The Prestige:

AKRON, OH [October 31, 2006] -- This is not a movie review, merely an observation. That is what we do here. It’s about story telling and taking the reader, listener and viewer along for the ride. Willingly.

From the outset we know that this is an expensive and well-acted film. There is energy and tension, all the things a good drama needs. In the words of film itself, there are three parts to a good trick. The first is The Pledge. These three actors, six if you count the under-used women in the story, convince us that they are ordinary men and women in extraordinary times and in pursuit of a magical career. They are performers on and off the small stages and grand theaters of London’s West End.

Next comes The Turn. We witness something impossible. Here is where the film, the story spends most of its time and unfortunately nearly all of its capital. We are thrust into three different time lines in which motivations become blurred and actions eventually shrink to confusion at best and, at the story's point of failure, irrelevancy.

Again, this is not a review. There is much about The Prestige that is laudable. The incomplete life and pathetic staging of The Professor (Christian Bale), calls for believable acting and a superior talent. He populates this portion of the story with quiet confidence and edgy vulnerability that made him so wonderful in Batman Begins.

And that brings us to the climax of the story – and of a good magic trick – The Prestige. This is the revelation, the thing that leaves the audience in awe and, if done well, with the feeling that they were part of something special. They tell their friends and thus share in some of that prestige. It is the pursuit of that moment that drives Robert Angier (Hugh Jackman) to the American Rockies in search of the real wizard, Nikola Tesla, played with astonishing clarity by David Bowie. It is here where we are not only invited to join the conspiracy that Tesla was the sacrificed savior of all man kind, at least where energy needs are concerned, but that he was so advanced that, with a few well-placed arcs of voltage, his machine tapped the very nature of quantum physics.

Here is where The Turn turns on the audience and the story. Firstly, if you are going to evoke the name and work of this Hungarian genius, then understand that he was the proponent of direct current, or DC, while his rival and metaphorical Pontius Pilate, Thomas Edison, touted alternate current, or AC to light up the world. In the film it was stated the other way around. Then you have the shell game. Here’s where The Turn becomes fanciful and loose. We forget why these two men are such bitter rivals and by the time we are witness to the full disclosure, The Prestige, we either don’t care or there is so much to explain that in doing so you have deflated the entire experience.

A good story needs three basic things: A hero, a villain and a resolution. The Prestige has plenty of villains, even as they try – presto-chango – to become heroes. But in the end, instead of feeling as though they have witnessed something wonderful, most will come away wondering exactly what they witnessed. And in the story business, that is as bad as killing the canary.

Abracadabra! Pull back the velvet curtain and – poof! – this is a review after all.

Odd Jobs: The Rock Signer

Akron, OH [October 27, 2006] -- There she was, off to the side of the stage, arms flying and hips jutting with the music. Her fingers were a blur of activity and her shining lips loud except for the sound. The song came to life with her expression - agonized ecstasy, and there is such a thing judging by the lead player's face - and her careful, deliberate gyrations. Words, lyrics to be exact and a sense of the song: that was her job this night, for which she is paid seventy five dollars and an open bar tab. She is the only member of the band with that last fringe benefit, it never amounts to more than four bottles of water and a vodka rocks at the end of the set. Never more than that.

The small group of fans is there almost as much for her as the guitarist, the bassist, the drummer, the singer and the butchering of rock classics. Chances are if they could really hear the singer, if they could enjoy the music beyond the rib-shaking vibrations and the visual provided by the only rock-signer in town, they would not make the trip to various bars and events. The Grateful Deaf, the almost always wasted drummer calls them. He is a favorite of two of the girls with strong enough stomachs to have sex with the band. The sounds made during the all too short encounters, "freaks him almost limp," he said to the girl who translates the clunky lyrics through near perfect fingers. He has no room to comment, his drumming is akin to an asphalt chewer.

She can hear just fine, in fact she uses soft earplugs while working. But her parents were both deaf and the cute, not-so-closed caption with her own spotlight was more than an unusual convenience for a mediocre bar band. She was becoming the star. And that was fine with the boys.

How this happened was on a dare, a bet and one of those things. During a two-quart Jack Daniels night, the band started talking about the eventuality of Rock Star ears: about 20 percent hearing remaining after years of abuse. Even if they did not gain the fortune, fame or record deal, they would likely achieve one characteristic of the loud and profane. So the drummer, confident that his wailing was felt more than heard, suggested they bring in a girlfriend of a local radio programmer. "Dude, you should see her hands when she does her deaf thing." So they brought her on stage, on the left wing, and told her to sign what she heard. The dancing was unavoidable, but the American Sign Language was flawless. It was the best night of their career. A record broken by the next night, and the night after that. The news spread among the hearing impaired and suddenly, the band became a cliché: making good money by playing music for the hard of hearing.

She was a little embarrassed at first. But the new friends and adulation was enough to make the gig fun, something she grew to anticipate. She found little things she could do to make the long, loud nights even more fun, like surreptitiously changing the lyrics, adding little jokes and commentary that rippled in hand motions and laughter across the silent tables.

It was a good job, an odd job, yes, but a combination of talents only she can had. At least for now. I am told that other tribute bands are looking for a similar addition. When you have a Rock Signer, it seems that at least for a segment of the audience it doesn't matter how bad you really are.

Just Below The Grade

The young man walked along the narrow sidewalk, thin body angled downward in slow, steady steps. He was handsome, even beautiful when viewed with a completely subjective eye. Yet he moved through the space, or rather the space moved around him like an unwanted toy figure in a dirty stream. There was no fear, no joy, no anything on his face. A brush of white hair spiked above his lip, blond and bleached by the sun. It was not the only thing out of place, not even the most disturbing – the whole image was disturbing. The world had shifted into another speed and left him behind. He just didn’t know it.

