The Radio Murders: The Collectors

2009-07-27T03:19:00.001-07:00

Tangled Up in Blue

It started as an odd little news story, even what is known as a kicker in the news business. A Harvard professor arrested for disorderly conduct outside of his home. Words were exchanged, tempers flared and both men were not about to back down. When it comes to dealing with the police, there is usually one winner.

Unfortunately this story not only had legs, but it ran all the way to the White House.

Let me tell you something Mary Collins told her young son when he asked about a movie title. The film was "A Patch of Blue." It was highly acclaimed and starred Sidney Poitier. In many ways it was a classic reversal of roles when a poorly educated white girl who happens to be blind befriends and is tutored by a young man who happens to be black. She begins to fall in love with him and in 1965 that was enough drama for a movie-going public. The metaphor of the film's title was lost on me. I kind of understood the break in the clouds of blindness for the girl having her world opened up by this well-rounded young man. But what else did it mean? Mom said it referred to Mr. Poitier's skin color. "Sometimes black folks are so dark we're thought of as blue." She said cautiously.

That never left me. And it is one of those things that a young mother felt she had to tell her son. It was part of a hefty volume of defensive knowledge. Obviously the term blue means other things, too, like law enforcement. Here is where the culture seems to continually clash.

If there is a divide between the Blue Americas it is rooted in distrust. I do not subscribe in this notion, but I do understand it. Our Constitution designates the administration, Barack Obama, with enforcing the law. By extension, when any American comes in contact with law enforcement we are touched by the administration, by the President. Yet the president this week stepped into a minefield of perception.

This week I was stopped by a patrolman in Macedonia, Ohio. I was going 40 in a 25mph business district. When the officer came to my window I removed my sunglasses, gave him some important information regarding a certain license I hold and complied with his requests. He was courteous, even friendly and let me off with a suggestion to drive safely. That was it. I have never had a problem with the police. I have never felt the need to be confrontational with the police. Why would I? Why would anyone, especially a highly educated college professor? There was a moment here in Hudson when I accidentally tripped my alarm and the HPD came by (in seconds) and asked for my ID before they believed I was the rightful owner. Again, it was cordial and I actually felt safer knowing they responded so quickly.

There is a notion among many black folks, even those at the highest levels of American society, that when it comes to blue on blacks nothing but confrontation will ensue. I think that is not only counterproductive but the exception rather than the rule.

Georgetown Professor Michael Dyson said on Face the Nation this weekend that, "few black men in America would have the nerve to say what Professor Gates allegedly said. He'd be too afraid." Why not he'd find it inappropriate and, frankly, stupid.

I'm sorry, being belligerent and insulting to men and women who put their lives on the line everyday is not a patch of blue. It is still more of the same hostile clouds we have been waiting to move on for generations.

The Dangers of Social Networking

2009-03-28T11:54:00.001-07:00

I have a great friend who is perfect in the sense that he tells me the truth and seldom pulls punches. He recently disappeared from the social network we shared. To be exact, he made me disappear from the people he "follows." This was a little disconcerting because we have known each other for a couple of decades. He and I have shared a lot. My friend has dealt with some tremendous losses in his life and his view is filtered through those experiences, a superior intellect and an almost insatiable curiosity. He also values people; friends and strangers alike.

What I did to cause him to remove me from his list was the results of a moment of thoughtlessness. It is what we all risk when we sign up for and begin using these internet tools. I am talking primarily about Facebook and Twitter, the two current waves of connectivity that is taking over much of our time and energy. Both these sites offer little windows into the lives of people near and far in 140 characters or less. The fact that you are reading this on your computer means you are likely familiar with these new ethereal "front porches." If you haven't taken the plunge yet, you might want to read on first.

What put my friend and me on opposite sides or the Twitterverse was my ability see the world as characters in one of my mysteries. I can forget that behind every headline is not just material for my next paragraph, but people who suffer real pain, real loss and deep heartache. The posting, or Tweet, was about a veteran radio newsman who was brutally murdered in his Brooklyn N.Y. home. The suspect was contacted through a reported ad on Craigslist, a popular online classified service. It appeared to my friend that I sited the event and related it to the mystery I am working on. My books combine Radio and murder in such a way that readers with an interest in either might find my stories interesting. It's not as easy as church conspiracies or vampires or crime fighting from beyond the grave, but it is what I know. I don't think I did this, exactly. But it does not matter. It's what he perceived.

Radio people are public figures. We have the blackout curtains of being voices in box rather faces on a screen, but still we are somewhat known. Living in a fishbowl can bring out some unusual characters, fans; and rarely dangerous characters, but it does happen. When I wrote the post with a link to the NY Times article about his death I was thinking about my work, my fiction, not the real life horror of such a crime. The post was insensitive and my friend had heard, read just about enough. I can't blame him for banishing me, but I would like him to know that I got the message. Future posts will not be sent until I have devoted the time and thought to make sure my intentions are easily communicated.

There are many out there who get tossed out of my circle by using offensive language and being generally malicious. There is no room nor time for that. But if you do go on any of these sites, please be careful about what you write and who you invite into your world. On one level it can distort your intentions; on another it can invite disaster.

I hope my friend will invite me back one day. If not, his actions certainly have taught me a lesson. Maybe he helped you, too.

The Shocking Answer

2009-03-21T12:19:00.001-07:00

Here's a question I should not ask: did your father ever hit your mother? I am asking this not for prurient reasons, rather a prelude to a brief discussion about an item in the news. We have all heard the disturbing story about performer Chris Brown and his girl friend Rihanna. This horrifying slice of the American Dream has not only been played out time and time again in every form of modern media, including tabloid TV, text messages, YouTube and six degrees of social networks, it is about to become a 90 second public service announcement.

This is no exaggeration. A group whose mission is to raise awareness of the growing problem of domestic violence has reenacted the event as closely as police transcripts will allow. They are not so concerned with the sensational, tabloid news aspects of the event. The stunt choreographers do not resemble the recording stars. They are not even black, which makes me wonder if now about their motives then certainly about their courage. If you read the detailed description of what happened as this 19-year-old superstar navigated his rented luxury sports car while brutally assaulting the young woman, and did not squirm in your seat then may I suggest professional counseling.

Recently there was a survey conducted by the Boston Public Health Commission revealing even more disturbing news. The survey of 200 Boston youths age 12 to 19 found that 51% said Brown bore responsibility, 46% said Rihanna was responsible, and 52% said both were to blame for the incident. Many have suggested that the results of this research indicate a) the glorification of violence in our culture; b) a distortion of celebrity; c) a desensitization of our young people – and perhaps the not so young – to this kind of criminal act.

I must admit I am not really surprised by either the event nor the survey. We have become a culture of violence, perhaps we have always been. We began in religious protest and revolution and we grew by land grabs, slavery and near genocides. It was and is the law of the jungle and survival of the fittest. We are survivors. But there has to come a time when we say to ourselves and our children: enough! We have outgrown our animalistic instincts and can finally start treating each other with compassion and mutual consideration.

The shocking answer might be this: we still have more to learn before we can call ourselves truly civilized. But clearly we haven't arrived quite yet.

Blues, Gospel and All That Jazz

2009-01-31T18:27:00.001-08:00

This weekend, February 7^th the Akron Symphony and a chorus of more than 200 gifted amateurs will fill the rafters at EJ Thomas with beautiful music. The rafters and beyond; the very heavens will open up to listen. It's the 16^th annual Gospel Meets Symphony, or GMS as the patrons, mothers and fathers of the event call it. Let's be plain, a lot of this is about being the sons and daughters, however many generations removed, of slaves. Not just being black, or African American if you prefer, but of being the survivors of a bitter tradition where song and style were critical for making it through the night.

This week I was reminded in clear tones and soaring spirits that this music means something. Two funerals of a grandfather and a great grandmother celebrated in small, neighborhood churches reminded me of the pitted and dangerous road held together by this music. The first funeral was a simple affair attended by close family. The old lady's man was in his 90's and had suffered from Alzheimer's disease for a number of years. But the family he left behind was filled with young people who grew up in the shadow of his pain. The music came not only in the song of a powerful soloist, but in the building cadence of the preacher: preacher, preach on!

That was Saturday. Thursday was a different story. Mother Wells was a quiet woman who attracted people like a magnet. She died young, too. And when her time came her church – her three churches – rose up in song. Three pastors and a deacon set the stage for the main event: Mother Wells' pastor and spiritual guide waited patiently through the tributes and songs, the prayer and the other small, but no less moving sermons. He waited as the others scaled back their song, just a little. But the call and response, the unity through the spirit and century's old foundation help firm, even as the old church shook. My friend Art was seated next to me. He had not really been to a Baptist Service like this one. And when the pastor ramped up, there was gospel in every soul, every breath and every Amen – "can I get a witness up in here?"

Many of us take this flight every week, sometimes twice and three times. But you can get the same elation, the same sense of history, faith and rigid determination that led our American family from second-class citizens to the very seat of power. This Saturday the journey becomes clearer, and available to all. I hope you can spend a few hours Saturday night to visit America. It's so much nicer without having to say goodbye.

Everything I know I learned in The Godfather III

2009-01-18T15:07:00.001-08:00

For some reason I was looking for mission statements for 2009. It's not a bad practice, although a little late. Mission statements can be almost anything. My friend Sue and I were remembering some of the Radio geniuses that sat us all down in conference rooms in hotels and made us capsulize our lives in seven words or fewer. It was meant to focus our efforts and energy; being single-minded is good, sometimes.

Personal missions are a little different. Today those same consultants, life coaches and motivational speakers would talk about Me.com, the brand that happens when you get up in the morning and keeps on ticking until you close your eyes at night. In some respects the personal statement has gone from a blog to a twitter, seven words to one, never mind the vowels.

Still, the pointed prose of literature and rock songs seems to guide me more than the tweet de jour. I do enjoy the precious words of wisdom coming over my iPhone from my active Facebook and Twitter friends. But the real life lessons aren't truly tested until Al Pacino, Roy Scheider, Jagger, Jim Morrison or The Beatles have placed them in proper context.

One of the early ones that might be responsible for saving my life is the poignant line from Honky-Tonk Women: "Just can't seem to drink her off my mind." I actually said that to Monika very early in our relationship. It was very true, too. She made that kind of impression. Eventually I gave up and we got married almost 31 years ago. And being more than 23 years away from my last drink seems to render that motto moot. Later Roy Scheider made the brilliant observation in Jaws II: "I know what a shark looks like. I've seen one up close and I'm not going through that hell again!" This one is especially useful. How many of us have walked right into the same traps over and over again, even though we should have learned long ago what a shark looks like up close.

The Godfather III was one of those movies that made a far better book, even with the predicate of arguably the two best movies ever made. In it were great lines that somehow got lost in, well, in something. We all know the memorable: "Just when I thought I was out they pull me back in!" But another lesser known utterance really makes me think: "Power wears out those who don't have it." Wow, and it wasn't even Michael Corleone who said it. What Michael did say that keeps me going is: "Never hate your enemies, it affects your judgment." And, "When I'm dead I'm gonna be really smart." I just wish I had read the book before seeing the movie.

