THINGS CHANGE

Shortly after word of the closing of the venerable Connecticut School of Broadcasting a couple of years ago, I began hearing all of the criticism that came pouring out of the woodwork. Waste of good money….scam……they don’t pay their teachers, so they don’t get decent teachers…..they teach nothing that can be used in an actual broadcast. I can tell you from first hand experience that every bit of this criticism is misinformed. The summer of ’64 found me readying myself for my senior year in high school in the Greater Hartford area. It was a time when our major influence was Top 40 radio and the disc jockey who served as the soundtrack to our life’s adventures. That year, the new disc jockey in town, was Dick Robinson on WDRC. I had an inkling , somewhere in the back of my mind, that radio was the way I wanted to go, but, within a couple of years, I was sidetracked by military service and a little trip to Southeast Asia, where I dabbled in “playin’ the hits” on a local station'…for free. Upon return, I was pleasantly surprised to find a brand new school started by my then faceless hero, Dick Robinson……called The Connecticut School of Broadcasting. When I found that the GI Bill would pay for it, I jumped in with both feet. Lessons were taught by Dick and a few other local broadcasters who had a love for the business that they wanted, fervently to pass on to those they deemed worthy to carry the mantle. Classes were held in a hotel room in downtown Hartford and we learned, on an old reel-to-reel tape deck and a couple of turntables, all of the little technical tricks necessary to help make our dreams a reality. We also learned what we needed to know to pass the exam for the then requisite FCC license. One of the first and best lessons I learned was that nobody can teach anyone else to be a personality, but, if you are so well versed in all of the technical stuff that it becomes second nature and your hands automatically move to where they are supposed to be without thinking about it, you will be able to concentrate on your content and personality. I also learned that as competitive as the business was back then, if nobody could talk me out of it….I would, eventually, work in it. I have, now, for 43 years. Over the past 44 years or so, Dick Robinson has expanded his bona-fide love for the industry into 27 schools nationwide. And, as the criticism of trade schools in general and broadcasting schools in particular grew, so did Dick’s enthusiasm for turning out the best broadcasters possible. This has come to fruition countless times over the years and over the airwaves with the likes of MSNBC’s Rita Cosby, Bill St. James, the voice of Showtime and Nickelodeon and one of the most recognizable voices today and…I'm almost ashamed to admit.... Rush Limbaugh (cringe, to name but a very few. A few years back, Dick Robinson decided to sell his creation and the Connecticut School of Broadcasting was taken over by people who had no passion for broadcasting and no passion for their students. It was, kind of, mirroring the fate of most of radio today – taken over by corporate entities who have no clue about broadcast entertainment and care about nothing but the bottom line. I was privileged to teach at the Irving, Tx. campus for its first year in the DFW Metroplex, while Dick was still in charge. After he sold, I heard key people on the phone blatantly lying to prospective students to get them to borrow the money to come to the school and laughing about it after they hung up. It seemed as though everyone who called was awarded a “scholarship.” It became an unethical and greedy mess that I no longer wanted to be a part of. The world of radio has changed into something unrecognizable and the Connecticut School of Broadcasting followed suit with its new owners. When the students showed up, ready to go to work a few weeks ago, only to find the doors locked, all I could think was….wow, that’s the best lesson of all about the reality of the industry today. Welcome to radio.

