Flying for Free

I love flying for free. I don’t get to travel as often as I’d like, but when I do fly somewhere it’s often for free. Yup, I belong to a couple of those frequent flyer programs.

I’m not one of those obsessive lunatics, of course. Well I am, but not about frequent flyer miles. I did begin a few years back to charge nearly everything on my United Airlines or American Airlines credit cards, including groceries, dinners, gasoline, (That’s gotten me a lot of miles of late!) books, clothing, (Or I would have if I actually ever bought any new clothing.) and all kinds of stuff. In fact I was going to lie to you and tell you about a “friend” who earned quite a few miles by charging two funerals, but I have to be honest with you. Yeah, the friend was me. (I figure just because they're not going anywhere...)

I’ve probably received five or six free flights over the last few years. I try to get Spike to accumulate miles at the same rate by using the same methods, but what are you going to do? So what usually happens is we get one free flight and pay for one and then we split the cost. It’s as if we’re each flying for half-price, which is, of course, completely unfair. I mean, I’m the one who goes through all the trouble of getting the credit cards, paying the yearly fee, using it diligently, keeping track of my miles and cashing them in for free tickets so why should I have to share this with someone who can’t even be bothered to take the trouble to—whoa, where was I?

Anyway, through some miracle we each had accumulated enough miles for two free tickets to Florida this summer. (Florida in the summer—now there’s a great idea. What’s the matter, is Hell closed?) We booked the flights a few weeks ago, and today I called the United Plus automated system to check my balance. You see I just applied for a business credit card that promised me 15,000 bonus miles. That’s more than half a free flight! Woo-hoo! So I needed to check my balance so I could know for sure when the new miles were added. (You have to stay on these people every goddam minute.)

OK, in reality I already knew how many miles I had. Before acquiring the latest free tickets there were 62,000 miles in my account. Now minus the 25,000 I used for my ticket, I should have had a balance of 37,000, right? So imagine my surprise when the robot on the other end informed me that I had but 12,000 miles! I was stunned! I don’t mind my checking account or even my net worth approaching zero, but not my air miles!

Well of course it didn’t take long to discern what happened. You’ve probably already figured it out yourself, and we all know you’re no genius. The airline had obviously taken the miles for my ticket and Spike’s ticket, all 50,000 of them, from my account. Needless to say I was dialing the phone to United Airlines faster than a stoned Superman calls Domino’s.

Surprisingly it didn’t take very long to connect to a representative. And this wasn’t some robot either, but a real live person. She immediately confirmed my suspicions—they had indeed dinged my account for all 50,000 miles. And then came the words that I didn’t want to hear.

“Let’s me see if we can change this.”
“Thanks,” I said with the smile in my voice that I hoped would win this disembodied voice over to my side. And why would she say “if” we can change it? A short time later she was back with the news that didn’t surprise me at all.

“I just spoke to our Simple Request Denial Department,” (OK, that’s wasn’t the real name, but it might as well have been.) “and we are unable to transfer the miles to your account.”
“Why? It seems like a simple thing, in this age of computers and cell phones and seedless watermelons.”
“Well, Sir, we’d have to cancel your wife’s ticket and rebook her flights.”
“Oh,” I said, as if any of this nonsense made the slightest bit of sense.
“The man at the Simple Request Denial Department had the same idea that I did,” she offered. “Why don’t you work it out with your wife that the next time you fly you can use her miles?”

“That’s your solution?” I wanted to say. Wow, that’s brilliant-- I never would have thought of that. Between you and the guy you spoke to it’s like there are two Solomons working over there at United.

Can you imagine making a fifty thousand dollar deposit and the bank accidentally credits half to somebody else and then says they can’t fix it? “Why don’t you contact the other person and work something out for the next time he makes a big deposit?” they might offer. What, you say? It’s not the same thing? Well listen Chump, it’s pretty damn close as far as I’m concerned. These are air miles we’re talking about here!

One thing about me is I know a lost cause when I’m faced with one. I politely said good-bye to the nice but ineffectual lady and hung up the phone. Two hours later Spike came home and as always the first thing I did was give her a kiss hello. The second thing was to loudly inform her in my most accusatory voice, “You owe me 25,000 air miles!”

Fill the Jackboot

I had just turned onto 16 West, just outside of Esparto, when I began to see the signs. Firefighters Ahead! Slow! Fill the Boot! “What manner of annoyance is this?” I thought to myself, although I already had a pretty good idea.

After driving about a quarter mile further I saw that I was right. The local firemen were holding a “Fill the Boot” fund-raiser, which means that a few dozen people were lining both sides of the road holding out fireman boots and asking for donations from the people who drove past. The boisterous crowd, standing by the side of the road almost close enough to touch the passing cars, had forced traffic to a near standstill.

A correction here: The people weren’t asking for donations as much as they were demanding them. As we drove slowly past the yelling crowd I flashed back to a time years ago when I had driven through a mob of locals in a small African village as they approached my car in a noisy attempt to sell me their local wares. The main difference was that the Africans had been smiling.

The firefighter crowd at the side of the road was aggressive; they knew they were raising money for a good cause (a burn center) and so were pumped up with a self-righteous fervor that was difficult to ignore. “Just a dollar!” one girl yelled. “Any loose change!” demanded a young man holding a boot. “C’mon guys!” implored another.

I’m nothing if not a stubborn asshole. I appreciated the cause for which these people were raising money but I was repulsed by their approach. They were using strong-arm tactics and I found it repellant and uncomfortable. No, they didn’t stop my progress or threaten to smash in my windshield if I didn’t pay, yet it felt like a form of extortion none the less.

And yet it wasn’t truly extortion, I reminded myself, because making a contribution to the boot was still very much voluntary. I continued to drive slowly past their grim, demanding faces with my car windows securely rolled up and the distaste, and possibly fear, in my eyes hidden by my sunglasses. A few minutes later I resumed normal speed and glanced back at the mob in my rearview mirror.

There’s a homeless man who stations himself at a stoplight at a local shopping center. He stands there quietly holding a cardboard sign and sometimes I hand him a buck and sometimes I don’t. He’s polite and always says thank you. He has never yelled at my car or impeded my way. Whether this one luckless man is more worthy a cause than a burn center I couldn’t say. I do, however, prefer his dignified manner.

Everybody Hates Raymond's Kids

Remember the recent column I wrote about Entertainment Weekly’s list of the “new classics”? Of course you don’t—you didn’t bother to read it. In fact I can’t believe you’re even taking the trouble to read this. Anyhow, on the list of the best television shows of the past 25 years you’ll find Everybody Loves Raymond, which probably deserved to be there. It ranked #70 on the list, and it probably deserves to be there, too. It was an amusing, occasionally hilarious, show that lasted for nine seasons, a near-impossible feat in the sitcom world.

Tonight I’m here to say that Everybody Loves Raymond might have ended up higher on the classics list, and certainly higher on my list, were it not for two little problems: Those zombie-like twins who played Ray’s sons. I know, I know, can I really stoop so low on these pages as to criticize innocent little children? Of course I can, so let’s begin.

The twins on Raymond were played by Sawyer and Sullivan Sweeten, real life twin brothers. They began appearing on the show in 1996 at the age of one, and continued until the show ended on May 16, 2005, four days after their tenth birthday. And every time I see them on the show, whether they are nine or five or two, I can only think of one thing: My God, they suck.

Well I’m sorry, but it’s drives me nuts watching these expressionless gargoyles, and it must have driven the director and writers batty as well. Watch them for just a short amount of time and you realize that you can’t give them lines and you can’t give them direction. But if the script calls for a vacant stare, you got the right kids. In the end it was obviously the editors who saved the day, relying on quick reaction shots and cutaways that lasted the one or two seconds before these robots looked off camera and ruined the shot.

