THE REAL JERK

    A few years ago, while still living in North Texas I was driving to work from Carrollton to Arlington, about a thirty minute drive, I couldn’t help but notice how badly people drive. I’m sure I’ve noticed this before, but, for some reason, on that particular day, the realization sorta smacked me in the face. These driving patterns mostly occur when people are on a cell phone and paying absolutely no attention to what they are doing. They cut you off, they “fade” into your lane and are generally rude, without even having an inkling because they are busy “on the phone.” It almost makes road rage justifiable. Almost, but, certainly not enough to do something stupid, like, the first thing that comes to your mind as you are cussing out the idiot in the other killing machine. Besides, in Texas, there is a concealed weapon law and, honestly, I didn’t want to get shot by some clown who drives horrendously AND is “packin’.”     I mention this because I recently noticed that it really doesn’t matter what kind of conveyance you are using, rage can be a factor when there is stupidity involved. The last vehicle that got me into trouble was, of all things, a shopping cart. Call it “Aisle Rage.”      It was a very nice Saturday, midday, and my wife and I had just come from the movies. We saw “Star Trek” and I was filled with adrenalin. We decided, at the last minute that, since Costco was on our way, we would stop by and pick up a few things. Some Talking Rain (a really good carbonated water with a hint of fruit), some produce and the handy dandy 800 pack of paper towels for $12 dollars, because you can never have enough paper towels.       As we were walking through the very crowded front door, showing the Costco cop our membership cards, there was a guy who was blocking the entrance and moving quite slowly. I didn’t feel like spending the entire afternoon fighting the crowds so I pushed my shopping cart around his left side and was now in front of him. It was then that aisle rage apparently set in for him as he sped up, faster than he had been going all day, and ran his shopping cart into the back of my foot. I buckled and started to go down as I looked behind and, yes, cussed him out. He gave me a veiled apology with a very smug little smirk on his face and moved on, trying to pass my wife, who said “Go ahead, I don’t want my foot to be bloodied too.” He said, again with absolutely no sense of meaning it, “I didn’t do it on purpose.” Uh huh….and I’m Rex the Wonder Horse….wanna go for a ride?”        I saw him again down one of the aisles. I believe it was the aisle where you can get 62 giant jars of peanut butter for $11 dollars and, for some reason, no jelly. I looked him dead in the eye and cussed him again. He got that smirk back and repeated, “I didn’t do it on purpose.”       The incident, without question, ruined my day. I walked out of Costco with an attitude, found myself snapping at my wife and kids and let it get to me for hours. That’s when my wife, in her infinite wisdom, found the three words to calm me down. Those three little words that showed me how ridiculous I was being and that this aisle rage was totally unwarranted. The three words that made me realize why the guy had done what he did and why I had no reason to complain……those three magical words? “You started it.”  