As far as that mission statement goes, I never really found one except for this: always reaching beyond my grasp. It's not original, but works for me.

The Kid Smokes

2008-12-28T10:29:00.001-08:00

This Christmas gathering was really very special at the Collins house. We had two additional guests, freshmen in the strange brew of a mongrel collective. And I say that with a great deal of affection. We have backgrounds from Central Europe, the British Isles, Africa and First Nations of America. We speak two languages, Hungarian and English. This year there was an infusion of Pittsburghese; one thing common to all this was love and mutual respect.

The nubees included a new husband of Monika's step mom and a young member of a tragedy-plagued wing of the family. The older fellow is a great guy, with a wealth of practical knowledge and a friendly disposition. The younger man's father and baby sister both died inside of 16 months of this holiday, and for someone barely 21 years-old, EC has had his share of very bad luck. This Christmas was a welcome break from his bleak reality, and this distant family represented some return to the stability that had been snatched from him in such a painful way. He is looking to the Marine Corps for a little direction to increasingly aimless life. I wish him God's Speed.

Our young one is growing up very quickly. We are very proud of her, especially the way she has overcome great challenges. Her all-too infrequent visits are the highpoint of our lives. That's not an overstatement; she means that much to us. Several years ago during one of our visits to Chicago she coyly admitted that she was a cigarette smoker. Monika and I are both reformed smokers, with more than 20 years each away from our last smoke. She was embarrassed to step away from us while heading to Ikea. The next visit she had stopped. But we have a history of addictive personalities in the family and I knew it was not going to be easy. It wasn't.

During the Christmas prep – always a stressful time – she looked at me with an expression that said, "I'm sorry," and excused herself for a cigarette. It was the first time she admitted that the cessation of a few years ago had failed. It was not really a surprise, but parents hold out hope over reason. When it comes to looming problems facing families this holiday and the New Year, this seems like a small thing. But we tend to find a way to take some of the sting out of the big by focusing on the small things, perhaps things we can control, things we can fix. I can't fix this smoker, not with love nor threats nor graphic pictures of diseased lungs. Just have to let it go.

Many will take this flip of the calendar to change something about their lives. Self improvement is always a good plan and giving up such a dangerous addiction needs no holiday. So if you are using 2009 to give up smoking, I wish you all the strength you and I can muster.

Blood from a Stone

2008-12-15T11:19:00.001-08:00

Your mission, Mr. Phelps, should you decide to accept it, it to go the heart of GM county – on a Thursday and Friday when the headlines are bleak and bleaker – and ask for donations for a Children's Hospital. Mr. Phelps? I think I have self-destructed a little early… Mr. Phelps, can you hear me?

Yeah, I hear you. That was pretty much the way it went this past week in Lansing, Michigan. Oh it was fulfilling and uplifting. I met some great kids and wonderful families as the video below illustrates. But at the end of the day the calls and the donations just weren't there. Hours went by without a single call. And it wasn't just us. There was a very popular morning show that also experienced a "Dead Zone." Trust me, it was not The Network. This market is stunned.

We began on Thursday with tons of energy and great support from the hospital and the foundation. The docs were there and the kids kept on coming accompanied by some of the strongest parents I have ever met. We pumped the phone number hundreds of times an hour and built a great story of hope and need and accomplishments and goals. We built it, but they did not come. By Friday night I was feeling the love from other participants, but as is human nature, I certainly thought it was my fault. Was I coming off too strong? Was I scaring good-hearted folks away with tales of sick kids and serious challenges? Or were the challenges of a potentially failing auto industry just settling in, and a reality too great for even the commitment of a few dollars a month? We'll never know.

Last year we raised nearly $70,000. If I'm to believe the centralized call center we'll be lucky if we raise a small fraction of that.

At the end of the three days all I have is the knowledge that we did our level best. When people are afraid for their jobs, staring at a dismal future and inextricably tied to a troubled industry, then any amount is too much to ask. All the other factors really don't matter, and the feeling that I let the kids down is pretty useless as well. But putting that out of my mind is a real impossible mission.

Click To Play

The Day The Earth Stood Still

2008-12-07T17:35:00.001-08:00

I have always loved good Sci Fi. I was raised on The Twilight Zone, Friday night "scary movies" and I couldn't get enough of earth invasions and the undead, classic monsters and body snatchers. But if you pin me down on exactly what is my favorite of all these films it would be the day Michael Rennie spun into Washington DC and began a small panic. He had the sleekest ship serious posse of one – a nine-foot robot named Gort – and a simple mission: Earthlings, don't screw it up. Of course, we always do.

There was something very subtle, very un sci fi about this movie. Even for 1951 there was very little monster-movie stuff going on. It was more the psychological nature of mass fear that this story explored. The movie came out two years before I was born, but I can remember watching it on TV at probably at age 6. I was hooked. I was sure we were just days from being visited and by aliens not nearly as nice as Klaatu. The adults, on the other hand, were concerned about more earthbound monsters: nuclear war, the Soviet threat, racial injustice. It was a time of bomb shelters, fire hoses and commies in every department of the government. The early Twilight Zones dealt with this fear in a creative and calculating way. It was always just beyond the edge of edge of reality; just enough for those who didn't want to face the reality head-on. Today's fear comes in the form of foreclosures, bank failures and automakers begging for another chance.

Until that 1951 premiere the few celluloid space invaders were jokes. The movie monsters were still rehash versions of the old Universal demons and mutants from 30 years earlier. Then that single saucer made its way to a park in the nation's capital. No death rays, no dripping tentacles, instead it was a very serious diplomat with a warning. Now there is a remake of the film with Keanu Reeves, all the 21^st century special effects, and infused with all the self-loathing of today's human race. We are so sure we have been such poor stewards of the planet that whomever might come to call from beyond the Van Allen Belt will certainly reinforce that notion. The earth is much better off without us.

It's funny how we never seem to get tired of movies that vaporize, freeze or drown New York City. Judging from the trailers this one is no exception. Gort, the interplanetary MP who in the original film was left as a sentry against bad behavior, is far more menacing. I'm going to see this movie Friday night in Lansing surrounded by hard working people who are anything but self-loathing. Here there is another Klaatu and Gort on the ground as the automobile industry is dealing with a final warning. I hope this one has a happy (sort of) ending like the 1951 version. And I'm not talking about the movie.

Coverage For Sale

2008-11-23T10:31:00.001-08:00

Here's a disturbing story that I'm sure made my friend Ed Esposito bristle; the New York Times reports that Angelina Joli made a deal with People Magazine for exclusive photos of her twins. There's nothing really wrong with that. Celebrity based media often pay for content. It's not unheard of for a magazine, TV or even online media to pay large sums for photos and interviews. As a result People had its best selling issue in seven years. But what makes this story interesting according to reports is exactly for which Ms. Joli bargained and received.

It's no secret that Angelina and her husband Brad Pitt are among the beautiful people. No matter where they go in the known universe there are dozens, sometimes hundreds of blasting flashes and shuttering irises sucking in their every move. It is also no secret that Joli knows how to use this celebrity. She is an ambassador for goodwill toward Africa and has been in Iraq on several occasions to support the troops and the fledging government.

If you really want to irritate her, call either of them Bradjolina.

When the Time Inc. owned magazine wanted to "purchase" the exclusive rights to photos of their infants Joli saw this as an opportunity to control something that had eluded her and all celebrities, her image. This is a woman who is serious about personality management. She does things to balance Hollywood triviality with social responsibility. I am not saying she is insincere, but she is more than deliberate in choosing her causes. Now she has proven that she can also manipulate those who serve that image up to the supermarket-line standing public.

Ms. Joli and her team of image doctors have parlayed the birth of three children and the adoption of her Cambodian son into more than 10 million dollars, half of which was donated to charity. But telling in the bidding process is a seemingly innocuous line item: "Publications are invited to comment on their editorial plans upon submission of their bids." That is a shot across the bow of an independent press. Now to be fair, celebrity news is hardly a pillar of the fourth estate, but as we blur the lines between news and entertainment, a subtle suggestion like this becomes a leading indicator.

The magazine vehemently denies any such arrangement, but as the New York Times examined the subsequent coverage in an article by Brooks Barns last week, gone were the pejoratives such and Bradjolina and some of the other unflattering clichés one has come to expect from the Startabs. Whether this coverage resulted from careful manipulation by Joli or capitulation of the media is a matter of interpretation. But everyone close to the topic seems to have the same impression: she is scary smart when it comes to having a say in what we think about this beautiful couple doing beautiful things both on and off the screen.

If she can do it successfully, and by all indications she has, you can bet a step-by-step manual is in the hands of every entertainment lawyer and management team wherever stars collect. Reading those celeb spotlight articles is not at all like listening to the top and bottom of the hour news on WAKR or reading the news sections of AkronNewsNow.com, but now the gap has widened considerably.

Bodies Don’t Lie

2008-11-15T15:09:00.001-08:00

My brother used to use the trashcan as a toilet. He would do it in his sleep, traveling down two flights of stairs, through the kitchen and into the back hall before he relieved himself. The first time this happened Mary Collins didn't know what to make of it. Mom and dad went into protect mode and for the first time I can remember they collaborated in a lie. I must have been four years old, but I knew what they were telling me was not true; that my aunt had thrown away an ice cream container without rinsing it and it melted all over. Ice cream doesn't smell like that.

What I noticed were darting, diverting eyes and closed posture on two people who looked at me every chance they had and their demeanor was always open, warm and loving. It's something that was filed away in that little boy and stays with me now, 51 years later. Few people have enough control to divorce their body's reaction from what they are saying and thinking. And when these two things are inconsistent there are triggers that with a little bit of training an observer can detect. We are all lie detectors.

Recently I was having problems with a co-worker. We had come to an impasse and the situation was deteriorating very quickly. We would meet and there was never a time when her arms weren't folded and legs crossed and drawn up as high as the legs of the chair would allow. Nothing I could say would have made our relationship any better.

In Malcolm Gladwell's outstanding examination of human interaction, "Blink," he writes about those first impressions. I call them super first impressions. These are the signals we get the moment we come into range of another person or a situation. But you have to be ready and open to exactly what is being communicated. Here is a great example of being blind and blind-sided. Back in the late 70's I lived and worked in a downtown business and residential complex. The Radio stations were on one floor and in the mall below there were stores, restaurants and bars. Back then the bars were as important as my place of employment. On the lower level was a place called the OK Corral. It was little more than a shot and a beer joint with Asteroids games, pool table and unlimited peanuts. It was frequented by cops, guys who worked in the" boiler room" call centers and other restaurant workers.

On the night of April 20, 1977 – the date is significant – I dropped in even though the barn-like sliding doors were partially closed. I saw the cops at the bar, just like most nights, and the bar tender, Dick was where he usually was at 9 o'clock on a weeknight. But Dick shot me a look that to this day I still remember; it was intense hostility. I walked to the bar and it was only then I noticed that some of the Cleveland Police uniforms, even in the dim light, had a decidedly different look. And there was a new decoration behind the bar: a full-sized Third Reich Battle flag hung over the mirror above the liquor bottles. The uniforms were not that of the CPD, but various replicas of Nazi military garb. Clearly I was in the wrong place and precisely the wrong time. Guys I thought I knew were having a birthday party for Hitler. Here's the rub, I thought it was a joke until one of the cops, a sergeant named Molnar, came over and told me, "you aren't welcome here, mud boy." The significance of the epithet did not hit me until much later.

