Talk Show

This particular trip down Memory Lane was inspired by tuning into an interview between William Shatner and Jimmy Kimmel. My wife had the correct response, which was to ask who was interviewing whom. As it turns out, Shatner was asking the questions, one of which was about Kimmel's early days in radio. He talked about the challenges of talking to a microphone, with no audience around him. He recalled one night that he was giving away a pizza "to the tenth caller," and then waiting. After a lengthy pause, he changed it to the fifth caller. He never did give away the pizza.
This made me think of my first concerted dalliance with the people inside the radio. I had grown up calling the KIMN request line, begging them to play "Yellow Submarine" one more time, and on Autumn afternoons pestering the friendly voices at KBOL's Ken Penfold Grid-A-Phone for that Slippery Rock score. But it wasn't until I was in college where I had my first serious connection with an on-air personality.
My roommate and I were flipping around the cable TV dial, and as the practicing inebriates we were, came to rest at a channel that featured a scrolling calendar of upcoming campus events and the audio was coming from KAIR, the radio voice of the University of Colorado. We might not have stopped, but we heard "We Are The World" playing and being socially responsible inebriates, we felt the need to stick around and listen to this new anthem for social responsibility. When the song was over, the DJ came on and said this: "I dunno. I'm all about feeding the world, but I'm pretty sure somebody's getting rich." This, along with the seven minute diatribe that continued from that point kept us glued. We listened for another hour, and though the music never made an impression, we were intrigued enough by the bitter banter to make a note of the day and time of the show so we could tune in the following week. We were not disappointed.
The show started like most college radio shows, with a bit of way-too-hip music back announced with a few reminders of other shows that we had already ignored. Then, instead of another surly diatribe, it was announced that there would be a special guest on the air that night: Johnny Dragon. Curiosity piqued, we sat through a few more bits of electronica and a public service announcement before we were introduced to "a very big rock star in his native Bolivia." An interview, of sorts, began and then a flurry of less-than-politically-correct suggestions were made by Johnny Dragon. The studio phone lines began to light up. We listened to angry and offended callers mixed with those who sounded more like us: drunk and amused. As the subject turned from sex to mass murderers to less polite matters still, my roommate and I felt compelled to get involved. We dialed 492-KAIR with the hope of getting on sometime before the end of the show. To our surprise, we were allowed directly into "The Dragon's Lair."
We said our piece, listened a while longer, and when something came to us, we called back, always surprised at how quickly we were allowed access to the public airwaves. When the show was over, we were determined to let the world know about this slice of late-night anarchy. We told our friends, we let everyone we knew on campus and off about The Johnny Dragon Show. We were in on the ground floor. The next week, we organized a listening party. More beer. More people. More calls to the station. We made recordings and shared them with those who were outside of the pitiful transmitter range or didn't have cable TV. We were building a cult.
A couple of weeks later, it was just the two of us again. My roommate and I made our initial calls to let the Dragon and his host know that we were listening, and we sat back to listen. That's when my good friend and confidante turns to me and says, "We should go up there." Though I knew exactly where the KAIR studios were located, it had never occurred to me that we could, or should, go up there. "We could take them some beer," he suggested. This logic was impenetrable to me, and so we loaded our case of Little Kings cream ale into my car and drove the half-mile to campus.
When we got to the studio door, we were surprised to find it open. Shouldn't such a high-profile celebrity like Johnny Dragon have some measure of security? We were met in the office by a pair of fresh-faced co-eds who wondered why we were there. "We came to see the Dragon," we explained, hoisting the case of beer. In the distance, behind a pair of closed doors, we could hear the show going on. That's when we notice that a third young woman was in the far corner of the office, talking on the phone. She was complaining, as a feminist, about all the misogynistic suggestions in Johnny's songs and poems. When she hung up, she looked at my roommate and me. "You guys here to meet the Dragon?"
We put the beer down on a desk. "Yeah. I guess." The dream was unraveling fast.
"Just a minute," Phone Co-Ed told us, and went down the hall to the studio. We listened to the show through a tinny speaker in the office, and when the Dragon stopped long enough for a musical interlude, we heard the door to the studio open, and moments later, we were in the presence of The Dragon and His Host.
Only it couldn't be. These were two guys in T-shirts and jeans, clean-shaven, no dark glasses. We could have been looking into a mirror. I don't remember much about what we said, and we left the beer without sharing one with them. It was all just a little too embarrassing. It was very quiet when we got home.
We listened for a few minutes the next week, and weeks passed before the next time it crossed our mind to tune in. The Dragon had disappeared. He was rumored to have returned to South America. Then we stopped listening to KAIR.
Sometimes, when I'm flipping around the dial, I hear a lonely voice talking to the night. It crosses my mind to call in, but I never do. I just think of The Dragon and smile.