A TALE OF THREE NORMIES

When a newborn enters the lives of a Jewish family, they are obligated, by their faith, to name the child after a well respected, deceased relative. In my family, there must have been a pretty swell guy named Norman because, during my fathers generation, we had three Normans – all about the same age. There was “Big Normie,” “Little Normie,” and “Rock Garden Normie.” I have no information on “Big Normie” other than the fact that he existed. I had heard the name over the years and was always a little curious but never quite enough to make an effort to find out more. “Little Normie” was, ironically, my dads big brother. They called him “Little Normie” because he was smaller than the other two Normies. If the three ever posed for a picture together, he'd be.....the little one. “Little Normie” was a constant in my life. He was my uncle and we spent quite a bit of time with him over the years. He had two great kids who grew into wonderful adults but he followed my career as if I were another son and would get excited if I did something that got any type of recognition. When a “stunt” that I did on my morning show from our Chicago studios was covered by the local media and got picked up and featured on the Today Show, my dad's phone rang as it was airing. It was "Little (I called him Uncle) Normie" sounding like a kid in a candy shop. He was so excited. “Bobby's on the Today Show.....Bobby's on the Today Show,” he shouted over and over as my dad calmed him down and missed the entire piece. In my nearly half century on the air, I don't think I ever had a bigger fan than my beloved Uncle Normie. Ever the logicians, my family called the third Norman, “Rock Garden Normie” because he owned and ran a little nightclub in Willimantic, Ct. called “The Rock Garden.” His purchase of the club was a very thoughtful gesture as regards the rest of the family because it gave them a way to tell him apart from the other two Normies. It was “Rock Garden Normie”who took me farther aback than I had ever been taken. I was 23 years old and freshly home from Vietnam. I had spent 4 years in the Air Force and, as a 19 year old enlistee, ready to go off and, perhaps, die for my country, I couldn't legally drink a beer so, I had never been to the Rock Garden. I had heard stories over the years but never had the opportunity to “see for myself,” as it were. Now, I was home, I was of legal drinking age and I had a relative who owned a nightclub. Could the stars have been in any better alignment? My friends and I piled into someones car and took the 30 minute ride from Manchester to Willimantic and our magical evening at the mysterious Rock Garden. Having never see the inside, all I had to go on was my imagination. I'm not sure what I was expecting but when we walked in it was so nondescript that I, for the life of me, can't tell you a single detail about the place. We walked in and were greeted by “Rock Garden Normie” who had been alerted that we would be coming in. He immediately put his arm around my shoulder and started introducing me to patrons and boasting, “This is Jerry's kid. He just got home from Vietnam. We're very proud of him.” He was making it a pretty big deal. He hung out with us for a few minutes and then told us to have a good time. After a few more drinks and some of whatever was fun for a 23 year old in 1970, we decided to head home. I told “Rock Garden Normie” that we were leaving and he put his arm back around my shoulder and, once again, told me how proud everybody was and how happy he was that I would come out to The Rock Garden. He then handed me the check and walked away. That was my one and only visit to The Rock Garden. I don't think the club exists any more and “Rock Garden Normie” is long gone but the memory of that night will always give me a little chuckle.......and a little heartburn.

TALK TO ME..........PLEASE

“It’s so funny that we don’t talk anymore.” That’s a lyric from a Cliff Richard “sorta-hit song” from 1979. Little did he know just how prophetic his words were. Actually, I would venture to say that he didn’t have a clue, as he was referring to his lover…not the rest of humanity. But it’s true, we don’t talk. Oh, we communicate…we just don’t talk. Quick, what color are the eyes of the last person you had a conversation with? You can’t tell from a text message, can you? We text, we Facebook, we IM, we tweet.....we don’t talk. The art of conversation seems to have gone the way of of letter writing, which, I suppose I should explain to you younger folks. A long time ago, in a civilization far, far away, people would utilize an instrument known as a pen and touch it to a substance known as paper and move it around so that it would leave intelligible markings, known as letters. You should know what they are. You have them on your keyboards. They would put these letters together on the paper and then fold it, put it into a pocketed piece of paper known as an envelope and then into…are you ready….a mailbox, only to have it delivered to whoever you were trying to communicate with. They would read it and repeat the process to communicate back with you. I know it seems a bit archaic by today’s standards, but, it was very effective. Back in those days, people would look at each other and speak. While one person spoke, the other would listen and respond, constituting what was known as a “conversation.” This, too, was a very effective way to get a point across or, in many cases, just kill a little time. There were two instances, a few years ago, that tipped me off to just where my place would be in the changing communication climate. The first was when the phone rang. It was my then 23 year old daughter calling to ask if her mother would make some nachos for her. Not an unreasonable request when one is on their way home and, perhaps, in a hurry to get back out, as could be the case with any busy 23 year old. I asked my wife where she had called from, fully expecting a rather lengthy explanation. The answer I got? ”Her bedroom.” Her bedroom is a good 15 feet down the hall. Well, I suppose it IS a pretty long 15 feet. I then made the trek (at least 30 or 40 feet) into the kitchen and saw my then 14 year old at the computer. I asked what she was doing, to which she answered, “IMing my friend Cessie.” “Isn’t Cessie spending the night?” I asked. My daughter answered, “Yes, she’s in the bedroom, IMing me back.” I think that’s when my utter confusion started to show. The next day I was shopping for meat. I was at Costco, where meat, in bulk, is cheaper. As I looked at a package of a particularly great cut of about 4 steaks for $30 dollars, I noticed one package was marked $63 dollars. I told the “meat guy” who was restocking some N.Y. Strip steaks about it and he looked at me, without missing a beat, and said, “It’s REALLY good meat.” We both had a laugh and it was then that I realized that conversation, as an art form, is all but dead. You just can’t tweet that kind of spontaneity

