Radio on Sunday With Paul...

Don't much recall ever mentioning this man on the blog. The only reason for that is I do believe he likes his privacy. If there's a microsopce nearby, he doesn't want to be under it. Life in TV can be a soap opera, I don't think he ever cared for that component of the biz. Among his many qualities exists a healthy measure of modesty.

This is Paul Stueber. A little picture of a big man. A big man in so many fine ways, so many admirable ways. It's the best photo I could find.

Paul Stueber is a friend. He's also been a mentor, colleague, and he used to be the boss man. In his role as boss, Paul was a protector of sorts in that last job of mine. When Paul went, I knew there was every chance my days were numbered. They, of course, were.

Listen, I don't want to do is lay it on so thick as to embarrass this guy. That being said, you really need to know that he possesses what I consider to be the finest resume that has ever passed through this television market. He is smart, savvy, and "been there and done that" more than anyone I know who has worked, or works now, in the broadcasting business. It really is that straightforward; Paul Stueber is one of a kind.

This coming Sunday, the ever-gracious Paul has invited me to join him on his monthly radio show on WILK. It'll be my pleasure to be right there. I hope you'll listen, if only to learn more about this guy. Noon to 2:00 PM. Paul will lead, I'll follow wherever he wants to go. I look very forward to it.

Lots of Boscoving Today...

Did you Boscov today?

I know, I know. Look, if you're under, say, 45 or so, you probably don't remember the once very familiar radio and TV jingle, "Did You Boscov Today-ay?" You probably had no idea that Boscov could be a verb.

When Boscov's came to town, meaning Wilkes-Barre in this case, it was a big deal. Then Boscov's came to Scranton, then Hazleton, also big deals.

I'd heard lots of great things about this Boscov's place back in the mid and late 70s when living in Williamsport. Williamsport didn't have a Boscov's but there was one in Sunbury. Boscov's impressed enough Williamsporters that they drove over to Sunbury to have a look, came back, and raved about this chain.

(Williamsport then had its very own downtown department store, LL Stearns, now long gone.)

Al Boscov liked to put on a show when he opened a new store. The W-B Grand Opening featured Henny Youngman, Peter Lawford, Dagmar, and Zippy The Chimp.

Youngman was then, this was the early '80s, enjoying a renewal of his career, a career which stretched all the way back to Vaudeville.

"Take my wife...please!" was Youngman's signature one-liner, and this man was recognized across the land as The King of The One-Liners. One-liners were largely all he did, one-liners interrupted by Youngman's screeching a few chords on his ever-present violin.

Then there was Peter Lawford. Peter Lawford was in sore need of what Youngman had, a career restart, perhaps a new career altogether. He was down for the count.

The dashing Englishman, a former Hollywood leading man, an Honest-To-God member of the beyond legendary Rat Pack, wasn't having a good go of things.

Peter Lawford, once married to Patricia Kennedy, sister of JFK, RFK, and Teddy, making him a member of one of the world's most watched and beloved families, was relegated to picking up gigs opening department stores and, I suppose, other small-time venues that paid a couple bucks. The fall from the big rooms of Las Vegas to the Community Room of Wilkes-Barre's Boscov's must be dizzying.

You, me, loads of others, would be tickled peachy pink to get paid to show up at grand openings. You, me, we're not Peter Lawford. You, me, we never had a big Hollywood career. You, me, we never spent weekends at those six acres in Hyannis on Nantucket Sound known to the world simply as The Compound.

As to the other two headliners, Dagmar and Zippy The Chimp, you can Google them if you're of a mind.

So, how do I know all this stuff? Simple. I was there.

Working for WARM at the time, the radio station played a a big role in publicizing Boscov's W-B Grand Opening. My contribution, for which there was indeed compensation, was doing my early mid-day show for a couple days live from the front doors of Boscov's on South Main.

Never did see Youngman, or Dagmar, or Zippy. Lawford, yes, I saw him just fine, right up close and personal. I had the opportunity to interview Peter Lawford. Lawford was clearly in rough shape, yet he was charming, cordial, pleasant, and just plain nice. Peter Lawford died a little over a year after that interview. Peter Lawford died on a Christmas Eve.

So, did I Boscov today? Why, yes, I did Boscov today, Pearl Harbor Day of 2008. And what to my wondering eyes did appear?

A fully jammed parkade!

Well, you can just deck my halls all to heck. There wasn't a spot to be found on the first pass, not on the second pass, but I managed to wiggle into what I believe to be a space on our third trip around. The store was crowded and employees were smiling. The employees we had the pleasure of dealing with were quick to tell us how much they loved Mr. Boscov. We were quick to tell them we loved their store, and that we couldn't remember the last time their parkade was full.