Oh yes, they’re only ten. You know who else was only ten? Abigail Breslin, when she starred in Little Miss Sunshine. So was Macauly Culkin, when he made Home Alone. And what about Oscar nominee Haley Joel Osment in The Sixth Sense? Oh, forgive me on that last one—Osment was eleven when he received his nomination. And you know what else he was? Only the eighth youngest actor to get an Oscar nomination. Eighth! And let’s not even mention Shirley Temple, who received an Oscar at age seven. You know what Shirley Temple was doing by age ten? Accepting lifetime achievement awards, that’s what!

You think it’s unfair, don’t you, that I should compare these two kids to all these talented child actors? Well, that’s exactly my point. There are many, many talented child actors out there. These kids just didn’t happen to be two of them. I always wonder at what point the producers started kicking themselves when they realized they were stuck with these two mannequins for the entire run of the series. And they shouldn’t have been—hell, if you can switch out the Darrin’s on Bewitched, they certainly could have gotten away with dropping these two androids.

The Beatles Reunion Concert: A Review

It’s a long and winding tale that explains how I, who have never been able to secure good seats for anything, ended up sitting in the fifth row at what was easily the most anticipated musical perforIt’s a long and winding tale that explains how I, who have never been able to secure good seats for anything, ended up sitting in the fifth row at what was easily the most anticipated musical performance of the last hundred years, and perhaps ever. I’ll save the details for another article and simply say that my premium seat was due to an unlikely combination of extreme good luck and the draining of a great deal of cash from my saving account.

As most everyone on the planet knows the performance was held last night at the newly restored and gloriously refurbished Louisiana Superdome in New Orleans. I arrived early, as I tend to do for most things, and was required to wait two hours until I and the other lucky ticket-holders were permitted to enter the arena.

I spent the next hour and a half staring at the famous instruments that waited on the stage, including McCartney’s famous Hoffner violin bass and Ringo’s historic drum set still sporting The Beatles name and the Ludwig logo on the bass drum, perhaps the most fortuitous advertising that any musical instrument company has ever had. And as I sat I thought about the many paths and many years I had traversed from the first time I heard a Beatles record in 1964 until this long, long-awaited reunion concert 45 years later.

Finally the lights went down and, as is the case at most rock concerts, the crowd roared in anticipation. Only the instruments, shiny classics that there were, were illuminated and they remained that way for the next fifteen minutes. Many in the audience, I’m sure, thought that there was some reason for the delay--perhaps a last minute technical adjustment or even an ego-based discussion of the set list. I knew better. Whoever had planned this historic concert knew that many of the people in attendance had waited 39 years for this moment and for each minute the audience was made to squirm in anticipation while staring at the inanimate stage the excitement level went up ten-fold.

After about fifteen minutes I myself felt as if I was going to burst when there was finally some movement on the stage. Ringo Starr had come out, waved to the crowd and without a word taken his familiar seat behind the drums. Thirty seconds later, after Paul McCartney, John Lennon and George Harrison had wordlessly strolled out, plugged in their guitars and taken their vintage positions, Starr launched into the short three-beat intro and the vibrant energy of “She Loves You” struck out into the nearly delirious crowd.

And like the magicians they always had been, the Beatles now turned back the clock. While I never really forgot that I was watching four men each of whom was well into his ‘60’s, there were times when it became nearly impossible to separate this quartet from the brash young men who had charmed the world half a lifetime ago. Certainly the still thin Harrison at times appeared to be a bit stooped and fragile, and under the bright lights it was fairly obvious that McCartney had dyed his hair while Lennon was losing his. But when I closed my eyes and listened to the cheering, the screaming and the raw vocals and instrumentation of “Twist and Shout” I felt as if I could have just as easily been sitting in the fifth row at the Ed Sullivan Show.

The Beatles played nearly non-stop for over an hour before taking their first break. Between sharp and energetic performances of “Can’t Buy Me Love,” “A Hard Day’s Night” “I Want to Hold Your Hand,” “I Feel Fine,” “Ticket to Ride,” “Day Tripper” “And I Love Her,” “Twist and Shout” “Please, Please Me” and “All My Loving” each made brief comments to the crowd. John Lennon drew the biggest laugh when at the conclusion of the opening number “She Loves You” he deadpanned to the audience “So, have you been waiting long?”

The second set lasted well over an hour and began after a fifteen-minute intermission, during which I would estimate that no more than five people left their seats. This middle part of the concert showcased the four Beatles individually, each performing several songs taken from both their Beatle and solo careers while being backed by the other three. Harrison began by strumming the chords to his 1970 classic “My Sweet Lord,” followed immediately by his Beatles song “While My Guitar Gently Weeps.”

Harrison was followed by McCartney who performed several songs from his Wings era as well as a beautifully realized version of “Yesterday” which, unlike the record, featured instrumental contributions from all the Beatles. The highlight of Lennon’s showcase was perhaps his most famous song “Imagine,” which was made even more majestic by gloriously delicate harmonies contributed by McCartney. One of the surprises of the evening was my realization of the number of hits that Ringo had released over the years. He performed four of them last night and six songs in total, more songs than any of the others.

The second intermission was the longer of the two, as the time was necessary to reorganize the stage to accommodate the many additions required for the third set. When the Beatles returned it was obvious by the added jungle of complicated-looking instruments, keyboards and other electronics, as well as a string section and several female singers and other assorted musicians, that the Beatles would be performing the very music that they had claimed was the reason they stopped touring in 1966: The music had gotten too complicated to perform live.

McCartney was the first to speak. “This is the actual instrument that we used when we recorded this next song. It’s called a Mellotron. There’s a little history lesson for you kiddies.” Lennon followed with the quip “I hope you all remembered to take your acid” and then began the third set by playing the opening notes to his “Strawberry Fields Forever.” A short time later Harrison caused a deafening roar with the phrase, “Here’s a brand new Beatles song for you,” and then played the opening chords to their new release “On Any Given Day.”

As the third and final set continued I was torn between the anticipation of a classic Beatles song finale and the very real yet impossible hope that this night would never end. And as I sat mesmerized and near tears through wondrous versions of “Penny Lane,” “Sergeant Pepper” “For No One” and the familiar yet somehow seemingly new medley from Abbey Road I realized the end was drawing near.

If the Beatles had reunited for this concert twenty or even ten years ago I’m not sure that they all would have agreed to end with what many consider to be the Beatles’ best song, as if such a thing could actually be identified. Still, this was not twenty or even ten years ago and these were no longer bickering young men. And so when McCartney sat down at the piano and sang the words, “Hey Jude…” I knew this would be the last song of the evening. And so ten minutes later, the last five of which had been an audience sing-along of the famous “na-na-na-naaah” refrain, the Beatles walked off the stage as quietly as they had entered it nearly five hours earlier.

The Beatles did not do an encore last night, and very few people at the arena were expecting that they would. The last song and their exit had had an unmistakable finality to it, although more than half of us remained in our seats for at least another half hour after the Beatles had left. We were stunned, drained, exhausted and totally spent. When the house lights came on we were fully aware that the Beatles had left the stage and that they would not be coming back.