FROM GREEN TO BLUE

Whenever, as a younger soul, the “green-eyed monster” reared it's ugly head in my direction, my dad always had a solution to drive it back to where it belonged – wherever the hell that was. It didn't matter what I was envious about, he would often use logic but sometimes he could even get the job done with a stick. “All the other kids have toy trucks, why can't I have a truck?” I would complain with the vengeance of a 5 or 6 year old, knowing I would, eventually, wear him down or annoy him to the point of caving in. Unfortunately, this was where his next move might be to pick up a stick and hand it to me with a glib “Here. Here's your truck. Have fun.” I wasn't sure if he was being a cheapskate or if he was trying to teach me a lesson in the evils of envy and greed. I have to admit, though, I usually did have fun with my skinny, little, wooden truck that was covered in bark. I may not have had a real truck but I had a real imagination, which, years later served me quite well. His sense of logic wasn't a lot better. “Well, Billy Hart's going trapping at the pond at 3am, why can't I go too,” I remember rationalizing as a cocky 12 year old who had no clue as to the world outside my block and the local playground. “If Billy Hart jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge, would you jump off the Brooklyn Bridge?” was his favorite (and, pretty much, only) comeback to such a request. Even if I wanted to to something that was, perhaps, inadvisable for whatever stage of life I happened to be in, with someone else, my dad might get a little confused and, once again, push Billy Hart off the Brooklyn Bridge to make his point. Sometimes it worked.......sometimes it didn't. I actually did sneak out the window, on that particular morning at 3 o'clock to meet Billy and head off to the pond to check the traps that he had set the day before. Neither of us had any idea what kind of traps they were or what we were hoping to catch but we were pretty determined preteen trappers who, most probably, got our inspiration from an episode of Davy Crockett on “The Mickey Mouse Club.” That was about as worldly as we were. As I was climbing out the window to meet Billy, who was standing on the side of my house, my dog started barking. Instead of taking the most logical step, which would have been to back away from the window and go back to bed, my 12 year old mind said jump and run, which is just what I did. Before I knew it, we were at the pond, which was covered in ice, and began looking for the traps, which were buried in snow. I knew we would have caught something because, my imagination told me so. That same imagination that I had been nurturing since my dad gave me my first toy truck. Thankfully, they were all empty. Soon our attention was averted by the sound of a car headed our way. As it got closer, I could see that it was my dad's 1956 two toned Mercury. Not wanting to be caught, Billy and I immediately dove for the river bank that ran along the side of the road. The bank was also a solid sheet of ice. We slid down the into the running water of the small river that bled into the pond, my dad watching and laughing, having spotted us as we made our boneheaded move. He packed the two little blue, shivering trappers into the car and turned up the heater, dropping Billy at home and then telling me that I was not to play with him any more. Billy and I stayed best friends until his untimely death in his late 50's. As I look back, I can never thank my dad enough for the gift of imagination that he gave me with that “stick-truck.” It became the basis of an extremely satisfying career. His lessons also filled me with integrity and gave me a foundation with which to raise my kids. My only regret is that poor Billy Hart must have gotten pretty water logged after all those inadvertent swims in the East River.