Working literally next door to the entrance ramp to that parkade for twenty years, I could easily recall many a week or so before Christmases past, days and nights when you'd without fail find a blocks' long traffic jam waiting to "Boscov." Maybe Santa will bring a few of those this year.

I sure hope so.

Time For A New Toy...

Men, boys, prices of toys. We've all heard the variations a bunch of times.

"The only difference between men and boys is the price of their toys."

It's pretty much it. Christmas means toys, or perhaps just one new toy. I never boxed it into Christmas alone. If I needed a new toy, I went out and got me one.

There never seemed to be any pattern to when the need for a toy would arise, when that itch would first start needing a good scratch. One day, one minute, one thought would enter your head. That visiting electrical impulse popped the kernel of a seemingly unecessary yearning for a new toy.

Once it's in your head, you're really not happy until the toy is in your hand. You can, however, wait it out and stare it down, which I've honest to God done a few times. There have been times I just had to have a thing, a toy. Instead of running out and buying "it," I showed some self restraint, self-control, and waited until the urge faded. And it will...if you wait.

A whole bunch of my acquaintances have a GPS in their car or truck. They love them.

Or maybe loved is more like it.

Seems that the biggest shortcoming of a GPS is that once you come to the painful realization that you don't drive somewhere unknown five to seven times weekly, and that most of the America we know is fairly well-marked, a GPS is more a novelty, and amazing one at that, than anything else. It's a toy. The biggest appeal of that unit sucking on to the inside of your windshield could be to someone on the outside of your windshield who might want to walk away with it.

I toughed it out. Probably for the better part of nine months now, I denied the urge. Then, just within the last couple weeks I awoke to a day where the smoldering want for a GPS was gone, it was over, it had passed. Patience had paid a dividend, brought its own reward, which is me not throwing money away on something, a toy, that will serve no purpose, fulfill no practical need. Phewwwfff, that was close.

I want a set of drums.

I've always wanted drums. A real set of drums, with a real bass, a couple of attached Toms, a floor Tom, one hellacious snare, and some big crashing cymbals. Give me a couple pair of sticks and cut me loose. OK, there is no need for a big honking drum set like the one on the right. Maybe a simpler set, as seen below, would do just fine.

One problem, I don't play drums. Nor do I play any other musical instrument you might name. I have no musical ability.

Where to start?

One paragraph ought to pretty much cover things. See, I have no musical ability whatsoever. Despite loving music forever, despite growing up in a music loving family, despite trying several instruments in my life, and that would include paying for lessons, I can't play a thing.

So, why drums?

I figure it this way - I am never going to play in a band, never going to perform solo, never have to amuse anyone but myself with a set of drums. The added benefit, of course, is even lacking an ounce of talent, I might be able to make some sense of the drums, some recognizable beats, some rhythm.

I actually know more than a few guys who can pound on drums and make them sound good. These are guys who don't read a note of music, never took a lesson. These are guys who just got tired of tapping on table tops and glasses with spoons and forks, then went out and bought some drums.

Then, just last evening, I remembered once having a neighbor who used to beat on his drums in their attached garage. I remembered how, when he'd first start to "practice," you would have sworn someone had just tossed seven or eight galvanized garbage cans out into the street from an attic window. You had to listen with some intensity to make out a vague repetitive noise that would indicate drums, and not the township's recyclable truck doing a rollover nearby.

Yeah, a small set ought to do it.

Charming, just charming...

From my old pal Michael Neff, I share this present - his list of favorite and deeply troubling Christmas songs. I swear, all of them, each of them, every single one, is actually a song...

Michael writes: Vince -Every year, I look forward to playing these highly-depressing songs. And, answering the suicidal calls that follow. *special note* - These are REAL songs!

The Little Boy That Santa Forgot - Nat King Cole

(" ... he's such a sad little laddie, 'cause he hasn't got a Daddy")

Daddy, Don't Get Drunk This Christmas - John Denver

(" ... don't make Mama cry, as you get high on beer and wine, that's why she's cryin' all the time")

Christmas In Jail - various country artists
(" ... he's spendin' Christmas in jail, 'cause what he did with a gun, it just wasn't fun, and now he can't make bail")

The Lost Puppy - Terry Clark

(" ... the puppy I got today, it just up and ran away, so please bring him back to my toddler, as that's what you ought to do, so my baby's dying wish can come true")

Santa Got A DWI - Gretchen Swinn

(" ... the reason Santa didn't come this year, like your no-good Daddy, he had too much beer, so go ahead and cry, Santa got a DWI")

Mama's Gone On Santa's Sleigh - The Cartwrights

(" ... when the kids ask why Mama died on Christmas, this is what I say, she went to be with Papa, she left that day on Santa's sleigh")

The Ring That Broke The Circle - Patty Lovelle

(" ... the ring he gave me for Christmas, I couldn't accept like this, I couldn't tell him that the baby, it just wasn't his)

Not having to listen to any one of the above should give us all cause for great joy and contentment this holiday season.

