THAT DJ WITH DIABETES

One of the greatest feelings of achievement I've ever experienced was because of the opportunity radio afforded me to share and teach. An opportunity that came from seeing a potentially disastrous diagnosis in 1994, through a pinpoint of creative light that, fortunately, drove my actions with more precision than the “pity party train” that could have steamed into my life had I allowed it Radio has always been a very important influence in my life, as a child growing up in the 1950s. We didn’t have a TV when I was young, and really no one did, so all of our entertainment came from listening to the radio waves. When I was 8 years old, my Cub Scout den mother, who also happened to be MY mother, took us on a field trip to a local radio station and, from that day, my destiny was set. As I got a little older, TV had become a staple in practically every home on the block, but radio still mattered. Our music was becoming a statement and the disc jockeys I listened to positioned that statement like nothing I had ever heard. They were loud, they were creative, they talked fast, and they talked to ME. So to me, it was just a given that I’d end up in radio. I would just have to age a little and look for a window of opportunity. But being drafted in 1966, that dream took a detour. When I came home from basic training, there was a brand new “soul” station in town that played all the best music around. This was music borne of the jazz and blues I’d heard growing up in my particular household, where entire walls were covered with shelves full of records. I took a ride to the station and introduced myself, not knowing whether I’d be coming home from my service in Vietnam that I’d soon be leaving for. But the station took a chance on me, and I started learning the ropes of the radio world. That continued during the next four years in places ranging from Nashville, TN, to the Republic of China, and even in Saigon, Vietnam, where I took advantage of the local radio scene to learn more and get involved in any way I could, before coming back to California in January 1970. Stepping off the plane in San Francisco, I threw my duffel bag in a ditch and headed toward my career behind the microphone. It took a short while to get my foothold in what later became a truly storied career, as I was fortunate enough to be involved in a number of “firsts” in the industry. In the mid 70′s, FM was still very new and fairly untested. I was on the air in Plainfied, New Jersey, and had been offered a job in Philadelphia at a brand new radio station called Magik–WMGK-FM. It was my first major market and I was their first-ever morning man. I couldn’t turn it down. But after a while, I learned that I also couldn’t support my young family with what they were paying. I asked for a raise and was told that I would never make any more money as long as I stayed there. So I reached out to a couple of local stations, — WIP, an AM giant and the No. 1 station in town, and WYSP, a small FM station with a new rock & roll format. After meeting with program director Sonny Fox at WYSP, I took that position doing the morning show… not knowing Sonny had an ulterior motive! The station was doing a lot of new and experimental programming, and about a month after I started Sonny approached me about creating a new show based on radio comedy duo “Bob & Ray” in Boston and New York. I’d found them inspirational and entertaining, and was enthusiastic about doing our own show like that! We became “Fox & Leonard,” and in those early days, Sonny did the show from his apartment while I was in the studio. We never saw each other as we created a show based on “theater of the mind,” comedy and rock & roll. After a short time, Fox & Leonard became the No. 1 morning show in Philadelphia and we later learned it was the prototype for the “morning zoo” format that eventually took over morning radio nationwide. In 1979, I left to become morning host on WLS in Chicago and then to the fledgling Satellite Music Network for another groundbreaking experience. That’s where I helped physically build the studios and become the first person to turn on a microphone at the Satellite Music Network, which was the debut broadcasting company to experiment with 24-hour formats delivered by satellite. We were very successful and eventually became the ABC Radio Network, from where my morning show was syndicated on nearly 260 radio stations throughout the country and in a few other parts of the world for a quarter of a century. Through the auspices of ABC, I also became the first American to be broadcast by Radio Shanghai in the Peoples Republic of China – a show that I did twice a week for seven years. These radio “firsts” were fun and very rewarding, but the 90s brought a health change for me that wasn’t either of those things: type 2 diabetes. In 1994, I became the first person in my family to be diagnosed with type 2 diabetes. My doctor wasn’t happy with my blood work and wanted me to see an endocrinologist, who was very matter of fact in his diagnosis. “You have diabetes,” was really all I heard. That, and myself crying when I got to the car. I was devastated. I had worked very hard to get to where I was in the radio industry and this guy had just given me what I perceived to be a death sentence. I went home and told my wife through sobs that all had been for naught, that I was diabetic and it was all over. Well, we got over my little “pity party” pretty quickly and we took a proactive approach to my health. Without any family or friends with diabetes, I didn’t know anything about this condition or how this could have happened. We later learned that my exposure in Southeast Asia during the war to Agent Orange could have contributed to type 2 diabetes among those like myself who served there. But with family support, we charged full force into what seemed like an uphill battle. We got rid of the “Fry Daddy” and began compiling recipes and exercise programs. Within two years, I’d come off all meds and was maintaining my diabetes quite nicely. After a job loss and move to Miami, FL, I went back on Metformin three times a day. That’s when I realized there was something more I could do for others living with diabetes, who might be facing what I’d gone through. I had the perfect outlet in radio to educate and entertain people about diabetes, and my microphone could carry this message nationally and even worldwide. What better way to teach something, I thought, than to make it fun and, maybe even rewarding? I came up with an idea for a daily contest. I would take my blood sugar readings on the air and give the listeners a chance to win a prize by guessing my numbers. The person who came closest would be the winner. It became so popular that listeners would take their own readings at the same time and we would compare notes. Because of the nature of my show, I also often had authors and experts on air to explain things. Diabetes had become an integral part of my show, with the intention of getting rid of societal stigmas surrounding it. Everyone who listened to my show knew that I was diabetic and that I was on a crusade. I was “That DJ with Diabetes, who wouldn’t shut up about it.” My partner at the network and I would often make personal appearances in cities where we had affiliates. On one such visit to Helena, Montana, we were at an event signing autographs and meeting the listeners, when a man walked up with his little girl. He said that she wanted to give me a hug. It seems they were listening one morning as I was playing the “Guess My Blood Sugars” game, when the little girl jumped up excitedly and screamed, “Daddy, he has diabetes – just like me!” I gave her a hug, cried a little and realized that my diabetes had, indeed, made a difference in someone else’s life. This little girl was no longer ashamed. During the next few years, I received a number of letters and calls from people who also no longer tried to hide the fact that they were diabetic and no longer had any problem with “testing” in front of other people. They were able to realize that it was just the way it was! I retired in 2011 after 47 years — amazingly the same year that WIP, where I’d first applied to back in the 70s — took over WYSP (94.1 FM) and changed formats from classic rock to sports talk radio. How ironic! I’m now living near Fort Lauderdale in South Florida. I’m now getting my care through the VA Hospital, am still taking the Metformin and insulin has been mentioned as an option, but I am maintaining very nicely at this point. Our proactivity in regards to diabetes has simply become our way of life — our comfort zone. Diabetes has been a blessing for our entire family. I have no complaints about being diabetic. It’s caused me, and consequently all of those around me, to eat, think and act healthy. My plan is to go back to acting and improve comedy, which I did a lot of in the 20 years living in Dallas working for ABC. It’s “work” that I love and can take the time to do now – along with writing, fishing and playing golf like any good South Floridian does in the middle of winter! Will I factor diabetes into my new improv and comedy gigs? Well, it’s improv, so I suppose if the opportunity should occur, I won’t shy away from it! Honestly, I’m quite proud of my career and life, but something stands out in my mind about all that I’ve done through the years. I have met and interviewed politicians, rock stars, movie stars and authors… including hanging out and giving a smooch on the cheek to Mel Brooks! It’s been nearly 50 years of comedy, rock & roll and great fun… Yet, the greatest accomplishment, in my mind, was making a difference in the life of that little girl, and subsequently, other diabetics who happened to tune in. They now feel the way that I did when I created a bumper sticker not long after my diagnosis that read: “I may have Diabetes, but Diabetes will NEVER have me.”

IT'S A BOY

I spent the first 18 years of my life in a house filled with testosterone. The word filled, however, is relative. It was my dad, my younger brother, my mother and me and we weren't the most athletic family on the block. My dad loved Broadway shows and movies. Our combined testosterone level was boosted only by the fact that my mom could throw a runner out at home from center field and once kicked a field goal – barefoot. Yes, she broke her toe. The doctor, when she explained to him how she had broken it, told her, “Suffer, you idiot!” My first daughter was born when I was 28 years old and that was the beginning of what was to become a hormonal heaven on earth (if that concept is even possible) for a very long time. When my daughter was 4, a baby sister came along so, now there were 3 females and me in the house. I was surrounded by girls and I loved every minute. As the girls began to grow, I was able to see things from a perspective I never could before. Oh, I had been young once and had grown as well and had gone through a lot of what they were going through but I was a boy and grew up in the 50's. There was a whole different value system that it took the 60's to remedy so that by the time my girls came along in the mid to late 70's, I was able to see them without the societal restraints of a couple of decades earlier. I didn't have to “not” teach them how to box because they were girls – I had the heavy bag in the garage and my oldest became proficient enough to break a guys nose once, when he wouldn't leave her alone. She even, while training years ago, got to spar with Leila Ali. My girls learned from me and I learned immeasurable amounts from them. Still, though, I was a guy and lived in a house full of girls. When the girls where pre to early teen, my ex and I made the informed and correct decision to go our separate ways. The girls went with her but, for as long as we all lived in the same vicinity, my house was still filled with girls every weekend. In the 90's I moved to Dallas and my ex took the girls to Orlando. I saw them from time to time and always cherished those extended stays when they visited from across the country and could spend an appreciable amount of time. I loved my “house full of girls”......even though now, it was sporadic at best. Then, I met a wonderful woman whom I dated, fell in love with and married in a relatively short amount of time - less than a year - which I always had to justify by saying, “Yeah well, the last time, I got married in a week....so....” She brought with her, two beautiful children........one of them a gorgeous little girl with big eyes and curly hair and the other a boy. I legally adopted my new wife's little angels and made them mine that week. “Uh-oh,” I thought, “What have I gotten myself into? What the hell am I gonna do with a boy? All I know is girls.” Girls, I reasoned, that I had taught to box and to play ball and do all the things society had told girls they didn't do. I figured, hell, I could just treat him the same way. With the all the love, respect and support that any person deserves when doing whatever it is they choose to do. Of course, the ploy worked and, as icing on the cake, I got to coach Little League, go to H.S. Football and LaCrosse games and, from time to time, as he got older, do “guy” stuff, like smoking cigars. Stuff that I would never subject my girls to (unless, of course, they wanted to) and I got to raise him with a sensitivity to the issues of all of the females around him, including the new one who joined us the following year when my wife got pregnant with my 4th daughter. My two oldest daughters were now married and pursuing what have become very successful lives thus far. My oldest daughter and her husband have chosen not to have children but my 2nd has 3......all girls. I like to tell people that “I have a mother, an e-wife, a current wife, 4 daughters and 3 granddaughters. There is NEVER a time when someone in my life isn't cranky!” My son has been on his own for the past 10 years or so and is now living close to us in South Florida where he is building a nice clientele as a cranial artiste (I believe we used to call them barbers) and is now a father to be himself. His fiance' called a few hours ago to tell us that they had been to the doctor and – it's a boy. The chain has been broken. I think that, between my son and I, the “Little Prince” will have, at least, a slight advantage as he navigates through the plethora of sisters, step-sisters, cousins and other female family folk when they pounce on him and smother him with all the love and devotion he will ever need........just before he steps outside to join his dad and his grandpa in a good cigar.