CELEBRITY TALES - AS I REMEMBER THEM:PETER FRAMPTON

“Nice day for soccer,” I thought as I trotted onto the field at Veteran’s Stadium in Philadelphia on that gorgeous Saturday in 1977. This was going to be a star studded event and I was asked to be the honorary co-captain of a brand new team for this charity raising game. After all, WYSP was the #1 rock & roll station in town with a good deal of the credit going to the top rated morning team of “Fox & Leonard.” Two man morning radio was unheard of on FM back then. FM was still a relative newcomer and most rock & roll disc jockeys whispered. They were just THAT cool. All of the ratings and, subsequently, advertising dollars, went to the big AM stations. That was a time when the words “clear channel” had everything to do with a transmitter. It was not yet the name of a company that would come along later and monopolize the business, contributing to the downfall of all that was entertaining and fun about radio for the listener AND the practitioner. Being the “Leonard” half of the team didn’t hurt when it came time for perks and this was a good one. Veteran's Stadium was filled with luminaries. Rick Wakeman and Mick Jagger were part owners of the new team, Paul Simon was there, James Taylor had lagged behind just a bit because he was holding the door for “regular folk” who had come to the extravaganza. I told a joke and the woman in front of me swung her head around and laughed. How flattered I was when I realized that I had just gotten a mouth full of Gilda Radners hair. Like I said, this was a star-studded event and the stands were packed with people who probably couldn’t have cared less about soccer, but, were fans of the likes of Yes, the Rolling Stones and Fox & Leonard. I couldn’t help but notice the amount of people in the stands. And, here I was, on the field as part of “the show.” I saw that Peter Frampton was an honorary co-captain of the opposing team. Not a bad choice, as “Frampton Comes Alive” had been released a short time earlier. It was recorded live at Winterland and had soared to the top of the charts. He was riding high with a huge hit record. As I crossed the field towards him, I held out my hand to shake his and when I got close enough, I introduced myself. “Hi, Peter, I’m Bob Leonard from WYSP. I’m the honorary co-captain of the other team. Welcome to Philly.” He looked at me, turned and walked away, completely ignoring my greeting and my hand. A lot of people witnessed this cold shoulder, so it came as no surprise the next day when I was on the air and the promotion person walked into the studio to announced the arrival of Peter Frampton who was going to come on my show to plug the album and try to pick up a few more sales. “Not on MY show,” I said and I asked the promo guy to close the door behind him. The general manager then came in saying, “Hey, that’s Peter Frampton, don’t you realize that he has the #1 album in the country?” “Yes, I do,” I responded, “If you want him on the air that badly, YOU do the interview.” and I walked out of the studio. Peter Frampton did not go on the air at WYSP that day but, fortunately, I had ratings and I still had my job.

AMAZED, FLUMMOXED AND BEWILDERED........AM I

I live in a world of convolution……and yes, it is a word. It means puzzlement. I have imagined, over the years, that the more steps something takes, the more satisfied I will are with the results. I sometimes even show a tendency of taking the long way from point a. to point b. because it then makes it seem as if I've accomplished a great feat when, in reality, it's probably as easy as....oh, I don't know……going from point a. to point b. I have a tendency to get lost, however, if there are more than two or three steps. Just like any other puzzle......I always seem to have parts left over when I'm done. I am always looking for the easy way out. And yet, I never seem to think in simple terms when it comes to trying to solve a puzzle. It seems more thorough to consider all possible angles that will lead to a solution. That's why I prefer word puzzles. There won't be any letters left to throw in a box like extra screws when I'm done. One day recently, I picked up the phone and heard no dial tone. Immediately, I panicked and began to imagine all of the scenarios as to why the phone wasn't working. I was making it too complicated right off the bat. I began to go over my checklist of things that could have gone wrong. First, I checked the other phones in the house and, sure enough, they were all silent. My first instinct, since we have our phones bundled with the TV and computers on our cable system, was to curse the cable company and all of it's perceived incompetence, while shaking my fist in the air like a Three Stooge. That I did well. Then I tried turning on the TV. It worked as did the computers, so it wasn't not a signal problem. My next move was to use a little trick the cable guy taught me the last time all of my communication with the outside world was cut off. I went to the modem, pulled out the battery,, unplugged it (which was a puzzling step in itself because both turn off the power) and counted to thirty. I suspect twenty nine would not be enough time and thirty one would be too much, so, at thirty on the dot, I plugged it back in and re-installed the battery - or was it the other way around, I never can remember the order of that step. Needless to say, the phones were still dead. Must have hit the thirty one second mark. Now it was time to call the cable company on my trusty, little flip phone so I could get one of their crack associates to walk me through whatever steps I had to take to get my phones back. The guy with the foreign accent named Chip (or was it Teddy) told me to find the phone jack on the back of the modem and follow the cord to where it plugged in to the wall. To do that I had to go into the bedroom and move the desk and the bed and the dresser.. That's where the cord went......or so I thought. When I got to the other end, I realized that all of the furniture rearranging was totally unnecessary as the phone jack for the room was on another wall under the window. It turned out I really didn't need to follow the little gray "yellow brick road" that lead me to the wall jack. It was right next to - on the wall. It was when I reached my final destination, however, that I realized how in vain the entire day had been. That was where I pushed the plug back into the wall, picked up the now working phone and dialed the cable company so I could thank Chip or Teddy for his expert assistance in getting me to the phone jack in my bedroom from a call center in Manila. I have, since, invested in a "smart" phone. One that is, ultimately, quite a bit smarter than I am. The next time I forget to connect our land line, all I have to do is tell my "smart" phone to "call the cable company" so that Chip or Teddy can remind me to check the plug. Now, if I could only tell my "smart" phone to do actual "plugging," I can even cut out the middle man, whether it is Chip OR Teddy. I'm pretty sure there's an App for that but now I'm puzzled about how to find it on my smarter-than-me-phone.

