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.

Sunset In America

When I was in high school Soviet goon Nikita Khrushchev was fond of telling Americans "We will bury you".  Little did he know that JFK's "Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country" would give way to just doing the burying ourselves and sparing the rest of the world the trouble.  American values like hard work and living within our means has given way to "Where's mine?"

The fat, dumb, and lazy have foisted another four years of vapid and terminally clueless leadership upon the land and I'm wondering if we have it in us to persevere.  Our children and grandchildren are on the hook for nearly insurmountable debt and we don't seem to care.  It's immoral.  Food stamps, free phones, breakfasts and lunches provided by schools, student loans at below market rates are just a few of the myriad "freebies" politicians throw at the electorate to buy their votes.   Nobody seems to care that it's our own money and, by the way, WE DON'T HAVE IT.

Ben Franklin said, "When the people find that they can vote themselves money, that will herald the end of the republic."  Old Ben was a pretty sharp guy, invented a couple of things I believe.  George Bernard Shaw said pretty much the same thing when he opined "Robbing Peter to pay Paul will always insure the support of Paul."  The problem with this philosophy is that Peter--if he isn't already tapped out--has left town.  Hell, he's left THE COUNTRY!

So here is where we are:  BROKE!  Yet this past Tuesday we collectively decided to double down on the leadership of a man who has never run so much as a bake sale and can produce no plan beyond "tax the rich" who already pay the majority of our taxes.  Anyone proficient in elementary math can take about five minutes to conclude that confiscating the entire net worth of the wealthiest citizens of our republic would keep Washington's wheels turning for about two weeks.  This is no way to run a country.  Try navigating your household this way and get your ticket punched for the hotel with bars.

I take comfort in the fact that roughly half the population knows all of this and are as concerned as I am.  We have made it half way through this horrible wrong turn of an administration and can remain hopeful that new dynamic leadership will emerge.  Cerebral rectosis can be overcome.  After all, Jimmy Carter gave us Ronald Reagan.


"The pessimist complains about the wind, the optimist expects it to change and the REALIST adjusts his sails."  anonymous   

Something Fishy

The sign would read:  "In memory of hundreds of fish who suffered and died at this spot."

Beaufort T. Sea Bass, D.O.A.  in Irvine without tartar sauce

Well, that's what Dana Kourda, on behalf of People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, wanted the city of Irvine, California to say on the sign she wanted placed at the site of a truck accident that killed 1600 pounds of fish a couple of weeks ago.  In a letter to the city, Ms. Kourda went on to say that "Research tells us that fish use tools, tell time, sing, and have impressive long-term memories and complex social structure, yet fish used for food are routinely crushed, impaled, cut open, and gutted, all while still conscious."  She neglected to mention that they are also damn good eatin'.

Saying you're a member of PETA and from California is like saying you're an alcoholic and an addict.  It is sort of implied.  This place has all the essential ingredients needed to support any full-tilt Bozo philosophy you espouse.  We even have a crankwank governor to make you feel right at home and he comes complete with a state assembly consisting of democrats with a fiscal bent just to the left of "Whoopee!".  There is NO idea or project too stupid to be considered here in the land of dependably entertaining loons.

To the surprise of many, "Shut up!" was essentially the response Ms. Kourda received from the city of Irvine.  No doubt they have explained to her that had the good Lord not wanted us to eat fish he certainly wouldn't have made them so gosh darn tasty.  After all, even Jesus knew that there was nothing like a few fishes to pass around with the loaves whenever unexpected company dropped by.

It's not that those of us who enjoy eating fish don't have second thoughts about it.  Who among us is comfortable with those limbless, vertebrate, cold-blooded eyes looking up at you as you roll them in cracker crumb?  That's why we lop off those cute fish heads and give them to the cat.  (How's that for animal love PETA?)

Having said this I should confess to once having had a close relationship with a beautiful oyster I'll call "Bernice". Granted, she was invertebrate but she was wonderful slice of sea life.  Oh, there had been others before her but Bernice was special.  She was plump and juicy with a delightfully salty personality.  An oyster babe of the first water and I adored her.

The affair had a rather bad end that was entirely my fault.  Bernice and I were spending a memorable evening at Davy's Locker, a little bistro just off the Strip in Las Vegas, when she blurted out what I thought was "Eat me". I was drinking in those days--we both were--and had undoubtedly become "over served".  Perhaps I did not hear her correctly.  We'll never know.  The little squeeze of lemon that she had splashed on and the dollop of horseradish were too much to resist.

