Category Archives: Personal History

Got a light?

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I don’t think people rant about smokers the way they used to. I know I don’t. It would be like ragging on crack-heads. I don’t know any former smokers. Banned from their offices, from restaurants, even from bars in some cities… they huddle outside buildings in their shirt-sleeves in February, stamping their feet trying to keep warm. I always wonder what they’re talking about. Are they pissed about being “sent outdoors?” Or are they embarrassed that their addiction has brought them to this sorry state of affairs?

I try not to stare as I walk by. I hate seeing their furtive, defensive glances. They remind me, for all the world, of convicts in some 1940’s movie, milling around The Yard…waiting for the screws to tell them to go back to their cells. Or street bums huddled around a burn-barrel, sucking on a butt in some bombed-out neighborhood. Curious as I am about what drives these lost souls, I never approach them. I came close recently.

I was in the airport, walking past one of those little glass rooms they’ve constructed for smokers. There they were, jammed in, staring at the floor, the smoke so thick you could barely see them. I couldn’t resist. I took a picture. I took a couple. When they finally noticed me, some waved…one guy gave me the finger. I know it was insensitive of me. Like sneaking into the amputee ward at the hospital. But I couldn’t help myself. What –I wondered– could compel someone to sit in that little smoky room?

But that sounds like I have more sympathy than I do. Most of the smokers I know are pretty militant these days. (“Fuck you! I’ll smoke if I want to.”) I mean, where do they think it will all end. What goes through their heads when they see an emphysema sufferer dragging that little oxygen bottle through the mall? “Whoa. That looks like a drag.”

This is a recycled rant from an old Website. I dug it out after noticing that more people seem to be smoking today than ever before. Seems like I see lots of young smokers. I admire their fearlessness in braving what will probably be a long and agonizing death.

Telemarketers

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Douglas Rushkoff is a best-selling author (Ecstasy Club and Exit Strategy, among others) which I would have thought somehow insulated him from annoying telemarketing calls. Guess not. He says he used to get rid of them by shouting, “I’m bleeding!” and hanging up. He has a new technique I can’t wait to try.

I confess to being a little nuts on the subject. I once told a telemarketer that I had just caught my wife and next door neighber in bed and had to hang up so I could kill them both. “Don’t do it, buddy. They’re not worth it. Believe me, I know,” pleaded the telemarketer.

While returning from a neighbor’s house later that evening, I passed sheriff’s deputy going the other way. Seems the telemarketer had gone a little beyond his prepared script and called the law.

I once asked the telemarketer if his mother knew what he was doing? “Yes, she’s very proud of me,” he insisted. “No, she’s not,” I explained. “She’s mortified by what you do but doesn’t love you enough to tell you the truth.” A supervisor came on the line and chewed my ass for abusing her guy. “See what you’ve come to?” I told the young man… “your supervisor loves you more than your own mother.”

500 Walter Street

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I sold the family home this week. Not really a home for the last few years, but the place my brother and I grew up. I actually remember some of the places we lived before Evelyn persuaded John it made more sense to own than rent. I think they paid about $5,000 for the house back in the early 50’s. Probably paid $50 a month for 30 years. Evelyn had our trash guy plant a couple of little sycamore trees and they grew to 70 foot monsters before John had cut down because he got tired of “having leaves all over the yard.” Evelyn was gone by then.

50 years at 500 Walter Street boiled down to set of mis-matched golf clubs; a box of trophies (Blane’s); some really heavy high school year books; a set of 78 RPM records from the 40’s; a couple of pounds of mold and mildew; and a lifetime of memories. Everyone kept asking me if it was difficult to sell the house in which our family had lived all those years. I said no and that was more true than not. But for two days I kept hearing Peter, Paul and Mary singing The House Song.

This room here once had childish laughter
And I come back to hear it now and again
I can’t say that I’m certain what you’re after
But in this room, a part of you will remain.