Just Who Is This Guy?

OK, not exactly a matter of serious concern, not a pressing issue in today's troubled world, but just something that annoys me a bit.

Over the past weekend I've heard this guy alternately called...

The Big Guy - The Man - The Jolly Old Elf Himself.

Let me first say that I love the idea of a benevolent and giving being who manages to cover the entire planet in under a day with gifts for good little girls and boys. It would delight me no end if such a being existed. It's the neatest thing most of us can imagine, which must explain our never ending fascination with Santa.

Then we have the following...

Saint Nicholas - Father Christmas - Kris Kringle

Whatever you call him, he flies through the sky in a sleigh pulled by eight reindeer. Eight TINY reindeer.

TINY is the point here. Clement Moore wrote, "...a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer."

He then wrote, "With a little old driver, so lively and quick,I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick."

Santa Claus, the Santa we as Americans know, the Santa given us by Clement Moore in his wonderful poem mentioned in another post, is an elf.

If that's not enough, Moore again tells us, "He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf..."

Is "elf" PC? Yes, I do believe so, because it's not meant to define or describe a being of human origin.

Instead, and this is from Teutonic mythology, the elf was originally thought to be a minor strain of nature, often males and females of great beauty. They were believed to live in deep forests and underground places, like caves. They often lived in wells and springs. For whatever reason, we sent one to The North Pole, whether magnetic or geographic or terrestrial North Pole.

Possessing magical power, the elf was believed very real for a long, long time.

But an elf is an elf, and elf is small, diminuitive, stature deprived, not big. How do you suppose his sliding down a chimney was justified? Sheesh.

I once won a cash bet based on Santa being an elf. No fewer than three people thought I was drinking my own bathwater in insisting he was an elf, a little being. I actually went and got a book with Moore's poem and shoved it in their, well, shoved it in their faces and said, "Look, look right here, Santa Claus is an elf, E-L-F. Get it?"

Is there a point here? Does there have to be? It's a couple days before Thanksgiving, so the time seemed right to unload my unhealthy feelings about Santa being inaccurately described. Doing so a few days before The Fourth of July wouldn't work as well. It's all about timing.

I feel better already.

Now, stuff and tamp that in your pipe and smoke it, which in itself is another matter; Santa smokes. Discuss as you will.

It's Not All About You...

***Please Note: I wrote this way back when I first started this blog but never posted it for various reasons. Taking a second look at it recently, it seemed worth tossing out there, especially for TV types.***


That's what she said. Looking over the tops of her half-lens readers, while not looking up her from her laptop and in my eye, that's what she said.

She said, "It's not all about you, Vince."

Her trace drippy Texas twang made "Vince" come out more like "Vayyyhhhnce." I didn't like this woman. It wasn't the Texas twang, either.

This was our second meeting - I didn't like her from our first. Why? She was a boob, that's why. She was a fashion consultant masquerading as a talent coach. They're not one and the same. Somehow, she'd fooled others into believing they were. Maybe it was that Texas twang, maybe it made her sort of a "swait thaing," know what I mean?

She was very organized, probably over-organized.

Organization Is The Sign of A Weak Mind. I saw it on a sign one time - I've witnessed it firsthand countless times along the streets and avenues of life. She was organized, proper, a bit haughty. She was all that and a bag of BBQ Fritos.

I'd been coached by talent consultants several times over my TV years. A few times in radio, too.

Here's how it works; someone who thinks they know more than you steps into your life and tells how to get better than you are. It's pretty standard stuff.

Never mind that near none of them ever worked eight minutes in front of a camera. I guess they'd read all the books, consumed every shred of research, and found that dream job of showing guys like me a better way to do things. Maybe they were all blessed, gifted.

Or maybe they were latter day snakeoil sales consultants whose major skill was knowing how to manipulate the system. I'm going with that.

My suspicions began when I realized that everything she was suggesting I do was the polar opposite of what every other coach/consultant before her had told me. But, I held my tongue, kept my counsel, shut the pie-hole. It was a struggle.

My instincts were to stop her cold and say, "You're a goddammed fraud, and you know it, don't you?"

I didn't. I listened. But sometimes people just don't know when to stop. They force the issue. The pick, they poke, then they keep poking at that beehive until the swarm takes their face.