I still feel bad about my behavior but, in my defense, she was DELICIOUS!  As a memorial, I have kept her empty shell for use as an ashtray.

I don't smoke but could start again if it would make the PETA people feel better.  Oh, wait…we shoot smokers in California.  Never mind.  

Bernice sports some bling.

I can resist everything, except temptation.

Really??

Really??!!

You're undecided?

What? You've been in a coma?  How the hell is it possible that ANYBODY with a cerebral cortex is UNdecided regarding their choice in the presidential race?  

My theory:  Nobody is truly undecided.  All of these clowns filling seats in TV focus groups are lying.  They know damn well who they're voting for but are willing to pretend to be vacillating just so they can be the center of attention.  I believe the moniker is "Attention Whore".

After each of the campaign debates I sit like a slack-jawed yokel as these half-wits offer up their silly see through observations and questions only to reveal their true preference via the context of a question or their lack of a poker face.  Why do the pollsters put up with this?  It's simple.  Network executives know that stirring up a big kettle of crazy is just good television; nothing more.

Look Ma!   I'm a moron, but I'm on TV!

How could a person sleep through the last four years?  Most Americans haven't.  They made up their minds months ago.  Leaving the country in the hands of a president with less executive experience than my high school shop teacher--Sorry Mr. Bomgarrs-- is unacceptable.  How about the guy who knows how to make a billion dollars?  Hmmm,  he would seem the logical choice for our national spread sheet.  It's in desperate need of adult supervision.  What to do..what to do?  If you haven't noticed that we're broke and are continuing to spend money like drag queens at a wig sale,  please seek professional help.  Or, maybe, if you seek  attention and money, find out what kind of cheese they're paying to undecided focus group pantloads these days.

In the words of that magical sage, Penn Jillette, "To find the road to Utopia take a left at sex and a right at money and you're there."  Works for me.

This thing can't be over soon enough.
REALLY!

There's always room for another focus group stooge.

A Couple of Good Reads

Often the best books are those that you have to talk yourself into reading.  

A good friend called me and insisted that I read Brothers, Rivals and Victors by Jonathan Jordan.  Naturally, I thought "yeah, maybe when I get some time".  However, he was insistent.  He told me to be sure to read it before we talked again.  

In spite of that kind of persistence, which usually flips my "make me" circuit breaker, I reluctantly began to read the book.

Wow!  This is something special.  Jordan has written not just another history of World War II but a superior glimpse inside the personalities of some of the most extraordinary leaders America has ever produced.  Eisenhower, Patton, and Bradley, West Point educated generals who saved the world from the Nazis are each analyzed with insight and compassion that offers them to you as never before.  It is impossible to read this book without coming away with an understanding of how very different yet complimentary their personalities were and how it all miraculously resulted in victory for America and the free world.  Gone are the cultivated public persona's of each man.  The fragile chemistry that saved us from Hitler's megalomania is in sharp focus here.  You will realize, perhaps for the first time, just how precarious the Allied victory was.  This is fascinating stuff.

Since I read books like I watch TV--guy style--I like to have six or seven books going at the same time.  That way, if I need a break from the war, I can pick another very different sort of read.  Monitor, take 2, is perhaps something only media burnouts will enjoy, or maybe you're old enough to remember enjoying a weekend radio program called Monitor on NBC.  Monitor was the creation of the broadcast genius of Pat Weaver the man who gave us TV's Today and Tonight, and also his daughter, Sigourney Weaver. 

  Monitor was forty hours of radio fascination that ran every Saturday and Sunday on the NBC radio network from 1955-1975.  Features, information, comedy, music, weather and some of the greatest radio talent ever to crack a mic came together as pure audio magic.  Dave Garroway, Gene Rayburn, Ed McMahon, Henry Morgan, Bill Cullen, Jim Lowe and eventually people like Big Wilson, Murray the K, Don Imus and Robert W. Morgan hosted what became the weekend soundtrack for millions of Americans.  It was radio at its finest.  Dennis Hart, a longtime broadcasting professional has put together an exceptional recollection of a "must listen" experience.

Dave Garroway and the 1955 Monitor crew

Gene Rayburn, Monitor's longest running host

Both of these books are available from Amazon.  

To A Grandson On His Third Birthday

Happy birthday Danny!

A boy who knows his way around an ice cream cone!

Three years old and one of the best pals a grandpa ever had.  I knew when you were just hours old that you and I were simpatico,  two guys destined to catch the laugh train to Fun Town and hit all the stops along the way.  You, my boy, were worth the wait.