The Life Expectancy Calculator

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Have we talked about Carol yet? Some years ago Carol started greeting friends she had not seen in a while with the number of months (actuarially speaking) they could expect to live. “Steve, how have you been? You’ve got more than 300 months left, that’s great!” According to the IRS Life Expectancy Table , I have 29.5 years left but that sounds much longer than 360 months. You’d think Carol would have few visitors but she shares her macabre calculations with such warmth and enthusiasm, it’s not as depressing as you’d think. I think it’s because she never expected any of us to get this far.

If you’d rather not travel to Kennett, Missouri, to find out how much time you have left, you can find what you need online. The Life Expectancy Calculator will “calculate your future life expectancy based on a mortality table for retired individuals.” Less, I would think. The Living to 100 Life Expectancy Calculator was designed to “translate what we have learned from studies of centenarians and other longevity research into a practical and empowering tool for individuals to estimate their longevity potential.” Roy said it best in Blade Runner. I need more.

The first eighteen years

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I started working for Clyde Lear in May, 1984. My second job in 30 years. Clyde Lear and Bob Priddy are easily two of the nicest and most talented people I’ve ever met. I’m reminded of the character in Joseph Heller’s Catch-22 who played horseshoes all day. He hated the game and it made the day (and his life) seem longer. I’m having way too much fun and it’s going way too fast. One more movie reference comes to mind. In Broadcast News, William Hurt asks Albert Brooks, “What do you do when your real life exceeds your dreams?” Brooks: “Keep it to yourself.”

Blogging life.

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If I were 22 years old and making regular blog entries, what would it look like thirty or forty years later. Almost 11,000 entries. Your life online. True, a lot of the shit we put in our blogs hardly seems worth the keystrokes. But the idea intrigues me.

I think my mom would have been up for a blog. She kept journals during the latter years of her life. I can see her sitting at the kitchen table, writing in her tiny, perfect longhand. When we asked what she was writing she’d say, “Oh, things that happened yesterday… things I’m thinking about.”

One more scary thing for today’s teenagers to deal with. Mom blogging away the intimate details of her 13 year old daughter’s life. “Hey, Amber. Did you see your mom’s blog today? She said she thought you were getting your first period.” Not good. As George Costanza told his mom, “You can’t be out there. I’m out there, so you can’t be out there.”

Captain Banana

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I loved that Peter Parker sort of threw together his first Spider-Man costume and it looked like it. And it would be silly to waste precious screen minutes establishing where he got his official outfit. But didn’t you wonder? We have to assume it didn’t come off the rack, so it was custom made. Maybe by the same tailor that makes all the WWF costumes.

While Superman’s costume was indestructible, we saw –in the final battle with the Green Goblin– that Spider-Man’s is not. So, did he have a few extra made? And what happens when they get dirty and pitted out. Wash or dry clean? Hangers or folded?

capt_bananaDDD2

I’ve had some experience in this area. For several years I lived a double life, too. Captain Banana was one of my alter egos during my radio days. My mom made my costume for me. Thermal underwear, Day-Glo cowboy boots and a plastic motorcycle helmet. It was one hot mother. I wore it for a charity Bike-a-thon and nearly died.

I really liked the movie. I’m not sure how special effects can get much better than the final 40 seconds of Spider-Man. If there was a weak spot it was probably Willem Defoe as the Green Goblin. But I respect the guy for taking the part. I mean, he played Jesus for Christ’s sake.

TV audition tape

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July (2002) will mark my 30th year in broadcasting. Sort of. I spent half of that time doing affiliate relations for a statewide news network. But I’ve been around radio for all of that time. Longer, really, since my father was a “radio announcer” (I like that so much better than “broadcaster” or “DJ”). I’ve now reached the point, however, that all those years are a liability rather than an asset. It dawned on me as I was filling out a profile of my experience. Ten or fifteen years is “experienced.” Thirty years is…too much experience. So I lied and put down fifteen years.