And we didn’t know if we would ever see them again.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Beatles Reunion Concert
Louisiana Super Dome
New Orleans, Louisiana, USA
July 22, 2009

Attendance: 94,667
Time: Four Hours Forty-Seven Minutes

THE PLAY LIST

Set One

She Loves You
Can’t Buy Me Love
A Hard Day’s Night
I Want to Hold Your Hand
I Feel Fine
Twist and Shout
Ticket to Ride
Day Tripper
And I Love Her
Please Please Me
All My Loving

Set Two

My Sweet Lord
While My Guitar Gently Weeps
Something
All Things Must Pass
Band on the Run
Maybe I’m Amazed
Jet
Helter Skelter
Yesterday
Help!
Revolution
I’m a Loser
Come Together
Imagine
It Don’t Come Easy
Photograph
You’re Sixteen
The No-No Song
Yellow Submarine
Boys

Set Three

Strawberry Fields Forever
Penny Lane
On Any Given Day
Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band
A Little Help From My Friends
A Day in the Life
For No One
In My Life
Free As A Bird
You Never Give Me Your Money Sun King Mean Mr. Mustard
Polythene Pam She Came In Through The Bathroom Window Golden Slumbers Carry That Weight The End
Let It Be
Rain
Cry Baby Cry
I Am The Walrus
Get Back
Hey Jude

Eraserhead

I spoke to a hot young blonde aerobics instructor for about three minutes today, which is dangerously close to my tolerance limit for speaking to hot blonde aerobics instructors. Anyway, during the brief conversation she mentioned that she had never seen a single episode of The Honeymooners. I registered the appropriate surprise, but really I shouldn’t have been. After all, Jackie Gleason’s comedy classic had already been off the air twenty-five years at the time this girl was born. Plus it seems that there aren’t as many re-runs of The Honeymooners as there are of other classic TV shows.

You know what was a pretty good movie? Total Recall. Yeah, I know, how could it be both a good movie and star Arnold Schwarzenegger? Actually the script for Total Recall had been bouncing around Hollywood for about a decade, and was originally supposed to star Richard Dreyfus. It was a pretty clever script but it took the drawing power of Schwarzenegger to make this expensively made flick profitable.

You might “recall” that in the movie Arnold is too cheap to pay for a real vacation so he goes to a company that will implant in his already confused Republican brain memories of a vacation he never actually took. That’s a pretty cool idea, don’t you think? The concept was reversed years later with the wonderfully titled but otherwise disappointing Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. In this one Jim Carrey goes to a company to have certain memories erased from his brain. (Of course it involves a woman. What else?)

I told the aerobics instructor that she was very fortunate to have never seen The Honeymooners. Imagine, she can now watch all 39 episodes, and each one will be for the first time. I’m incredibly jealous of this. I’ve seen each episode a gazillion times, and know every line that is about to be spoken. It’s a remarkable tribute to this series that even though I know each joke before it’s spoken, they will still make me laugh out loud when delivered.

OK, here’s my point and thanks for waiting. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you could erase certain bits of knowledge or experience from your memory banks (or savings & loans) just so that you could enjoy them as you did the very first time, fresh and new?

Well, you can’t. But tonight I’m going to give you all a little advice. I’m going to list a few of my favorites and if you’re lucky enough to not be familiar with one or more of them consider yourself fortunate, because that means there’s an untapped treat just waiting for you—all you have to do is open the box.


THE HONEYMOONERS
Well, of course. One of the two greatest television comedies ever created. If you have never met Ralph, Norton, Alice or Trixie, well get off your ass, walk across the room and introduce yourself. You won’t be sorry. My childhood friend Lenny once laughed so hard that he pulled a stomach muscle and almost had to miss a race that he was scheduled to run in the next day. ‘Nuf said.

SEINFELD
First of all, if you own a TV and you have at least one working eyeball then it’s impossible for you not to have seen Seinfeld. But just in case you haven’t there’s a whole comedic world waiting for you. This is the other of the two greatest television comedies (screw Lucy) and Lenny still considers me a traitor for even suggesting that Seinfeld, and not The Honeymooners, is the best of all time.

THE BEATLES
I know, fossil that I am, I’ve repeatedly ranted against youngsters who discover the Beatles. “Find your own music, you punks, the Beatles belong to us!” I proclaimed while shaking my aluminum walker at the sky. First, if you’ve never heard of the Beatles then you’re also not reading this, because you obviously live in a mud hut deep in the heart of the Congo. Second, if you only have a vague awareness of who they were, you’re in for a treat. Start listening to what we used to call their “albums” (ignore those bullshit collections) in chronological order and you’ll be taking a mind-blowing ride through the finest era in rock music history.

THE FLASHMAN BOOKS
Ah ha, haven’t heard of this one, huh? If you enjoy reading, history and especially hilarious and brilliant writing, then get on Amazon right now and start ordering these classics written by George MacDonald Fraser. Start with the first one, Flashman. I was turned on to these books by my pal K.C. a few years back, and I have since tried to pass the favor on to others with little success. Nobody I know who has read one has gone on to read a second. It’s their loss. If you connect with this wonderful series of books, you are in for years of delightful reading. The Flashman books are the first memory I’d erase so I could start at the beginning and read them all again. That’s why you’re lucky. There are twelve of these comic gems out there just waiting to be discovered by you.

I’ll probably think of other shows, books and music you should get to know before you shuffle off this mortal plane, but for now these are enough to get you started. You’re welcome.

An Entourage Quiz, and You Better Take It!

Listen up. I’ve just about had it with you idiots. For years I’ve been telling you, and others who are unfortunate enough to be just like you, that you should be watching Entourage. It’s a funny, sexy, dramatic and occasionally poignant look at how movies get made in Hollywood. And it’s got great guest stars.

I’ve watched Entourage since its very first episode in 2004, before all the popularity and before all the awards. Does that make me a genius? Of course not. I was a genius long before that. Besides, how popular the show is or how many awards it has won shouldn’t be what motivates you to watch Entourage. Didn’t I tell you it’s my favorite TV program? What other reason could you possibly need?

In just a few weeks Entourage will be coming back, finally, for its fifth season, and I expect you to be there. Don’t have HBO? Get it. Spend the extra five bucks a month to have it added. It won’t kill you to have one less of those soy caramel frappuccino bulllshit things you are always wasting your money on at Starbuck’s. Besides, they’re going out of business anyway. Four dollars for a cup of coffee, indeed.

Until then I’ll whet your appetite with an Entourage quiz. You won’t have a clue what it’s about, but maybe it will help you to finally realize what you’ve been missing. And I’m sorry for being so harsh. Wanna hug it out, bitch?

1. What is E’s actual first name?
a. Ernest
b. Eric
c. Erwin
d. Jonas

2. What actor has twice won an Emmy for his work on Entourage?
a. Mark Wahlberg
b. Kevin Dillion
c. Adrian Grenier
d. Jeremy Piven

3. Who uses the expression, “Wanna hug it out, bitch?”
a. Ari
b. Johnny
c. Lloyd
d. Billy

4. Which movie did Vince not star in?
a. Aquaman
b. Queens Boulevard
c. Medellin
d. After Midnight

5. In what TV show did Johnny Drama star?
a. Viking Quest
b. Murder, Etc.
c. Harry Sets Sail
d. Space War

6. Which Oscar-winning actor appeared as producer Bob Ryan?
a. Ben Kingsley
b. Timothy Hutton
c. Martin Landau
d. Geoffrey Rush

7. Which actor has not appeared on Entourage?
a. James Woods
b. Larry David
c. Scarlett Johansson
d. Mimi Rogers

8. What is Ari’s last name?
a. Gold
b. Green
c. Brown
d. White

9. Who directed Aquaman?
a. Martin Scorsese
b. James Cameron
c. Tim Burton
d. Ridley Scott

10. Where are the boys of Entourage from?
a. San Fernando Valley, California
b. Houston, Texas
c. Queens, New York
d. Hollywood, California



