FIRED, FIRED EVERYWHERE

I was thinking, recently, about getting fired. I'm not worried about getting fired because I'm retired and I can't get the ax from doing nothing. At least not that I'm aware of. The thought was prompted by a friend's recent blog about being “blown out” of a recent job and the inventive way he handled it. I had a long and relatively distinguished career, but the mere fact that it was in radio came with the understanding that I would be “shown the door” any number of times. The exact number was up in the air, but losing jobs was pretty much a given. Nature of the business, you know. When I read my friends blog, I began to reminisce about some of the ways I had received “the news.” A few were pretty “run of the mill,” but honestly, some were downright innovative. In the late 70's I worked at a very big rock & roll station in Philadelphia where I was proud to have the #1 morning show in the city. It was the first two-man morning show, ever, in rock & roll radio and my partner had recently been sent packing. Since I was only ½ of the morning team, they tried anything they could think of to get me to leave, but I had a family which included a newborn and wasn't about to give up what had become a pretty lucrative position. One day the general manager asked the entire staff to come into his office to view slides of a recent station promotion. This was a guy who would put his arm around my shoulder at station events and parties and declare, “He's like a son to me. He reminds me of me when I was a young, up and coming DJ.” He went out of his way to make me feel special, because I was generating revenue for the station. As they all found seats in his office and huddled in to watch the show, I stepped in and was greeted with, “What are YOU doing here?” from the man who had now taken his arm from my shoulder and was reserving his compliments for the next guy who “reminded him of (himself) blah, blah, blah....” I still didn't get the point until the new program director, who had taken over from my now ex-partner, called me into his office and said, “Close the door.” Jokingly, I asked, “Why are you firing me?” The smile quickly left my face when he responded with, “It's interesting that you should ask that because, yes.....yes I am.” I wasn't really shocked. Stevie Wonder could see THAT coming. I moved to Chicago to work for one of the biggest and most respected radio stations in the country. I was given what I asked for to do the morning show and the GM told me that he was a fan of my show in Philly and was happy that I was there. For the next year and a half, I sat in the morning show chair on the FM side of the station as it changed formats and call letters 3 times. I was hanging on pretty nicely until I was called into the office and told that they were going to begin simulcasting the AM morning show and that I would be moved to overnights. I was used to getting up at 2:30am to go to work but, now I was expected, for the first (and last) time in my career to come in at about the same time that Letterman was going off. It was a challenge but, I told them that, even though they had put me into the graveyard position, they were going to get the best overnight show in the city and things were going well. Until the GM met with one of the bigger “names” in Chicago radio. I questioned him about it and he told me, “It was just lunch. You have nothing to worry about.” A few days later, my phone rang at about 10:30 in the morning. It was the GM and he was very pleasant as he told me that this “name” that he had lunch with had accepted the morning position and that, although it wasn't personal, I was out. I was fired again.......OVER THE PHONE! I was able to land on my feet and, eventually began working at a little start-up that became a huge network. It began as Satellite Music Network and I was privileged to be there from the very beginning. We physically built the studios and experimented with ways to better deliver programming to radio stations worldwide by satellite. It had never been done before and I was the first one to turn on a microphone. We got bigger and better and, as usually happens, sold.....a couple of times. We became the ABC Radio Network and I spent 24 years doing the morning show on my particular format. I must have gotten pretty comfortable because when I was called in to the VP of programming's office on the day I was to start my 25th year and told to clean out my locker, I was a wee bit taken aback. Most people who put in that kind of time get some sort of recognition for their contributions. All I got was a security guard to escort me to the door. My favorite firing, however, came earlier in my career when I was doing an afternoon drive show on a small station in a very small town in Connecticut. The station was so small that they sold most of their time slots. Early in the morning and in the evening, just before sign off, was “The New England Polka Express with Cousin Stan.” Middays was “La Voz Latino Americana (The Voice of Latin America) with Walter & Omar.” Then came Pastor Wendell from the Farmington Avenue Baptist Church and an hour of soliciting enough funds to keep up the payments on his Cadillac and his mansion in West Hartford. I would come on in the afternoon for 4 hours of “easy listening” music that was programmed to be as non offensive as possible with such core artists as Doris Day, Al Martino, The Clebanoff Strings and Mantovani. I had recently been offered a job at a bigger station in a bigger town and had gotten wind of my impending doom. Apparently someone took offense when, while running the controls for the pastor's noon show, I became fed up with his hypocrisy and, instead of his theme music, I played “Sympathy for the Devil” behind his parting words. The cloud was now over my head and I knew it. This was going to be my last show. So, instead of a particular Mitch Miller tune, I put Jethro Tull's “Aqualung” on the turntable, put the needle on the very first track, turned on the microphone, got in my car and drove home listening to the station. Just hearing what came out of the GM's mouth as he scratched the record to get it off the air far was more entertaining than anything else I had done on the air to date. Hell,after that little stunt, I would have hired me based on creativity alone.

EASILY AMUSED.......IN BULK

I get sort of a perverse pleasure when shopping at a bulk warehouse store like Sam’s Club or Costco. Now, I can’t speak for Sam’s, but, I like to make a “Costco run” every couple of weeks or so. It’s a way to replenish our pantry and to replenish my enthusiasm for life. It’s really very invigorating To me, it’s tantamount to that IKEA commercial where the woman looks at her receipt and does a mad dash through the parking lot screaming “Start the car…..start the car,” giving a final, enthusiastic “Woo hoo” as her husband drives away, completely confused. Looking at my receipt from Costco as I lug in boxes and boxes from the car brings me back to that pseudo-satisfying feeling from back in the 60’s that I had gotten one over on “The Man.” It’s a sense of pride that one gets when coming out of a negotiation with more than you had in mind when you went in. I have five kids, so, there was a time when going to Costco or Sam's was justified by virtue of the fact that we went through all the stuff I would bring home in about two days. With growing kids, food certainly seems to evaporate when they come within a few feet of it. But, my kids are grown and have moved on. There are two of us in the house now and we really have no use for an entire crate of peaches or a box containing twelve thousand stalks of asparagus. Even if the produce is out of season here, it may not be in Chile or Mozambique. And yet, I buy it. I figure that even if more than half of them go bad, I’ve really only paid for about a half a dozen peaches or a couple of servings of asparagus anyway, so, I’ve gotten away with something and a poor farmer in Chile or Mozambique has had all of his backbreaking labor justified. Someone just paid, what to him, is probably a year’s wages, even if it IS a literal “pittance” to us. After all, where else will you find an entire crate of peaches for $5.99 It’s not just food. My wife asked me to get some dish washing gel. She pays about $5.00 for a 75 ounce container of name brand gel. Not that much, but, at Costco, they had a 125 ounce container of the name dish washing gel for under $9.00. Now, here is where the deal gets really sweet. Right next to it was the Costco brand. There were two 125 ounce containers of the gel for $8.00. I know that this should last us for about a year and a half. I am tempted to knock on the neighbors doors and ask if they have any dishes they need washed. Paper towels are another incredible savings. A case of 12 mega rolls of a name brand, very absorbent paper towel is only about $11.00. The 12 mega rolls give you the same amount of paper towels as 20 regular rolls. I need to start spilling more. After all, we have plenty of absorbency at our fingertips and I’d hate to see it go unused. Now we still do plenty of shopping at our local grocery store. I suppose it’s because of convenience and familiarity as much as anything else, but, I can truly say that I’ve never walked out of a Publix and had the urge to yell, “Start the car, start the car.”

THE POSTCARD

I’m not sure if it was the perfect irony, a brilliantly crafted plan or the result of psychic phenomena, but I got a strange bit of mail recently. It was a couple of days after I got out of the hospital after turning blue again. I have a tendency of doing that every so often. I think it averages out to about once every year and a quarter. The doctors still can’t pinpoint the problem, but we may have it narrowed down to some outside stimuli interacting with my daily meds causing what some professionals might call: bad juju. At least that’s the diagnosis from my wife, who we lovingly refer to as Dr. Mom, so, you see, it’s coming from a very reliable and trustworthy source. The mail came in an envelope that stated, in bold letters: “Free Pre-Paid Cremation! Details Inside.” On the inside of the envelope was a postcard, of sorts. It said that I could get a $300 reimbursement on my cremation service, free grave space (which is not very much if you’re cremated. A small hole should do it.), a free granite or marble headstone or bronze marker (not very big in conjunction with the size of the hole.) and spouse benefits, whatever they may be. Then came the kicker on this side of the card: “Cemetery Space is Limited”…whoa, I know we are getting older, but, if this is true, we must be dropping like flies., I’d like to know how they knew I was a veteran and had just come home from another leg of the “Bob Leonard Blue Tour.” Does someone hang out at hospitals, looking for older looking guys in Vietnam Veteran hats? Hey, it’s not that farfetched. Look at New York City. There must be at least a thousand stories in the Naked City about people who pick up the paper and head straight to the obits so they can find a rent-controlled apartment. When you think about it, it’s deviantly brilliant. Jerry Seinfeld even did an episode about it. I can hear the guy now as he calls his boss: “Hey, we got a live one, Manny. I’ll get his name and address to you but you better get the stuff in the mail to him pretty quickly……He’s blue.” I had the info within two days. I probably would have gotten it even sooner, but, on the first day, my daughter’s car was parked within 15 feet of the mailbox and we didn’t get a delivery, but that’s a story for better left for another time. I can’t really put too much credence into the psychic phenomenon theory. If someone is THAT psychic, they’re time would probably be better spent helping the police solve crimes. That would certainly make a better TV show than a psychic who knows, through some strange, unexplainable happenstance, that a Vietnam Veteran is getting older and then uses that power sell whatever it is they were trying to sell. Honestly, I’ve searched the card on the front and back and can’t find anything for sale. Everything seems to be free. On the back of the card, towards the end of all this free stuff, it says, again in bold letters: “Return the Reply Slip TODAY.” This is where I make the conscious decision to go with the irony theory. I’d hate to think that in a case like this, someone knows something I don’t.