How could I be so blinded to the clear signals, the body language and more, of this volatile situation? Easy, I wanted a drink more than I wanted to pay attention to my surroundings. That is a whole other topic. For now let's just say I learned a valuable lesson that probably save my life and the lives of my family on more than one occasion. If anything I might be too sensitive to non-verbal communication.

Watch the eyes, the movements and the expressions of others. Don't let your own wishes, hopes and fears get in the way. It might surprise you just how much is being said no matter what the other person says.

Footnotes

2008-11-13T18:36:00.001-08:00

Everything that happens, everything that makes the news or the center of cultural popularity leaves us with a little lightening. Sometimes we get lightening in a bottle. These things, these G-Block, lightweight featurettes are often conceived as mood changers, deal breakers or even earth shakers. They are seldom more than footnotes.

Just by way of setting you up for the cluster of non-notable notables – they are quite perishable - here are a few footnotes from the past. The 60's were so intense that there were very few footnotes, but the 70's were riddled with them. Remember Rosemary Woods and the photo of how she can delete 18 minutes of tape? Jerry Ford and the mis-played golf shot (he actually hit a guy) or Jimmy Carter and the attack rabbit or Billy Beer? In the 80's we had Reagan's jelly beans and Nancy's astrologer, Dan Quayle's spelling and George H.W. Bush's missing Pearl Harbor Day by two three full months.

And then there was Gary Hart's Monkey Business, which neatly welcomed in the reckless 90's. Clinton had Gennifer, Paula, Monica and impeachment. There was also the "Medical Security Card," but there was also war in Europe and Africa. Little did we know that that was just the opening act to the 21 Century when we collectively wished for the frivolous. America and the world suddenly got very serious.

What would have been footnotes in the elections and subsequent presidency of George W. Bush are still fresh in the minds of many. There were hanging chads in Florida, Michael Moore Movies. In the second election John Kerry provided the forgettable moments such as "reporting for duty," the Swift Boat controversy and almost anything said by his wife, Teresa Heinz Kerry.

Now we have this historic election. Even calling it that might be something of a footnote. But we have some clearly not so serious moments as well, and by posting them here I might have extended their life longer than they deserve.

The winner has gave us the birth certificate controversy (presented by the same folks who gave us the Swift Boat guys, but this time there were seen for the joke they always were), and his heritage and religion – is he Arab, Muslim, Marxist? Unfortunately this is just the beginning of the nonsense Mr. Obama will have to endure. How about accepting the nomination at Mile High Stadium or the apparent love fest with the candidate and the press.

On losing side we have the energizer candidate, Mike Huckabee, who never seemed to believe that he was out of it. Then the real battle began. Enter Sarah Palin, perhaps the biggest footnote of all. From her surprising arrival on the world stage to her, frankly, unfortunate sendoff, the governor from Alaska had no idea what she was walking into. Let's go through them together: Clothes, glasses, hunting, Tina Fey, Bush Doctrine, Katie Couric, Brian Williams, William Ayers, bath robes and it is not over yet. Senator McCain added a few asterisks of his own. Some of it came from his opponent, cleverly grabbing the statement that McCain didn't know how many homes he owned. Then there was Joe. That's really all I have to say for now. If we are lucky that will be the first to fade.

Footnotes in some ways are our salvation. They are those little trivialities that give us a breather from the burden of this incredibly fast paced world. These tiny treasures will come in handy one day when something happens that is as far from trivial as it gets.

Crushing Eggshells

2008-11-09T10:44:00.001-08:00

One of my favorite Radio Hall of Famers is a guy named Art Bell. Not long ago he wrote a book called The Quickening. In it he described a period of time when things move more quickly and eventually reach a tipping point: terminal velocity. Like most things this depends on your point of view but that time seems to have arrived.

This week Ed Esposito, Eric Mansfield and Megan Mahoney from WMFD-TV in Mansfield were invited to talk to high school and some college students about beginning their careers in broadcasting. This was sponsored by Z-TV, the University of Akron campus television station and its teaching general manager Phil Hofmann. As I looked into those young faces I saw apathy and interest, boredom and excitement, I saw those who just wanted a day away from the routine and some who really wanted to make a living at work in the media. We were separated by two generations and I could not help but wonder if they felt the same rush of history. Probably not.

As barriers fall I listen intently for the sounds of change. For one thing we are going from a president that was not only a walking punch line but added select malapropisms that will be with us for years. Now we have a new central character in the seat of power. He was swept into the White House with a solid majority, by he has two choices in this job: be great (like Mt Rushmore great), or, well, there is no other option.

Back in February I wrote a piece describing this moment as giving the nation and the world permission to stop dealing with race like some wicked game of Operation; pick lightly at the topic otherwise you touch off a wave of offense and accusations. Presidents are by nature fair game. 43 men have been subjected to ridicule, literally at the highest levels. In recent history the smallest anomaly filled comedy shows and became part of pop culture. From Nixon's slump to Ford's falls, every one of them had something. Now we have Obama. I tend to think that this president will present more fuel for that fire than the color of his skin or his African name. Yet from the Italian prime minister we have the first toe-dip into the subject. He mention how tanned our new president is. By the way, black folks do tan. Then the president-elect himself called himself a mutt while describing the kind of dog he wanted for his daughters as they move into the White House. Not bad.

For the most part Presidents are fair game. Without being mean and nasty – trust me there are already millions of internet pages devoted to that kind of vitriol – there are plenty of opportunities for good natured ribbing. It would be worst to tip toe around all the massive changes that are flooding toward us. Just as Art Bell talked about in The Quickening, things are changing at a blinding pace. There is no time to parse every work and worry about whom we might offend.

Little Things

2008-11-02T12:54:00.001-08:00

It was a typical Saturday for me. We have a well and though the water is somewhat conditioned, it is still not the best for drinking. So every week I pack up the trunk with a couple dozen gallon jugs, fill my pockets with quarters and head to the local Aquabar.

This week I had a little help. True to their name the little bear cubs cautiously approached; momma bear looking on from the other side of the convenience store entrance. Thinking back, it was really very much like what you might find in the woods. But these were Cub Scouts and it is popcorn fundraising time.

Benny, Zack and a couple of Nicks sensed that the adult was friendly enough and after closing for at least some popcorn sale, they offered to help fill the jugs with quarter-a-gallon of filtered Streetboro drinking water. The little guys were curious and talked about helping others as part of their Scout training. The four were good friends and laughed easily. I had fun with them.

After we filled the bottles I went over to the table where two Scout moms and a Scout dad were minding the store. It was a good visit and only cost me 15 bucks. I went into the store and grabbed an Ice tea. By the time I came out another customer was at the Aquabar. Emboldened by their experience with the nice water carrier, they thought this stranger would be as accommodating; another boredom killer for energetic nine-year-olds. No such luck. The man had no patience for the cubs and shoo'd them away like overly playful puppies. What struck me was the clear lack of respect for the boys.

Kids deserve respect, too. Everything we do as adults teaches and adds to their small but growing view of the world. I don't know if the man had kids, he was about my age so if he did they would be grown by now. By his actions I would say he probably never had the pleasure. The cubs were just being kids and for that they got yelled at. We really have to watch it. Little things to little kids can mean everything.

Intellectual Homogeny

2008-11-01T10:56:00.001-07:00

Do all the people you know agree with you? Do you ever argue with friends, without condemning them, even on the most fundamental issues? It seems to me that this basic human interaction has become a political hot button. And if we are not careful it could cloud the things we as a nation need to think about as we go to the polls on Tuesday.

When I was doing visits with my college-bound kid, I noticed an interesting thing about the various campuses we stopped by: ideas varied, the discussions were vigorous but only to a point. If you live on a college campus, if you work in the classrooms, the research labs and have dinner and drinks at the University Clubs, then there is a certain atmosphere you are forced to breathe. More often than not, I found, the air was toxic with anti-Americanism, historic revisionism based on narrow and obscure interpretations and the notion that all the ills of the world began with the creation and continued behavior of the United States.

This is where the Democratic candidate spent much of his professional career, before immersing himself in public service as an elected official. Is it any wonder that he ran into, even sat down with and befriended those with decidedly unpatriotic views, even radical views? The University of Chicago like most elite schools prides itself on employing a diverse faculty and staff. Where else could you find the kinds of people with whom Barack Obama is being bundled? I am not dismissing the associations, but I understand how they came about. I've seen the process first hand.

In these last hours of the presidential campaign we find these associations at the center of the debate, at least from the McCain side. If I thought that this man, Barack Obama, walked in lock step with the three prominent characters he called, associate, pastor and friend - Ayers, Wright and Khalidi – then we would have a serious problem. But for him to know these men and not publicly chastise them anymore than he has already is not surprising. I would like to believe he had some spirited debates, even arguments with them over the years. I would like to have heard his position on America, race relations and the Israeli/Palestinian issue. I would like to know his passion in opposing these radical ideas. I would like to, but I don't other than taking his word now, just a few steps from the oval office.

My best friend holds the same job I do for a major competitor. No one in my company ever asked me to denounce him or our friendship; that my job depended on it. My bosses trust my judgment enough to know that I would never disclose company secrets or strategies as it relates to competing with and beating my friend's radio stations in the ratings. At least I hope that is the case.

The people who find Obama unacceptable as our president use his association and in some cases his own words to make their case. My problem is that this is taking us away from a good A-B comparison with what these men will do for this country in these difficult times. If I am to learn anything about the person I prefer to judge the things he says, not the people he may have argued with. That goes both ways, and during this longest presidential campaign in history I think we have all heard enough.

Selling Fear

2008-10-27T21:44:00.001-07:00

So, here I am in Florida listening to talk radio. I happened to like talk radio as an art form, when done well. Left or right a good talk show is fun to listen to. We have some locally, but honestly the most popular talk shows here are more familiar than they are good; like an old, comfortable but disgusting pair of slippers.

In Tampa Bay there are some pretty good talk shows. I mentioned one in the last blog. This day brought a new turbo charged effort by conservative talk shows to scare the pants off us at the possibility of an Obama administration. It is a real war footing. It seemed to start with the interview in Orlando with Joe Biden and WFTV news anchor Barbara West. I'm not quite sure what to make of the interview and that's not really the basis for my observation. It certainly was a newscast that made news.

Here's where I will confuse you as far as my position in all this: I agree with some of the conservative commentators that many voters are not listening to what the candidates are saying, either candidate. What they are doing - what we are doing - is leading with emotions. We are not listening to John McCain, who has discovered a mantra: "redistribution of wealth." We are not listening to Barack Obama who is actually outlining a plan that could very well be called, yes, redistribution of wealth.

