Roadside Memorials

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You’ve seen them. Countless times. Those small white crosses –usually with flowers– next to the highway. Sometimes there will be two or three, clustered together. I’ve always assumed these marked the spot where someone lost their life in a traffic accident. What else could it be? If there’s a mystery here, it is — at least for me– why I have never seen someone placing these little markers. Not once, in almost 40 years of driving. In fact, I can’t find anyone that has ever seen someone placing these little crosses. Think of the odds of that.

And what’s the highway department’s policy on these? Do they leave them up indefinitely? For a few weeks? If they do take them down, what do they do with them? Burn them? Store them? So many questions. Jerry Whiting has been thinking about this for a while at Roadside Memorials.

More than one Steve Mays

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I recently received an email asking if we were still “on for lunch at 11:30.” Since I didn’t recognize the name or address of the sender, I replied something along the lines of: “…11:30 is good for me. Where are we going and who are you?” A couple of days later I received the following reply:

“Dear Mr. Mays: My most humble apologies. The email you received was meant for Steve A. Mays whom I was attempting to contact (in Monterey California). This particular Steve A. Mays’ email address is also at hotmail.com I spelled Steve’s given name incorrectly. The unfortunate part is you missed an excellent lunch in Monterey. (BBQ Tri-tip 3 kinds of BBQ Sausage, with all the fixins’ . I find it ironic because…….. I now know three (3) Steve Mays! Again, My apologies and I will still hold the offer of lunch, should you make your way to the San Francisco/Monterey/Fresno/Bakersfield area, guaranteed! With best regards, Les Winebarger – Madera, CA.”

I wrote back something about being pleased that one of my parallel universes was in Madera, California and included good BBQ. But it started me wondering about the other guys named Steve Mays. So I did a little ego surfing on Google to see what else Steve Mays was doing.

“One bleak day a hoodlum from Anaheim showed up at one of our Christian commune houses dressed in bib overalls and leathers, with a nine millimeter Baretta tucked in his back pocket. He had not bathed in six months and had literally slept in gutters while living as a fugitive from the law. He had not brushed his teeth in two years and, with his neo-barbarian hairstyle, he was a sight to behold. His name was Steve Mays and he was alienated from everybody- from his parents, who had tossed him out of their house years before, to the tough group of outlaw bikers he had been living with. He had been wanted by the FBI for attempted murder and draft dodging. There was also a contract out on his life.”

In 1995, Steve Mays hit .420 for the Cedarville University Yellow Jackets.

At the Berkeley-based startup Xamplify, programmer Steve Mays was one of several refugees from Industrial Light and Magic, which did the computer graphics for “Star Wars.” He also acted as Manager of Desktop Systems for the films Twister and Men In Black. Okay, now that’s pretty cool.

I found one Steve Mays that spent “nearly 25 years toiling in various communications endeavors” before going to law school. I started with (not quite a) semester of law school, followed by 30 years in radio.

On Daniel John Plonsey’s discography the list of “Ensembles in which I Play/have Played” includes The Benchers, a.k.a. The Coconut and the Lifeguard (88-90) (w/ Steve Mays, Joy Krinsky and Mark Dickinson)

“Anyone looking into the eyes of Aviation Boatswain’s Mate 1st Class Steven Mays has a chance at seeing it  the fire and determination to be No. 1, the commitment he makes to the sport of wrestling and the intimidating stare that warns his opponents that his 119 lbs. is not to be underestimated. Those who get that chance on the mat may only see it for a split second, though before they are picked up and taken down.”

Nuff said.

I found a Steve Mays that shared my interest in the theater but I was a little bothered by the “fifth-year student” reference.

“DePauw Little Theatre opens its 1997-1998 season this weekend with Sam Shepard’s play “True West,” a contemporary play about two brothers from very different worlds struggling with their conflicting views on life. Austin, played by freshman Jeff Elliott, is an aspiring screen writer living a conservative life. On the other hand, his brother Lee, played by fifth-year student Steve Mays, is a drifter who has no particular plan for his life. The excellent portrayals by Mays and Elliott make for many humorous and dramatic exchanges throughout the play.”

Near the end of my search (I got bored) I learned that Steve Mays was a co-founder of the Alabama Crimson Tide Yell Crew.

So what have we got here? Outlaw biker-turned-preacher; baseball player; wrestler; computer graphics programmer; broadcaster; actor; musician; and cheerleader. Steve, if you’re reading this… don’t be a stranger. Drop me a line.

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.”

I look good in theater restrooms

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Maybe it’s the lighting or the tile, I can’t explain it. I first noticed it many years ago when I was a little more conscious of my appearance. I’m not a good dresser and my grooming is just so-so. But one day I dashed into the men’s room at a movie theater and saw myself in the mirror. This was how I wanted to look all the time. At first I thought it was just that theater restroom but the city or size of the theater didn’t matter. I look just as good in the Seattle Cineplex as the small art house in Kansas City.

I’ve never shared this information with anyone because there’s no way to verify it. I can’t take my wife with me for the obvious reason. And she’d tell me I looked good anyway. I can’t take a male friend (“Hey, I think I look pretty cool in the men’s room mirror… would you come with me and tell me what you think?”). I thought about trying to sneak a camera in but discarded that one pretty quickly. There’s just no acceptable explanation for taking photographs in the men’s room.

