Back to the Future

I just back from a reunion. Nope, not high school or even college. This was a working reunion. I got together with a bunch of co-workers from my first real job. And contrary to popular opinion that did not happen during the Eisenhower administration. So many memories come rushing back.
My first job was in a television newsroom in New York City. I was paid the astonishing sum of $164 a week. I was so broke, renting an apartment was out of the question. I had to live with my parents in New Jersey and ride the train to work. My monthly commuter pass cost $180. I remember going to a bar after work for some drinks. I went because I wanted to be part of the gang. I ordered a Bud and choked on my peanuts when the waitress charged me $5!!! For one beer!!! But it was worth it. I was a working journalist! Even if my Grandma Helen kept telling me she was praying for me to find "honorable" work. When you consider that most Americans rate Journalists a step below pickpockets, it appears that Grandma Helen was ahead of her time. Most of my co-workers were just out of college. And we were going to set the world on fire. Once, when U.S. troops invaded the mighty republic of Grenada, my TV station aired the first video from the war zone. It wasn't because we were smarter or harder working than the other journalists. There was only one satellite transmitter. They held a lottery to see who could send out their video first. We won. And we celebrated our mighty journalistic coup as if we'd conquered Grenada ourselves. We had some real characters in our shop. One old timer used to chase police calls with Walter Winchell. We smoked in the newsroom. I even had a bottle of scotch in the bottom drawer of my desk. These days I don't even have my own desk! There were all-night parties, all-day hangovers, and in our spare time, we learned the tricks of the trade. After hours, a bunch of us would always hang out together, drinking too much and then drinking a little more. If we left the bars and the sun wasn't up, there was still more drinking to be done. There were late night visits to speakeasies, illicit gambling halls, and even the occasional go go bar. New York is the city that never sleeps. And we rarely did. Maybe I should explain that we worked the evening shift. That meant getting to the office at 2:30 in the afternoon and leaving at 10:30, in time to enjoy the "shank of the evening". Despite the missed deadlines, mangled copy and garbled transmissions, eventually we all got promoted and began making a little bit of money. That generally meant we could afford better quality booze. But it also meant the beginning of the end. Our close knit group began unraveling. I took a reporting job in Gainesville, chasing fire calls and rabid armadillos. Some took higher paying positions in New York. Others headed for Chicago and LA. Amazingly, we were a fairly successful bunch. In our old gang you'll find a fair number of Video Editors, News Writers, Producers, Executive Producers, Senior Producers, Field Producers, (in TV Journalism we have a lot of "producers", but not so many people doing actual work) Reporters, Directors and even a Network News President.
Back to the reunion. We met at a New York City bar, (imagine that) not sure who or what we might find inside. It was amazing to see those familiar faces. For a night, we shared hugs, war stories, lots of laughs and a drink or two. The wrinkles disappeared and the memories came flooding back. We toasted a few who had passed away. And we remembered friends who couldn't get away to join us. It was intoxicating to relive our youth for a few hours. But in the sober light of day I know that we've all changed. I'm not talking about expanding waistlines or receding hairlines. We're different people now. We talked about kids, 401-K's, real estate and college tuition. The party broke up early. People had to get home to relieve babysitters, or be up early for Little League. But for a night, we were all 20-something and ready to take on the world again. We all promised to have more reunions. And we just might. I was among the last to leave around 10:30pm. As I made my way outside I couldn't help but think, sunrise was a long time away.

Copyright 2009

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Jay Walking

Perhaps you've never heard of Scrub Jays. Contrary to what you may think, Scrub Jays are not some revolutionary cleaning product. I'd assume they are related to Blue Jays. No, not the baseball team- I mean birds with feathers, beady eyes and bony legs.
We recently visited a wildlife preserve in Florida that's home to a Scrub Jay colony. Yes, they live in areas with lots of "scrub"- stubby bushes- hence their name. And no, there are not a lot of them left. They're endangered. Interestingly, Scrub Jays have no natural fear of people. They will fly right up and land on you. I am not making this up. Just look at Trina's photos. They seem especially anxious to interact if they somehow get the idea you have food. We have no idea what might have given the Scrub Jays that impression. The Snickers Bar I was eating was certainly not a factor.
Our face-to-beak meeting resembled a scene out of The Birds. The Hitchcock movie, not the rock band. These little blue bombers were flying in all directions, landing on various body parts. Trina was snapping photos like a demon. She's trying to capture the blue blurs on film, while these cheeky (and sneaky) sky chicks were perching on her head. One even fluttered down on Shirley, my Mom. But nothing ruffles her feathers! Watching these trusting birds in action, I think I see why they're endangered. I'm thinking of all the denizens of the animal kingdom that might enjoy a nice self-serve Scrub Jay snack. But as luck would have it these Scrub Jays do have one sneaky defensive system. Anyone know how to get bird poop out of a cotton shirt?

