"He likes us...he REALLY likes us!!"

Nicolas Sarkozy




It's hard to believe, but apparently France has elected a president who actually likes the United States. This is so refreshing that there must be something more to it. Maybe the guy had parents who perhaps mentioned to him that there would be no France if it hadn't been for the price paid by American soldiers in WW II. Whatever the reason, let's savor the moment and hope that this is the beginning of a "new and improved!" France. For many years I have despaired over the guilt of loving their food while hating their politics.

As for the socialist loser of the election, wouldn't it be grand if Ms. Royal used some of her new free time to get to know some of our boys who still reside at Normandy.

"Take Him Fishin'...if you want him for a friend"

"Take him fishin', take him fishin', if you want him for a friend"...goes the old Tex Ritter Classic. And that is exactly what we decided to do.

I should probably preface this tale with the acknowledgement that I haven't had a drink in almost eight years. It wasn't my idea, but was strongly suggested by...let me see...nearly everyone around me. I can live with this promise if I tell myself that I am merely "laying off the sauce" during odd numbered centuries. This allows me to look forward to a reunion with my pal Jack Daniels sometime in the year 2100. Now, having said that, return with me to the summer of 1968 and another radio tale that amazingly...I survived.


I am still in college and working at the radio station, KVRA, and having the time of my life. The money was good and I hadn't yet been drafted. (Yes, youngsters there was once a military draft!) My whole adult life lay ahead and the possibilities seemed exciting. My pal, Metcalf, had been sweating the draft too while he attended law school and worked a reduced shift at the station. He had cut a deal with the Marines to go to their OCS program if they would wait for him to complete his law degree. They were willing and he was to be on his way to boot camp in a couple of months. He had put in a good word for me with the owners of the station and I was now the program director at the ripe old age of 19.

Metcalf had also recently married...SUZY. He and his bride were residing in a little love nest in her hometown of Yankton the town immediately west of Vermillion for those of you not familiar with the greater Eastern South Dakota "metro". Yankton boasted a population large enough to have something besides Velveeta in the gourmet section of the local supermarket. It was also home to some regional bus company that was owned by Suzy's father, thus qualifying her as a desirable monied "catch" for one Mr. James Metcalf. I don't know what her old man's bottom line looked like but apparently it was enough to have the Met looking completely "whipped". The guy could hardly utter anything more robust than, "Yes dear" in her presence. To Metcalf, however, it was all worth it. He was now driving a new Mustang and rumor had it that Suzy's dad was footing the bill for his law school education. Dum de dum dum!

One Saturday in late July...Dave Walker, who also worked at the radio station, and I decided that we couldn't stand what was happening to the Met. We knew we had to get him away from Suzy for at least a little while just to make sure he didn't turn into a capon. To us he had taken on the personality of a once great hunting dog whose trip to the vet had lanced not only his "man marbles" but his "old hunting dog" personality as well. A fishing trip!!! That was it! We, along with some other college reprobate buddies, John Hall and Roger Boyd would take the Met on a fishing trip to the nearby Big Sioux River.

It was set. When the big day arrived, Metcalf had actually lied to Suzy and told her he was going to the laundromat to do their laundry. He even piled the baskets of clothes into the "thanks Dad" Mustang and headed for Vermillion. Sneaky bastard that he always was, he had "borrowed" his father-in-law's expensive fishing tackle and was ready for an outing that even he knew he needed.

We gathered for the big fishing safari at the radio station where we stashed all but one basket of the laundry that Met would take care of after we returned with prize fish, sunburns and a new outlook on life for our buddy. Probably the die was cast for this misadventure when, instead of the bait shop, we stopped at the state liquor store. "Just a little something to slake our thirst on a hot July day" was the rational. Each of us provisioned a case of 16 ounce Budweiser's and a fifth of our favorite "bust head" whiskey...and it was off to the Big Sioux.