So we have here one of life’s little jokes. Sort of a “Restroom of the Magi.” I’ve been given the gift of seeing myself look just the way I want to look but I cannot share this experience. Perhaps I should be happy there is any place where I feel good about my appearance.

To those of you who know me and might have occasion to see me in a theater restroom, please don’t say anything. If you agree that I look damned fine, just give me a thumbs up or the OK sign and let it go at that.

Moon over Kennett

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My original idea for a blog was to persuade half a dozen of the more interesting people I know to jot down a few lines every week or so and I’d post them here. It required more organization than I could muster.

Last week I received an email from one of The Six that perfectly captures my original idea. My friend had taken a photograph he had to share. Now, you either get butt-crack humor or you do not. I would have guessed there were lots of websites dedicated to this phenomenon but a Google search didn’t reveal much.

For me the best part is the image of my friend coming out of his office, spotting the photo-op, racing back in to find and load his camera, then dashing back to the street to take the picture. That requires a… joie de vivre that’s very rare, in my experience.

As I thought about my original concept I became mildly depressed that I could only come up with six interesting friends. After receiving the butt-crack photo, I consider myself fortunate to know that many.

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.

He’s home!

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Every night I arrive home, pull into the garage and get out of the car. Above me, Andie and Ripley are scrambling. I can hear their toe nails on the hard wood floors. Andie is frantically searching for a favorite toy. As I trudge up the steps, we’re both making noises. They’re moaning with anticipation at seeing one of their humans. I’m speaking that modified baby talk that child-free dog owners use with their pets. I always know what I’ll see when I turn the corner and head up the last flight of stairs. The two Golden’s, side by side, delighted to see one of their humans. Just one of life’s little joys that I try not to take for granted.

What did he do?

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If Sean Combs makes the leap to actor (or even movie star) you gotta think he’ll drop all the hip-hop shit. “Puff Daddy,” “Puffy,” “P. Diddy”… I mean, the studios aren’t gonna play that game. And I thought he did a nice job in the movie Monster’s Ball. A powerful opening scene in which he says good-bye to his wife (Halle Berry) and his son… a quiet, powerful scene where he sketches his guards… and, finally, his execution in the electric chair.

Days later I found myself wondering, “What did Puffy’s character do to get the chair?” But then, the movie wasn’t about capital punishment, so it really didn’t matter. P. Diddy getting the chair was a necessary plot element and there was no suggestion that he was innocent. Maybe the long, smoking, frying execution scene was simply telling us that lethal injection is more humane. And, having witnessed the execution of James Henry Hampton (March, 2000), I can tell you that it is. Mr. Hampton went very quietly, indeed.

My first thought was to do a Google search for websites dealing with capital punishment in the movies (The Chamber, Dead Man Walking, The Green Mile, I Want to Live, True Crime). I havn’t found such a site yet but remain convinced there has to be one. What I’m wondering is, in how many of those movies, do they show us or tell us the crime for which the condemned is being executed?

I understand that, from an artistic standpoint, the writer or director is under no obligation to provide that background. If you feel that capital punishment is wrong in an of itself, you probably think the crime doesn’t matter. But I’m not sure we can reach morally suportable conclusions about capital punishment without looking squarely at the crime.

I decided to witness the execution of James Henry Hampton, in part, because it seemed like something I should be willing to do if I was going to be part of a society that put certain criminals to death. Doesn’t it follow that those opposed to the death penalty should be willing to visit a fresh crime scene? Step around the fresh blood and talk to the victim’s family? Just once. If you still feel that capital punishment is wrong, fair enough.

Maybe I should cut some slack for the writers and director of Monster’s Ball. The movie is about redemption, not capital punishment. Lawrence Musgrove told his son, “I’m a bad man. Don’t be like me.” And no matter how you feel about capital punishment, the electric chair is a bad way to go.

“I want more life, fucker.”

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I had my 54th birthday a week or so back and this line (from Ridley Scott’s 1982 scil-fi classic, Blade Runner) kept running through my head. Replicant Roy Batty (Rutger Hauer) goes to see Eldon Tyrell (Joe Turkel), the scientist that “designed” the not-quite-human Roy. Tyrell attempts to comfort Roy:

“The light that burns twice as bright burns half as long – and you have burned so very, very brightly, Roy.”

But Roy’s not having any of it and proceeds to poke Tyrell’s eyes out. As Roy observes,

“It’s not an easy thing to meet your maker”

…but I thought he handled himself pretty well. He came for some answers –if not a solution to his problem– and he was damn well gonna get them.

The replicants of Blade Runner only got four years (I think Sean Young’s character got more than that) but it wasn’t so much how many years they got as that they knew when they were going to die. Maybe in the end, Pris (played by Daryl Hannah) got it right:

“Then we’re stupid and we’ll die.”

We are and we will.

John Mays died last week.

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It was about eight o’clock in the evening on Tuesday, March 5, 2002. He was 76 years old. He’d been ill and in a nursing home for the last few years. Lots of John’s friends came to the funeral and it was comforting to see my father through the eyes of people he had known and cared about for fifty years. John was a radio announcer for about half of his 76 years and that’s the way I prefer to remember him.