It would be less frightening if Peggy Hill actually were nominated to be a heartbeat away from the Presidency. Instead, the Grand Old Party has cynically put forth a woman whose only prerequisite for running is, apparently, a pair of X chromosomes. It's literally making me sick enough to discontinue my life long interest in politics--because (if you believe the tracking polls, and you recognize the fact that most of the electorate is easily misled) there's a good chance this woman who looks like Peggy Hill could very well be the next Vice-President of the United States.
It's appalling...and a political master stroke. Pull a good-looking political neophyte out of the snowdrifts of Alaska, fresh from giving birth and/ or field-cleaning a caribou, give her a crash course in stock answers, control her exposure, harass an already cowed national media, and you've got "Sarah-Mania." It's not that the press hasn't done it's job trying to unearth information about this little known woman...they've been trying. They're being out-shouted by the bullet-point pounding talk-shows and pundits from the Right, who are well versed in ignoring truth in favor of ideological uniformity. Because television and radio are commercial enterprises, and are subject to federal review at license renewal time, there may be a lack of testicular fortitude when pressing the point that there's been a fusillade of obfuscation and out right lies tumbling from the top and bottom of the G-O-P ticket.
What is particularly galling, is that fact there are many, many more qualified women from both parties who, if elected, could fearlessly lead this country should Grampy John McCain keel over. It is cynical, I believe, to have made such a choice...to anoint someone green, completely controllable, for the second highest office in the land. It makes me cringe when I hear Chris Matthews, or others equally enmeshed in the world of politics, lose sight of what's right. No, no, no, even if it's what research tells us, Americans should NOT vote for a candidate because they'd enjoy having a goddamned beer with them. Why don't voters in this country want someone intelligent, with the courage to lead? Because they've been convinced that an actually, bright politician might talk down to them?
Would George Washington not have been the Father of our country because folks in the village couldn't imagine having a flagon of ale with him? Repulsed by his withered legs, resting in a wheel chair, would Mr. and Mrs. John Q. Public, at the height of the great depression, reject Franklin D. Roosevelt and elect the feckless Alf Landon, because Landon was Kansas salt of the Earth?
Am I making this sound as ridiculous as it is? Those who are manipulated this way, and cast their votes against their own interest, harm the country and themselves. How many people who lustily embraced George Bush for his alleged values have lost their homes in foreclosure, or a loved one in a trumped up war.
Pay attention, America. Don't believe all you are told. Come to your own conclusions. And remember that candidates are packaged like the breakfast cereals that look good but pack enough sugar to put you into insulin shock. Or like the Alka-Seltzer that's supposed to cure your hang-over. In our country, it appears that good people are programmed to believe lies...and vote accordingly.
Note the irony when I say, God help us.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Monday, August 25, 2008
BYE-BYE BEIJING, HOLA DONA BARBARA
I heard Vin Scully ask this question on a Dodger telecast last season: "When did everything get to be forty years ago?" He asked it after making a comment about a Dodger player from the 1960's. I asked it of myself when I realized I've been cognizant of the Olympic movement since I was 9-years old.
Just turned 49, I've spent a great deal of time watching still another round of games. For all that was written in the press, bandied about on the web, and chewed over on TV, the Beijing games turned out to be quite good, and extraordinarily watchable--save one thing: NBC's insistence on delaying their live broadcasts for the Pacific and Mountain time zones. Why? When live telecasts across the country would have permitted many of the swimming and gymnastics events to be presented in Prime Time on the west coast? Bread, bones, jing, moohlah...the ever-lovin' NBC/Universal, owned-and operated-stations and affiliate bottom line: Money. A live telecast from coast-to-coast-would have started at 5pm PDT, pre-empting local newscasts, the most lucrative of any programs aired by a local station, like KNBC, Los Angeles. They make millions in advertising revenue from the 5pm news. Better to delay the telecast three hours than lose those bucks. Besides, NBC promised sponsors Prime Time--and sponsors are to get exactly what they pay for, especially these days.
It's odd. Here on the west coast, viewers will accept a delayed broadcast of everything except the Super Bowl, World Series, college sports and the Academy Awards. 30 years ago, the NBA finals were not shown in prime time, but delayed til 11:30 EST and PST. No way they'd do that today. But the Grammys, Emmy Awards and the Olympics? New Yorkers would march on Rockefeller Plaza with torches if NBC tried it there. Southern Californians, mostly, don't care...so long as you don't tell them who won in advance.
I prefer the rush of the live telecast. I feel cheated, otherwise. My original Olympic viewing experience in 1968 was mostly live from Mexico City on ABC, in the afternoon when I got home from school. The network was charting virgin territory. It was the first time since the dawn of television broadcasting that the games were held in a time zone that permitted a live telecast. Some 40 hours of the games in Mexico City were beamed via satellite, in color. Much of the nation got to watch Olympic track and field events, gymnastics, swimming, diving and basketball as they happened. That had been done on a limited basis by NBC with some of the events in 1964, but nothing on the scale of the games of the XIX Olympiad.
I vividly recall watching Bernard Wrightson winning the gold medal on the 3-meter diving board. Soaking in the boxing matches called by Howard Cosell, and the stirring, closing ceremonies, in a dark stadium with its cauldron extinguished. In our house, we didn't see it in color, but it made quite an impression.
I admit that by the time I turned 13, ABC was preparing to telecast the Munich games, and I intended to watch as many of the planned 55 hours of coverage that I could. That's when the evil tape-delay first came into play. What was comfortably telecast during late afternoon in 1968, would be delayed three hours to be shown in prime time in 1972, or late afternoon weekend hours. It meant that when announcer Jim McKay was breathlessly describing the end of the
5, ooo meter run, and telling us, "...this is coming to you live! No one in the world knows how this will turn out!" we already knew Steve Prefontaine was going to fall just short of winning the bronze medal.
Though there were unforgettable moments, like Mark Spitz swimming to 7 golds (a record just eclipsed in Beijing by Michael Phelps), and Soviet gymnast Olga Korbut, those games remain marred by the memory of those Israeli athletes taken hostage and subsequently killed. On an early post, I acknowledged that, at his passing, Jim McKay was being remembered for the way he brought the news of that tragedy to the nation. What only I seem to remember, though, is hearing the news on an NBC special report that cut into the Nightly News with John Chancellor...because it was 6:45 PDT. McKay's soul-crushing announcement, "They're all gone," was not seen on the West Coast of the country for another three hours, because his reporting was a part of the Olympic package, to be telecast ONLY in prime time. ABC knew no shame.
It wasn't until 1984, with the games in our backyard, here in Southern California, that the Pacific time zone was treated to viewing Olympic sports live. The L.A. games were a tour de force. i was working at KLON, in Long Beach, the public radio station that supplanted our 10-watt college station at Long Beach State. This didn't keep the major sports franchises and the LAOOC (Los Angeles Olympic Organizing Committee) from assuming it, too, was a college station. I was de facto sports director of KLON. All that meant was I did the sports reports. And regardless of whom I had write the letters for me, I was denied credentials to the games. I reported the results from a portable color TV I brought from home, relishing the live telecasts, but chagrined no one had the juice to get me passes to cover the games in my own back yard (literally. I lived in Carson, a mile away from the Olympic Velodrome, and could look out the kitchen window to see cyclists, in the uniforms of their native lands, zooming through the neighborhood to stretch out their legs for the races to come. It was bizarre!).
Those games also stand out as the last great reporting done by Howard Cosell on ABC. Love him or hate him, he was brilliant calling the boxing matches from the L.A. Sports Arena, as spot on and accurate as he was at Mexico City in '68, Der Box Halle in Munich, '72, or when the U.S. Boxing team, lead by Sugar Ray Leonard, pummeled their opponents for a stunning five gold medals at Montreal in 1976. In Beijing, NBC farmed boxing out to CNBC, and all the Americans were eliminated early.
About CNBC...MSNBC, USA, and the other cable networks of NBC/Universal. Most of the events shown on those channels were LIVE. All night soccer, softball, field hockey, water polo, tennis, rowing, kayaking, canoeing, and a heaping helping of Table Tennis and Badminton. That got ridiculous, though. To most Americas, tab;e tennis and badminton are back yard barbecue games, which aren't played without a cooler full of beer or a plate of potato salad nearby. It was difficult to take the sports seriously. But they were, at least, LIVE Olympic action...and NBC saved dough by having the announcers for most of those events call the play from an HD screen in New York. To their credit, they never claimed otherwise.
?Tu eres Dona Barbara, verdad?
Because I'm the kind of guy who'd flip over to ESPN and read the sports updates on the crawl at the bottom of the screen, I knew whether to watch NBC's prime time Olympic coverage of an American victory, or stick with the Dodger game. But something new came into the picture a few days before the games began.
I love Spanish language TV. I speak so little Spanish, I can only pick out the words I know, but the announcers are so theatrical...they way they once were in English, before some focus group research resulted in a ton of guys with the vocal patterns of Ryan Seacrest (but not his money!). And then there's the Saturday morning auto-dealer infomercial with the scantily clad girls, cleavage plunging, skirts rising, ranting a mile-a-minute in Spanish about some second hand hunk of junk you actually wind up wanting to buy-- if she came along with it. It's a kick, as long as you can take the stereo-ping-ponging- telephone rings that accompany the hot salsa, cumbia and meringue music that girls are chattering to.
A few days before the Olympics started, I was flipping around between innings of a Dodger-Phillies game, when I ran across KVEA, the Telemundo station in L.A. A telenovela was in progress. For those who don't know, the telenovela is the heart of prime-time programming for Spanish speaking countries around the world. A soap-opera like show will run five nights a week until it concludes its run after 6 or 7 months. The hallmark of the telenovela is melodrama, gorgeous women, and lingering, smoldering looks on the actors faces just before cutting to another scene.
I had no idea what I was watching, but it appeared a bunch of drunken men were splashing through a river in pursuit of a frightened young woman. A hideous assault ensued, done without the explicitness you see in films, but with a brutality that allowed the viewer (even this one who doesn't speak Spanish) to realize what was going on. I flipped back to the ball game, but found myself headed back to Telemundo to try and figure out what happened to the young woman.