My recall of that day is a little hazy...I know it was hot and that we may have been over served.
I do know that at some point we all wound up wearing nothing but our underwear as we frolicked and splashed in the river. Our clothes, with the exception of the aforementioned drawers, all wound up somewhere downstream. Omaha would be my guess. The expensive purloined fishing gear including a custom made tackle box had floated away fairly early in the outing. We were covered in mud as a mud fight had commenced over...I don't recall what. I do remember Hall standing on a large rock in the middle of the river waving at passing cars on an Interstate 29 bridge as he answered nature's call. (Did I mention this was all transpiring within shouting distance of the major north/south highway of the region?)

Late in the afternoon it was decided that maybe it was time to head for town where we stupidly thought Metcalf could still do his laundry and make it home before Suzy realized he had actually participated in some fun. The ride back to Vermillion was memorable. They say that cars depreciate rather rapidly during the first year of ownership. I'd venture that Metcalf's Mustang took about a fifty percent hit in just one afternoon. In our underwear, covered with mud, we all hauled our sorry asses back to town. Metcalf, now aware of the time, was doing 100mph most of the time as the rest of us amused ourselves by dumping the remaining beer into his laundry. (It was mostly Suzy's stuff anyway.)

We pulled up in front of the radio station on Main street in downtown Vermillion just as Country Al Watterson was finishing his "Country Hall of Fame" show. (You may remember Al from a previous blog of mine.) In our underwear we got out of the car. This on a Saturday afternoon in broad daylight. (I'm almost positive the statute of limitations has expired for this caper. Hasn't it?) We proceeded to walk through the front door of the radio station and began chatting with the receptionist who, by the way, was not at all pleased to see us. We, on the other hand, were MOST happy to see anyone of the female persuasion. We graciously invited her to join us at the apartment Walker and I shared...but, she declined. It's a good thing too as I found out later that she was a cousin of my longtime pal the Skipper.

Al was even less happy to see us. As I remember he locked the control room door and told us to go away or he would call the owner. You'd think that a guy who was a purveyor of country music would have been a little more receptive to some fellas who had consumed too much wobble water.

I was never able to extract the whole awful story of Suzy's revenge on the Met from the man himself, but I can only hope that he got his "man parts" back in the divorce settlement; maybe the Mustang too. Yes, they did divorce. And, I no longer drink...but it sure was fun that hot July day in 1968. Maybe now I can catch some fish.

She's weird...you'll like her!

My friend Judy McDonald is coming by tomorrow.
Remember the name.

Judy is one of the funniest people I know and I think you'll be hearing more from her in years to come. I met her at the unemployment office after, (big surprise), getting shown the parking lot by a radio station. She was the only person who actually had been fired from a dumber job than mine. Since that meeting, Linda and I have become friends with her whole family and they are equally delightful and "touched".

Judy was recently doing some shows in Louisiana and recorded some video on the bayou that is worthy of the movie "Deliverance". You can check it out by going to the "links" on the right side of this page and clicking on judymcdonald.net. When you get to her site, click on the BLOG sign and it will transport you to her latest video. It's a little slice of "toothless goober heaven" that will give you and idea of what she is all about.

Enjoy.

Oh, by the way, this plug has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Judy and her mom are bringing cookies to our house tomorrow...nothing at all.

PLANES, no trains, and a RODEO...

I've been traveling.
Getting on a plane used to be fun. DIDN'T IT?

How did we manage to take something that used to be an adventure and turn it into root canal? I'm sure it wasn't that long ago we were able to show up at the airport; board the plane with little pushing and shoving and enjoy a surprisingly comfortable transport to our destination. The food was reasonably good too.

No more. Thanks to cheaper airfares and idiots who want to kill us, a plane ride is the equivalent of Army basic training. Trust me, I've been there. We now wait in ridiculous lines, nearly undergo an enlistment physical, ("turn your head and cough") are shoved into seats designed by the Marque De Sade and told to "buckle up and enjoy your pretzels...we're fifth in line for take-off". Please, just knock me out and wake me when we get there. It's brutal.

Speaking of brutal...I did get to cross off "See a rodeo" from my list of things to accomplish in this lifetime. In fairness, I had been putting it off for over fifty years and now at least I know why.