9-11-2001 Redux

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, pre-produced “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.

THESE EYES

If the eyes are the windows to the soul, then I need to re-pane my windows because my soul is looking kind of obscured. I am finding that, as I age, my eyes seem to deteriorating, well, right before my eyes. I seem to be looking at the world through “fuzz” covered glasses and it's time for, yet another, new pair. It would be very convenient to go to one of those “get your glasses in one hour” places where they give you a “free” eye exam and then charge you twice the price for frames and three times the price for lenses, but, being on a fixed income, I really can't afford to take out a high interest loan just so I can.......what's that called?.....Oh, yeah......see! I go to the VA where the price fits my income potential these days – they are, essentially, free. I say “essentially” because there is more of a price to pay that just cash for lenses and frames. Here's how the process used to go: The veteran (in this case.....me) goes to the VA and gets his or her eyes examined by a qualified optometrist who then sends the patient (still me) across the hall for a voucher. The vet then drives about 5 blocks to an eye glasses store where he, she (or me) tries on free frames from a selected group and goes home, only to receive a phone call within about 3 days saying, “Your glasses are ready.” Pretty standard procedure. It's a routine I had been through every year since I've been using the VA, so I assumed that this time would be the same. I have been having trouble with my eyes for a few months because I'm, apparently, aging faster as I get older and my vision has developed a mind of it's own. They gave me an appointment for three months later, which is about “par for the course,” so I dug in, convinced that, if I tell myself I can see, I will actually be able to. It's my wife's “mind over matter” philosophy and it works.....to a degree but you might want to stay off the roads any time I have errands to run over the coming weeks. My trip to the VA eye doctor started out the way they all do. I drove the 40 minutes to the VA, took my number and sat in a big room with a passel of other Vets, anxiously waiting to have their eyes examined, blood drawn or prosthetics fitted. When they called my number, as always, I stood up and walked into the exam room saying hello to the doctor, who has been there for years and who answered, “It's nice to see you again,” at which point I responded with, “Hopefully I'll be able to see you again when we're done.” She finished the exam and dilated my pupils, a standard portion of an eye exam when you are diabetic, which is always my favorite part because it makes my eyes light sensitive and I get to wear that very fashionable wrap around, plastic eye shade that covers most of the top of your face and falls off every time you turn your head. I always have to put my glasses on over it to drive home which looks incredibly ridiculous and gives me the satisfaction of knowing that I'm providing a big dose of entertainment for anyone who happens to be on the road at the same time. This time, however, she didn't direct me across the hall for the voucher, she handed me a sheet of paper and, did so with an apology and told me to go home adding, that they will call me (once it gets approved from Miami) and set up an appointment with the glasses place to pick out frames (so I can drive the 40 minutes back to that area)and then go back home and..........wait. When they are ready, I get to make the 40 min. drive for a 3rd time. This should take a good 30 days. She said, "This is to speed up the backlog." Huh?? So, after a 3 month wait to get in to see the optometrist, I now get to wait and see if they call within the 30 days to fit me for frames. If not, they gave me a number to call. It's for the prosthetics dept. at the VA. If I don't get an appointment for glasses by that time maybe they'll give me some prosthetic eyes. I'm not quite sure how it works at that point. I only know that if my “windows” aren't re-paned soon, the only thing I'll be able to do will be to get out the Windex and clean them off a little. My soul will still look “fuzzy” and I'll still bump into things but, at least, I'll know there's something there to bump into.

WE ARE WHAT WE WEAR

What's the single best “word of advice” anyone's ever given you? For me, the word was “accessorize.” I've always been a huge fan of accessories. Hats, watches and glasses seem to be what “float my boat,” certainly more so than the rest of the outfit. It's been like that for as long as I can remember although, I've been told that, as a very small child, I was intimidated and frightened by hats. At least that was what my mother assumed when she was in a bank, holding a very young me, when her friend Richard walked in and he was wearing very nice fedora. I, reportedly, went berserk at the sight and started to pitch a proverbial “wang dang doodle” until he went outside and waited for us to leave. Yes, I was that obnoxious. I never really understood why I would do that since hats are one of my favorite things in the world. I have dozens of types of headgear from the aforementioned fedoras to Kangols to baseball caps to berets and beyond and I don't ever recall not wanting to wear one. After a long conversation with my mom, we were finally able reach a conclusion as to why seeing Richard walk in the bank and approach her had that particular effect on the sheltered infant she was trying to control. It had nothing to do with his hat. I would have gladly put it on my own head had it been offered. The truth was - Richard was Black. He was first person I had seen, by the ripe old age of 9 or 10 months that looked different from my immediate family, who were the only people I had been exposed to by this point in my young life. Hell, my dad wore a hat, you'd think my mom would have thought of that but, I'm relatively certain she didn't want to embarrass Richard so, she said I was afraid of his hat. The irony here being that Richard had nothing to be embarrassed about......my mom did. I was being just that obnoxious. Or so I have been told. But, I certainly loved his hat. Watches fall into the same category as hats for me. They are cool and necessary to make me feel complete. I have lots of watches. Two of them actually work but, I just can't see fit to part with any of them. I have 2 boxes of watches that are taking up space in a drawer in my closet. One of the watches is a Gruen from the 1940's that belonged to my grandfather. No, it doesn't work. I suppose I could toss them all and use the space for other stuff. Like all of the glasses I have kept whenever I got a new pair. Of course, the prescriptions are all outdated and I can't see through any of them. It's just that, at one time or another in my life, I have found them extremely cool and refuse to part with any “stuff” that I have had a relationship with over the years. By the same token, I still have a report card from my junior year of high school. Judging from the grades, I have, apparently, kept it to use as an example to my kids of what NOT to do. As for glasses.......I need them to see close-up and I need them to see far away and, if I have to wear them, I want them to look fashionable. The problem is that I'm pretty fickle and tend to change my “cool margins” when the spirit hits. I can only get glasses twice a year because I get them through the VA and I always pick a pair of frames I like........while I'm in the store. By the time I pick up the finished product, usually a couple of weeks later, I have found a style I like better and am disappointed that I have to wait 6 months to go through the process again. Am I never satisfied? I don't think there has ever been a time in my life when I wasn't all googly eyed and fascinated by a well designed hat, a slick watch or a snazzy pair of glasses. I always felt that if I was wearing a spiffy fedora, a Rolex and a really nice pair of horn-rimmed frames, I didn't need anything else – like pants or shoes or underwear. “Who's gonna notice?” I would assume, “They'll all be too busy being blinded by the glow of my accessories.” I can hear the conversation now as people pass me in the street: “Wow, check out that great hat, what is that? A Stetson?” “I don't know about the hat but, what a beautiful watch. Is that a Patek Phillipe?” “Do you realize that this guy isn't wearing any pants?” “Who cares.....that's a GREAT pair of glasses......must be Ray Bans.” Accessories are the “Be All and End All” as far as I'm concerned. I do, however, have a bit of an issue when it comes to what I am accessorizing. I own 2 pair of jeans, 4 pair of shorts, 3 pair of Sanuks (shoes), about 7 or 8 t-shirts, a couple of shirts with collars and not a single pair of socks. I am about to go out to shop. I will put on a pair of shorts that I've been wearing for a week and a half, a t-shirt that's wrinkled but clean and the pair of hemp Sanuks that I wear everywhere. That will take about 2 minutes. I will then find the watch that goes with my black framed glasses and spend about 20 minutes trying on hats. All this because the hat store at the mall has a buy 1 - get 1 half price sale on a style of hat that I already have 4 of.........but, I need a blue one!

WHAT'S THE BIG IDEA?