The girl cried as she stuffed his clothes into a garbage bag. She told him to come back and get them, but only when she was not there. The apartment was as cluttered and disorganized as the day they moved in. No electricity, the gas only days from disconnection. The lump in her chest was fear and abandonment; two blankets that wrapped her young life since she was old enough to understand the word abuse. And molestation, and need, and betrayal and pain. She thought he was different, and indeed he was. He was autistic and could only react. As her needs grew, both in intensity and twisted by the perverse foundation from which they sprang, he grew more confused. The boundaries fell and he hurt her, badly enough for a long wait at the emergency room and five stitches. She had played with the knife before. He thought they were playing still.

So she sent him away. He went without protest. She wanted him to fight back, but he could not. Only hunger, perhaps the erection that will grow for no particular reason - the things she did for him - will alert him that things had changed. There was no longer that other person to show him what to do. So he walks. The bus stop meant something: a seat, movement and sleep. His dreams are much the same as his waking: nothing makes sense and that is fine with him. She made a difference, he thought as the droll startled him upright with a gasp, and he imagined her hurriedly retrieving a white something to wipe the silvery string from his chin. His sleeve will do. The bus had circled and he is back at the market, the Circle K and his home.

She stands at the bus stop; the garbage bag in her hand. Her intension was to toss it through the accordion doors and leave him there, for good. But he looks her in the eyes. His lips twitch and his head bobs. It is fear. She had never seen it in his face before. And something else: need.

The couple walks along the narrow sidewalk, thin bodies matching perfectly the small slot carved out for them, at a pace just below the grade.

Exit, The Lion

Culture is a funny thing. There are widely divergent cultures on the Planet Earth. Taken as a whole and viewed from a distance this geopolitical/geo-religious interplay could seem seamless. And there is the culture of your left hand; fingers working together and sometimes not – like on this keyboard – but still parts of the whole. Every part of the machine dictates its function and efficiency. Every member of an organization pushes or pulls the mission in one way or another, often based on blind instincts or blatant desires.

To quote The Lion: it is what it is. Kevin is The Lion. He was the barely veiled roman a clef in the last submission and he is the clear topic here. Kevin is a giant man, over six feet and perhaps well over 300 pounds. About the size of a full grown male lion were the King of Beast to stand upright. His roar is much more subtle. It is the language of direct communication in equal parts with subterfuge. Make no mistake, when he wants the game on, the game is on. When he wants clarity there is clarity and when he is finished, it is done. Kevin is finished with radio; at least from this side of the ring.

Some of you know Kevin, or think you do. I do not know him as well as I would like. Yet he protests that I have all the pieces and that there really is no puzzle. That is a bit of flattery, he is highly complex. He is leaving the radio group that I am now a part of. This saddens me greatly. Radio should do more to cherish its genius.

Kevin is heading off to Nashville to do for the recording industry what he did for radio - though on a smaller scale perhaps. He will lead the charge for a relatively new record label in a still sparkling art-form. Country music is really the first recorded music, along with its African-American based counterpart, The Blues. Yet this incarnation is as new and as young as anything out there right now. Two of the five American Idols are Country Stars if they are stars at all. And it is a safe bet that the Country Radio Station in your town is first or second in popularity, especially among young people. It is here.

Kevin did that. Not single handedly, perhaps, but whether they will admit it or not he showed others the way it is done .

I’m going to miss The Lion. I only have three weeks to work with him and we only have two months of history. Perhaps there is such a force in your business. If so, chances are you either don’t like him or her, or you are at a loss as to how to deal with this person. Fear not. If you truly have a Lion in your midst then you are lucky. He will make you better. It might not be the most comfortable experience, but you will be better!

And when The Lion exits, for whatever reason, try out your roar. Carefully. You may find that in the shadow of greatness you too have learned ways to conquer the struggles and recognize the nuance inherent in your culture. Maybe, if you have the blind courage, you too can become great.

A Small Tribute to Maliki Simba

AKRON [September 19, 2006] --- This weekend's Style section of the New York Times led with a question: does anybody really know how he or she is truly perceived? It was one of those insights that attempted to unveil the mystery behind the photographable and biographical class of humans who populate those pages. It worked. I found myself Googling every name (often with the image search just to see what the article could not talk about). The article did one other thing a good piece of writing should do: it brought the concept home. One could not help but wonder just what is real and what is wallpaper in this little fishbowl in which we all live and work.

Fame is not just for the famous. And no matter how we dress things, it is still a jungle.

Encountered during this fresh return to Radio - the media wilderness - is one Maliki Simba who is more than just a little famous among his peers. His roar can be heard and felt throughout the industry. Calling him an unusual fellow moves subtlety to the realm of insult. He is bizarre and projects a High Definition persona that not only brightly illuminates all aspects of his personality, but remains like one of those slippery, stringy shadows that coats everyone's vision.

When I first started in this enterprise, he was the greatest obstacle and perhaps the first to completely give way to whatever perception they might have had of me. He let me do the job, and for that I owe an eternal debt. He let me learn and live into the environment and for that I have heightened my skills. He paid me the greatest compliment and that is far too personal and incendiary for this public declaration. The Simba knows what he is doing.

Many years ago when we were competitors, the roar was just a distant echo. It was simple to place convenient perceptions on the hunter. When you are prey, you seldom know it until it is too late. The rumbles in the brush, the uneasiness of the ground, all the signs were there that this was not going to be an easy battle. But we were tembo, and I was Maliki Tembo. On the Serengeti, simba almost never attacks tembo. What usually happens is the agile hunter snatches all the prey, hordes vital resources and dares tembo to come out of his fortified oasis to confront the pride. We did. And out of sheer mass we were able to maintain some equilibrium. But eventually the weight of being set off the internal charge and the herd self destructed. It happens all the time.

Great transformations seldom happen; in the jungle or in business. But it does happen in Radio. It is almost common. After a time in the wilderness, an old tembo was transformed into Kibwana Simba, and joined Maliki's pride. What happens now is anybody's guess.