Thanks to Brokeback Mountain, I was already starting to have my doubts about cowboys, but I had no idea just how kinky they really are. Not only are they into high heels, they also have a thing for tieing up cattle. The rodeo I saw this past Friday night was a non-stop orgy of cattle bondage and leather. Also, and I'm probably being a little picky here, the arena could have used a serious dose of air freshener. Horses and cows are apparently not shy about answering nature's call. Woooooooweeeeee!!! And the goats...you don't even want me to fill you in on their deportment.


The evening wasn't a total loss, however. I did rough out a screen play in my head while watching the various rodeo events. I'm calling it "Rodeo Girls in Bondage" and I've already signed my leading lady...




Miss Helen Heifer!






Helen was right there at the rodeo and is already real well known to the cowboys as the proprietor of Miss Helen's House of Bondage where rodeo fans can earn DOUBLE frequent flyer miles.

Flying and rodeo were made for each other! I should get out more often.

Barefoot Boy with microphone...continued

Faces made for radio








If you have been following this nonsense...

KVRA hired Frank as general manager and he, in turn, hired a program director named Jim Metcalf. Metcalf was a law school student who had been working as a disc jockey at KYNT in the neighboring berg of Yankton, South Dakota. Lucky for me, Metcalf also hailed from Spencer, Iowa and he hired me, after a brief audition, for the afternoon show on the station. Jim was smart, funny, and very talented. He could have worked in almost any major media market he aspired to, but he was determined to make it big as a lawyer. (Did mention that he was smart?)
Radio to him was merely a paycheck that required no heavy lifting while he pursued his law degree.

Metcalf had a pal named Dick Francis who was a recent advertising graduate of USD and Jim got him hired as Frank's sales manager. Francis was from New York and had big plans for a career in advertising, marketing or anything that paid well and required him to do little more than look good and talk pretty. His wife, as I recall, was already back in New York and had no plans to join him on the frozen and dusty plain of South Dakota. Francis was "camped out" on the couch in Metcalf's apartment and it was there that the two conspired to drive the "big guy", Frank, crazy. They would have him paged for fake phone calls in the radio station; contradict him in front of clients and employees, and in general make him appear even more clueless than he was. It wasn't long before lack of control of the operation and the absence of of any appreciable revenues on KVRA made Frank the logical fall guy for an impatient couple of owners like Ted and Macy. He was dispatched to a richly deserved obscurity selling cheap suits at Duke's men's store and eventually wound up back at WNAX selling hog reports.

With Frank deposed, Francis lost interest in the radio station and sleeping on Metcalf's couch. I'm not sure when the exact departure took place, but it was definitely time for "this bird to fly" as the future advertising tycoon would put it. Richard "Dick" Francis took a marketing job with General Foods for the fantastic annual remuneration of $16,000, (good dough in those days) and was off for points East...never to be heard from again.

As Frank's replacement, an old buddy of Ted's was brought in as general manager. Monroe Alvin "Monk" Johnson had been a very successful sales manager at KORN in Mitchell, South Dakota the home of the world famous Corn Palace. Monk looked like a cross between Artie Johnson and Don Knotts. He came complete with a bow tie and out sized tortoise shell glasses.
"Sports is my meat", Monk declared as he introduced himself to the staff. "I'll be emphasising local high school and college sports." This promise came complete with daily morning sports round-ups featuring the Monkster in his high pitched dufus delivery that we all became quite deft at aping. He often bragged to us that he had once fired Gary Owens when he was at KORN. I often wondered why anybody would take pride in having fired one of the icons of radio, but there was a lot about Monk that made no sense.

I really didn't care who was managing the station. I was going to college and paying for it with the money I was making doing what I was born to do. I was being a wise ass and honking the hits in the afternoon and I wasn't yet twenty. Life was good!