THE OLE' ONE-TWO

There was a time when baseball was the “National Pastime.” Not anymore. That distinction now belongs to football. Not the football that the rest of the world knows as soccer, but the football that involves very large, very strong men running into each other like Mack trucks meeting head-on while driving full speed towards each other. I used to LOVE baseball. As a kid, we played every day. Whether we had enough players or not was irrelevant. We would simply “call our field,” meaning that, being a left handed batter, I had to hit to right field or it was an automatic out. Football took size and strength, neither of which I possessed, but, I could hit a baseball and I could pitch and catch a baseball and I was pretty quick. We were emotionally invested in our favorite baseball teams. We collected baseball cards, listened to games on the radio and sat in front of our TV sets wearing our favorite team's garb while cheering them on, often wearing a glove as well because you just never knew if, maybe, a foul ball might fly through the screen. It was pretty evident that none of us was going to go on to become a brain surgeon or a rocket scientist. I was in the precarious position of living smack dab between New York City and Boston, so the Yankees/Red Sox debate raged through the neighborhood – even through families. I vividly remember my grandmother smoking Luckies and cursing at Don Zimmer for making what she considered to be a stupid decision as the Red Sox manager. I stopped watching baseball when it became a home run derby controlled by steroids. The players got bigger and stronger and no longer played for “the love of the game.” Now they play for money and if you strip them of their uniforms and put them in pads and helmets – you've got a football team. My favorite sport is boxing. I'll take boxing over baseball any day of the week. Yes it takes strength to be a good boxer, but, it's much more like a chess game where each participant has to anticipate his opponents next move and take the proper precautions in order not to get hit while attempting to slip his glove through the other guys defenses to try and knock him out. It's about finesse and movement. It's like chess meeting ballet. I love boxing. My love for the sport goes back to all the boxing I watched with my Dad back in the 50's. Great names still resonate when I think boxing. Archie Moore, the undefeated Rocky Marciano, Rocky Graziano and the fighter that I consider to be, pound for pound, the greatest ever; Sugar Ray Robinson. I love boxing. I kept following the game as I got older. I lost money on the first Cassius Clay/Sonny Liston fight. Some clown in High School was taking Clay and giving odds. Who knew? I think I lost 6 dollars on that one. By the 70's I was living in Philadelphia and one of my best friends was the WBC Light Heavyweight Champion of the World. I got the picture of the uppercut that knocked him out at the Meadowlands in his third title defense. With HIS camera. I love Boxing. Boxing is a wonderful union of mind and body. The mind has to be strong enough to be able to control your strategy as you defend, anticipate your opponents next move, try to hit him and come up with your own next move. The body has to be able to to withstand extreme punishment while providing the stamina and power to go from beginning to end. The strength of mind has to be equal to the strength of body. I love boxing. I've taught my girls to Box. My oldest was at a party with her now husband (they were engaged at the time) and her ex kept bothering her. She made a number of attempts at resolving the issue, but he made the mistake of touching her in some way. She broke his nose. Good girl. You've learned well. When I first arrived in Dallas nearly 25 years ago, I was in great shape and was working out at the North Dallas Boxing Gym.  One of my workout buddies was another disc jockey from the network where I worked. He was doing Heavy Metal and went by the name Mad Maxx, but I knew him as Dave, a friend, a workmate and another boxing fan. One day I asked him if he wanted to spar for a couple of rounds. He said sure and we laced up and started to go at it. I threw a right cross. That's about all I remember……until I found myself being sat up in the corner and hearing a voice ask, "Didn't you know Dave had 12 professional fights and spars with heavyweights in Forth Worth?" I never got in a ring again. I try not to even WEAR a ring these days.………..I love Boxing.