Copyright 2009

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Can You Hear Me Now?

Welcome to the cellular complaint hotline! Today’s first question comes from Tammy in Tampico.

Tammy says, “My cell phone service stinks. I have to stand out in the front lawn to make a call. What should I do?”

Well Tammy, it’s funny you should ask because the cellular complaint hotline had that very same problem. At the time we were an AT&T customer. Our phones simply wouldn’t work inside the office.

Step A: Being polite but firm is always a good idea.

But in this day and age, get real. When dealing with cellular providers, you should quickly move on to;

Step B: become a relentless psychotic.

The cellular complaint hotline called AT&T repeatedly, and we even threatened to cancel our cell phone service. We may also have inadvertently cursed out some of the representatives. And of course, when that didn’t work, we insisted on speaking to supervisors! Eventually, after we yelled ourselves hoarse, AT&T gave us a brand new phone. We did this twice because the new phones didn’t worked either.

Step C: change your cellular carrier.

The consumer complaint hotline switched to Verizon. Wouldn’t you know it; with our new Verizon phone we still couldn’t make calls from inside of the office. And on top of that, the phone wouldn’t hold a charge. After repeating Step B several times a supervisor finally explained the problem. In areas with poor reception, cell phones sometimes use up extra energy trying to pull in a signal. And that’s why our battery kept dying! The good folks here at the consumer complaint hotline felt kind of guilty about getting those free phones when the real problem was the fact that the consumer complaint hotline is located at the bottom of a gully no cell phone signal could ever reach. Excuse me. I have to go out on the front lawn to repeat Step B and probably Step C. I hear Sprint is offering special rates on new phones!

Copyright 2009

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You Lucky #%@&^%$

I’ve been thinking about luck. Our society is obsessed with luck or the lack of it. Luck pervades our language. There's a Lucky Magazine, Lucky Brand Jeans, and Lucky Charms Cereal. We thank our lucky stars. Some people have all the luck! There’s even the luck of the Irish. You can smoke Lucky Strikes. In China, they sell “Double Lucky” cigarettes. All those Chinese lung cancer patients must think they’re double lucky. Some people would rather be lucky than good. I'll bet most of those people just aren’t very good.
There’s Lady Luck. Of course, it’s mostly us guys who are always dreaming about getting “lucky”. And when your buddy scores, what do you say? “You lucky dog!” “Luck” is the phrase that pays in many social settings. When somebody gets fired you wish them "good luck" in the future. When somebody gets married: what do you say? “Good luck!” Today a friend e-mailed me a photo titled “one lucky dude”. My computer wouldn’t open the attachment. I never get a lucky break.
I played some of those scratch off lottery games and actually won. The prize was two more scratch off lottery tickets. Yep, they were both losers. Lotteries are scurrilous because they somehow seem winnable. Nobody notices those 4-bazzilion to one odds. Almost everybody knows somebody whose cousin’s ex-girlfriend’s hairdresser won a bundle. It’s that six degrees of separation that makes winning seem possible—except if you play the lottery, you’ll be separated from your money.
Most people know this. My wife Trina is always telling me that lotteries are a tax on stupid people. But every time that jackpot gets up around 230 million, I get stupid. Again. I just gotta buy a couple of those Power Ball tickets. All you need is a dollar and a dream! Yeehaw. Easy Street here I come…
And what about the lucky few who really do win the lottery? In 2002, Andrew Jackson Whittaker Jr. won the largest single-payout jackpot of all time. Andy took home a cool $114 million after taxes. Lucky stiff. They say money doesn’t buy happiness, but you can pick your own kind of misery. It appears Andy did just that. Since winning that jackpot he’s been plagued by personal and legal troubles. DUI arrests, deaths in the family, an ugly divorce.
According to the Associated Press, a man named Michel Horton is a study in dumb luck. In the span of 10 days, Horton won two new cars. After reading that I started feeling lucky myself. Just this morning, I found a dime and four pennies lying on the street. One of the pennies is a 1948 wheat sheaf design. Trina is pretty excited. She thinks it’s probably worth a penny and a half.
Some people are convinced they can actually change their luck. They carry rabbit’s feet. (Those rabbits sure weren’t very lucky.) People collect charms, magical amulets and even pay good money for “lucky numbers”. Some travel to Vegas and bet the ranch on Lucky 7. Me, I think I’ll settle for happy go lucky. Yeah, I know… Good luck with that.

