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.