ANSWERS

1. E’s full name is Eric Murphy. Kevin Connolly had actually retired from acting when he was offered the role. Isn’t that interesting? Well, I thought it was.
2. Jeremy Piven has twice won the Outstanding Supporting Actor Emmy for his portrayal of super-agent Ari Gold. (Yeah, that’s his last name.)
3. The expression is used by Ari Gold, and was actually created by actor Jeremy Piven.
4. Vince did not star in a movie named After Midnight. I do know it as an old blues song but before I say it’s not a movie I’m going to hop over to IMDB. Be right back. Oh hell, there’s a bunch of ‘em, going back to 1927. Isn’t that interesting? Well, I thought it was.
5. Vince’s brother Johnny Drama starred in the short-lived Viking Quest. I made up the other titles, which is not to say they don’t exist. But I’m not going back to IMDB. You don’t appreciate it.
6. Martin Landau was hilarious as aging producer Bob Ryan. And I’m happy to report he will be appearing again in Season Five.
7. Mimi Rogers has not appeared in Entourage. Just in my dreams.
8. Ari’s last name is Gold. He originally planned to name his agency The Gold Standard, but was forced to change it when he became partners with Barbara Miller. The new name was Miller-Gold. “We sound like a beer!” Ari whined.
9. Aquaman was directed by James Cameron. Hey, the man loves the water.
10. Vince, Eric, Johnny and Turtle are from Queens, New York. And I can’t believe I didn’t include a question about Turtle in this quiz. Hey, you know what other talented sex symbol was born in Queens? Oh stop, you’re making me blush.

Entourage

I once had a girlfriend who told me her husband (yeah, you read that right) decided that they were watching too much television and so, in a fit of anger, he ripped the TV cable right out of the wall. At the time I thought this guy must be a quite a lunatic (and if this is how he treated his TV, what would he do if he ever ran into me?) and I still believe he was being a tad overly dramatic with his cable-yanking tantrum. Most televisions do, after all, come with an “off” button. Still, I kind of understand his point of view.

I once knew a woman who watched television all day, every day. Seven days a week. From the time she woke up at 9 a.m. until the time she went to bed fourteen hours later she was “plopped” (as Mom used to say) in front of the T.V. And sometimes I also understand her point of view.

Some people have no interest in television at all, which is fine. But others can’t wait to steer the topic of conversation around to television, just so they can announce that they never watch it. “I wouldn’t even own one!” they brag for all to hear. To these people I say, “Your loss, Toots.” Television is an art form, and like any art form most of what it produces is garbage. But also like any art form the cream rises to the top, and there are many great programs, wonderful programs that we are fortunate to be able to see.

We always say, “Turn off that TV and go outside, take a walk, do some gardening.” Can you imagine how some poor mud farmer in the Middle Ages would react if he suddenly had television? Suddenly he can see sporting events that are taking place thousands of miles away and check on the progress of wars in distant lands and enjoy Mr. Shakespeare’s plays right in the comfort of his own hovel. If he heard of some nut-job yanking the cable out of the wall he’d surely thinketh him a foole. “If I had access to this wondrous machine,” he’d claim, “why, I would never leave the house!”

OK, I know that 90% of the stuff on TV is crap, but I’ll tell you what has me so worked up tonight. (And why I’m writing this column much later than usual, despite that fake time that you see posted there.) The reason I’m starting this column almost three hours later than usual is because the good folks over at HBO (whose collective ass I have previously and frequently kissed on these very pages) decided in their wisdom to run six consecutive episodes of their brilliant show business-themed program Entourage. These happened to be the very episodes that I missed during that dark, dark year when I thought I could live without HBO. Ah, what a fool I was back then.

I had watched this series from its first episode, enjoyed it immensely, and thought that it was my little secret. A few months ago I heard one critic call Entourage the best show on television. As much as I liked the show I scoffed a bit at that. Now I think he might have been right. True, you can probably feel that I am typing this while still riding the three-hour high that I got from watching the six shows tonight, but boy Entourage seems more sharply written, funnier and more entertaining than it was last season. And last season was great.

OK, so I’m a whore for HBO. Sue me. But remember, I’m only here to help. So if you happen to own a television, and have not yet ripped the cable wire out of the wall, there are worse ways to spend your valuable TV watching time than getting familiar with the boys on Entourage. Give it a try--you’ll thank me later.

Dream a Little Dream - Part II

And so, true to my humiliating confession in Part I, one of my dreams last night was again about Howard Stern. Howard didn’t actually make an appearance in this one, probably because he’s too busy with his impending move to satellite, but the dream did feature a sheet with lyrics from a song parody that was used on his show. What did I tell you?

The Stern reference in my dream might have served as a signpost, as we discussed last night, but it didn’t. Regardless, tonight, as promised, I will reveal the successes that I’ve had over the last year as I train myself in the art of the lucid dreaming.

It was actually the night before last that I had a dream that showed me just how tricky and cunning the human mind can be. Sometimes it can be so frustrating that you want to shout, “C’mon Brain, work with me on this!” In the dream both sides of my family, the Germans and the Italians, were having a big reunion. I was very happy to see everybody (including a guest appearance by my cousin who had just yesterday posted a comment on these pages) and was having a fine time when I noticed an uncle who shouldn’t have been there.

If you remember last night’s column you know that I use certain signals or “signposts” to alert me when I am dreaming. One of them is seeing a person who has passed away. In my dream of two nights ago, I realized the fact that Uncle ________ should not have been there because he was dead. The fact that I recognized this in my dream is a big step when training to lucid dream. So here I am, well on my way, when my big, stupid brain gets in the way, in the form of my aunt, and knocks me right off the tracks. “That’s not your Uncle _______” she says. That’s his brother.” And right away in my dream I accept this explanation with a “Duh, Okay,” and any chance I had to experience a lucid dream has evaporated. I don’t even know if that uncle actually even had a brother.

Despite the failure to achieve lucidity, I knew upon awakening that I was making progress. Over the past year there have been about ten dreams during which I was lucid, almost lucid or at least on the right path. Unfortunately, not only don’t I keep a dream journal, I didn’t even bother to make a record of these breakthrough dreams. Still I recall some of them and I’ll describe each one briefly as best as I can. And remember that before I had started to train myself, even in my own half-assed way, I had not had a lucid (or flying) dream for over forty years. Now in the last year I have had somewhere between five and ten. Something must be working.

About eight months ago I succeeded in having my first lucid dream since childhood. I hate to admit this, but in the dream, sadly, I turned out to be quite a pussy. But I knew that I was dreaming so it still counts! I was with a small group of people. I didn’t know who they were but I got the feeling that they were not particularly friendly—kind of like 1940’s street toughs. You know, the type who might sneer, “Ah, so’s yer old man.” The Little Rascals with attitude. I was explaining to them that I knew that this was a dream, and maybe I was being a little too self-satisfied in my pronouncement. One of the punks challenged me by saying something like, “If this is just a dream, why don’t you stab yourself in the arm with this knife?” I immediately went into a perfect Ralph Kramden-esque, “hama-hama-hama,” and of course declined the challenge. I explained weakly that I wasn’t sure if you could still feel pain in a lucid dream and I would hold off on any self-destructive behavior until I could look up the answer in the book tomorrow.

OK, hopefully this will not be my proudest moment in my lucid dreaming career, but despite my caution, I had succeeded. A month or so later I had my first flying dream in over forty years. In it I was teaching children how to fly and was aware that I was dreaming. This has been the only flying dream I’ve had in the past year, although I do recall having them fairly often as a child. Well, maybe it’s because I weigh more now, and it’s just that much harder to achieve lift-off. Again, though, I chalk it up as a success.