The fact is we already have our wealth flowing all over government and an otherwise private industry. The Housing and Economic Recovery Act of 2008 is by definition taking money from us the taxpayer and giving it to banks and other financial institutions. The theory is that if we sure up these businesses we will have a better chance of getting to that money when we need it in the form of loans. Tax deductions, farm subsidies, automakers bail outs, even charities and needy members of our own family, it's all a form of financial equilibrium. We are constantly redistributing wealth. The fear we are being sold is that the wealth you and I are working hard for is going to someone who is either not as talented, not working as hard, or not working at all. Mr. Obama is not that stupid, and Mr. McCain does not really believe we are that stupid.

So forget the mantras. Here's the hard part, put aside the emotions, especially fear. You really need to know what these two men stand for and choose the one who best reflects your vision of your country - our great country. This will be the 14th presidential election I have lived through. Each one was important, and at the time seemed to be the most important election of all time. Wars, shaky economies, social upheaval, it was all there and it has always been there.

The merchants of fear are doing a land office business, but there's is no law that says we have to buy it.

The Jesus Show

2008-10-26T15:01:00.001-07:00

St. Petersburg, FL – Back here on the Sun Coast perhaps for the last time in the foreseeable future. The one thing that occasionally dragged us down here is about to disappear. Can't say I will miss the place. Not that I hate it here, it's more the contempt bred by familiarity. I know almost all there is to know about Tampa's older sister. I bristle when folks talk about the AL Champs Rays playing in "Tampa." Wrong! They play in St. Pete in an area collectively known as Tampa Bay. Even that's a misnomer. Tampa Bay is a body of water; two if you count "Old Tampa Bay". It's kind of like calling the Cavs the Northeast Ohio Cavaliers when they played at the Coliseum.

So Omi (mom-in-law) is firmly planted in her living room recliner and loving her little family in Hudson; that would be Monika and me. Now a call comes in on Thursday from the realty lady and the deal is pretty much done. I'm here to pack up what remains of the memories and say one last goodbye to the ghost of my little centenarian – Omi's late husband who left her with few worries.

Because I am in the business I'm in I do like visiting this radio market. Tampa Bay radio stations (here the designation is actually accurate) are very interesting and have some parallel to what happens back home. But I really wasn't ready for the late morning talk show hosted by a guy named Jesus. No, this is not a Hispanic show headed by the common Latin name, with a clearly non-biblical pronunciation. This is the so-called "heavenly host" Jesus Christ. That's what he calls himself, that's the role he plays, the way he answers the phone and the way those on the other end address him. Those fans of the show speak with reverence and ask him questions assuming powers one ascribes to the real Jesus.

There was a real Jesus, for many there is and always will be. My views here are not the issue, so I will leave it at that. But I don't quite know how to take The Jesus Show. I get that it's some form of performance art, akin to seeing Hal Holbrooke playing Mark Twain, or any number of people playing Abe Lincoln, or James Whitmore quipping as Will Rodgers. Yet until now it just wasn't done. There are movies, TV shows, all kinds of representations of the man who walked the earth, and died on the cross over 2000 years ago. But to hear one of the most irreverent of professions representing the most revered figure in history was, well, more than a little creepy.

The Jesus Show is a Premiere Radio syndicated Sunday morning talk show produced by Neil Saavedra, who is acting the role. In fairness he uses common sense and human values as his show prep. As near as I could tell from a short listen this morning he has a good biblical knowledge and infuses it into the show. Some might find this highly offensive, but one thing I heard Mr. Saavedra say that seems to ring true is this: if Jesus were back, and in the flesh, in order to go where the people need him most what better place for him to work his miracles than talk radio? Back then he walked among the least of us, maybe a radio talk show is just a 21^st century version of doing exactly that.

Better Than Fair

2008-10-19T10:28:00.001-07:00

I was listening to a critique about some of the would-be presidential proclamations. There are many. This is a tough campaign. Aside from the usual buzz words – and a couple of new twists – one of the labels placed on the Democratic ticket is a desire to be "fair." John McCain defined such a promise as "spreading the wealth." That is one of the hottest of buttons linking his opponent to near socialist practices.

Perhaps it is the result of the type of education many of us have experienced. I can recall a comedy sketch where the coach of a girl's soccer team had to find ridiculous reasons to give every child on the team a trophy. As with all good comedy there is more than a kernel of truth. The system we have chosen, still the best system out there, is based on a representative republic. Without turning this into a civics class, that means that some will have a greater say than others. Historically many groups were marginalized by design. This country has never been fair. I will take it one step further; this country cannot be totally fair. No workable society can. It's been tried and it has never worked.

What is fair, and what we can claim as one of our best features is the opportunity to succeed. Nothing is more illustrative of this than this election season.

This Sunday Gen. Colin Powell went on Meet the Press and announced that he would vote for Barak Obama. Powell is still a Republican and his appearance was just as much an indictment of the McCain campaign – while correctly praising the Arizona Senator. He mentioned the tone of the campaign and the often misleading characterizations used to frame Obama as a Muslim, or even an associate terrorist. What struck me were two things; firstly the importance of this announcement on the campaign itself; secondly how far we have come in real opportunity.

A few blogs ago I wrote how more men on death row look like me. This Sunday I was struck by the notion that both General Powell and the presidential nominee also look like me. It's something that most of you might take for granted. But for women and minorities in America it is a nagging little reality that all American presidents have come from fundamentally one group. And thanks to the selection of Gov. Palin, this last inequity is about to crumble no matter who wins.

Spreading the wealth as represented by a guy named Joe will be at the center of the McCain campaign for the next two weeks. General Powell's comments will be repeated hundreds of times by the Obama campaign. We will get sick of it, if we aren't already. But one thing lost in the process might be this: the fact that Obama, Powell and Palin have come this is a prime example, not of spreading wealth, but of one thing all Americans should take pride in: spreading opportunity.

That is more than, better than fair.

Why I Hate the Death Penalty

2008-10-13T15:37:00.001-07:00

I have many friends and family who are one issue voters. Most have a great passion for the abortion question and it is a big one; life and death. I have contended - some would say with profound cowardice - that the morning I wake up pregnant I will have a position on the question. Until then it is not for me to say. The de facto consequence of that hypothetical is that I am viewed as pro choice. But murder is murder and not fighting with all your might to protect human life means murder is okay with me. Trust me, it is not.

That question, women's rights, life rights, is just too complicated for my feeble mind. However, using that same logic, I could very well wake up one day on death row. Many of the men in that unenviable place look more look me than I care to admit. Notwithstanding The fact that we are either moments away from, or moments beyond the death of Richard Cooey, who is white, a black man is nearly four times more likely to receive the death penalty in a capital cases. It's true that there are more white prisoners facing the ultimate punishment in American prisons, but the proportion based on the population is way out of whack.

If I were sent to prison tomorrow for aggravated murder, depending on several factors, I could be sentenced to lethal injection. If that happened there's no turning back. It's done, I'm done, even though we both know I'm innocent.

"Letters From the Editor" has a very good blog up now that gives us a good snapshot of the lives cut short by Richard Cooey twenty-two years ago. It is a very sad story and a compelling argument that this murderer deserves what he gets. This man is learning nothing from dying except how to die, and like it or not, we all know how to do that. Some might say that others contemplating such evil might see what happens Tuesday morning in Ohio and have a miraculous epiphany. Of course we will never know if any minds have changed and murders prevented, but somehow I doubt it. Wipe all the other reasons away and what you have is revenge, or if you prefer avenge the death of Wendy Offredo and Dawn McCreery, two students at the University of Akron killed at the hands of then 19 year old Richard Cooey.

I don't know how many men will die at the hands of the state tomorrow, this week, this month. I just know that it could be me, rightly or wrongly I could be there and I would not be out of the ordinary. So my reasons are selfish and based on ignorance, much like my stance, or lack thereof, on the abortion question. But after all, aren't all so-called social issues based on self interests?

And if the timeline of my life turned particularly ugly, it would not be the dying that's so terrible, it's the knowing that at 10am on whatever day, whatever year, that's it, done, good bye and good luck. Makes me sick just thinking about it.

View from Afar

2008-10-12T09:06:00.001-07:00

If we were sitting in Munich, having a dark Bock brew, the headlines on Der Spiegel Online would scream the end of America. In fact, they do, and with an uncomfortable amount of glee. Capitalism has taken a massive gut wound and ex pats like Noam Chomsky and Nobel Peace Prize laureate Muhammad Yunus are leading the cheers at our seemingly insurmountable problems. Others are talking about the bank bailout in cold war terms like "nationalizing financial systems" and "The New Soviets: USA."

Add to this the socialist tendencies of the front-running presidential candidate, the allocation of land purchases for poor Chinese farmers by their government, the return of an iron fist on a resurgent Russia, and you have a tipping point of global proportions. Are we about to succumb to history? Is this akin to the breaking down of a wall nearly 20 years ago? Only this time is it our society on the verge of crumbling?

Again, let's go to the satellite stations; it's partytime! The America haters truly believe they have won; a revolution from within fomented by our own greed – or to be more precise, our own misguided desire to extend the American dream to nearly everyone. That really gives the Noams of the world a charge. We can't even get nobility right.

Not so fast. If there is one thing the rest of the world should have learned about us is that we don't give up that easily. There is still plenty of fight left in us and the system is hardly broken. How do I know? I have a pretty good memory. I can remember the venomous racism from which this country has almost recovered. I can remember the cyclical economic crises that seem always just beyond our vision, and are always "the worst in history." I can remember the bloody chasm that tore this country apart during the Vietnam war. I can remember gas lines and double-digit inflation and I can remember September 12^th, 2001.

We are quite a country. My friend and this news-site's managing editor Ed Esposito stood on the field at Ohio Stadium as that big, bright flag rose above over 100,000 mostly young Ohioans. We put our hats over our hearts and sang our shared anthem. Looking around on that fall afternoon one could feel the pride and determination. When you look in those faces you see excitement and confidence in the future. It is perhaps the one thing that those in Europe, and those here at home who just don't understand America, fail to consider while writing our collective obituary: we always find a way back. Always.

You Don’t Need a Weatherman…

2008-10-06T19:51:00.001-07:00

Following the mini-Woodstock of American politics – the only VP debate – the cameras and reporters began paying close attention to Gov. Sarah Palin. And not for more material for The Daily Show, but because the GOP VP candidate is a contender, even if her boss is still trying to find his footing.

Gov. Palin came out swinging. One of the weekend sound bites contained her talking about Barack Obama's alleged alliance with University of Chicago Professor William Ayers – terrorist, sorry, revolutionary. She was careful to frame the background of this man with words that have signaled modern Islamic terrorist; very clever, very politic.

In fact Bill Ayers is co-founder of one of the more notorious and violent anti-Vietnam war protest groups of the late 60's and early 70's. It was called the Weather Underground. For those too young to remember the Weathermen adopted the "by whatever means necessary" posture of the Black Panthers and other similar groups. By their own admission they plotted bombings and would have done worse if not for the FBI closing in.

Fast-forward to the most important presidential election in recent history. Ayers is a star of the Chicago far-left. It should surprise no one that the paths of these two men have crossed.

I am not much younger than Bill Ayers, so let me tell you about Charlie M. In high school he rode a Harley and he and Bob N were known for wearing the same pair of jeans an entire school year; the same unwashed pair of jeans. They went to the protests and were the first to pump fists, use the f-word and confront – spit on the police. As we got closer to draft age, the quarterback and class president joined the Marines, while Charlie and John got more radical. One day Chuck disappeared, packed up his blue Harley and did an "Easy Rider" due west.