Copyright 2009

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The View From Outside

So here I am standing on the side of a Pennsylvania superhighway in a snowstorm, with 18-wheeler’s whizzing by just inches from my car. Sure, it sounds fun, but actually it’s a little nerve-wracking. I’m out here parked on the apron because my windshield wiper is falling off. My fingers are showing signs of frostbite as I fumble with a broken "refill". Snow turns to sleet, then freezing rain, as I frantically try to shove those limp rubber sleeves back into the wiper arm. It’s a losing effort, and those tractor trailers are getting closer by the minute.

Bet you didn’t know that when cars were first invented, drivers had to crank the wipers by hand. Either that or they just drove along, blindly, hoping they would somehow get to their destination safely. If they were lucky, they’d hit something non-vital; a cow, a moose or perhaps a member of Congress.

Ah, but progress came quickly. Car travel became much safer with the advent of automatic windshield wipers. An unfortunate side effect: the number of Congress members began to rebound. Automatic windshield wipers were invented in 1921. They were originally called "Folberths". No joke. Many people believe the device was named after its inventors, Fred and William Folberth. But in fact, the term "Folberth" is derived from the ancient Moldavian “Fol-broke-ee”. This term was used to describe something that frequently went haywire. "Folberth's" were not especially reliable.

Inventor Robert Kearns patented intermittent wipers in 1967. Kearns later sued some of the major carmakers for using his device and won a bazillion dollar settlement. This eventually led to financial ruin for the Big Three, GM, Ford, and Delta. Kearns’ financial windfall was such a tremendous financial blow to corporate America it eventually triggered the present day "Wall Street Meltdown". So when you look at your dwindling 401k you can thank Robert Kearns. And who can blame you for feeling a little "Fol-broke-ee" when you see your plunging bottom line.

Modern windshield wipers work very well. On the rare occasion they would wear out, you just bought “refill blades" at any auto parts store for a couple of dollars. What a money saver for consumers!

But those bankrupt Automakers were having none of it. They started selling a bewildering variety of windshield "refills". There were so many different sizes and shapes that consumers would often buy two or three pairs before finding the right ones. This produced some impressive financial gains. But it wasn’t enough. The Automakers needed more. And they got it, thanks to Automotive Engineer, Stanley Imgwanna Robbublind. Robbublind designed an entirely new windshield wiper arm pre-loaded with the "refill" wiper blade. So now, when you, Joe Driver, go to the store to buy refills, it ain't gonna happen. Instead of buying a couple of "refills", now you gotta buy the entire windshield wiper apparatus. The whole mushugana! And it costs like $5 to $10 per Wiper Arm! Even more if you drive a luxury car. You Lexus and Mercedes owners might want to bring some collateral and a loan officer.

I resisted buying the entire pre-loaded windshield wiper arm assembly for a couple of years. I'd been sneaking around, buying wiper "refills" on the black market. But it's getting harder and harder to find wiper "refills" that work.

All of this information was pinballing through my subconscious as I stood next to that highway, in the snow, desperately trying to re-install my ruptured wiper refills. That's when I caved in like the stock market. I went to the store, ponied up $4.63 and bought the entire wiper arm complete with the pre-loaded "refill" blade. Now, can somebody please explain how to attach this thing to my car?

Copyright 2009

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Christmas Memories, Call the Vet!

Our big surprise this past Christmas was chocolate flavored dog poop. There’s a mental image that’ll put some Ho Ho in your Holiday. As you may recall, my wife Trina & I own a golden retriever named Mika. And this time, Mika did a little foraging after everyone finished opening their presents. When nobody was looking, she cleaned out a tray filled with mixed nuts. Not good but tolerable. Then she downed an entire bowl of trail mix, including glazed bananas, raisins and other assorted fruit products. That’s probably bad. Emboldened, our precious pooch pounced again, devouring a whole bag of Hershey’s Kisses. That’s an explosive combination for anyone, man, dog, or even one of the Olsen twins. Did you know that googling “Olsen Twins” gets like four million hits?

When I was a kid we had a German Schnauzer named Heidi. She was a chow hound with a legendary appetite. And just like Mika, Heidi always went to work at Christmas time. Whenever we trimmed the tree, Heidi would start prospecting for precious metals. We always knew what she’d been up to. Eventually, long silver strands of tinsel would emerge from her backside, a semaphore signal of yuletide greetings we could’ve done without.

For pets, Christmas ‘tis the season for feasting’ on stuff they’re just not supposed to eat. We can’t put any ribbons on the gifts. That’s because our cat Barney will chew them up and swallow them. It’s like Lays Potato Chips. He can’t eat just one. Barney will gobble ribbons until he erupts, a Vesuvius-like blast of gaily-colored bits of gooey fluff. Speaking of erupting…

When we realized that Mika had eaten a boatload of snacks we went through all five stages of emotional response.