Just Cause And Effect

I have spent the week teaching elementary school students about causal relationships. The one that works with just about any age level is the one about giving a mouse a cookie. You know, if you give a mouse a cookie, he's going to ask for a glass of milk. If you give him a glass of milk, he's going to ask for your first born son. And so on. You get the idea. When that fails to catch their fancy, I go directly to "What happens if you don't turn in your homework?" Even the six and seven-year-olds get that one.
Actions have consequences. Some of them are good, some of them are not. These were the thoughts going through my head as I was preparing for my after school tutoring group. One of the ladies who usually helps me out during those afternoon sessions told me she was leaving early to avoid the potential mess at her BART stop. There was another protest scheduled for commute time, and she didn't want to be stranded or have to walk miles out of her way just to get home. I told her that we would make do and wished her well.
The protest was another in a series staged as a call for justice after a BART policeman killed an unarmed suspect on New Year's Day. The officer in question has been fired, arrested, and released on bond as he awaits trial. In the past three months, there have been numerous protests, some of them large, some of them small, some of them peaceful, some of them not so peaceful. There has been a great deal of property damage and a great many arrests. And now, I face my after school crew shorthanded. The kids in my room were patient as we rushed around to meet their needs, and they got most of the attention they deserved. It wasn't easy.
Just like the small business owners who had their windows smashed during those early demonstrations, I wondered if this was a planned consequence, or simply the ripple effect of a situation that continues to wobble on the edge of anarchy.
It's the butterfly effect, if the butterfly in question happens to be Mothra.

Athletic Supporter

A friend of mine sent me the story of Barack Obama's night out. Our president is a big basketball fan, and being the leader of the free world, he was able to score court side tickets to watch his hometown Chicago Bulls play the Washington Wizards. While we have all become accustomed to the sight of celebrities down on the floor at Lakers games, it was a bit of a shock to watch the Commander-In-Chief sitting elbow to elbow with the general public. Or at least the part of the general public who can pony up a few hundred dollars for those seats.
As a matter of fact, at least one of those lucky ticket holders saw an opportunity to ingratiate himself to his Chief Executive. Basketball aficionado Miles Rawls made a point of wearing the president's likeness on his t-shirt, and then proceeded to make the visiting fan feel more at home with a little friendly chatter. "I wasn't heckling the President and I don't heckle the players. I talk about their weaknesses. We was having a good time. He was talking trash and I was talking trash. I couldn't believe he was that laid back and real. I loved it."
Even though our most recent president was once the owner of a professional baseball team, it's hard to imagine Pinhead sitting in the bleachers with the other diehards, watching the Senators battle the Rangers. Ol' Pointy Noggin seems much more like the "owner's box" kind of fan. But that's the difference, really. Obama is a sports fan. Pinhead was an owner. Anybody who has tried to comprehend the minds of George Steinbrenner or Al Davis can understand the schism. Watching sporting events as a fan is a communal activity. Even the playful trash-talk exchanged between Rawls and Obama echoes the sense of bipartisan competition found in the new administration.
For example: "I know these steps won't sit well with the special interests and lobbyists who are invested in the old way of doing business, and I know they're gearing up for a fight," Obama said, "My message to them is this: So am I." It makes me wish that I could be a fly on the wall for the next meeting of the Senate Budget Committee. "You call that deficit spending? Check out these revenue options! Boo-Yah!" Oh yes, I'd pay for court side seats for that.

