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

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

SIMPLICITY

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

HOW TO QUIT A JOB

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

FIRST DON'T PAY

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

JUST A RICHIE HAVENS SONG

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

STICKS & STONES

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

CLOSET IGNORANCE

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