HOW I GOT MY PROFILE PIC

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

KIDS

I was reading the entries on my Facebook home page, which, with the new timeline format can take a good part of your morning, only to come across an interesting note from my cousin’s wife. Let me explain that my cousin is a very accomplished rock and roll guitarist who travels extensively and has been in the business since the early 60’s. He is 71 years old and he and his wife have a 3 year old who is an absolute doll and the joy of his life, even though, when she graduates high school he’ll be in the ball park of 90. Knowing him, he’ll be providing the music for the ceremony. In the note, my cousin’s wife, who I will call Vanessa, because that’s her name, asks the little one a series of questions, the responses to which are absolutely adorable and funny. Pretty much what you would expect from a 3 year old. The exercise is called: “See what your kids are saying about you.” After reading some of the wee ones answers to questions like: How old is mom (she answered 100) and what is something mom always says to you (do you have to tinkle), I thought I would try the exercise on my kids, if for no other reason than just what the title explains: to find out what my kids are saying about me. My oldest is 36. Her response to the request to take the little quiz was, “Dad, I’m a doctor. I have an office to run and I am about to go surfing with my husband. Maybe another time.” My 33 year old daughter’s response was, “I have two little ones of my own, Dad, and at 7 and 4, they are a bit of a handful. This can wait, right?” My 27 year old son is currently incarcerated in North Carolina. He said, basically, “You are kidding, right?” My 26 year old has her masters degree and can't seen to find a job, so she's busy as a nanny and trying to get into grad school to get her PhD. She hasn't even seen the e-mail with the questions . My 17 year old is only home to sleep on school nights. Other than that, I’m am surprised she even remembers where we live, let alone sitting down long enough to answer questions like, What’s dad’s favorite food?” Its lobster, by the way, just in case she takes time to read this, I’d like her to know. I actually think I have an inkling of “what my kids are saying about me” and I’m sure it’s said with a semblance of respect. We have all had a terrific relationship over the years and I gave them the respect I wanted in return. They have always given it back and then some. And yet, I find myself sort of missing that period of innocence that comes from one so young, still in the beginning of their life’s discoveries. The awe with which they can watch a butterfly flit from flower to flower and answer questions like, “How do you know your mom loves you?” with “She cuts my apple, give me a bath, lets me watch TV, sings me a song and tells me I love you all day long.” Would I want to do it for a sixth time? Not on your life, but, if nothing else, the survey’s answers opened up a floodgate of memories of the amazing amount of innocent fun mine all were at that age. It’s a joy I will carry to my grave. So when my cousin’s wife asks her baby girl, “What is Mommy's favorite thing to do?” and she answers, “Drink coffee,” I say, sit down with her, have a cup of joe and savor the moment.

'SCUSE ME WHILE I KISS THIS GUY

One of the biggest misconceptions is that there is a bathroom on the right. We all know that the bathroom is usually on the left - well, sometimes the Ladies room is on the left and the Mens room is on the right, but, I digress - which is something I often do when I'm.....oops, sorry. We mishear song lyrics all the time and what we hear often fails to make sense while it totally ruins the image the poor songwriter was trying to project. Although, “there's a bathroom on the right” does more sense logically than “there's a bad moon on the rise.” How could John Fogarty have known if the moon was having a bad day? But, if he had to find a bathroom and it was on his right, he has a tangible argument. Mishearing lyrics goes back a long way for me. When I was 10 years old, I remember hearing a song on the radio from this controversial young singer named Elvis Presley. I swear to this day that what I heard was “I'm in love – Amawshika.” I had no idea what “amawshika” meant or was, but, by golly, that's what I heard and I was sticking to it......even though the title of the song was “All ShookUp.” Remember the Ray Charles song “Unchain My Heart” with that classic line - "Don't care if you do 'cause it's understood, you ain't got no money you dress in your boots?" In “Fire & Rain” - James Taylor complained that he “found my jeans in pieces on the ground” and made an editorial comment about the elements, calling them “obscene fire and obscene rain.” Who can forget how upset “the Reverend Blue Jeans” was when “Craklin' Rosie peed on the on the floor?” Even during the holidays we're not immune - “We wish you a Merry Christmas, now bring me some friggin' pudding” and the apparent English translation for “Feliz Navidad” which seems to be “Police nabbed your dad.” Poor pop....and during the holidays! Then there's my favorite, which epitomizes the oxymoron - “Peace on earth and mercy mild - Goddamn sinners reconciled.” If nothing else, it's a pretty powerful statement! Sometimes a misheard lyric can anger people. Animal lovers were aghast when they heard Freddy Mercury singing “kicking your cat all over the place.” At other times the lyrics can be just what the doctor ordered if you're having a bad day. Like Donald Fagan said - “The Cuervo Gold, the pine cone ruffian, make tonight a wonderful thing.” The tequila part is easy. Pick some up at your nearest schnapps shop. As for the pine cone ruffian – you could probably waste the whole evening trying to figure out what it is, let alone where to find one. The night being a wonderful thing concept has now been completely blown to smithereens. Even the impossible has been explored when Stevie Nicks sang, “Just like a one-winged dove......” It certainly invokes an interesting image of that poor dove flying around in circles. The issue effects all genres from Classic Rock - Leon Russell sang: “Like a rubber neck giraffe you look into my pants....Well baby you're just too blind to see – to Country – who can forget that Glen Campbell classic where he sang about a “wine stoned cowboy” - to Broadway – Remember that great lyric in “The Sound of Music,” “So long, farewell, our feet all say goodbye?” - to the standards, like when Dean Martin sang, “When the moon hits your eyes Like a big piece of pie......Have some more eggs.” The problem is undeniable and it's massive. We've been mishearing lyrics for as long as people have been writing them. So rather than take any more of your valuable time trying to understand this seemingly never ending malady, I'll just completely misquote The Jonas Brothers and say, “Until the next time you lick me in the eyes – I'll just say goodnight and goodbye!”