The Style section of The New York Times concluded that none of us knows how we are perceived. For Maliki Simba, I offer this gift: Don't believe your press, you might be better than that. Take care of yourself, you are not made of iron. And remember what you have done for (and to) so many; not all of it was good, but I suspect none of it was frivolous.

Your roar will echo from Kilimanjaro to the Cape of Good Hope for generations.

Letters From Hell

Being back in Radio is a lot like going back to school. The business is always changing, yet the personalities have a certain homogeny. Even the smells and sounds are similar from one station (or cluster) to another.

Radio is a community effort that combines isolated skills and varied talents. That is not so unusual in the 21st Century workplace. But the push and pull form the public gives this business an added dimension. The public supports radio in ad sales and listener participation. We sell airtime, which seems like the ultimate profit maker. Of course that airtime is not just empty molecules. There is a cost to enhancing that air in order to make it a commodity. Yet when it is all stripped away, the truth of radio is illusionary.

The station I am working on now has an audience that is rarely younger than my 53 years. Most are sixty, plus. Though I have a mature voice and a relaxed and natural presentation, the lady in the yogurt place called me a baby! Not that she was calling me that to my face. She was referring to the youthful voice that had replaced her old friend that – unknown to her – was fed via satellite from a thousand miles away. She was referring to her daily customer; clearly not a child who was standing there waiting for his sugar-free vanilla in a waffle cone. Hard to say, but I don’t think she gets me yet.

Then there’s the classic rock station. It is Number One in town and is basically the same as my AM station. They play Jimi and I play Frank. It does the same thing to vastly different ears. But there is a comfort, a trigger for better things. It might be a drug-fest and a threesome for the former and a martini and a romantic evening for the latter. Same thing.

The young women on the rock station get letters from death row. This is not literary licensing here, friend, this is the honest truth. I have read some of them and creepy does not begin to describe the correspondence. For one thing inmates tend to be a little short on paper so they often scribble their big, block letters on pages of books.

Sandra is the evening host on this station. She is an enigma; coming over like a tough chick who breaths Led Zeppelin and would be just as happy making love in the mud at Woodstock as coming to work everyday. In reality she is a very bright young mother with a calmness that could stop war, I mean really stop war!

Serial killers really like her Classic Rock persona. She has receives letters from death row inmates in waves. It is almost like the phases of the moon, or mac and cheese night in the Mansfield mess hall. Hard to say. She let me read some of them and her calm, slightly distant way she told me of some of the more graphic desires expressed in some other letters (these found their way into the hands of the Ohio State Penal Commission.) “One guy wanted to screw me in my eyeballs,” She said while ruffling through a file folder as thick as the Lucasville phonebook. She stopped and peered at me through narrow frames, “I don’t get that. Do you?”

No.

One thing common about these letters was the god-like delusions in the narrative and subtext. All these men, all these killers believed that since they had crossed that line that they were better and more powerful than anyone. Sandra put the letter away and went back to the sofa in the lounge. “I wished they listened to country music.”

I occurred to me that the young women on our country station might have similar file folders, filled with big, block letters scrawled on the printed pages of unread books.

What is This Thing We Do to Ourselves?

CLEVELAND] September 5, 2006 --- It’s called work. One imagines the ancients struggling to find food, shelter and warmth, and companionship – necessitated by the irresistable call to procreate. That last priority is perhaps the most interesting human objective: we don’t know we are doing it until long after we’ve done it. But from the beginning humans have had to endure unpleasant and dangerous tasks just to survive.

Then some clever biped came up with a better way. Maybe calling him devious rather than clever is more fitting. The Alpha Male’s greater need was not to hunt, gather and toil just to get through the night. He wanted his things, including his playmates, brought to him by others. It was much easier to manipulate his brothers and cousins than to outrun a lion who is chasing the same antelope; the same lion that readily discovers which of the pray is slower and easier to drop. That really hasn’t changed.

So was born hierarchy, which begat feudalism, which begat imperialism. Which begat revolution.

After all the phases of human growth, the best we could come up with is The Workday; or more specifically, The Workweek.

These days the work is wonderful! There are two things that I do and can technically call work. Both are creative and very enjoyable. That is for another piece. But for now the focus is on the great majority who, sadly, don’t like their jobs. They hate their jobs.

A hilarious slice of radio life made the circuit, again, this week. It was a young African American woman finally fed up with low pay and poor treatment. She took matters into her own hands and did the exit interview on the air. “Y’all can take this bitch (re: this job) and go straight to hell!” she reported. These were the milder ideas conveyed by this professional communicator. Most Americans hate their jobs.

Then there is the little voice beneath the collage of quesadilla, chalupa and burritos. It has been heard before, that youthful, cheerful, undeniably and genuinely happy question: How ya' doing? Not, "welcome to Taco Bell can I have your order," done with all the charm of a vacuum cleaner. Could anyone possibly be so happy and accommodating in the crowded corner of an infragrant assembly line? Was she mad? Does the lady not know she is the very example of undereducated, under employed and under paid? The punch line in a collection of frat-boy flunk out jokes? Starting at the dead end and looking forward to more of the same?

Doesn’t matter. She talks to you like an old friend, someone she is happy to see, such that it is, and ready to serve up her very best faux Mexican delights. And what’s more jarring is that she seems ready to carry on a conversation until you are ready to figure out exactly what you want to eat. It probably keeps more cars in line than need be, but the fact is the cars come, and come and wait. And when it is their turn, those late night staving bellies and souls take a few minutes, cheered by the appreciation of a friendly stranger.

When I got to her window, I wanted to ask her name. Maybe give her a little recognition with a phone call to the manager, the owner, Mr. or Ms. Taco Bell, but wouldn’t you know it, she was busy making someone else feel needed. If only until they make a choice: taco or burrito. Friendship is so fleeting.

