Mr. Rudy will celebrate his 81st birthday this month. He calls himself “The World’s Oldest Disc Jockey” and it could very well be true. He got his first announcing job in 1946 at WLOF in Orlando, Florida. What’s that…56 years? I don’t think he’s been on the air continuously but he was never off for long and always near the edges. I stopped by (they’ve messed with the call letters and frequencies so much I can’t tell what’s what) in Kennett, Missouri, a few weeks ago and stood in the back of the studio while he finished his shift. I can safely say there is nobody else on the air doing the same kind of radio as Mr. Rudy. He’s celebrating his birthday by performing with, The Redneck Rhythm Rangers at the Kennett American Legion Building. (Musical footnote: one of the musicians is Wendell Crow, father of Sheryl).
Category Archives: Personal History
Never too hot for a Kool.
Something new on the smoking scene. New to me, at least. On a recent trip to Florida I walked to a nearby supermarket. The temp was in the upper 90’s and some of the employees were taking their cigarette break (just outside the entrance, of course). Rather than stand there puffing in the heat and humidity, someone had pulled their van up and parked it just outside the entrance to the supermarket. The sliding door was open and the AC was blasting. They even had a little cooler for drinks. They seemed to be taking turns crawling into the van to cool off. It was like a little nicotine tail-gate party.
Got a light?
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
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
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.