Curtains for 2012

This week between Christmas and New Year's Day always has the feel of finality.  Closure and the sense that "stuff" is wrapping up permeates just about everything.  Of course the country being poised to take a major fiscal cliff pratfall  offers an exclamation point to the end of 2012.

Some not so random thoughts as we ring down the curtain on the year…

Why is the greatest country in the world governed by an idiot in the White House and a congress too stupid to deal with the very real fact that we are OUT OF MONEY?  We have mortgaged the future of our children and grandchildren for handouts (sorry, they are NOT entitlements), today.  Our leaders have pandered to our greed in order to purchase their own political future.  It is repugnant,  immoral and unsustainable.  We are all to blame and we must FIX it.

Charles Durning and Jack Klugman exited this vale a couple of days ago.   Both in the pantheon of their profession,  they were extraordinary character actors who also served their country with honor in World War II.  We lose over 1500 veterans of that conflict every single day.  Thankfully we still have their movies.

Charles Durning

Rick Morgan

The Tampa Bay area lost a radio icon on Christmas day.  Rick Morgan, who had been on the air at several stations in Tampa/St. Petersburg died of cancer at 72.  I was lucky enough to work with Rick in 1975 and '76.  He was the afternoon drive jock on WDAE when I did the morning show on that station.  We discovered that we shared Springfield, Illinois as a hometown and were "touched in the head" in that special Midwestern way.  He was always down to clown.  I wish we had been better about staying connected.  Rick also spent time on Kansas City's WHB as "Dick Hudson" and in Washington, D.C. at WRC he was "Bobby McGee".  He is certain to have a prime time slot on that big stick in the sky.

To my surprise, this year we heard from just about everyone we sent a Christmas card.  Nothing puts a smile on my face like seeing who has blimped up since last year.  It helps me rationalize those five--or so--pounds that have hitched a ride around my equator. 

CAN WE STOP WITH THE BOWLS ALREADY??!!

For years there was the Rose Bowl, Cotton Bowl, Sugar Bowl, Orange Bowl and a couple of others.  I knew things were going to hell when something called The Astro Bluebonnet Bowl started turning up in the TV listings.  It has been downhill ever since.  Now we have college teams that nobody ever heard of playing in bowls with totally moronic names like:  Famous Idaho Potato Bowl, MAACO Bowl, Belk Bowl (sounds like a social disease), Mehneke Car Care Bowl, and my number one favorite…The Beef O'Brady's Bowl.

Note to the NCAA:  Enough!  Stop it!  You've proved your point.  Some fans will watch ANYTHING.

Always between the holidays it's anniversary time at the Copper hacienda.  Forty-four years ago today Linda took on the biggest baby-sitting job of her life.  The woman is a saint.  She still puts up with me but, in fairness, she did get two great daughters out of the deal.  There really IS compensation for everything.

Finally, it was a major treat to spend Christmas at the home of our youngest daughter Katie.  She and her husband, Doug, gave us the best present of all.  We got to spend the day with grandson, Dan.  Seeing Christmas with three year-old eyes is a gift without price.

He got a new scooter.  I'm still tired. 

"Watch me blow this up Grandpa!"

Wait A Minute...

What the?
That wasn't supposed to be there.  The sun, I mean.
Son of a bitch!  We're still here.  The dumb ass Mayans got it wrong!
This changes everything.  I hadn't planned on doomsday crapping out like this.

 It is December 21, 2012 isn't it?

Heck, the Mayans figured we didn't even need a good calendar from here to eternity.  The world was supposed to be blown to hell somewhere around the stroke of midnight.  Or, was it later?  I can't keep track of the petty details but there was supposed to be some mondo grondo asteroid out there hiding behind the sun that  had "Smoosh the earthlings" written all over it.

Didn't happen.

Dammit!  Now I have to hurry up and do some Christmas shopping.  And, OOPS, it looks like some of those checks I plopped in the mail two days ago are certain to be bum readers.   (It's the thought that counts anyway.)  Perhaps that week in Vegas working on my Blackjack system was an ill considered business venture.

Hmmm……what to do?  I guess I could start with a few apologetic phone calls to some of the folks I decided to tell off last week.  Nah, I quit caring what anybody thought several years ago.  Maybe it's time to learn a foreign language?  No.  Someone has to be the ugly American and,  since Archie Bunker is no longer available, it's an easy fit for yours truly.

UPDATE:  It looks like the sun is setting.  Time to make it official.  The world did NOT end today.  Let's all start planning for 2013.  Think of all the goodies we have to look forward to:  Spring training, March Madness, the Super Bowl, the swallows returning to my eaves, cleaning up swallow poop, another year of reality TV, higher taxes, Lady Gaga, Nancy Pelosi, more taxes, smog inspections, fading tattoos on aging gen-Xers, and no Twinkies.  Did I mention higher taxes and Nancy Pelosi?

Where is that freaking asteroid??!!

Elvis Is Dead...

…and hardly anybody sends Christmas cards anymore.  