The Last Time I Saw Pete

There are people who make a habit of helping others feel good; feel good about themselves. For some it is not easy. For others it is too easy. Regardless of whether it comes naturally, or seems contrived, we are called flatters, schmoozers, insincere or, in the extreme cases, just plain annoying. If we back-pat, smile every morning and throw bright helloes into busy rooms, then we are distrusted, schemers and rather than putting people at ease, they are put on guard.

We all know folks like this, some of us are guilty as charged. It is hard to tell just what the agenda might be. But for the sake of this piece, and for Pete’s sake (no, really, you’ll see) let’s assume that there is no agenda. That most pleasant people are just that: pleasant. Let’s assign, for the moment, a bit of latitude to these shiny, happy faces and understand that they have learned to adjust their attitudes on a daily basis and transmit that feeling to others.

The first time I met Pete that was exactly what happened. It was a sunny day in Florida’s Pinellas County. That’s the land-trap that helps form Tampa Bay. Monika and I were about to leave one of our frequent visits to the old folks there: her mom and the little old guy we call Danny. Pete and Danny are about the same size and pretty much match folds in their faces. They both see the world from either side of WWII, which is a unique and dying perspective. But unlike Danny, Pete is still a citizen of his community. And in a way that community extends well beyond the small, senior encampment in northeast St. Petersburg. Before we left, he leaned into the van window and said, “I’m better having met you, young man.”

Danny and Pete could not be more different. Pete’s eyes are faded by age but not clouded by ignorance. He searches out his world, knowing how small it actually is, and does what he can to expand his interests and fun. He and his wife don decorative Western clothing and attend the square dance. He is a master competitor at all the Senior Games and he keeps up with the news. Given half a chance he would have led the Town Apartments Senior Community’s impeachment efforts against George W. Bush and did work tirelessly for liberal causes throughout his retirement years.

Danny is King Baby, only on the back-end of infancy.

The last time I saw Pete I was leaving the condo community. The visit was out of the ordinary and less than successful. I was there to ask Danny for help, financial help. Nothin’ doin’. You can’t blame him. He never made a quarter of what I made and still saved for a comfortable retirement. We should all learn from this. Pete would have been a bright spot, but he was angry and confused. Not in a playful way, either. He was determined not to speak to me because I was about to leave town without seeing him, other than happenstance. He was hurt and it took some doing – and a little lying – to get back the old Pete. Danny did not help. Seeing my attention going to another little old man, he flailed and yelled and warned that I was going to miss my plane. Pete did lighten up some and that crooked smile came through again. I told him that his politics proved correct and I apologized for doubting him. He did not believe me, though he accepted the mea culpa. We spend the last few minutes placating Danny and winking at our little inside jokes. It made Danny laugh and Pete was pleased. I made my flight in plenty of time. Our problems still loomed, but I felt better having tried, and having seen Pete one last time.

Pete passed away last week. They say he died laughing at a function at the community center. Most in attendance probably thought he was kidding as he snored his last breath brought on by a massive blood clot in his active brain. It was a meeting of the Circle Squares, the community’s traditional dance club. I’m told he and Annie were going to show off a new call, a dance move that would originate from a clever rhythm and translate into a sort of Double Star Thru with a slight variation. He called it the Annie Star Pass, and always with a healthy chuckle.

The Circle Squares worked the step into their next gathering. But they called it, simply, The Pete Pass.

Driving Miss Monika

CLEVELAND [August 13, 2006] --- At the risk of sounding a little like Katie Couric, this is a story about taking precautions. Those last two words are famous among mystery writers and readers, especially those fans of the master investigator. Mr. Holmes would tell his trusted companion, in characteristically terse language: “Watson, take precautions,” which would be the only place, generally, where firearms were introduced into the brilliant plots. The precaution was a small Webley pistol held discreetly in the good doctor’s overcoat pocket.

The precaution tended to this day is a post-50 years of life ritual that is more important than most of us know. The actual procedure is relatively painless and costs no more than a day. The price of not doing it is the worst of all possible crapshoots. No pun intended.

Today I drove my wife to have a colonoscopy. It was hardly a date. She was nervous and had the patience of wet tissue paper. Again, no pun. But we are both very glad that she was getting it done.

Sitting in the small lobby, news of airline terrorism spraying from the high-shelved TV, one wonders about precautions. Our world has become a race against danger. The idea of predicting and diverting future events has left the realm of the clairvoyant and has become a political imperative. This began, like the modern era itself, with events five years ago. It was not just the trauma of blunt force against our buildings - and the snuffing out of thousands of lives - that attacked our way of life, but the aftermath. Professional Monday morning quarterbacks combed through the backward paper trail to see what predictors were missed. This is probably the most frustrating and useless scar left by that horrific morning. It started with the 21st Century Warren Commission populated by bureaucrats and former politicians. Their recommendations became fire lines in a presidential election. The seated interrogators became superstars who, even as I write, find their way onto the 24-hour news channels. “It is a wake-up call…” the sentence, with very little variation, is repeated like an Akashic mantra. That is, if you work hard enough, smart enough, you can fix the future; you can fix everything!

Meanwhile, Mrs. Collins is doing her middle-aged due diligence. She is co-operating with a diagnostic tool and allowing it to add light where the sun don’t shine. She prepared her system with liquids and discipline. I am sure she will be okay. There are some things that can be prevented. Yet one can’t help but wonder if, God forbid, there is something to find, clip and biopsy, more doctors, more strata of medical procedures would prevent the possibility of disease.

It is universally accepted that if law enforcement and national security were less bureaucratic, less committee-driven and more infectious, then more bad things won’t happen. Yet instead of paying attention to the tests we have, we add more tests, more time and more input from more experts. Today is a good day. Monika is okay and planes did not explode over the Atlantic. Don’t you wonder if the winning precaution was more like a pistol in the good doctor’s pocket, or was it a conference room filled with suits?