"There are no new ideas. There are only new ways of making them felt." That was written by mid 20th century poet, writer and feminism activist Audre Lorde. She must have assumed she was having an original thought when she wrote it. She wasn't. In his biography, it is reported that Mark Twain said, about 100 years or so earlier, “There is no such thing as a new idea. It is impossible. We simply take a lot of old ideas and put them into a sort of mental kaleidoscope.” It wasn't an original concept for him either. You will find the sentence, “There is nothing new under the sun,” in Ecclesiastes, making it apparent that, whoever wrote that particular portion of the Bible, spent a good deal of time hanging out with pagans. They were the ones with the first ideas. Or were they? What this tells me, then, is that all of the so called radically “new ideas” we had in the 60's came from other sources. As unique and different as we purported to be, we were obviously “inspired” by others who preceded us. A fact we were too cocky to see even with Mao's “Little Red Book” in our back pockets while we sported T-Shirts with “Che's” face glowering from under his beret. We live in a vacuum.....there are no original ideas. As I transitioned out of my teens into perceived adulthood in 1966, a year that was rife with the likes of The Weather Underground, The Black Panther Party (for Self Defense), SNCC and the Puerto Rican equivalent, The Young Lords, I found myself drawn to these ideologies of social justice, as were thousands of other young Americans, disillusioned with everything from the Vietnam War to starving children in inner cities. Names like Huey P. Newton, Bobby Seale, Eldridge Cleaver Jerry Rubin, Abbey Hoffman, Felipe Luciano, David Perez and Pablo “Yoruba” Guzman resonated and we felt alive in the idea of the “revolution,” televised or not. It was an idea whose time had come and I was all set to jump in with both feet, until I got a letter that told me Uncle Sam had other ideas. “Greetings,” it said. That was all I needed to see. The revolution was kicking into full gear and I had just been drafted. I saw, at that point, that the level of my radical spirit had been trumped by a dash of “wussiness” when it came to the idea of possibly dodging the draft. My father had fought in WWII and my uncle served in Korea and I could see that, even though socially, we had an awful lot of work to do, there was enough patriotism in my own blood to keep me from shirking this particular responsibility. In 1966 I joined the Air Force and, in 1968, I went to Southeast Asia. That didn't mean it had to dampen my socially conscious spirit. When I stepped off the plane at Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines, I was immediately hit with a burst of humidity and a smell that I soon learned to embrace. I had to.....I was going to be there for a while. Every time we go to a new place, the first thing we do is try to surround ourselves with like minded people and I soon found myself in the middle of a group of GIs who were also disenchanted with social situations back home. It wasn't long before a group of us with names like Tito, Tony & Chops, joined the Black Panther Party, by mail, and were selling the newspapers on the base, in between our military duties, of course. In the military, you can only be as radical as they will allow you to be, but, again, we thought we were being original. As a “GI,” I must have been adequate because on Jan. 10th, 1970, I was honorably discharged. I had gone to Vietnam and was now back home where I could protest it. After being spit at and called a baby killer enough times, I grew my hair long, refused to admit to my Veteran status and moved to Puerto Rico where I became fast friends with the central committee of the Spanish Harlem based Young Lords. We became close enough that, whenever they would be on the island, they would stop by my apartment and, occasionally, hold meetings. It was at one such meeting that I realized that the “revolution” was not the romanticized cure-all I was initially drawn to or an ideology I wanted to embrace any longer. The guys from the “Lords” came over and said they wanted to have a meeting but that it was private and they had to use my bedroom, which was where they headed with my stereo, my records and my weed, leaving me only partially high and very dry and alone in my living room. They weren't discussing some secret strategy to get the kids in the Barrio free school breakfast or trying to find alternatives to police brutality in the neighborhood. They were partying in my bedroom and I wasn't invited. We were now well into the early 70's and the drug culture was beginning to surface with enough of a vengeance to render the radical 60's a thing of the past. An idea whose time had come......and gone. Over the years most of us grew up, married, had families and became downright responsible. Hell, Eldridge Cleaver became a Republican politician. Our idealism had given way to the hope that, as we changed and became the mainstream, our off spring would start the process all over again, as they grew into disillusioned teens, with minds and thoughts of their own to act upon as the cycle continues. I only hope they have better luck than we did. A good start would be to not get cocky and remember the completely unoriginal words of Audre Lord - "There are no new ideas. There are only new ways of making them felt."

BLINDED BY THE SOUND

I saw a Facebook post from a friend in Chicago that says he will be at Navy Pier to broadcast the 4th of July fireworks this year for WGN.........radio - not TV. That's right, fireworks on the radio. I know how silly the concept sounds. Radio is an “audio” medium and fireworks are a smidge more “visual” in nature. There is a distinct difference between the two senses that would suggest broadcasting fireworks on the radio would be an exercise in futility, at best. The concept, however, is quite doable. It just depends on how adept the broadcaster is at using words to create “theater of the mind,” so as to allow the listener to see the images in their heads. And, of course, his post immediately reminded me of a story. In the early '80's, the ABC Radio Network was still the Satellite Music Network, based in Mokena, Illinois, a suburb 30 miles southeast of Chicago. We were a relatively small, emergent company that, at the time, had two formats with about 20 or 30 affiliates between us. The concept of broadcasting, for 24 hours a day, via satellite, to small and medium markets was in its infancy and we were forced to set up shop where we did, in a Chicago suburb. The technology was as new as the concept and the only satellite we could “link up” to was WGN's in Mokena. We had to rent space on “the bird.” The biggest difference between satellite broadcasting then and now had to be our charade of pretending to be local. It was a brilliant, but fatally flawed, idea which I always felt was kind of idiotic. We would record 50 “liners” per quarter for each affiliate. Each liner would be 5 to 7 seconds long and would identify the radio station and, consequently, the talent as live and local. These liners contained all kinds of information – call letters and frequencies, public service announcements, local tie-ins – anything that made us sound as if we were sitting right there at the radio station with our “stacks of wax,” entertaining the local gentry. If executed properly, the radio stations did, indeed, sound as if we were right there. People would occasionally drive to the local stations looking for us to meet their local celebs, bring us food and, in my case, every once in a while, to kick my ass because of something that I might have thought was funny and they didn't. Many of the affiliate stations were incapable of pulling it off. They sounded sloppy and the fact that they had “major market” talent working there made no sense at all. We had all come from large and major market radio and tiny markets like Bell Buckle, Tennessee and Mule Shoe, Texas would never be able to muster up a staff like that, financially or otherwise. There were, however, a few stations that were able to execute things flawlessly. These were the ones that “got it” and it showed. They would bring us to their markets to do personal appearances and remote broadcasts and they always sounded great. These were the stations that proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that what we were trying to do did, in fact, work. They had the ratings and they made the ad sales......bottom line. One such affiliate was north of us, in Crystal Lake, Illinois, a tiny town, if memory serves (and that's debatable these day) quite near the Wisconsin border. They would bring us up for “remotes” all the time. We could drive there, unlike many affiliates that would have to fly us to them, put us up and feed us, and the station took full advantage of their proximity. I was the morning guy and spent many a weekend doing broadcasts from local car dealers and new store openings. It was a pretty easy ride and I always got paid. Whatever they asked me to do – I did. One mid-June day, I got a call asking me if I would drive up to broadcast the 4th of July fireworks. My initial reaction was to shake my head and utter a befuddled, Scooby Doo like “Huh?” Fireworks.....on the radio? “Why not,” I thought. I had done some pretty bizarre stuff in my career to that point, including broadcasting from a car that I lived in for three days, raised high above a new car dealership in Philadelphia. ABC's Jim Hickey who was, at the time, a reporter for a local Philly TV news team, even interviewed me from a cherry picker. Fireworks? OK. The big evening had arrived, we had all enjoyed a lovely dinner and dusk was making way for “dark enough for the show.” We set up all the wires and knobs we needed (this was before the “digital” age) to do our broadcast, although, I still had no clue what I was going to say or do. That's when I got an idea: I gathered as big a crowd as I could find to stand around me and every time we heard a boom I would say “Red” and cue the crowd to go, “Oooooooooohhh,” another boom, “Blue,” “Ooooooohhh.” I am going to assume that it worked. As ridiculous as it felt, the affiliate was happy, they sold the broadcast to sponsors and people tuned in. So, my friend in Chicago, I say have at it. 4th of July fireworks, from Navy Pier, live on WGN radio. You can make it work if you want to. Happy Birthday America!