THAT’S THE SPIRIT

The oft heard term “The spirit is willing but, the flesh is weak” comes from the bible. I’m not quite sure where in the book it is. For me to know that would be tantamount to knowing where Mark Twain said, “Be careful about reading health books. You may die of a misprint.” I’m sure he said it, but I don’t have a clue where. Truer words, however, have not been spoken, especially as regards getting older. I think I first began to realize this statement as fact when I turned 40. 30 had been hard enough. As a child of the 50’s and a teenager of the 60’s, we lived by a code that said, “Never trust anyone over 30.” It was a very traumatic birthday. I could no longer be trusted. To counter this slip into an imagined abyss of decrepitude, I carried a Daffy Duck doll in my back pocket which I pulled out whenever I encountered anyone and made a cartoon duck noise as I shoved it in their faces. “That’ll show ‘em that I haven’t grown up,” I reasoned while acting all of 12 years old. But, 30 was psychological. By 40, it became physical. That startling revelation came as I was trying out for a neighborhood softball team. I began loving and playing baseball at around the age of 8. We played every day, without fail, at the Bowers School playground baseball diamond. Even if there weren’t enough guys to make up two teams, we adjusted. There were days when we only had one outfielder per side, so, you would have to “call your field,” which meant that, as a left handed batter, I had to hit it to right field or it was an out. We always made it work. I played in the Little League “farm system” until I was old enough and good enough to play in the actual Little League. I played “Alumni” ball and played for my high school team. By the time I was 19, I was pitching for a semi-pro team in Tennessee and had been asked to try out for the Red Sox. A subsequent broken ankle and trip to Vietnam sorta put the kibosh on those plans, but, I always loved playing the game. The neighborhood softball team was led by my mailman Bernie. He told me about the try outs and I was there with all the enthusiasm I could muster, but, as I looked around, I realized the folly of my excitement as every other player that was trying out was in his 20’s or very early 30’s. They were running around the field with reckless abandon, but, as the coach was hitting balls to the outfield and I was yelling, “I got it,” my knees were screaming, “Sit down, old man.” I made the team as “designated hitter” solely by virtue of the fact that I could punch the ball over the infielders heads and get on base. Then they would put in a “pinch runner.” Inadequate doesn’t begin to describe feeling that were beginning to permeate my self assuredness……OK, cockiness. I began to relate even more in my 50’s while doing improv comedy on a stage in Dallas. I had done quite a bit of improv. I was in 5 troupes over the years. Two were my own and I was a founding member of ComedySportz Dallas. I was having more fun than I had ever had in my career and all was going well, until, once again, “the flesh weakened.” My legs and feet started to hurt on a nightly basis. I was on stage, running and jumping around with, once again, 20 somethings and early 30 somethings, and, when they went out to party after a show, I went home walking like Redd Foxx. I would hobble into the house and yell to my wife in my best Fred Sanford voice, “I’m comin’ to join ya, honey!” As it turned out, I was now beginning to feel the “weakness” not only of the flesh, but of the bones and organs as well. I found out I was diabetic and had heart disease. The spirit was still willing, but it was willing a lot more slowly and with a lot more trepidation. I am now in my mid 60’s and the spirit that was so willing when I was in my 20’s, 30’s, 40’s and 50’s, hurts when I do little things like, oh, I don’t know - getting out of bed and moving. Knees, ankles, hips, hair - it all hurts. I suppose I could adopt a positive attitude about it all and insist that my spirit be as devil-may-care as it used to be, but the reality is that the flesh is older and more tired and is now going to take a nice nap!

