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.

FINDING MY VOICE

A long time ago, in an artistic landscape far, far away, the life of a successful radio personality could be summed up with those resounding words, “If you love your job, you'll never work a day in your life.” There was a secret ingredient, however, when it came to reaching that level of broadcasting nirvana that we all hoped to attain. Actually, it was no secret. It was a simple as finding ones own voice and hoping that it was unique enough to appeal to the most listeners you possibly could. Ideally, more than whatever “voice” was coming from your competition. That was an era when radio stations were not controlled by major corporations that originate all of their programming out of one studio for hundreds of outlets around the country. It was a time when a local station would hire what they perceived to be the best talent in town only to have the other stations in the area try to top them with bigger and better talent to “knock the king off the mountain.” These were radio legends who inspired those of us who followed as we valiantly, but not always successfully, attempted to be them. It was only when we understood that we had to find our own voices that any semblance of success was attainable. I was fortunate to have made my entree into “the biz” when these giants ruled the airwaves. The thought of becoming like them was burrowing through the minds of all of my peers as we emulated our heroes, not always understanding that we couldn't just turn on a microphone and be them. One of my early influences was Ted Brown who broadcast for more than 40 years on the New York City radio stations WMGM, WNEW and WNBC. I was doing one of my very first radio shows on WRYM in Newington, Ct. and Ted Brown was on WNEW. I would listen to his show, study his delivery and go on the air the following day, doing his material. People would say, “If you missed Ted Brown on Tuesday, listen to Leonard on Wednesday. You'll get the same show.” That's exactly what it was only nowhere near as good. I was learning and had no inkling of who I was. I was most certainly not Ted Brown. I knocked around a bit before I landed in my very first “major market.” It was Philadelphia and I had been hired to be the first “morning man” on a brand new format called “Magic.” The station was WMGK and I was hired on the basis of a somewhat pleasant voice and the ability to read. The pay was insulting and I was told that it was all I would ever make there. It wasn't until I moved across town to station WYSP that I began to find the beginnings of “my voice.” I teamed with an innovative programmer named Sonny Fox who taught be how to entertain. I was no longer doing someone elses show or just reading, I was doing material that we created as the comedy morning team of “Fox & Leonard” and presented to those who chose to tune in every morning. They were almost never sorry about their choice and we enjoyed a pretty good run with a very large following. We did jokes, characters and “bits” designed to amuse and sometimes jar the audience into each new day. It was experimental and great fun while it lasted, but when I moved on as a solo act, I realized that I was no more than “& Leonard” and had no voice of my own. I was now in Chicago, at the time the #2 market in the country and I was trying to get by as one person doing a two man show. It didn't work out so well. Then one day, shortly after I arrived in the Windy City to work at radio giant WLS, I stepped into an elevator and I met the man who showed me just what it meant to have one's own voice. “This is our new FM morning man, Bob Leonard,” said my program director to the third guy in the car for the trip up to the 4th and 5th floors respectively, “Bob, meet our AM morning man, Larry Lujack.” Larry referred to himself as “Superjock” and sported a world-weary and sarcastic style unlike anything I had heard prior. The key to his success, I realized, was that he wasn't trying to be someone else. He was real and he remained true to his own outlook. He opened himself up on the air and, thus, became vulnerable. A trait that average listeners could relate to. He saw things the way he did and never strayed or hesitated to let it be known. His curmudgeonly attitude influenced many radio personalities from coast to coast and through the years. His style helped change the face of personality radio. Larry's work ethic was second to none. He was at the radio station hours before and hours after his daily show......always prepared. He was the crotchety old uncle that, deep down, everybody adored. He was “charming and delightful ole Uncle Lar,” and, here I was, working in the same building with this giant, seeing him and talking with him on a daily basis. Who he was on the air was who he was off the air. At the end of that first chance meeting in the elevator of the Stone Container Building on the corner of Michigan and Wacker, when he found out that I would be on the FM while he was on the AM, he shook my hand and said, “Well, I wish you moderate success.” Once I was able to chisel away the wall that I had surrounded myself with and became real and vulnerable, I found that I too had a bit of an attitude and was kind of curmudgeonly and that, as long as I was truthful, people would listen and enjoy what they heard. That was the attitude that I brought with me to my ¼ century with the ABC radio network. That and, one basic rule - “It's easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission.” In other words, if you have material that you think will work......go for it. I began to emulate Larry Lujack without compromising my own persona. His work ethic inspired me and I found myself creating a lot of material that, although based loosely on what I heard him do, eventually became uniquely me. It was real. Over the course of my time at the network, I was taken to task for sounding “too big city” for our small affiliates with what one program director called, “too much of a New York attitude,” when, in reality, I was merely being me and opening up and sharing myself with the listeners. When I was diagnosed with diabetes, I would test my blood sugar on the air and give prizes to whoever made the closest guess and I would talk about issues that we all had, good and bad, as I experienced them. I had found my radio voice. A voice that took me on the best ride I could possible have imagined my life would take. Radio lost one of it's most influential voices when Larry Lujack passed away in 2013. His unique style became the prototype for a generation of radio personalities to follow and he is sorely missed, but his presence is still evident all these years later. It may seem trite to say and it certainly doesn't seem adequate but.......Thanks, Uncle Lar.