CELEBRITY TALES......AS I REMEMBER THEM: DEEPAK CHOPRA

During my career, whenever I interviewed anyone with any semblance of celebrity, I would ask them to record an “endorsement” when we were done. It's a pretty common practice among radio folk and it was always a great way to give you some credibility with the audience, not to mention how much of an ego blast it is to hear, say, one of the Beatles or a former President telling your entire audience that, “whenever they are in town.....they listen to (your name here).” I have had the remarkable opportunity to spend a lot of years talking to a lot of people, some of whom were of substantial note and I got some very nifty “voicers.” How cool was it to hear people like Mel Brooks, Carl Reiner or George Burns saying they listened to you? I even got Dan Castellanetta to do a “Homer drool” to illustrate how enjoyable he found the show. The best of all, however, was the celebrity who never spoke my name but whose “drop” was used more than any other - New Age and alternative-medicine advocate, physician, public speaker, writer Deepak Chopra. In studio interviews were, pretty much, all done the same way. We would welcome the guest, offer them some coffee or, perhaps, a vending machine goody from, what we called, “The Dead Break Cafe,” which was, in reality, just a break room down the hall with candy and chips in machines and coffee pots loaded with what we knew as “fuel,” and, then, sit them down in a chair across the console from me. There was no engineer......I ran things myself. This was a practice I preferred because I was always a bit of a stickler when it came to the sound of my show. I wanted the production to be seamless and spotless. If there was an issue, I would know it was because I screwed up, not because someone else couldn't hear the “audio vision” in my head. If there was a problem – I would be responsible. I work better like that. Deepak Chopra was a new age guru who, at the time we had him in the studio, was a very influential voice. Quantum Healing, Distance Healing, Mind/Body Medicine.....but, that was just the tip of the iceberg. Aside from being an important critical thinker and doctor, he is an extremely versatile human being. In 2009 he founded the Chopra Foundation to promote and research holistic medicine; the Foundation sponsors annual Sages and Scientists conferences. He sits on the board of advisors of a national medical foundation, he's been involved with a tech start-up - state.com, since 2005 he has been a board member of, believe it or not, Mens Warehouse, a mens clothing distributor where, you'll look good and HE now “guarantees it,” and in 2006 launched Virgin Comics with his son, Gotham Chopra (the doc was apparently a huge fan of either New York City or Batman or both) and entrepreneur Richard Branson. There isn't much Dr. Chopra doesn't do. He sat in the chair opposite me and, I will have to admit, I was a bit in awe. I have met a lot of people over the years and, occasionally, I would get a little “star struck.” That type of reaction, however, was reserved for a select few......Deepak Chopra, Carl Sagan and Pres. Jimmy Carter come immediately to mind. We chatted for a few minutes and were about to get to the point where I expected the “hot line” to ring and the boss to remind me that this was a “music station” and that I was neglecting the most important element of the concept but, honestly, what Deepak Chopra had to say was far more interesting and entertaining than some Air Supply song being played for the 500th time that week because “it tested well in Helena.” I knew and understood the rules, though and I had to play a song. I grabbed the next song in the rotation and started the intro, over which I explained that we would get back to the fascinating conversation but, first, we had to play some music and I introduced Fleetwood Mac, at which point, Deepak (by this time we were on a first name basis) said, in his unmistakable Indian accent, “Lets, rock & roll!” I was dumbstruck as my mouth hit the floor. Deepak Chopra had just said, “Let's rock & roll” and I had recorded it. Now, every time I played something that was a bit on the “heavy,” rocky side, I had one of the world's great thinkers telling us it was time for all of us to rock & roll. That was tantamount to having Mick Jagger shout out to the crowd, “Everybody – meditate!” Completely unexpected and very satisfying. I used it sparingly over the ensuing years, understanding that those things can get very old very quickly. My philosophy was: use it a little, drop it for a while, bring it back some other time for a short period, retire it for a while.........keep a rotation of “drops” available to give the impression of “fresh and new,” even if it's old and stale. I never had the opportunity to repeat my meeting with the good doctor, although, I've seen any number of TV appearances over the years and have been able to rest in the knowledge that, no matter how much he has evolved over the years or how much more profound his train of thought has become, Deepak Chopra was never one to shy away from his love for or his ability to – rock & roll!

SIMPLICITY

We live in a world of convolution……and yes, it is a word. We have learned, over the years, that the more steps something takes, the more satisfied we are with our results. We sometimes even show a tendency of taking the long way from point a. to point b. because it then makes it seem as if we've accomplished a great feat when, in reality, it's probably as easy as....oh, I don't know……going from point a. to point b. I have a tendency to get lost, however, if there are more than two or three steps. That's why I always have parts left over when I put stuff together. The instructions are just too complicated, even if it's the right way to do it. I am always looking for the easy way out. And yet, I never seem to think in simple terms when it comes to trying to solve a problem. It seems more thorough to consider all possible solutions or angles that will lead to one. One day recently, I picked up the phone and heard no dial tone. Immediately, I panicked and began to imagine all of the scenarios as to why the phone wasn't working. I began to go over my checklist of things that could have gone wrong. First, I checked the other phones in the house and, sure enough, they were all silent. My first instinct, since we have our phones bundled with the tv and computers on our cable system, was to curse the cable company and all of it's perceived incompetence. That I did well. Then I tried turning on the tv. It worked as did the computers. It was not a signal problem. My next step was to use a little trick the cable guy taught me the last time all of my communication with the outside world was cut off. I went to the modem, pulled out the battery, unplugged it (both of which seemed to turn off the power) and counted to thirty. I suspect twenty nine would not be enough time and thirty one would be too much, so at thirty, on the dot, I plugged it back in and reinstalled the battery, or was it the other way around, I never can remember the order of that step. Needless to say, the phones were still dead. Must've hit the thirty one second mark. Now it was time to call the cable company on my cell phone so I could get one of their crack telephone associates to walk me through whatever steps I had to take to get my phones back. The guy with the foreign accent named Chip (or was it Teddy) told me to find the phone jack on the back of the modem and follow the cord to where it plugged in to the wall. To do that I had to move the desk and the bed and the dresser in my daughter's room. That's where the cord went. When I got to the other end, I realized that all of the furniture rearranging was totally unnecessary as the phone jack for the room was on the wall under the window. I really didn't need the help by way of following the little grey "yellow brick road" that lead me to the wall jack. It was when I reached my final destination, however, that I realized how in vain the entire day had been. That was where I pushed the plug back into the wall socket, picked up the phone and called the cable company back to thank Chip or Teddy for his expert assistance, all the while thinking in the back of my mind, "Next time, idiot, just check the plug." I have, since, invested in a "smart" phone. One that is, ultimately, quite a bit smarter than I am. The next time I forget to connect our land line, all I have to do is tell my "smart" phone to "call the cable company" so that Chip or Teddy can remind me to check the plug. Now, if I could only tell my "smart" phone to do actual "plugging," I can even cut out the middle man, whether it is Chip OR Teddy. Simplicity……in thought and deed……It can make life a whole lot easier.

HOW TO QUIT A JOB

I had never quit a job before so I was searching what recesses I could find at the ripe old age of 25 to try and come up with something more creative than the usual letter of resignation with the standard 2 weeks notice. It wasn't the worst job in the world for someone with virtually no experience in my then newly chosen field. I was actually doing an afternoon radio show. It was music that I abhorred at the time on a station that was so small that it sold other dayparts to specific special interests that provided about a dozen listeners to each show and allowed me to “play” for a couple of hours in the afternoon for those few stragglers who hadn't made the effort to cross the room and change the station. I was in the process of earning my “stripes” and thrilled to be there, learning my trade. The day would begin with “Cousin Stan Ozimek and the New England Polka Express.” “Woo, woo, what fun,” Cousin Stan would blurt out after a particularly rousing rendition of “Who Stole the Kishka,” as the entire Polish population of New Britain, Ct. basked in the knowledge that the morning airwaves of WRYM belonged to them and, of course, the few stragglers from the day before who hadn't made the effort to change radio stations prior to going to bed and didn't mind a healthy dose of the “Beer Barrel Polka” first thing in the morning. Cousin Stan's show ran until 10am when the station made a sharp turn in programming to make way for “La Voz Latino Americana” with Walter & Omar, two guys from Argentina who played music for Argentine audiences during the 2 hours they had purchased from the crack sales team, which consisted of one guy who sat at a desk in the back of the room outside the studio. I knew the audience for Walter & Omar was as specific as it was when, one day, they failed to show up to do their show and the general manager, who knew I had lived in Puerto Rico, summoned me into his office and demanded that I “Go on the air and do their show.” I was extraordinarily unqualified to do this but he insisted so, I went into the studio, turned on the microphone and began to speak the street Spanglish that I was accustomed to using and I played music that I was familiar with and enjoyed. The phones began to light up more than I had ever seen at a station that generally had more telephone lines than listeners. “Wow,” I thought, “they actually like what I'm doing. I'm pulling this off.” Well, I couldn't have been more mistaken in my assessment of the seeming barrage of calls. It seems the consensus of all of these callers was, “Where the hell are Walter & Omar? Get that Puerto Rican off the air.” Needless to say, management strongly encouraged Walter & Omar to NEVER miss their show again. They didn't. When Walter & Omar went off the air at noon, the booth was taken over by a charlatan named Pastor Wendell Mullen who purported to speak on behalf of the Farmington Avenue Baptist Church in West Hartford. He would, as many of today's TV evangelists do, beg for money for the church and use it for himself. I had seen his car and the mansion in which he lived. I had also seen the church. It was painfully obvious where the money went but, more about him later. I came on at about 12:15, right after the 1/4 hour begfest and, for the next four hours, played music that was placed within the confines of what was then referred to as a “nice & easy” format. We featured the safest music of the day......Mantovani, the Clebenoff Strings, an occasional Rosemary Clooney number, which was never to be played back to back with another female vocalist.......The likes of Engelbert Humperdinck and the Carpenters were too close to rock & roll and would never find a spot on WRYM's turntables and if Mantovani showed his cojones by doing a version of a Beatles song, it would be scratched out with a can opener so it would be impossible to even play it by mistake. Pretty miserable for a young rock & roll disc jockey wannabe who would listen to Ted Brown on WNEW in New York and repeat his show the next day while trying to find a flicker of a creative flame from deep within. After my rousing 4 hours of stealing and butchering other peoples material, Cousin Stan returned to steer the “New England Polka Express” to the end of another broadcast day. “Woo, woo......what fun.” My initial attitude when I began working there was that if the boss told me to carry tires out to his car (which he had) I would simply ask, “Back seat or trunk?” That's how badly I wanted this career. That all changed after a pretty short time when I found my conscience, which was pretty easy to do, given one particular policy that was, basically, just part of the thinking of the times. Radio stations allowed smoking in the studios with no thought to the damage it could do to very expensive broadcasting equipment, not to mention to the people who provided the voices behind the mic. It was socially acceptable and everyone did it. I smoked cigarettes but, I would always bring a pipe to work that was ½ filled with a very nice cherry blend tobacco and ½ filled with a very nice grade of marijuana. One way or another I was bound and determined to enjoy a Clebenoff Strings arrangement of some bad song from the 30's or 40's. Unfortunately, the pot was never quite that good. I did, however, began to see the hypocrisy of station management in general and the noon panhandler in particular. Was this the reality of everything I had dreamed about? Was this “show biz?” I had had about all I could take from the good pastor and, on one particular occasion when the weed gave me a but of spunk, I took his theme music off the turntable and, as he was finishing his plea for funds (daddy needs a new Cadillac) I replaced it with “Sympathy for the Devil” by the Rolling Stones. He was livid but, for some reason, I managed to keep my job. My world began to look up one afternoon when I got a call from a beautiful music station in Hartford that was looking for someone to play Mantovani and the Clebenoff Strings from 6pm to midnight on a much bigger station with a much bigger audience in a much bigger market. I was about to make the massive leap from New Britain radio, which consisted of one station, to Hartford radio with, maybe, 8 or 10 stations. “Woo woo....what fun.” I accepted their offer right then and there. Before I had hung up the phone, I had a new job for more money at a much bigger and better station and it took no time to make my decision to quit that dead end job and head for the open road of my up and coming broadcasting career. The offer of a better job in itself was enough to get a few creative juices moving towards the flow I needed to make it in my chosen field. My next move became apparent immediately. As a Percy Faith was wrapping up some innocuous tune that was as insipid in the background as it was as a foreground piece, I had Jethro Tull's “Aqualung” album cued up on turntable #2 and ready to go right from track number #1, “Aqualung,” which was about an old lecher who was “Sitting on the park bench --eyeing little girls with bad intent. Snot is running down his nose --greasy fingers smearing shabby clothes.” That was followed by “Cross Eyed Mary,” the tale of a school girl prostitute. Just the kind of stuff that would cause management to blow a blood vessel or two. I started the record, turned on the microphone, walked out of the studio and got in my car to drive home, listening to the station and being entertained by the sounds of the GM scratching the record and cursing on the air. “Now THAT,” I concluded, "was some very good radio. Woo, woo.....what fun!”

