Reflections from the Land of Screamin' Guitars & Zit Cream Commercials

Old disc jockeys have BIG record collections. It just goes with the territory.

Low life record promoters kept most of us loaded down with multiple copies of everything their label was pushing at the moment and we, in turn, used the singles, t-shirts and albums to pay off bookies, bar tabs and babysitters.   Well, okay, I did.  Some guys and gals actually liked pop music and treasured their role in making the hits; their walls sport gold records as proof.  Personally, the music never meant much to me.  I got into the radio business so that I could TALK about stuff.  The music was, in old farm boy parlance,  just so much cow flop we pitchforked into the mix to coax ratings.  With the rare exception of a song I actually liked, I looked on purveying the hits as "slopping" the listeners" with the intention of keeping them glued to what was--at the moment-- the GREATEST radio station on the planet.   (Until I got fired and went somewhere else.)

In hindsight I suppose a move to talk radio would have been the smart thing for a guy like me, though an act consisting of me yelling "Shut up moron…Get off my phone!" perhaps had limited appeal.  In addition, for numerous years  there wasn't an easier buck than music radio.  It was air conditioned, indoors, and required no heavy lifting.   The tunes we had to play afforded ample opportunity for trips to the men's room, vending machines and expeditions down the hall to flirt with the women in the traffic department.  Truth be known, some of the songs were so awful that it was necessary to leave the control room just to keep from throwing up.  "Seasons In the Sun" by Terry Jacks was such a ballad.  In 1974 that piece of floating fecal matter was in the hot rotation at many stations.  To avoid permanent ear bleed and brain damage I would invariably attempt to make sure whenever this beauty was scheduled a jingle would precede it to allow me ample time to escape before enduring a single note.

I hadn't thought of Mr. Jacks hideous crime against music in years.  Mercifully, it never really made it on to the playlist of most major "oldies" stations where I was forced to relive the 60's and 70's late in my career.  Then, like an infestation of brain termites, my old pal, Bill Moffitt, slipped this musical turd into a CD he burned for me.  Bill and I have been friends for years and share not only a Midwest background but a similar job history.  By shear coincidence the two of us wound up getting hired and fired at three different  stations at approximately the same time.  We were in broadcast harness together for over fifteen years,  much to the chagrin of multiple program directors we either drove to distraction or, better yet, out of the business.  Take THAT programing putzes!

Mr. Moffitt has, almost without question, one of the largest music libraries ANYWHERE.  Everything from rock n' roll, to country, classical and jazz has been requisitioned and inventoried by "The Moff" and he enjoys putting  together  some of the most eclectic compilations imaginable for his pals.  They are surprisingly entertaining.

Recently I was enjoying--yes, actually enjoying--Moffitt's latest creation featuring everything from Tony Bennett singing the Army Air Corp theme to Roger Miller's "Dang Me" when the audio punch bowl was suddenly befouled by the Godawful "Seasons in the Sun".  My ears may never recover.
How could he do this to me?  Oh, the humanity!

For those who don't remember, I have found the incriminating contemptuous piece of pop pap on You Tube.  Listen if you dare, before I seal it in a lead container for deposit in the Groove Yard of Good Guy Gold.
Good day to you Mr. Jacks!  I am headed to Moffitt's house to administer a sound thrashing.

PeeeeUuuuuuuu!

And They Call It--- Guppy Love

"Hello darlin'.  Come here often?"

Apparently with their country's economy running on fumes and half the population out of work the intellectual giants at Italy's University of Padua have nothing better to do than spend time gauging the attractiveness of guppies and exploring their mating habits.

In an article published by Britain's Royal Society, NOT available on newsstands everywhere, Ms. Clelia Gasparini expounds at great length on the startling news that she and her colleagues at U. of P. discovered:  Male guppies use ugly friends to appear more attractive to potential mates.  Yep, old Clelia and friends have blown the lid off guppy nookie.  Finally!

In the interest of science, Gasparini and friends set up a little experiment not unlike the old Dating Game TV show.  Sans genial host, Jim Lange, these scientists placed a female guppy inside a special partition at  one end of an aquarium along with two very "hot" and brightly colored males.  In the other end of the tank an equally yummy looking Guppy hottie was positioned next to a couple of less colorful and more ordinary looking boy guppies.