It’s What You Don’t See

As mentioned – with drooling delight – this traveler has landed in hospitable territory. Imagine being away from home for half a decade, then returning to find most of the sounds, smells and sights fully intact. It’s like that, with the bonus of a paycheck and the return of credibility, at least a degree of residual credibility. The rest is up to me.

Leaving one profession and quickly returning to another is something that happens all the time, millions of times a day, one would guess. Americans are constantly shifting in their ergonomic seats. We start and stop for many reasons. Yet the atmosphere upon entry is seldom the same when an exit is pending. Think of the last job you left. If you were fired, that is one thing. Soon-to-be-former coworkers change. The attitudes vary from sympathy to a fade into invisibility.

Yet the most startling thing about leaving a job might be the lifting of the veil. In the last position, pretending to be a financial professional, the entry was not entirely sugar-coated, but we hear what we want to hear. The compensation possibilities, even probabilities are highlighted like the beautiful girl in a beer commercial. Common sense tells you that it’s not likely to turn out quite that way, but you buy it anyway. The people trying to make it, having passed negative return, will also put a great face on the occupation. But when you say your good-bye – and that only happens under voluntary egress – that’s when you see the real pain. One young person, a new father for the second time, admitted that the only way the career had gotten this far was due to a stipend of cash in the bank. Money his father had grown from, of all things, an insurance policy! It was a tidy sum that had dwindled with the slow months. Apparently there were many. This fellow suddenly wore a different mask. The meaning of the large-eyed look, once attributed to confidence and the brightness of his future, now came clear. It was desperation and the nagging feeling that his career of choice just might have been, well, a mistake.

It was definitely a mistake for me; though many are doing very, very well. And in fairness, no one said it was going to be easy. Some friends made there are reading this and I don’t want to leave a false impression. You guys were great, it was not you. It was me, really.

Now it has been three complete weeks on the new gig; including one 12 day period with no day off. Not a problem. In order to achieve the tasks at hand there will be many sleepless nights and Saturdays and Sundays. Radio is by its very nature, “what you don’t see.” That is the magic because anyone listening sees it all, just not with his or her eyes. They see their favorite artists singing just to them. They see the memory the tune evokes and might even have to blink through the tears. They see their child, now grown and on her own, still giggling with delight when dad tries to sing along to the radio. They see those mornings commuting with the old man, hearing Uncle Albert hit like clockwork, right after the sports, just as we drive the blue Nova over the Fleet Avenue Bridge. This last sight (unseen) was mine. It is impossible to hear that song without remembering his work-place advice, his aftershave and getting a little tight just to the right of the heart.

And that is why I am so happy to be back inside radio. It’s all about what was missed, about what you don’t see.

Drive-by Imagination

CLEVELAND [August 1, 2006] --- George Lucas drove by the other day. It was just north of the village center. He was in one of those top-heavy vans made for a variety of things. One imagines long boxes of camera equipment, maybe heavy-duty tripods and a couple of those industrial-light-magic boxes that have elevated him to near divinity.

Why he was in Hudson, Ohio is anyone's guess. I'm sure it was him.

In the next car was Roy Scheider, which for some reason was no surprise. He was driving a Bentley, or maybe it was one of those boxy Chryslers made to resemble a mid-century luxury sedan. Hard to say. He was speaking into the air; his distinctive voice captured by the blinking blue bug in his ear. No, this was not a dream. I hurried back to the office to write this down. It's after 5:30 so the monumental task of rebuilding the sound of a radio station did not suffer from this short diversion. Probably not.

Roy - or Mr. Scheider - was not smiling. It was a beautiful day in the heartland, but he looked annoyed. Mr. Lucas was not on the phone as he drove his van just ahead of the Bentley, or Chrysler, so the actor could not have been upset with the god of directors. Probably being cross with one of the many sub-Lucases; wondering why he is here, in my hometown, when he could be summering in Aspen or on some perfectly tempered island in the South Pacific. Can't blame him, though this is a very nice place in the summer.

In the next car was William H. Macy. He had a short haircut and his strawberry blond was rendered black. The style made his ears stick out more than usual. I was getting the impression this was the beginnings of a very strange buddy flick. The next car was a pickup with ladders strapped to iron racks that rose from the side panels. The young man behind the wheel was not part of the convoy of stars. He was happy to be working.

Granted, this car-to-car star watching was quick. And with the naturally steroid enhanced imagination of the writer, the mind could have added the requisite features to casually reminiscent faces. But if these men were checking a location, wouldn't it be smart to drive ones self in a van and a normal car rather than a limousine? (Bentleys are not that rare in this town. Neither are Chrysler 300's). And if you saw any of these men in, say, a JC Penny, would not your preoccupied mind just chalk it up to mistaken identity? Say yes, even if you don't mean it.

Upon further reflection, maybe it was just a guy with silver hair and a beard; a hollow-faced man with an angular nose and deep set eyes; and a Howdy Doody looking character, all in a row. Our town is really a nice place, a great place for an alien invasion of supernatural serial killers. But rather than waiting for the location to get locked up, I suppose it's really up to us, that strange breed who loves to look under rocks and imagine great and grotesque things. It seemed so real, those faces from the screens. And in those twin seconds the entire plot was worked out, with our village clock tower as the centerpiece for a overly long and bloody climax. The good news is that the story is still there. As for the three stars, perhaps it was just my drive-by imagination...again.

Family Ink

CLEVELAND [July 25, 2006] --- The bluish anchor was almost always visible; the winding serpent a constant menace. Dad hated long sleeve shirts. He hated undershirts, too. Both the swimmer and nature boy were never far from his twinkling eyes and easy laugh. Yet there it was, the residue of one, rare drunken night as a Black soldier in Deep Texas, etched in a massive forearm. It made little sense. And he readily admitted that the nautical selection was one more reminder to never again lose control. It was a promise he kept.

