Confusing Signs...

We all look for signs. Reading tea leaves is a big part of political savvy, the thing that can make or unmake a potential candidates.

I hear things. Some people are reading signs. So, let me tell you what I'm hearing about me and congress, and me and politics over all.

There are several things. For now, though, let me pass along just one.

Which is that some assume I couldn't possibly be serious about running for office because I haven't yet declared myself a candidate. The thinking there is that it's just too late.

Is it too late?

Well, yes, I suppose it might be too late...for some.

Those "some" would be aspiring candidates who need considerable lead-time to build momentum, which is another way of saying they need to bust their backsides gaining name and face recognition. They have to spend a warehouse full of money on advertising in all mediums; newspaper, radio, television, billboards. And you can't forget the internet. Do so at your own peril.

Given conventional and prevailing wisdom, the battle for the 10th Congressional District of Pennsylvania, primary and general election alike, will be fought electronically, mostly via television. There are, however, variables that could change that strategy.

So, is too late to get in? For me, no.

It's really not a matter of me being too late, but rather a matter of other candidates getting in way too early. Which, perhaps, was necessary. It's not much off the mark to say that the incumbent had barely returned to his seat after taking his first oath of office when the test baloons were released by a few as to their viability as candidates.

I'm blessed inasmuch as I didn't, and don't, need all that lead-time to build and build and build name and face recognition. I have it. Like it or not, being on television for over 20 years(and on the radio for 14)gave me a precious commodity, one envied by many.

It's a commodity never to be abused. Indeed, it is a commodity to be respected and used only for good. It is, in many ways, a blessing. I've known that for a long, long time.

And it's a privilege. As with all privileges, it comes with responsibility. I've also known that for a long, long time.

So, despite any number of confusing signs and what they might mean, I can tell you one thing with complete certainty this last day of 2007 ; I would never abuse the blessings I have for any reason whatsoever. Happy New Year!

Chestnuts Roasting...

I never saw a chestnut roasting on an open fire until I was probably in my 20s. It made for a great lyric in a marvelous song, but chestnuts roasting was never part of my reality. The only chestnuts I ever knew were horse chestnuts. We had an American Horse Chestnut tree in front of our house. Horse chestnuts are god-awful bitter, you just don't eat them. Maybe horses do.

Here we are once again a few days before Christmas. Outside the wind is howling. The howling, though, is not that of winter, but rather warm winds blowing out of the south, bringing temps in the 50s.

Trust me, I don't spend much time thinking about the weather these days, after 20 years of doing it for a living, I am weathered-out, weather-weary.

Our chances for a white Christmas look to be pretty slim. Could be a bit of snow tonight into tomorrow, but that should be about it.

It's been a lot of years since Christmas held any charm and fascination for me. Sadly, what the song says might be true, "Christmas Is For Children." I think that was a Glen Campbell song. Smarmy, drippy, dopey as it was, it's message is indeed true.

Some random thoughts of Christmases past. No particular order, no particular significance attached to any one more than any other, just memories that say Christmas to me. One thing though, it seems most of the memories involve my Dad. Why? I'm really not sure.

• My father spending the Sunday after Thanksgiving decorating the outside of our house. He did a solo act with it, never asking for help. Truth be told, though fine human that he was, Dad didn't want anyone, which would include me, getting in his way while he worked his magic. And magic it was, at least to my remembrance. This man was blue-collar all the way, a member of the Greatest Generation, earning his dues card after three years in the South Pacific. But come Christmas, he was as soft inside as a baby's behind. He loved to create with strings of lights, spotlights, enormous bows and ribbons, a boughs of pine. His handiwork was some of the best in the neighborhood. He knew it. We knew it. Revolutionizing his decorating was the purchase of a staple-gun somewhere in the early '60s. By my parents financial standards, there is no doubt that this was a major purchase.
  
• Bing Crosby on the stereo. You know the Crosby album, the LP with Bing on the cover wearing a Santa hat and a bow tie made of holly. It was never really Christmas until Bing went for his first spin of the season on our hi-fi. Then you knew it was OK to be of the spirit. Dad also ran that show; it was his call when the stylus dropped on "Jingle Bells," usually Thanksgiving Day, maybe a day or two before if he was in the mood. Although a good Catholic family, we played the "secular" side of that album until it near turned to vinyl particulate. The "religious" side saw little action. Growing older, it occurred to me that Mr. Crosby likely recorded that album on a hot Hollywood afternoon in July, never giving much thought to the impact it would have on so many for so many generations.
  
• Going for the tree. I have to guess that this practice was discontinued in our family before I made it to high school. My folks were early advocates of the artificial Christmas tree, probably buying one in, oh, 1963/64 or so. Despite a "real" tree's absence in our home, the memories are vivid of shopping for such a tree on several occasions. What I remember most was my parents whining about how "dear" the tree was, meaning it was expensive. (You don't hear that term used much these days, people don't say "dear"when they mean expensive.) Once back home, the tree went into a bucket of water and into the garage, where it sat and dried out and did the needle drop until being dragged into the front room Christmas Eve afternoon. Never an hour before, never an hour after, always just minutes past noon on Christmas Eve.
  
• Waiting patiently for my father to come home after his half-day on Christmas Eve. It was always a half-day, and Dad almost always walked to and from work...uphill, both ways. It was maybe three blocks. Dad brought in the tree, Dad put up the tree, Dad strung the lights, usually accompanied by a quiet choir of muttered and mumbled obscenities over knots in cords that weren't there when put away, and those bulbs that should light but wouldn't. We couldn't go near the tree until Dad was done. We sat and watched from a half room away. Once up, my mother, sisters, brother, and me could then have at decorating the tree. All of the tree decorations were kept in a big old cardboard box of unknown origin, but I'll speculate it could have once held a television. That box didn't leave the basement until the tree was up. It went back into the basement New Year's Day. That was the tradition kept in my family. And, by God, you never went near that box any other time of the year. You wouldn't think of poking through it in July.
  
• Where did they hide the presents? We never figured that out. From the time I was willing to embrace the notion that Santa was no more than a charming myth, the annual search began. To say that I looked everywhere in that house is accurate. If anything, it might be understatement. There was no inch of four floors that went unexamined. At least every two to three days from Thanksgiving right up until Christmas Eve, I'd manage to steal away and look. Under beds, behind clothes in closets, every dark corner of attic and basement, no spot was missed. Yet no toy was ever found. Years and years later, my siblings and I finally closed the case by grudgingly accepting the fact that the big Christmas Morning Toyland was stashed a few miles away at our grandparents' house, and that my Dad made the pick-up after we were tucked in our beds on Christmas Eve. I still don't want to believe that. Somehow there's a certain magic to thinking that the toys were indeed somewhere that we failed to look. Could there have been a hidden room in the house, a trap door to another hiding place? That couldn't be. There really was no place left to look.
• Christmas Morning Mass. As parochial school kids, we were required to attend The Children's Mass, not only on Christmas, but pretty much every Sunday. It was the 9:00 AM Mass at Saint Paul's Church on Penn Avenue in Scranton. The choir was always in fine voice, and always singing as we half ran and half stumbled into church then pew, all wanting to be home with all the stuff we'd found a few hours before. Our church had a really terrific creche with Mary, Joseph, Baby Jesus, at least two shepherds and the obligatory donkey. The wise men would appear later, probably on some sort of liturgically sanctioned schedule. But they were pretty cool, too. Seems to me they had at least one camel between them. One hump or two? That I don't remember. Evergreens everywhere near and around the creche; trees, boughs, twigs, sprigs, lush and green. A coniferous forest moved indoors. I never knew where it came from, but often had the sense that a nearby stand of ancient pines had been sadly depleted.
• The Year of The Transistor. My best guess would be 1962. That was the year that every kid I knew got a transistor radio for Christmas. The transistor had now put radio in the palm of your hand, where before it had been on a counter or bookshelf, and even before that, radio's size kept it sitting on the floor. Every kid got one, every kid brought theirs to Christmas Mass, every kid had to keep it turned off until after Mass. We then all milled about outside of church comparing brands, looks, and features. Some had more transistors than others, and it said so on the radio itself. A few had carrying cases, most did not. Size was all over the place, too. Some were pretty darned small, which was far more desirable. While I was envious of others, some were envious of mine. The name upon mine was "Symphonic." Why, there was even some maestro conducting a "symphony" cast right into the plastic case...a case which was pink and green. Not sure what Mom and Dad were thinking giving anything pink and green to a twelve year-old boy. Didn't much matter, my "Symphonic" fell silent by Christmas night. It just stopped working. Boink, it was gone. My prized transistor radio gave it up within maybe twelve hours. It went into the shop, where it collected dust for what had to have been close to year. See, we had this guy in our neighborhood who fixed radios and televisions. His name was Jack Gilroy. By all accounts, Jack was a very nice man, and a boyhood friend of Dad's, which meant the radio had to go to Jack for repair. Jack did nice work. Jack did it slowly. It didn't matter much, because by the time old "pink and green" came home, we had several other transistor radios around the house. Now, as I sit here a hundred years later, a thought that has never floated through my head before nags at me. Seeing how old "pink and green" worked but less than a day, why wasn't it returned to point of sale for replacement? Where'd they get that radio?
  