FIRST DON'T PAY

I like to reminisce. I'm at an age and a stage of life where “looking back” can literally provide hours of entertainment but, I'm careful not to spend TOO much time in the past because.......well, you know what they say about your life flashing before your eyes. I don't want to give the guy in the dark cloak with the sickle too much ammunition. Over the course of my career, which spanned nearly a half century, I was involved in a number of “firsts,” none of which paid as well as they did for numbers two and beyond. Of course, doing something that had yet to be done was extremely satisfying and perfecting it so that someone else could come along and parlay it while I looked for another project to give away, always warmed the cockles but, honestly, who the hell needs warm cockles. I actually prefer my cockles a little on the chilled side. Maybe that's just me. In the mid 1970's, I was working as a disc jockey on what was then, the #2 rock station in Philadelphia, WYSP. Up until that time, morning shows, as well as pretty much all dayparts on FM stations, were whispered. It just sounded cool and laid back and made the DJ sound more like a musicologist. AM radio was king in those days. It had the credibility and massive listenership of it's longevity and FM was new and untested. A bastard stepchild where those who couldn't get jobs on the AM big boys went. That was where all the decent programming and the money were. There was quite a bit of experimentation on FM radio back then. We were all vying for the same ratings as the AM giants but we knew that our audiences would be appreciably smaller and, quite probably, stoned. I had gotten the job at WYSP because the powers that be at the FM station where I was at the time had told me, in no uncertain terms, that the insulting salary they were paying me was all I would ever see there. I made a couple of phone calls to program directors in town. One to the biggest AM player and the other to a struggling FM station that played the music I liked. I never heard from the AM station but the program director of the little FM, Sonny Fox, called back and told me to come by. After our initial interview, which consisted of smoking a joint while going for a ride in his Corvette, I was the new morning man at WYSP.....at a salary that wasn't much better than where I had been but there was room for growth and that, in itself, was a refreshing change, not to mention, the music was a hell of a lot better Sonny understood the nature of our uphill battle and was not averse to trying new things. That became evident the morning he called me into his office after my show and asked a simple question that changed my career and, subsequently, my life, “Have you ever heard of Bob & Ray?” My mouth hit the floor. I loved Bob & Ray and everything they were about. I had listened to the AM radio comedy duo for years on everything from Boston Radio to New York radio to NBC's Monitor and, eventually, Piels Beer commercials. They were heroes and I would have killed to do what they were doing. Fortunately, no-one had to die that day......all I had to do was answer, “Let's do it!” We created a form of theater of the mind that just wasn't being done on the FM airwaves We wrote comedy bits, brought in a cast of characters and became the first comedy morning team in rock & roll radio taking our little wannabe FM station to the top of Philadelphia's ratings. We have since been referred to as the “precursor to the morning zoo format,” which, of course, made a lot of cash for a lot of people. The Fox & Leonard Morning Show only lasted about 4 years and we had a lot of fun......but, nobody ever showed US the money. After my stint at WYSP, I moved on to WLS in Chicago where I was, once again, relegated to the position of disc jockey, reading image liners and “playin' the hits.” After 2 years or so, I moved on to WEFM to do a morning show playing beautiful music because it paid the bills. One day I received a call from a young programmer in Canada, but originally from Philly, named Robert G. Hall. Robert was familiar with Fox & Leonard and was calling to tell me about an experimental project that he was involved with. It was a satellite delivered radio network that would provide 24 hour formats for small and medium markets from coast to coast and beyond. It was a very ambitious venture. There had been a few individual shows sent to stations this way but never programming that ran 24 – 7. I was being offered the morning show on the adult contemporary format and my timing and placement couldn't have been better. The network had to broadcast from the south suburbs of Chicago because WGN had its satellite uplink there and, as the technology of the times dictated, it was the only place in the country we could broadcast from. I just happened to live there and hated my job, so my answer, even with the mediocre pay they could afford, was an unqualified, “When do we start?” We physically built the studios ourselves in a strip mall in Mokena, Ill., a suburb about 30 miles south west of Chicago and about 4 miles from my house. We dubbed all the music from vinyl onto carts and, on Oct. 1, 1981, I became the first person to turn on a microphone on the Satellite Music Network. We started with two formats and two affiliates and never knew, from week to week, whether the checks would bounce. We struggled through all kinds of issues and would often have to brainstorm to come up with solutions to problems that had never before existed. Before long, we became a success, added formats and were, eventually, were sold to ABC. We were now the ABC Radio Network and growing in leaps and bounds, trying to fend off the the other companies that were trying to knock this upstart off it's throne. That gave way to the Clear Channels and Cumuluses that would come along and monopolize the radio business so that people like Howard Stern and Ryan Seacrest could make obscene amounts of money off the ideas that we had implemented, fine tuned and ran on a shoestring. You're welcome! I stayed with the network for 25 years but never saw the kind of cash that became the norm for a select few. During my time at ABC, I was approached with another new idea that I found to be exciting and a good prospect to finally “cash in.” The network had worked out a deal with the Peoples Republic of China wherein we would provide a daily, one hour show for Radio Shanghai called “The American Music Hour.” I figured that, if this took off, the sky was, conceivably, the limit. The week was divided into formats and specialty shows, providing one hour of different programming each day. Mine was the very first show recorded and, soon, I was given 2 slots per week. One was a “pop music” format which highlighted the biggest pop hits of the week and, for the other, I designed a show that would spend an hour each week spotlighting one particular artist. The shows were a huge success. The loved us in China and, before we knew it, we had expanded to 3 more markets in different provinces giving us a potential audience of about a billion listeners a day. That is probably a slight exaggeration, but not by much. I did the show for 7 years. “Could this finally be my goldmine?” I thought, assuming that such a massive audience had to be worth at least a small stipend. That was about the time that the fine folks who ran the The Peoples Republic decided they didn't feel like paying ABC for the programming any longer and the plug was pulled. Another one bites the dust. After I left ABC I was involved in a couple of more “firsts.” One was an IPTV (Internet Protocol Television) company that was so small and run by criminals and really doesn't deserve much of a mention, so, I will only say that I was once again the first. As it turns out, in that particular venture, I was also the last. Unless you count the owner who was eventually found in the Turks and Caicos Islands and extradited back to the jail where he is now spending his days.....and nights. Not only was there no money in that little sidetrack but for the last 8 weeks, I worked for free. That didn't seem to be the direction I should have been going at that point in my career. It wasn't long before I retired and was able to do so with the knowledge that I was instrumental in a lot of changes in the industry by virtue of being the first in any number of projects that were revolutionary in concept and paid nothing, paving the way for many talented folks to make “the big bucks.” Too bad you can't eat satisfaction. I have now embarked on a new first, at least for me.....blogging. I like to write and I hope people enjoy what they read as I still hold on to the hope that I can find a dollar or two in the written word. So, how's that working for me? Well, as I sit here in the process of filing for bankruptcy, one question comes immediately to mind - “Anybody wanna buy a blog?”