It was always questioned. Body ink was rare then, and meant something. It should mean something now, but the sublime is often replaced by the trivial. The child who still lingers can remember the slow, contemplative stare at my father's arm before a relative would dare ask, usually after a few cocktails and settling into that smoky comfort zone. "Al, where'd you get that tattoo?" their eyes rising to his, making sure no offense was inferred in the question. None was ever taken, but the question was always deflected in one of dad's famous flat jokes: the ones without punch lines that he used to rapidly change the subject.

The first time I put the question to the rock of a man was perhaps the first time the boy, his boy, can remember being so forward. Trust in the status quo was the first thing to fall from the life of innocence. Questioning dad is a right of passage that according to some begins at birth for a boy. For a girl it has a whole different dynamic. As you can imagine he was more forthright with his son. But the answer was still eclipsed by the caveat. It was couched in regret and had the same permanence as the often imitated tag. The preschool approximation done in surface ink by an admiring child with too much time on his hands. The point was, never lose yourself so much that you do something you'll regret for the rest of your life. Modern subdural hieroglyphics are about as focused a memory jog as one can have.

Dad may have been the only one to have such body art in his generation. That was certainly true in his small family and the wide range of characters on his wife's side. Then his granddaughter, Vykki, decided to honor her children with cursive names on her wrists. It was the new blasting of innocence. Our times have accelerated such that better shocks to the establishment are hard to find. Now another from that generation, the one below the tag-less, has adopted a fashion sketch done by her mother to adorn the soft line of her left ribcage. It is an interesting choice. Not quite flattering, more ink with a link to a generation nearly lost. The young woman is as precious to me as was the man with the anchor on his arm, only on the other side of the calendar. And just as a misguided night placed this characteristic uniqueness on a man elevated above all others, this deliberate and admirable gesture is fitting to an almost equally revered young person.

Her mother, the original artist of the skin print, is a study in contrasts. We love her for who she is; and we love her for what she sees in us. This is a very strange family.

It is a nice tat if only for its meaning. And unlike the echo of the man who made his way alone in Chicago, just like she is doing now, the permanent drawing was the product of thoughtfulness. Perhaps that will help when her child, in a shining moment of independence, asks about the lady on her side.

The Writing on the Wall

CLEVELAND [July 20, 2006] --- Little Cousin peeked around her daddy's leg. The smile brightened the sparse apartment, the lower-level hallway and all of Toledo. She is special. The apartment was designed for a three-year-old. There are corners filled with plushy toys and she giggles with delight just to show a distant relative how perfectly she fits into her post-toddler feng-shui. Dad was content to let her play - let her be - and his patience and quiet strength seem endless. In this bifurcated bloodline, for the half that halted, there is the half that spreads like kudzu. They all have that same light in their eyes, just like grandmother, great grandmother and Great-great grandmother.

The mitochondrial chorus sings on. Thank God for that.

But it is the place that sparks this thought. The things that make it especially hers, and the sacrifice mom and dad make so that there is no question about it, even in her developing mind. (She was polite and demure as she motioned to the space on the futon, next to her dad, for the infrequent visitor to sit. Then she plopped down between us. The perfect little hostess.)

---

When Monkia and I moved into this house, a place we both love and would fight to the death before losing it, the first thing that was brought in, the one thing that made it ours was a Baldwin Chiming clock. Purchased on sale for $200, it adds quarter-hour ambience that rings, we are home. More stuff has piled into the 2500 square feet, but that clock speaks on its own and at just the right time.

Now comes chapter three. Or four if you count the 33 years under the heading, "The Lost Weekend." Monday morning offers a new place to report, a new set of problems to solve and a new group of people to join. What one places in the workspace is an automatic first impression. It will tell all those strangers what kind of associate this will be; will he be a friend, an enemy, a threat, a help? Will he make my life harder or easier? Will he be honest, dependable, modest, efficient and trustworthy? Yes. Not because those established workers want him to be, but because that is who he is. He is also frightened of failure and uncertain of the skills that have lain dormant for so long.

So here is the first thing that goes up. It will be placed where I can see it first and last, and be reminded throughout the day. It is what they will see as well. Hopefully it will answer some of their questions before the first good morning.

When Reputation Precedes Us

The Chinese curse rings with American irony: may you live in interesting times. The last 16 months have excited that proverb to the frightening pitch of a death rattle. The mornings start with sheer panic and the days end with an inventory that is successful only because there is still a roof overhead and the utilities are still connected. Living in a box illuminated only by faith is not for the weak, struggling to find the way out of the forest is not for the shortsighted. But given enough time a solution starts to form. It happens almost every time unless the person quits. In the case of the recovering person quitting means drinking, drugging or dying. Never good options.

Interesting times inherently means a fast pace and possibilities coming on all fronts. We did wait out the storm, not by cowering in the corner, but by trying something, anything that will inch closer to better things. Now it appears that the slow motion and backsliding might have new momentum.

After a few decades of adult life, most of us realize that there are only a few things at which we are truly gifted. Most never find that activity that can be described in such lofty terms. We are the lucky ones. In this case there are two things that seem to apply. It is a subjective appraisal of a life, but here it goes: they are radio and writing. For nearly all of the 27 years in which Radio supported this life, writing was a critical component. Creative writing was as natural as flying to an eagle; the same elation, the same ease and accomplishment, the same purpose. Many will argue, but if they really examine these pieces, they will see the there is passion, utility and at least some skill. Few have this ability, or so it appears and the number is shrinking.

Like writing, radio takes work. There is nuance in a medium that relies on one sense to project onto all the senses. In a way these two skills go hand-in-hand. The written word leaks in through the eyes and blossoms in the fertile imagination into a universe of real lives, emotions, colors and smells, joy and danger. It happens even when reading hackneyed work. Everything has degrees of success.