Guppy mating, giving new meaning to "hook up"

When another male guppy was plopped in the center of this water filled singles bar he nearly always chose to hang with his more schlubby looking pals who were orbiting bachelorette number 2 in the "gee he has a great personality" control area of the aquarium.

I guess there are no surprises here.  The importance of a less attractive wing man when the male of any species is on bone patrol can never be underestimated.  This is precisely why I am puzzled by the absence of additional controls in this experiment.  Why not try using variations in the size of the male fish wallet for example.  Or, just for grins, how about throwing a few of the more "chesty" females into the equation?

"We got to get it together baby."

If these crazy Italians really want to get creative there is always endless possibilities when soft lights, a fine Chablis and some Barry White records are introduced to the mix.  Of course who knows what kind of aquatic damage would ensue when guppies become hotter than Monica Lewinsky at a Boy Scout Jamboree.

Wake up Italians!  Never be afraid to fly the freak flag in the name of science!

Hardly A Super Bowl of Advertising

I don't know about you but I didn't feel like some of those big national advertisers got their moneys worth this year.  At $4 million for a :30 second spot, it seems as if some unsuspecting vice presidents got hosed.  

For example:  Did watching a bunch of geriatric escapees cause you to "run for the border" and grab some Taco Bell?  Didn't think so.

The impression left by Taco Bell was the decidedly negative feeling that if I ate there the food would render me instantly old--okay, oldER.  Why not promote the new and improved Taco Bell menu or their more often than not cheerful service and ultra clean bathrooms?

Then, there was Go Daddy.  Not only did the uber nerd sucking face with the super model give me the dry heaves, it DID NOT send me to their website to snag a brand new URL?   I don't think I'm alone here. 

What the hell were these companies trying to accomplish??!!

The guess here is that the majority of advertisers and their agencies have become so intent on impressing their peers with how hip and funny they are that they have forgotten the sole purpose of advertising: MOVE THE GOODS!  Since the first caveman chiseled the point of a spear, humans have tried to convince others that they really needed, and would be willing to part with money for,  a superior product.  Sometimes this can be accomplished with humor and other times an honest presentation of specific advantages will result in the sale of goods, but ultimately the message should be designed to SELL.  

Watching the majority of this year's Super Bowl spots left me not only NOT wanting to buy what they were selling but half the time I couldn't tell WHAT they were attempting to sell me.  They were clever but ineffective.  Some companies would have done themselves a large favor had they merely taken their four or eight million dollars and set fire to it.  I'm fairly certain that the crowd attracted by the sight of that kind of scratch going up in smoke would have made a better and more receptive audience.   Madison Avenue trying to dazzle Madison Avenue via style and wit left the majority of consumers out of the equation.

Naturally, there were some exceptions to this bumper crop of stupid commercials.  By general consensus, Budweiser's "Brotherhood" ad was effective in grabbing the attention of millennials.  However, at least for the more mature demographic, hands down the best of the bunch was the "So God Made a Farmer" ad for Dodge Ram trucks.  The Richards Group of Dallas took audio from a 1978 speech Paul Harvey gave to the Future Farmers of America and coupled it with pictures featuring farmers on tractors, kneeling in prayer, barns, silos, cows and a window draped with an American flag. It was brilliant!  The late Mr. Harvey was a genius at painting word pictures and his signature dramatic pauses coupled with pictures created a riveting and moving experience that made us watch and listen.  I don't know about you, but when the two minute piece was finished I wanted nothing more than to move to the country…right after buying my new Dodge Ram truck.  It was so good I'll bet you actually forgot that Chrysler, Dodge's parent, is an Italian company these days.  

If you didn't see it, here is the Paul Harvey Dodge Ram spot:

And now you know…THE REST OF THE STORY

A Very Fizzy Message

It has become more of a national holiday than some of our actual holidays.  Next thing you know, some nimrod in congress will be introducing a bill to turn Super Bowl weekend into one of those meaningless three day benders we use to commemorate dates that once were important.  Lincoln's birthday anyone?

Slightly less than half the country gives a damn about the outcome of this year's meat grinder between the San Francisco 49r's and the Baltimore Ravens.  Personally I've always liked the Niners and am prepared to give the points and take the bet.   They will beat the three or four point spread and put a merciful end to media attention focused on the largest source of natural gas in the Western hemisphere, Ray Lewis.