I just happened to visit another blog where the blogger has somehow attempted to make a connection between my lack of experience with chestnuts roasting and a possible run for a seat in The U.S. House of Representatives. My inference was that growing up in a lower middle-class neighborhood meant limited opportunities to sit and watch chestnuts pop in a fireplace. Fireplaces were few in my part of Scranton. Listen, thanks a million for the mention. You might also want to consider that Keith Martin never ran for or held elected office. I like your blog, I check it often.

And A Few More Favorite Things...

No sooner do I have a ball with Daniels&Webster(and Ruth and Dave)on the radio, than another pair of my favorite radio people are gracious enough to have me on with them.

Same thing as with D&W; both a huge part of the community which they serve, both established professionals of longstanding, both admired, trusted, respected, and well-liked by their audiences, which are big, really big. The important difference is that these folks are to the Williamsport Area what D&W are to Scranton/Wilkes-Barre. Over on the right are two of Lycoming County's most beloved citizens; Ken Sawyer and Gary Chrisman.

( Yeah, I know, Gary's not alone. That's the delightful Gail Baer, Gary's partner on The Chrisman Show. Not to diminish Gail's importance, surely she too is beloved, but Ken and Gary have each been on the air in Williamsport radio for over, OVER, 30 years. That's what sets them apart from all the rest. That in itself is an accomplishment.)

I met Ken and Gary way on back in the mid-70s, a time when I was being about as nomadic as I'd ever get in the radio business.

Ken had come to Willliamsport and WWPA in 1970.

Gary had grown up in Williamsport, gone off to Florida for college, and come back for a brief time.

"Brief" turned into 30 years seemingly overnight, we all know how that goes.

They're good guys. They're good friends.

Even though the short geographic distance between us has kept us from seeing one another face-to-face for roughly, oh, 7-8 years now, we're still friends.

Even though we all last worked together in 1978, we're still friends.

Gabbing with them last week was like picking up where we'd left off 29 years ago. Heck, not even. It was more like we'd seen each other the day before. It's that comfort level which, at least to me, is one of the defining components of friendship. Endurance can't be bought, faked, or forced. It's there or it's not. With Ken and Gary, I believe it's there.

So, there we were back in the '70s. All three of us loving life, loving radio. We were loving Williamsport, and very excited that the station we were working at was in the middle of reinventing itself.

The old, staid, and stodgy WWPA was morphing into Twin W Radio, more commonly known The Twin. If you need proof of me in the 70s, get an eyeball full of the get-ups on Chrisman and me in, I believe, 1977. We were all keyed up and ready to judge, what else, a disco contest. We probably thought we were a couple of hot guys...hell, we probably were.

(Sorry, Ken, I don't have any embarrassing pictures of you from that era, but you're welcome to share some of my discomfort.) You should be dancin' yeh, dancin' yeh.

What I like best are the rented shoes on both of us. Nice touch. Did either of us own a pair of respectable dress shoes then? Hard to say, mostly because what passed as respectable in 1977 (while standing in front of the newly renovated Rialto Theater on Pine Street) would pass as spectacle now. See how cool we were? No ties, no bow ties for us, baby. Just open up that 7 inch collar and let your chest hair sway in the warm June breeze.

I didn't dance much then, even less now. With dancing, it's like this; the only time I dance is when I run out of excuses not to. Gary? Funny thing, he was the monster DJ at Williamsport's hottest disco, yet I don't recall ever seeing him dance.

I have no idea who won the competition the evening that photo was taken, nor am I sure where the photo itself originated. All I do remember is having it e-mailed to me anonymously from Williamsport maybe 4-5 years ago. Apparently, it had appeared in a Williamsport newspaper. Apparently, someone had saved it. Thanks, whoever you are.

As with most stand-alone AM stations that once ruled radio, WWPA/The Twin fell from grace and success over the years, but Ken and Gary did not. Hardly.

If anything, they have thrived beyond expectation. They just moved across town to other stations. To even mention Williamsport radio is to mention Ken Sawyer and Gary Chrisman. If ever there is a Williamsport Broadcasting Hall of Fame, they'll be the first two inductees.

You can visit their sites...

www.wksb.com/

http://www.wrak.com/

Or, if you're out their way, listen. You'll like what you hear. You'll hear why these guys are as much a part of Williamsport life as Little League Baseball, and they've been a part of LLB for 30 years, too.


(On the matter of politics, a few things worthy of a mention before too long.)

A Few of My Favorite Things!

One of my all time ever favorite things is being on the radio with some of my all time favorite people. If you need an ID of the cast, they are, l. to r.; Dave DiRienzo, John Webster, Jay Daniels, and Ruth Miller. (Say, is that Chip The Beer Guy lurking behind them?)

We're talking D&W.

We're talking Daniels and Webster.

We're talking the highest rated morning show in NE PA.

When you get right down to it, we're talking radio legends, people of iconic stature upon the broadcasting landscape across our part of the world. http://www.rock107.com/

If the big fish in the little pond theory is valid, D&W are the biggest fish in a not so small pond.

Although Jay and John are the "Daniels" and the "Webster," the two of them are brilliant and generous enough to know that making those around them look equally as good is one of the undeniable keys to success. And so it is that Ruth and Dave have evolved into major players on the show - both deserve to be just that. It's often said that Johnny Carson was as huge as he was because he made all of his guests look good, even guests he didn't like. If he didn't like you, he made you look good anyway...but you never got invited back.

Proud to say that D&W have made me look good over and over again for what now has to be four years or so. Our relationship had its beginnings on television, but my favorite part of D&W was always, ALWAYS, the ten minutes or so we spent on the radio every weekday morning on Rock107.

God, I do miss that.

Best of all, they keep inviting me back.

So back I will be tomorrow morning from 7-10, live with John, Jay, Ruth, and Dave.

What will we talk about?

Hell if I know, really. I never knew what we'd talk about, neither did they, we'd just say hello and go. Sometimes we'd skip the hello, and just go. It was always spontaneous, completely spontaneous. There was no comparing notes the night before, no heads-up via e-mail on a topic they wanted to explore, we just went where we went. If you really want the truth, I never much thought about what we'd talk about, it wasn't a worry. I knew it would be there when the mics opened, there was no doubting it, not for a second.

It was simply great conversation among people who liked one another and enjoyed each other's company. It was honest, not an ounce of pretense to be found. It was no more than us being who we are.

Maybe that's why it worked, and I hope still does, it was honest and simple. It was just a conversation...with their sizable audience listening. And it was good.

There were times when it was better than good, it was great. Good, great, never bad. But that's just my opinion. My favorite mornings were when we'd get laughing so hard all of us briefly lost the capacity to speak.

No sense going for false modesty here, we all loved the compliments. One of my favorites heard often was, "You make me late for work. I stay in the car until you guys are done, I don't want to miss anything."