I had stumbled upon a story called "Dona Barbara," famous in Spanish literature. Written in 1929 by a Venezuelan who would eventually serve a short term as the country's president. Dona Barbara is a beautiful young woman raised by a river in Venezuela. Bandits kill her fiance then assault her, leaving life long scars that would make her the hard hearted femme fa tale. The story is rife with symbolism, it's characters who represent progressive and repressive politics. Barbara represents repression, cold and cunning, who falls for a neighboring ranch owner, Santos Luzardo, who embodies the tale's idealism and progressive themes. Barbara as a 17 year old daughter named Marisela, by the man she swindled her ranch from. Lorenzo is now a drunkard, living in the wild with Marisela, abandoned and sent away by Barbara as she consolidated power.
How do I know this? Well, I looked the story up on the internet, but found the English closed captioning, CC3. Some of the translations are a riot. In one scene, Dona Barbara rides up to her property and snaps an order to her ranch hand. In Spanish, kit sounds terse, dramatic. The English translation read, "Idiot, grab my horse."
An actress named Edith Gonzales plays Dona Barbara, and she is...easy on the eyes, shall we say, as is Genesis Rodriguez, who plays Marisela. You're reading this and think Dave needs to find more to do, and you're right. Dona Barbara, however, is a brave new viewing world, for me...it's histrionics and place in the world of literature that I was unfamiliar with. And did I mention the women were spectacular? I find it fun, not too bloody, over the top, and escapist is every sense of the word.
What a summer. The Dodgers show spark, trade for Manny Ramirez, then blow the tires on their already mediocre season; The Olympic experience once again; the beach...and Dona Barbara. All while waiting for another radio opportunity to develop.
A SMALL NOTE ON POLITICS
The Democratic National Convention opened this week in Denver. Conventions are simply known by acronyms, now. Opening night at the DNC was reviewed by pundits as slow and lethargic...but then they are apparently paid for opinions, whether they are valid or not. I was struck by the historic juxtaposition of a video presentation, then a warm welcome for former President Jimmy Carter; and a surprise speech by Teddy Kennedy. Senator Kennedy was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor, earlier this year, had surgery and has been undergoing radiation and chemotherapy in hopes to extend his life for as long as possible. I recalled that in 1980, there was a polarity between these two men that split the party and helped Ronald Reagan to a landslide. Here, 28 years later, there they were celebrated one after the other--the former President for his work helping the poor and hungry around the world, and the ailing Senator for his legislative work and roll as heart and soul of the party's left. In a word, it was moving.
Just turned 49, I've spent a great deal of time watching still another round of games. For all that was written in the press, bandied about on the web, and chewed over on TV, the Beijing games turned out to be quite good, and extraordinarily watchable--save one thing: NBC's insistence on delaying their live broadcasts for the Pacific and Mountain time zones. Why? When live telecasts across the country would have permitted many of the swimming and gymnastics events to be presented in Prime Time on the west coast? Bread, bones, jing, moohlah...the ever-lovin' NBC/Universal, owned-and operated-stations and affiliate bottom line: Money. A live telecast from coast-to-coast-would have started at 5pm PDT, pre-empting local newscasts, the most lucrative of any programs aired by a local station, like KNBC, Los Angeles. They make millions in advertising revenue from the 5pm news. Better to delay the telecast three hours than lose those bucks. Besides, NBC promised sponsors Prime Time--and sponsors are to get exactly what they pay for, especially these days.
It's odd. Here on the west coast, viewers will accept a delayed broadcast of everything except the Super Bowl, World Series, college sports and the Academy Awards. 30 years ago, the NBA finals were not shown in prime time, but delayed til 11:30 EST and PST. No way they'd do that today. But the Grammys, Emmy Awards and the Olympics? New Yorkers would march on Rockefeller Plaza with torches if NBC tried it there. Southern Californians, mostly, don't care...so long as you don't tell them who won in advance.
I prefer the rush of the live telecast. I feel cheated, otherwise. My original Olympic viewing experience in 1968 was mostly live from Mexico City on ABC, in the afternoon when I got home from school. The network was charting virgin territory. It was the first time since the dawn of television broadcasting that the games were held in a time zone that permitted a live telecast. Some 40 hours of the games in Mexico City were beamed via satellite, in color. Much of the nation got to watch Olympic track and field events, gymnastics, swimming, diving and basketball as they happened. That had been done on a limited basis by NBC with some of the events in 1964, but nothing on the scale of the games of the XIX Olympiad.
I vividly recall watching Bernard Wrightson winning the gold medal on the 3-meter diving board. Soaking in the boxing matches called by Howard Cosell, and the stirring, closing ceremonies, in a dark stadium with its cauldron extinguished. In our house, we didn't see it in color, but it made quite an impression.
I admit that by the time I turned 13, ABC was preparing to telecast the Munich games, and I intended to watch as many of the planned 55 hours of coverage that I could. That's when the evil tape-delay first came into play. What was comfortably telecast during late afternoon in 1968, would be delayed three hours to be shown in prime time in 1972, or late afternoon weekend hours. It meant that when announcer Jim McKay was breathlessly describing the end of the
5, ooo meter run, and telling us, "...this is coming to you live! No one in the world knows how this will turn out!" we already knew Steve Prefontaine was going to fall just short of winning the bronze medal.
Though there were unforgettable moments, like Mark Spitz swimming to 7 golds (a record just eclipsed in Beijing by Michael Phelps), and Soviet gymnast Olga Korbut, those games remain marred by the memory of those Israeli athletes taken hostage and subsequently killed. On an early post, I acknowledged that, at his passing, Jim McKay was being remembered for the way he brought the news of that tragedy to the nation. What only I seem to remember, though, is hearing the news on an NBC special report that cut into the Nightly News with John Chancellor...because it was 6:45 PDT. McKay's soul-crushing announcement, "They're all gone," was not seen on the West Coast of the country for another three hours, because his reporting was a part of the Olympic package, to be telecast ONLY in prime time. ABC knew no shame.
It wasn't until 1984, with the games in our backyard, here in Southern California, that the Pacific time zone was treated to viewing Olympic sports live. The L.A. games were a tour de force. i was working at KLON, in Long Beach, the public radio station that supplanted our 10-watt college station at Long Beach State. This didn't keep the major sports franchises and the LAOOC (Los Angeles Olympic Organizing Committee) from assuming it, too, was a college station. I was de facto sports director of KLON. All that meant was I did the sports reports. And regardless of whom I had write the letters for me, I was denied credentials to the games. I reported the results from a portable color TV I brought from home, relishing the live telecasts, but chagrined no one had the juice to get me passes to cover the games in my own back yard (literally. I lived in Carson, a mile away from the Olympic Velodrome, and could look out the kitchen window to see cyclists, in the uniforms of their native lands, zooming through the neighborhood to stretch out their legs for the races to come. It was bizarre!).
Those games also stand out as the last great reporting done by Howard Cosell on ABC. Love him or hate him, he was brilliant calling the boxing matches from the L.A. Sports Arena, as spot on and accurate as he was at Mexico City in '68, Der Box Halle in Munich, '72, or when the U.S. Boxing team, lead by Sugar Ray Leonard, pummeled their opponents for a stunning five gold medals at Montreal in 1976. In Beijing, NBC farmed boxing out to CNBC, and all the Americans were eliminated early.
About CNBC...MSNBC, USA, and the other cable networks of NBC/Universal. Most of the events shown on those channels were LIVE. All night soccer, softball, field hockey, water polo, tennis, rowing, kayaking, canoeing, and a heaping helping of Table Tennis and Badminton. That got ridiculous, though. To most Americas, tab;e tennis and badminton are back yard barbecue games, which aren't played without a cooler full of beer or a plate of potato salad nearby. It was difficult to take the sports seriously. But they were, at least, LIVE Olympic action...and NBC saved dough by having the announcers for most of those events call the play from an HD screen in New York. To their credit, they never claimed otherwise.
?Tu eres Dona Barbara, verdad?
Because I'm the kind of guy who'd flip over to ESPN and read the sports updates on the crawl at the bottom of the screen, I knew whether to watch NBC's prime time Olympic coverage of an American victory, or stick with the Dodger game. But something new came into the picture a few days before the games began.
I love Spanish language TV. I speak so little Spanish, I can only pick out the words I know, but the announcers are so theatrical...they way they once were in English, before some focus group research resulted in a ton of guys with the vocal patterns of Ryan Seacrest (but not his money!). And then there's the Saturday morning auto-dealer infomercial with the scantily clad girls, cleavage plunging, skirts rising, ranting a mile-a-minute in Spanish about some second hand hunk of junk you actually wind up wanting to buy-- if she came along with it. It's a kick, as long as you can take the stereo-ping-ponging- telephone rings that accompany the hot salsa, cumbia and meringue music that girls are chattering to.
A few days before the Olympics started, I was flipping around between innings of a Dodger-Phillies game, when I ran across KVEA, the Telemundo station in L.A. A telenovela was in progress. For those who don't know, the telenovela is the heart of prime-time programming for Spanish speaking countries around the world. A soap-opera like show will run five nights a week until it concludes its run after 6 or 7 months. The hallmark of the telenovela is melodrama, gorgeous women, and lingering, smoldering looks on the actors faces just before cutting to another scene.
I had no idea what I was watching, but it appeared a bunch of drunken men were splashing through a river in pursuit of a frightened young woman. A hideous assault ensued, done without the explicitness you see in films, but with a brutality that allowed the viewer (even this one who doesn't speak Spanish) to realize what was going on. I flipped back to the ball game, but found myself headed back to Telemundo to try and figure out what happened to the young woman.
I had stumbled upon a story called "Dona Barbara," famous in Spanish literature. Written in 1929 by a Venezuelan who would eventually serve a short term as the country's president. Dona Barbara is a beautiful young woman raised by a river in Venezuela. Bandits kill her fiance then assault her, leaving life long scars that would make her the hard hearted femme fa tale. The story is rife with symbolism, it's characters who represent progressive and repressive politics. Barbara represents repression, cold and cunning, who falls for a neighboring ranch owner, Santos Luzardo, who embodies the tale's idealism and progressive themes. Barbara as a 17 year old daughter named Marisela, by the man she swindled her ranch from. Lorenzo is now a drunkard, living in the wild with Marisela, abandoned and sent away by Barbara as she consolidated power.
How do I know this? Well, I looked the story up on the internet, but found the English closed captioning, CC3. Some of the translations are a riot. In one scene, Dona Barbara rides up to her property and snaps an order to her ranch hand. In Spanish, kit sounds terse, dramatic. The English translation read, "Idiot, grab my horse."