I remember when my brother and I were kids our folks would drag out a beat up old address book about three weeks before Christmas and begin addressing envelopes and writing personal notes to go with the card they had chosen that year.  Since we moved quite often, there were cards going to old friends in places from Connecticut to California.  It was a chore mom and dad undertook with a real sense of joy.  In many cases it was the only time they had to "catch up" everybody on the what was happening with the Copper family.   They never sent cards "in town".  Mom thought it was silly to send a card to somebody she would actually "see" during the holidays.  Cards were for "out of town".

From Thanksgiving until Christmas it was always exciting to be on the receiving end of the Christmas card tradition.  Every day the mail would bring news of people my parents wanted to stay in touch with: old Navy pals, work buddies, neighbors, even grade school chums.  Cards with pictures of exotic things like palm trees, coconuts and oranges to stir the wanderlust of land locked Midwestern boys.

I know that sending Christmas greetings began to dwindle with my generation, the Boomers, but the decline became dramatic with the advent of the Internet.  These days my wife and I dutifully send cards to an ever smaller list of "out of town" friends picked up during our nomadic life in the broadcast business.  It's still fun for both of us.  Linda grew up with parents who also had a big Christmas card list.  It just seems like the right thing to do.

As I mentioned, our card list gets smaller each year.  We no longer bother to send anything to those who don't at least send a greeting with a signature.  Oh, there are a few who get a second chance, but not many.  I can be vindictive that way.  "That'll show 'em!"

Just today I sent off the final few Christmas cards and letter for 2012.  It isn't as much work anymore.  This year we were down to slightly more than thirty.  Twenty years ago the list was closer to one hundred.  I know that things change and I'm okay with it.  Just don't get me started on Email Christmas cards.

Bah! Humbug!  There is something VERY wrong with a card that can be deleted in an instant.  I want one that can stand on the mantel for a week or two.  Maybe one with pictures and words that recall dear friends and the memories of a lifetime.

Movie Gold From 1974

It's like bumping into an old friend when you stumble across a favorite movie.  Just about the time you mumble to yourself that there really ARE about six-hundred channels and NOTHING on -- there it is.  

I happened upon Harry & Tonto the other night on TCM, Ted Turner's classic movie channel, and was reminded of what a really good film it was and still is.  I don't know if a studio would green light something as good today.  It would probably be called "too slow" and undeniably corny.  But, though  he no longer controls his namesake network, old Ted locked up a lot of good flicks for his favorite channel.

Harry & Tonto is a simple tale of a retired teacher, Harry Coombes, who is forced to vacate his soon to be demolished  apartment in New York City.  Harry hits the road with his beloved cat, Tonto, inspired by the idea of seeing his kids, old friends, and maybe even a long lost love.  Perhaps he'll make some amends, meet new friends and find someplace to live.  Harry is wise enough to know that nothing in life is guaranteed.  He merely hopes to enjoy the time he has left on his meter.

Art Carney

Art Carney, one of our most underrated actors,  snagged the 1974 best actor prize for this dramatic roll.  He is simply brilliant.  

Watching the movie I was struck by how much the country has changed since 1974.  A war America had become involved with when I was in junior high would still be going on for another year in spite of the fact that I had grown to adulthood, served my Army hitch, gotten married and become the father of two.  Our Vietnam morass was nearly at its ignominious end after the sacrifice of almost 60,000 American lives.  Maybe because it was filmed on location, the movie has a feel of war weariness that was pervasive in 1974.  Peace talks were on, the draft had ended, but we were still there.

Other aspects of Harry & Tonto that gave it a real rear view mirror feel were:  long hair, large glasses, smoking, pay telephones and the complete non-existence of cell phones and the Internet.  The absence of artificially white teeth took awhile to catch but was a welcome reprieve from that blinding blue-white near perfect dentistry sported by today's movie folk.  Natural…what a concept.

Like most memorable movies, Harry & Tonto has some surprisingly refreshing performances by big stars in small character rolls.  Ellen Burstyn and the late Larry Hagman are completely believable as Harry's difficult and slightly messed up kids.  You find yourself rooting for them all.

Harry & Tonto is a gem.  If your old enough to have been around in '74, take a trip back in time just to see how much we've changed.  If you're too young to remember, treat yourself to a look at a country on the precipice of great change.  Not all of it for the better.

   

Ellen Burstyn

Old Jocks Never Die

"I'm 97, I don't take no stinking requests!"

The headline was: "Radio Personality In Peru Still Broadcasting at Age 97".  My reaction was: "What the…?"  Nobody lasts that long in radio.  Heck, I only count two pals over 50 who still show up and get paid to blab on the radio right here in the good ol'  US of A.  What's going on in Peru?!

After further investigation I found that Maruja Venegas actually no longer shows up at a station to do her show and, in fact, her show is only a half- hour long and is on at 6PM on Sunday night.  Oh, and  she also works for NO dough.  That explains it.  In fact once they find out about her lack of a compensation package  every major broadcast group in America will be calling her agent. Wait, she probably doesn't have an agent; that's ten percent MORE for the company!  That's the kind of "bottom line thinking" that will endear you to management every time.