While I loved the "...late for work compliment," my all time favorite came from a young woman who once stopped me at The Dallas Harvest Festival

So help me God, she looked me right in the eye and said, "I just have to tell you, you guys made me wet my pants the other morning."

She was serious. So was I in thanking her, which I couldn't do enough.

Then, just this afternoon, I'm slapping together a cup of coffee at The Turkey Hill in Plains. The young man next to me says, "Sorry to bother you, but I want you to know how much I miss you with Daniels and Webster." Yep, he said it. If timing is everything, this was perfection. I bought him his coffee. He resisted. I insisted. Nice guy. His name? Joe. His wife sat at the pump waiting for Joe to pay up on some gas. As we left, we all waved. Thank you, Joe.

This is indeed the season for favorite things, which for me has to include "Whiskers on Kittens." A genuine thank you to all who have been so generous with their time, resources, and donations, all of which have helped us here at The SPCA of Luzerne County carry on seven days a week. Because of you, we've accomplished a lot this year. We're optimistic that the year ahead will allow us to get even more done on behalf of animal welfare, and that's likewise because of you.

And I'll see you on the radio tomorrow morning, Wednesday, December 12th!

Let's Do An Update...

Maybe it's time to update things a bit, to houseclean.

Some might call it stirring the pot. Others might call it stirring something else.

In the name of good taste, and a minor testament to my skill at making better use of the English language, we'll just stir the "pot."

Actually, I'm getting tired of looking at my last post and itching to write something new and different. So, while this may be something new and different, it might also be the same old same old...with a few new twists.

First, who's the elf stirring the pot? Why, that's Mr. Mixie of course!

Right. I know. Who?

Mr. Mixie was likewise an unknown to me until he surfaced while Googling for Vernon Grant. Vernon Grant is the man who created Snap, Crackle, and Pop. Vernon Grant also had literally dozens of magazine covers to his credit, many of them featuring his stylized Santa Claus. That's Grant's Santa over there on the right.

Vernon Grant, if he were alive today, would also be Keith Martin's father-in-law. Vernon Grant was Kay Martin's Dad, Kay being Keith's wife. All of this is my way of making amends for using, without permission, Vernon Grant's art work on this blog. So, Kay, Keith, sorry...and thanks...and Merry Christmas!

Besides, the Martins have long been devoted supporters of The SPCA of Luzerne County, our SPCA, my SPCA, the SPCA I love dearly.

I've mentioned before that a certain media outlet has seemingly ignored talk of my congressional aspirations. That shunning ended last week when their star(and I mean that) political reporter contacted me, subsequent to which we had a great gab for roughly one half hour. He's a nice guy, we share much in common.

Plus, for the first time in a long time, I made it to Electric City. EC is a weekly that has carried, since its inception, a column by one "Rude" Rube Lomax. Rube was once the pseudo of a female reporter, now in the employ of yet another media operation. So, who presently shoulders the weight of being Rube is unknown to me. I could guess. I'd guess my guess would be correct. Whoever you might be, thanks for mentioning me.

Another candidate announced this week. I wish him well, which isn't worth much since I'm still not a candidate. Just to re-cap; one candidate and I have had a great meeting, another suggested a meeting that has yet to happen.

Now, a bit of cloak and dagger, a touch of subterfuge, a whiff of mystery.

Over the last two weeks, both sides of the aisle have made what I consider initial overtures to either, a) See to it that I get into the race; b) See to it that I stay out of the race.

Let's say that that both have made their first offers. They won't be their last offers.

For now, that's all I feel comfortable saying about it. I have no desire to embarrass anyone - including myself - so we'll have to leave it pretty much at that. Put what weight in it what you will, your call.

Do consider, though, that just who's who is unclear to me at present. I mentioned elsewhere on this blog of learning long ago that things are often not what they appear to be. In politics, the water gets even muddier.

Today I learned that some smearing is already underway. You'll have to poke around to find it, because I am not interested in spreading or participating in any smearing or mudslinging. That being said, ignoring that it's out there is foolish, disingenuous.

The smear involves business dealings. That's where I come up happy; having never been a "businessman" can bring its own rewards.

It's early. This could be the first exchange of what will be a nasty battle. And that's only the primary. First blood has been drawn.

Fences, Santa's Knee, Still Sitting...

It's still there, my own personal spot on the fence on the left. Yeah, I'm sitting on it, haven't leaned, been pushed, or fallen one way or the other yet. But it sure is nice to have a fence to sit on, know what I mean? Once again, thanks, Liz.

I did add a new photo, below to your right. This old print has been sitting on our bedroom dresser ever since my Mom insisted she get it out of her house and into mine. I don't think she was tired of looking at it, but rather felt it belonged with me, since it is me sitting upon Santa's knee at one of downtown Scranton's then three(at least three)department stores. "Then" would have to be 1952-53. My own memories of that day simply don't exist, but it seems to me that my mother believed the picture was taken at The Household, a department store on Lackawanna Avenue, likely gone since the 60s latest. The building that it once occupied got blown up, or blown "in" to be more accurate, during the legendary Lackawanna Avenue Implosion, the one that made way for The Steamtown Mall. If you're A Christmas Story fan, then you'll probably spot my snowsuit, physical proof that they once existed in this culture. Can't help you much with Big Foot, but snowsuits, yep.

I'm still good with the idea that there's time, quite a bit of time. There's no pressure to start looking, acting, and spending like a congressional candidate. However, the subject of money has been coming up more and more lately, seemingly driven by those who want to know how much there is in my war-chest. Hey, do you suppose some would like to know, "Is there a war-chest?"

How much do you need to run for congress? Lots...maybe, maybe. It's widely accepted that most candidates spend the bulk of their campaign money on "buying" name and face recognition. For me, that is a huge savings right there. And as always, "We pass the savings along to you, our valued customer!"

OK, perhaps I am being a bit flip, but let's keep in mind that money has failed to get people elected in the past, and there is no indication that money won't fail again in the future. Money is only part of the equation, to think otherwise is a fool's pursuit.

So, while others have pains of desire and pangs of need to be a member of congress, that's just not me. I didn't grow up wanting to go to Washington, at least not as an elected public servant. Washington is a neat place to live, and there was a time when I came close to doing so...but that was way back when.

What to wear on swearing-in day still isn't keeping me up nights, no tossing and turning, no knots in the gut, no hand wringing.

Today, as 2007 winds down, the deal is still pretty much the deal it was a month or more ago - I'm thinking.

So, if you stumble on in here, there's much more right below this post.

Please know that my appreciation for your interest is genuine. A special acknowledgment goes to some folks from the West Side of The Wyoming Valley who passed along that they heard I was prepping to run for governor.

That's the first I'd heard that.

Congressman? Yes, a consideration.

Governor? Jeez, I hadn't thought much about it.

Governor comes with a mansion, right?

___________________________________________________________________
November 26th...It's a dreary Monday across our part of the state today, a good and fitting day to be off and doing nothing. Had a ball yesterday at The Hudson Model Railroad Club's train show. It comes highly recommended by both Carol and me. While there, three people called me "Congressman." All I could do was smile and chuckle just a bit.

Plus, news has made its way back to me from Washington and Harrisburg, via the Midwest, that a number of heads are being scratched over just what it is I think I'm doing. Please, scratch away. Oh, a media outlet in NE PA continues to ignore my possible candidacy, which works out really good. See, by not mentioning me, they've caused more people to question why they haven't. Thanks.

November 18th...Things over the last few weeks have been interesting. Because of my job, and also my wife's job, being at public events has been required. I'm accustomed to that, did it for over 2o years while working in television. It was part of the routine. Specifically, we attended two veterans' events; one at Misericordia, the other the W-B Vets Parade. Both were very nice events. Both were well attended, both paid tribute to men and women who more than deserve it. One declared candidate was at the Misericordia event, but sorry to say, I didn't personally see him. Best I can tell, neither was at the parade, although Congressman Carney was indeed there. It was nice to see him and exchange routine pleasantries. I don't know if he feels the same way.