For a long time your grandma and I thought that little guys like you were the province of our friends.  We hadn't really planned on grandchildren because we didn't want to be disappointed.

 Yet, here you are and we're now three years into the gift that is, well, you.  Already you have gone more places and done more things than grandpa did in the first TWENTY years of his life.  You've seen a palm tree,  traveled to New York City, flown on jet planes, been out of the country, sailed on a boat and visited Disneyland all before your third birthday.  Heck, we're even going to spend the whole day at Legoland this coming Monday to celebrate.  

Who needs cake?!  Oh, that's right your having that tomorrow when your mom and dad throw you a family party.  That will be fun.  Cousins, cake, maybe a couple of those radio controlled cars to play with, it all sounds like a honkin' good time, and you deserve it.

This may be grandpa prejudice, but I think you're a really good boy.  You are perpetually happy and friendly to most everybody.  You willingly share your toys, say please and thank you and readily obey your mom and dad.  When they tell you to do something or, as is often the case, to STOP doing something, you listen and do as you're told.  You may not know it yet but that kind of attention and obedience will serve you well in life.  Mom and dad will always have your best interests in mind.  Granted, there will come a time, probably ten years hence, when you will look at them as fossilized idiots from the planet DIP who know absolutely nothing worthy of your consideration, but that will pass and you'll spend the rest of your life thanking them for being so darn smart.  That's just the way it works. Trust me, I'm your grandpa.

So, here's to the first three years of a wonderful new life!  May you continue to grow, learn and appreciate all the gifts you have.  The future will bring many new challenges that will be far more complicated than those experienced by your parents and certainly by your grandparents.  Always remember that opportunity knocks once but temptation leans on the doorbell.  With luck, you'll be intelligent enough to know the difference.

Winston Churchill, a great man you will learn about as you study history, once said: "Words are the only things that live forever."  In the past year you have begun to express yourself more conversationally and grandpa wants you to remember that your words have the power to help or to hurt people.  Use them wisely.  No doubt, you will forget this advice from time to time, but try to keep it in mind and always do your best to make others feel good.

One more thing:  Grandpa has noticed that you are starting to take a real interest in things like airplanes and pool tables.  Remember as you grow older and start to think about an occupation it is important to choose work that you love.  Your grandpa fell in love with the radio business when he was a boy and spent nearly forty years getting paid for something he would have done for nothing.  You should do the same, though I'm fairly certain that given a choice between aviation and hustling pool the former is the one to choose.  And forget about broadcasting. Like grandpa, that business is going the way of the Pony Express.  Just remember that you'll be defined by the choices you make and the choice of a career is a really big one.

Now. let's have some cake.  Maybe later we'll play some pool.  Gramps will let you break.

Love,

Grandpa

A future in aviation?

Tonsorial Timing

Curly was ahead of his time.

I'm not really sure when I started losing my hair.  As a kid I always thought it would be a horrible tragedy to be sans a top mop and vowed to be first in line for a toupee' should my hair hit the hirsute highway.  Both grandfathers and my dad waved good-bye to their locks by the time they clocked forty and for no good reason I thought myself immune.

Others had warned me that baldness is stealthy.  All of a sudden you catch a glimpse of yourself in a downtown store window and wonder who that man is.  Later, when looking at pictures of Christmas or your kid's birthday, you're asking about the identity of the "bald guy" only to realize it's YOU.

Maybe you give the hair piece ploy some consideration or, more likely, you decide that the dome is chrome and a "hair hat" will fool nobody who matters.  After all, they have obviously been more aware of your ever expanding forehead than you have and, since you're already married, you don't need it anymore.
"I'm over fifty.  Who cares!" becomes your mantra.

Timing is everything.  These days it's cool to be bald.  Guys of my generation prone to male pattern baldness are accidentally in STYLE.  Most of us don't even own a comb anymore.  Heck, I merely run a little clipper over my cranial holdouts a couple of times a month and have probably saved enough money to open my own hair salon.  Sunscreen is the only "product" needed at my summit in this century.  PLUS, and this is a big one, a recent piece in the Wall Street Journal exclaims, "Bald is Powerful".   "A buzzed head can be masculine,  a touch aggressive and, as a new study suggests, an advantage in business." the article explains as it offers examples of company leaders who enjoy the business advantage of being bald and bold.  "People remember the bald guy."

I'm seriously considering a hostile takeover next week.  A bar maybe?  No, wait,  that's a bad idea.  Make it a Dairy Queen.

All bald guys look like movie stars.