An actress named Edith Gonzales plays Dona Barbara, and she is...easy on the eyes, shall we say, as is Genesis Rodriguez, who plays Marisela. You're reading this and think Dave needs to find more to do, and you're right. Dona Barbara, however, is a brave new viewing world, for me...it's histrionics and place in the world of literature that I was unfamiliar with. And did I mention the women were spectacular? I find it fun, not too bloody, over the top, and escapist is every sense of the word.
What a summer. The Dodgers show spark, trade for Manny Ramirez, then blow the tires on their already mediocre season; The Olympic experience once again; the beach...and Dona Barbara. All while waiting for another radio opportunity to develop.
A SMALL NOTE ON POLITICS
The Democratic National Convention opened this week in Denver. Conventions are simply known by acronyms, now. Opening night at the DNC was reviewed by pundits as slow and lethargic...but then they are apparently paid for opinions, whether they are valid or not. I was struck by the historic juxtaposition of a video presentation, then a warm welcome for former President Jimmy Carter; and a surprise speech by Teddy Kennedy. Senator Kennedy was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor, earlier this year, had surgery and has been undergoing radiation and chemotherapy in hopes to extend his life for as long as possible. I recalled that in 1980, there was a polarity between these two men that split the party and helped Ronald Reagan to a landslide. Here, 28 years later, there they were celebrated one after the other--the former President for his work helping the poor and hungry around the world, and the ailing Senator for his legislative work and roll as heart and soul of the party's left. In a word, it was moving.
Monday, June 23, 2008
OCCUPATION: FOOLE! George Carlin 1937-2008
I cannot accurately estimate the number of hours I spent listening to George Carlin albums. from 1975 through the end of the decade, Occupation: Foole and On The Road burned up my cassette players and turntable, while they alternately inspired me, and convulsed me with laughter so hard, I'd literally turn purple. He wasn't just funny--he was riotous.
My old friend from high school, Craig Gross, and I must have known every word of those two Carlin records, and would weave them into our own humorous conversations.
"How's your Dog?!! How's your Goddamn dog??!!" That line opens a bit about pets from On the Road that even made my mother laugh. A simple question related in such a way that caught you off guard. Isn't that something you want to ask someone who's a little too attached to their canine? "How's your Goddamn Dog??"
If you read the previous entry here, you'll see that some great people have left the planet over the last couple of weeks. I've tried to express my "stranger's sense of loss." I didn't know George Carlin, but I was influenced by his wisdom and his comedy, and wouldn't have made it through the 70's without him and his like (in earlier posts, I've outlined my favorite comics--"Things that make you go "HA," is the title of the entry).
The truth is, it's starting to upset me that I find myself writing memorials to great people. I hope this pauses for a while, but that's a lot to ask from life. It's essential, I think, to add my take, lest people like George Carlin and Jim McKay be remembered mainly for one incident in the broad spectrum of their careers. Jim McKay was memorialized not nearly as much for his yeoman work as a sportscaster as he was for that hideous day in Munich, September 5, 1972, when he had to describe a terrorist hostage tragedy instead of track and field. It was a highlight, but there was so much more to his work...so much more that I'll remember.
The same for George Carlin. All the post mortems have touched upon his "seven words you can't say" on TV: Shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, mother-fucker and tits. "Those are the words that'll curve your spine, grow hair on your hands and bring us, God help us, peace without honor," he added with mock seriousness. Then he went to pains to point out that mother-fucker "...was a compound word." An English lesson, as well as a primer on contemporary mores!
Yet he was so much more than that. The world is short of people who are truly gifted in the way George Carlin was. For every arena that Dice Clay filled in 1988, and Dane Cook filled in 2004, there would be venues three times that size filled with people wondering aloud what those two were all about. That would never be so with Mr. Carlin.
Forget the seven dirty words. George Carlin, besides being so hilarious, had a clear vision, and suffered no...Fooles.
My old friend from high school, Craig Gross, and I must have known every word of those two Carlin records, and would weave them into our own humorous conversations.
"How's your Dog?!! How's your Goddamn dog??!!" That line opens a bit about pets from On the Road that even made my mother laugh. A simple question related in such a way that caught you off guard. Isn't that something you want to ask someone who's a little too attached to their canine? "How's your Goddamn Dog??"
If you read the previous entry here, you'll see that some great people have left the planet over the last couple of weeks. I've tried to express my "stranger's sense of loss." I didn't know George Carlin, but I was influenced by his wisdom and his comedy, and wouldn't have made it through the 70's without him and his like (in earlier posts, I've outlined my favorite comics--"Things that make you go "HA," is the title of the entry).
The truth is, it's starting to upset me that I find myself writing memorials to great people. I hope this pauses for a while, but that's a lot to ask from life. It's essential, I think, to add my take, lest people like George Carlin and Jim McKay be remembered mainly for one incident in the broad spectrum of their careers. Jim McKay was memorialized not nearly as much for his yeoman work as a sportscaster as he was for that hideous day in Munich, September 5, 1972, when he had to describe a terrorist hostage tragedy instead of track and field. It was a highlight, but there was so much more to his work...so much more that I'll remember.
The same for George Carlin. All the post mortems have touched upon his "seven words you can't say" on TV: Shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, mother-fucker and tits. "Those are the words that'll curve your spine, grow hair on your hands and bring us, God help us, peace without honor," he added with mock seriousness. Then he went to pains to point out that mother-fucker "...was a compound word." An English lesson, as well as a primer on contemporary mores!
Yet he was so much more than that. The world is short of people who are truly gifted in the way George Carlin was. For every arena that Dice Clay filled in 1988, and Dane Cook filled in 2004, there would be venues three times that size filled with people wondering aloud what those two were all about. That would never be so with Mr. Carlin.
Forget the seven dirty words. George Carlin, besides being so hilarious, had a clear vision, and suffered no...Fooles.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
STUCK IN A FOXHOLE WITH LARA LOGAN
If I inexplicably found myself in a battle zone, that's the place I'd like to be. For those not familiar with CBS News' Chief Foreign Correspondent (and according to the ratings, many are not) Lara Logan is a South African, who grew up detesting her country's hideous racial policies. She's been covering the wars in both Afghanistan and Iraq for most of this decade. Lara is a tough, intelligent, tenacious reporter, with a kind of courage that is rare to find. Oh yeah: she's really, reeeeeeeeallllly pretty, too. I'd be lying if I denied that this has a lot to do with her appeal. It is CBS she works for, not AP. I read where Bob Scheiffer was quite concerned with her safety, and I'll admit that without knowing the woman, I am, too. This war has cost the lives of more journalists from around the world than any other. That nightly TV presences like ABC's Bob Woodruff and CBS's Kimberly Dozier survived the serious wounds they suffered is a credit to the skill of Army doctors, and grace from above. Yeah, I see Lara Logan, soak in the brave, fearless reports from Iraq or Afghanistan, and (like an old-fashioned guy) surmise that a woman that good-looking shouldn't be in harm's way. The troops on the ground love her for trying to tell their story. Regardless of the fact she's a knock-out, I admire her honesty. Lara Logan is the real deal.
As was Tim Russert. It's been a week since he died suddenly, and for anyone who watched "Meet the Press" on a weekly basis, as I have, it's tragic loss. The man was unfailingly fair minded, in a medium that has developed strong voices to the right and the left (regardless of what conservatives think, the majority of the partisan noise blows in from the right). Each Sunday, Tim Russert, a lawyer and NBC Washington Bureau Chief, would sit with the political movers and shakers of the 21st Century, and grill 'em like a stack of burgers on the 4th of July. Russert would research his subject, and confront them with their own words. He was so focused but respectful and even-handed, they had to take it and make as much of a public accounting as a politician can ( meaning to say, they had to think fast to talk their way around the truth). Tim Russert will be missed by friends and family and colleagues...and by those of us who admired (here's that word again) his honesty. And he will not be easily replaced. What a blow to political journalism. What a blow.
I can't let the losses of two other media figures go by without some comment. Jim McKay was 86 years old when he died, June 7th. He'd last been seen in a 2003 HBO special on his life and times, a special he wrote and narrated. When I was 11 years old, I spent a late Saturday afternoon watching Jim McKay present old black and white tape clips during a 10th Anniversary episode of ABC's Wide World of Sports. From that point on, until I got into high school, at least, Wide World became appointment TV for me. Jim McKay's enthusiasm was so contagious, he made then obscure sports like gymnastics and figure skating compelling. His gift for language made his descriptions effusive, lyrical.
Like this from coverage of the 19th Olympiad in Mexico City, 1968:
"Bill Toomey...running in the cold and the dark of Mexico City...winning the decathlon!"
His words and inflections brimmed with pride, but also provided the perfect caption for the picture of an exhausted Toomey, breaking the tape of his final event, then falling into the arms of his closest competitor. Jim McKay proved that in TV, pictures may tell a tale, but a great announcer provides the perspective.
Working as a newspaper reporter following a stint in the navy during World War II, Jim moved to TV in its infancy. So many great TV presences like McKay, like Walter Cronkite, were writers before they stepped in front of those brand new, black and white TV cameras, and set the standard for what we have, today. That's why they were so special, I suppose. I'd like to think we have a large place in our hearts for pioneers.
A little something about another sports announcer who left us in June: Charley Jones. Football fans will recall Charley's gravelly delivery and play-by-play over NBC for years and years. He was one of those working broadcasters with whom you were familiar and took for granted. After calling AFL/AFC games on ABC and NBC for 35 years, I'd say his most memorable moments came in the games of the 24th Olympiad in Seoul, South Korea, 1988. Charley called the track and field events, which had been moved to the morning hours to facilitate live broadcasts to the United States in prime time over NBC. You never heard a more stirring call than that of Charley describing Ben Johnson winning the 100 Meter dash in '88--only to have Johnson disqualified for using steroids. Because of that tainted race, Charley's Tour-De-force description of those seconds has been lost to the mists of time. I certainly hope Charley Jones isn't. He was 77.
HERE COMES SUMMER
There's a heatwave in Southern California as the summer begins, and fittingly so. Some of the best summers in life were those when I was a teenager--not working, done with summer school, hanging out, all day and night. The summer of '76, in particular, was great. I more or less tried to re-live that one over and over again, with mixed results. As work and adulthood ensued, summer came to mean something else: a few precious days at the beach, taking in movies, maybe a few vacation days For some reason, the summer of '89 stands out. Even though I worked my tail off that year, I think the fact it was my first full summer in Ventura County, with its relatively cool temperatures and nearby beaches made it special. I spent weeknights on the air, playing the hits, or in the studio, making funny, one-minute bits for my countdown show. Weekends, I hit Ventura clubs in pursuit of vodka and female companionship (the vodka was always easier to get, though there were some memorable moments).