Drum beats from the west end of the district. This past week brought a few phone calls from media people and an elected state official's office in the Williamsport area. Williamsport is the biggest city in the 10th Congressional District of Pennsylvania. Williamsport is also a city I consider to be my second home. Having worked there for four years way back in the '70s, I love Williamsport. It's a great town. I'm both happy and proud to say I have friends there.

And this I completely neglected to update...I did mention a planned meeting with a declared candidate. We did indeed meet, gabbing for beyond two hours. I like the guy, we got along very, very well. Politically, he is much further right than me. This wasn't a surprise. His only request of me was that we keep it clean, keep it civil, keep it gentlemanly. He has my assurances to do just that...with a caveat. The caveat is simple, "If someone pushes me, I push back, and push back hard." Fair enough?

I Could Have Been a Congressman...Part #2

The second post I made on this blog, roughly 3 months ago, was a story of how the opportunity to maybe become a congressman had come my way...and how I let it come and keep on going, not seizing the moment. I failed to "carpe diem."

That was early July. It is now early October. Does opportunity knock only but once?

Apparently, no, it does not, or at least that idea isn't chiseled in marble.

A few weeks ago the talk of me running for a seat in the U.S. House of Representatives started all over again. There's really not much cloak and dagger here, no great mystery meetings, or phone calls at odd hours from powerful yet relatively unknown political power brokers. It's pretty dull, pedestrian, not at all the stuff of great novels.

There was one phone call.

The phone rang, the right people were on both ends. Had that not happened, this post wouldn't be here. She was there, I was there, so here we are. I had one conversation. More than anything else, I was curious as to what it would take. Those who'd encouraged me before, encouraged me again. Last year, and it's not a secret, those same people put the congressional run on hold, and came at me about running for county commissioner. Thanks, I am flattered, truly.

Given the fact that my curiosity flared up during an idle moment when I felt a bit impulsive, it's proper to say that some "stars" did line up at the right time. Remove the idle moment, the curiosity, the impulsiveness, remove any one of them, and a run for congress wouldn't be even a minor consideration.

As of now, it is. As of now, it is under and open to discussion with certain parties on a local, state, and apparently national level.

This could be the start of something big...which is also the title to a marvelous song written by the late Steve Allen.

Am I running for congress? No.

Am I not running for congress? No.

Both are honest answers, not political subterfuge designed to mislead.

That being said, let's poke a bit more, ask and answer a few standard questions.

Q. Are you a declared candidate?
A. No. If I declare, it won't be a secret.

Q. Do you have an exploratory committee?
A. Not that I know, which doesn't mean none exists. Should there be a committee, it is without my knowledge and/or sanction. After a phone conversation this past Friday, I suspect several committees, ad hoc as they may be, do indeed exist.

Q. What makes you qualified to be a member of congress?
A. I'm an American who is registered to vote. In my opinion, that's how our marvelous system works; voters decide whether you're qualified on election day. It's their choice, no one else's.

Q. What is your political affiliation?
A. For many years, I was a Democrat. At present, I am registered Republican. I think of myself as what is alternately called a "Nelson Rockefeller Republican" or a "Bill Scranton Republican," meaning that my views are moderate. This nation needs to be governed from the middle, not from either extreme. Now, I'm making a speech. Now, I'll stop.

Q. Where are you on key issues?
A. It is far too early to wander down that path.

Q. Do you think name and face recognition play a role here?
A. It would be a lie for me to say otherwise. Yes, my being known throughout the 10th Congressional District is largely what is driving all of this. Plus, I'm a fairly bright guy with some depth.

Q. What would you do if elected?
A. Go to Washington and try like hell to represent the 10th Congressional District of Pennsylvania with dignity, respect, and integrity. However, please don't take that to mean that I think those virtues are presently lacking. I am criticizing no one.

Q. What would you do if not elected?
A. I'm a firm believer in the notion of, "In for a dime, in for a dollar." A commitment is a commitment. You don't do things half-ass. Should things work such that I do run for Congress, my intention is to win.

Q. Should you choose not to run, what then?
A. Continue working in a job I love deeply; being the Executive Director of The SPCA of Luzerne County. Before someone out there goes, "Ah, HAH!" - you are so right, the SPCA is not in the 10th Congressional District. I live in the 10th, and have for a long time.

Reasons to Run...

• There are a lot of things broken in this country, maybe I could make some small contribution to fixing a few of them.
• If enough people want me to run, I shouldn't ignore them.
  
• Being "Congressman Sweeney" has a nice sound to it. I am always honest, like right now; anyone who aspires to high office has to be at least a little in love with the notion of being important.
  
• Congressman are important - some for the right reasons, some for the wrong reasons.
  
• Fate, kismet, universal plan, whatever. Maybe this is what I should do. No point lying, I genuinely don't know.
• Public service has always appealed to me. It's a noble thing to do.
  
• The money, benefits, and perks are all pretty darned attractive.
• I'm neither stupid nor uninformed. I could do the job.
  

Reasons to Not Run...

• Given the enormous responsibility involved, that money, those perks and benefits, might not be enough of an incentive.
• The idea of traveling constantly from home to Washington and back is unappealing. Then when home, traveling all over the 10th District is every bit as unappealing. Unappealing but very necessary. Being a congressman from Nebraska is probably easier, at least you can fly, have a drink or three, and take a nap while you travel. Ideally, being the congressman from a NYC or Philly district would be perfect. I could travel on Amtrak's Acela to and from D.C. at a 100+ mph.
  
• It could be that there'll a lot of people who'll want me to run for their own reasons, reasons presently unknown to me. I learned a long time ago that things are often not what they appear to be.
  
• Politics can be slimy, dirty, nasty, hurtful. I am none of those things. Forging ahead while saying, "It's just politics..." is something that may not be within me.
• Connected to the above comment is what might be my complete disinterest in the lies, innuendo, and other assorted bullshit that will rain down on me should I run. Hey, remember, I was "just a weatherman." Now, I'm just a guy who works for a non-profit. I haven't spent the last 20 years of my life building a political base, which should be an enormous plus.
  

Latest developments as of 10/12...

Two candidates, both declared, have "reached out" to me. What's on their minds, I don't know, we've failed to connect. One of them called me directly twice, and twice I've returned his call. We've managed to get no further than voice-mail so far. The other has tried to contact me in a rather indirect way. I'm not in hiding. I'll speak with anyone.

For now, that's about it. Consider this an open post, though, one I will update until I come to some sort of a decision.

Where Things Stand as of 10/19...

My phone is ringing selectively. That's OK. Some think I'm in the race, some think it's a done-deal...and some think I am already a congressman. That's scary. Actually, it should frighten a lot of us as Americans that people, intelligent people, "think" they know things that are simply not true.

Media interest in my possibly being a candidate for a seat in The U.S House of Representatives is startlingly one-sided. One influential media outlet in particular seems keenly interested in my intentions. Other outlets seem, at best, disinterested. Seeing who's interested, and who's not, is helpful; it gives me an indication of who might have a horse in this race. What their motives for wanting to be a force in who goes to Washington is an unknown.

There is one steady and common theme to any and all remarks regarding a run by me - it will be a costly campaign. Curious, don't you think? I keep hearing, "Well, you know, this is going to be an expensive campaign." Fine.

That getting elected to CONGRESS ain't a matter of running a few bake sales and asking your neighbors for five bucks isn't exactly news. Money, lots of money, tons of money, money from everyone and everywhere - all legal, of course - is key. Why I keep hearing how expensive this will be tells me one thing; certain parties want to know what kind of money I have should I seek election. For now, here's the answer: If I run, my life and finances, are an open book. And that is a solemn promise.

10/26...Anything new? Yes, a few things. I'm still thinking, trying to weigh all I'm capable of weighing. Coming up this week, a few things worthy of a mention.

Early in the week, a meeting with a declared candidate. While I have no doubt the meeting will be cordial, maybe even downright friendly and complete with plenty of laughs, the purpose and topic(s)of discussion remain unknown to me.

A little later in the week, the Luzerne County GOP holds its annual dinner. I've been encouraged to attend.

A number of people have approached me about "wanting in" should I decide to run. Thanks. At least one mentor who thought I was nuts to even consider congress is now saying to me, "You know, I think you could do this." While that's encouraging, it's also a little unsettling.