About a year later Charlie returned to the old hang out. He had stories of mass protests and violent plots. He talked about overthrowing the government, weapons training and trusting no one. Charlie moved in shadows and spoke in slogans suitable for blood-red posters. Charlie M was comfortable between the cracks.

Here's the rub: I knew a Weatherman. Chuck was part of that underground for however long it held his interest. The quarterback and the class president came back from Vietnam with devastating heroin addictions. They lost all ambitions and one ended up in prison. The last time I heard from Charlie M he joined the police force in Detroit, of all places. He became what he once raged against.

I'm not sure of the point of this, except to show how easy it is to have unusual associations. I am not running for president and Charlie was not a founder of the Weather Underground, but he changed - dramatically. Professor Ayers changed, of that I am certain. And he is probably not the owner of the most questionable past among those supporting the liberal, anti war candidate. Should we attach all these fringe ideas, these fringe individuals to the candidate? If he is not your guy, then it really doesn't matter, now does it?

Bankruptcy? Bankruptcy!

2008-09-30T13:46:00.001-07:00

I'm going to go out on a limb here. The country is thinking about money and the future. It seems as though that's all we are thinking about, and it's not fun.

A friend mentioned today that he lost a quarter-million dollars in one day, yesterday, not a rich person either. It was "on paper" and he'll likely regain most of the losses, but something like that is still a shock to the system.

I was in my favorite auto dealership today (yes, I have one of those) and talked briefly to the owner. He sells the vehicles that seem crisis proof, but the spring was gone from his step and there was little confidence in his words. CNN blared financially tinged stories from Hi-Def TV's and there were precious few folks slamming doors and kicking tires.

When you don't have the money to pay your bills; when the job is shaky and the pressure mounts, that's when worry becomes panic and the sun just stops shining.

This just might be one of those cases where the "good ole days" were in fact a lot better. My parents had several things they deemed unacceptable. You don't cheat, you hold your liquor, you pay your bills, you go to work every day and church every week. Failures in these basic adult responsibilities meant losing. The whispering in the kitchen contained words like divorce, unemployed, alcoholic, dead beat, prison and the over-the-top word, bankruptcy.

Here's what I know about those taboos from Mary and Al's day: I did just about everything wrong. They always wanted my world to be better than there's and in some ways it is. But among things that count I still have to learn the hard way. When the folks were alive and had savings, my hard-headed lessons often ended in dad bailing me out. Can't count how many times that happened. They didn't like it, but they still loved me.

Now some of the largest financial institutions outside of commercial banks are facing bankruptcy. When that happens to an individual or company the next step is to seek protection; that can only come from federal bankruptcy laws. That means a plan is put in place whereby the debtor can pay back the secured debts in a timely fashion, normally within five years, or sell what they cannot pay for. The non-secured debt takes a back seat. There is also the type of bankruptcy where all debts are forgiven and all real property is essentially forfeited.

Again, this is the purview of the federal courts. Of course some in government want to become daddy to these companies. It is very hard for most people to understand exactly what's happening; not when more than 30% of the homes in America don't have a mortgage - they are owned outright - and of those with mortgages more than 96% are doing fine. That leaves an ugly 4%, not a large number, but nothing to sneeze it.

When my dad bailed me out of money trouble I'm not sure I leaned anything. If the government bails out these companies what's to stop them from making the same mistakes? Remember Jaws II? The table is littered with underwater photos and the village fathers refuse to see the truth, but Police Chief Martin Brody knew better. "I've seen a shark up close, I know what one looks like and I'm not going through that hell again!"

Words to live by.

The Lessons of Ed and Ernie

2008-08-17T07:14:00.001-07:00

I am fascinated by the recent stories of a couple of 20th century entertainment icons. Perhaps dubbing these two guys in such lofty terms might sound a little strong, but let's take a closer look.

Ernest Borgnine is someone we all know on sight, even at 91. He won an academy award for his role as Marty, one of those guys - in this case a butcher - whom the world seems to pass over. Because of his longevity he stands as the oldest living Oscar winning Best Actor. Perhaps most of us know him as Lt. Commander Quentin McHale in McHale's Navy (Borgnine was actually in the Navy before and during WWII). And if you saw his latest performance, you might applaud his staying power. At least (and you'll forgive me for this) with one hand.

The other man in this loose category is Ed McMahon at 85. We all remember him as Mr. Sidekick. He was Johnny Carson's announcer and sometime foil for a generation. He was Dick Clark's sidekick with Bloopers. He was the front man for Star Search, which is fair to call the progenitor to America's Got Talent and American idol. And he was the consummate pitchman for Insurance, magazines and other products aimed at older adults.

McMahon is broke, both literally and figuratively. He broke his neck and the lavish lifestyle, rivaling his former bosses, came crashing down all around him and his wife in tabloid headlines. The only thing keeping him out of bankruptcy is he is not qualified for bankruptcy; too old for any promise of payback under Chapter 13 and too much stuff to walk away from under Chapter 7. Ed is in a terrible fix.

Ernie, on the other hand, is literally fat and happy. He and his wife of 35 years, Tova, are stars of Home Shopping and cruises and whatever might get those older than 60 to pay attention. More importantly this group of admirers also pays a little of their significant stash to whatever Ernie and Tova have going.

This week both men were back in the news. Ed never really left as creditor after creditor files for their share of the nonexistent McMahon fortune. Donald Trump piped up, mainly to keep his name in the news, offering to bail out America's most famous participants in the housing crisis. Good for them, we should all be so lucky.

Ernest Borgnine was also in the news, the YouTube universe, by spilling the beans as to some of his more private personal habits on Fox News. Funny thing is I don't think Ernie cares one way or the other. Perhaps that's the big difference between the two; while Ed was living for the fishbowl, trying to keep up appearances, the Borgnines were just living, filling every minute with as much fun as possible.

Like everything, there's a lesson in there someplace.

Mary's Babies

2008-08-17T07:12:00.000-07:00

Growing up the son of a couple of teachers is both a blessing and a curse. Let's deal with the curse part first.

Doing things correctly and the best you can does not come easily to a young kid. It's even harder for a teen. Thankfully those years are behind me and doing the right thing is probably a real if not rare attribute for an adult. At least so I'm told.

The blessing part, aside from being the child of two wonderful people, is that you learn something about the inner workings of someone dedicated to the education of generation after generation of young people. Mary Collins had a hand in the nurturing and bringing about good beginnings for kids from 1930 until her retirement in 1983. Fifty-three years, almost as old as I am now, she taught and loved almost every minute of it!

August was a special month for my teacher parents. The first two weeks or so we usually got in the last of the camping vacations. Dad was an outdoorsman and loved fishing and camping. I do, too. Monika, my wife, not so much, so we don't do it unless you count working passed sundown in the gardens.

After that it was school supply buying time. Al Collins had this uncanny knack for sniffing out a bargain. Many of you might remember Surplus City, or many of the store-front-off-the-truck kind of places that sold bent boxes of Cheerios for half price or less. That's where we got almost everything except clothes and Mom's Maxwell House coffee - didn't dare substitute that, unless you had a death wish. And when we did take our smelly mimeographed supply lists to the store, there was always extra things purchased. One for one, mom and dad bought extra pencils, papers, notebooks, paste and crayons.

Mom would say the extra was for, "her babies." Those were the little kids who came to school barely breathing. Later in the year she would adopt one or two of the kids, the little boy in torn pants that were too big for him, that hadn't been washed in months and the smell of urine probably meant his underwear was in the same shape. He would have dried streaks coming from his mouth, roused from whatever bed he had and rushed out to school without even a chance to splash water on his face, leaving a pitiful or even frightening situation to come to school. Calloused against juvenile ridicule by the nightmares that began with the trip home at 3 and often did not stop until the next morning. These were her babies, "Ma' poor babies need somebody to care." Mrs. Collins would say, holding back the heartache.

We didn't mind giving up some of her attention or even the small budget for back-to-school. By the time we were old enough to understand we were running through the aisles to find those special things this year's unknown babies will need to do their best in Mrs. Collins' 4th grade class. Our things could wait. We knew we would get them and so much more. We were the lucky ones, and we wanted them, Mary's other babies, to feel lucky, too.

Obonix

2008-07-12T15:40:00.000-07:00

This past week the presidential candidate everyone likes to talk about made a speech. It was not exactly your typical stump speech. It was carefully aimed at the audience in front of him.

Everything this man does is careful. That's what makes him so successful as a candidate - historically it is also what makes men less effective as presidents.

In this speech Mr. Obama was blunt about some of the problems facing black men in the 21st Century. He talked about the long odds against making it as a pro athlete or entertainer. His message is the same message I heard from my father; the same many of these men - the older attendance to be sure - heard from their fathers. The problem is not the message, for some it is the way he spoke it.

Words mean much. And in the course of my day I may embrace several different dialects. It's not just for show, though when talking to my friend Jim Wilson there is inevitably a slide into a real street-speak of black comedians and family I have known. It's fun and there is no better way to tell a story about crazy people doing silly things. It goes back to my mother, one of the smartest people I have ever known. Mary Collins could tell a story better than anyone. And though she spent her life teaching kids in their most impressionable years the importance of knowing "the king's English," she could talk trash.

That is not what Senator Obama did. He simply let his guard down some and added emphasis in a way that was more natural and accepted among black folks than perhaps at a meeting of the Santa Barbara Camber of Commerce. There's nothing wrong with knowing your audience. Yet Jesse Jackson and others have accused the candidate of "speaking down" to young black men. Whatever.

Dr. Michael Dyson and others have embraced the music of our language, our gestures and our willing adaptation of the language. At the same time we understand when it is appropriate and when it is not. There is nothing wrong with that and should Senator Obama succeed to the Whitehouse, it will be just as real as George W. Bush's occasional fall into the homespun Midland Texas tone or the John F. Kennedy Massachusetts missing R's. If we are to make anything of Barack Obama's way of talking, let's remember the following. It might just be the most important words, the most historic words of this or the last century:

I am the son of a black man from Kenya and a white woman from Kansas. I was raised with the help of a white grandfather who survived a Depression to serve in Patton's Army during World War II and a white grandmother who worked on a bomber assembly line at Fort Leavenworth while he was overseas. I've gone to some of the best schools in America and lived in one of the world's poorest nations. I am married to a black American who carries within her the blood of slaves and slaveowners - an inheritance we pass on to our two precious daughters. I have brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, uncles and cousins, of every race and every hue, scattered across three continents, and for as long as I live, I will never forget that in no other country on Earth is my story even possible.

Nuff said.

2008-07-09T03:19:00.000-07:00

Guilty Pleasures
There are many things we enjoy that are not front page news; those things we hide, even from our spouses.

There was a time not long ago when I enjoyed going to the shooting range and exploding a few $20's by ripping up silhouettes 30 feet away. There was no real reason for being what amounts to a gun nut. It's not like I was in the witness protection program or pursued by aliens. Besides, aliens are impervious to bullets. Aren't they?