TO SLEEP – PERCHANCE

Sleep and I have a very tenuous relationship. We haven't seen eye to eye for many years. Being in my mid–late 60's (no need to be too precise), I figured it was time to try and locate the root of my problem, so I decided to do some research. “Why not?” I thought. “I'm awake anyway.” The journey took me back a few generations in my own family. My great grandfather, who we knew as grandfather, a name given him by my mother, his granddaughter, rarely ever slept. Tales have been handed down about how he would sit up all night long, translating volumes from English to Russian to Hebrew to Yiddish and back again. He didn't even speak all of those languages, but at 3am, in a little room in his house, who the hell knew? He was an old man and we all believed him. “Grandfather, what are all these squiggly lines?” I would ask whenever I would visit and snoop around where I didn't belong. “Oh, that's Mark Twain's “A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court” in Russian,” he would say. Or, that's Mark Twain's “A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court” in Hebrew.” We lived in Connecticut and that made it much easier for me to swallow. In fact it, at 8 years old, I bought it....hook, line and sinker. The fact that it was nothing escaped me completely. He was suffering from insomnia and spent the late night/early morning hours doodling. His son, my grandfather, who I also referred to as Grandfather, couldn't sleep either. He would try, as the original Grandfather had, to nod off into dreamland, but spent most of his 89 years sitting awake, reading manuscripts that his father had translated from English to Russian to Hebrew to Yiddish and back again. It never occurred to him that there was really nothing written on these pages but a bunch of squiggly lines that his father had passed off as languages that existed outside the borders of Connecticut. My grandfather was an extremely bright man who, apparently always believed what his father told him, proving that intelligence and gullibility can, indeed, coexist. He must have read Twain's “A Connecticut Yankee.....” hundreds of times in myriad nondescript languages. The fact that he was really just reading gibberish never took away from his enjoyment of this wonderful tale. My father didn't sleep either and he was from an entirely different family than the aforementioned father and son grandfather team. We aren't sure if his father suffered from insomnia. He died young and never had the opportunity to walk around in a sleep deprived haze during the day. The theory is that my father married into the issue and knew what he was getting into when he met my mother, who also suffers this dreaded malady. She figures, after doing all the appropriate math, that she has slept a total of two to three weeks in her 87 years. It looks as though the trait is less a treatable disease than it is a genetic condition. My brother doesn't sleep any better than any of the other family members who are so well acquainted with the night. Even as a little boy, he would wander around our bedroom in the dark, bumping into things, eventually nodding off standing straight up with his head leaning on a dresser. I know because I would lay awake in bed watching him in the hopes that this late night entertainment would help send me off into dreamland. Every once in a while it would work and I have a faint memory of waking up refreshed after a good two or three hour slumber. It was rare, but, if I remember correctly, quite a treat. As for me.....I am no different from the rest of the “kin folk,” but I have a routine. It seems to me that I once read somewhere that routines can make you sleepy. My wife has to get up very early to work, so she goes to bed at about 10pm. That's when I get out my laptop, plug in the headphones and watch 50's TV shows in the hopes that they will put me to sleep. They normally don't. It seems that I always have to see how the Lone Ranger and Tonto get the bad guys in these episodes that I have seen over and over for the past 60 years. You'd think I'd remember how they did it. At about 1am, I turn off the computer and turn over and close my eyes. By 2:15 or so, I have to get up to pee and I can't go back to sleep, so I go downstairs and turn on the TV, where I can usually find an old episode of The Lone Ranger or two. When I realize that I just watched it a couple of hours earlier and I remember how they rounded up the Cavendish gang, I try my hand at translating Mark Twain's “A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court” in the time tested tradition of my now long departed family members. I suppose I can call the marks that I am making on the paper in my wee hours stupor any language that I want. I just hope my kids will buy it when they are grown and wide awake in the middle of the night, so they can enjoy the fruits of Mark Twain's and my labors and appreciate what their elders have, so lovingly handed down to them.

PAY ATTENTION!

Let me tell you about the day I died. I have to take the ultimate blame because, I wasn’t paying attention. Not paying attention can be the cause of a lot of “butterfly effect” issues, many of which we could easily prevent - if we were only paying attention. If not paying attention is fast becoming a national epidemic, and it is, South Florida has to be it’s epicenter. I live in South Florida and notice it’s prevalence every time I leave the house. South Floridians go through their lives oblivious to the fact that there are other people anywhere near them, or, for that matter, that they even exist. This is a condition that has worsened with the advent of technology. People who used to be just plain rude, are now showing how versatile they are by being just plain rude while holding a conversation on the phone. I can’t wait for a few more technological advances so we can see how many plates they’ll be able to keep spinning at one time: Let’s see - just plain rude while holding a conversation on the phone and watching a movie in the upper right corner of their glasses, all while updating their resume’. I suppose I’m simply a product of my environment, though, as paying attention hasn’t always been my strongest suit. Years ago, my family was vacationing in Michigan and we wanted to rent a houseboat on the river where it emptied into Lake Michigan. They didn’t have any houseboats left (How do you not have any houseboats left? Who runs out of houseboats?) but, they did have a sailboat. “Have you ever sailed one of these?” asked the proprietor. The last boat I had come any where near “sailing” was in the tub when I was small, and it sank. That fact alone, as far as I was concerned, justified laughter as the answer to his question, but, since he didn’t know me, I added, “No!” He said it was really quite an easy task to handle one of these boats and that he’d take us on a “trial run” and would show me what to do. I watched as he started the engine on the sailboat, which, in itself, was a concept that confused me. When we got to the spot where he wanted to stop he told me to “throw out the anchor.” I looked down and saw the anchor, picked it up and tossed it into the drink. “You tied it up first, right?” the Skipper shouted. “You didn’t tell me to tie it up,” I yelled back, “you told me to throw it out!” After I dove into the cold river to retrieve the line, I realized that, once again, I had not been paying attention. The fact that the anchor was not tied to the boat was no small detail. The day that really drove home the need to pay attention, however, came not that long ago after I got out of the hospital, where I had just spent a week as they tried to figure out why I had been hit with a bout of vertigo. We never quite got to the cause, but, I came home and was adjusting to yet another “new normal.” I had been home for one day and I knew that the next day, I had an appointment to get some blood work done at the VA, which has been providing my primary care since I lost a long time job and, with it, my insurance coverage. I can truly say that, after more than 4 decades, I have finally found a reason to be thankful the Vietnam war. While sitting in the waiting room at the VA, I began to feel clammy and a little weak. They called me in for the blood work and, for some unknown reason, I reached up to my neck to feel my pulse and felt it stop. I yelled out, “I have no pulse.” (fade to black). The next thing I remember, was 5 people standing around me shouting “WAKE UP” as a lady was squeezing a tube of glucose into my mouth and trying to get me to swallow it. I had gone into a diabetic seizure. My glucose and blood pressure had both plummeted and I “ceased to be” for a good 30 seconds. They “brought me back” within about a 5 minute period, the ambulance came and I was back in the hospital. Had I not been at the VA for the blood work, I wouldn’t be writing this. It was determined that one of my diabetes meds had caused my blood sugar to drop to a dangerous level. That’s when I realized that I was the one who wasn’t paying attention in the first place. I’m usually very good about reading my bodies signs, but this situation came with an extra factor. The medication had dosage instructions which said I was to take 1 pill, 2 times per day to lower my blood sugar and that’s exactly what I had been doing. It never occurred to me that I should always check my blood sugar first and only take the pill if the numbers were high. There was no reason to lower my blood sugar if it was already in a good range, which it had been for a while. I was directly responsible for my own death because I was oblivious to the fact that I didn’t have the need to take a pill, but was taking it twice a day. It was an important lesson for me and one I hope everyone who reads this will take with them. Listen to your doctor, but, more important, listen to your body. Pay attention - it talks to you all the time. Paying attention to what’s going on around us is a problem that, I’m afraid, we, as a society, are stuck with. Paying attention to what’s going on inside us, however, is something we should be practicing all time!

A TRIBUTE TO U.S. VETERANS

America’s war veterans come in a variety of sizes, shapes, colors and ages. Their collective experience spans two world wars and a number of foreign conflicts. They have followed war mules through the mud of Flanders Field, dropped from landing barges onto the beaches of Normandy, faced the icy cold of Pork Chop Hill, trudged the rice paddies of the Mekong Delta, dodged suicide bombers in Baghdad and fought off the Taliban in the Swat Valley. All veteran’s, no matter how different the individual experience, share a common bond. A veteran is the first one to rise when the flag passes by of the 4th of July, and the last one down, for he has been a witness to the blood, sweat and tears which make this and all other parades possible. A veteran is a man of peace; soft spoken, slow to anger and quick to realize that those who talk most about the glory of war are those who know the least about its horrors. He never jokes about war because he’s been there and can still see, on memory’s vivid screen, the wounded and dying, the widows and orphans. He knows first hand that no war is good and that the only thing worse than war is slavery. He is a friend to all races of man, begrudging none. He carries with him the knowledge that it is not the man who is the enemy, but enslavement and false ideologies. Those whom he once faced across hostile battle lines, he now esteems as his brothers. A veteran is at once proud yet humble in the realization that many of his comrades who helped him make his lofty aim a reality, never returned. More than anything else, a veteran loves freedom. He can spend an entire afternoon doing nothing – just because it suits him. He has paid the price to do what he wants with his time. He also takes pride in the freedom of others – in men and women attending the church of their choice or not. In friends voting how they choose and in children sleeping quietly, without fear to interrupt their slumber. A veteran is every man grown just a little taller – a person who understands the awesome price of life’s intangibles of freedom, justice and democracy. His motto is to live and let live. But, if he had to choose between servitude and conflict, the veteran would once again answer the call to duty. Because…..above all…..above all else – a veteran is an American.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS?