Also this past week I learned that one media outlet in the 10th isn't mentioning me as a potential candidate solely for the purpose of forcing me to show my hand. I would really think that most people at newspapers, television and radio stations, are smart enough to realize I spent over 30 years of my life in the news business. Those years were spread geographically from Honesdale to Williamsport to Scranton and Wilkes-Barre. My point? My point should be beyond obvious; I have contacts inside the media all over the 10th. It forever amuses me how some fail to see what is right in front of them. "Failing to see the forest for the trees..." happens all the time.

Finally this time around, I've familiarized myself with all the FEC rules and regs as they pertain to running for federal office. Interestingly, almost funny really, is that they devote a chapter to "testing the waters." And they call it just that, "testing the waters."

Thanks for reading!

Brave New World...No, Scared New World.

Over the last couple years science, esteemed and legitimate science, has discovered new planets, heretofore unknown species of flora and fauna on this planet, and now, caves on Mars.

Just today scientists announced discovery of 11 new species of plants and animals in Vietnam, including a snake, two butterflies and five orchid varieties.

In the Phillipines, a new species of bat was confirmed last week. It's not a little bat, it's about the size of your cat with leathery wings...and it's orange. How has "science" been missing that critter all this time?

Then there's those pesky caves on Mars.

Surely science would like to just ignore them, wish them away, pretend they ain't there. Yep, that would be nice and neat and tidy.

They are there.

Some planet we never saw before is recently spotted in our solar system...and there could be more.

One day, I suspect, we'll be told Earth has another small moon, only 75 miles away, just a bit due North of Larksville Mountain, that we just haven't seen before.

Heck, I could easily line up a half dozen sane and sober individuals who would gladly sign affidavits swearing to the existence of the mountain lion in Pennsylvania. The Game Commission would likewise issue an affidavit denying their existence here.

About those caves. Those caves just might fit nicely with the face on Mars, which I'm going to guess most are aware exists. It looks human. Very big and human.

Very big, decidedly human, and quite visible from a great long distance. There is no small number of learned and intelligent scientists who are completely convinced that life either presently exists on Mars, or at the very least, that it once existed on Mars, and it wasn't all that long ago that it did.

So, what does it all mean?

To me, it means we have zero idea about a lot of things. We think we know it all.
We don't. Not even close.

Among the things we don't know, and in no particular order, would be...


Who we are. No, we have no idea who we are. We think we do, but we don't. Each year brings more questions about our origins. Most of the questions do not have answers. My very strong belief is that the human animal has yet to evolve to a sufficient intellectual level where it knows how to ask the right questions. Therefore, how could we possibly seek the right answers, let alone think we already have them.

What we are. We are mammals, apparently at the top of some order of mammals. What we don't know is this; might there be another and higher order of mammals of which we are completely unaware? I say, maybe, maybe there is.

Is there life elsewhere? The big shocker would be if there wasn't life elsewhere. Get your hands on a decent astronomy book, or maybe even do it on-line.

There are several astronomers out there who have taken the time to devise a step-by-step illustrated explanation of just how big the known universe is, and please do underscore known. Our neighborhood, The Milky Way, is Pixley compared to other galaxies. We're the runt of the litter. To say that we are but one tiny bit of fly feces within 7 tons of black pepper is not hyperbole.

I happen to believe there is lots of intelligent life out there. While that's my belief, that darned White House litmus test always gets in the way. We must always ask; why haven't they landed on The White House lawn?

Why would they?

Look, if they can get here from there, millions of light-years away, yet we can't get our kids to school if it snows a half inch, wouldn't you think that whoever they are view us as primitive at best?

They might look upon us as we look upon the bacteria we try and sanitize from our kitchen counters daily. To them, we might be no more than that mold, a living and breathing entity, that lurks in the far back dark corner of the bottom shelf of our refrigerator. Could be that, to them, we don't even rise to the level of how we view fleas, ticks, houseflies.

Should that be the way they see us, what would compel them to open a dialog with us?

If you're out there, hello. I bid you peace, so when you come, please come in peace. I can get you the t-shirt in small, medium and up to XXX-large. Let me know...

What Was It Like, Daddy?

We're quickly running out of generations who can recall Pre-Internet Life(PIL). Don't waste your time googling PIL, you won't find it, at least not as it pertains to Pre-Internet Life. I had to come up with something, I type lazy. An acronym works fine. If there was an acronym for acronym, I'd use it.

I do remember PIL, but will confess that my view of PIL gets fuzzier and muddier with each passing month. My year of entry, my immersion into the waters of the worldwide web, was 1996, July of that year, during the Olympics.

Traditionally, among the worst times to be a teevee type are Olympics, and any and all play-offs/series, etc., if your network carries the coverage. I was affiliated with an affiliate of NBC that Summer. NBC had Olympic coverage. It meant late nights. Really late nights, with us oftentimes not getting on the air until close to 1:00 AM. Not getting home until almost 2:00 AM ain't fun. We all hated it. We all had ways of coping with it.

Mine, at least that Summer of 1996, was to do a free test-drive of AOL. Admittedly, I had zero idea of what this internet thing even looked like. I'd never so much as seen the on-ramp to The Information Superhighway. I was a virgin. I was a total greenhorn. I'd call myself a geek, but geeks knew about this thing. Not me.

My test-drive awaited...on a floppy. The CD was not yet in widespread use except for music, and I mean go-out-and-buy-a-recorded CD. Most computers didn't even have an optical drive. And in those that did, it was strictly for playback, not recording. Ripping and burning had yet to enter our vocabularies.

Next, find a computer.

You'd think that in 1996, in a television station, a place all about technology and electronics, you'd think computers would be abundant. Such was not the case in my place. Running a decade behind the times was typical there. Our news room didn't have one single computer. I went in search of another, finding one in our sales department on the third floor. It was in a corner. It was shared by all members of the sales department. Sales had gone hi-tech, news had not. Again, typical.

It's evening, the sales department is empty. In goes the floppy. I followed each command like Mary's Little Lamb. In short order, I was there.

For the first time ever I heard that sweet music, that ger-bangy-bangy of a modem dialing and pinging, followed by the shshshshshsh of it connecting.

It was love at first sound and sight. My life had changed. No sense over dramatizing the event; if it didn't happen that night in that place, it would have happened elsewhere, and it would have happened sooner than later. It was inevitable.

My very own PIL was now over, it ended the second I hit my first search on Lycos. Lycos was big then, so was Alta Vista, and WebCrawler. Does anyone still use them?

I strolled without hesitation through the gate and have really never looked back. I doubt there's a day since that I've been completely clean, completely internet-free.

And I don't much see that day coming any time soon, either.

So, what was it like? What did we do PIL?

Lots of things, really. Lots of things I don't do much at all these days. Things like tie flies, flies for fly fishing.

Down in a dark corner of our basement there hangs a shop lamp, beneath which sits a fly tying bench, built it myself. It was there where I'd spend hours whipping up my favorite patterns, then box them, stuff them in my vest, and take them out on the stream.

The bench looks like scene from a sci-fi movie, one where everyone inexplicably leaves the planet in a heartbeat, followed years later by one lone survivor stumbling around in search of shelter, or food...or flies. As I sit here typing, it occurs to me that it's really like a Twilight Zone.

The bench, and all on it, is covered with roughly eight or so years of dust. Everything is like I last left it, everything in the exact place I put it all those years ago. Yeah, I did tie for a time post PIL, but my heart wasn't in it.

I also fly fished a couple years post PIL, but that soon ended, too.

Next, let's come on up to the first floor of our modest home. Books. Books. Books. Bookcases full of books. Used to be I'd read three, oftentimes four books a week. A week. I'd read every night after snugging into bed alongside wifey. She'd drift off to the Land of Nod, and I'd read. Read for several hours sometimes, depending on the book and how it captivated me.

No book has captivated me in years and years, and only because I haven't opened one in years and years. I still read several newspapers a day, and a number of boards, newsgroups, blogs, etc. They're not books.