One of the problems faced by the beginning lucid dreamer is that often he will get so excited when he realizes that he is dreaming that he immediately awakes. I had a lucid dream about two months ago, and when I realized I was lucid and had not woken up I was overcome with joy. I was laughing and bouncing up and down because I had done it. I had become lucid and the surprise had not woken me up! Once I calmed down a bit I was overtaken by a general feeling of “Now what?” I couldn’t think of anything to do! None of the wondrous opportunities that I mentioned in Part I, such as flying, space traveling, incredible buffets or even more incredible sex came to mind. I just stood there like a dope. A lucid dope. Hey, I’m still learning.

The books I’m reading talk of people who have trained themselves so well that they are able to have lucid dreams on just about any night they choose. And in those dreams they can do anything they want within the bounds of their imaginations. Even with my sloppy, ill-disciplined training I have achieved some degree of success in creating lucid dreams. While it’s too soon to deliver a definitive verdict, I strongly suspect that the premise set forth in these books is accurate: That with a little discipline and training most people can teach themselves to experience the thrill of lucid dreaming.

So I’m going to continue, in my own meandering way, to hone this skill, explore the possibilities and to enjoy the fruits of my labors. And if you are an attractive woman who I happen to know, and if the next time we meet I look at you with a funny little smirk on my face, then, my friend, you’ll know that I’ve once again succeeded in creating an exciting lucid dream. And you’ll also know that this time it was starring you.

Dream a Little Dream - Part I

I’m a pretty down-to-earth guy. OK, I’m not particularly pretty, but I am down-to-earth. (God, how I hate the English language.) I don’t believe in astrology, psychics, levitation, water-to-wine, fortune-tellers, chain letters, bad luck, good luck, astral projection, reincarnation or the healing power of crystals. And while I accept that there may well be other life forms “out there,” I’ll most likely remain unconvinced as to the veracity of alien abduction claims until a couple of those bug-eyed freaks actually drag me on board and insert that high-tech doohickey into a place that I really would prefer that it not be inserted.

I let you know all this in advance because lately I have had some experiences that I’d like to share, and they’ll probably seem a little odd and hard to believe at first. Let me assure you that there is nothing weird or otherworldly about what I’ve done, and you can verify any claims I make simply by doing a little experimenting yourself. On yourself.

Have you ever heard of a “lucid dream”? You may be unfamiliar with the term, but you’ve probably had one or more at some time in your life. A lucid dream is simply a dream during which you are completely aware that you are dreaming. I remember having them occasionally when I was a kid, but I hadn’t recalled having any past the age of seven or eight. Until recently.

Look on the web and you can find several books, tapes and even machines that claim to teach you the art of lucid dreaming. I immediately thought that the expensive machines reeked a bit of that rip-off smell, but about a year ago I did purchase a couple of the books and began my investigation.

First off, you might be asking, why would anybody want to have lucid dreams? The books explain that there are many high-minded answers to this question. Since we spend about a third of our lives asleep, why not use this time to do additional living? Think of the adventures you could have! You could fly! You could visit with deceased loved ones! You could instantly travel around the world, or to other planets! You could slap your boss! These incredible experiences and many more are available to you each and every night, once you teach yourself the secret to creating lucid dreams. Oh, and did I mention the sex?

The books I read outlined a step-by-step process that, if followed faithfully, should assist you in having lucid dreams within a short period of time. The success rate varies from person to person, but the authors of these books claim that teaching yourself lucid dreaming is a skill that can be mastered by nearly anybody.

First, I must confess that as a researcher and direction-follower I was a complete slob. The books recommend that you keep a dream journal, which I never did. They also suggest setting an alarm clock to awaken yourself two hours before your regular time, then staying awake for an hour, and then returning to sleep. Yeah, right.

I did, however, follow some of the less inconvenient instructions. During the day I repeatedly asked myself, “Am I dreaming right now?” Now, of course when I do this I’m aware that I am fully awake, (or am I? Ooooooooh…) but the theory is if you train yourself to ask this question while awake, you will eventually ask yourself the same question when you are dreaming. Also, before falling asleep at night I repeatedly suggested to myself that when I dreamed I would be aware that I was dreaming.

I also tried to remember to recognize “signposts” in my dreams. A signpost is something or someone that appears in your dream that should serve as an immediate signal that you are dreaming and that what you are seeing isn’t real. Maybe your dog talks to you or the sky is plaid. There are two main signposts that I used. I’m a little embarrassed to admit this, but the person who appears most often in my dreams is…Howard Stern. (“You’re just a little embarrassed by that?” you ask incredulously.) What I’ve now tried to train myself to do is to recognize that I am dreaming anytime I seem to be with a famous person. Any famous person. Also, if I find myself speaking with someone who I know to be dead, this is another opportunity to recognize that I am indeed in the middle of a dream.

So are you still with me on this? It’s really not so strange, is it? After all, unlike psychics and UFO’s, lucid dreams are known to exist; most of us have had at least one at some time or other. The question is can we train ourselves to control our dreams and to create lucid dreams whenever we desire? Can we turn our ordinary dreams into interactive 3-D movies starring ourselves; dreams that are as wild and wondrous as our imaginations allow them to be? Stay tuned!


TOMORROW: THE RESULTS!

A Striking No-Hitter Quiz

It’s July, the weather is beautiful and my Oakland Athletics are right in the heart of an amazingly mediocre season. You know, maybe it’s time for me to switch allegiances to the Giants. Hold on, let me check the standings. OK, never mind.

Let’s put the unremarkable play of our local heroes aside for a moment but stay with the subject of baseball again tonight. Howsa ‘bout if we have a little fun by testing your knowledge of the no-hitter? Batter up!

1. On average about how many no-hitters are thrown during a season?
a. 1
b. 2
c. 3
d. 4

2. What was noteworthy about the no-hitters thrown by Dave Stewart and Fernando Valenzuela?
a. Both were thrown on the same day.
b. Both pitchers were over 40 years old.
c. Both pitchers hit home runs in the game
d. Both pitchers lost the game

3. How many no-hitters have been thrown in Major League history?
a. 34
b. 128
c. 234
d. over 500

4. How many pitchers have thrown more than one no-hitter?
a. none
b. 5
c. 15
d. 25

5. What makes Johnny Vander Meer unique in baseball history?
a. He threw a 14 inning no-hitter.
b. He threw back-to-back no-hitters.
c. He pitched two no-hitters and lost them both.
d. He threw a no-hitter as a teenager.

6. How many perfect games have been thrown in Major League history?
a. 6
b. 17
c. 44
d. Over 100

7. Nolan Ryan pitched seven no-hitters. Who has the next most with four?
a. Steve Carlton
b. Tom Seaver
c. Cy Young
d. Sandy Koufax

8. What makes Don Larsen unique in baseball history?
a. He threw the only World Series no-hitter.
b. He threw the only World Series perfect game.
c. He threw the only post-season no-hitter.
d. All of the above.

9. What was unique about Bob Feller’s 1940 no-hitter?
a. It was the last game Feller ever started.
b. It was on opening day.
c. He didn’t strike anybody out.
d. He went five-for-five at the plate.

10. What was unique about Bobo Holloman’s 1953 no-hitter?
a. It was his first major league start.
b. It was one of only three career wins he would have.
c. A few months after pitching it he was out of major league baseball forever.
d. All of the above.