Thanksgiving and the first day of Hanukkah are the same date this year. The last time that happened was 1888 and it won't happen again for like 70,000 years. So, I suppose it's OK, this year, to wish someone a Happy Thanksgivukkah. There have been times, over the years, that I have been taken to task for saying "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas."  Let me explain my position. You see, in my family we celebrate all of the holidays of the season, so, the conglomerate greeting seems the most apropos. My family is a true microcosm of society. We, like the rest of the human race, come in a variety of sizes, shapes, colors and beliefs. I recently overheard a contemporary say the he wouldn't want his kids to marry outside of their race because he was afraid the kids would suffer. My family believes that there is only one race and that is the human race. I have a daughter who graduated from medical school at the top of her class and now has 2 offices and has had to hire more doctors because her practice is so successful. Another daughter is a registered EMT now owns a successful gym with her personal trainer husband and home schools my grandchildren while running a business. Yet another daughter got her Masters in psychology from SMU with honors, and now works as a successful psychologist for 3 Dallas area hospitals. My fourth daughter is in the honors college at FIU, majoring in biochemistry. She wants to be a dentist. She is also an amazing flautist. Did I mention that they are all extremely beautiful on the outside as well? We should all have to suffer like that. I am a Jew and was raised celebrating Hanukkah, the commemoration of the reclamation of the Temple and the survival of a people. My wife is an African -American Christian who was always taught that the meaning of Christmas was to give the gift of ourselves to others to try and make the world just a better place to live. It's what Jesus did.  We light the candles in the menorah at Hanukkah and all of the kids know the prayer….in Hebrew. We have a tree at Christmas and we always spend our day, as a family - feeding the homeless. And, we celebrate Kwanzaa, the African-American holiday that began in 1969 that reinforces the seven principals of Unity, Self-Determination, Collective Work and Responsibility, Cooperative Economics, Purpose, Creativity and Faith, principles that have, over the years, only made us stronger as a family unit. We also follow the tradition of telling stories of those who came before us. It helps to remind us where we came from and who we are.   We also have at least one Muslim in the family and I lived I Puerto Rico and still enjoy the celebration of Tres Reyes…or Three Kings Day…when in practically every barrio on the Island, people open their doors and go from house to house in celebration of the season. Tres Reyes happens 12 days after Christmas and keeps the celebratory mood alive well into the New Year. Yes, my family is a true microcosm of society.  When you put together all of the cultures, colors, languages and lands that make up the fabric of our family unit, you can see how amazingly rich we are in understanding and respect for others. When we look at each other, all we see is family and that will always come first. So, as I wish each and every one of you a Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah or Happy Kwanzaa, please know that it is from the bottom of my heart and understand that, should our paths cross at any time during the season, you should feel free to wish me any of the above or……Happy Holidays.

ER ANTICS

Have you ever been rushed to the emergency room, feeling like you were on death’s door and, suddenly had your attention redirected to the lady behind the curtain in the bed next to yours? It can truly be an entertaining experience. I felt sorry for the woman. She was 82 years old and had, apparently, had an episode of very low blood sugar and had fallen getting out of a car. She had a huge gash in the back of her head that had to be stitched up and had broken her neck. It was a fracture in a spot where it had broken before. I heard them talking about how she was hit by a trolley car when she was a teenager and how her leg had never been the same, but, she hobbled through life and faced one challenge after another. She was told that she would have to wear another “halo” to allow her neck to mend, but she was having none of it. The doctors said that if she didn’t wear it, she could be permanently paralyzed. This was obviously not the entertainment portion of the show. That came when she would doze off, reacting to the morphine they had given her for the pain. That’s when her daughter and her daughter’s best friend would start to chat and it always seemed to be about booze. Every conversation involved who could hold what liquor, how to mix drinks that wouldn’t give them a headache, how many bottles of wine it would take before they became totally useless and, in one particularly enjoyable segment, how a guy had given one of them a gift of a wooden box with 2 bottles of Sutter’s Home Wine, which she perceived as the ultimate insult. She said she yelled at the guy and never saw him again. Sheeeesh…whatever happened to “it’s the thought that counts?” I guess she “thought” she was worth a more expensive wine. It was about then that the daughter left the emergency room and her friend started to call other members of the older woman’s family to tell them what had happened. She would begin by apologizing for the fact that the woman’s daughter wasn’t calling her apparent siblings, but, she would add, she needed to get some rest for the ensuing days, which were going to be kind of rough. I suspect, from the conversation during sleep cycles, that what she needed, more than rest, was to sober up. When the old lady was awake, she was very funny and would joke with the doctors. This was completely contrary to the things the two younger women, who, seemed to be in their 60’s, were saying when she was in la-la land. They were pretty brutal. Pretty soon, they found her a room and off she went, with the duo of drunken divas not far behind. As for me, they finally found me a room as well and ran a battery of tests to find out why my blood pressure was plummeting and I was turning blue and having trouble breathing. The tests gave us the same results as the last two times this has happened…... nothing, but, I have to say this was the most enjoyable trip to the emergency room yet. I may have been blue, I may have been clammy, I may have been short of breath, but, the one thing I wasn’t…was bored.

CELEBRITY TALES AS I REMEMBER THEM: FRANK SINATRA

Frank Sinatra turned 77 in December of 1992 and they threw him a huge bash in his kind of town, Las Vegas. It was invitation only and the guest list read like a “who's who” of show biz royalty at the time. Don Rickles, Steve and Eydie, Debbie Reynolds, Barbara Eden, Tom Dreeson, Jane Russell, and, I suppose for the thrill of stepping out of context, former Vice President Spiro Agnew were among the celebs expected to be in attendance to fete “'Ol Blue Eyes.” A number of invitations were also sent to select members of the media and, for some reason, I got one. I was working for ABC and had signed an agreement that I wouldn't accept gifts that were worth more than $50 (thanks a lot Alan Freed). The company construed this particular invitation as a gift so it immediately became null and void when I opened the envelope. However, as fate would have it, I was dating a woman who happened to be a reporter for the Chicago Tribune and she had also been sent a +1 invitation to the bash. The Tribune Company saw this as an opportunity to cover the story, unlike the wisdom that prevailed at ABC that told them it was some verboten gift. We got to Vegas on the Saturday of the party which was, appropriately, at the Desert Inn, where Frank had been performing since 1951, and settled into the room to prepare for the pre-concert cocktail party where we would have a chance to rub elbows with the glitterati. As we rode the elevator down to the area where a private limo was going to take us to “the ball,” (I know...right?) I noticed Leslie Nielsen riding with us. We made small talk and I found him to be down to earth and very real. It was refreshing. We walked into the room and were ushered to round tables that held about 8 to 10 people. I saw that I was sitting next to Barbara Eden, so, honestly, I couldn't tell you who else was at that table. I remember later telling my dad that I chatted with Spiro Agnew and my dad responded in his almost stereotypical Brooklyn accent, “Oh yeah? Did you tell that goddamned son of a bitch that I can't stand him?” “No, Dad,” I answered, “It never really came up.” We had a lovely time having cocktails and a “nosh” and then it was time for the big event. Francis Albert was going to give a private musical audience to a “close circle of friends” and I was walking the Red Carpet with them. It was, without question, one of the most surreal experiences of my life. We walked into the theater and were again escorted to tables. Our table was in the front.....right at the stage. The orchestra, led by Frank Jr. was flawless and Frank was uncharacteristically humble as he thanked the crowd for spending his 77th with him. He had a little trouble getting to some of the places he used to be able to venture vocally and forgot a lyric here and there, but nobody cared. The crowd was loving every minute of the show and was mesmerized by the mere fact that this was Sinatra crooning up there. There are a handful of “must see” performers that come along in ones life time. In mine, there are some that I've made it to and some I've missed. I saw James Brown perform live twice, at his peak, in the 60's. I never saw Elvis live nor did I see the Beatles, but I got to see George Harrison with Bob Dylan at MSG. One and a ¼ birds with one stone.....not bad. I suppose a Liberace show might have been quite an experience too, but, on this particular Saturday night in December of 1992, I got to cross off the #1 on my must see bucket list – I got to experience Frank Sinatra.

CYBER BULLIES

One of the saddest news stories I've heard in a long time is the tragic tale of the 14 year old girl who committed suicide after being constantly bullied by two other girls on line. I was sort of a skinny, runty little kid. I had my small group of friends, but, being my size, not to mention ethnically different from the other kids in my school, I got picked on and, yes, occasionally bullied. One of my most vivid memories is of playing in a tree in the schoolyard as a bunch of kids threw rocks and apples at me because they didn't want us living in “their neighborhood.” I think Eric E. Rofes put it best in his critical essay “Making our Schools Safe for Sissies” when he wrote, "When I was a young boy, the bully called me names, stole my bicycle, forced me off the playground. He made fun of me in front of other children, forced me to turn over my lunch money each day, threatened to give me a black eye. At different times I was subject to a wide range of degradation and abuse -- de-pantsing, spit in my face, forced to eat the playground dirt....To this day, their handprints, like a slap on the face, remain stark and defined on my soul." This particular article was addressing growing up gay or lesbian, but anyone who grew up different or just plain small in stature can relate. I suppose there are any number of reasons bullies can find to justify their actions. They feel scared, they were bullied themselves, they have a need to feel power. All very poor reasoning when you are the one being bullied. OK, so the big guy is scared, that's no reason for him to push, kick and smack me. Bullies have always been the bane of playgrounds everywhere, but, there was always refuge. You could run home, stay in the classroom in the guise of helping the teacher clean erasers, stay home sick from school or just plain flee into any woods you might find nearby. As a rule, bullies are bigger and, I don't know about you, but the one thing I was, besides small, was fast. I could make a quick getaway with the best of them. Here is where the problem arises in today's world. Bullies can now get their kicks, less literally, yet possibly more powerfully on the internet. The Internet provides the perfect forum for cyber bullies. These are people whose aim is to get gratification from provoking and tormenting others. The anonymity, ease of provocation, and almost infinite source of targets means the Internet is full of serial bullies targeting ... anybody. Cyber bullies get a perverse sense of gratification from sending people flame mail and hate mail. Flame mail is an email whose contents are designed to inflame and enrage. Hate mail is just plain hatred including prejudice, racism, sexism or even skinnyism, in an email. And, to complicate matters even further, we have text messaging. A bully can be relentless with the touch of a few keys. You may never even know who they are. When my kids were growing up, it was easier to teach them to deal with bullies. I made sure they knew to walk away from these clowns. Or run or talk their way out of the situation. I also made sure they were well versed enough in a number of self-defense methods that, in the worst case scenario, they could hurt their tormentor and, perhaps, insure that they would, from that moment on, be left alone. Years ago, my oldest daughter was at the same party as an ex boyfriend who refused to leave her alone. The more relentless he got, the more determined she was to get get him out of her face. He didn't go away, so, she broke his nose. Now, with all of the latest technology, it's almost back to square one. All the boxing and Tai Kwon Do in the world is helpless against a text message. I guess rather than teaching my kids how to break someone's nose, I'll have to show them how to break their phone.