So, I think we can all agree, it's a great time to be bald.  Baby boomers of the Y chromosome persuasion have never had it so good when it comes to follicle impairment.

Since pretty much every situation in life is a trade-off, it's only fair that I bring up skinny jeans and Speedos.  Zero percent of bald dudes over fifty look good in either.  Don't even think about it.  Although, you might want to think about it if you're trying to scare yourself in to losing about fifty pounds.  Put simply, it  AIN'T RIGHT.

Speaking of something utterly NOT right for the planet:  The new NFL jerseys have created a league of 300-pound fashion victims.  Have you seen them?

The league switched from Reebok made jerseys to new tighter, sleeker Nike duds this year and the players are NOT happy.  Guts are hanging out from New England to Seattle and it isn't pretty.  Alex Boone, a 300 pounder who plays guard for the 49ers, says that when his wife first saw him in the new garb "she said, 'It looks like you ate a baby."  (a fat baby at that)

Maybe if the players are patient the spare tire look will become fashionable like baldness.  Or, better yet, get the union to insist that league attire feature Hawaiian shirts.

Bald heads and Hawaiian shirts, it's a good look.

"Does this jersey make me look fat?"

Remembering Andy Williams

Andy Williams, one of America's top pop vocalists and popular TV show host, has died.  He was 84.

One of the benefits of a career in radio is, or maybe WAS, the chance to meet lots of celebrities needing to use your show to promote themselves or a project they support.  Usually you have enough notice to prepare for a famous guest and are ready with questions you think will provide some insight and fascination for listeners.  Naturally, like much in life, sometimes you get surprised…

In January of 1977 I was new to San Diego having re-located the previous August from the Tampa/St. Petersburg market.  As the afternoon drive guy on KOGO it was part of my deal to also host the Saturday morning show in place of the legendary Ernie Myers who had a contract that guaranteed him a Monday through Friday work week.  It was fun for me since I had primarily been a morning guy for most of my career. The show was my opportunity to establish a beachhead in the morning real estate if and when Ernie decided to retire.  

From 1968 to 1988 Andy Williams hosted the annual San Diego Open.  He was an avid golfer and the PGA loved having big names on the majority of their tournaments in those days.  Bob Hope, Glen Campbell and Dinah Shore had their own and the Torrey Pines course at La Jolla was the perfect venue for the Andy Williams San Diego Open.  

I was at the AWSDO that Saturday in January of 1977 and about half way through my 6am-10am show when an official from the tournament stuck his head in the door of the KOGO mobile studios set up for the event.  He said, "Andy is here and I'm bringing him in for an interview in a few minutes."  "Hummina hummina  hummina", I managed.  Immediately I thought I'm not prepared!  What the hell can I ask him??!!

At first I thought a sincere thank you for all the make-out music he had provided for my high school Romeo years. (The girls all loved him.)  Fortunately I realized that would fill about ten seconds of time, IF he laughed.  The only other subject that was rolling around in my cranium was the recent trial and conviction of his ex-wife, Claudine Longet, who had air-conditioned her boyfriend, professional skier Spider Sabich, to death with a pistol that just happened to fall into her hands.  That's ALL I had.  My mind couldn't stop thinking of wise ass cracks like Claudine wanting Spider to "listen to a 45" and other equally snide and insipid lines.

And then….HE WAS THERE.   

I rose to shake hands and was stunned to see how short he was.  I had no idea.  I'd seen him on TV for years and had always thought him to be of average height but here was a guy wearing Cuban heels who  barely touched 5'5", maybe less.  He was really short!  I'm certain that the surprise shown in my face.  In addition he gave every indication of being massively hungover and in no mood to "chat".  My career flashed in front of my eyes as he shakily fired up a large stogie, no doubt as an incentive for me to keep our meeting brief.

In my headphones I heard that we were nearing the end of a commercial break and I was "ON" in ten seconds.  Flop sweat enveloped my body as I lamely began introducing Andy.  A quick comment about us both having spent time in Iowa, he in Wall Lake and me in Spencer, went nowhere and I could tell by the look on his face he wasn't going to stick around too long if this was all I had.  I asked about his brothers and how their boyhood act evolved from singing on the radio in Des Moines and Cincinnati to backing up Bing Crosby on his big hit, "Swingin' On A Star".  And THEN IT CAME TO ME…

Somehow,  either by reading it or hearing about it, I recalled the little known fact that Andy, as a young boy, had provided the singing voice for Lauren Bacall in the movie "To Have and To Have Not", a picture that first teamed her with Humphrey Bogart.  I asked him if it was true and how it happened.