Over the last decade, summer came to mean filling in on the air while others took vacations, or trying to sleep in the daytime as I toiled over the radio all night. Not much fun except for last year, when I chose to hit the beach every Sunday and have some semblance of a summer-like amusement. And I dug it. Sitting in a canvas beach chair, listening to Vin Scully call three innings of a Sunday afternoon Dodger game as the waves crashed. And of course there were the bikini-clad denizens of the sand...which made me fairly happy, as well.
As summer '08 dawns, I find myself at liberty most of the week, and filling the nether hours at my former employer just to keep some sort of income, on Saturday and Sunday. The weekends are a sleep deprived wash. It's brutal, and need at least a day and a half afterward to recover from it. I halfway suspected that most of my attempts to grab another worthwhile gig would result in failure, because that's the way it is. But while I have time to bide, I will enjoy the sights, the sounds and the sand of the beach, and have, as the misguided youth of the early 1970's would say, "a bitchin' summer."
As was Tim Russert. It's been a week since he died suddenly, and for anyone who watched "Meet the Press" on a weekly basis, as I have, it's tragic loss. The man was unfailingly fair minded, in a medium that has developed strong voices to the right and the left (regardless of what conservatives think, the majority of the partisan noise blows in from the right). Each Sunday, Tim Russert, a lawyer and NBC Washington Bureau Chief, would sit with the political movers and shakers of the 21st Century, and grill 'em like a stack of burgers on the 4th of July. Russert would research his subject, and confront them with their own words. He was so focused but respectful and even-handed, they had to take it and make as much of a public accounting as a politician can ( meaning to say, they had to think fast to talk their way around the truth). Tim Russert will be missed by friends and family and colleagues...and by those of us who admired (here's that word again) his honesty. And he will not be easily replaced. What a blow to political journalism. What a blow.
I can't let the losses of two other media figures go by without some comment. Jim McKay was 86 years old when he died, June 7th. He'd last been seen in a 2003 HBO special on his life and times, a special he wrote and narrated. When I was 11 years old, I spent a late Saturday afternoon watching Jim McKay present old black and white tape clips during a 10th Anniversary episode of ABC's Wide World of Sports. From that point on, until I got into high school, at least, Wide World became appointment TV for me. Jim McKay's enthusiasm was so contagious, he made then obscure sports like gymnastics and figure skating compelling. His gift for language made his descriptions effusive, lyrical.
Like this from coverage of the 19th Olympiad in Mexico City, 1968:
"Bill Toomey...running in the cold and the dark of Mexico City...winning the decathlon!"
His words and inflections brimmed with pride, but also provided the perfect caption for the picture of an exhausted Toomey, breaking the tape of his final event, then falling into the arms of his closest competitor. Jim McKay proved that in TV, pictures may tell a tale, but a great announcer provides the perspective.
Working as a newspaper reporter following a stint in the navy during World War II, Jim moved to TV in its infancy. So many great TV presences like McKay, like Walter Cronkite, were writers before they stepped in front of those brand new, black and white TV cameras, and set the standard for what we have, today. That's why they were so special, I suppose. I'd like to think we have a large place in our hearts for pioneers.
A little something about another sports announcer who left us in June: Charley Jones. Football fans will recall Charley's gravelly delivery and play-by-play over NBC for years and years. He was one of those working broadcasters with whom you were familiar and took for granted. After calling AFL/AFC games on ABC and NBC for 35 years, I'd say his most memorable moments came in the games of the 24th Olympiad in Seoul, South Korea, 1988. Charley called the track and field events, which had been moved to the morning hours to facilitate live broadcasts to the United States in prime time over NBC. You never heard a more stirring call than that of Charley describing Ben Johnson winning the 100 Meter dash in '88--only to have Johnson disqualified for using steroids. Because of that tainted race, Charley's Tour-De-force description of those seconds has been lost to the mists of time. I certainly hope Charley Jones isn't. He was 77.
HERE COMES SUMMER
There's a heatwave in Southern California as the summer begins, and fittingly so. Some of the best summers in life were those when I was a teenager--not working, done with summer school, hanging out, all day and night. The summer of '76, in particular, was great. I more or less tried to re-live that one over and over again, with mixed results. As work and adulthood ensued, summer came to mean something else: a few precious days at the beach, taking in movies, maybe a few vacation days For some reason, the summer of '89 stands out. Even though I worked my tail off that year, I think the fact it was my first full summer in Ventura County, with its relatively cool temperatures and nearby beaches made it special. I spent weeknights on the air, playing the hits, or in the studio, making funny, one-minute bits for my countdown show. Weekends, I hit Ventura clubs in pursuit of vodka and female companionship (the vodka was always easier to get, though there were some memorable moments).
Over the last decade, summer came to mean filling in on the air while others took vacations, or trying to sleep in the daytime as I toiled over the radio all night. Not much fun except for last year, when I chose to hit the beach every Sunday and have some semblance of a summer-like amusement. And I dug it. Sitting in a canvas beach chair, listening to Vin Scully call three innings of a Sunday afternoon Dodger game as the waves crashed. And of course there were the bikini-clad denizens of the sand...which made me fairly happy, as well.
As summer '08 dawns, I find myself at liberty most of the week, and filling the nether hours at my former employer just to keep some sort of income, on Saturday and Sunday. The weekends are a sleep deprived wash. It's brutal, and need at least a day and a half afterward to recover from it. I halfway suspected that most of my attempts to grab another worthwhile gig would result in failure, because that's the way it is. But while I have time to bide, I will enjoy the sights, the sounds and the sand of the beach, and have, as the misguided youth of the early 1970's would say, "a bitchin' summer."
Thursday, May 29, 2008
CAMPAIGN "OH ATE"
Yes, it has been a while since I logged and blogged. You can blame a lot of things. I'm most comfortable pointing an accusing finger at sleep deprivation and the lure of television. The mix of the two is deadly for creative people.
Regardless, when you write, you have to have something to say, and these last three months I haven't had much to offer. I've been easily distracted by the need to get a new gig, and the temptation of watching Jackie Johnson do the weather on L.A.'s K-CAL 9. I never remember a single forecast this curvy sensation utters, but udders are what dominate my thoughts once her segment is done!
It's time for me to offer some cogent thoughts about Campaign '08. These have been, without question, the most curious, compelling six months of presidential politics in my adult life. Emphasis on adult life. It is true that I was an 8-year-old about to turn 9 in during the '68 race. Because my parents were active in Democratic politics, I can remember a lot of the details. Minnesota Senator Eugene McCarthy's appearance at the elementary school I attended stands out. The kids were so badly behaved around TV cameras, McCarthy was photographed only from the neck up--lest the networks have to settle for the distracting picture of a rather aloof politician surrounded by a leaping, bounding, gaggle of bobble-headed grade school children. If only the other memories were that amusing. On June 4, 1968, I went to bed listening to Vin Scully describe Don Drysdale's shutout of the Pittsburgh Pirates. He was on his way to a then-record 58 and 2/3 scoreless innings pitched. I woke up the next morning to the image of Roger Mudd filling the TV screen in my brother Thomas' room.
"Is the election still going on?" I asked?
"No. Kennedy got shot." I was horrified. I went to the dining room, and there was the headline spread across the front page of the Los Angeles Times. When JFK had been assassinated, I understood only that there would be no cartoons on TV that weekend. This time, I felt surprise and shock for the first time. If you are at all given to prayer, or rubbing a rabbit's foot, do what you must in hopes that we should never have to suffer the agony of that type of violence again.
I mentioned Roger Mudd. At long last, he has written of his time with CBS in Washington. "The Place To Be," is the name of his tome, and it's a great read for political and news junkies, alike. One of his revelations made me shake my head and laugh. At the 1970 Washington Press Corps Dinner, he was seated next to President Richard Nixon as Diana Ross performed. According to Mudd, Nixon turned to him during her performance and said, " They really do have a sense of rhythm, don't they?"
What is missing in 2008 is the analysis of Roger Mudd...and Mike Wallace, and yes, Dan Rather. Even at their respective ages (Mudd is 80, Wallace is in his 90's, and Rather is well over 70), they'd have a field day with the fruit that's been born of Campaign '08.
With three cable channels providing all politics just about all the time, every word by every candidate has been analyzed, squeezed, wrung-out, and dissected; then roasted on a spit by every ex-consultant, pol and pundit who can elbow his or her way before a camera. Once on the air, the bantering, predicting and pontificating begins. The most innocuous item is blown up to the size of the fat guy on "Lost," then it's off the table by the end of the week. This campaign has been an exhausting process because following it means a daily dose of constant haranguing. I, for one, am tired of it.
This is all part and parcel to the advent of the 24-hour news cycle, of course. Everything, as they say, is grist for that mill. It's a monster that must be fed.
It's also the gritty residue of dirty, maintain-power-at-all-cost, negative politics. Consider what the Presidential campaign of 1988 was like. That summer, I was working 7 to Midnight at Q-105. I set a then-new Zenith VCR to record the nightly three hours of the Democratic National Convention. By '88, the networks had reduced convention coverage to three hours a night. As late as '72, the conventions had been just about an all day, all week, saturation, gavel-to-gavel telecast. Then the parties became painfully aware that the more fractious the convention, the more distant their chances for victory in the fall.
I ran across one of those old convention tapes this week and watched some of it. What first greets you is the difference in the graphics used by CBS...the number of politicians who've passed away in 20 years, and the dark heads of hair on Dan Rather and Bob Schieffer.
What truly got me was the commentary. In July of 1988, there were Walter Cronkite and Eric Severeid, offering opinion and fielding questions from Dan Rather. Between the two, they'd done 17 conventions on TV, but never once in their observations, not a single time in their ruminations did the idea of dirty politics come up. Nor was it discussed by any of the floor reporters or Bruce Morton, another CBS political correspondent of the time. At that convention, the only problem they could see in the distance for nominee Michael Dukakis was whether Jesse Jackson (who dominated the convention with what author Joe Klein would call, "hot, sweaty rhetoric.") would prove to be a loose cannon in the fall campaign. No one, at least on CBS in July of 1988, had an inkling that dirty politics and wedge issues devised and executed by Lee Atwater and the George H.W. Bush campaign would destroy Dukakis. This was the same Vice President Bush who was so freely ridiculed by the Democrats during the convention (and ridiculed for good reason).