THE BUCKET LIST – A Short Story

He was a brown skinned boy with hair of curl. Smart beyond his years, he was happy with pretty much every aspect of his life. Clay was short for Clayton but most people called him Scooter, a nickname given by his mother who noticed, at a very early age, his proclivity for “scooting” from from one spot to another, no matter the distance. Scooter was the product of a broken household. His mother raised him and his sister with no assistance from from the sperm donor whose tendency to beat the ones he purported to love got him ousted from the home quickly. Mom saw Scooter's potential very early on. Perhaps she was just a loving mother being washed by a wave of wishful thinking or, maybe it was spotting him reading a book by Michael Crighton, on his own accord, at the age of 7 that tipped her off. Scooter was very bight and needed more stimulation than he could get from a public school system that prided itself on the number of students who were able to pass the state assessment test. By 3rd grade, mom had managed to get him into one of the most prestigious private schools in the area. The family didn't have the means to pay the hefty tuition but Scooter had brown skin and these schools gladly opened their doors to people with complexions that satisfied funding obligations. The system was pretty flawless – you give them $10 a month and they put your kid in the front row to showcase the diverse environment of the school. They also give him a quality education in return for being able to use him as a poster child. In the long run, mom figured, it was a pretty small price to pay. For years, things went smoothly as Scooter excelled in a number of sports and maintained a high academic profile. He was challenged scholastically and physically and was really beginning to spread his wings so he could step out and soar into the journey to find himself. He was right on track and he was thriving. It was somewhere in the ballpark of midway through high school that things began to change, as they often do but for Scooter the changes were accompanied by a cultural phenomenon that would alter his entire way of thinking and the timing couldn't have been worse. He was a young man of color in an environment that set him off to the side and, in an attempt to relate more with people he looked more like, he discovered the negative world of Gangsta Rap, which was in it's infancy, and trying to find itself as an art form. The lyrics were destructive and offensive, the beats, however, were infectious and his mind was receptive. He started to dress and talk and act like the proponents of violence and misogyny he had adopted as his own, forsaking his family and his studies and ignoring the ethics, morals and values he had been raised with to that point. He began to walk around with a big, unwarranted chip on his shoulder and he became a bully, intimidating kids he didn't know and isolating those who had been friends, classmates and teammates. It got so bad, that he dropped out of school just before his senior year and left his 5 bedroom house in the suburbs for a more adventurous existence in the inner city. The straw that broke the camel's back for Scooter was the frequency with which he was being racially profiled in his own neighborhood. His journeys took him around the country to a number of cities he had just read about. Because his sensitivity ran deep, he was profoundly pained when his travels took him to the nation's capital where he bemoaned the crack heads and the homeless living in the street in such close proximity to the White House. He called his mom and cried. But this was a private moment where he was able to step out of the persona he was creating and be himself, the Scooter that his family missed and loved, but, who was now in too deep, at least in his own mind, to turn back. He had allowed himself a moment of vulnerability that gave his mom a glimmer of hope that someday, he might realize his true self “come home.” Scooter was now 21 years old and the school of life was giving him an education about hard knocks that he would never have gotten at his private school. But was he finding who he was or who he wasn't? One evening after getting back to the apartment in the projects that he shared with 3 guys he referred to as his “boys,” he made a decision that would change his life forever. There was an armed robbery and Scooter had chosen to take part. In his now completely twisted value system, his mind told him that all of this was not only OK but it was just how things were. This was the new normal. But things didn't go as planned. Someone began shooting wildly and Scooter was hit. Twice. When the police got there, they took him directly to the hospital for treatment and placed an armed guard directly in front of his door. Because shooting victims are admitted to hospitals under assumed names. His mom, who had received the disturbing call and immediately got on a plane, couldn't find him. It didn't matter because Scooter was in a coma and she wouldn't be allowed to see him anyway. He was under arrest. Scooter came through the coma and was eventually tried, convicted and ordered to serve 10 years in prison. It was during that time that his mom, who spoke to him every single week and wrote to him every single day, suggested he make a “bucket list.” She understood the concept of the bucket list and knew this was different but Scooter had almost kicked the proverbial bucket and had been given a second chance at life. Why not use the list as an outline for what he wanted to achieve after he got out at the ripe young age of 31? For nearly 10 years, in every daily letter, he was chided to create his future by way of listing positive outcomes for him to manifest. Early in his sentence he was forced to “prove himself” 3 or 4 times, which made his mother cry. “Don't worry, mama.” he would tell her, “I won. They won't bother me anymore.” He was right. For the rest of his time, he was able to parlay an education. He read voraciously and got a barber's license, which allowed him to work at a paying job while pursuing the education he had walked away from after his junior year of high school. He not only got his GED but his bachelor's degree in business as well. He then went on to pursue his masters. Scooters mom kept the level of support at the highest setting and never waned. The day Scooter walked out of prison, he and his mom hugged, cried and and started to talk. “Did you ever make that bucket list I've been hounding you about for the past 10 years?” she asked “Yes, mama, I did,” he responded, “I wrote it 10 years ago. It only has one thing on it and today I can check it off. Do you want to see it?” She nodded and he reached into his pocked and pulled out an old, folded sheet of paper and handed it to her. She opened it and, although the years had faded the words, she read : “Bucket List - Be free and live a productive life!”

I YAM WHAT I YAM

For his recent birthday, my brother's sons gave him a DNA test (he IS their father), which required him to spit into a cup and then, send said cup to a lab somewhere so they could determine just where he came from. He sent me the results since, as his brother, I have the same DNA (I am NOT the father) and I am fascinated by what I am reading. The tests told me any number of things that I was already fully aware of. I am a 93.8% Ashkenazi Jew who has ancestry in Europe. I've heard the stories my whole life. How Zeide (which means “grandfather” even though he was my maternal great-grandfather) came down from the woods of the Ukraine where he probably chopped down trees, to Yekatrinaslav, which is now known as Dnipropetrovsk in the Ukraine and met his wife, who we only knew as Bubbe, while working at her family's lumber yard. The turn of the century (1800's to 1900's) was not a particularly fun time to be a Jew in that part of the Ukraine. People were beginning to rise up against the Tsar. Many were killed, hundreds were wounded and there were anti-semitic attacks coming from both sides. Between the Cossacks and the Ukrainian people, Jews had to watch their backs and their fronts. It was time to leave and they did. It's the stuff I didn't know that captivated me. The lineage of both of my parents was traced to Eastern Africa. 2% of my DNA traces back to the Near East to people who eventually became Native Americans. Common ancestors left the Near East 50,000 years ago, migrating across Asia. These ancestors of Native Americans began to cross into the Americas 12,000 to 15,000 years ago. My father's line was traced back 18,000 years to the sub-group “J2,” in the regions of Southern Europe, Near East and Northern Africa. My mother's line goes back 35,000 years to the sub group “RO” in the regions of Near East, northern Africa and Western Eurasia. This sub group is populated with Saudi Arabs, Yemeni Jews, Bedouins. I have relatives named Levine, Levy, Horowitz, Greenberg, Goldberg, Cohen, Goldstein, Friedman, Klein, Weinstein and Miller and they are concentrated in New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, Florida (there's a surprise), Russia, Israel and a few holdovers in the Ukraine – in other words, I'm related to Jews. The test also gives me some very valuable information about my health management. It shows me what my risks are for certain diseases, how I will respond to different drugs, my traits and my inherited conditions. For instance, according to this particular test, I have a very low risk of being diabetic, which certainly proves that I've always been a bit of a rebel. I am also at an elevated risk for narcolepsy, so, please forgive me if I nod out mid-sentence. I suppose this one is relatively obvious, but, An estimated 2.8% of my DNA (higher than the average) is from Neanderthals. I guess that explains the eyebrows and the nose. The DNA has informed me that I can taste bitter things, I am lactose tolerant, I have brown eyes and wet ear wax. I really didn't need a test to tell me those things, but, at least now, when I bite into a leaf of chicory and spit it out, I'll know why. I was also informed that the odds of my urine smelling bad when I eat asparagus is “typical” as are my chances to live to be 100. I also am at higher risk to contract tuberculosis, so I suppose I owe a huge debt of gratitude to the French men Albert Calmette and Camille Guérin, who invented the vaccine that, pretty much eradicated the disease. Whew! There is so much information in this report to study and disseminate that I found it would benefit me to stop for a few minutes and grab a bite. It seems that one of my more pronounced traits is that I get hungry around lunchtime. I showed the report to my wife who, when she saw the part about my lineage tracing back to Eastern Africa, responded, “Ahhh, THAT explains it!”