His eyes widened and he sat up with interest.  He was engaged and suddenly excited to talk to me.  I had turned the corner and we were headed for home!  He told the story of how he and his brothers, Dick, Bob and Don had been under contract to MGM and were on the studio lot playing ball outside Louie B. Mayer's window as Mr. Mayer was meeting with Bogie and Bacall.  The subject of Bacall's lack of singing talent had been the major topic since the picture required her to briefly sing a song.  Mayer, always anxious to utilize contract players, called out to the Williams brothers and ask them to come to his office.  Each brother was auditioned on the spot to see if there was a close match to Lauren's low pitch.  In his early teens, it was decided that young Andy's voice was just about perfect.   

Andy Williams became the singing voice of Lauren Bacall.  

Movie trivia had saved me!

If you have a chance, check out "To Have and To Have Not"to hear the voice of a young Andy Williams exit the mouth of the very sexy Lauren Bacall.

The rest of the interview went very well.  I relaxed and remembered questions about some of his hit records and his relationship with Bobby and Ethel Kennedy, even though he was a registered Republican.  In every respect it became a worthy interview.  He left the KOGO trailer in good spirits and I went home with a wonderful memory of a major singing talent with over twenty-seven charted hit records that continue to play on as the  soundtrack of my generation.

Andy Williams 1927-2012

Getting Out of Town

Been on the road…and, in the air--A LOT.
The wife and I thought it was time to see Europe up close and personal since we have reached that point in life when people say things like "better do it now while you still can".

My take?
First of all, it's always a treat to be overseas when zealots decide to burn our embassies and kill our ambassadors.  If you're an American, it's always open season.
Then there is the problem of too damn many statues and fountains.
Frankly, I got tired of looking at them.  Far more interesting were the balconies of Italy, Greece and Spain.  The denizens of southern Europe  actually use their little slice of sky for drying their clothes,  growing potted things and just watching the passing parade.  Remember  the smell of clothesline dried duds?  Over here they never forgot.

"Honey, your shorts are done."

Cool shadows in Tuscany

Drawers dryin' in the Italian sun.

Nice window box in Corfu, Greece

When in Rome, do as the Pope does.

Old cats watch the tourists

A dog's eye view of the Spanish Steps in Rome.

I don't know why Italian laundry fascinates me, but it does.

Just shoot the morons who do this!

No, not NYC.  It's Manarola, Italy

Santorini, Greece: a place of stunning beauty.

Unfortunately graffiti has become commonplace on the continent.  Like Americans the people of Europe have come to accept it.  It is NOT "street art" dammit!   It is a disgrace and let me be the first to suggest that instant public executions for those responsible may be a handy deterrent.  A society willing to tolerate this nonsense is most certainly circling the drain.  It has to stop NOW.

The food, especially in Italy, is exceptional.  I'm sure that at least a couple of pounds of pasta has found a home around my equator.  The Greeks have some good ideas about what to do with food too.  Spain--the whole tapas thing has a lot of appeal--but, who wants to wait around to dine at nine or ten PM?

Okay, check that trip off the old bucket list.  It's time to make plans for the next venture.  I'm excluding Africa and Antarctica because I simply have zero interest in either.  (I get National Geographic to cover that base.)  But after another ten or twelve months of recovery time I should be ready to tackle the world once again with camera at the ready.  Zanzibar anyone?

Yesterday, after eighteen hours in the air and four trips through the airport security of two different countries, we touched down on U.S. soil.  As our plane began its approach, Chuck Berry's "Back In the U.S.A." played on my ipod.

                  "Oh well, oh well, I feel so good today,
                    We touched ground on an international runway
                     Jet propelled back home, from overseas to the U.S.A.

                    Well, I'm so glad I'm livin' in the U.S.A.
                     Yes, I'm so glad I'm livin' in the U.S.A.
                     Anything you want, we got it right here in the U.S.A."

Nailed it Chuck!   Sometimes you have to leave to remind yourself.

KO Is OK by This Flyboy

With a colonoscopy they are at least courteous enough to knock you out with one of those elephant tranquilizers before violating your nether regions.  You know the drill, (pun intended), like a dying star beginning a wobbly decent into the void, doctors recommend--nay insist--on a colonoscopy to probe the southern end of your inner being.  And, like a college fraternity pledge with a homecoming weekend date, sedation is helpful.  Better living through chemistry I believe they call it.