The coverage that current candidates endure would not have saved Dukakis from himself, for he found fighting back not to be in his character. But it certainly would have exposed the tactics employed by the Republicans. Near death in 1990, Lee Atwater apologized to Dukakis. His soul was cleansed when he died, but the damage was done. Dirty politics is the Karl Rovian-way of the political world. Before November 4, 2008 gets here, we're in for a filthy, bitter ride.
*
Before I summarize the candidates, another word about Eric Severeid. He was the last of the scholar correspondents. Hired by Edward R. Murrow during World War II, he was the great sage of CBS for 40 years, then retired in 1978. Until his death, he'd be resurrected at convention time to add words of wisdom to CBS coverage. His face was placed on a commemorative postage stamp earlier this year. That's when I heard an attractive morning anchor on KTLA-TV 5 in Los Angeles announce that "...in addition, Eric SeverEED is also on a new stamp." Eric SeverEED? How could a working journalist not know the correct pronunciation of Eric Severeid's name? Then it dawned on me that the anchor, a lovely Filipina named Cher Colvin, was probably just born when Severeid retired. She must have been a ten-year-old, more interested in Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam plus Full Force than politics, when Eric last appeared at a convention. It made me feel old and less impressed with TV news. The very idea that an electronic journalist could not know his name is disappointing.
Now--the candidates: If John McCain wore coveralls, he might be Walter Brennan in an ancient episode of 'The Real McCoys." Forget for one moment all the political hype, positioning and manipulation. He puts me in mind of the perpetually wisecracking-but-pissed-off homeroom teacher, the one who might verbally lacerate you at the drop of a hat. I get the strong impression that this is one Senator who has used the M.F. word with skill and knife-like precision.
*
Charlton Heston is gone. You won't have to pry a rifle from his cold dead hands, but you'll need a hydraulic-trip hammer to loosen Senator Hillary Clinton's grip on the campaign. The mantra here is "Do anything, say anything " to win. This is not an observation born out of sexism. Any man or woman who so doggedly continues in the face of math that doesn't add up favorably is seeking power without regard for reality.
That leaves Senator Obama, a man who has lit a flame under part of the electorate. In recent times, only Mario Cuomo and Bill Clinton himself could offer such oratory. But those two never drew 75 thousand to an appearance, as Obama did by the Willamette River in Oregon. Watching the faces of those in the throngs that gather to see him, I can only imagine what it must have been like to see JFK or RFK. Surely no Democratic politician has caused such a stir, since. If the math is correct, and there's no reason to expect it won't, the son of Stanley Ann and Barack Obama, Sr., literally an African and American, will be the Presidential nominee of a major party in the United States. He'll have his work cut out for him. There will be hate in his face, for a myriad of reasons. Those to the right will hate his politics. There are some who will hate his erudition (why do we, as a nation, not seem to want an intelligent person in the most powerful office in the world? Have we not seen what stupidity can do?). And, in a segment of our land where there has been no growth, regardless of his late, Kansas-born mother Stanley Ann, and yes, regardless of the progress the country has made in 40 years, they will hate him for the color of his skin.
AND FINALLY, HERE'S DAVE WITH SPORTS...
Just a few notes. In this, the 2nd full month of the 2008 season, it appears the Dodgers have traded their bats him for soggy, wet socks. Tommy Lasorda said it best 25 years ago: "They'd need an OAR to hit the f--king ball!" All the kids are there--Loney at first, Kemp and Ethier in the outfield, Martin behind the plate. When a mysterious malady of the calf made Nomar no MORE, a Double-A 3rd Baseman named Blake Dewitt made such a name for himself, a radio station in his Missouri hometown now carries Dodger games live.
Yet, at this writing, they've scored 7 runs in 4 games, and lost every single one. At 26-27 on May 30th, it's safe to say they stink.
I yearn for the day when the Dodgers could captivate Los Angeles the way the Lakers do. The Lakes are third on my list of favorite sports teams. I don't follow them with the tenacity I do the Dodgers and S.C. football...but when the prospect of playing Boston for the NBA Championship arises, look out! Should Boston prevail over Detroit, ABC-TV will be doing the dance of the infidels, because a Celtics-Lakers Championship Series means big ratings. And anybody who's followed the Lakers for a DAY...hates the Celtics. This could be fun...
Regardless, when you write, you have to have something to say, and these last three months I haven't had much to offer. I've been easily distracted by the need to get a new gig, and the temptation of watching Jackie Johnson do the weather on L.A.'s K-CAL 9. I never remember a single forecast this curvy sensation utters, but udders are what dominate my thoughts once her segment is done!
It's time for me to offer some cogent thoughts about Campaign '08. These have been, without question, the most curious, compelling six months of presidential politics in my adult life. Emphasis on adult life. It is true that I was an 8-year-old about to turn 9 in during the '68 race. Because my parents were active in Democratic politics, I can remember a lot of the details. Minnesota Senator Eugene McCarthy's appearance at the elementary school I attended stands out. The kids were so badly behaved around TV cameras, McCarthy was photographed only from the neck up--lest the networks have to settle for the distracting picture of a rather aloof politician surrounded by a leaping, bounding, gaggle of bobble-headed grade school children. If only the other memories were that amusing. On June 4, 1968, I went to bed listening to Vin Scully describe Don Drysdale's shutout of the Pittsburgh Pirates. He was on his way to a then-record 58 and 2/3 scoreless innings pitched. I woke up the next morning to the image of Roger Mudd filling the TV screen in my brother Thomas' room.
"Is the election still going on?" I asked?
"No. Kennedy got shot." I was horrified. I went to the dining room, and there was the headline spread across the front page of the Los Angeles Times. When JFK had been assassinated, I understood only that there would be no cartoons on TV that weekend. This time, I felt surprise and shock for the first time. If you are at all given to prayer, or rubbing a rabbit's foot, do what you must in hopes that we should never have to suffer the agony of that type of violence again.
I mentioned Roger Mudd. At long last, he has written of his time with CBS in Washington. "The Place To Be," is the name of his tome, and it's a great read for political and news junkies, alike. One of his revelations made me shake my head and laugh. At the 1970 Washington Press Corps Dinner, he was seated next to President Richard Nixon as Diana Ross performed. According to Mudd, Nixon turned to him during her performance and said, " They really do have a sense of rhythm, don't they?"
What is missing in 2008 is the analysis of Roger Mudd...and Mike Wallace, and yes, Dan Rather. Even at their respective ages (Mudd is 80, Wallace is in his 90's, and Rather is well over 70), they'd have a field day with the fruit that's been born of Campaign '08.
With three cable channels providing all politics just about all the time, every word by every candidate has been analyzed, squeezed, wrung-out, and dissected; then roasted on a spit by every ex-consultant, pol and pundit who can elbow his or her way before a camera. Once on the air, the bantering, predicting and pontificating begins. The most innocuous item is blown up to the size of the fat guy on "Lost," then it's off the table by the end of the week. This campaign has been an exhausting process because following it means a daily dose of constant haranguing. I, for one, am tired of it.
This is all part and parcel to the advent of the 24-hour news cycle, of course. Everything, as they say, is grist for that mill. It's a monster that must be fed.
It's also the gritty residue of dirty, maintain-power-at-all-cost, negative politics. Consider what the Presidential campaign of 1988 was like. That summer, I was working 7 to Midnight at Q-105. I set a then-new Zenith VCR to record the nightly three hours of the Democratic National Convention. By '88, the networks had reduced convention coverage to three hours a night. As late as '72, the conventions had been just about an all day, all week, saturation, gavel-to-gavel telecast. Then the parties became painfully aware that the more fractious the convention, the more distant their chances for victory in the fall.
I ran across one of those old convention tapes this week and watched some of it. What first greets you is the difference in the graphics used by CBS...the number of politicians who've passed away in 20 years, and the dark heads of hair on Dan Rather and Bob Schieffer.
What truly got me was the commentary. In July of 1988, there were Walter Cronkite and Eric Severeid, offering opinion and fielding questions from Dan Rather. Between the two, they'd done 17 conventions on TV, but never once in their observations, not a single time in their ruminations did the idea of dirty politics come up. Nor was it discussed by any of the floor reporters or Bruce Morton, another CBS political correspondent of the time. At that convention, the only problem they could see in the distance for nominee Michael Dukakis was whether Jesse Jackson (who dominated the convention with what author Joe Klein would call, "hot, sweaty rhetoric.") would prove to be a loose cannon in the fall campaign. No one, at least on CBS in July of 1988, had an inkling that dirty politics and wedge issues devised and executed by Lee Atwater and the George H.W. Bush campaign would destroy Dukakis. This was the same Vice President Bush who was so freely ridiculed by the Democrats during the convention (and ridiculed for good reason).
The coverage that current candidates endure would not have saved Dukakis from himself, for he found fighting back not to be in his character. But it certainly would have exposed the tactics employed by the Republicans. Near death in 1990, Lee Atwater apologized to Dukakis. His soul was cleansed when he died, but the damage was done. Dirty politics is the Karl Rovian-way of the political world. Before November 4, 2008 gets here, we're in for a filthy, bitter ride.
*
Before I summarize the candidates, another word about Eric Severeid. He was the last of the scholar correspondents. Hired by Edward R. Murrow during World War II, he was the great sage of CBS for 40 years, then retired in 1978. Until his death, he'd be resurrected at convention time to add words of wisdom to CBS coverage. His face was placed on a commemorative postage stamp earlier this year. That's when I heard an attractive morning anchor on KTLA-TV 5 in Los Angeles announce that "...in addition, Eric SeverEED is also on a new stamp." Eric SeverEED? How could a working journalist not know the correct pronunciation of Eric Severeid's name? Then it dawned on me that the anchor, a lovely Filipina named Cher Colvin, was probably just born when Severeid retired. She must have been a ten-year-old, more interested in Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam plus Full Force than politics, when Eric last appeared at a convention. It made me feel old and less impressed with TV news. The very idea that an electronic journalist could not know his name is disappointing.
Now--the candidates: If John McCain wore coveralls, he might be Walter Brennan in an ancient episode of 'The Real McCoys." Forget for one moment all the political hype, positioning and manipulation. He puts me in mind of the perpetually wisecracking-but-pissed-off homeroom teacher, the one who might verbally lacerate you at the drop of a hat. I get the strong impression that this is one Senator who has used the M.F. word with skill and knife-like precision.