Rush To Judgement

"He wants people in fear, angst and crisis, fearing the worst each and every day, because that clears the decks for (him) and his pals to come in with the answers, which are abject failures, historically shown and demonstrated. Doesn't matter. They'll have control of it when it's all over. And that's what they want."
Sound familiar? Maybe it reminds you of some of the things we, on the left side of the fence, used to say about President Pinhead. Maybe it reminds you of something that you read right here in this blog. It's not. This is a quote from Rush Limbaugh's hour and twenty minute "first national address." This is the right side talking now. This is the guy who said that he wanted Obama to fail. Not in so many words, exactly those words.
This is the guy who is looking to stir up the conservative base for 2012. This is the guy who has no sense of cause and effect. He is taking issue with the new administration's attempt to repair what has happened over the past eight years. This is the guy who was once called, by the new senator from Minnesota, "a big fat idiot." What I'm saying here is that things change.
Limbaugh asked his adoring crowd, "Did the Democrats want the war in Iraq to fail? Well, they certainly did. And they not only wanted the war in Iraq to fail, they proclaimed it a failure." Could this be true? Sure it could. There are plenty of liberal voices that could be heard making such claims. Such is the nature of punditry. Now the wind has changed direction, and what feels like hope to some feels like fear to others.
There are many Republicans who are uncomfortable having Rush Limbaugh as their new figurehead. Republican National Chairman Michael Steele dismissed Limbaugh on Sunday as a mere “entertainer,” who is “ugly” and “incendiary.” Then on Monday, Steele was forced into calling Limbaugh to apologize. What a difference a day makes.
Or a year. We live in interesting times.

The Right To Know

Remember when our new President promised a new era of trust and "transparency in government?" If you thought that was going to refer strictly to the fight to resurrect our crippled economy, then you have a surprise coming your way. On Monday, the Obama administration released anti-terror memos from the Pinhead administration that claimed exceptional search-and-seizure powers and divulging that the CIA destroyed ninety-two videotapes of interrogations and other treatment of terror suspects. In the days following September 11, 2001, Pinhead and his minions determined that certain constitutional rights would not apply during the coming fight. Within two weeks, government lawyers were already discussing ways to wiretap U.S. conversations without warrants.
For many of us, this doesn't come as news, exactly. We have spent the past eight years believing that "Dick" Cheney and his puppet pal Pinhead were angling toward a monumental dismissal of the Constitution. We just didn't have the proof. It was always just rumor and a dull ache with each new revelation. Now it is all being laid out, end to end, for a horrified public to gaze upon, not unlike the wreckage of some massive collision at sea.
Fourth Amendment protections against unwarranted search and seizure, for instance, did not apply in the United States as long as the president was combating terrorism, the Justice Department said in an Oct. 23, 2001, memo. Crash. "First Amendment speech and press rights may also be subordinated to the overriding need to wage war successfully," Deputy Assistant Attorney General John Yoo wrote, adding later: "The current campaign against terrorism may require even broader exercises of federal power domestically." Bang. New CIA interrogation tactics could be used on U.S. citizens locked in military brigs without charges. Boom. Blub, blub, blub. That would be your ship of state sinking.
Colorful metaphors aside, I suppose the good news is that this is all finally coming to light. The bad news would be that there are probably things that we won't know for some time still, if we ever do. I'm not guessing that we'll see a lot of this stuff on display at the Pinhead Presidential Library when it opens for business in 2013. By then I hope all the ugly secrets will be found on "Oprah."