Books are magical.

I miss them a lot.

In fact, that's what this is all about; it's about what I miss.

And what I miss often is the life I had had before the internet. PIL was a good life. It was a productive and rich life.

I miss it. I'd like to go back. There are honest to God times when I honest to God ache for what it was like way back there.

Is going back possible? Barring a planet-wide loss of electricity, with no hope for restoration, my guess is, no, no it's not.

Working In The Real World...

After 33 years in the broadcasting industry, I now feel emboldened to say that it's not part of the real world. For those wanting to get into the business, and for those wanting to get out, let me assure you that it is not the real world.

All it took was one year away from the biz for me to feel like I was on completely safe and solid ground in making the statement, but I'm right, and anyone who disagrees with me is wrong.

Broadcasting, for all its magic and wonder, ain't the real world.

It's a fantasy land.

It's also the Land of Nightmares for many.

I had a fair mix of the two during my time spent. More laughs than tears, more better years than bad, more fulfillment than not. The real baffler is that being in broadcasting means having your eyes, ears, and nose on and into everybody else's business 24/7. Which means you should know what's going on, right? You don't.

Life in the news room is insular. Somehow, and despite your relentless digging in the news dirt, you managed a disconnect from your friends in the real world, if you have friends there.

You know who they are, they're the people you see doing nothing while you trudge off to work on Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's, Memorial Day, all those days they always have off when you don't. Some of those same people think you have the greatest job in the world. On holidays, you know you don't. You really don't know what holidays are.

Here is what's going on out here in the real world, my world, the world within which I now dwell...

Monday...No one does anything on Monday. At the most, minimal effort is required to get through Monday. You'll never get stares, glares, or clucking tongues on Monday for being a slacker. No, sirs and mams, you never will. And the reason is right there in front of you, or at the desk right next to yours. The reason you get a pass on Monday is that no one else is doing anything either. It's like Free-Pass Day. You can't call anyone on Monday; they don't won't to be bothered. Generally, no one will call you for the very same reason. Blow off Monday, it's a waste. Actually, it's like that study period a lot of us had in high school. You didn't study then. You don't work now.

Tuesday...This is ramp-up day. Tuesday you get some work done, maybe even a lot of work. That day before that you pretended wasn't there somehow energized you to a level where, by God, you will make those calls. Then by noon, well, for crying out loud, you realize how much you got done. Time to back off a bit, take a breather, slow it down, leave some work for Wednesday.

Wednesday...Traditionally known as Hump Day, the day you need to get over in order to start sliding towards the weekend. You get up and over the hump. Hump is a railroading term, at least in this context. You probably ignored some semi-important matters on Tuesday, so on Wednesday morning you need to go back and check yourself, see what you just have to get done before Hump Day ends.

Thursday...This day has a certain feel to it, one that carries a hint of relief, that your work is nearly done. It also serves as ramp-down day. Your morning may be bountifully productive, but by early afternoon you can already feel the weight lifting from your shoulders and back. You know that whatever needs to be done, whatever may be on the desk in front of you, can likely wait until the next day. Could be it can wait until next week, because the weekend is about to begin, and in the real world, nobody works weekends. Ain't life beautiful?

Friday...Let's figure, oh, a half day today. You'll serve your eight hours or more, sure. Noon, though, is about the time that you look around and realize that most everyone else has dialed it back to "snooze and cruise." Although they may be grounded in the physical plane of "work," their minds and spirits are elsewhere. All one need now do is wait it out.

And there you have it; the workweek in the real world.

Of course, there are caveats, exceptions, additions, deletions, etc.

For instance, the week before vacation. Skip it. You'll do nothing above and beyond.

Then there's the week after vacation. Same deal, nothing doing.

The week prior to a long holiday weekend is likewise a charade. You're really not there.

After that holiday, Tuesday becomes your Monday, then Wednesday your Tuesday. By the time you get to "Thursday," you realize it's Friday. And all is well with the world. God bless The USA...

************************************************************************************

Here's one I completely forgot...The Holidays. We can say that The Holidays are roughly Thanksgiving to New Year's Day, right? Or we might be able to get away with, say, mid-November through the end of the first week in January, right? The Holidays are one big old stretch of time during which no one wants to do anything, and for the most part they succeed in doing(not doing?)just that. Again, God bless The USA!

A Quiescently Frozen Treat...

I've been drifting around lately, letting odd thoughts take me where they will. Sort of a mental "Don't take the journey, let the journey take you."

Thoughts of summers long ago often find a way to bring a smile and make me ache a bit for that lost youth all of us have way back there somewhere. There are all those bottles of soda guzzled at all the corner stores that were scattered across my neighborhood. Not long ago, and in my head, I made a list. I counted the number of places within a ten minute walk of my family home where you could buy a loaf of bread and quart of milk. I stopped counting at 11. Now, all gone, not one remains.

Soda, penny candy, pretzel rods...and cold treats on hot days.

I think of Popsicles.

More specifically, the twin pop, that two-sided affair complete with dual sticks. I suppose the twin notion was driven by a hope for generosity; you'll give half of that quiescently frozen treat away. Nice idea. Kids are greedy, selfish little buggers. Me, too. I have no recollection of ever sharing a Popsicle with anyone, nor do I recall anyone ever sharing one with me.

Popsicle is a registered trademark. I just took a peek at their site. No trace there of the twin pop of my kid years. Maybe it fell victim to the greed is good times we went through 20 or so years ago, maybe the manufacturer realized kids eat Popsicles, and that kids seldom share. Let's go back to that word "quiescently" for a second. It was on every wrapper of every Popsicle I ever sucked, and I always wondered just what it meant. It sounded rather exotic, like this just wasn't some chunk of flavored ice, this was something special. Follow the link below, you'll learn all about "quiescently."

http://recipes.howstuffworks.com/question499.htm

I spent time in an ice house once. I was amazed at how much is involved in making good ice. Good ice being ice that is sparkling crystal clear, which most consumers demand since they are paying for frozen water. Making good ice is work, you don't just stare at the water until it freezes.

Flavor-wise, I was a cherry or lime Popsicle man myself. Orange and grape were passable on occasion. Every so often, blueberry Popsicles would show up at one of several corner stores in my old neighborhood. They weren't always available, they seemed to be a limited-run deal. It did make them special. And they weren't really blue, at least not blue like blueberries. They were a pale blue, maybe a baby blue. There had to have been a marketing strategy there. Oh, we all know it, none of those Popsicles tasted like their namesake fruit, not even close. But they sure tasted good.

Those were my go-to Popsicle flavors.

But for the love of God, vanilla and root beer Popsicles made me gag. The thought of them still kick starts a gag reflex. A buddy of mine loved root beer Popsicles. Whenever he was gnawing on one, I'd step back, the smell alone made nauseous. I likewise despise those little candy kegs that are root beer flavored. Gakkkk. Yet, the damnedest thing is, I really like root beer itself. I especially like Birchola, for those who know what it is.

How about the Creamsicle? Now there was one heck of frozen confection, although not quiescently frozen. Creamsicles contained ice cream. Making ice cream requires agitation. You really should go back and hit that link on "quiescently frozen." The Creamsicle was a core of vanilla ice cream with a mysterious and not easily identifiable smooth orange coating. Or was it orange? You never knew, but they were mighty fine on a hot summer day.

When I ate my last Popsicle, I know not. Same with the Creamsicle. It never occurs to me to buy either. I'm not even sure where I would buy one. Oddly, I don't crave a Popsicle, a Creamsicle, right now. Maybe you do outgrow some things. Remember The Beach Boys, When I Grow Up To Be A Man. The lyrics asked if the same things that turned you on as a kid would turn you on as a man. With not a single notable exception, I can't think of one right now.

Me and Elvis, and Shawn Too...

Down below, in my entry about the death of Elvis and how I became a huge fan of Elvis, I ended things by thanking a young man. That young man is Shawn Klush, who is more than worthy of a thank you for keeping Elvis alive. That's Shawn you see in the photo. Yeah, it is remarkable.