*
Charlton Heston is gone. You won't have to pry a rifle from his cold dead hands, but you'll need a hydraulic-trip hammer to loosen Senator Hillary Clinton's grip on the campaign. The mantra here is "Do anything, say anything " to win. This is not an observation born out of sexism. Any man or woman who so doggedly continues in the face of math that doesn't add up favorably is seeking power without regard for reality.
That leaves Senator Obama, a man who has lit a flame under part of the electorate. In recent times, only Mario Cuomo and Bill Clinton himself could offer such oratory. But those two never drew 75 thousand to an appearance, as Obama did by the Willamette River in Oregon. Watching the faces of those in the throngs that gather to see him, I can only imagine what it must have been like to see JFK or RFK. Surely no Democratic politician has caused such a stir, since. If the math is correct, and there's no reason to expect it won't, the son of Stanley Ann and Barack Obama, Sr., literally an African and American, will be the Presidential nominee of a major party in the United States. He'll have his work cut out for him. There will be hate in his face, for a myriad of reasons. Those to the right will hate his politics. There are some who will hate his erudition (why do we, as a nation, not seem to want an intelligent person in the most powerful office in the world? Have we not seen what stupidity can do?). And, in a segment of our land where there has been no growth, regardless of his late, Kansas-born mother Stanley Ann, and yes, regardless of the progress the country has made in 40 years, they will hate him for the color of his skin.
AND FINALLY, HERE'S DAVE WITH SPORTS...
Just a few notes. In this, the 2nd full month of the 2008 season, it appears the Dodgers have traded their bats him for soggy, wet socks. Tommy Lasorda said it best 25 years ago: "They'd need an OAR to hit the f--king ball!" All the kids are there--Loney at first, Kemp and Ethier in the outfield, Martin behind the plate. When a mysterious malady of the calf made Nomar no MORE, a Double-A 3rd Baseman named Blake Dewitt made such a name for himself, a radio station in his Missouri hometown now carries Dodger games live.
Yet, at this writing, they've scored 7 runs in 4 games, and lost every single one. At 26-27 on May 30th, it's safe to say they stink.
I yearn for the day when the Dodgers could captivate Los Angeles the way the Lakers do. The Lakes are third on my list of favorite sports teams. I don't follow them with the tenacity I do the Dodgers and S.C. football...but when the prospect of playing Boston for the NBA Championship arises, look out! Should Boston prevail over Detroit, ABC-TV will be doing the dance of the infidels, because a Celtics-Lakers Championship Series means big ratings. And anybody who's followed the Lakers for a DAY...hates the Celtics. This could be fun...
Thursday, March 27, 2008
WHEN LAST WE LEFT OUR HERO, or "They Fired My Ass!"
'Tis true, they did. When I posted my last entry, it was a Sunday night, and I pretty much knew someone at the radio concern that employed me for 13 and a half years would be dispatched. The organization was going to wring itself like a bib sopping with fluid, and squeeze out one selected member of the air staff. It made sense to me that some reason would be made to expunge the overnight guy. So it was, so it shall be. On February 7, they did.
Now, I did not want to use this blog as a platform for whatever was running through my mind at the time. These emotions never look good in print after they've been poured forth. The whole idea of writing on the web was so that I could express the humor or observations I never could over the air. Being funny is more fun than heaping abuse upon those who have vexed you. Since I couldn't make the situation amusing without devastating insults, the kind that sting like a ripened pimple on one's gluteal cheeks, I chose not to write.
But I'm back. I still work three weekend shifts, but the severance checks have been cashed, and though I would never do or say anything to damage my professional reputation, I am searching for someplace new to ply my trade. Like all businesses where talent is judged, Radio is subjective. What's funny to one employer is not to another. Who's talented to one department head is not to another. Cronyism, nepotism, favoritism, specifics carved out by Federal mandate, and just plain, old, taste in personalities prevails. With patience and a good deal of luck, I'll find another outlet, and realize the goal I've worked for, lo these many years.
Slowly, I've become grateful to not work four overnight shifts. It's a brutal and unappreciated endeavor. Many are the slights that come along with it. No matter what the spin is, it's usually a place where they "stick" someone. I still do Saturday mornings, 12-6am, but it's for the cash alone. Doing overnight shifts on the radio takes a person of hearty stock, physically and mentally. The phone calls alone demand an education far beyond my Bachelor of Arts from Long Beach State. All night, the deeply disturbed reach for the phone as their connection to humanity. Not so much to request music, but to unload some sort of pathetic minutiae on another set of ears. I call it looking for cheap therapy from the disembodied voice coming out of that speaker. In truth, some calls did come from the institutionalized, but if the call wasn't from Britney Spears, I had no use for it. I was polite, to the point, and moved on. The minute the conversation starts, you can expect a nightly call that will take your attention away from your job, because this is a person not listening to the radio, just looking for a someone to trap into a lengthy chat.
Then there are the drunks. I dealt with a lot. Not as many as police officers, bartenders or hospital nurses (also up all night for the purpose of making a living), but enough. One alcohol soaked drinker-and-dialer yapped on and on that he baby-sat for the Jackson Five, back in Gary, Indiana. Come to think of it, that would explain a lot!!
To put a lid on the subject, over the two and a half years I was painted into that dead-end in order to make a living, I did enjoy hearing from those who were working. Taxi company, blood lab, newspaper, hospital workers, etc. They never called a lot because they were otherwise engaged, but it was nice to know that every now and then when you answered the request line, it didn't necessarily have to be an ad for anti-mania drugs.
SO...WHAT DO YOU DO ALL DAY?
Looking for a full time radio job IS a job. I've edited hours of "airchecks" (a radio word for recordings of old shows), and with the help of Mike Stark, another Long Beach State, KSUL vet, I've put up a site unconnected to this one, with audio, video, and photos from my career. You can view all this at http://www.daverandallradio.com/. It's a great way to expose one's talents to prospective employers. For now, it's posted via My Space, which accounts for the half-naked babe who wanted to sign up as a friend. I allowed the sign up, and the next thing I knew, there was a picture of this gal's shapely buns, getting dollar bills shoved into the dental floss that masqueraded as her G-string.
Uh...I don't think she's a potential employer. Because spitzer is not my name (but probably something she does) I deleted her. The site's for professional purposes. Boy, am I no fun, these days!
That leads me to what else I do, besides catching up with friend and family I've been out of personal contact with when I had to make an attempt at sleep, all day: I read, and keep up with the Presidential race.
I'll save the meat of my commentary for another, more thought out time. I can tell you this: Chris Matthews is the only person on television who requires a sneeze guard. He gets as worked up as a a ten-year-old that's gotten into a bag of brown sugar, and the spit starts to fly. Sometimes, as he steamrollers guests and colleagues alike, his state becomes so high pitched and agitated it sounds like this: HEEEEEEEMEEEEEEENEEEEMEEEEHEEEEEEEMEENEEEEMEEEE!SPITZER!WHORES!HOOKERS!HARDBALL. WE'LL BE RIGHT BACK!!
I've noticed he's a bit more sedate when he offers his analysis as a guest on MSNBC's "Morning Joe," hosted by the smug former Florida Congressman Joe Scarborough, and the delicious Mika Brezhenski (daughter of former National Security Advisor Zbigniew), late of CBS News, having bailed out, along with many after Cutie Katie made a Tea Party of the CBS Evening News*. When I have to be up that early, I'll tune in until Joe and Pat Buchanan make my morning toast indigestible. Mika saves the day. With her family pedigree, her intelligence is a given, but, as Letterman often says, she's also "easy on the eyes." I chose to be a disc jockey and often wondered why women like Mika never fell into my existence. These are the things you ponder after a few years toiling in the bowels of the night.
Then there's Keith Olberman, who has morphed from the snarky sports guy who worked at KTLA and KCBS-TV in Los Angeles 20 years ago, and into the only non-right leaning host on TV who's both compelling and funny. Surely the only one with the avocado-like testes to call-out the sitting President on TV, and do likewise with the Clintons. Outside of Keith, you just don't see that. He must have a wheelbarrow preceding him when he walks the streets of Manhattan...either that or everyone else on cable or network TV (on an outlet that provides BOTH points of view) simply has no courage.
As this street-fight of a Presidential race continues--and it's only March--I'll offer some snarky comments of my own. After all, my mind is clear, 'cause I'm sleeping more.
*look for the future posting of an unsold article about the CBS Evening News, one I wrote four or five years ago The New Yorker and Parade Magazine turned it down, and rightfully so. It's more memoir than article, all about growing up watching the newscast, and it's impact on me.
Now, I did not want to use this blog as a platform for whatever was running through my mind at the time. These emotions never look good in print after they've been poured forth. The whole idea of writing on the web was so that I could express the humor or observations I never could over the air. Being funny is more fun than heaping abuse upon those who have vexed you. Since I couldn't make the situation amusing without devastating insults, the kind that sting like a ripened pimple on one's gluteal cheeks, I chose not to write.
But I'm back. I still work three weekend shifts, but the severance checks have been cashed, and though I would never do or say anything to damage my professional reputation, I am searching for someplace new to ply my trade. Like all businesses where talent is judged, Radio is subjective. What's funny to one employer is not to another. Who's talented to one department head is not to another. Cronyism, nepotism, favoritism, specifics carved out by Federal mandate, and just plain, old, taste in personalities prevails. With patience and a good deal of luck, I'll find another outlet, and realize the goal I've worked for, lo these many years.
Slowly, I've become grateful to not work four overnight shifts. It's a brutal and unappreciated endeavor. Many are the slights that come along with it. No matter what the spin is, it's usually a place where they "stick" someone. I still do Saturday mornings, 12-6am, but it's for the cash alone. Doing overnight shifts on the radio takes a person of hearty stock, physically and mentally. The phone calls alone demand an education far beyond my Bachelor of Arts from Long Beach State. All night, the deeply disturbed reach for the phone as their connection to humanity. Not so much to request music, but to unload some sort of pathetic minutiae on another set of ears. I call it looking for cheap therapy from the disembodied voice coming out of that speaker. In truth, some calls did come from the institutionalized, but if the call wasn't from Britney Spears, I had no use for it. I was polite, to the point, and moved on. The minute the conversation starts, you can expect a nightly call that will take your attention away from your job, because this is a person not listening to the radio, just looking for a someone to trap into a lengthy chat.
Then there are the drunks. I dealt with a lot. Not as many as police officers, bartenders or hospital nurses (also up all night for the purpose of making a living), but enough. One alcohol soaked drinker-and-dialer yapped on and on that he baby-sat for the Jackson Five, back in Gary, Indiana. Come to think of it, that would explain a lot!!