There was a time I thought I might try my hand at TV. I mean, it’s just radio with pictures, right. I rented a little studio time at a local station to make an audition tape  They pulled some stories from that day’s news and threw them up on the tele-prompter. The stories were: Rape and Carnal Abuse; 70-year-old Man Beaten and Robbed of Life Savings; Elderly Woman Dies in Head-on with Tractor Trailer Rig; Another Fatal Traffic Accident. I sent that tape to a few friends in the TV business and can onlly guess at the hours of laughter it must have produced. “More news after this…” Uh, no thanks.

Miss America uses Google

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No big surprise, really. Almost everybody uses Google. But I was pleased to learn that even Miss America uses the same search engine I do. Katie Harman –Miss America 2002– was in town today promoting breast cancer awareness. I was on hand to record a public service announcement for one of our network advertisers. Miss America thought she was scheduled to record a TV PSA and seemed relieved to learn it was “just radio.” I mean, hell, she could have come down in her jammies with no make-up to do a radio spot. But she was as charming as you would expect Miss America to be.

According to the official Web site (“The World’s Leading Provider of Scholarships for Women”), 75 women have worn the Miss America crown in the Organization’s 82-year history (they explain the disparity). And it’s a tough gig. Katie told us she logs 20,000 miles a month, changing location every 18-36 hours. I asked if she takes a notebook computer with her on the road and she does. And she says she spends a lot of time online (she likes WebMD a lot).

Miss Harmon is 21 years old and hopes to “obtain an M.A. in Bioethics and ultimately work in health care management.” We did a little media thing and she answered some questions put by local reporters. All pretty serious, cancer-related stuff… so I kept quiet, except for the Google question. Here are the questions I really wanted to ask:

* During the Miss America Contest, did you call each other by your first names or by state?
* Do you keep in touch with the losers?
* How many squat-jumps can you do?
* Do you know where your senior ring is?
* When you go home for the holidays, do you get a lot of shit from your family? “Hey, Miss America! Get up here and clean up your room!” “Yo, Miss America! Bring me a ham sandwich.”

But I got caught up in the protocol of the thing. I mean, Jesus, she just voiced a PSA on breast cancer. I did suggest it would be funny if, at her next news conference, she waited until all the photogs got their cameras set up and then said, “Guys, I really don’t like having my picture taken.”

Do you know where your high school senior ring is?

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I have no idea where mine is but I do remember the last time I saw it. It was the summer of 1967 and I was playing the part of Og the Leprechaun in a community theater production of Finian’s Rainbow (Francis Ford Coppola directed a film version starring Fred Astair and Petula Clark the following year). I had a little thing for Shannon Murphy –who played the part of Susan the Silent– and my long-time girl friend caught us rehearsing lines during a break.

The confrontation was short but intense and punctuated by my (now ex-) girl friend throwing my senior ring back to (at?) me. The light outside the theater was poor and the ring struck me in the forehead, just above the eyes. Through the pain, I recall the sound of the ring ricocheting off into the night. I didn’t bother to look for it. Ten or twelve years later, I received a call from someone at my old high school, informing me that someone in New Orleans had found the ring and called the school in an attempt to locate the owner. I never followed up to retrieve the ring (I still had the scar), but I always wondered what happened to it between the time it bounced off my head and showed up in The Big Easy. I’ve often thought it might make a decent plot device.

This was my best and only senior ring story for many years and I think I tell it with some humor. But I recently heard a better one. Like mine, it starts in Kennett, Missouri, which is the home of Ford’s Hot Tamales. Kennett alums of a certain age will remember street venders selling Ford’s Hot Tamales from a steaming pot on the corner across from the Palace Theater. The tamales –and related products– were prepared from scratch at the family business there in Kennett. Family member and chili chef, Kenneth Ford, lost his KHS senior ring while whipping up a batch of Ford’s Chili. Like mine, his showed up years later… in a block of frozen chili (in Texas?).

Okay, so it’s not a great story. But there must be hundreds of stories like these. Wouldn’t this make a decent website? If such site exists, I haven’t found it yet. If you have, please let me know.