Sounds do the same thing. A radio play was the virtual outward portal to generations. When Rockwell-Normal was a wide footprint of working life, the sinister, the rich and the heroic seeped into Middle America through the glow of the Philco and the collected family ears. Today it is mostly music and some form of comedy performance. It is also lacking in a true understanding of the power of the medium.

Interesting times; an opportunity to reclaim this skill and the cracking of a third chapter is finally here. Radio has opened a door. It is up to me to make the most of the invitation. No delusion here, this will be tough. But unlike the foreign territory of financial services and life insurance, the reputation precedes me and the skills are well practiced. Living up to those expectations is, once again, a matter of one day at a time.

The Underdog and The Gekko

CLEVELAND [July 14, 2006] --- Asking a potential employer the following might not be the best form: “have you ever been broke? I mean really broke?” It just slipped out. In fairness it was an honest answer to a routine question. Job interviews are not always about honesty, they are not always about fairness. The interviewer even slipped into such a comfortable place as to admit that most of the process was to satisfy the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission. This was no surprise. Having been on the other side of the desk, one can easily remember the search for qualified candidates that were, as the documentation tactfully put it, nontraditional. It was often a struggle. Radio is like that. Throw a rock at a crowd of, white, ambitious young men and women and you'll hit someone who is willing and able to walk into a radio station and start learning. Most will excel quickly. And with the advent of computers many can produce radio programming that’s good enough for Fast-Food money. There is a sad reality in there somewhere.

But for this Man Without a Country there is something very odd about the conversation. It was not pro forma. There was genuine interest and a sense that what was happening here was vital to the business. It felt good to be an important part of anything, regardless of the outcome.

Back to the original question. How many stories are out there; back stories about successful people who were on the brink of total collapse? It was Horatio Alger who discovered American's love for the underdog in his dime novels. There was a popular cartoon, Underdog that had become part of the cultural Zeitgeist in the 60's and 70's. We were all underdogs then.

Enter Gordon Gekko, blazing up the 90's in a Lamborghini Countach. The message was clear: get greedy or get left behind. In many ways that was the death of media as art; if there ever was such a concept. The men and women at the top of media complexes suddenly discovered the digital age (about a decade late, which is par for the industry) and with it came contraction. One announcer could fill two, ten 100 time slots with only a slight increase in workload and pay. The government was complicit and relaxed rules of ownership. That was the starting gun. The stage was set for total emersion into the Information Age.

Now everyone has a website, even if it is just on MySpace and everyone has their own personal radio station in a little ivory-colored box. The media has been condensed into near singularity sized, just waiting to explode into a vast universe of dark matter. Howard’s on the bird using the "F" word and nobody cares.

So, have you ever been broke? I mean really broke? Radio may not have lost all its money – there is still the need for advertising at the local level and in some cases Radio is still the most efficient use of ad dollars. But there is another type of bankruptcy; it has to do with draining the humanity from a human endeavor. For this conversation there was more than hope. You see, it took place on an island, a forgotten place where people still counted and Radio still had breath and warmth and a pulse. The dinghy is in the harbor, and hungry, thirsty and tired, the underdog just might be welcomed to shore.

Who Shot K.L.?

In thinking more about Kenny-Boy’s checkout, the concept of honesty seems to hold a common thread between good and evil. New York Times writer Joe Nocera chronicled what has come to typify a rags to riches to (almost) institutional-orange story. And when all the bitterness and hyperbole is swept away, it all comes down to honesty; ethics, if you like.

Kenny-boy was once Mr. Lay, philanthropists, genius, icon of the business world and champion of Southeast Texas. He was Boss Ewing in a $6000 suit with a new way to make the once Oil Barony outshine all others again. “If we can’t produce energy, why not trade it?” It’s done all the time. You don’t see rutting suidae running around 20 South Wacker Drive, yet there are plenty of pork bellies on the block every minute of every working day. So even if the wells have long since soured, we still have something to sell! Thus spake Kenny-thustra.

Woe is he who follows the false prophet. With his grand-fatherly smile and tiny, piercing eyes, Kenny had them all fooled. Yet even the hunters are keenly aware of the punishment and are careful that it fits the crime. A man convicted of fraud, sort of a Kenny Jr. when it comes to the money stolen and the people ruined, became deathly ill as his sentencing approached. The FBI agent who finally captured him came to visit while the erstwhile mogul was gasping for breath in an ICU. “Come on, Charlie, I don’t want you to die on us.”

“Why not?” Charlie questioned. “If the ten years in federal lock-up doesn’t do it, my wife will when I get out.” Charles had a point. He also went on to tell of his experience as a pariah; how every eye was on him and every thought was that he was worse than a failure, he was a thief.

The newsman spoke of Ken Lay getting off and not spending a day in jail. He said that Lay must finally face a much bigger, a Higher Judge and jury. Perhaps so. But honestly, does anyone believe that falling from such heights is anything but a death sentence? We know something about falling. It hurts and sometimes it kills you.

Kenny-boy Wins!

Ken Lay died today. His heart gave out. He died in his bed, in Aspen, overlooking the green and white Rockies. His last breath was that of clean mountain air filtered by rich surroundings.

Most of us wonder how much a human can take. When does financial suffering, the loss of everything including freedom result in the ultimate physical reaction.

It has been my experience that men don’t do old age all that well. The ones who do spend a lifetime preparing for it. They find ways to amuse themselves and shrink their worries, hopes and fears down to nearly nothing. They are the funny, crusty and often miserable old men. They have their moments, but they are not happy unless they are complaining about something, about nothing.

A man like Kenneth Lay, a man who made millions and lost it all, a man who took those who trusted him down with his greed and fear, this man was not ready for old age. He certainly was not ready to spend the rest of his life in prison. The shattered life finally crushed the physical being. It happens, perhaps more often than any of us really knows.