So having come to my senses sometime in 2006, I packed up all my guns and headed to Dick's Gunroom in The Falls to sell back this self-indulgent habit. So much for the erstwhile soldier of fortune.

Lately it's been more passive pleasures, like certain reality shows. I will leave the deep, philosophical reasons why we like these experiments in human deviance to my fellow blogger Ryan Haidet. I just know what I like. These shows include "So You Think You Can Dance" and "Hell's Kitchen." No problem there. They are among the most watched shows this summer.

But something happened this Tuesday night that, frankly, is embarrassing. I watched TV. Nothing odd about that, but while I was watching I was laughing almost uncontrollably, to the point where my mother-in-law, Omi, became angry and wanted me to stop. Then Monika came in and she started laughing, too. What were we watching? "Wipeout."

If you don't know about "Wipeout" it is about as stupid a show as one could imagine. Twelve players are turned into human pinballs in one a sloppy obstacle course after another; the sloppier the better. There's mud and padded shapes just made to mess with the human body and things move, slip, swing, fall, slime, punch, roll and even poof, as in a pit filled with flour just because the contestants look funny when they climb out. It makes the humiliation that much better.

The show's hosts are the best and worst of Sports Center, including the attractive Mercury pitchwoman who somehow is not quite as charming when she's talking to a guy covered in mud as though she were interviewing LeBron. Even the contestants are fitting the model of ridiculous and sublime. The winner last night, for example, was a 6'4" surfer, I think, who took over the role of "color commentator" as his fellow competitors slid off a giant top, bounced off waterborne trampolines - not in a good way - and finally fell short of his wining time. I was in stitches.

I will probably never watch Wipeout again. It's one of those shows that you enjoy once knowing full well it will never be the same. But just like the guy who was eliminated on the "dreadmill," sitting there lost, forlorn and covered with sweat-soaked baking products, I'm ashamed. But it was great fun.

In Cold Blood

2008-02-17T08:46:00.001-08:00

In Cold Blood

I get it, how he came to do it. It’s happened to me plenty of times. She just won’t stop talking, or doing what I tell her. All that screamin’ and cryin’ and threatening to tell my wife. I don’t know what came over me that last time, the time I had no plan, the time I got caught.

See usually I have plenty of self control, like walking away when I’m burnin’ up inside. Like at a bar. I used to drink too much and get into these fights. I’d have killed plenty more if not for my friend Ralphy. He’s bigger’n me and back then he did plenty of thinking for me, knowing I didn’t want to kill nobody in front of a barroom full ‘o witnesses. What I do is wait a day or two, ‘til the fool gets into it with a half-dozen other low-lifes that’ll look just as good for the killin’ as me. Then I watch for a day or so, get to know his habits. When there’s a good place, isolated, you know? Like a dark parking lot or street or something, that’s when I do him. I make sure he knows who he messed with and why this face is the last one he’s gonna see in this life.

I don’t use no weapons, never, just these big ‘ol hands God gave me. It’s easy to snap a neck or pop a pipe if you know what you’re doin’. It’s like this, I walk up to him, real quiet, then when I’m in position I make a noise, maybe clear my throat or even say his name. That surprises them, puts them in a small panic, then a quick pop in the middle of the face, I keep my middle knuckle raised a bit to really sting the sinuses. Nobody can deal with that. If they don’t go down they squeezes they eyes real tight and the tears flow, along with blood, usually. That’s when I get my hands around their throat and bring them down, like I said, if they ain’t already. Then I say what I’m gonna say, look ‘em in the eye the whole time and watch the fear well up, kind of come to the surface like water coming to a boil.

I get a real shiver in my chest right then, just before that moment when they know this is it for them. Now this gonna sound real bad, but I want you to know. I get this feeling in my chest, like my whole upper body is a big ‘ol penis ready to explode. My privates don’t get that, I think that’s sick, but from my throat to my waist, that what I get and there ain’t nothin’ like it. When it’s over I usually have my trunk lined in plastic and take ‘em up to this special spot I know along the lake. I got real good at knowing the rip tides and putting just the right amount of weight so they move along for a good while. OPP found one of mine up near London a few years back and pinned it on one of their own. Got a kick out of that. Canadian cop so much as said since it wasn’t a gunshot it couldn’t ‘a been from the US side. Laughed at that for days.

So when that ex-cop killed his baby momma, I 100% understand. Probably wanted her to get an abortion or move away or somethin’. More child support. You don’t mess with a man’s money. That’s what happened to me. Just got sloppy, I guess.

This is a character from one of my Mystery-Thrillers. It is not me...I don't think...

We Are All Witnesses

2008-02-16T14:41:00.000-08:00

"The best way I can describe it is sky-writing. It was beautiful, soaring, and for the most part unreachable and fleeting. He talked about John McCain as though they were already opponents in the national election. Smart."

HUDSON, OH -- That is a phrase that is tagged with banality to an athlete. We know it well. It is draped across a wedge of a building near the place where this young man plays basketball. Yet every morning before a primary another game of round-ball is being played. Not for a $65 ticket and a multimillion dollar contact, but to keep a candidate healthy.

As I mentioned in an earlier piece, there is something historic happening here. It is the rise of stratospheric rhetoric and electrifying charisma and audacious hope and maybe - God help us maybe - a change for the better. Mr. Obama calls himself a "hope-monger," it is a clever ear magnet. His speeches are a combination of Kennedy and King, Reagan and Graham. He promises new ways for Americans to tap into the collective resource of a massive and growing government.

He is clearly a liberal; a progressive, if you prefer. I watched his speech tonight, preaching to the choir in the most liberal town in Middle America, Madison, Wisconsin. I also watched Mrs. Clinton trying to coral the lead in Texas and Mr. McCain with a small crowd of supporters in Virginia. Here's what I noticed: it did not matter what they said. Much of the speeches I watched with the sound down. Mr. Obama looked like he was already president. Mr. McCain looked about the same as he has over the last two decades. Mrs. Clinton appeared, frankly, desperate.

Then I turned up the sound. Barack Obama's speech was much like his writing and other things he represents. The best way I can describe it is sky-writing. It was beautiful, soaring, and for the most part unreachable and fleeting. He talked about John McCain as though they were already opponents in the national election. Smart. He spoke highly of the American hero McCain. Smart. And he talked to the folks, identifying with the challenges of everyday life. Smart. Hillary Clinton was offering local flavor, as though she were a longhorn, one of them, and together they aren't about to let this outsider mess with Texas. Not smart enough.

We are witnesses, and once again Ohio is the prize. I can only hope that when Mr. Obama completes his monumental sprint toward history, he remains flexible and learns how to govern. Because right now all I see is a projection of the president he hopes to be. Should he win, reality will overtake hope like a fast break from you-know-who.

XM X’d Out

2008-02-02T16:52:00.000-08:00

They say that writing while angry is a good thing; that the emotions flow and the words jump from the screen and poke the reader in the eye. Right now I feel like I have been poked in the eye and other less convenient places by a very unwelcome assailant.

And it all started with an otherwise very friendly phone call.

I have been a subscriber to XM Satellite radio almost from day one. It is a great service with one glaring exception. As far as the programming they provide is concerned I have nothing but praise. But when I called to change my plan – actually disconnect a radio that I am no longer using – all that goodness went right down an especially nasty drain.

Three years ago I extended my plan on three radios to three years. The price was right and at the time it was well worth it. That is no longer the case. I can’t afford to spend that kind of money – over $900.00 – on a convenience that we don’t use as often as we once did. In the course of talking to “Listener Care,” the woman mentioned that the card on file had expired. Fair enough, I was going to redo a modified subscription and its well to get that out of the way.

By the time I had talked to another woman and gotten an arrangement that was more fitting, the card I had given was charged an auto-renewal for $916.00; another three years! Wait a second, let me repeat that. They charged me nearly a thousand dollars without one word indicating that they were renewing the very subscription I was calling to change – and now cancel.

Would you be furious? Would you feel as though this big company reached into your account and robbed you? I did, and someone had to pull me off the ceiling.

We have a credo in radio: make one listener happy and he will tell ten people; make one listener unhappy and he will tell one-hundred, who will tell another one-thousand! This is a great way to ruin a business, especially one that is struggling to get off the ground. Satellite Radio may have a 21st Century name, but it has yet to make a dime. Practices like this will keep it steeped in red.

My problem was taken care of, sort of, with a few more phone calls and a little restraint. But I am still surprised and annoyed that it came to this. I promised the account supervisor that I will wait until I am sure there was no charge placed on my card before I make a final decision about severing my long-time relationship with XM.

Trapped in limbo is the merger between the two satellite radio providers. In the balance could be the very existence of this medium. After this morning I’m not at all sure there is a future in, “the future of radio.”

Butts and Cutts and All That News

2008-02-02T07:30:00.000-08:00

"At the end of the day she will exercise to exhaustion, pour it all out to trusted friends and peers and she will cry her eyes out. It's that kind of story. But the next day she will look some attorney or cop or other professional distracter square in the eye and her five-two visage will become a six-four intimidator. I've seen it happen."

Here's a little secret. I'm going to reveal it under duress, and many of my colleagues will cringe when I let the rather scummy cat out of the bag. Here it goes: news is a filthy business and the filthier the better. Gone are the days of the gentleman journalists - if there ever were such times.

And those tight, often symbiotic relationships with the reporter and those who make the story have morphed into extreme chess matches with white hot pieces and professional life or death as the prize or concession.

The men and women who do this for a living - and I am not one of them - love it when the blood flows and the mud gets in the politicos eyes. Most of them, anyway: the good ones.

We have some real news doozies forming around us. You will certainly keep up on them with the help of Ed Esposito and his stellar news department. That's both here at AkronNewsNow.com and on the air at 1590 WAKR, if you will allow the plug. Ed's blog, Letters To the Editor needs no help from me, it is one of the most popular political and news blogs in the state already!

What I like to offer here is not the news side of what they do, but the human and cultural angle. I am not a big news junkie. Yes, I program a station with News in its fist name, along with Sports and Oldies, but I leave the news to Ed. To do anything else would be foolish.

We have a mostly young staff of journalists bringing you the biggest story. The Bobby Cutts trail, for instance, has a lead reporter named Tina Kaufmann. She is bright, determined and not the biggest woman among the slew of local and national reporters. She will do a great job mainly because she knows she is wading in with crocs, gators and snakes. They have already tried to bait her, flatter her, trap her and insult her. Not going to work. Tina is armed not only with great guidance from seasoned professionals, but with a spirit that is unflappable.

At the end of the day she will exercise to exhaustion, pour it all out to trusted friends and peers and she will cry her eyes out. It's that kind of story. But the next day she will look some attorney or cop or other professional distracter square in the eye and her five-two visage will become a six-four intimidator. I've seen it happen.

You will get the real story about a double homicide in Stark County. While the Gretas and Nancys and whoever else in the national media is sucking up the spotlight, it is Tina and the other young reporters sitting through the horror everyday who will truly understand, and tell you first.

The Real Generation Gap: King vs. Malcolm

2008-01-19T08:49:00.000-08:00

"These were the young radicals who saw Dr. King as another "Tom" giving into the establishment by not taking up arms against the oppressors. They formed groups like Students Nonviolent Coordinating Committee ...The Black Panther Party and molded the Nation of Islam into a force for change."