UNCLE LENNY - REDUX (THE Original Gangsta)

Virtually everyone who can…oh, I don’t know……breathe…is familiar with the Mafia, but how many know about Jewish-American organized crime (sometimes called the Jewish Mob, Jewish Mafia, Kosher Mafia, or the Kosher Nostra)? Some of the names are legendary in the crime world, Meyer Lansky, Dutch Schultz, Bugsy Siegel, Lenny Weinstein……..Lenny Weinstein? My dad was born in Brooklyn, N.Y. in 1924. It was a time when crime was running rampant in the Italian and Jewish areas of the city among immigrants who felt alienated by other segments of society, yet somehow safe with these perceived Robin Hoods looking out for their well being. Little Italy was (and probably still is) one of the safest areas in New York City. Murder, Inc. was wiping out bad guys for the Mafia and all seemed right with the world of the disenfranchised. Rumor had it that my dad’s uncle Lenny was quite heavily “involved”. I’m not sure what gave it away. Maybe it was the big beautiful car he drove or fine suits he wore during the Great Depression, while others were walking in the snow of Brooklyn winter with holes in their shoes and wearing clothing that was completely inadequate, even if they were fortunate enough to be the proud owner of a sweater or a jacket. Lenny was generous to a fault within his neighborhood and, at holiday time, would drive from the docks to the neighborhood, open his trunk and hand out fine silk stockings to all of the ladies on the block. My dad was Uncle Lenny’s favorite nephew and Lenny made no bones about it. When dad came back from WWII, where he had served nobly in the Battle of Leyte, Uncle Lenny took him to his tailor. “This is my nephew, Jerry,” he told the guy, in an unmistakable Brooklyn cadence, “He’s a war hero and my favorite nephew. I want you to make him a suit just like mine. Now, don’t be cheap. There’s nothing too good for ‘da kid. My suits are the best quality….his will be too, got that?” The tailor nodded, almost subserviently, and got to work on making a suit “just like Uncle Lenny’s. A few days went by, when my dad received word that the suit was ready. He was to meet Uncle Lenny at the tailor’s to try it on and make sure it fit…….everything had to be perfect. He tried on the pants and they fit beautifully. Now, if the coat fit as nicely as they did, he’d be the suavest guy in Bensonhurst. As he put on the coat, something didn’t feel quite right, so he grabbed hold of the lapel, looked inside at the lining and saw the problem. There was a holster for a gun sewn into the lining of the coat. Just like Uncle Lenny’s………… Rumor confirmed!

A CLOWN DIED

I was born in the late 1940's, right around the time TV was starting to “catch on.” We didn't have a TV for the first few years of my life, so, we listened to the radio. Kids shows, ball games, sitcoms, soap operas, sports, news....it was all theater of the mind. Pictures were “told to us” and we saw them with our ears. The DeLongs had the first TV on the block and, at 5 'o'clock every weekday afternoon, all the neighborhood kids would pile into their family room to gather around a small black & white screen to watch the wonder that was “Howdy Doody.” We finally broke down and joined the video revolution when I was about 8. We bought a TV set. I was fortunate enough to grow up smack, dab in between two giant markets, New York and Boston. The amount kids TV that was available was staggering. From Boston we had “Boomtown” with Rex Trailer, “Romper Room” with Miss Jean and “Big Brother” Bob Emery. The Big Apple gave us “The Sandy Becker Show,” Ray Heatherton, “The Merry Mailman,” Officer Joe Bolton on WPIX, “Wonderama” with the Sonny Fox that was NOT my radio partner and myriad others that would take the rest of the day to list. But, I was in Manchester, Ct. and I was more impressed (at least as impressed as a 9 or 10 year old can be) with our “local” fare. TV that came from Hartford. The Boston and New York programming was distant and, deemed, in my immature mind, to be “professional.” It was great stuff, but, it wasn't local and therefore, something that I could only watch from a distance, but, not be part of. Local Connecticut programming was what I waited for. It was “home grown,” tangible and attainable. The hosts were no less heroes to us than those in the surrounding metropoli, but, when the make-up and costumes came off, our local stars were our neighbors, although, that particular fact could really blow up a fantasy if you saw one of them in “civilian clothes,” at the local market. “Ranger Andy” came to us from WTIC in Hartford. It was a short ride to the studios and my mother, who was Cub Scout Pack 152's den mother, knew people and was able to get us on the show as part of the kiddie audience in the “Ranger Station.” I was the lucky kid who got to stand up and introduce our group to all the kids who were watching their TV's wishing it was them. It was then that fire in my belly grew to a point of no return and my career path was set. But, that was not the spark. That came from my very first local TV hero - “Flippy, the Clown.” Flippy the Clown came to us on channel 18 in the Hartford area. Channel 18 was a small, independent station in a medium that provided us 4 channels to watch. NBC(30), CBS(3), ABC(8) and our “local” channel 18. The other 3 had the big shows from the big cities, but, channel 18 had Flippy the Clown and his wonderful puppets like Curtis the Crocodile, Beverly the Beaver and everyone's favorite, Leroy the Duck. Flippy not only gave us hours of joy and laughter, he also introduced the kids to the wonders of classical music and, for that, I will be eternally grateful. Flippy and the characters were the creations of Ivor Hugh, an immigrant from England who came to these shores at the age of 10. He had a very long and fruitful broadcasting career that included Flippy, Ring Around the World, narrations of children's concerts from the Bushnell Auditorium by the Hartford Symphony and 35 years at WJMJ doing a classical music program called "Good Evening, Good Music," delighting a dedicated audience with great music and vast knowledge. Ivor Hugh passed away last week at the age of 86 and I and scores of others will long remember his contribution to our lives. He is survived by his wife Beth, 9 children,15 grandchildren and one great-grandchild. One of those children is son, Grayson Hugh, who is an amazing entertainer in his own right having given us a huge hit song with the Sam Cooke sounding “Talk it Over.” I was a fan from the very first time I played it on the air and I never got tired of it as most deejays do with most songs. I did not, however, connect the dots and didn't realize that he was the offspring of Flippy the Clown, the character that infused in us a set morals, ethics and values that reinforced everything our parents were teaching us. These lessons were coming from our hero rather than a mom or dad, who we knew were supposed to be telling us those things. When Flippy said them, they became the right things to do. When I realized who Graysons father was, I felt an immediate kinship. He began to feel like a brother who was taught the same lessons I was by the same man. Rest in Peace Ivor Hugh and rest assured that your years of dedication to the children of the greater Hartford area have paid off in spades as we have now passed these lessons on to our children and our grandchildren who will continue to pay it forward. A clown died last week, but, he will live forever in our hearts and our deeds.

MY BABY, SHE WROTE ME A LETTER

I don’t write letters anymore. Honestly, who does? I prefer e-mail as a means of communication, although, even e-mail has become relatively archaic in these days of tweeting and texting. That’s an art that I just can’t seem to wrap my fingers around given the size of the keys in contrast to the size of my thumbs. I don't tweet. I can't speak the language. Even when I am able to figure out how to text I can’t seem to get the right letters onto the screen. And, with the text “language” that everyone uses, I may be sending a pretty indecent proposal when my initial intention was honorable. I suppose if I get any of my grandkids to sit still long enough, I could conceivably learn how to do it. I have nothing against traditional letter writing. It truly is a lost art form. For what seems like an eternity, letter writing was the mainstay for communication and, in many cases, these letters became legacies and, in some cases, great literature. Great minds would write to other great minds, telling them things like how great they thought the other guys mind was. Volumes have been published that consisted solely of letters. The Alice Walker masterpiece “The Color Purple” was a series of letters to the protagonists sister and, ultimately, to God. Nowhere is the human being more truly revealed than in his letters. Mark Twain is, perhaps, the greatest satirist we have ever produced (with all due respect to the likes of Lenny Bruce, Family Guy and South Park). His letters are quite revealing. He was a man of few restraints and of no affectations. In his correspondence, as in his talk, he spoke what was in his mind, unencumbered by literary conventions. Like I said, I have nothing against traditional letter writing. My gripe, these days, is with my mailman. It must be post office policy, but, if there is a vehicle parked within 15 feet of the mail box, he won’t deliver the mail. I have nothing against policy. A rule is a rule, but I live at the end of a cul-de-sac. It’s a very difficult are for visitors and those who are there on business to park, but, people do try their best. I have a new neighbor who is having quite a bit of work done to his house. This means there are always trucks and cars nearby. The poor guy hasn’t seen his mail in, probably two weeks. I’ve missed a few deliveries as well, so, creditors, please don’t get too upset when my payment is late. I haven’t received a bill. Here is the paradox. The other day, I saw the mail truck moving up the other side of the street. As he approached my mail box, he noticed a truck in front of the neighbor’s house (and, yes, his mail box). I knew that he would not get a delivery…..again. The mailman must have deemed that the truck was less than 15 feet from my mail box. It was probably 12 to 14 feet away, but less than 15. Needless to say, I got no mail that day either. The mailman did, however, stop his truck, get out, walk over to my neighbor’s mail box and put in a notice that said “Vehicles have to be more than 15 feet from the mail box.” He then got back in his truck and drove away. Could he not have delivered the note along with the guys mail? Did he have to make extra work for the sorters back at the office? Did he have to make my neighbor late in paying his bills? I mean, he was already out of the truck and sticking his hand in the mail box anyway. Neither rain nor sleet nor gloom of night? But, a truck parked within 15 feet of a mailbox. That, apparently, falls under an entirely different set of rules I am the son of a woman who has always believed that a good letter can get great results. Whether it’s a letter to the editor, to a merchant who she believes has scammed her or praise for a job well done. She instilled in me a love of language and its ability to garner results. I’ve toyed with the idea of writing a letter to the post office to complain about the situation, but my neighbor is still having work done and I’d hate to have all that well thought out prose languishing all alone in my mail box for the next two weeks.

TAKE IT OFF – OR DON'T

Nudity! Have I got your attention? I bring this up because, not long ago, my wife's nephew visited us in South Florida with the express intention of borrowing our car to go to Haulover Beach. I had never heard of Haulover Beach. I had no clue what this was. When I want to go to the beach, either by myself or with my family, I head to Hollywood Beach. It's unpretentious, family oriented, relatively quiet and is loaded with restaurants and shops. It's....the beach. I am aware of South Beach, where the “beautiful” and young people go to show themselves off and look at the other gorgeous folk, but, Haulover Beach? I decided to do a little research and see just what this was and whether I should hop in the car and go with him. After all, I love the beach and, if this was such a special one, I might want to check it out. As I began reading, one particular sentence struck me – “It's the only official, legal, nude beach in the state of Florida.” I am no prude. I have even been to a nude beach, although, I didn't participate – I preferred the role of spectator, and I wasn't, at all, thrilled at what I saw. It was on the island of Saint Martaan and I was there, between marriages, with a girlfriend. The island, itself, is wonderful. It has a Dutch side and a French side. The Dutch side is very touristy with hotels, casinos, shops and the like. The French side, on the other had, is very quaint with small villages, roadside native restaurants and.....a nude beach. The woman I was with was much more adventurous than I and insisted that, since we were on the French side and the beach was a very short distance away, we go. I was leery and relatively excited and curious at the same time. We took a cab to the beach and stepped onto the sand. She immediately shed her clothing and, since it was actually a clothing OPTIONAL beach, handed them to me as I had already made the decision to exercise my option and wear a bathing suit. I took her clothes and held them, very strategically, in front of me. Just in case. As it turned out, that wasn't really necessary. We walked the beach and I began to look around. People were playing in the water, playing beach volleyball, napping in the sun, reading and chatting with each other. All typical beach behavior with one notable exception. Everybody was nude. We didn't stay very long. The novelty wore off very quickly. My “take-away” from the experience was that I now realized why clothing was invented. There wasn't one, single person on that beach who should have been naked. Not one person that made either of us do a double-take and say “oooh” or “wow.” All we could come up with was “geez” and “yecchh.” My conclusion from the experience was that I will never go to a nude or clothing optional beach again and neither should anybody else, unless they are armed with a very big air brush.