Maybe more important than the game, high priced very creative commercials have become a popular feature of the annual broadcast.  Even non-fans often watch the tilt just to catch the ads.  They, in fact, enjoy a certain advantage over football fans in that they are free to snarf snacks and socialize while the game is underway only pausing to give rapt attention to the latest Coke or Pepsi spot.

Oh yeah, Coke and Pepsi will be there but don't count on seeing the latest SodaStream production.  It seems that CBS has caved to the purveyors with the greater financial throw-weight and banned the newest SodaStream message.  Go figure.

The big guys may have played into the deft promotional hands of some very clever competitors  because anyone with access to a computer can view the new commercial on-line.

CHECK IT OUT...

The commercial Coke and Pepsi don't want you to see.

                                                                    GO NINERS!

LIFE: Grab ALL You Can!

I'm not sure if it's because I'm getting older--no, I've always been a little scattered--but I seem to lose at least one important thing every day.  Yesterday, and today, it was my checkbook.  I seldom need the damn thing because almost every bill is paid automatically these days.  Certainly I put it someplace safe and easily accessible.  Didn't I?  Apparently I have once again succeeded in hiding it so well that it won't turn up until the next time we move.

Since there seems to be compensation for everything, my safari to find the checkbook has turned up many treasures lost in the multiple cubbies of my old roll-top desk.  I frequently stuff interesting newspaper stories, coupons, toys, matches, and other truck I deem important into this ever bulging work space.  Because of my penchant for saving useless effluvia, my wife long ago insisted on this oak beauty for its knack of concealment.  Just roll down the desk top and neatness ensues.

So, here I am poking into the deep recesses of my desk searching for the elusive checkbook and there is treasure everywhere.  Old pictures of family and friends, business cards from jobs not held in years, letters from family and friends, old baseball cards, trinkets and toys for my grandson, and now…

An obituary.

Not just any obituary--heck, I don't even know this guy.  Why did I save an obituary from 1996?!  Then I remember.  This is one that I will never forget.  It was in the San Diego Union-Tribune in September of '96 when papers still cared about obituaries and employed adequate staff to write them properly.  (These days it's usually up to the family to provide the copy and the newspaper charges for running them.)  The heading read:  Leland Featherman, Lawyer "lived a full life'.  I remembered that the 'lived a full life' line was an eye catcher and had enticed me to read further.

Here are a few excerpts from Mr. Featherman's send off written by staff writer Jeanne F. Brooks:

"Leland "Buzz" Featherman's profession was law, which he loved well enough.  But life was his vocation.  A bon vivant and raconteur, he relished family, friends, good times, basset hounds and Democratic politics."  (Okay, that one I don't get.)

"Where Mr. Featherman got his sense of humor, said his son Mark Featherman, 'is a great mystery" --though Mr. Featherman always thought he took after his uncle 'Bunny' Featherman who drank, smoked cigars, told jokes and was the life of every party."

"A college-age 'Buzz' Featherman is still remembered by folks who live around Keuka Lake, in upstate New York,  where the Feathermans owned a summer cottage.  He once water-skied across the lake from one bar to another, while wearing a tuxedo."

"He attended Phillips Exeter Academy until his senior year, when he was kicked out, as he sometimes described it, 'for having too much fun', said his son Mark."

"In 1958, between the Navy and law school,  Mr. Featherman dropped by a country club dance in Elmira, New York.  He introduced himself to a young woman he saw at the bar, Carolyn Sue 'Subie" Blostein.  On November 10, 1959, the young couple eloped and were married by a justice of the peace in Leesburg, Virginia."

"After law school, a friend convinced the young Feathermans to move to Phoenix in 1961.  'They hated it right away,' said their son.  Three years later, the couple moved to San Diego."

"Mr. Featherman worked as a bank teller while he studied for the California bar exam.  He lost that job when he joked with a customer, telling her that the bank gave out green stamps.  She complained to the management because she never received any."

"Because he thought most people didn't know how to unbend, he wrote a book on having fun.  One chapter was titled,  'Winning Isn't Everything, Fun Is"

"He kept his sense of humor to the end.  The day before he died as he struggled with consciousness Mr. Featherman pointed to his son Mark and said, ' I have just one question.  Are you going to wear that shirt everyday?'"

What a find!  No wonder I saved this piece from seventeen years ago.  This was an obituary to remember.  A guy who loved life and lived it to the hilt going out in grand style.  I wanted to meet this man and maybe have a couple of pops with him.  Who wouldn't?  The world might be a better place with a few more Buzz Feathermans running the show.