Almost immediately, Metcalf began trying the same old "gotcha" type tricks that had worked so well to undermine Frank on the new and improved general manager, Monk. In spite of appearing to be another rollover victim for "The Met", Monk was on to him from the start. I remember a confrontation one day in the control room while I was on the air...Metcalf questioned Monk's authority on some aspect of station operation and Monk invited him to continue the conversation in his office. Metcalf never revealed how that exchange went, but almost immediately the baiting and mocking stopped. In addition, Metcalf seemed to lose interest in the station and his position as program director. He had a new "high maintenance" girlfriend anyway and was looking for bigger paychecks than he was ever going to see in broadcasting. He was now determined to get his law degree...and GET RICH.



to be continued...

"LIVE..From 3 Million Acres of Cow Toilet!"

RADIO & BEER
(made for each other!)



The summer theater experience in 1967 convinced me that I had little talent for the theater and that the best thing for me to do would be to set my sights on a lower rung of the showbiz ladder. Since I had no circus connections, radio would be my destiny.

My fellow thespian/garbage man pal, Steckler, stayed active in the theater for a couple of reasons. First, he loved women and found an abundance of them fighting over any straight guy in the dramatic arts department, and second...he had an immense gift for comedy which made him very successful in his university career. I managed to get a job at the university radio station, KUSD, and handled everything from newscasts to hosting the afternoon opera shows. I also swept floors. I was a broadcast mogul and I was LOVING IT.

I remember once skipping an entire act of an opera which was being featured that particular afternoon. You see, I hated opera and couldn't wait to get the damn thing over so that I could move on to the next scheduled program which happened to feature a promising young disc jockey...ME. The station got many calls and letters, (in those days people actually knew how to write), from all the uptight opera buffs; management damn near fired me. I threw myself on the mercy of the program director and managed to hang on after receiving a major ass chewing. A couple of weeks later I was sorry that I had groveled and begged at all because I got word that a new AM/FM station had been licensed to Vermillion, South Dakota (where the university is located) and that the station would be on the air in late 1967. A by God COMMERCIAL radio station with hit records, jingles, commercials and DISC JOCKEYS! I knew that this would be my ticket to, well...everything I ever dreamed of.
I applied immediately!

KVRA was to be managed by a guy named Frank. Frank was a nice guy who had been in sales at WNAX in Yankton, South Dakota. WNAX was a regional powerhouse manure spreader that blasted farm reports and polka music that seemed to keep all the rural knuckleheads in the barn happy. Frank was a natural fit for the place and should have stayed there until all the cow flop on his shoes had fossilized. But NO, Frank wanted to be the general manager of a radio station and KVRA's owners, attorney Ted Dolney and railroad executive Ralph Macy hired him to be the "Big Guy"...
BIG MISTAKE!


to be continued...(probably a mistake)

So Long to one of "The Best and the Brightest"

David Halberstam




I love books. My wife does too.
One of the paramount reasons for our last move was the need for more shelf space for our books. Some people take advantage of their local library, but I would rather own a book that I can refer to when needed or bore my friends with quotes I think they should hear. (We professional gasbags cherish this right.)

Books are a comfort. I'm taking some right now from the David Halberstam tomes I have in my library. I will miss looking forward to his latest effort. He was one of our best in a business where the bench is growing mighty thin. His prose was natural. It had that "cotton candy" quality that makes reading just kind of dissolve into your consciousness and end all too soon.

If you have never read Halberstam, here is a sample of his work from the terrific "Summer of 49", a wonderful tale of that year's pennant race between the Yankees and the Red Sox:

"That summer, I had just turned fifteen years old. Fifteen is a difficult age for a boy anyway, and I was, I think, a less successful fifteen-year-old than most. I was small for my age, thin, and bespectacled. I was not particularly good at things boys are supposed to be good at; instead I was good at things (schoolwork) grown-ups want them to be good at but which, of course, win them no approval from their peers. Naturally enough, I soon solved that dilemma by becoming less skillful at my schoolwork. In 1948, my father suffered the first of two heart attacks, and he recovered only partially. There was a sense of foreboding in our home. There was good reason for it--a year later he died."


As my friends in the newspaper business would say, "he could type some".

Great writers are a gift we can all enjoy. They live on through their work and we can take them down from the shelf whenever we miss them. I'm already missing David Halberstam...one of our very best.