To put a lid on the subject, over the two and a half years I was painted into that dead-end in order to make a living, I did enjoy hearing from those who were working. Taxi company, blood lab, newspaper, hospital workers, etc. They never called a lot because they were otherwise engaged, but it was nice to know that every now and then when you answered the request line, it didn't necessarily have to be an ad for anti-mania drugs.
SO...WHAT DO YOU DO ALL DAY?
Looking for a full time radio job IS a job. I've edited hours of "airchecks" (a radio word for recordings of old shows), and with the help of Mike Stark, another Long Beach State, KSUL vet, I've put up a site unconnected to this one, with audio, video, and photos from my career. You can view all this at http://www.daverandallradio.com/. It's a great way to expose one's talents to prospective employers. For now, it's posted via My Space, which accounts for the half-naked babe who wanted to sign up as a friend. I allowed the sign up, and the next thing I knew, there was a picture of this gal's shapely buns, getting dollar bills shoved into the dental floss that masqueraded as her G-string.
Uh...I don't think she's a potential employer. Because spitzer is not my name (but probably something she does) I deleted her. The site's for professional purposes. Boy, am I no fun, these days!
That leads me to what else I do, besides catching up with friend and family I've been out of personal contact with when I had to make an attempt at sleep, all day: I read, and keep up with the Presidential race.
I'll save the meat of my commentary for another, more thought out time. I can tell you this: Chris Matthews is the only person on television who requires a sneeze guard. He gets as worked up as a a ten-year-old that's gotten into a bag of brown sugar, and the spit starts to fly. Sometimes, as he steamrollers guests and colleagues alike, his state becomes so high pitched and agitated it sounds like this: HEEEEEEEMEEEEEEENEEEEMEEEEHEEEEEEEMEENEEEEMEEEE!SPITZER!WHORES!HOOKERS!HARDBALL. WE'LL BE RIGHT BACK!!
I've noticed he's a bit more sedate when he offers his analysis as a guest on MSNBC's "Morning Joe," hosted by the smug former Florida Congressman Joe Scarborough, and the delicious Mika Brezhenski (daughter of former National Security Advisor Zbigniew), late of CBS News, having bailed out, along with many after Cutie Katie made a Tea Party of the CBS Evening News*. When I have to be up that early, I'll tune in until Joe and Pat Buchanan make my morning toast indigestible. Mika saves the day. With her family pedigree, her intelligence is a given, but, as Letterman often says, she's also "easy on the eyes." I chose to be a disc jockey and often wondered why women like Mika never fell into my existence. These are the things you ponder after a few years toiling in the bowels of the night.
Then there's Keith Olberman, who has morphed from the snarky sports guy who worked at KTLA and KCBS-TV in Los Angeles 20 years ago, and into the only non-right leaning host on TV who's both compelling and funny. Surely the only one with the avocado-like testes to call-out the sitting President on TV, and do likewise with the Clintons. Outside of Keith, you just don't see that. He must have a wheelbarrow preceding him when he walks the streets of Manhattan...either that or everyone else on cable or network TV (on an outlet that provides BOTH points of view) simply has no courage.
As this street-fight of a Presidential race continues--and it's only March--I'll offer some snarky comments of my own. After all, my mind is clear, 'cause I'm sleeping more.
*look for the future posting of an unsold article about the CBS Evening News, one I wrote four or five years ago The New Yorker and Parade Magazine turned it down, and rightfully so. It's more memoir than article, all about growing up watching the newscast, and it's impact on me.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
TWO BIG ENCHILADAS
Two Big Enchiladas. What an approriate title for this entry, on a national day of great drunken and gastro-intestinal excess. Today's big Enchilada was the Super Bowl, which concluded in a nail biting New York Giants upset over the previously undefeated New England Patriots.
The next big Enchilada won't yield results until November. That would be the 2008 Presidential Election, which has created interest that hasn't existed in years.
I'm the guy who spent Super Bowl Sunday napping and resting up from a long week. I hope my friends understand, it's better to fall asleep on the couch than behind the wheel, en route to a party. Besides, there's so much you miss at a party--like the GAME. Then there's the commercials and the always overly-hyped half-time spectacular. Who will ever forget the year the enormous, brown mammary gland of janet Jackson sprung forth like a jack-in-the-box, and put the broadcast industry in a state of terror for years to come.
But that's another subject. I like the company at Super Bowl parties, but as a broadcaster, I despise working them. About 16 years ago, I co-hosted a party at a restaurant-bar in Oxmard's Channel islands Harbor. I watched as the other host dared a sodden guest to jump off a small pier and into the channel...for tickets to Knotts Berry Farm, I believe. Before you knew it, this inebriated ass-clown dashed down the stairs, out of the bar, down the small pier, and dove into the drink. He came back to a hearty round of cheers and, dripping like the Creature From the Black Lagoon, snatched the tickets from my co-host's hand. As the effects of my own vodka-soaked efforts wore off, I considered that no one knew the depth of the water. There was a good chance this beer-belching simpleton could have struck his head underwater and drowned, leaving the restaurant and the radio station I worked for liabel for his untimely demise. It was a chilling thought.
The next year, when I was main host of the party, at the same restaurant, I reckoned we'd been lucky that idiot hadn't killed himself. I decided there would be no repeat performance. Intsead, I peppered the crown with a stream of one-liners, and when I spotted a swacked-out-of-his-mind fossil in a suit, who looked just like Buddy Ebsen, I lead the crowd in a hand-clapping, rousing rendtion of "The Theme from the Beverly Hillbillies." It was a pretty good moment, and sort of made up for the fact the game was another one of those early 1990's Super Bowl blowouts.
Later that week, the Account Executive who handled the restaurant told me they were disappointed I didn't have someone dive off the pier like the last year. I must have had a look on my face like Jerry Lewis in "The Bell Boy." Apparently I was too cautious for that small a market.
On to the second Enchilada, now, which I had a taste of just before the Big Game. To avoid the mind-numbing, endless pre-game chatter, I flipped around to C-SPAN just in time to see a packed Pauley pavillion on the campus of UCLA. A Barack Obama rally was in progress, minus Obama himself. The thousands in attendance were shrieking for the sheer female star power, on a stage set up roughly where Kareem-Abdul Jabbar, Bill Walton and many other old Bruins made college basketball history years ago. Oprah Winfrey, Caroline Kennedy, a surprise appearnce by her cousin Maria Shriver, First Lady of "Cully-fornia," and a passionate Mrs Obama were all there. Stevie Wonder stopped by to lead the crowd in a simple chorus of the candidates name.
These political rallies in '08 have drawn unprecedented throngs. It's been completely engrossing-- more competitive than any presidential primary season since 1972. In fact, the "Horse Race," as they call it, hasn't provided such drama in both parties since well before a lot of us were born--1952.
Back then, there were relatively few primaries, and they were little more than straw polls. A candidate would enter to test the waters and prove his viability to party bosses. The delegate snatching and the heavy lifting was done at the conventions. And 1952 was the first year the entire country would peep through the key hole of the smoke filled room. Thanks to the co-axial cable, the conventions could now be seen from sea to shining sea.
They proved intoxicating theatre. The Republicans gaveled to order with isolationists martialed behind "Mr. Conservative," Senator Robert A. Taft, son of one term President and Supreme Court Chief Justice, William Howard Taft (the man whose bulk was so vast, he got stuck in the White House bathtub). These forces engaged supporters of General Dwight David Eisenhower who was previously non-partisan and sought after by both parties. Ike became a Republican and dealt a death blow to Taft's shot at the nomination.
The Democratic Convention was even more wide open, because President Harry S. Truman had chosen not to run for re-election. As respected as he is today, Truman's job approval rating in '52 hovered close to "W's" range, and he'd lost the New Hampshire primary to Senator Estes Kefauver of Tennessee.
At the raucus convention in Chicago, Kefauver sought a duel with the intellectual, ultra-articulate, but indecisive former Governor of Illinois, Adlai E. Stevenson. The bespectacled southerner and the bald, divorced darling of the left didn't exactly go at it hammer and tongs--the party wanted to draft Stevenson at all costs--all described for viewers over CBS-TV for the first time by a 35-year-old Walter Cronkite.
No one under the age of 45 can possibly have any functioning memory of a political convention that's anything but a tightly controlled infomercial/coronation. Kinescopes from 1952, at the dawn of coast to coast, live network television, reveal bare-knuckles political dickering, populated by cigar-chomping, bulbous-nosed pols with thinning hair, in rumpled suits, and all caucasian. Politics in the raw, covered day and night, gavel to gavel. At one point, a small fire broke out on the convention floor, stomped out by a few delegates before it could spread. No one knew it, but the exit doors at Chicago Stadium had been chained, and had that fire grown, a tragedy of untold proportions would have transfixed terrified viewers.
The fire went out of the nomination fight as well, when Stevenson prevailed, and named Alabama Senator John Sparkman as his V.P. nominee (even though Sparkman wasa staunch segregationist--all southern Senators were in '52. Thus were the times for the Democratic Party). Come November, the Stevenson-Sparkman ticket promptly got its clock cleaned in the general election by Eisenhower and Tricky Dick Nixon.
Oh, how the political process has changed...as has life in America, in 56 years. An African American man and a Woman are battling, hammer and tongs for the Democratic nomination, through a primary and caucus season that starts before a New Year's hangover can wear off (adding to this exceptional contest, the woman's husband is a former President). A fiery, maverick Senator and ex-prisoner of war duels a miliionaire of the Mormon faith on the Republican side, and no love is lost between the two. All of this is happening under the scrutiny of three all-news cable channels, filling airtime with a steady flow of footage and a pile-on of punditry. It's difficult to believe either party would allow these brusiing battles to continue for eight months, then play out, embarassingly, at the conventions, before a weary public.
The media would love it. CBS, NBC and ABC gave up on the conventions long ago, limiting coverage to one or two hours of a four day event. Who could blame them? Even those brief hours caused the networks to hemorrhage viewers. With compelling stories on both sides (Obama vs Clinton speaks for itself; Romney is largely uninteresting, but McCain could shoot a cold stare, or engage in some "straight-talk" that might send his handlers into spin control. The possiblity for eruption is there), 2008 would be different, for sure.