JUST A RICHIE HAVENS SONG

Take a half a second and look back. Now, look around and then try to imagine what you can of the future. Got it? Now, ask yourself, “Was there or will there be any time during this perusal of life when you knew or will know the taste of absolute freedom?” The answer is, “Well, of course not. Don't be silly.” When we are born, as free as we may feel, by virtue of knowing no better, we are living in diapers with the need to be changed by someone else. We have to be fed, cleaned and clothed by others. Our hands are too small and uneducated in the ways of these things and we need help. So, we lay in a dirty diaper, whining because we are uncomfortable in a pile of poop while longing for the day we are self-sufficient and can take care of the problem for ourselves as well as the feeding and clothing issues. We have to rely on others for every aspect of our journey to this point. Of course, as we get older and wiser to the ways of the world, we also become more nimble and are able to tackle such dilemmas as using a toilet and it's accompanying paper, zipping and buttoning up our clothing and shoving a spoon or fork full of food into our mouths. But, we still need guidance from those more experienced, like parents or guardians, to lead us to our teen years where we tend to get even more awkward. We are still at the mercy of those helping us to negotiate the years that will get us to adulthood and, ideally, real freedom. I had a Bar Mitzvah when I reached the ripe old age of 13. This is a ritual that is meant to usher the young boy into manhood and, with manhood comes what, boys and girls? That's right – freedom. I quickly learned that this was not the case when, after the ceremony, I decided to take the car and a girl I thought was pretty hot on a weekend getaway. I believe the response was something like, “Boy, have you lost you ever lovin' mind? You're 13.” As the back of my fathers hand entered the space occupied by my head, I could feel my new found adult status disappearing before my very being. That's when I realized that this “Manhood” claim that was associated with the rite itself was a no more than a lie that was designed to get me into the building in the first place. There would be no “freedom” that day. It was during my early teens that Nina Simone released a wonderful song called, "I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel to Be Free." As soon as I heard it, I decided to write a response song called, “No Shit....Tell Me About It,” but, that became a moot point when I realized that I didn't play an instrument. Nor could I read or write music. I knew two things about music – I liked it and I owned a transistor radio so I could listen to it and enjoy it while in school, bed, dinner or on the playground because it came with an earplug. My song writing career had come to a screeching halt before it ever had a chance to get underway. Even with the consolation of being entertained through a little cord running to my ear, as yet, I had no clue what “freedom” was. I still had to be in the house by the time the street lights came on. I got into enough trouble in high school that I spent most of my time in detention thus negating even the few hours of after school freedom that my friends used for pick up baseball games and Setback card tournaments on the picnic table at the school playground. The trouble was enough to get me sent off to a boarding school in my sophomore year where I became a prisoner of a dormitory existence for the ensuing 2 and ½ years. The only way out was down the wall of the old Victorian building that provided dormitory space for our wayward asses. And there was a time frame for that. About 11pm to 4 or 5 am. The six months or so that I spent in college seemed to have been no more than a slightly advanced version of the boarding school with most of my time and activities ….... OK, classes.......being dictated by authority figures. As usual, I had no say or interest in the matter. I left college and thought, “Now, finally, some freedom to do some of the things I want to do.” That's when the letter came. If you are old enough, you'll remember that letter. It began with the word, “greetings.” I had just been drafted into the military. Not only do we lose our freedom when we “muster in,” we also give up all of our constitutional rights for, in my case, four years. After the war, I came home and became inundated with adult stuff. Things like working at a steady job so as to provide for any subsequent families, in my case, two over the course of nearly 40 years. Families filled with people who seemed to come with needs. Changing their diapers, feeding them, making sure they are educated and, over all, preparing them for the same myth of freedom that I had been lied to about for all of those years. In the end, the jokes on them. Recently, I became an “empty nester.” All of the kids are gone and I have been looking forward to FINALLY experiencing the type of freedom that had eluded me to this point. Not a day goes by where there isn't some sort of drama coming from one or more of the kids who are now trying to negotiate their adult lives only to one day be as confounded by the real meaning of freedom as I am. Aside from all of the issues with the kids and their lives, we have grown up and aging concerns that divert us from freedom like never before. The kids are gone. I'm tired and parts of my body ache as they begin their slow descent into the residue of our lives known as senior citizenhood. We know full well that, in due time, we will be, once again, living in diapers with the need to be changed by someone else. We will again have to be fed and cleaned and clothed by others. So, we will lay in a dirty diaper, whining because we are uncomfortable in a pile of poop. As for that freedom that seems to have outwitted us for all these years of yearning? We come to a final conclusion that Kris Kristoffersen knew the answer all along - “Freedom's just another word for nuthin' left to lose.”

STICKS & STONES

I was a bit taken aback by a recent response to one of my posts on Facebook. I really wasn't surprised by the sentiment as the guy who posted the comment possesses an outlook that is diametrically opposed to mine when it comes to just about everything and, yet, through our work in the media, we have garnered a healthy respect for each other and have often been able to hold a civil conversation. We have even threatened to get together for a beer or two on a number of occasions. Recently, however, he posted something as a response to someone else who responded to a post of mine that I just can't seem to let go of. Let me try to explain: After the legislature in Arizona passed a law that allows, and almost seems encourage, discrimination against members of the LGBT community based on religious beliefs, I posted an opinion. This law will also allow discrimination against Jews, Muslims, Sikhs, Atheists – basically anyone who is not a Christian, and let religious beliefs serve as the reason. My initial comment read, “I wonder how long it will be before members of the LGBT community will be forced to wear rainbow armbands so that those who choose to discriminate will know who to keep out. No armbands needed for people of color - they're obvious. As for non-Christians - Well, they can save money by distributing a few cases of used Star of David armbands that someone picked when visiting Germany a while back. When did the government in Arizona become the Fourth Reich? Honestly - this is exactly the kind of shit that people in MY family came here to escape - and this is just how it started!” I received quite a few comments including one from a friend in Texas who wrote, with tongue firmly embedded in cheek, “Finally a state with more rednecks per capita than Texas!” Well, that seemed to truly anger the guy who made the statement that this piece is about and, I knew he was pissed off when he made it. If fact it didn't take him long at all when he saw the “rednecks in Texas” observation to remark, “Liberals throw the redneck term so much, it is damn near racist... And some of us are getting kind of tired of it.” I am really very sorry to see that some of “you” are getting "kind of tired" of the term “redneck” which you see as being turned into something “damn near racist.” Probably about as "kind of tired" as I got of being called a “kike” and having rocks thrown at me by neighbors at about the age of 8. Or as "kind of tired" as I got of exclusion when I was told I couldn't pledge any of the fraternities on my college campus by the time I had reached 18. All frats and sororities on campus were “restricted.” Or as "kind of tired" as I got of being asked where my horns and tail were by some clown from Georgia (I hesitate to use the term redneck), who was dead serious and found a way to leave literature on my pillow, each night, warning me that I was bound for hell. I was all of 19. I didn't have the heart to tell him that we were both already in hell. It was called boot camp. Or as "kind of tired" as my parents got, while trying to buy a house in Connecticut, of all places, of being told that we weren't at all welcome nor allowed to buy in a number of areas. Or as "kind of tired" as my wife's extremely educated family got of being referred to as “niggers” and told they could not legally vote until the big, bad government stepped in in 1965 and gave them the ability to exercise the most basic of our rights, although, even in 2014, it's still made as difficult as possible. You see, pal, I do understand how you feel when you see the term redneck bandied about in such a cavalier way. I truly get it when you say that it's “damn near racist” to use the term. I might be a little more clear in my perception, however, if the terms I've had to deal with for my entire life hadn't far surpassed the “damn near racist” stage more than 60 years ago. The most ironic thing about his comment, however, was that it was a response to a friend who will be the first to use the term “Texas redneck” to describe himself. I suppose there might be a place in some minds that can find a modicum of racist implication in the term “redneck.” I'm just not sure where that could possibly be since the “art” of using the race of another as a way to hate, exclude and make life as miserable as possible for had to come from somewhere. When one group ranks others as inherently inferior and acts upon those beliefs to keep others down socially, economically, spiritually and institutionally and then gets called a name, I suppose I can "kind of" see their dilemma. What it all boils down to is the ironic fact that every single bit of this moronic nonsense could have been avoided if only the Samoset, the natives who were the first to encounter the pilgrims, had just had a tougher immigration policy.

CLOSET IGNORANCE

Michael Sam has caused quite the little brouhaha by coming out of the proverbial closet, which now sets him up to become the first “openly” gay player in the NFL. He's never, however, really been IN the closet. His family always knew he was gay as did his teammates at Missouri, the team he helped to a 12 and 2 season. His job is to play football. He does his job well. In fact, he does his job better than most. That's why he is on the football field in the first place. He's not there to score a date, he's there to prevent the other team from scoring a touchdown. He does his job well. There have been a number of comments from the world of professional football, a sport that has more than it's fair share of gay players that nobody knows about, so Sam would only be a “first” in a sense. In reality, the only difference between him and, easily, a dozen other players is that they do their jobs without talking about their personal lives. Michael Sam chose to “come out” months before the NFL draft, in plenty of time to diffuse all the negative and, ideally, be picked on his merit as the really good football player that he is. I have known gay people in radio, some who have done their job well and others who haven't. Those who did – achieved some semblance of success. Those who didn't – didn't. That's kinda how it works for anyone in any job. Of course, there are those who fear he will “look at them” while in the locker room or the shower. That, in itself, seems a bit egotistical on their part. Do they really think they are so attractive that anyone would even want to look at them in a locker room? Little do they know but they have been showering with gay men for quite a while. Everyone who has ever played a sport has showered somebody who is gay and never knew it because it was always as irrelevant as showering with a guy with a birthmark. You won't catch the birthmark and you won't catch the gay. It was never a problem for Sam in the Mizzou locker room as the team tallied up win after win after win. An anonymous (there's a surprise) player personnel assistant even had the gall to chime in with: "It'd chemically imbalance an NFL locker room." I was never aware that a football locker room was so important to the earth's ecosystem. You'd think the likes of anabolic steroids, Aderall and a plethora of pain killers had taken care of that environmental issue a long time ago. Sam is, most assuredly, not the first professional NFL player to identify as “gay.” David Kopay, running back for 5 different teams between 1964 and 1972 was the first NFL player to “come out of the closet,” albeit after he retired. He even revealed, in his post football career book, that he had an affair with another NFL player, who played for the Washington Redskins from 1965 – 1977. He remained unnamed in Kopay's book but everyone knew it was tight end (his position on the field, not a favorable review from Kopay) Jerry Smith. After Kopay, four others made themselves known after the fact – Roy Simmons in 1992, Esera Tuaolo in 2002, Wade Davis in 2012 and, in 2013 (after he left the game) offensive tackle Kwame Harris who played six seasons with the NFL as an Oakland Raider and a San Francisco 49er. His family had known he was gay ever since he discovered it as a young boy. His NFL teammates didn't have a clue. I'm not sure it would have been much of a problem for him, though, if they did. At 6'7” and weighing in at 320lbs, would YOU have been the one to tell him he couldn't take a shower? Try googling “LGBT Sports People” and then give yourself some time to read because the list is extensive. And it permeates every professional sport from baseball to basketball to football to hockey to soccer to tennis to swimming to handball to water polo.....and beyond. The difference? Most of them (depending on the sport) “came out” after they had finished with their careers, not before beginning them like Mr. Sam. Remember when Jackie Robinson became the first Black player in major league baseball? Well, of course you don't. That was in 1947 and, according to many, it was the end of our national pasttime as we knew it. Well, of course it wasn't. Baseball got progressively better as a result of opening it up all of the great players who, until that time, were forced to watch from the stands. That's when it truly became our national pasttime. When everyone had a right to play, if they were good enough, the bar was raised and the game got better. Part of Michael Sam's problem, as I see it, will be the front office personnel who are around my age and who still live ensconced in their little worlds of out dated morality and judgement. When they leave and the younger guys (and gals) take over, we will see a much more tolerant system where things like race, religion and sexual preference become as valid as hair and eye color or length of fingernails when it comes to finding players so the team can win games. What about Michael Sam? The NFL seems to be much more tolerant of domestic abusers, murderers and animal torturers like Michael Vick than it is of a guy who chooses to show his affection, in private, to someone outside the perceived norm. Will he still be at the top of the NFL draft? Will his fortunes fade and drop him to a much lower number? Will he even be drafted at all? That remains to be seen. It would be smart for a team to snap him up as soon as they can because if the archaic attitudes of some prevail, as a fierce defensive end, the players on the other team will stay away from him so they won't catch his disease and his team can win every game. Of course, if they did catch what he's got, would it be so bad? Openness and honesty are diseases we could all stand to suffer a little more from.