IN PLAIN SIGHT

Seventh grade, for me and my friends, was a time to start branching out a bit and begin to find our selves. Until this point, we had pretty much done what we were told, when we were told and there were no questions asked, but we were out of elementary school now. We were “the big kids,” new teenagers and it was the turn of the decade. 1960 was OUR time. We understood that our teenage years were going to be a time to rebel and we were heading into “the 60's”, which was, as we came to find out, a time of major change for our society and our world, and, we were to be part of it. That was why, when I was asked to “skip” school with David and Tommy, I made the conscious decision to join the festivities and rebel. Tommy had already cut school for a full week and David was wrapping up his second week. Perhaps that should have been my cue to opt out. Obviously, somebody, at some point, would notice how long they had been missing and come looking for them. This was my first day. I had never done anything so bold in my life, which had, of course, only been the prior 12 years. Not much time or experience to make much of a mark on the world of rule breaking. But, I was 13 and cocky and, as with most new teenagers, I knew absolutely everything. I left for school, as usual, and cut through the yard across the street, crossed to the actual school building and kept going, past the school, to David's house. His parents both worked and we knew we were, essentially, home free. A developing 13 year old brain doesn't have enough wiring to be too logical, so, the fact that David and Tommy seemed, to school officials, to have dropped off the face of the earth until they showed up on the playground after school each day never occurred to me. It also never entered our minds that someone may pick up a phone and try to locate them. For all authorities knew, I was out sick and didn't even know David and Tommy. The phone rang. David, in a valiant attempt at deflecting any obstacles to our extra “play day,” deepened his voice as much as a 13 year old can. “Hello,” he said, trying to sound like a parent. I realized that the “jig was up” when I heard his next words, “This is my father.” The folks at the school picked up on that as well, which showed us why they were in charge and we weren't. They sent, what was then known as the Truant Officer. His name was Mr. Digan and we were all intimidated by him. The one person you never wanted to encounter during the school day was Mr. Digan. Within 20 minutes of the phone call, which, by the way, still didn't clue us in to the fact that we had just been busted, the doorbell rang. It was Mr. Digan and his minions and they were out for some 7th grade blood. David and Tommy had been out for weeks between them and knew the good hiding places in David's house. I did not. I glanced around the room and saw a ping pong table. Using all of the reasoning I could possibly muster up at that age, I sat under the table, which, of course, was wide open on all 4 sides. Stevie Wonder could have found me. Mr. Digan did. They brought me home and, in their ultimate wisdom, my parents told me that I was not to hang out with David and/or Tommy ever again. The punishment lasted about a day. Both David and Tommy were in my Boy Scout troop and on my baseball team. We had a game that day and a Scout meeting the next. I suppose their efforts were valiant at best. I learned a couple of very important lessons that day. I never skipped school, ever again and the next time I tried to hide from authorities, it would be anywhere but under ping pong table.....in plain sight.

9/11/2001

Remember where YOU were on 9-11-2001? Of course you do. We always remember where we were and what we were doing during what seem, at the time, to be earth shattering events. Catastrophic weather, space shuttle disasters, assassinations and the like. I am very clear about days of note during my life time. The assassinations of JFK, MLK, RFK and John Lennon, the Challenger explosion, the deaths of Elvis and Michael Jackson. Times in history that are etched in our memories in their magnitude and scope. 9-11, however, stands out for me as the all time worst day of my career. I have been on the air during a number of “bad days” and always made it through them with fairly little effort, and, so it appeared on that fateful day on 2001. The morning started normally. My partner at the time, Lori and I met in one of the production rooms an hour before the show to share the “prep” we had individually done and map out our “breaks” for that day. We didn't always follow the map, in fact, we rarely did, but, it was always nice to have a plan and we did this every morning. The show was going well that morning. We had done a couple of silly, preproduced “bits” and were preparing for a hearty game “Stump the Chumps” while “Today's Hits and Yesterday's Favorites” graced the virtual turntables and permeated the airwaves, when Lori went to the room we all referred to as the “Dead Break Lounge” for another cup of coffee. She never made it to that end of the hall. There was a TV between the beak room and the studio and she saw a plane hit a building. She ran back into the room to tell me what she had just seen and we went on the air with it. “It looks like a small plane has accidentally flown into one of the World Trade Center towers,” we reported, adding, “As soon as we have more information, we'll bring it to you.” Next song. And then............it all hit the fan. Once second plane hit the WTC, everyone began to realize what was happening. We were watching chaos unfold in front of our eyes and we weren't sure what to do. Obviously, the first thing was to suspend all the music and try to explain something that we didn't understand any more than those listening. We became a “clearing house” for all the info we were getting from other sources and as we attempted to disseminate what were seeing on the TV in the hall, people began to call in droves. We were inundated with emotion and opinion and realized that, perhaps we should try to, at least, serve as the voice of some semblance of reason. We tried to calm fears and explain, to the best of our ability, what we knew. It wasn't very much. At one point, I said, “I have been doing radio for many years and for the first time in my career, I can't think of anything to say.” I was at a complete loss for words. It was pretty unprofessional, but, it was also a very real moment. Shortly before our shift ended, the decision was made to switch all programming over to our parent company, ABC, whose capable news team took over the task of explaining the unexplainable to listeners who wanted answers. Our shows for the remainder of the week were music free and we continued taking phone calls, giving the listeners an outlet to vent and discuss. Each morning, for 5 hours, we handled call after call after call while, as I stated earlier, trying to be the best “voice of reason” we could possibly be. I went home after our show on Friday, proud of the way we had handled a very intense and tough week. I was proud of our professionalism in the face of disaster and I held my head high. Until I got into bed to take my daily nap. That's when the magnitude of what had happened over the prior week hit my like a brick. We had been in the same position as every other American. We were angry and confused and had been a sounding board for all of our listeners for days, absorbing all their anxiety and emotion. I curled up into the fetal position and began to sob. And that's where and how I spent the entire weekend. I finally stopped crying on Sunday night and was able to return to the air on Monday, but, by that point, the world as we knew it had changed forever.

BASEBALL

Baseball was once known as “America's National Pastime” and was played, in some form, on every playground in the land, even if the playground was a street, first base was the fire hydrant, the bat was a broomstick handle and the ball was a “spaldeen.” I remember listening to the games (we had no TV) on the radio and then hopping on my bike to get to the nearest school playground for a pick up game. If we got there and there weren't enough guys for two full teams, we might “designate” a pitcher for both sides or use one outfielder so that the batter had to “call his field” and, if we hit the ball elsewhere, it was an out. The Pro's were our heroes. We collected the trading cards from packs of bubble gum, kept them in shoe boxes and flipped them when we had doubles that we weren't afraid to gamble away. Growing up in the North East, smack dab in between Yankee Territory and Red Sox land, I had more heroes than I could shake a stick at. My favorite player was Jimmy Piersall, the Boston Center Fielder who suffered from mental illness and was the subject of the book (which I read when it came out) and the movie (which I still watch whenever it is on) starring Tony Perkins, “Fear Strikes Out.” When he wasn't squirting a water pistol on home plate he was making amazing plays in the outfield. Years later, after he had become a wonderful announcer for the Chicago White Sox, a friend, who knew I was a fan, met him at a sports memorabilia show and had him autograph a picture for me. I still have it. Getting a Mickey Mantle rookie card in a pack of gum was almost impossible, so, if you ever found yourself in the enviable position of finding one, you held on to it for dear life. I traded a shoe box full of cards for the Mickey Mantle card and........someone stole it. I was livid and devastated at the same time. Baseball was not only the “National Pastime,” but, it was an integral part of our lives. Mantle, Maris and Mays were who we wanted to grow up to be and we played every day and in every weather condition. We knew that if it was too cold outside, the bat could hurt our hands if we hit the ball wrong, but, we didn't care. My love for the game began to wane when the leagues started to expand as did the players. What used to be 2 leagues with 7 teams in each league became leagues and divisions and territories and the players found steroids and each one had to be bigger and stronger than the next guy so he could hit more home runs. As far as I'm concerned, the whole sport became nothing but a 'roided out version of Home Run Derby. To my way of thinking, the true Home Run Kings will always be Henry Aaron and Babe Ruth. Anyone who came after (yes, I'm referring to you, Mark McGuire) should be no more than an asterisk in the record books. As baseball began to lose it's luster, football made it's strides with the rooting public, to take over the top rung on the favorite sport ladder and, eventually, all kids, all over the country became soccer players. Soccer Mom's became the norm as opposed to Dad coaching the little league team. This is why I stay away from baseball these days. There is, however, one very notable exception. Each year, boys from all over the globe congregate in Williamsport, Pa. For the Little League World Series. For the year leading up to the actual series, teams across the land battle it out for that coveted spot at the top of the heap where they will face the team from some other country who had to go through the same process with teams from other lands, to see who will be the world champions. This year it was Chula Vista, Ca. and the team from Japan. Japan won on a double play in the bottom of the 6th and final inning. The final score was 6-4 and it was very exciting baseball. This is a TRUE world series, and the kids are playing PURE baseball, devoid of all the dirt and juice and money that can sully what once was the greatest game on earth. I will never stop watching and loving the Little League World Series, because, it will always take me back to a better time. A time when our biggest issue was whether your bike would get you to the field in time for the “pick-up” to begin so you'd be on the “right” team. We played the baseball with every bit of emotion and dedication we could muster up and we did it for the same reason Little Leaguers still do to this day......for the love of the game.