Some will find this news tragic for all the wrong reasons. They want Ken to suffer the way they are suffering. They want him to feel poverty, desperation and quickly go from the master of the universe to less than nothing. They want him to feel, really feel the consequences of his behavior. It won’t happen. Kenny-boy won. For all intents and purposes he died rich, in his sleep and, presumably peacefully.

It’s the best any of us can hope for. The last few years of his life might have been a nightmare, but Ken Lay still went out on a cloud.

A Couple of JW’s

CLEVELAND [July 6, 2006] --- Uninvited visitors came by the other day. Their ringing interrupted the important work and it was difficult not to be rude – let the bell go unanswered, or quickly cut off any conversation. It is their calling, after all, to spark a belief in a stranger; to smile while forecasting doom like some demented weatherman. It can be fun.

The monologue began with platitudes and assumptions. “Doesn’t it break your heart the way things are going?” How so? “War, crime, can’t find good paying jobs…” Let me stop you there.

Still not wanting to be rude, a quick inventory was in order. These were older people, perhaps in their late 60’s. They know that times are what they are. They can remember Korea – perhaps the old guy was even in the service then. They certainly remember the cascading revolutions of the Sixties and Seventies. The Civil Rights movement; perhaps they sat on segregated buses right here, or took a vacation to the Carolinas and paid no attention, just instinctively looked for the Whites Only water fountains.

They may have taken part in some of the early antiestablishmentism. It was also fun in the early days. Girls freed themselves with The Pill and or other prophylactic, sex was no longer a spectator sport for them. They came, too! The thought must have been projected too strongly. The lady winced.

There was Elvis, The Beatles, Timothy Leary; the decade that started with the Kennedy Assassination and ended with Watergate was not for the faint hearted. The feeble-minded ushered in Disco, while the diehards injected liquid Metal into Punk. All the while the escapism grew stronger and the desperate grew more dangerous. These nice people were probably watching their children face these challenges. Some might not have made it.

All along the threat of nuclear annihilation loomed. From missiles in Cuba to Reagan calling Gorbachev’s bluff, the world could become a convection oven in a heartbeat.

Oh, sorry, you were saying? “We believe the End Times are near.” I agree. But so did every generation since man discovered blogging. Which, btw, was something like 10,000 B.C at CaveWall.com. “Then you know that only a few will be saved?” Do tell. “According to scripture there will be exactly 440,000 lifted to paradise in rapture.” And what number are you and your lovely bride? “What?” Well, there are certainly more than half a million Witnesses. In fact, an old guy, Kenny, he’s in nursing care, know him? You really should call on him, lonely old guy. Anyway, he said there are more than 20 million of you out there knocking on doors and spreading the word. “Praise God.” Right, but my point is what happens to the other 19,560,000. Is there a lottery, a draft? Does the head Jehovah Buddy make the selection? A foot race to heaven? What? “Now, who’s being disrespectful?” Sorry. I’m just curious. “Our place depends on our work and the purity of heart.” No credit check, then? “I won’t dignify that…” Just kidding. So let’s say I sign up now. Buy your weltanschauung lock, stock and a barrel of monkeys that this is it. Tomorrow the sun goes full Red Dragon and Jesus comes back in a pink Cadillac. Now what are the chances I have a seat on that 440K limo? I’d be in line just behind you two and you are in line behind nineteen million, give or take a few hundred thou. “There are ways to get saved.” There sure are, mister. But I’m betting your Watchtower goes up just like the rest of us. The good news is we’ll never know what hit us.

They left, still smiling. God bless ‘em.

Fire Flys

CLEVELAND [July 2, 2006] --- There was a time when the backyard sparkled. It lights up tonight in a special place. The little field looked huge and promised adventures beyond imagination once. Dad tended the roses along the borders and put up a redwood fence to separate our moonscape of a play area. Why do little boys love to dig holes? Do they still?

June was a special time. It still is for most of us. The body ages but the little kid stays the same. Some are just better at hiding the frogs in the pockets and the lightening bugs in the peanut butter jars. Don’t forget to poke holes in the lid, and throw in a little grass. Still they die before morning; lights fade like slowly stilled breath. That image always made the six-year-old sad, like he wanted to jump out of bed and run downstairs with the jar to release the bugs – those happy, flickering bugs – back into the backyard they loved. He loved it, too, and could not imagine trading it for a glass cage.

These images come to mind as the month closes. June is a month of renewal, but sometimes a rebirth is hard labor. Struggles always seem insurmountable just before success. There is success in the July wind. Radio, like a spurned lover, is offering a second chance…maybe. She knows now that the first love was and always will be writing; creating worlds from words. She acknowledges that this passion is more important than life itself and almost – might still– mean the end before he will give it up. But hasn’t it always been that way? Didn’t he choose the side of Radio that involved using the written word as a guide for the spoken word, and created illusion, persuasion, emotion? She is still undecided, Radio, and leaves the suitor twisting in the breeze. He is still in danger, broken and needy. She seems to enjoy the show.

But there is more than a tease here. There is more today than yesterday. Hope has a little more weight.

Today (June 29) is Mary Collins’ birthday. She would have been 93. Like those fireflies dimming as the child falls off to sleep, she dimmed last December 13th. The child, grown-up in some respects but more of a child than ever, sat by her side while the light faded. It seemed to go somewhere. There was far too much shinning energy and blinding love to just shrink to nothing. He believes, I believe she is still here, helping.

One June night the child made it as far as the back door; having to pee and watching the bugs give up in the jar. Mary Collins appeared from the quiet kitchen. She said nothing, smiled and opened the door. She watched as her son ran to the patio, carefully dumped the jar and with anxious fingers brushed the bugs from the grass entanglement. Most flew away, their beacons gaining in strength with each small lift into the night air. He dashed by her on the way to the downstairs bathroom. “Thanks mom,” he called from his little-man stance over the bowl.

“You’ welcome,” She said in that playful voice only she could manage.

Copyright © 2006, by Charles L. Collins