With so many talking heads telling us what we were supposed to have seen and heard, interpreting every word, every wince, consulting body language experts to read the candidates mind, the element of theatre would only be heightened. The excitement would cause even more nationally televised spittle to fly from Chris Matthews mouth, as his eyes grow deranged with euphoria.
I'm not sure how America would react to nominations actually decided at the conventions. Most don't suspect that politics is a cold-blooded and dirty as it is. They're unware of "push polling," the art of calling prospective voters and planting false information about the opposition. They aren't cognisant of the craven menaces of the political world who feverishly work to suppress voter turnout, thereby increasing the likelihood of a strident ideaology taking power...without plurality or overwhelming mandate, as we've seen these last seven years. Or the question of whether voting machines are a safe, tamper-free way of casting ballots.
All that being said, this current scrapple, a race like nothing we've seen in over a generation, could run, at least, through March. If memory serves me correctly, It was June of 1972, when Senator George McGovern bested Hubert Humphrey in the California Primary to take all of the two-hundred-some delegates, and clinch his ill-fated Democratic nomination.
At the convention in Miami, Humphrey's people tried to get the rules changed and have the delegates apportioned by percentage of the vote. This fight went to the convention floor. Willie Brown, former Mayor of San Francisco, who was then a California state legislator, stood at the podium in a loud, plaid suit. Brown's scalp was inching toward the center of his head, the rest of his skull covered by a wild 'fro. His arms spread, his fists raised, he raved and screamed and demanded the convention "...Give me back my del-a-ga-tion!!"
And they did. The convention went on, a fractious, chaotic affair that poured its disorganization and crumbled decorum into the living rooms of all who watched. Senator McGovern chose a running mate who would soon reveal he had had electro-shock therapy (Senator Thomas Eagalton of Missouri), and gave his acceptance speech at close to 2 AM on the east coast. McGovern, of course, went on to a historic, resounding, embarassingly huge defeat at the hands (and underhandedness) of the miscreant President, Nixon.
In short, a messy, turbulant convention won't do either party, or the nation, any good. But be advised: It would make great TV.
The next big Enchilada won't yield results until November. That would be the 2008 Presidential Election, which has created interest that hasn't existed in years.
I'm the guy who spent Super Bowl Sunday napping and resting up from a long week. I hope my friends understand, it's better to fall asleep on the couch than behind the wheel, en route to a party. Besides, there's so much you miss at a party--like the GAME. Then there's the commercials and the always overly-hyped half-time spectacular. Who will ever forget the year the enormous, brown mammary gland of janet Jackson sprung forth like a jack-in-the-box, and put the broadcast industry in a state of terror for years to come.
But that's another subject. I like the company at Super Bowl parties, but as a broadcaster, I despise working them. About 16 years ago, I co-hosted a party at a restaurant-bar in Oxmard's Channel islands Harbor. I watched as the other host dared a sodden guest to jump off a small pier and into the channel...for tickets to Knotts Berry Farm, I believe. Before you knew it, this inebriated ass-clown dashed down the stairs, out of the bar, down the small pier, and dove into the drink. He came back to a hearty round of cheers and, dripping like the Creature From the Black Lagoon, snatched the tickets from my co-host's hand. As the effects of my own vodka-soaked efforts wore off, I considered that no one knew the depth of the water. There was a good chance this beer-belching simpleton could have struck his head underwater and drowned, leaving the restaurant and the radio station I worked for liabel for his untimely demise. It was a chilling thought.
The next year, when I was main host of the party, at the same restaurant, I reckoned we'd been lucky that idiot hadn't killed himself. I decided there would be no repeat performance. Intsead, I peppered the crown with a stream of one-liners, and when I spotted a swacked-out-of-his-mind fossil in a suit, who looked just like Buddy Ebsen, I lead the crowd in a hand-clapping, rousing rendtion of "The Theme from the Beverly Hillbillies." It was a pretty good moment, and sort of made up for the fact the game was another one of those early 1990's Super Bowl blowouts.
Later that week, the Account Executive who handled the restaurant told me they were disappointed I didn't have someone dive off the pier like the last year. I must have had a look on my face like Jerry Lewis in "The Bell Boy." Apparently I was too cautious for that small a market.
On to the second Enchilada, now, which I had a taste of just before the Big Game. To avoid the mind-numbing, endless pre-game chatter, I flipped around to C-SPAN just in time to see a packed Pauley pavillion on the campus of UCLA. A Barack Obama rally was in progress, minus Obama himself. The thousands in attendance were shrieking for the sheer female star power, on a stage set up roughly where Kareem-Abdul Jabbar, Bill Walton and many other old Bruins made college basketball history years ago. Oprah Winfrey, Caroline Kennedy, a surprise appearnce by her cousin Maria Shriver, First Lady of "Cully-fornia," and a passionate Mrs Obama were all there. Stevie Wonder stopped by to lead the crowd in a simple chorus of the candidates name.
These political rallies in '08 have drawn unprecedented throngs. It's been completely engrossing-- more competitive than any presidential primary season since 1972. In fact, the "Horse Race," as they call it, hasn't provided such drama in both parties since well before a lot of us were born--1952.
Back then, there were relatively few primaries, and they were little more than straw polls. A candidate would enter to test the waters and prove his viability to party bosses. The delegate snatching and the heavy lifting was done at the conventions. And 1952 was the first year the entire country would peep through the key hole of the smoke filled room. Thanks to the co-axial cable, the conventions could now be seen from sea to shining sea.
They proved intoxicating theatre. The Republicans gaveled to order with isolationists martialed behind "Mr. Conservative," Senator Robert A. Taft, son of one term President and Supreme Court Chief Justice, William Howard Taft (the man whose bulk was so vast, he got stuck in the White House bathtub). These forces engaged supporters of General Dwight David Eisenhower who was previously non-partisan and sought after by both parties. Ike became a Republican and dealt a death blow to Taft's shot at the nomination.
The Democratic Convention was even more wide open, because President Harry S. Truman had chosen not to run for re-election. As respected as he is today, Truman's job approval rating in '52 hovered close to "W's" range, and he'd lost the New Hampshire primary to Senator Estes Kefauver of Tennessee.
At the raucus convention in Chicago, Kefauver sought a duel with the intellectual, ultra-articulate, but indecisive former Governor of Illinois, Adlai E. Stevenson. The bespectacled southerner and the bald, divorced darling of the left didn't exactly go at it hammer and tongs--the party wanted to draft Stevenson at all costs--all described for viewers over CBS-TV for the first time by a 35-year-old Walter Cronkite.
No one under the age of 45 can possibly have any functioning memory of a political convention that's anything but a tightly controlled infomercial/coronation. Kinescopes from 1952, at the dawn of coast to coast, live network television, reveal bare-knuckles political dickering, populated by cigar-chomping, bulbous-nosed pols with thinning hair, in rumpled suits, and all caucasian. Politics in the raw, covered day and night, gavel to gavel. At one point, a small fire broke out on the convention floor, stomped out by a few delegates before it could spread. No one knew it, but the exit doors at Chicago Stadium had been chained, and had that fire grown, a tragedy of untold proportions would have transfixed terrified viewers.
The fire went out of the nomination fight as well, when Stevenson prevailed, and named Alabama Senator John Sparkman as his V.P. nominee (even though Sparkman wasa staunch segregationist--all southern Senators were in '52. Thus were the times for the Democratic Party). Come November, the Stevenson-Sparkman ticket promptly got its clock cleaned in the general election by Eisenhower and Tricky Dick Nixon.
Oh, how the political process has changed...as has life in America, in 56 years. An African American man and a Woman are battling, hammer and tongs for the Democratic nomination, through a primary and caucus season that starts before a New Year's hangover can wear off (adding to this exceptional contest, the woman's husband is a former President). A fiery, maverick Senator and ex-prisoner of war duels a miliionaire of the Mormon faith on the Republican side, and no love is lost between the two. All of this is happening under the scrutiny of three all-news cable channels, filling airtime with a steady flow of footage and a pile-on of punditry. It's difficult to believe either party would allow these brusiing battles to continue for eight months, then play out, embarassingly, at the conventions, before a weary public.
The media would love it. CBS, NBC and ABC gave up on the conventions long ago, limiting coverage to one or two hours of a four day event. Who could blame them? Even those brief hours caused the networks to hemorrhage viewers. With compelling stories on both sides (Obama vs Clinton speaks for itself; Romney is largely uninteresting, but McCain could shoot a cold stare, or engage in some "straight-talk" that might send his handlers into spin control. The possiblity for eruption is there), 2008 would be different, for sure.
With so many talking heads telling us what we were supposed to have seen and heard, interpreting every word, every wince, consulting body language experts to read the candidates mind, the element of theatre would only be heightened. The excitement would cause even more nationally televised spittle to fly from Chris Matthews mouth, as his eyes grow deranged with euphoria.
I'm not sure how America would react to nominations actually decided at the conventions. Most don't suspect that politics is a cold-blooded and dirty as it is. They're unware of "push polling," the art of calling prospective voters and planting false information about the opposition. They aren't cognisant of the craven menaces of the political world who feverishly work to suppress voter turnout, thereby increasing the likelihood of a strident ideaology taking power...without plurality or overwhelming mandate, as we've seen these last seven years. Or the question of whether voting machines are a safe, tamper-free way of casting ballots.
All that being said, this current scrapple, a race like nothing we've seen in over a generation, could run, at least, through March. If memory serves me correctly, It was June of 1972, when Senator George McGovern bested Hubert Humphrey in the California Primary to take all of the two-hundred-some delegates, and clinch his ill-fated Democratic nomination.
At the convention in Miami, Humphrey's people tried to get the rules changed and have the delegates apportioned by percentage of the vote. This fight went to the convention floor. Willie Brown, former Mayor of San Francisco, who was then a California state legislator, stood at the podium in a loud, plaid suit. Brown's scalp was inching toward the center of his head, the rest of his skull covered by a wild 'fro. His arms spread, his fists raised, he raved and screamed and demanded the convention "...Give me back my del-a-ga-tion!!"
And they did. The convention went on, a fractious, chaotic affair that poured its disorganization and crumbled decorum into the living rooms of all who watched. Senator McGovern chose a running mate who would soon reveal he had had electro-shock therapy (Senator Thomas Eagalton of Missouri), and gave his acceptance speech at close to 2 AM on the east coast. McGovern, of course, went on to a historic, resounding, embarassingly huge defeat at the hands (and underhandedness) of the miscreant President, Nixon.
In short, a messy, turbulant convention won't do either party, or the nation, any good. But be advised: It would make great TV.
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