HUDSON, OH -- There are many reasons why being a black family in the 50's and 60's was difficult. As a child of those years most of the challenges were hidden from us by well-meaning parents and a distilled media. But there were many signs that the two Americas were moving along on different paths and at different speeds.

The Civil Rights Era coexisted with the Beat Era and the Vietnam Era, the Drug Era and about a half-dozen lesser periods of history. Yet the problem of segregation and inequality predated and outlasted anything that so moved this country.

Inside those families that the movement affected most, families like mine, there was a different kind of argument. It could be summed up like this: nonviolence or by whatever means necessary. Generally the older generation followed the words, actions and teachings of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., the only Black American honored with a true national holiday. But the younger tended to hang on the words of Stokely Carmichael, H. Rap Brown, Bobby Seals, Huey P. Newton and Malcolm X. These were the young radicals who saw Dr. King as another "Tom" giving into the establishment by not taking up arms against the oppressors. They formed groups like Students Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (often forgetting about the second descriptor), The Black Panther Party and molded the Nation of Islam into a force for change.

There was hardly a unified front among those demanding equality.

To this day there are some who revere Dr. King, and rightly so, while secretly wishing the revolution had taken place. What revolution? The one openly called for by these men and women who let hatred and anger distort their view and pervert their intelligence - many were quite intelligent - the impatient ones.

As The Last Poets once proclaimed: The Revolution will not be televised, it will be live.

And so it is. Again, you can argue, but borrowing from Dr. King's famous words we are more likely to be judged by the content and quality of our character rather than the color of our skin. We are, finally, closer to being a unified America dealing with economic, health and the microscopic battles of living and working with others. A black president is a real possibility and white America is on the verge of becoming just another minority in a nation of minorities. There are still strata of privilege and power and there always will be. There are the poor and the oppressed of all races, but there is also compassion and opportunity. There is the struggle and the road ahead.

And there always will be.

Dying Mad

2008-01-13T08:13:00.000-08:00

"And if his last breath should come soon he will use it to scream at a nurse or doctor or aide who is trying to help him. Such misery is no life, but it just might be his fitting end."

PINELLAS PARK, FL - I am writing this in Florida. Not the good Florida, the fantasy land we all dream about right around mid-February, but the trailer park, aimless youth, flea market and dingy strip mall Florida. The kind of place where even sunshine seems to smell like generic cigarettes and scratch-off wax under the fingernails; where being tat-less and body puncture-less means you are old and just trying to stay below the radar else those with destructive appetites notice you and make you a victim.

In other words, this is no Disney vacation. I haven't seen anything close to a beach in the days I have been here and would love nothing more than to see my breath condensing as I warm up the car after a 10 hour day in West Akron. I am serious.

So why am I here? Many of us are gappers, that is we fall between generations. One is just getting their footing, if we are lucky, and the other is on their last leg. We are here because of the latter.

Two things have been reinforced on this trip. For one, my wife Monika is a saint - not an angel, she does not bear the burden softly - and my 98-year-old father-in-law remains mad at the world, perhaps to the bitter end.

Even getting up when he should have known better while in nursing care and slipping on his own waste is somebody else's fault. Breaking his hip and being rushed to emergency is someone else's fault. And if his last breath should come soon he will use it to scream at a nurse or doctor or aide who is trying to help him. Such misery is no life, but it just might be his fitting end.

My mom died two years ago in December. She was not angry nor frightened nor remorseful. She was 92 and if she could have predicted it, her last breath would have been a laugh; a good old fashioned belly laugh.

I don't know how much time Danny has left. I would like to think he has enough time to recapture the charm he can show others and the determination that afforded him nearly 30 to 40 years more life than the average American man. We were ready to bring Monika's mom home with us to Hudson and leave Danny in the capable hands of the long-term care professionals. That has changed. Monika cannot leave him with such uncertainty and I will return alone on Tuesday.

There are lots of ways we are dispatched from this life. And few of us have a choice or a chance to choreograph the event. If I learned anything from the gracious and accepting people I have seen in their final moments it is this: don't stay mad at the world.

Exit laughing.

...and Black Men are from Jupiter

2007-12-01T06:32:00.000-08:00

A couple of things landed my mood in a particular team locker room today. You know what I mean, we all have teams. Some of us are golfers, some are recovering-whatevers, some drive faster than we should and some eat way too much garlic.

The point is we have identity markers that come and go and are either used or ignored until the next time they become relevant.

Some people make a living out of being on one team or another. A gay activist or Al Sharpton are examples of professionals in this sense. Recently one of my teams has come under a great deal of scrutiny and I don't mind telling you it is a very somber club house right now.

I won't mention the players that tend to give us a bad name. You know who they are. What I am moved to do here is remember a Golden Age. I want to remind you (and me) of the men who propped up a generation, several generations on broad shoulders and dared us to be better than what America was expecting. One of those men was Bill Willis.

I grew up calling this great athlete, scholar and cultural pioneer 'Uncle Bill' because he was one of my dad's best friends. Dad did not have much of a family growing up. Maybe that's why the family he and mom created was more important to him than anything. So he created a circle of friends, of brothers that stayed in close contact and helped each other every step of the way. That term, brothers, has become something of a team nickname that few understand. Bill Willis and Al Collins understood it. It meant being there, teaching and guiding. It meant doing what is right, period.

Bill Willis achieved great things. He is in several Halls of Fame and deserves every accolade. But what is not inscribed on the plaques is the contribution he made to another team: young men and women of color, and many who do not claim that distinction, who still walk along the path he cleared.

No matter what team you are on, we are all better because of men like these.

Snoop Rakes It In

2007-10-13T10:03:00.000-07:00

Calvin slips the gray and yellow reflective vest over his pigtails. The smile on his face is difficult to interpret. No one could be happy spending much of the day, and the better part of the next month in city parks picking up other people's trash.

The rest of the crew? That's a different story. They are almost giddy and falling over each other to gain the attention of this "new fish." They try to get close to him mumbling rhymes and lyrics that, to the speaker, are so fresh they ain't made it to the vine.

The tall, thin man with slits for eyes and a permanent smirk listens politely, then, with a well-placed stare, closes the audition. Something might stick, and the other indentured park worker might hear a treatment of his couplings in a song on the radio one day; realizing he gave it away.

Calvin Cordozar Broadus, Jr. could buy and sell most of the parks he will clean in the 160 hours of his sentence. At the edge of the work detail waits a Bentley and several men in dark glasses, white and black, hired to protect him from undo harassment. The L.A. County sheriff's deputies don't mind the help. Should someone try to gain props by dogin' the Dogg, there could be serious trouble.

They never get used to it, the deputies. They say celebrity inmates are more trouble than the gang-bangers. Celebrity rappers are the worst. Snoop Dogg might be the most recognizable of this growing genre of mega star. Even people who would not be caught dead listening to Rap know him on sight.

One year ago he was caught with a collapsed baton, the kind the police use to break car windows or legs, if need be. It was at an airport and the item was deemed a dangerous weapon. That it is, but Mr. Broadus claimed it was to be used in a video. Since when does the Dogg carry his own props to a location? Lame doesn't even come close to describing this excuse.

But instead of using his court ordered community service in schools or community centers, drawing distinctions between the projected rapper image - something that can be very destructive - and the real business of artistic expression, he is raking leaves and spearing candy wrappers. I supposed he could have fought the conviction into oblivion. Why? Part of that crew near the Bentley includes a cameraman and sound tech.

One guy looks a little like Spike Lee.

Just When You Think You Don’t Matter

2007-09-29T07:44:00.000-07:00

The call happens now and then: “it’s so hard to be an adult.” This coming from someone I will always see as twelve years old. But she’s not. She’s 27 and has lived on her own since her second year in college – with some help, of course.

Now another series of disappointments and more job related consternation. In some respects I love these conversations. It is good to know that such important decisions are still brought home. Aside from being the youngest in the family, she is also the smartest, and a career in the medical field seemed the right choice. But she has to really want to do it and the call last night indicated that was no longer the case. So it goes.

I just want her to do something that she enjoys, and if at all possible something that matters. Usually sometime in these conversations I realize, even if I don’t say it out loud, that the career I have chosen really doesn’t matter much. Strip away all the hype and my second career - a writer - is only to entertain. My time is spent creating a diversion that may or may not be used by listeners or readers to take their minds off the troubles of their day.

Today I got another call. It was from a very nice lady named Jackie. She had just heard the song “Vincent,” by Don McLean on 1590 WAKR. Jackie was in tears and just called to thank me for playing the song. There is a line in the song, “…the world was never meant for one as beautiful as you.” Jackie’s son committed suicide late last year and she is still in deep pain. For that instant, she said, the radio and that song brought her closer to her son.

It was a difficult call to take. By the time we were about to hang up we were both in tears. Suicide is not a foreign concept in the Collins family. It only happened once, and that was many years ago. It was my brother who was too complicated, too conflicted and yes too beautiful for this world.

Jackie’s call reinforced something we often forget: there are people who listen and there are people who hear. For the listeners we are quite trivial, but every now and then there are those who hear something that makes a difference, possibly a real difference in their lives.

Swimming The Blur, Sinking in The Bull

2007-08-30T17:15:00.000-07:00

Let's clear the air. I want to talk to those who don't have a problem with alcohol and drugs; that special person who uses, drinks at inappropriate times and constantly makes a mess of things. But only if you don't have a problem. This is not a sermon, not even a warning. It is an idea, a notion that life was not meant to wash down the drain in tiny streams of selfish acts.

If you have any courage left, you'll read on.

When I first set out to do this journal, my intension was spotlighting our similarities and differences on a cultural level. I wanted to show the good things that were happening, like the efforts to bring much needed drugs and care to AIDS victims in Africa, our magnificent Art Museum and Symphony, the library and the Zoo; the Urban League and the grassroots efforts to help people get it together, able to help themselves.

There are lots of people doing the good work. But just as it comes down to the individual, it also depends on the individual's personal habits and discipline. That is where we are failing miserably. We are not a sober society and that means we abuse everything!

I can't speak to those who abuse credit or food or sex or power. We are all guilty of that at one time or another. But for those of you without a problem - and you know who you are - it's time to take a good close look at your life.

Pretty ugly, no?

Let me tell you about a very close friend. He keeps a job but seldom arrives home without taking a drink or two. He helps out around the house, or with the kids, but those same kids have learned to keep secrets at a very early age. Like, daddy stopping at the place and leaving us in the car for a while, or mommy keeping her favorite "pop" under the seat and won't share. "Daddy snores funny and sometimes he smells." The kids would say, if they weren't so afraid.

This is nothing. He used to hand every other paycheck to a guy named "Z" who would hand him a tightly wrapped bundle of something. It would last about three days if he were alone, a lot shorter time with pals. Renting temporary relief for the pain that most certainly would follow.

But today it's that well-deserved cocktail. And who wouldn't drink if you had my life? Take yesterday f'instance. It was all I could do to forget about that...that...what were we talking about?

You. We were talking about you, maybe, but only if you don't have a problem.