Having been a traveling fool of late I think that, just as it is with the old roto rooter routine, air transportation may be enhanced by the administration of a package of heavy sedation.  It is after all a true PAIN IN THE ASS TO FLY!  From the TSA pre-boarding feel up to the excruciatingly uncomfortable ride there is genuine torture a plenty when taking a plane ride in 2012.

WHY??!!!

It's not as if the airlines are making money.  Sir Richard Branson, the daddy of Virgin Air, once explained that the quickest way to become a millionaire is to begin with a billion dollars and then get into the airline business. 

It wasn't always thus.  I recall my first plane ride. It was a BIG DEAL.  People, me included, dressed up.  We didn't all look like we were in the middle of washing the car and suddenly Baltimore seemed a good idea.  In those days you could smoke and the food and drinks were free.  It was heaven to fire up a Lucky Strike and slam down the first of fifteen or twenty Old Fitzgerald's as the bird began to taxi for takeoff.  I recollect the plane landing at our destination around 7:15 PM and me a couple of hours later.  Good times!

So here it is, another million dollar idea lined up just for you:  Please, SOMEBODY, develop a business plan that offers air travel providing complete and carefree heavy sedation from my front door to my final destination.  There are plenty of fliers with credit cards at the ready just waiting to book fare.  We will PAY UP to be knocked out and transported in air-conditioned unconscious comfort and or splendor to anywhere and everywhere a limp and compliant body can be shipped.

I'm already counting backward.  Nurse, turn on the joy juice and wake me when we're there! 

10, 9, 8…….ZZZZZZZZZZ

BAM! ZOOM! TO THE MOON!

Summer Slips Out The Side Door, Ho Ho Ho

Autumn in San Elijo Hills

We don't get much in the way of changing seasons here in America's most southwestern corner.   Where I grew up, the upper Midwest, we sported what is euphemistically referred to as a "continental climate".  Let me translate:  Cold as a mother-in-law's heart in Winter and blast furnace hot in the Summer.  Please feel free to throw in "always a stiff breeze" for both situations.  I hated it.

As a kid I had to live there, however, once the Army turned me loose I was free to make that "All American" big boy decision to park myself and my family anyplace I chose.  I chose Florida.  The Summers were steamy and the bugs plentiful but I loved the fact that most any Winter day in the sunshine state blew the doors off anyplace up North.  There were two seasons in gatorland: nine months of very pleasant temperatures and three months of extreme steam bath.

Southern California has been my home for most of the past thirty years and, despite the train wreck of  governance in Sacramento, it still has the most agreeable climate in North America.  Northern San Diego county is nearly perfect almost every day of the year and, though it took me awhile, I now recognize the subtle changes in the air as we move from Summer to Fall.  The shadows are longer, the air just a little more crisp, a hint of sage and dry brush is in the wind along with the hope it won't be mingled with smoke.  Our rains won't  refresh us until November.  Soon, some mornings will require the warmth of a sweatshirt or sweater and the fireplace will seem more and more a good idea as evenings grow longer.  The kids have gone back to school; so the neighborhood is slightly more quiet--"hey you kids, get off my lawn!"  This year the Padres aren't just going through the motions of one more"wait 'til next year" season.  They're actually playing well and--this is probably baseball dementia--look like they may have a shot at a wild card birth in the playoffs.  (Yeah, I should probably lie down.)

Wasn't it just Memorial Day?  About the time I get used to the idea of Summer, here comes Labor Day, Halloween, Thanksgiving and-- "how the hell did that happen?-- CHRISTMAS!  I saw the first Christmas displays at Costco more than two weeks ago.  Decorations, ribbons, wrapping paper, kids toys and holiday baskets of chocolates and booze were three isles long and a mile high in AUGUST for cryin' out loud. My mother would have had a fit. When I was nine or ten  she was outraged at seeing a Christmas display in the window of the Gamble's store of our little Michigan town one week before Thanksgiving.  She wasn't alone.  Lots of adults thought it was in poor taste not to wait until after Thanksgiving for Christmas promotions.  These days, if you're in retail, waiting until Halloween is only for the timid. 

So, here we go.  Another year is nearly history.  Wasn't it New Year's Day a couple of weeks ago?  Time to get busy Christmas shopping.

Don't worry, I'll be posting my sizes and a list of things I'd like to see under my tree this year.  You'll have plenty of time to shop.  Forgive me for not waiting until after Thanksgiving.  Wait, better yet,

 cash is always nice.  

I take EXTRA LARGE.

Looking toward the Pacific from San Elijo Hills