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.