Mentioning that Shawn was a great Elvis impersonator was my opinion. As of a few days ago it's likewise the opinion of experts sanctioned by the Presley family. They've now made it official, "Shawn Klush Is The Best."

No sense me going on about it, just follow the link and get to know a little about Shawn...

http://www.shawnklush.net/

I met Shawn a lot of years ago, probably when he was fresh out of Seton Catholic in Pittston. It's possible he was still in Seton Catholic at the time. We shared a friend, a fine, fine gentleman who died way too young.

Shawn's not only a very talented young man, he's also a really nice guy. Catch him if and when you can, he'll blow your hair back...

Me and Elvis...

Being too young for things when you're a kid is pretty standard stuff. You get old, then there's about nothing left for which you're too young. That's depressing.

A lot of Americans were too old for Elvis. They hated him, thought him some work of some evil force sent to destroy our wonderful way of life. Those were the same people who insisted America only see this Elvis person from the waist up, never look at the hips.

I was too young for Elvis. I'd been born just a little too late to be at the right time and place in my life to fall victim to Elvis-mania. Beatle-mania? Oh, yeah, absolutely, I'm among the millions who still get goose bumps watching the Ed Sullivan appearances. I have the full DVD set, thanks to my wife.

My first memory of someone named Elvis was during a hot and sunny summer day on the beach in Atlantic City. This was, of course, pre-casino Atlantic City. From where we'd settled upon the sand, we could see the fabled Steel Pier, although I have no memory of setting foot upon it. I never saw the diving horse. Why do I now feel cheated?

Also from our sandy position, I could see someone sitting close by reading a newspaper. It was in tabloid format, probably a daily, but from where, I don't know. For a ton of reasons, I really want to say it was The New York Daily News. Probably not. Probably a Philly paper.

It was the front page headline that I remember - ELVIS DRAFTED!

That was it. ELVIS DRAFTED! Beneath the headline, an obligatory photo of Elvis, snarling lip and all.

Grade school, high school, college, and the first 3 years of my radio "career" came, were, and went without me giving Elvis a second thought. I wasn't a fan. He didn't move me. His music didn't move me. His appeal was lost on me. Sure, I played his records on the radio, that was part of my job.

I knew Elvis fans, lots of them. A few were insane about Elvis. To them, The Beatles were no more than pretenders to the throne, phonies, fakes, not the real thing. I was more of a Beach Boys/Beatles fan who also had a strong taste for jazz. Clearly, I was somewhat of a mongrel - I'd prefer eclectic - when it came to music.

And then one day, an Elvis impersonator came to town. A friend of mine had seen this guy's act and told me he was among the best. He had a band, trunks full of costumes, all the gestures, the moves, the snarl...and he looked and sounded just like Elvis. "You've got to see this dude," says my friend.

With nothing else to do on a Saturday night many years ago, I went to a club called Bourbon Street in Williamsport, Pennsylvania. We sat at a small round table, drank beer, smoked cigarettes, and awaited the evening's entertainment. I can't sit here and lie - I wasn't exactly all keyed up about seeing this guy. He called himself The Big El. Yawn. Make that a Big Yawn.

Then, something happened.

The house lights dimmed. Strains of Also Sprach Zarathustra began to build, and build, and build. This was a direct Elvis steal.

Now the sound of a kettle drum, then a crescendo...BoomBoomBoomBoomBoom...then more kettle drum...BoomBoomBoomBoomBoom...then another crescendo. Geez, what's happening here? What the hell is this? I'm feeling the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

POW!

Just like that, an enormous slap in the face.

It was like this big hand, one heavy with gaudy rings, had reached from that stage and slapped me upside the head. I damn near leapt from my seat.

The reality of what had happened was this; Also Sprach Zarathustra had segued into to the driving rhythm of See See Rider, as "Elvis" as you can get, the piece which opened his legendary Vegas' shows.

And there he was!

It was Elvis! Right there. Feet away. It was Elvis! And it just might as well have been. This guy, The Big El, looked so much like Elvis Presley that it was scary. Not just the looks, there were the moves, the voice, they all belonged to Elvis. Somehow, The Big El had managed to borrow Elvis. It was remarkable.

In an instant, I'd gone from not caring about Elvis to being an Elvis fan. On the west end of Williamsport, in the part of town they call Newberry, Elvis Presley had just acquired another fan, a big fan, a huge fan, and a fan to this very day.

Not that I wasn't a fan of The Big El. I was. Every bit a fan of "Big." Whenever he came back to town, I went to see him. Not once was there any disappointment, he was always terrific.

And, do remember, it wasn't even The King himself, it was a knock-off. A damned fine knock-off, yet still not the real deal. Elvis Lives!

Elvis did indeed live. See, when The Big El turned me into an Elvis fan, Elvis was still alive. But not for long.

It was no more than a handful of months into enjoying my newly discovered status as an Elvis fan that it happened. On August 16th, 1977, there I was, doing radio, being a disc jockey. My life's passion was talking on the radio and playing the hits. The control room door opened.

"If you're in radio for fifty more years, you'll never get to read anything like this on the air again." That was Gary Chrisman, friend and colleague, and still a friend to this day.

"Elvis Presley is dead." It was an AP bulletin, literally hot off the wire.

Our AP machine, the clackety, constantly in motion automated typewriter, big unsightly beast that it was, sat in our newsroom. Gary had been there, heard the bells announcing important news. He saw the headline, which is all it was so far, "Elvis Presley is dead." He'd ripped it, and ran to me, because I was on the air. Had someone been in our newsroom, they would have handled the story, we would have "broken in" with it. I'm only guessing all these years later that our news people were out on the road covering some story. Could be they were down the hall taking a squirt. This news couldn't wait for an empty bladder.

I read it on the air. The phones went nuts. Callers were in disbelief. Callers wanted more information. Callers had tickets to see Elvis within weeks in Syracuse, he was scheduled to play The New York State Fair. One caller, a woman, wanted to know how she could get a refund on her ticket. Maybe she was stunned, in shock. I hung up on her. This wasn't the time for refunds. The King was dead. Not only was he dead, but the world was just now finding out that he was.

There was no CNN yet, no internet, just network news to turn to for information and pictures. Being in radio, we had an advantage. That clacking AP machine was spitting out reams of info on the death of Elvis. Already there were implications of drugs, there was talk of an Elvis whose bloated body had been found so unfittingly slumped from a toilet. There was then black humor, gallows humor, the jokes about kings and thrones.

In the end, and before too long, we had at least a hazy picture of a man whose last few years were unhappy, perhaps even tortured. The drugs were his, they'd been prescribed, they were legal. Not necessarily moral or ethical, but legal. It mattered not, he was gone. The King was dead.

But I was still a fan, maybe even a bigger fan than before.

I am to this day.

Perhaps the greatest tribute to the man lies in the fact that young men and women, people in their teens, twenties, thirties, are enormous fans of Elvis. We can thank men like Shawn Klush for that. Shawn is himself an extraordinary Elvis tribute performer. Thanks, Shawn.

The King may be dead.

But Elvis lives!


(P.S. Adding a postscript to a blog entry seems redundant. However, after a little poking around, I discovered that The Big El's given name was Larry Seth, and that he hasn't done the Elvis thing in decades. The biggest crowd Mr. Seth ever drew was in excess of 50,000, which is big! That was at a performance within a week or two of the death Elvis. The photo at the top of this entry is...Larry Seth, The Big El, performing before those 50,000 people.)

The Last Colortini...

I "got" Colortini. I knew what it meant. I understood.

Before everything on TV was in color, those shows that were in color always carried some big buzz upfront about how they were in color, maybe even living color. NBC proudly announced that The Following NBC Program Is Brought To You In Living Color.

That's why NBC had a peacock, it's where the still-in-use today NBC Peacock originated - peacocks have many colors, and now most of NBC's shows did, too.

So color became just that, a buzz word. Therefore, the new generation of TV shows in color screamed out for their own cocktail. That, of course, would have to be the Colortini.

My first encounter with Tom Snyder was as host of The Tomorrow Show, which followed The Tonight Show, which had been named that because, after all, NBC had The Today Show. Simple consistency; Today, Tonight, Tomorrow. I sat at home in the dark, watching him in a studio in the dark. It was intimate television, which is how television should be when practiced properly.

