha, suckah.

Jack Webb, the hard-boiled hepcat who'd seen all manner of malfeasance on the streets of Los Angeles as Sgt. Joe Friday, probably would love the tribute page that exists in his honor at http://www.echonyc.com/pjames. Others probably would find the page to be grounds for either a lawsuit or a 72-hour psychiatric hold. The page, ostensibly about a Franklin Mint Jack Webb memorial plate, is one of the most deeply disturbing star tributes to ever grace the Web.