A Culture in Ascension

2007-08-20T15:28:00.001-07:00

Black America is often over-looked. The needs of those still struggling with poverty, crime and addiction, and those success stories needing to be heard have fallen into the "solved" box. Trust me, this is not a done deal.

From time to time the folks get something to dance about, sing about and really be proud of. The Akron Urban League defied the odds and built an impressive facility in a neighborhood that welcomed the addition.

The Urban League is the concept of "teach a man to fish..." in action. Much of the facility will provide education and small business assistance, along with day care and meeting rooms.

Here is just a quick walk-through of a party that truly means business.

We Can't, Just Can't Let Go, But We Must

2007-08-15T16:17:00.001-07:00

"I am so stressed I am literally ineffective." My friend was trying to focus, but I could see that her thoughts were spinning in every direction, nearly out of control.

Earlier this day another associate mentioned the same event and how it was dominating all his time.They have little in common, these two, other than having their paychecks signed by the same guy. Oh, and they are both sending kids to college for the first time.

My friend has the more oppressive task at hand. She is moving her older child over 2-thousand miles away to a very expensive city for training in perhaps the most competitive field imaginable. Her daughter was blessed with an absolutely angelic voice. She wants to be an opera singer! Think about it, do you know any opera singers? Can you name an opera singer, other than what's-his-name and the other guy? Maybe the name Beverly Sills comes to mind, perhaps because she recently passed away.

No, this is a happy kind of sadness. I know, we've been through it, Monika and I, and there is something ripped from your heart when you look in the rear-view mirror and see that lone person; sometimes crying, sometimes looking around, getting the feel for the place, this new place. She does not look like an adult standing there, ready to make her own decisions, take responsibility for her actions, choose her friends wisely, eat right and get enough rest. She still looks like she just turned twelve. "What do I do now?" is the next thing out of her mouth. But you won't be there to answer. Even in the age of tiny phones, you won't be there.

My friend will have to take her role in that scene and she will have the most difficult flight home she has ever had in her life. So where is the happy part? Hang on, it's coming.

It happens quite by accident, when you are visiting, or when she comes home. There you are, talking about this or that, and suddenly you realize that she has become a friend; an adult and a friend who knows you better than anyone and still loves you. She makes critical observations that are free of judgments and right on target. If you are lucky there is also appreciation for all that you have done.

You also see the best of you in all those plans and dreams and energy that swirls around this new adult.

If you are going through what many of us - including my friend - are facing, try not to stress too much. You will stand at the edge of insanity, but you will step back in time and breathe a little easier. When, you ask? When that next door opens for both of you.

Gas is Cheap! We're Talkin' Water Here

2007-08-12T17:43:00.000-07:00

And it's not just in price, but draining one's cool. If you are going to swill the crystal, you better have it in a bottle you can wash out and use again or you might as well wear fur.

I was reading an article in The Times about bottled water and it occurred to me that one more bit of modern behavior has fallen to the depths of planet-killer. As those of us over 50 used to say, "everything is a hassle."

Here are some raw calculations for you to ponder as you tip your plastic pop bottle (hold the sugar, flavoring, carbonation and chemicals): each year we send a million and a half barrels of oil to the bottle making folks; if most brands of bottled water were made to pump into our cars rather than our stomachs we would pay roughly 6 bucks a gallon, more if we bought it at any of the c-stores that prop up our filling stations; and in San Francisco, Salt Lake City, Minneapolis and New York the mayors are speaking up against the use of the healthy alternative to coffee and vodka. Not that we shouldn't drink water, we just need to think about the packaging.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't there such a thing as recycling all those plastic demons of modern life? Weren't the green bins and blue bags and stuffed parkas and lawn furniture all supposed to usher in a new generation of plastic, fantastic guardians of the earth? The ouroboros arrows signaling peace of mind, firm in the belief that I R OK, U R OK? Don't we recycle anymore?

Seems to me that the people who want to maintain another reason for sucking oil from the ground were hoping that no one noticed the nice, clear, un-recycled plastic that holds the extra virgin glacier water. Could there be a modern day Daniel deciphering the writing on the wall indicated by all those hybrids and all that talk of alternative fuel spewing from Green-D's and those who put bottled water on hip-list in the first place?

Just asking.

Today I stopped into Discount Drug Mart in Hudson for a green, recycled bottle of Diet 7-Up. Wouldn't you know it, there they were, just as plain as day, cans of bottled water! Aluminum cans! Now all they need is a way to reseal the opening and I'm there! Vote for Nader!

Until then, remember we live just south of the greatest body of fresh water in the world. Drink up.

The Radio Murders, Book 2, Part One, Prologue

2007-08-11T15:29:00.000-07:00

Between posts from my on line column, The Culture Clash, I will post sections of my upcoming Mystery/Thriller series "The Radio Murders." This book will be available this Fall as well as coming in podcast very soon.

Here is the first installment.

Prologue

Rachelle Brennan held the palm-sized star in both hands and remembered the day. The raised letters and shiny surface were smooth to her touch. She brought the leather clipped case to her face and breathed deeply; once her sensitive nose cancelled the hand worn cowhide, she smelled three different colognes and inexpensive wool. Shelly, as her uncle called her, had upwardly arched eyebrows and oval blue eyes that made her youthful face appear stuck in infinite doubt.

The moment-past was as vivid in her memory as the cup of tea that steamed in front of her and the inherited Chicago Police sergeant’s star in her hands. It happened in one of the many small restaurants that she and her uncle would visit for no particular reason. It was difficult to remember if she ever told him how much she enjoyed the spontaneous meals – she never really said it in exact terms - when she would talk freely and openly to the only man she knew as father. The conversation came to life.

“So, you want in law enforcement, huh Shelly? You know, most of us are not the brightest bulbs on the marquee.” In her memory Mick Molnar sipped his coffee through his rust brown moustache.

“I know Mickey, but it looks like so much fun, and my professors say I have what it takes to go into pathology. So why not start in the forensics lab while I’m taking more classes? Mom can’t afford to send me full time anyway… and I can work with you.”

“You’ll be working with the DOA’s, the crime scenes and about million pieces of nothin’ that we call evidence. You won’t be working with me. You’ll tell me what your findings are and that’s the last we’ll see of each other until someone else turns up dead. And get that fun shit out of your head right now. I mean, it’s a great job, an interesting job, but fun it ain’t.”

Rachel only half listened to her uncle. She remembered nearly always only half listening since she was a little girl. There was a time when everything Mick said was treated as gospel until she realized he was making up much of what he told her. For a time, she would not believe him if he told her Springfield was the capital of Illinois, she had to see for herself. Somewhere along the road to adulthood she struck a balance and learned to listen to him again. “You ever think about how dangerous your job is, Mickey?”

“Can’t. Or you can’t do it.”

“Never?”

“Listen, sweetie, you and your mom are all the family I have.”

“And Sig! Don’t forget him.”

“Little shitbag crapped in the garage again this morning.”

“He wouldn’t if you’d drag your lazy butt up and walked him on time.”

“Yeah. But you’re right. He’s family, too. You guys matter to me more than anything. I know something happening to me would break your hearts and I don’t want that. I’m careful, I have good people around me and I keep my eyes opened. That’s all I can do.” Mick paused to stress what followed. “But I have to tell you, Shell, if it comes down to my life or the life of some kid whose only crime was being a kid, or being in the wrong place… I don’t know. I don’t know what I’d do. I guess none of us do. You just have to wait until it happens, then see what you’re made of.”

The memory faded and Rachelle Brennan sniffed and smiled. It was as though her uncle had put the conversation in her head to remind her that a day like that Friday morning, August 13th - a day a peace officer would perform his final duty – could happen anytime.

She remembered what Stemp and Freddy, her uncle’s partners, said about the actions taken by Sergeant Molnar. He had only a split second. There was nothing anyone could do except be with the kids as they faced certain death. And if by some miracle the SUV did not clear the edge of the Turnpike bridge and tumble more than two hundred feet to the rock floor of the quarry, he was going to be there to help the two children inside. It could have been just an attempt to save one of the kids, to pull the seventeen year old from the driver seat, which is exactly what he did. But something told him to take her place in the seat and take the ride with her younger sister and brother, the thirteen year old and the little boy who might otherwise not see his sixth birthday.

No one knew for certain what Mick Molnar was thinking. But Rachel had a pretty good idea. She had seen her uncle make decisions based on facts not in evidence, as he liked to put it. There was something he trusted that made him do some of the things he did in a long and often contentious career. He called them angel’s notes and he told her once, when he had been drinking, that the notes came to him in a flash, without warning. He said they told him who was the bad guy and who was the victim. He relied on this inner voice to get him through some tough cases and he learned to trust it. Rachelle doubted he ever told anyone else about this display of faith, cornball and mild psychosis.

As for the morning of August 13th, she was pretty sure the actions were the product of his experience and talent as a policeman. He had no way of knowing that the SUV was secured, at least for a time, by the cable winched to Greg Flowers’ Jeep; that without that, it was the end for him and the children. Yet he knew there was a chance, a slim chance to save them. And he took that chance, saving the children, if not himself.

“You just have to wait until it happens, then see what you’re made of.” The thought came back to her. She knew what her uncle, the decorated detective-sergeant was made of, and it made her very proud.

It's Like a Gun Show for People Who Love Yarn

2007-08-09T18:25:00.000-07:00

That was the way the young lady described the event she was so looking forward to this weekend. It is the largest knitting convention in the world and it takes place in the Exposition Center near Chicago's O'Hare Airport.

She always called herself "crafty." Not in the sinister way, but indicating that she is good with her hands. And she has been that way since she was a baby. At almost 27 years-old her crafts have taken on a practical appeal. If she didn't mind getting dirty, which she does, she could fix cars.

"I signed up for two seminars," she said, knowing it would be appreciated on the other end of the phone. It was. "$200, but worth it."

The former Rosemont Convention Center, officially called the Donald E. Stephens Convention Center, is just shy of a million square feet of exposition space. You could fit almost three IX Centers on the available floor. According to the young lady, a Chicagoan since shortly after she left college (see "A Bridge Too Close") the space will be pretty much filled with "crazy knitters and vendors."

Her grandmother, mom and aunt are knitters, but nothing that comes close to the passion she shows. She once knitted the wardrobe for an 18 member cast of a weird warehouse performance of "The Myth of Prometheus." The play was almost unwatchable, but her costumes made it worth the trip.

Stitches Midwest is a serious Mecca for more than just grandmothers and crafty daughters. It is probably mostly women, but there are bodybuilders, cops and combat vets who use the skill to purl away the boredom between fits of terror in Iraq and Afghanistan. I have even been told that knitting is to these wars what illegal drugs were to Vietnam. That might be a stretch, but it is not beyond caparison.

The young lady sent me a link to what she called the "myspace/friendster/facebook of knitters." It's ravelry.com, and I would add that it has a touch of eBay as well because members can sell what they create.

Decorating an entire wall of one of my favorite places in Akron, The Akron Art Museum, is a weaving made from whisky bottle caps. In other locations there are magnificent works created in much the same way my girl in Chicago knits a skirt. It is art in the truest sense. And it can keep you warm, too!

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