GOING HOME

It was Thomas Wolfe who said, "You can't go home again," but, he was wrong.....sort of. Not that you would necessarily want to go home again. Things change over the years. People move, the ditch where you had the Tarzan swing is now condos and there's a parking lot where the little store used to be where you knew how to get a ball stuck in the pinball machine to rack up points and get free games. It won't be the same home you left. You can, however, with the right people involved, invoke all of the memories and emotions that allow you to go back home in your mind to the point of even dredging up sounds and smells, albeit psychological. I was able to do just that a few of years ago when, thanks to Facebook, I was reunited with a friend I had not seen in 45 years. He lives in Miami, but, happened to be in Dallas for a convention. What a remarkable visit we had. Let me begin by telling you that I went to high school at a boarding school after the public school I was attending in Manchester, Ct. realized they had an issue with my being there. If memory serves me, and it doesn't always, it had something to do with an experiment to see if a plastic cherry bomb would explode when flushed down a toilet in the Boys Room. It does. The school I was sent to was then known as Laurel Crest in Bristol, Ct. We ate, slept, studied and created friendships in old Victorian buildings that were beautiful from the outside and felt like prison on the inside. Fortunately for our sanity and our appetites, we perfected the art of climbing down the corner bricks from the 2nd floor late at night for our forays to McDonalds or Dunkin' Donuts, who provided the erstwhile nutrition for our all night poker games in one of the big closets in our dorm rooms. Marvin was a good friend with whom I would play poker, play guitars, study and, yes, climb down the wall and go downtown. Marvin taught me a very cool blues riff that, when I pick up a guitar now, convinces everybody that I possess some prowess at the instrument. I do not. It's the only thing I can play, but, I have to admit that even I am impressed at how good it sounds. Marvin and I graduated together and lost touch. He went on to become a professor at Miami-Dade College and is now retired, watching the dolphins and whales from his beachside balcony. We found each other on Facebook and he told me he was going to be in Dallas for an upcoming convention and wanted to see me. We made it a point to get together when he got to town. As he was walking across the hotel lobby to meet me at the concierge desk, I knew instantly who he was. He told me that without the goatee and grey hair, I hadn’t changed at all. Nor has he, aside from the normal aging signs….a little less hair, a liver spot or two, but, nonetheless, he too was unchanged. We reminisced ourselves back to the mid 60’s and suddenly, looking at Marvin, I saw his brown curly hair, his bright youthful smile and imagined picking up a couple of guitars to play our little blues piece. It was a truly wonderful visit that took us both back to a different time and place, even though passersby saw a couple of old guys chatting in a hotel lobby. When Marvin returned home, he found that another “Crestie,” named Doug, was living mere blocks from him. Shortly after their reunion, I moved to Miami and, for the past three years have been spending time with my old pals on a regular basis. We and our wives get together often and it always conjures up great memories of days when, to quote Billy Joel, “I wore a younger man’s clothes.” We also found, much to our delight, that a number of our classmates spend their winters in the area and we have been able to reconnect with some them. Marvin, Doug and I recently had lunch at a local “rib joint” with Mike and Steve, two other members of the Laurel Crest class of 1965. Other diners saw 5 old men cutting up and laughing a lot - we were back in a dorm room, plotting our escape down the wall to get donuts, meet up with a “townie” girl or just play a little pool. It was at that lunch that I realized that Thomas Wolfe was dead wrong - under the right circumstances…..you CAN go home again.