There was really nothing consistent about Tom Snyder, that's should you be looking to compare him to others of his time and place. Snyder was not pressed from the same mold as more typical news anchors of the '70s. In fact, I never saw the man anchor a news cast, although he did just that for many years in NYC, Philly, LA, and on NBC. That picture you see is of Snyder from 1968.

He was so good at anchoring that, when Tom Brokaw replaced John Chancellor on NBC Nightly News, Snyder came in second place; the choice had come down to Snyder or Brokaw. Rumor was that Chancellor lobbied hard to deny Snyder the job. It was said that Snyder had long had trouble with authority figures. We should all have trouble with authority figures. We should all question authority.

Where he was consistent was in his being entertaining. He was always very entertaining. What Snyder was more than anything else was himself. Being one's self in front of a camera might not be easy, but it is the key that can unlock the door that let's you into every home in America...or for us locals, it let's you into every home in Throop, Wanamie, Berwick, Antes Fort, and Pine Grove.

I was a fan, a huge fan of Tom Snyder. He embodied all I wanted to be as a broadcaster. He was quick, funny when called for, serious when necessary, informed, intelligent, and just plain likable. He wasn't afraid to ask tough questions, and he wasn't' afraid to have some pretty weird people on The Tomorrow Show. He made them all look good.

And he was never afraid to laugh, laugh out loud, laugh hard and long. It was that laugh, and a handful of other signature gestures, that brought Snyder to the American consciousness through his lampooning by Dan Ackroyrd on SNL. Sadly, a lot of folks only knew the "Dan Ackroyd" Tom Snyder, they probably never saw Tom being Tom.

He looked like every show he did was the time of his life - my guess is that each one of those shows was just that. He loved what he did, it showed, and many of us loved him in return.

Snyder went away pretty much in the early '80s, and stayed away for a long time. Money wasn't an issue, so taking it easy, picking and choosing projects must have been fun for him. One night, I heard him, he was back on the radio - a medium that fit him like a custom tailored suit. I was thrilled he was back.

Then David Letterman, another enormous Snyder fan, brought him back to late night television. I was likewise thrilled. He was as good as ever. One night, his guest was to be Bonnie Hunt. Clearly he and Hunt connected strongly, I always suspected in a very personal way.

A flight had been missed, she was late, perhaps a no-show.

She did show, about one half hour into things. For that first half hour, Snyder kept it going. All he needed was a place to sit, a microphone, a camera, and you at home watching. He was at his best when at his simplest. I was sort of disappointed when Hunt showed, Snyder was that good.

Once again, Tom left television. I missed him a lot. Maybe 3 years ago I stumbled across his website - colortini.com - and checked it daily. Before long, he announced he had leukemia. He seemed happy to say that it was treatable. Another thing he announced was that his brother John had likewise been diagnosed with the very same type of the disease. I was big enough of a fan that I'd heard him mention "Brother John" many times over the years.

Tom Snyder shut down colortini.com without much of an explanation, just saying thanks and that it was time to go. My guts told me it was.

My guts told me his leukemia wasn't treatable after all, and that Tom Snyder wanted to be left alone during what time he had left. For those who may not know, Tom Snyder died last Sunday in San Francisco. He was 71.

I guess we could still fire up a colortini.

I guess we could still watch the pictures as they fly through the air.

But I don't have to guess at all to know that it just won't be the same.

You Can't Park There...

So, there were we were, just motoring along Wyoming Avenue in Forty Fort. I was loafing, staring out the window while the bride drove.

I'd never noticed them before. Now I did. Maybe two to a block, right on utility poles.

NO PARKING
2AM - 5AM

I waited a bit until we came upon another one, thinking maybe my reading comprehension was off, which it can be often enough - at my age, I really don't trust myself like I once did. Here comes another one and, yep...

NO PARKING
2AM - 5AM

For three hours overnight, and I presume this is a daily injunction, you cannot park along Wyoming Avenue in Forty Fort. If there are signs, there must be an ordinance. If there's an ordinance, there has to be a penalty attached for violating that ordinance.

The obvious question, of course, is just why you can't park there in the middle of the night. The answer is not so obvious. A little speculation would make me suspect that they clean the streets there at that time and don't want to be swinging in and out trying not to hit your parked car.

Then I came to my senses.

1) Do they actually sweep Wyoming Avenue? Conceding that "they" do, who are "they?" Wyoming Avenue is US Route 11, making it PennDOT's problem.

2) Would they sweep it in the middle of the night? Even if they did, would they do it seven nights a week?

What I did was pretty much chalk it up to that time-honored practice of No Parking for No Apparent Reason. We see that a lot, in lots of places.

Why, even some places have a guy to tell you, "Hey, you can't park there!" Those same places never seem to have a guy to tell where you can park, only to tell you where you can't.

Try a church picnic or a volunteer fire company's bazaar next chance you get; they always have a couple guys to tell you, "Hey, you can't park there!" That's all they do, that's their contribution to their cause, making sure people don't park some place for some reason, a reason which is never revealed to us. Until then, try parking there, see what happens. Let me know...

My Friend Andy...

We've been friends for a long, long time - roughly 25 years. Not that we see each other much, not that we gab on the phone much. We don't. The magic of e-mail has managed to help us reunite.

Andy has a blog. Mine is fashioned somewhat upon his blog. He offers his opinions while not asking yours in return. That works for me.

While I don't disrespect your opinions, my idea of a weBLOG is just that, a log, a journal, somewhat of a diary. Girls keep diaries; boys keep logs, or maybe journals, but that's kind of taking a chance..

So, even though it's open to public inspection, it's not open to public input, criticism, or support. Sorry, I don't see that changing any time soon.

Andy's blog today(July 27th)deals succinctly with Hazleton's Illegal Immigration Relief Act being struck down by a federal judge. The ruling by Judge Munley is rock-solid; the act is unconstitutional. Constitutional lawyers have been saying it from the day Hizzoner Barletta put forth this unsound document.

I now know that the judge's ruling is 206 pages long. Not that I intend to read it. I don't have to, there is no need. He's right, Barletta and his supporters are wrong. What they tried to do is simply unconstitutional.

Our constitution is the most precious document this nation possesses. As bold and dramatic as The Declaration of Independence is, The Constitution is what makes our way of governance work. Those who framed The Constitution were determined we be a nation of laws, not a nation of men.

I don't want to see that change.

To think that it could change scares me. A "nation of men" could decide what you and I have for breakfast, what we could and could not read, what prayers we were allowed to offer, should we care to pray at all. A nation of men could even suppress my thinking out loud here on this blog, on your blog, anywhere on the internet, or even down on the corner.

I have no idea what Mayor Barletta's motives are. There is no judgment to be passed here upon what has brought this man to this point in time. Illegal immigration is a problem, make no mistake about my opinion of that. The country is overrun, and it needs to stop. Hazleton City isn't going to stop it, nor is Mr. Barletta, nor are his myriad supporters. It's not the responsibility of any of the aforementioned.

It's the sole responsibility of our federal government, the one to which The Constitution applies on an hourly basis. And I for one am grateful that it does.

It's clearer than a mountain stream that the feds have failed to keep our borders secure. It's the job of that monstrous tangle of our government, our federal government, to control our borders. It's not the job of townships, boroughs, and cities any more than it is the job of your neighborhood block party committee.

Saner minds will realize yesterday's ruling was all about constitutionality and nothing else. Others will continue to view it as an us and them battle.

My sorrow and anguish over that thinking is genuine. There seems little hope it will change.

The next step, I guess, is a trip through the appellate courts, with a long journey to SCOTUS. We're talking years here, maybe a decade or more.

I'll bet the justices of SCOTUS never see a man named Barletta from a pretty little Pennsylvania city standing before them.

The appellate courts will uphold the decision that came from the corner of Linden and N. Washington in Scranton. They'll do so because it was the right decision. Judge Munley is right. That's what Andy says, too.

That's why I like Andy...