This story got me thinking about the business of radio and how weird it has always been.  Some wag, I forget who, once opined that running a radio station was like trying to manage both a dinner theater  and a used car dealership under the same roof.  On one side of the building you had sales people interested in making money and screwing clients while at the same time a stable of mentally unhinged ego maniacal degenerates with only the next cocktail, cocktail waitress and record company freebie on their "to do" list.  In other words, a task not unlike herding cats.  Ferrel cats.

In radio's second Golden Age, the one where disc jockeys and powerful stations ruled the world of popular culture and music, the business was made for guys--and some gals--who loved to continue their  class clown existence via an exciting yet extremely insecure profession.  People job hopped, got fired frequently and were pretty much paid well to show up for four hours of so called work  dressed just as they had in high school.  It was high school with money, booze and a bad attitude.  A job not conducive to steady employment until age 97.

One station on my resume, which shall remain nameless--KCBQ, was located near a large field that was home to the six tall towers needed for its 50-thousand watts of power.  Licensed to serve San Diego, the blow torch blasted an East/West signal that could be heard as far away as Oklahoma and Hawaii.  It was a fun place to hold forth.  In the neighborhood nearby there were several retail outlets including more than a couple of cocktail lounges within walking distance of the studios.  Often times jocks would finish a show and repair to one of these liquor dispensing emporiums. On at least one occasion, after becoming "over served" an announcer decided to take a shortcut from the bar to the station by perambulating through the field of towers.  In broad daylight this was a fairly easy task, but after dark and a meeting with old pal Jack Daniels it was more like Columbus setting out for the new world.  Fortunately the night was warm and, after catching a couple of winks in the weeds, the sun came up and our hero was able to make it to the parking lot, find his car and prepare to travel safely home.

Returning to the almost always adversarial dynamic between sales and talent at most stations I am reminded of an incident that occurred during my time in Tampa.  Most station managers come from the sales department and have a built-in animosity toward anybody on the air.  Shortly after I started hosting the morning show at WDAE in 1975 a memo was issued by the general manager that stated:  "All disc jockeys are full-time employees and as such will put in an eight hour day at the station…blah blah blah."  This memo was followed, less than a week later, by another which said: "All disc jockeys should leave the premises within one half-hour of the completion of their show…blah blah blah."   Apparently this stooge had received so much grief about guys harassing secretaries, messing with the sales department, insulting clients, practicing their golf game in the hallways and just plain wrecking havoc throughout the station that he knew it was time to cut his losses.  The four hour workday lived on!  The bar around the corner was very appreciative.  Their business had taken quite a hit because of his misguided philosophy.

I have more, but think I'll save them for the book.  Some folks are going to have to die first.

Where Shrinkage Is Never A Problem

A city in need of a cover-up.

So, I guess it's settled.  The San Francisco Board of Supervisors, by a vote of six to five, voted in favor of a public safety ordinance that prohibits public nakedness in spite of the fact that such a measure will do much to undermine "Baghdad by the Bay" and its reputation for…..uh, free expression.  This will, of course, bitterly disappoint those of you planning a trip to the Bay Area for the express purpose of seeing a bunch of overweight old guys with their clam hammer hangin'.

And that's the problem.  Why is it that wherever there is public nakedness and a yen for debauchery  only saggy, decidedly unattractive,  blubbery MALES are the troopers who are down to party?   It's uncanny.  You would surmise that in an "anything goes" metro like SF the supervisors would get to work on a plan to actually PAY dudes inclined to disrobe to cover up and to do whatever it takes to get at least a few good looking females to explore the freedom of a life lived without inhibition in the fresh air.  Think of the tourist bucks dumped into a town promoting that kind of untrammeled expression!

Seriously, it's hard to understand why the city even bothered with this silly ordinance proposed by, as God is my witness, a guy named Scott Wiener.  (insert dick joke here)  Nobody will pay any attention to it anyway.  The entire essence of San Francisco is: "Laws?  We don't need no stinking laws!"  It may be an outrageous philosophy but it's what The City is all about.

When I worked in San Francisco in the early 80's it was nearly impossible to go more than a day or two without seeing something you knew you'd lay eyes on nowhere else.  I saw guys in the financial district  styling with the crotch cut out of an expensive pair of pants, men in women's clothing, plushies, people on stilts,  and, on my second day in town, a fellow sporting a leather jacket inscribed with "Floyd The Golden Shower King of San Francisco".  (music cue: "I Left My Heart In San Francisco" up, under and fade.)

I loved the place!  It's expensive, decadent and unforgettable.  Just ignore the naked fat guys and you'll have a good time.  If that's more than you can handle, I have a one word mantra for you:

OAKLAND

Always Save Room For NUTS

Lately I have been trying to remind myself that America has often been able to endure wingnut leaders.  There is a certain amount of pride we can all take in the fact that Nixon, Carter, and that Texas clodhopper LBJ all have come and gone yet the nation survives.

Take a couple of minutes to listen to old Lyndon B. Johnson order up a few pairs of pants from the head of the Haggar company.  This was a man who understood the importance of an adequate ballroom.