ANSWERS:

1. On average about 2 no-hitters are thrown each season. What’s so rare about that, you whine? Well, about 160,000 babies are born each day and we still refer to the little bastards as miracles, right?
2. Both of these no-hitters were pitched on the same day, that day being June 29th, 1990. Two no-hitters were also thrown on the same day way back in 1898.
3. There have been 234 official no-hitters thrown in Major League history. And don’t make me remind you about all those damn babies again.
4. 25 pitchers have thrown more than one no-hitter.
5. One of them was Johnny “Double No-Hit” Vander Meer, who threw his no-hitters back-to-back. This question is a gimme for any true baseball fan, and if you got it wrong my friend Greg would tell you to “Go put on a skirt!”
6. There have been 17 perfect games thrown in Major League history. Did I ever tell you about the time I almost saw Tom Seaver throw one? He lost it in the ninth because somebody named Jimmy Qualls got a hit. I’ll never forget that punk’s name. Never.
7. Sandy Koufax pitched four no-hitters in his abbreviated career. Ryan pitched for 27 seasons and also threw 12 one-hitters.
8. Don Larsen threw the only no-hitter in a World Series. It was also a perfect game and the only post-season no-hitter. Yeah, Chump, that makes it All of the Above. And every real baseball fan knows this one too. Better pick out a blouse to go with that skirt, eh Greg?
9. Feller’s no-hitter was pitched on Opening Day. You guessed (d) didn’t you? God, I’m so tricky.
10. If you have been reading my column as religiously as you should you would know that Bobo Holloman pitched a no-hitter in his first start, only got two more wins, and was out of the majors before the season ended. That’s if you have been reading my column religiously.

Does This One Come in Children's Sizes?

Saw a comic on TV tonight. He was talking about a time when a four year old girl came up to him and said, “Hi.” Being a friendly sort he said “Hi” back, and before he knew it the little girl’s mom appeared, pulling the little girl away while shooting a less-than-friendly look at the comic. “Hey, I didn’t start it, “ he said in his defense. “She came on to me.”

I know that this was based on a true incident and I know how the guy felt. A few years back I was staying at a hotel for some goofy corporate seminar and as always I eventually found the hot tub. I was soaking my tired bones, probably after a hard day of doing nothing, when two kids—a boy and a girl—entered the tub.

After a while I was talking to them, and they began an underwater breath-holding contest. I helped out by timing them, using the large clock on the wall. I was really getting into the spirit of it, and suggested that they time me. Sure I was showing off a bit. I had never smoked cigarettes and as I ducked my head underwater I was hoping that the smoking of anything else I might have tried would not have the same deleterious effect on my lung capacity.

I stayed under for what I thought was a fairly impressive amount of time, impressive at least to a couple of six-year-olds, and I rose back above the surface fully expecting to hear exclamations of awe and wonder from the admiring kids. Instead I was faced with a stern looking woman in her thirties who was aiming that stern face directly at me as she gathered up the children. I’m sure they were given a good lecture about talking to people they didn’t know and that they wouldn’t be playing the “hold-your-breath” game with any middle-aged strangers anytime soon.

I think that’s a shame. And yes, I know you have to be so careful these days and predators are everywhere and if you had kids you’d understand, blah-blah-blah. So OK, I think it’s a shame that there are people out there who harm children and create this climate of fear, making it almost impossible for adults to have normal interaction with kids.

For example, I’ve mentioned Harry before. He’s this cute kid who lives on our block and with his baseball cap and wagon he looks like he’s right out of central casting. The first time my wife saw this kid her reaction was, “Can we keep him?” Whenever he has something to hawk from his school or one of his clubs he knows which neighbor to visit. So when he knocked on the door the other day I knew it was about to cost me money. You just don’t say no to Harry.

This time he was raising money for his school by running around a track. He was taking pledges from people to pay a certain amount of money for each lap he completed. I signed up for a buck a lap, which seemed to be the average pledge for the event. And only then did I decide to ask a few questions.

“Do you run a lot?” I asked.
“Yes.” Shit. Not the answer I wanted to hear.
“What is this event held on, a quarter-mile track?”
“No, I think it’s a sixth of a mile.” Double-shit. This kid would circle that thing like a blonde electron, and cost me a mint in the process.

Then Harry asked how my turtle was doing and even apologized for not remembering his name. Can you believe this kid? He apologized because he didn’t remember a turtle’s name! Do your hotshot kids that you’re so protective of do that? I doubt it.

And then I faced my dilemma. The kid obviously wanted to see the turtle, but what’s the proper thing to do here? After thinking about it for about three seconds I let him in and he paid a quick visit to Ellsworth and then was on his way. (Hopefully to eat some fattening food so he wouldn’t be able to run as many laps.)

So there again is the climate of fear that exists in this country, and without getting too preachy I do believe that it is more prevalent in this country. I’ve been around a bit and I’ve found, almost without exception, that other places tend to be more, I don’t know, relaxed I guess. And I’m not just talking about interaction with children.

I hear a lot of people, when they discuss topics such as this, say that things are somehow different today compared to the way they used to be in some long ago and possibly fictitious past. Well maybe they were and maybe they weren’t. I grew up on a quiet street where we played ball nearly every day. Maybe the raging paranoia wasn’t present then at the levels we see today, but there were a few times that I recall when something mysterious was going on that I didn’t fully understand.

There was this man named Pat who rode around the streets on a bicycle and seemed to genuinely enjoy talking to the neighborhood kids. Mostly it was with the other kids, because I was fairly stand-offish with this guy. Perhaps even then I had developed some sort of Freak Warning System that the other kiddies hadn’t. Eventually the word came down from the parents on the block that we kids should stay away from Pat. Why we should was never explained, and we never asked. It was a dark and murky area that we didn’t know about and didn’t want to know. Pat may have been a perfectly decent and innocent man and the victim of a suburban verbal witch-hunt, but I’ll never know. I do know that there was something different about Pat.

My earliest memory of this sort of thing goes back nearly fifty years. James K Polk was president and—screw you I’m not that old! Anyway I was walking around the block and I remember an elderly man (he was probably 38) giving me a quarter. Now that was major coin for a kid back then and I ran home to show it to my mom. I don’t remember her exact words, and there’s a better than even chance that my undeveloped mind got it all wrong, but at the time I distinctly recall getting the impression that I shouldn’t take money from strangers because that could, could, mean that they had just bought me.

Whew, that put the fear of the lord, and just about everybody else, into me, let me tell you. For the price of one quarter I apparently could have been swept away from my family, legally, and become the slave or plaything of this crusty old man. Man, that was a close one. Of course today I stroll the streets hoping to find a similar old man. I’m a little older now and a little wiser too, so if some old crank makes a similar offer I’ll be ready for him. Sure I’ll agree to the purchase but this time I plan to charge by the pound. If I’m going to do this thing I want to make sure I’m set for life.

Diversify or Die!

A wee bit of the hyperbole, I know. After all, while it’s certainly an excellent idea to diversify your stock portfolio you’re not going to die if you don’t. Then again, you could look at it from another angle and realize that you are going to die whether you diversify your portfolio or not.

Tonight, as we find ourselves smack-dab in the middle of a historic financial nightmare, I bring you a cautionary tale; a tale made even more horrific because it is true. It involves my friend Jillian (of course it’s not) who works for a leading financial corporation. At least it was up until about 48 hours ago. Now, who knows?

Jillian is a successful businesswoman, smart and savvy. She’s also thrifty, and so began to contribute to her company’s 401K as soon as she became eligible many years ago. Several years back her company’s stock took a steep drop and it was then that I found out that her 401K was funded completely with her company’s stock.