CELEBRATE APRIL

I saw a sign while driving the other day. It was a flashing sign that said “Work Zone Awareness Week.” I wasn’t sure if I should buy a cake, send a card or just be aware of work zones, which I kind of thought I already was. Shouldn’t we be aware of work zones whenever we drive? If we aren’t, we could, conceivably hurt someone or break our car through the simple act of being oblivious. There are a lot of similar celebrations that we are probably unaware of. I did a little research because I don’t want to walk through life with blinders on and because, like everyone else, I’m always looking for an excuse to have a party. I found some pretty good ones. Daily, weekly, monthly….people will celebrate just about anything, and why not? Some things just don’t get the recognition they deserve. April, for instance is Straw Hat Month. I don’t think I’ve actually ever seen anyone wearing a straw hat except in movies about the 20’s and 30’s when people wore straw hats on their Sunday walks by the river. It’s also Fair Housing Month, which in our economy is almost an oxymoron. There doesn’t seem to be very much that’s fair about the housing market these days. In April we have International Whistlers Week…for all of those people worldwide, who’ve forgotten the words. There is also Sky Awareness Week for everyone who’s apparently been looking down for the rest of the year. There is another week that, according to the calendar I am reading, is set aside for Passover or Pesach, whichever you want to celebrate. Take your pick. I don’t have the heart to tell them that Passover IS Pesach and vice-versa. And, who doesn’t get excited over Cowboy Poetry Week…..”There once was a varmint from Nantucket”…well, WEST Nantucket, but I think you get the picture. As for the celebratory days in April, there are far too many and too little space. Here are a few I thought you might enjoy: Tweed Day…..right smack, dab in the middle of Straw Hat Week…making April also Early 20th Century Fashion Statement Month. St. Stupid Day….that’s a mass celebration, attended by millions worldwide. They simply go though their lives just being themselves. They don’t even know it’s a holiday. There is Tangible Karma Day…I'll do a good deed if you give me something tangible in return. Cash is always nice karma. April 15th is, of course, Income Tax Day AND, ironically Take a Wild Guess Day, which has been my tax filing philosophy for as long as I can remember. It is also That Sucks Day, which, I imagine, is just a more creative way of saying Income Tax Day. There are others…..National Hairball Awareness Day, Hug an Australian Day, National Chocolate Covered Cashews Day and, my personal favorite, Blah! Blah! Blah! Day……you know that one. It falls on the 17th…yadda, yadda, yadda. This is just the tip of the proverbial iceberg and only for April. The other 11 months are equally as fulfilling when it comes to holidays that we’ve never knew existed, but, just reading through April began to make my head spin. As I continued my journey through the celebratory days, weeks and month long lists, I decided to try and find a day where absolutely nothing was going on…and I was hard pressed to find any. There is not a single day when something isn’t being feted. Not one day where we could say…..”Look, there is nothing happening today, why don’t we celebrate the peace and tranquility of nothing and call it “Nothing Day.” Too bad…it might have been a good reason to throw a party