As I fold the now yellowed newsprint and return it to its home in the roll-top something important catches my eye.  When I originally saved the story I hadn't noticed Mr. Featherman's age at the time of his death.  He was  62.  Son of a gun!  Reading it at nearly 65 is far different from reading it at 48.

I wonder when the ice goes out on Keuka Lake and where can I find a tux?  The clock ticks for all of us and there is always time for FUN.  Just ask Buzz Featherman.

Well done Buzz, well done.

"Life & Times"

After extensive international touring and years of hard work, the latest theatrical project of the husband and wife team of Pavol Liska and Kelly Copper opened at the Public Theater in New York City on Wednesday night.  "Life & Times" is a performance miracle.  I'd say that even if she weren't my daughter.

See it if you can.  So far, it's SOLD OUT.

"A masterpiece for the 21st century…(Nature Theater of Oklahoma) think on an epic, revolutionary scale, and are one of the most important theater companies working today."

---The Huffington Post

"Nature Theater of Oklahoma has developed a reputation for taking the ordinary chitchat and elevating it to the profoundly theatrical."

---The Village Voice

"The most buzzed-about new troupe on the New York avant-garde scene."

---The New York Times

Colder Than A MOTHER-in-law's Heart!

It's not right.   I put up with all that crappy weather in the Midwest for a couple of hundred--okay twenty--years and now I'm freezing in Southern California.  What gives?!  I never even saw a palm tree until I was twenty.  It was an epiphany to a young man who had never questioned the bleak "pencil sketch" winters of the frozen and dusty plains.  Toasty warm temperatures and mellow ocean breezes were the province of foreign shores.  Maybe Florida had some beaches and lakes that didn't turn to ice in December but they also had snakes, gators, and bugs to contend with.  I figured that my future was to be found somewhere north of the Mason/Dixon Line.  It would be my destiny.

Who digs this?  Uh…NOBODY!

Then, I came to my senses!

Sleeping on the ground through a couple of winters in Kansas while stationed with the Army's First Infantry Division convinced me that warmth was a condition I wanted to bask in for oh…THE REST OF MY LIFE!   When I returned to civilian life, there would be no more frostbite or shivering for this American!  Florida was calling my name. 

My wife and I spent nearly six years in the Sunshine State and, in spite of the bugs, thought it the ideal place to be.  There were cold snaps and infrequent freezing temperatures that seldom lasted more than a day or two but the summers were brutal.  I decided that no place is perfect and, with the help of air conditioning, getting through the heat of summer was still much easier than putting up with winter.  Then we moved to California.

Taking a job in San Diego most often results in a couple of outcomes.  First of all, hardly any job lasts forever and second,  nobody ever wants to leave.  The place is loaded with former Navy personnel, bio tech hotshots, hedge fund guys, pro athletes, golfers, and entertainers who would rather take a job driving a bus than move away.  In spite of high taxes, home prices and an escalated cost of living in general,  it remains about as close to paradise as you can get.    Well……

At least until yesterday, it was damn near perfect.   Suddenly it is COLD in San Diego.

What's going on?  Where is this global warming I've been hearing so much about??  Turn up the thermostat!  It was 37 degrees on our patio this morning and it'll be even colder tonight.  Who do I see about this?  Is there some kind of money back guarantee?  This is not right!  I don't know if we even have enough blankets!  (OH, good.  My wife says we do.)  Whether it's age or there is something to that "your blood gets thinner in warm climates", I know I can't take the cold like I did when I was a kid.  Never again will I douse my head with water,  then comb my hair into an impressive pompadour before running outside to freeze the "do".  A stunt like that would kill me in 2013.  Also, the lack of hair on my present day dome sort of defeats the purpose.

I'm sharing this for no other reason than a feeble attempt to stay warm.  (Just so you know, typing doesn't seem to do it.)   Also, I wanted to save you the trouble of packing up and moving to what some locals refer to as "America's Finest City".  No, today I'm thinking "Minneapolis by the Sea" would be more apropos.   It's colder than Dick Clark's wallet outside.  (Of course he took it with him.)

I wonder if the fireplace in the family room works?  Maybe we could bust up some of that furniture in the guest room.  You're not coming to visit.   Are you?