As a former stockbroker I at least know the basics, and so I warned her that she was in a risky position. She agreed, but she made no changes, which was fine since a year later the stock had mostly recovered. She had dodged a bullet, and so now I yelled at her even louder. “You have to diversify!” I insisted. Again she agreed that I was right.

I was watching a movie from 1933 the other day. In it a man pulled a strip of paper from an old-timey stock ticker machine and said, “General Motors, 29 5/8.” Today GM is about seventy-five cents a share and, after decades of the short-sighted production of nothing but gas-guzzlers, is on very thin ice indeed. Gone are the days when a company, any company, can be viewed as a rock-solid cornerstone of American enterprise.

Jillian is very intelligent but she is not a stockbroker or financial expert, nor could she ever have imagined that her company, another “rock-solid cornerstone,” could be brought in just a few short months to the brink of bankruptcy. Her 401K, comprised of two decades worth of savings and once worth over a million dollars, has lost over 75% of its value in the last year. And it’s all because she ignored a simple little philosophy that she has probably been reciting since she was in grade school: Don’t keep all your eggs in one basket.

Disconnect

By combining gossamer wisps of faded memories with good old-fashion logic I know that I once lived in a time when there was no Internet. That time now seems vague and nebulous and I can no longer recall any of the specifics of that long ago epoch. In fact, until yesterday I couldn’t even begin to imagine what life must have been like under those harsh and inhospitable conditions.

Science tells us that between the time that primitive man communicated by drawing on cave walls and the birth of the World Wide Web there was indeed a middle time, an era of newspapers and letter writing and telephones with cords. I’ve had a taste of that barbaric existence over the last twenty-four hours and even for that short amount of time I can confirm that it was nothing less than a horrifying experience. I can’t even begin to imagine the hellish torture of having to live that way all the time. And yet I’m told that I once did.

Yesterday morning both my Internet and e-mail services went out. This has happened before, but, after I spend an uneasy hour or two, the service usually comes back on.. This time was different. I had gone to visit a friend (And you thought I didn’t have any!) in Santa Cruz and found upon my return eight hours later that I was still disconnected. This new reality was, as you can imagine, somewhat disconcerting, but still I somehow managed to go to sleep in a positive state of mind, with visions of e-mails and porn sites dancing in my head. I awoke full of hope the next morning and found that, to my unspeakable horror, the computer had not healed overnight.

I soon grasped the seriousness of my situation and a tingle of fear ran up my spine like an electric shock. I was disconnected. What was I to do? How was I going to stay in touch with what amounted to basically every aspect of my life? Pressing questions began to whirl restlessly inside my head. What time does the A’s game start? How is the dollar holding up versus the Euro? Did Uncle Duke in Doonesbury relocate to Louisiana? Did that cute chick in Pleasanton send me an e-mail? Has Bush been indicted yet? Where is that new movie playing? How did my 401K do yesterday? What’s the current temperature in Paris?

With shaking hands I immediately picked up the phone and called my old chums at Comcast, who told me that they would send a technician out tomorrow to get me back on-line. Tomorrow! That would mean going forty-eight hours without the Internet. Forty-eight hours in a row! I can’t live like that--I’m not an animal!

This devastating disconnect from the world lead me to take drastic action. Seeing no other alternative I forced myself to turn off my crippled computer, put on some shoes and go outside! The brilliant sunshine and vivid blue sky seemed to be mocking me as I headed for the beach. I walked barefoot along the sand, explored tide-pools and gathered several shells that I found particularly unique. Later I sat on a dune of sugar-like sand and gazed at the sparkling and almost painfully blue ocean water while listening to the crashing of the white-capped waves. I inhaled the sea air deeply and leaned back on my elbows. I knew then that I was feeling the rhythm of the Earth, the very pulse of existence and, bathed in warm sunshine in that idyllic setting, I couldn’t help but wonder: What exactly are the next three movies on my choice list at NetFlix.com?

After doing some shopping I returned home to a miracle. The message on my answering machine told me that Comcast had discovered that the problem was not simply with my connection, but had occurred over a wide area. And they were canceling my appointment because they had already fixed the problem. Could this be true?

I dropped the bags of groceries on or near the counter. Melting ice cream, squashed fruit, broken glass, --I would deal with that later. Right now I had to attend to bigger issues. I switched on the computer, the screen flickered and the world poured in. There were my stock quotes, my news, my baseball schedule, my maps, my movies reviews, my e-mail from the cute chick in Pleasanton, my comics, and the entire collected knowledge of Mankind just waiting to be retrieved with a few clicks on my keyboard. Anything I needed to know was right there. I could even search to find out exactly what type of shells I had just brought back from the beach. And I would do that, eventually. But first I really needed to check on my movie list over at NetFlix.

Death of a Good Guy

If you’re not from New York and of a certain age you’ve probably never heard of Joe O’Brien, who died in a car accident this past Sunday at the age of 90. I, and many, many others I’m sure, do remember Joe O’ Brien and remember him well. And why shouldn’t we, since as kids we had breakfast with him almost every morning?

Joe O’Brien was a radio personality in the 1960’s. Actually, upon reading his biography I discovered that he began his radio career as a teenager in 1934 and continued to work in the field for 66 years, right up until his retirement only five years ago. But it was during the 1960’s that O’Brien is best remembered, at least by me.

O’ Brien did the morning show on WMCA in New York, and was one of the original WMCA Good Guys. The Good Guys were a group of six on-air personalities, and I’m telling you these dudes were popular. I remember having a photograph of the group and trying to memorize the name of each one as if they were some kind of rock group or sports team. The Good Guys made tons of personal appearances together, recorded jingles and even came out with an album. I feel like testing myself tonight, so I’m going to try to remember as many of the six as I can. Let’s see there was Joe O Brien, Harry Harrison, Jack Spector, Dan Daniel, and two others. Dan Ingram? And some Latino news guy, I think. I’ll check my list on the web and get back to you.

Anyway it was Joe O’ Brien who my family listened to while eating breakfast and getting ready for school. WMCA was a Top-40 music station, and it seems almost incongruous to me now that we’d be listening to the latest music from The Beatles, Stones, Animals, Kinks, etc. all introduced by a DJ who at the time was around 50 years old! I remember the family laughing once when an odd little song came on with some whiney-voiced guy singing, “Everybody must get stoned.” Sure we all giggled. To us getting stoned still meant getting drunk. We kids were all twelve years and younger and it was 1966—what the hell did we know?

O’Brien himself said that this era was the most fun he’d ever had on radio. "When a new Beatles song came out, the competition to get it first was amazing. I think we got all but one," he once said in an interview. O’ Brien also did his share to make the mornings fun and even ease the pain of facing yet another interminable day of school.

I remember he had an imaginary sidekick named Benny. I also remember arguing with a friend about exactly what sort of creature Benny was. For some reason I insisted that he was a chipmunk or squirrel, probably because he sounded so cartoony-cute. My friend Arthur said he was just a person. And now forty years on I’m almost willing to concede that Arthur might have been right. Around Christmastime each year (and you were permitted to call it Christmas back then—even on the radio) O’ Brien’s gimmick was to allow Benny to recite The Night Before Christmas. That is, only if Benny had been good. It was a funny gag that began weeks before Christmas. I can still remember Benny’s high-pitched voice as he begged, “Please Joe, let me recite!”

