Category Archives: Personal History

Desk Calendar (June 1984)

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I’m pretty sure June 4, 1984, was my first official day at Learfield Communications. And since 25 years feels like something of a milestone, I’ve been trying to come up with something to post here to mark the date.

June, 1984

The calendar [larger image] above was on my desk that first month and means absolutely nothing to anyone that wasn’t around back then. And not much to the handful that was (Clyde, Roger, Bob), so I’ve annotated a few entries to jog their memories.

With good jobs hard to keep and harder to find these days, let the record show I am one lucky web boy. Can’t wait to see what the next 25 brings.

My kind of war

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I’ve read a lot news stories, blog posts and tweets this weekend, reminding everyone to remember the men and women who served and died in defense of our country. How best to do that? Little American flags? Those magnetic yellow “Support Our Troops” ribbons?

John MaysMy dad was in the Navy (a radio operator) and saw action in the pacific during WWII. He survived but never talked about it. To me or anyone else as far as I know. I do recall my mom telling me how relieved everyone was when it “started looking like we would win” the war. That was the first time I really understood it was possible for our country to lose a war. The movies always included some drama on that score but you knew the good guys would prevail. Not so for those who fought the thing.

Perhaps the best time to remember our men and women in uniform is before we send them off to fight and die. And if the cause isn’t just and right –whatever that means anymore– we don’t send them.

I grew up during the Cold War and I kind of miss it. If you think about it, a thermonuclear war is the only war where the politicians –who decide to go to war– might die in the first ten minutes. That is my kind of war.

“Eternity is a very long time, especially towards the end.”

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One of our networks received an email from a listener/reader this week, objecting to our use of the adjective "elderly" to describe a 56 year old woman who was killed in a tornado. I'm sure I once considered 56 "elderly" (ancient?) but no longer.

The next day I received a phone call from an old friend of my father, Luther Pillow. He's 86 and still works ("when I want to"). Sounded very healthy and sharp. Assured me he'd get back online and check out my KBOA website.

In a little more than two weeks, I will have been working for our company for 25 years. Have you figured out the math yet?

Mr. Pillow is 25 years older than I. Which means –health and circumstances permitting– I might be nearing the halfway point in my current employment.

Think of it. 50 years with one company. And what changes will I see in the next quarter century?

No, I don't think 56 is elderly.

Headline is a quote by Stephen Hawking

“Homeless American”

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adv4foodOn the way home from the airport yesterday I gave some money to a man sitting at an intersection. I don’t usually do that and I’m not sure why I did this time. But I think it was something about the sign he was holding. It read simply: “Homeless American.”

Now, I don’t know if he was homeless (he looked the part) or American, but something about the sign spoke to me. The simplicity? Maybe. For the rest of my trip I thought about the signs used by… beggars? Too Third World. Panhandlers? Let’s go with that.

How important is the sign? Without it, I might have thought he was just looking for a ride, so I think the sign is a must. Usually brown cardboard and almost always lettered with black marker.

But most important of all would seem to be what your sign says. Haven’t seen “will work for food” for a while (Sounds a little too much like a negotiation.) Can’t be too long if you’re working an intersection or even busy pedestrians.

Is there some secret list of Great Signs That Work Every Time? I’m thinking it ain’t on line so they must move it from hand to hand.

Some would insist the guy I saw —and those like him— are lazy and could get a job if they wanted one. I’m not so sure.

Tessie Hubbard is Panty Mython

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Tessie Hubbard (aka Panty Mython) has produced more than 80 videos that have been viewed more than 34,000 times by a thousand YouTube subscribers. Along the way she managed to watch some 25,000 videos.

We bumped into each other online and she was kind enough to meet me at the Coffee Zone this morning to talk about her work/play/art. For someone who is so comfortable in front of the camera, she seemed a little shy but that’s common with most of the people I stalk. It is my fondest desire to someday collaborate with her on a project. And for goodness sake, watch some of her videos.

New Jersey Steve Mays

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I received a cryptic overnight email that simply asked, "How much for it?" It was signed 'Steve Mays.' At first I thought it was one of the frequent reminders I email myself. But then I noticed the email was different.

Oh. It must be Steve Mays (West), the Seattle attorney who owns the domain SteveMays.com. He's decided to sell the domain? That seemed unlikely, so I pinged back:

"Nope…. Steve Mays from New Jersey. I did a whois on smays.com and found this e-mail address. Let me know of a price that would interest you. I should say now I'm not willing to pay more then 50 bucks for it. I don't think you'll let it go for that much, but let me know."

I hope to learn more about New Jersey Steve Mays. Why, for example, does he (sort of) want to purchase smays.com. Does he blog or have an online business.
If he's poked around here he knows I've been at this address since February, 2002. Why would I move for $50?

I might not hear back from NJSM. I responded –nicely, I hope– that I wouldn't sell smays.com for $100K. Not sure I can explain why. This little blog doesn't make me a dime. And I could pack up and move to www.DigitalLoveMachine.com (which appears to be available) and some of you would find me again. But it wouldn't be the same.

If New Jersey Steve is reading this, I hope he gets back to me because I'd like to learn more about him and his online plans. Maybe an interview?

PS for Steve Mays West: I notice your site appers to be down. Hope all is well.

The photography of Matthew Howard

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Matt Howard is a talented photographer in Kennett, MO (my home town). Matt’s day job is personal trainer so I guess he’s technically an amateur but certainly in the best sense of that word. I stumbled onto Matt’s flickr page recently and was immediately taken with his haunting (for me) images of the flat, empty fields I remember growing up. I got him on the phone for a brief (15 min) chat this afternoon during which he explained his passion for photography started with a book rather than a camera.

AUDIO: Interview with Matt Howard 15 min MP3

 

R.I.P. Whitey

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Richard Whitehorn died last week. Following a long slug-fest with cancer. Richard was just a year ahead of me in school and we weren’t close growing up. But I have lots of memories of him.

I don’t know if Richard was a bully or I was just intimidated by him. But he projected a kind of tough guy image. He and his BFF Tommy Crunk were like Butch and Sundance, tooling around town in Whitey’s ’57 Chevy. When the Honda motorcycle craze hit, Crunk and Whitey were among the first to own them. Yes, they were dashing.

One hot summer night during high school, my friends and I pooled our money and gave it to Whitey to buy us the beer we were not quite old enough to purchase ourselves. We also gave him a detailed list of what each of us wanted. He returned with a case of Champagne Velvet. Nasty stuff that was much cheaper. (“You guys had just enough money.”) A really bad guy would have just taken our money. Whitey gave us beer and a little lesson in free enterprise.

As an adult, Richard (I don’t know if anyone still called him Whitey by then) became a crop duster. Hard to imagine a more fitting occupation. Our friend Pam attended Richard’s funeral this past  weekend in Kennett.

“It was sad as hell. They had visitation starting at 11:00 and a graveside service at 2:00.  The funeral was over, the preacher had just said “amen” and closed the Bible when I heard someone say “here they come” and I wondered, who’s coming? I looked in the direction I heard some noise and here came 3 Pawnee crop dusters in formation, streaming smoke like they were Blue Angels, tree top high right over the funeral tent. Once past the left and right planes peeled off and the middle plane pulled up. I think everyone lost it at that point.”

To which Richard would have growled, “What are you pussies crying about?”