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..........