Another thing about my friend Arthur is that he had won one of the most coveted radio prizes of the time: A WMCA Good Guys sweatshirt. The shirt was orange with a smiling face (not a “smiley face”!) over the words WMCA Good Guy. Oh how I wanted to win that sweatshirt! Now that I think about it not only did Arthur win a Good Guy sweatshirt but so had his sister. I once asked him how they both could have been so lucky, and he said the trick was to mail in a picture postcard, like you’d send from vacation, rather than a regular plain one. Sad to say I never did send in a picture postcard, I think because it felt a little like cheating. And ever sadder to say, I never did get that sweatshirt. (I recently discovered that you can now buy replicas of the original WMCA Good Guy sweatshirts through the world of instant gratification that is the Internet. But where, I ask you, is the fun in that?)

Ok, I just checked on the original WMCA Good Guys. I had some names right, but the actual original Good Guys were brought together a little before my time. They did include most of the names I’d listed, but certainly not Dan Ingram, who worked over at WMCA’s arch-rival, WABC. And the “Latino” guy was Dean Anthony, who I now think might have been Italian. Hey, how about giving me a friggin’ break? It was forty years go.

This week even my fellow New Yorker Howard Stern, who almost always refuses to acknowledge any of his childhood radio influences, said he respected Joe O’Brien as a radio pioneer and a true “good guy.” To me Joe O’Brien will always be the voice on the radio who made my family laugh every morning while at the same time introducing me to the incredible rock music that was to become the soundtrack of my youth.

Danke Scheisse

“I can’t write about this,” I whispered to my cousin as we exited the theatre. “It might hurt your mom’s feelings.”

We had just donated an hour and a half of our dwindling lives sitting through the Wayne Newton show, and nobody was happy about it. My cousin’s mom, my aunt, had wanted to see Wayne Newton for her 70th birthday and so good sport that I am I went along with the group. And I dragged my long-suffering wife with me.

It’s too cheap and too easy to use this space to bash an aging showman who has, after all, spent the last forty years entertaining millions of people. So let’s begin. I’m just kidding but, if the truth be told, the experience had not been a good one. Not good at all.

Still, how could I write an article about how horrible the experience was for me, and apparently my wife and cousins as well, if seeing Wayne Newton had been for my aunt something of a dream come true? And then I saw it. We had only been out of the small theatre for about two minutes when my aunt abruptly removed the Wayne Newton pin my cousin had given her and shoved it into her purse.

“I’ve never been so disappointed,” she said. And I knew it was go time.

Peachpit had warned me before I even went to Vegas that Wayne Newton’s voice was shot. I didn’t particularly care because to me it didn’t matter. If Newton had the voice of a young Pavarotti I still wouldn’t have been interested in seeing him, especially at a cost of $90. Hell, that’s six visits to the movies, and that’s including the pretzel nuggets!

I’ve never been a fan of all that glittery, tuxedoed Vegas-style bullshit. That stuff belongs back in the days of Frank and Dino and Sammy and the rest of the Rat Pack; it was before my time and aren’t we glad that something was? I cut my teeth on rock music and, more specifically, during the golden age of the singer/songwriter.

It matters not a bit to me if John Lennon, Paul McCartney, Paul Simon, Neil Young or Bob Dylan had a “great set of pipes.” In fact none of them did. But they were songwriting geniuses and in my mind will always stand elevated above those who make their living simply singing songs written by other people.

Oh, Newton must be a talented person, to be sure. Nobody gets that kind of a ride for that long without at least a smattering of natural ability. And after over 30,000 shows you know he’s got the mechanics down to a science. Why then couldn’t I just sit back, shut up and enjoy it for what it was? Well, for lots of reasons.

I’ve already mentioned that I’m pretty much repelled by that hokey finger-snapping horseshit, but I never expected that I would notice that Newton can no longer sing. What do I know about singing? And yet I noted that he cleared his throat on several occasions, was strongly supported (not physically—not yet) by two very talented singer/musicians, and when the show ended I estimated that he had performed no more than four complete songs. He did spend a lot of time taking bows and talking about his career, including his seven Top Ten songs. (Quick—name the other six.)

And then there was the humor. Listen, I’m the first one to rebel against this current ethnic over-sensitivity that is costing people their jobs on a daily basis, but holy cow, did I really need to hear Newton again mention that he’s a “Native American” (he’s actually half) and then go on an interminable Vegas-themed routine that went something like: Walkum? Walkum on Stripum? Seeum hookum? Payum hokum?

This side-splitter was later followed by some banter with his Puerto Rican drummer who put on the thickest Latino accent this side of the Frito Bandito. At one point I had to stop and look at my watch, because I could have sworn that it was suddenly 1958. And the illusion that we had indeed traveled back in time was confirmed when the impressionist did his renditions of Jimmy Stewart, Archie Bunker and God knows what other extinct celebrities.

Newton played some guitar, certainly much better than I do after 45 years of trying, and produced a few notes from the piano and violin. And then he lost me completely. He announced that, although he was not political he thought we should get rid of all the politicians. What a rebel. If there’s a cheaper way to get a round of applause from an audience, I don’t know what it is.

Oh yes I do. Newton used one of the oldest showbiz tricks around by getting people to stand by singing America the Beautiful, and then he threw in some rant about “the godless terrorists.” And so he left the stage to yet another standing ovation, which was too bad, because all those people on their feet made it hard for me to see, firmly and stubbornly planted on my ass as I was.

“Oh, he’s old,” more than one person has said to me, as if that justified Newton’s poor performance. Listen, Shlomo, he’s the same age as Paul McCartney, and that guy is still rocking stadiums. Hell, I saw George Burns perform when he was ninety- five years old and it was terrific.

Danke schoen, my ass. Somebody owes me ninety bucks.

Dinosaurus

At first I thought I had already written about this book, Dinosaurus, which I read when I was in fifth grade. And I was going to write about it again anyway, figuring that it would be okay since I don’t seem to recall the column and you never read it. Then I did a search of my blob (that’s what my dad calls it) and didn’t find anything at all. So there you go.

We didn’t use the word back in 1963, but now I’d say that Dinosaurus could easily be described as “trippy.” It was much more of a mind-bender, head-fuck or whatever else you’d call it, than were most of the books we read when we were ten. It must have been, for me to remember it so vividly after all these years.

Dinosaurus was the story of a group of scientists who travel back in time on an expedition to the age when dinosaurs ruled the Earth. (And if you believe that was only about four thousand years ago why don’t you quit reading right here? In fact maybe you should head north, because it sounds like you’re qualified to become governor of Alaska.)

Time travel, dinosaurs--pretty standard sci-fi stuff so far, eh? But then one of the adventurers on the expedition gets killed by a dinosaur. His brother, who is also there, is devastated. I’ll never forget that the doomed brother’s name was Owen. “Owen!” cried the surviving brother in his grief.

Then it began to happen. As the story progressed the brother who lived was having an increasingly difficult time remembering his brother. The reason? Since the brother had been killed millions of years ago he could not have existed in modern times. Whoa! How cool is that? Really cool, especially when you’re ten years old and only just beginning to take your mind out on these early joy rides.

The brother struggles more and more trying to remember Owen. After a while he can’t recall his name, and eventually he doesn’t remember Owen at all. What a terrific literary device: By the end of the book the reader knows that Owen once existed but the character, his own brother, does not!

As you know I’ve been pretty successful in tracking down these dusty old relics from my past, and I’d thank God for the Internet if only he existed. But I’ve had no luck finding a book called Dinosaurus. In fact I’ve been so unsuccessful in my quest that I’ve even begun to doubt my memory (Owen!) and sometimes I think that the title was actually Danger: Dinosaurs! But no, I’m pretty sure that’s a different book.

But you know me. If this book ever existed, I’ll find it.