THE OLE CATCH 22

I have a good friend who is going through a rough period. He is a disabled veteran with no job, no car, no credit and not much of a roof over his head, although, under that roof is a 60” flat screen TV so he doesn't miss any basketball. He was told that if he could find a way to buy a car, he could, eventually, build his credit back, but, with no credit, he couldn't get financed, so, he went to the local street that is dotted on both sides with used car lots. Lots that are inhabited by men whose vinyl shoes often match their vinyl belts. High pressure sleazeballs who have, at least, a dozen ploys to move the merchandise. Cars with issues that will show themselves as soon as the t's are crossed and the i's are dotted and you drive off the lot. My friend saw an ad for one of these places. It said $80 down and $80 a month, a deal that was too good to be true (because it was). When he got there he was told those deals don't exist – the guy was actually admitting to a bait and switch. But, he said, he had the perfect car to build my friends credit. Just $400 down and he drives home. Once the paperwork was signed, he was told that the down payment was actually $1200 and that the $400 was today....he had 30 days to come up with the rest. After a quick phone call to secure a couple of days of part time work, he agreed. He was told that the car, which had a Kelly Blue Book value of $4,000 was his for just $10,000 at a 21% interest rate which had him paying $17,000. He inked the deal and drove off the lot, satisfied in the fact that he will still have a roof over his head, albeit a roof with a spare tire in the trunk, and, as long as the radio worked, he wouldn't miss any basketball games.

EXERCISE

There is no denying the benefits of exercise. Just a few minutes each day can, reportedly, prolong your life for years. Sounds like a pretty good trade off, right? In theory it is. In practice, however, it's a different story. Well, not really, but, if you suffer from CL, you'll know exactly what I mean. CL or “Chronic Laziness” is a disease that get's progressively worse as we age. CL causes us to go from yearning to run in a marathon to wanting to drive to the finish line. CL sufferers stay away from stores because it's easier to shop online. They don't understand the now archaic concept of standing up, crossing a room and physically maneuvering a knob to change the channel on the TV. CL sufferers rarely accomplish anything worthwhile. The effort is just too involved. And...the laziness is everywhere. The staff of the famed Mayo Clinic published an article called - “Exercise: 7 benefits of regular physical activity.” Seven? See – they were too lazy to come up with a top 10. They say they've found that exercise improves mood. So does going to the circus, although, the chronically lazy will argue the benefits of postponing the “glee” until the circus itself is televised, so they don't have to leave the house and deal with the crowds. According to an article in US News & World Report, exercise will make you smarter. Those of us with CL will argue that so will the Discovery Channel. See, we're chronically lazy- we're already very smart. We have lots of educational channels to choose from. Exercise allegedly builds self esteem. Honestly, so does Facebook when you get a bunch of responses to some inane post. And, if you don't....put up a picture of a kitten. Your ego will be fed soon enough. So, you see, exercise ain't all it's cracked up to be when you suffer from CL. I'm planning to exercise right now. I'm going to exercise my option to take a nap. Follow me on Twitter @BobLeonardRadio and stop by Bob Leonard Radio on Facebook.

WHAT A TOOL BELIEVES

Pete Seeger and Lee Hays wrote - “If I had a hammer, I'd hammer in the morning....” I'd like to take that one step further. If I WAS a hammer, I'd try to convince the screwdriver to take over for me because all that pounding gives me a headache. Admit it, don't you feel like a “tool” sometimes? Water the plants, take out the trash, fix the closet door, check the oil in the car, there's a stain on the sidewalk, please put some new bulbs in the kitchen....I could go on, but, I'm starting to get tired. How's a person supposed to find the time to get in a little “Maury” with all those chores? Will we ever know who the “baby daddy” is? Life as a hammer or a screwdriver or a monkey wrench can be quite draining. Especially with the advent of the “honey-do list.” The list seems to be never ending. For every job that gets done, there are two more waiting to take it's place. A word to the wise, ladies - if a man says he’ll fix it, he will fix it. There’s no need to remind him every six months. You have to remember that the guy is currently utilizing the greatest money saving tool of all time – procrastination. What? No points for creativity? A little credit where credit is due, if you don't mind. The man tool in your life has very important things going through his head. He is, indeed, fixing the closet door, checking the oil, cleaning the stain on the sidewalk – he's just doing these things in his mind. He's thinking about the best way to get them done while expending as little energy as necessary. So, let him work on it. Let the “tool” stay in the box for a while. In the meantime, if you don't mind, would you please crack the tool box lid and turn the TV to Maury. Follow me on Twitter @BobLeonardRadio and stop by Bob Leonard Radio on Facebook.

JUNK MAIL

As long as there is still mail delivery, there will be junk mail. You don't really spend much time going through that stuff, do you? But every once in a while, one of those little trash can fillers catches your eye......like the one I got last week.          The mail came in an envelope that stated, in bold letters: “Free Prepaid Cremation! Details Inside.” - They had me now - On the inside of the envelope was a postcard, of sorts. It said that I could get a $300 reimbursement on my cremation service, free grave space (which is not very much if you’re cremated. A small hole should do it.), a free granite or marble headstone or bronze marker (also not a very big one in conjunction with the size of the hole.) and spouse benefits, whatever they may be (maybe ½ off a bus ticket to come for a hole-side visit and a free donut before 11). Then came the kicker on the other side of the card: “Cemetery Space is Limited”.....Whoa-I know the Boomer generation, to which I begrudgingly belong, is getting older, but, if this is true, we must be dropping like flies. These prepaid cremation solicitations are starting to show up in more mailboxes on a more regular basis as cemeteries are running out of space at a faster clip.      On the back of the card, towards the end of all this free stuff, it says, again in bold letters: “Return the Reply Slip TODAY.” This is where I make the conscious decision to start being more aware of my junk mail. Who knows what I've been missing. After all, this very important communique now has me better prepared for my impending demise. Somebody apparently knows something I don't and, with information as important as my final resting urn, I'd like to be privy. Follow me on Twitter @BobLeonardRadio and visit Bob Leonard Radio on Facebook.

LET'S CHAT

When was the last time you had a talk with someone? You know, a real live discussion, where you look at them and they look at you? And how about an even more obsolete form of communication. Writing a letter? We don't write letters – we text. Paper and ink are just not real necessary any more. Nor, for that matter, are envelopes and stamps. We pay our bills and do our banking online, we take pictures, save them and send them with our “devices.” When we want music, videos, TV or movies, it's as simple as a click to make your wishes come true. We can read books.....we can write books. All without ever having to look up......an online periscope can't be too far off. Not long ago, I observed my daughter and her boyfriend as they sat next to each other in front of a movie and “discussed” it, while seemingly watching it, on their cell phones. I worry that these inroads in technology will cause to become obsolete, all those wonders that came along and made us forget things like record players and typewriters and pay phones. What are those things? See....how quick we forget! What's a bit more disconcerting, though, is how not-so-far into the future generations will evolve. Will we be born with our eyes automatically looking down instead of straight ahead? Our range of vision will only have to be somewhere between 3 and 7 inches. And, how about our hands? Will they look like mittens........just big palms with thumbs? And don't forget that all important periscope that will, by then, just be part of our heads, so we will be able to walk and "talk" at the same time. So try to be patient the next time you say to your kid, “Can we talk?” and they text back, “Sure.” Follow me on Twitter @BobLeonardRadio and stop by BobLeonardRadio on Facebook.

WHAT'S IN A NAME - AND, WHY

What's your name? I know, it's a bit of a no brainer, right? Well, then, how about Why's your name? I'd be willing to bet there's a story behind it that will, most likely, harken back to someone in your family or someone who had a pretty major influence on your parents. I was named Robert after my moms Aunt Rose. That's why I wonder what just would cause some celebrities to give their kids the names they give them. For instance....What reason did Toni Braxton have when she named her kid Denim? I guess Jean was already taken. She has another one named Diezel. Makes you wonder what could have fueled that idea. Erykah Badu has a child named Seven Sirius – her favorite satellite channel? She has one from a former marriage who she named Puma. Not sure if it was after the shoe or the cat. Then there's Nicolas Cage, star of that defunct Tim Burton film “Superman Lives.” The movie never got off the ground, but, Nick kept the dream alive by naming his son Kal-el, a Kryptonian name. Of course, a nice Earth name like Clark or Kent would have worked achieved the same effect.. Pierce Brosnan has a son he named Dylan Thomas, for the great Welsh poet. If he was going to give the kid a name that dictates how he's going to spend his professional life, maybe he should have gone with something like Butcher....or Baker.....or Doctor. We have all heard about Kim and Kanye's baby, North. That makes the kid North West. If they want any kind of closure, not only will they have to name their next kid South, but, Kanye has to change his last name to East. That brings us to the new Royal baby born to William and Kate. There is a lot of speculation as to what they will name him. In THIS game of thrones, they will, no doubt, go traditional.......George...Edward.....something king like. As long as they stay away from Joffrey.