THE SWEET SCIENCE

When I was on the air in Philadelphia all those many years ago, whatever semblance of notoriety I had achieved gave me access to some very cool people, some of whom became pretty good friends. I was a young guy and gravitated toward the sports scene, which, at that time in Philly, was smokin' hot. The city's teams, the Phillies, the Eagles, the Flyers, the 76ers, were all at the top of their respective games and I had become friendly with a few guys from a few of the teams. As I reflect back, I can tell you that my friends were all really good people and I stand by my choices of friends over the years. One of my closest friends was a guy who lived in the next town east of me in South Jersey. His name was Mike Rossman. When people met him, they immediately liked him and found him, as I did, to be a gentle guy with a sweet disposition. When they would say things like, “That Mike's a really nice guy. What does he do?” I would say, “He boxes!” “He boxes?” Boy, did he box. When Mike and I met, I had the number one morning show in town and he was a fan of the show. He was the WBC Light Heavyweight champion of the world. I am to this day, a huge boxing fan. We were both young marrieds with young kids and we had a lot of similar interests. We started “hanging out.” He would let me go me with him when he would train at the funky little gym in South Philly that looked as if could have been setting for every hardcore boxing film you've ever seen. There was even the requisite little, old, gimpy guy sitting in the corner, just sort of keeping an eye on things. He was the “wisdom” of the glove game that permeated the place. One day, when we walked into the gym, Old Gimpy asked, in his unmistakeable South Philly way, “Hey, Mikey.....who's dis guy?” Mike said, “This is my friend, Bobby, think you can get him a fight?” He turned his glance to me and asked, “How much you weigh?” I thought for a brief moment and kinda joked, “About 158....a middleweight.” He didn't even blink before he said, “We'll get him Hagler.” My mouth hit the floor. Was this guy serious? Marvin Hagler was, at the time, the toughest guy in the middleweight division. All of the title holders, to a man, refused to give him a shot because they knew that after the fight, they would be going home without their belts. Get me Hagler? I looked back at the old guy and said, “Get me Hagler's SHIOES.....I'll make sure they look real shiny the next time he steps in the ring with someone who ain't me.” Mike won his WBC belt in 1978 on the undercard of of the Ali – Spinx rematch by defeating the heavily favored Victor Galindez. He successfully defended the title once that same year, stopping Italian challenger Aldo Traversaro in the fifth round. Then, in 1979, Galindez decided he wanted his belt back. The fight was set for February but, due to the challenger's embarrassing “no-show” the night of the fight, it was rescheduled for April at the Meadowlands. Rossman broke his right hand during the bout, severely limiting his boxing ability. The pain became worse over the course of the fight, and unbearable to a point where Mike told his father-manager after the ninth round that he couldn't go on. Galindez had reclaimed the championship. I was sitting front row, ringside with his wife and was taking pictures with his camera, documenting every excruciating moment of his down fall. The man they called "The Jewish Bomber" finished his professional boxing career 4 years later with a record of 44–7–3, with 27 knockouts. It wasn't long after Michael had lost the title he would never regain that I was bidding my farewell to the radio station that had just decided that we were no longer “a fit.” I called him and said, “Hey, pal....looks like we're both 'on the beach.” “C'mon over.” he said so I hopped in my car and drove the 12 or 13 minutes to his house in the next town. He beckoned me to the back yard where he produced a Whiffle Ball and bat and asked, “Wanna play Home Run Derby?” I couldn't think of anything that I would rather have been doing right then and there and so, we played into the evening. We were both going through a period where things were just not going right but I was confident that day, that my fates were about to change for the better. I kicked Mike's ass!

THE NEWEST DOOBIE BROTHER

This is an article I never thought I'd write for any number of reasons. I suppose it has more to do with not wanting to be judged than anything else, although I've always been pretty unapologetic about it. I've just never brought it up before. As I get older and see the world around me changing at break neck speed, however, I'm beginning to care less and less about the judgment of others. To the list of things that describe and define me - devoted father, faithful husband, legendary radio god......you can go ahead and add: pot head. Yes, I publicly admit it. I like to smoke a joint after a hard day or an easy day or a rainy day or a sunny day........ Let me explain a bit of the metamorphosis of this odious choice. The first time I tried nature's most versatile herb was when I was 19. It was 1966 and I was stationed outside of Nashville. A bunch of us shared an apartment in town that we called “the flop house,” where we went to relax, hang out and do just about anything we wanted that wasn't military related. We would keep our refrigerator stocked with wine and would joke that “we didn't drink that cheap $1.00 shit. We paid $1.09” for wines with names like Ripple, Twister, Gypsy Rose and Bali Hai. Nothing but the best for our crew. I was seeing a girl from one of the local colleges and had picked her up one evening to bring her back to the “flop house.” She knew what was on the mind of a 19 year old G.I. who spent most of his waking hours around a bunch of guys, but informed me that it was “that time of the month,” but said she had something else we could do, as she reached into her purse and pulled out a joint. I had never tried it but didn't want to look like the proverbial pansy. I liked her and didn't want alienate her by appearing as though I was clueless, which, I might add, I truly was. She lit it and I, being ever observant, copied what she did. I remember not really feeling very different other than the fact that it didn't seem to bother me that it was “that time of the month.” I felt pretty normal yet, pretty good, if that makes any sense. I dropped her off at the school and was driving the 30 miles back to the base when I saw a tree seemingly turn into a lion and start to jump out at the car. The suddenness of the beasts appearance caused me to pull off to the side of the road. That's when I saw the little black & white cartoon clown doing flips across the road in front of my car. At this point, I realized what was going on and I laughed all the way back to the base. In all fairness, that first time was the only time I ever had a hallucination from smoking. It was obviously spiked with something, but it was the mid 60's, I was 19 and I liked it. I even found the visions to be pretty entertaining. I was always in full control, completely unstressed and suffered no hangover effects at all. I felt like I had discovered the holy grail. I continued to smoke pot throughout my military life. Tennessee, the Philippines, Vietnam...it didn't matter where I was, it was available all the time. I also tried some other things while I was under the purview of Uncle Sam. Actually, I tried everything. I make no bones about it and have always been brutally honest with my kids. If they asked, and they have over the years, I told the truth. I told them about how, when experimenting with heroin, I passed out and woke up laying on some railroad tracks outside Angeles City in the Philippines. I told them about taking way too many pills and finding the bodies of two of my friends who had overdosed after taking a whole jar of Seconals. All of the lurid details were there for the asking and I pulled no punches. None of my kids has ever done drugs. After my discharge in 1970, I entered the world of radio. Rock & roll radio in the 70's was a virtual smorgasbord of every drug imaginable. It was also a time when payola was still in existence. I served as program director, for a short time, for a small English language network in Puerto Rico and one of my most vivid memories was of a particular artist who I won't name, who would personally bring me his latest LP's which would be stuffed with money and drugs. I was young, dumb and having fun. By the time I got to Philadelphia in the mid 70's, I was fully ensconced. Pills, cocaine, weed, booze....name it. And, it was almost all free. Like the party with the Little River Band where their road manager went from table to table with a rock of pure cocaine and a razor blade trying to make sure the latest record got some air play. It must have worked. They had some pretty big hits. The next morning, my partner and I sounded like we had plugs in our noses which ran continuously into our beards for the entire show. Not long after that, I had done some cocaine (which, by the way, I never really liked but did because everyone else did) and went out to mow the lawn. I suddenly began to turn gray and I passed out. I was taken to the ER and the problem turned out to be an issue with my heart, caused, it was determined, by my abundant use of cocaine, alcohol and tobacco. Being the complete lunkhead that I can sometimes be, I didn't pay attention to the severity until the second time I ended up in the ER with the same issues. It was then and there that I quit doing all of the drugs. No more pills, coke, heroin, acid or mescaline. No more alcohol. I still, however, smoked weed and tobacco. I quit using tobacco products when I was diagnosed with diabetes about 20 years ago and, other than an occasional good cigar, have remained tobacco free. The one constant throughout it all has been marijuana which, as I learned for myself with no help from a media who has perpetuated the “Reefer Madness” stereotypes, is completely harmless. I have had a great career, contributed to my community and raised 5 productive and amazing human beings without a single pot induced mass murder or night of madness to interrupt the flow. I have learned, for myself, that marijuana is not only completely harmless but quite beneficial in so many instances. Residual pain from a number of my age related maladies is eased tremendously when I smoke, the nausea that can go hand in hand with some of the meds I take for those age related maladies is curbed when I smoke and stress, be it day to day or exceptional such as when dealing with the likes of the VA or the IRS is noticeably lessened. It is a harmless weed that grows wild and has dozens of beneficial uses from paper to pain reliever.....from clothing to rope......the list goes on. Like I said, I never thought I'd be writing this article but, the rest of the world is now beginning to find out what I've known for many years and the “evil weed” is now legal in 20 states and on a fast track to full legalization which could, conceivably, settle the national debt. There are a tons people just like me who are still in the proverbial pot closet which is, slowly but surely, beginning to open it's doors to the realities of this this wonder plant. As for me, I hope that when you read this you don't drop me as a friend or “take me to task,” but if you must, before you become too judgmental, sit down and smoke a joint, and then.....have at it. I'm certainly not going to change. It's been nearly a half a century and I still like to smoke a joint after a hard day or an easy day or a rainy day or a sunny day..........