Working Blue

This is the city. This is the county. This is the week. Los Angeles County is scheduled to issue a proclamation by Supervisor Michael Antonovich making the first week in March No Cussing Week. To them I say, "Good Luck."
Already I can see that a good many of you have already taken the liberty of inserting an adjective between those last two words. Believe me, I understand. There is so very little in our society today that keeps us from popping in an expletive every now and then for flavor. It has become part of our American discourse. That's why fifteen-year-old McKay Hatch of South Pasadena has taken the charter of his high school's No Cussing Club to a bigger forum. It's about civility, after all.
No citations will be issued, "But it's a good reminder for all of us, not just young people but everybody, to be respectful to one another and watch the words we use," said the supervisor's spokesman, Tony Bell. I know what he's talking about. I became a parent and a teacher within a four month span, and my word to curse ratio dropped to almost zero overnight. It takes a certain amount of vigilance, and there are certain moments and experiences that seem to elicit more opportunities for foul language.
Football season is a tough one. I confess that, now that my son is in middle school and has heard more colorful language from his peers, that I will occasionally pop off under stress. He has even used the "d-word" and the "a-word" a few times himself, though he has asked our permission first.
And this is not because we live in a cuss-free zone. To the contrary. We don't censor our media, and I have been known to drop an "f-bomb" here and there just for effect. That's not the big picture, however. I have learned over the years to hold on to those words because of their unique power. Use them sparingly and they will be much more vital and potent when the time comes. That time will have to wait a week in Los Angeles, where everyone will have to be on their best behavior. In the meantime, McKay says "Next year I want to try to get California to have a cuss-free week. And then, who knows, maybe worldwide." Makes you wonder how that would play in Jersey.

End Of Days

I know that my son is especially sensitive to movies, TV shows and stories about the end of the world. He still flinches when "Battlestar Galactica" comes up in conversation, and even otherwise ridiculous and silly fare such as the Tommy Lee Jones opus "Volcano" can trigger deep-seated fear in him that echoes on for days after. The ersatz destruction of Los Angeles by a lava cone formed beneath the La Brea Tar Pits is a significant event in my son's life. Maybe this is because he grew up with September 11 as one of his first media memories. Maybe he is a very sensitive child. Maybe he is related to me.
As previously described here, I have long been perplexed by matters of life and death. I believe that I seek out visions of Armageddon. Somehow, for me, it is more comforting to think about the destruction of a city, state or planet than the loss of any individual. That explains my infatuation with the works of Stephen King. Uncle Stevie (as he is wont to call himself) has blown up the state of Maine more times than I can count, and has taken regular swipes at the country as a whole, when he is not eliminating human life as a whole. The thing that he figured out is that there is always hope for mankind if there is one witness. In books like "The Stand" and "Cell," he seems more intent on hitting the reset button for the planet. Once all those annoying idjits are wiped out via super-flu or the very cellular telephones that made us less human in the first place, then the good and virtuous among us can inherit the earth. Having grown up in Boulder, I felt a huge sense of relief and entitlement upon discovering that Stephen King made that city the base of operations for the good guys in "The Stand." Now that I live in California and own a cell phone, I'm worried.
But that's nothing new. I've been worried since I watched "The Day After" in the basement of my parents' basement back in 1983. I had written my own apocalyptic tale three years earlier for a creative writing class in high school. I was worried way back in 1970 when I saw Charlton Heston fall down on the ignition switch for the Doomsday Bomb in "Beneath The Planet Of The Apes." That one even gave me a date to anticipate: 3955. That's when the Alpha Omega device will be detonated by Colonel George Taylor. Of course, this does come about some time after mankind has reverted to a primitive state and the planet is being run by a race of super-intelligent apes, so maybe it won't be so bad.
But all of this is no solace for my son, so I decided instead to tell him about Kurt Vonnegut's Tralfamadorians. The idea that time is more like a map instead of an escalator seemed like a soothing notion back when I first read it. The world does end, as it always has, but there's nothing we can do about it, so why worry about it? Instead, we can choose those happy moments to relive and savor. So it goes. My son listened with some interest, and then returned to his Sunday comics. So it goes.
Paul Harvey is gone, and that's the end of the story.