CELEBRITY TALES - AS I REMEMBER THEM: MEL BROOKS

Because Sonny did the show from his bedroom, it afforded us the opportunity to have a little more privacy during our interviews with celebrities, because we could bring them to his apartment instead of the radio station. That would free them to be a little looser as there would be no station personnel or “normal folk” trying to get autographs or asking to pose for pictures. They could relax a little and be themselves. I knew that this particular interview was going to be a lot more fun than most because it was with one of the world’s funniest men. I had been a fan of Mel Brooks since before his film career or even the classic “2,000 Year Old Man” sketches he did with the equally creative and funny Carl Reiner. I remember Mel Brooks from his days as a staff writer on one of the most innovative TV shows of it’s time _ “Your Show of Shows” starring the brilliant Sid Caesar and the sublimely funny Imogene Coca. The show boasted a writing staff that would go on to become a literal “who’s who” of funny. Mel Brooks, Carl Reiner, Howard Morris, Mel Tolkin, Neil Simon and his brother, Danny Simon, Larry Gelbart andWoody Allen (who didn’t actually write for the show but did work on a few Sid Caesar specials, so I figured I could sneak him into the group - makes it look even more impressive). I had NO idea what to expect when I got to the apartment other than the basic fact that I was on my way to spend some time in a fairly intimate atmosphere with one of the funniest men alive. I was pretty pumped. He was in Philadelphia as part of his publicity tour for the just released “High Anxiety” - his insanely funny homage to the films Alfred Hitchcock. I lived in South Jersey and the apartment was in a suburb north of Center City, so I had about a 45 minute drive from point A. to point B. I would cross the George Washington Bridge and follow the Schuylkill Expressway all the way to Sonny’s. As I pulled into the parking lot in my little yellow MG-B, top down that particular day, I noticed a limo behind me that was now pulling in front of me, where it came to a stop. The door opened and out popped the subject of my reason for being there. He walked quickly towards me, hand outstretched and said, “Bob Leonard - Hi I’m Mel Brooks - I’m a star!” I knew instantly that I was about to have one of the most fun experiences of my life to that point. We went inside and the man was never “off.” He regaled us with stories about his life, his films, his comedy - it was hardest I had ever laughed. We must have recorded for a couple of hours. There is absolutely no way to describe the atmosphere or, even, what was said. It was Mel Brooks being Mel Brooks - you really had to be there. As he was getting ready to leave I asked if I could have a picture with him. He graciously agreed and, as I put my arm around his shoulder, I said, “My dad told me to give you a kiss and Jews kiss, c’mere…,” at which point he mugged, I kissed and the result ended up as my Facebook profile picture. About 2 weeks after the interview, I was going through my mail box at the radio station and I saw a letter from 20th Century Fox addressed to me. It was handwritten and said: “Dear Bob, I just wanted to write and thank you for the interview. It was more fun than eating Raisinettes with Harvey Korman on the set of “High Anxiety.” Love, Melvin” To make that day even more eventful and important to me in the context of my career, years later I had two opportunities to interview the aforementioned Carl Reiner and I made it my goal each time, to make him laugh. Was I able to do it? Well - That’s another story!

A CHAIR IS NOT ALWAYS A CHAIR

Words come with pictures. When a word is spoken, in order to understand it's meaning, we see it in our minds eye and that image explains the speakers intent so that we know how to react. When you hear the word “house,” what's the first thing that comers to mind? I'm going to venture an educated guess and say, probably, real estate. Even though this is a very subjective question, I suppose there are any number of “correct” answers - “Many welcomed the extra help for first-time buyers of new houses,” “The merchandise was offered to a reputable auction house” “He wears the ankle bracelet because he is under house arrest,” “People who live in glass houses.......” you get the idea.. There are dozens of uses that will bring dozens of responses. They will, pretty much, all relate to dwellings. That's why I confused myself when logic refused to prevail and my first thought was......Reggae music. Pretty convoluted, huh? Let me attempt to explain. As a rock & roll disc jockey for nearly 50 years, one begins to think in terms of the music one has played on a daily basis for all that time. You start to see the world in song titles and lyrics. So, when someone says “houses,” my first thought is “Houses of the Holy,” the 1973 Led Zeppelin album with the song “D'yer Mak'er,” the reggae based tune with a title derived from the phonetic spelling of the British pronunciation of "Jamaica." Led Zeppelin was the first, but not the last thought that came to mind. Dionne Warwick slipped into my head as well, as I began to sing (thankfully, to myself), “A House is Not a Home,” a song that, some may argue, evokes an image of Luther Vandross. For those of us unfortunate enough to think in these terms, the pictures differ depending on our ages and experiences. Perhaps, now that I've brought it up, you are hearing a song too. It could be “Brick House” by the Commodores, John Cougar Mellencamps “Pink Houses,” or “Our House,” by Crosby, Stills, Nash and, sometimes, Young. If you're a little older, perhaps the song is “House of the Rising Sun,” by the Animals and if you're a lot older, maybe it's Rosemary Clooney singing “Come Ona My House.” Oh.....and, for that ear worm I just gave you........you're very welcome. For most people, words come with images that are pretty standard as a means of understanding and they are able to respond accordingly . My wife just yelled to me that breakfast was ready. When you heard the word “breakfast,” I'll bet you saw bacon, eggs, toast and juice. I went to YouTube because I suddenly got the urge to hear some “Supertramp.” THAT'S HOW I FEEL................................................WHAT CAN I TELL YA'

FOLLOW ME NOWHERE

A word to the wise should suffice – If you ever find yourself lost, do not look to me to be your “north star.” When I walk out of a store, I generally can't find my car. I have no sense of direction whatsoever and often find myself sobbing in frustration because I can't find my way from where I am to where I want to be. It's a good thing I wasn't Moses. The Children of Israel could well have become known as the Children of Idaho. If you tell me to go two blocks and turn “east,” I could very easily wind up driving into the sea. I think this was why I found it so amusing when, while driving a well rehearsed and memorized route, I got diverted by an accident in an intersection that was key to my getting home. I was directed to take the street to the left as a detour. How hard could it be? Logic told me that I would take the left, go to my first right, turn, find the next right and be back to my original street. Unfortunately, logic doesn't always prevail. I took the left and went straight. There was no right turn and I ended up at a dead end. As I made a u-turn to find a right turn (which would have been a left if I was still going the other way), I couldn't help but notice that there was now a line of traffic following me. “Boy, are THEY screwed,” I thought, as I took the right that used to be a left and found myself even more confused. Now, what? As I drove, I saw a street on the left and a street on the right. Which one should I take? Logic hadn't worked before, what made me think it would possibly be of any help now? I turned right and so did the caravan that I had amassed while lost in a very lovely neighborhood with a whole bunch of winding streets that seemed to go nowhere and now had a parade, of sorts, going through it. I almost wanted to get out and join the spectators. It took about 15 minutes to find my way out of the maze and back to the road that I knew would take me home. As I made it to the light, I saw the guy in the car behind me, shaking his fist. My mind heard Moe, of the Three Stooges, saying “Why you....” but, I'm certain he was a bit saltier. I wondered how many of the others felt the same way. I never told them to follow me. I made the turn back to the street I knew, praying that there would be no other little glitches that could get me lost before I made it home. Thank goodness there weren't. It could have made for a very tense three minutes. THAT'S HOW I FEEL....................................................WHAT CAN I TELL YA'

PUNNY FUN

I was recently watching an episode of The George Burns and Gracie Allen Show, which, I should explain to you younger folk, is an ancient TV show that used an almost archaic concept that was once referred to as “being funny.” Most of the laughs went to Gracie, whose character was defined by her wit, double-talk and use of sharp puns. I love a good pun.Samuel Johnson once called the pun “The lowest form of humor,” which, by the way, he spelled with two u's, making the word itself hilarious. He also said - “A man is in general better pleased when he has a good dinner upon his table, than when his wife talks Greek." So, we know how much stock to place in anything ever said by Samuel Johnson. The pun is wordplay that suggests multiple meanings of words, or of similar-sounding words, for an intended laugh. It takes much more thought and a better vocabulary to deliver a pun than it does to toss a banana peel on the floor and wait for the same effect. The biggest difference being that the pun will illicit more of a groan and the banana peel should bring a heartier guffaw as the intended victim is being hauled off by the paramedics. When William joined the army he dreaded hearing the phrase 'fire at will' is, possibly, the perfect example of both. We laugh at the double meaning of the word “will” as it relates to William's name and we laugh, once again, as the paramedics carry him off after the entire platoon fired at him. A homographic pun uses a word that has a number of meanings - “I call my printer Bob Marley because it's always Jammin'” A homophonic pun uses similar sounding words - “The Nature Preserve is an eagle opportunity employer.” There are so many different types of puns – The compound pun, animal puns. Whether your pun is one word or an entire sentence, the result is meant to be humorous - leading to funny puns. Since the pun is the lowest form of wit, the last thing we can have is a “good pun” because then, it becomes an oxymoron and that's a whole new conversation. THAT'S HOW I FEEL.......................................WHAT CAN I TELL YA'

AHA........UH OH

I've always heard that “necessity” was the mother of invention. That's why I began to wonder, aloud in a few cases, just what the necessity was that prompted some of the concoctions that have been popping up in my line of sight lately. While perusing an airline shopping magazine on a recent flight, I noticed a gadget that allows you to use your smart phone underwater. The first and, I might add, the only thought that popped into my head was, “I suppose if you need a GPS to get to the other side of the pool, it might come in handy, but, other than that why, on earth, would anyone want to bring their phone under water?” Maybe to watch “Jaws” from the sharks perspective? I decided to see if I could find more inventions that had absolutely no practical use and the results were staggering. I thought I'd share a few. I found Twitter toilet paper: It's sold in packs of 4 for $35 and you can choose between your own tweets or someone else's. Look – you get to read while you're on the john and, when you're done, make a statement that, ideally, no one will ever know about. How about Princess Leia Headphone Covers: For all the die-hard 'Star Wars' fans out there, now you can look more like Princess Leia than ever. You can also use your headphones to drown out the sound of the Death Star destroying Leia's home planet of Alderaan. Although, to the uninitiated, it may appear as though you are wearing hairy cinnamon buns on your ears......you may have some 'splainin' to do. Then, there's the Solar Baseball Cap: Chances are the best way to keep cool is NOT to mount a solar panel on top of your head and a plastic fan directly in front of your face. I guess it's the thought that counts. Love the taste of bacon, but cholesterol issues keeping you away? Try bacon flavored wax dental floss. You'll go hog wild for THIS meaty piece of idiocy. These and myriad others are everywhere. So you see, necessity isn't really the mother of invention after all. In fact, I'm convinced that the only TRUE Mother of Invention that can't be contested was Frank Zappa! THAT'S HOW I FEEL................WHAT CAN I TELL YA'