OOPS FROM THE PAST

When you get to a certain age, it becomes more rewarding to “go back” and revel in times gone by. There's more of it to appreciate and the farther back you go, the easier life was for you so the sweeter the satisfaction. The problem is remembering the things you'd like to enjoy. That's why I love the internet. No matter how fleeting the memory, you can “google” it before it leaves. Since my retirement, I've been able to spend time searching out some of those early swatches that have been so essential in forming the fabric of who I am today. I have found a lot of important people from various stages of my life on Facebook. Friends from my early childhood neighborhoods, elementary school and what was then referred to as Junior High, High School pals from Laurel Crest Prep in Bristol, Ct., friends from the military and my nearly 50 year radio career. A tapestry of all the good stuff that allows me to look at my life from a very gratifying perspective. I went to college for a very short time. The school was in western Pennsylvania about 50 miles south of Pittsburgh in the town of Waynesburg. Thus the name – Waynesburg College. It was a small Presbyterian run college in the corner of Western Pennsylvania, West Virginia and Ohio. There were 31 African Americans and 9 Jews on the campus and, in 1965, the 40 of us were barred from the “greeks” so, a lot of us hung out together. I like to tell people that we had our own fraternity/sorority called the GDI's, God Damn Independents and everyone wanted to come to OUR parties but, we barred them. I don't remember much about the school except hating it immensely, hitchhiking to Pittsburgh a lot to listen to live jazz in the clubs in the culturally iconic Hill District instead of going to geology class and, of course, a few special people. I had a friend named Bo. We would go to the jazz clubs and drink sloe gin and ginger ale. Yeah......I know. I will never forget his philosophy of life. “Fuck it!” He would say, “When I was born, the doctor slapped me and I said – fuck it.” and “If at first you don't succeed – fuck it.” While riding with Bo one afternoon, I noticed that he was driving the wrong way down a one way street and I told him so. He responded with, “Fuck it – I AM going one way.” I couldn't argue with that logic and off we went. I don't know whatever happened to Bo. He's not on Facebook. There was a girl I was crazy about so I will allow her some anonymity. Her mother ran a boarding house for Pitt students and she had a boyfriend at another school. We became friends but I was always a little let down about that boyfriend at the other school. I found her on FB recently and she has done quite well. She became an attorney with a successful practice in Pittsburgh and had a wonderful marriage until her beloved husband passed a few years back. She is having a good life and that's really nice to know. One of my best friends was Dave Smith. At Christmas break, Dave and I went back east together and spent a little time at his mom's house in New York before I headed back to my folks place in Connecticut. I never went back to Waynesburg after that break and I lost track of Dave completely. I was trying to transfer to Uconn but got drafted. The Vietnam war was in full swing in 1966....I was gone. Dave played football for the Waynesburg Yellow Jackets and, as I found out not too long ago, went on to play pro ball. He was drafted by the Steelers as a wide receiver in 1970 and stayed with them until '72 when he went to Houston. He had a pretty impressive record of 109 receptions, 1,457 receiving yards and 7 touchdowns. Then after a year with Kansas city in 1973....HE was gone. I found out that Dave doesn't have a Facebook page so, I googled him. All I could find was his Wiki page which didn't tell me any more than I've just told you and some football cards on the images page. Oh wait, there was this one thing. I was taken to a site called - “The 50 Worst Screw-Ups in Sports History” and at number 46: “Dave Smith's Spike Heard 'round the World - Few remember receiver Dave Smith for his three years of NFL service and 109 receptions. Most do remember him for his performance in the Oct. 18 Monday night game against the Chiefs in '71. After catching a pass from Terry Bradshaw, Smith ran for the end zone, ready to celebrate ferociously. But as he approached the pylon, Smith raised the ball and began to pump his arm losing the pigskin in the process. The rock continued rolling into the end zone. Touchback........ Career defined.” Dave Smith.....my friend.....college football star........potential pro football great........oops!

GOING DOWN.....AGAIN

I have an “issue” that scares me and I don't know why it happens, where it comes from or what to do about it. The one thing I am sure of is that it happens at some of the most inopportune times. If I knew when it would happen, I would be able to schedule accordingly. Here is what happens – whatever I happen to be doing, I begin to sweat profusely around the head, face and neck area. It's a clammy sweat with big drops, if that makes any sense and it seems to come from nowhere. I then get light headed, short of breath and a bit disoriented. My blood pressure plummets and it's very uncomfortable and feels like what I imagine “slipping away” does. By the time I can find and identify a chair, it's hard to get to it without falling on the floor. That's when my wife will try to lie me down with my feet elevated. She then gives me lots of very salty water in an attempt to raise my blood pressure back to some semblance of a normal level. It usually works but then I will need a few days to recuperate because it feels like I've been hit by a truck from the inside. As I mentioned earlier, it's timing is pathetic. I have had to have an ambulance meet two boats I've been on over the last few years. One time I was on a lake in Texas and the other I was on a fishing boat in Florida. That one, at least, provided some great entertainment for a friend. He and his wife were visiting from Dallas and had never been fishing on a boat. He is from Nigeria, which is partially landlocked and she is from Zimbabwe, also quite a distance from the coast. They couldn't wait to go out on the ocean and fish and I was very excited to be able to treat them to a new adventure. We have a lot of half-day fishing cruises here and I had secured our places on one. We got to our first destination, about 45 minutes from shore and dropped our lines in the water to no avail. We tried a few other spots and were still fishless when I felt the sweat coming on. “NOT NOW,” I screamed to myself. Even though it was a private thought, it was loud enough in my mind that I'm certain those on the other side of the boat heard me. As I started to go down, my friends wife was able to catch me and place my head on her lap as she took my pulse. She is a registered nurse who is in the process of becoming a doctor, so, I at least felt like I was in good hands. She started to panic a little when she had trouble finding the pulse, but eventually she was able to locate a very weak one. Meanwhile, the captain had already radioed in to shore to make sure an ambulance would be waiting at the dock as a police boat raced to meet us. It took 3 men to get me onto the police boat where my friends wife sat, once again with my head in her lap and he stood on the front of the boat as it's pilot gave it full throttle. This was where the fun began. We were going very fast, jumping over our own wake and that of other boats and my friend was giggling like a school girl........he was so excited. He looked down at me and through his laughter said, in his very thick Nigerian accent, “Bob, this is soooo much fun. It's like “Miami Vice” without a gun.” We arrived safely back at the dock where the ambulance was, indeed, waiting for me. I handed my friend my car keys and told him to call my wife and meet me at the hospital. The car, however, was about 6 miles away and after getting a ride back to it, my friend realized that he had no clue where he was or where he needed to go. That didn't matter, though, because he was still on cloud nine from the police boat ride. By the time they had been able to find the hospital, I was doing better and was able to say “You're welcome. I'm really happy that you enjoyed yourself.” As you can see, I will go to any length to show my friends a fun time when they visit us in South Florida. I had another episode just a few nights ago. I had gone downstairs to get some peanut butter toast and, as I was loading the bread into the toaster, the sweat began. Before I knew it, I was trying to identify a chair and make my way to it. My wife came downstairs to see why it was taking so long for the bread to toast and found me, in time to work her salty magic. We got me back upstairs to bed but, around 2am, all that salt had me extremely thirsty. My wife offered to get some water for me, but I protested that I could get down the stairs to get it myself and told her to go back to sleep. That's when my foot slipped on the second step and I tumbled down the stairs, I got to the bottom and to the fridge in record time. The next morning I was, once again, very happy to wake up. Period. I knew it would take a few days to start feeling normal, whatever that is these days, but I couldn't move my left arm more than a couple of inches without extreme pain. I had sprained something on the way down the steps and it decided to rear it's ugly pain the next day. I am tired of these “episodes.” They put a damper on whatever I happen to be doing. It ruins it for me and whoever I happen to be doing it with. The latest has to have been the worst so far, though. I really wanted that peanut butter toast.