Denial: “No way my angel would eat that crap.”

Bargaining: “Mika, if you give it back we’ll let you drive the car home with the top down.”

Anger: Trina, this is all your fault!

Despair: “It’s hopeless, we’re horrible dog poisoners.”

And finally, Acceptance: “Hey, It could be worse. It’s not like she’s shaved her head and joined a cult.”

Five stages or not, OMG! Chocolate can be poisonous for dogs! Do we give her the heimlich? Maybe we should stick a finger down her throat? Ewww! Is there such a thing as a Doggy Stomach Pump? Trina, who always travels with a pet emergency book, does some quick research. She says Mika should be okay. But Mika may display some minor symptoms in the next 12 to 18 hours. So all Christmas day, we hover over our dog. “Maybe we should give her some ginger ale?”, I offer. Trina goes back to stage three and tells me what I can do with that idea. At bed time Mika is perfectly fine. I awake at 4:00am to the sound of heavy breathing. No, it’s not Trina. It’s Mika, disgorging her stash of ill-gotten goodies all over the rug. In the dark, I slosh across the floor, stumbling to the door with a heaving dog in tow. Outside, Mika triumphantly finishes the job. Happily, we return to our beds, disaster averted. The next morning, under the Christmas tree, we find one last holiday gift. It’s a great big pile of dog poop, festively decorated with foil candy wrappers. Thank God Barney only eats ribbon.

Copyright 2009

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The Promise of the Presidency

Tomorrow, Barack Obama becomes the nation’s 44th President. It will be an historic moment. But I find myself looking to the future and the daunting challenge Obama is about to face. An economy that’s cratered like George W’s approval ratings? No, more daunting than that. An unemployment rate that’s billowing up like Britney’s mini skirt? Not that either. Could it be simultaneous wars in Iraq and Afghanistan that threaten to crush world stability like a swift kick to the groin? Nope. And it’s not the nuclear nut cakes in charge of North Korea and Iran. The Palestinians and the Israelis? Get real.
The leader of the free world, the upholder of American Ideals, the Grand Poohbah of all us Poohs, has made a solemn promise. He’s promised his two girls, they’re getting a puppy. Good work, Barack. Up until the puppy promise, your future was looking pretty good. But now, on top of all those other problems, you're going to the dogs.
I think most of us would like to see an All-American dog as the Presidential pooch. Something regal. But there’s a doggie dilemma heading for the White House. Obama says their family dog has to come from a shelter. And it has to be a non-shedding variety because one of the girl’s has allergies. Suddenly, we’re looking at a Mexican Hairless. We Americans like our Chief Executives to be decisive. But after weeks of dithering, the doggie debate rages on. So far, Obama says finding a dog has been tougher than naming a commerce secretary. That’s gotta make his cabinet members proud. In his defense, the incoming President has narrowed it down to either a Portuguese Water dog or a Labradoodle.
Joe Biden kept his dog ambitions to himself. He just drove up to a kennel and picked out a German Shepard. Joe doesn’t even have little girls at home. Maybe he’s just trying to show his boss that he's a decision-maker. The saying goes, In Washington, if you want a friend, buy a dog. George Bush had two friends, a pair of Scottish Terriers. Clinton had a dog too. Clinton’s best friend was a Yellow Labrador Retriever named Buddy.
So, let’s imagine that President Obama finally gets a dog. Who’s gonna housebreak him? Here’s a hint. It won’t be Michelle. The Commander-In-Chief is gonna look damned Presidential chasing some mutt around the South lawn waving a pooper scooper.
And then there’s the obedience issue. Bill Clinton hired a famous dog trainer to keep Buddy from acting out with visiting dignitaries. I can’t describe Buddy’s talent exactly, but it rhymes with thumping. Hard to believe Bill Clinton’s dog had that sort of problem…
My parents had a difficult dog, a Welsh Terrier named Teddy. By difficult I mean the damned dog would bite. And he refused to follow orders. ‘Sit’, ‘stay’, ‘for the love of god, let go of my hand!’ He ignored everything we said. So we took him to the same trainer who handled Buddy. True story! After a two week stay the trainer told us Teddy was “too smart” to train. And our uneducated Teddy lived to be a very old dog.
Mr. Obama needs to be very careful. He needs to choose a dog that will make his girls happy, and one that will make America proud. He’ll be done with the economy, the North Koreans, and even the Iraqis in eight short years at the most. But whatever dog he picks may be around a lot longer. There's no presidential pardon on this one. It could be a very Ruff choice.

Copyright 2008

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