"And I really need to talk to you about that outfit. The shirt, tie, and suit are completely mismatched.

My fuse had been smoldering some, now it was sizzling, speeding, heading towards detonation.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Hey, how's that for a show-stopper?

"I said they do not match." Now her eyebrows were arched a bit, as was that Texas twang.

"They match perfectly! In fact, when I picked up the suit, the mens' shop owner tossed in the shirt and tie for free. Of course they match, they match like they came out of GQ."

I could see her hands twitch. The Yellow Rose of Texas was not accustomed to a challenge. She was taking a second to compose herself. I fired another round before she could take aim.

"Look, my wife has exquisite taste. Do you think for a second that she'd let me wear an outfit that looked bad. Besides, I know how to dress myself quite well."

It was the mention of my wife that did it. I knew it immediately. I'd called her on her fashion sense, told her my wife's was equally as good, maybe even better. I awaited a Texas Stampede.

Instead, things got really weird. She went into what I can only describe as a sort of semi-trance in which she began repeating affirmations in a somewhat unsettling, at least to me, mantra-like state.

Tex here had apparently been through some sort of self-help program and paid big bucks to learn this exercise. She wasn't going to let me get the best of her. No sir, especially not a Yankee like me.

Spooky as it was, it was short-lived. In under a minute she was back into her laptop, this time criticizing my performance in front of the camera, telling me that I moved around too much, that I was too animated.

(It's television, you're supposed to move. Otherwise, you might as well be part of an oil painting. Like the one of Lincoln on his death bed, the one with seventeen dozen people in the room. If they'd all really been in that one room, the building would have collapsed.)

"Well, of course I move around. I've been doing that for years, it's how I work."

That one went unanswered. Now, it was my hair she didn't like.

"You need to freshen up your hair style, it's too long. I'd like you to get out today and have it cut much, much shorter."

"Yeah, well I'd like you to suck my shorts, sister." That one went unspoken. No words were really necessary.

We were clearly at war.

She was subduing her human instincts with some sludge she'd picked up at a three-day "You Can Turn Your Life Around" seminar that likely cost her five or six grand. I was climbing back into the trees, looking for a hard banana to lob at her.

"Look, you really need to understand something: It's not all about you, Vayyyhhhnce."

You wanna bet? Her comes that hard banana.

"You look," I snarl through gritted teeth, "it is all about me, all of it is about me. It is all about me, and each and every one of us who work in front of the camera."

And I ain't near done yet. That was only my warm-up banana...

"You've got no idea what the hell you're talking about, do you? People out there can get weather anywhere. But they don't get it anywhere. They get it here. Why? Because I'm here, that's why. That makes it all about me, now doesn't it? TV is a popularity contest, whether you like it or not. The more people that like you, the more that watch you. Have you bothered to take a look at the research on me? You couldn't have. If you had, you'd know it was all about me."

With that, I was done, spent, and in full realization that I had just lost control, which was really stupid. I've long been my own worst enemy. Damn, I was angry, mostly with myself for launching on Tex, who was now mumbling, sputtering, and generally looking like she was going to come apart at any instant. I was even more POed at myself for saying such idiotic, immodest, boastful crud. True as it all was, I was ashamed of myself.

The meeting was over. I walked away. I don't know what she did. Maybe she sent out for a Xanax hoagie. She wasn't happy. Tough dog turds, neither was I.

As I often say, all good stories need a beginning, a middle, and an end. Here comes the end.

It took awhile before the realization fell upon me that she'd been encouraged to rough me up, to whack at me like a pinata. My immediate superior(which he was not in any sense of the word)wanted me gone, wanted to fire me...he couldn't. He need some ammo to convince corporate that I was a liability. I was not. I was one of the best things they had, and that's not a lack of modesty, that's verifiable, certifiable truth.

But it was inevitable. He got me. First, a demotion. Five years later, I was fired. All in all, it took five years, by which time he was gone, he'd been fired. So, who won?

Tex and me had one more encounter...a very pleasant one at that.

We were at a station sponsored cocktail hour. She sat next to me. She smiled. I smiled back. She said something nice about the suit I was wearing. I thanked her properly. We had a bit of a chat, all small-talk and nothing more.

Yet sure as I sit here writing this, I sat right next to Tex that night and knew, just knew, that she'd felt very guilty about attacking me on orders from him, the guy who wanted me gone. All was well between me and Tex after all.

"Obama said they also want to adopt a puppy from an animal shelter..."

Dear Mr. Obama;

Greetings and congratulations from the heart of NE PA!

Now that you've brought the subject up, sir, I think you're pretty much stuck with it.

While we can't offer either, or both, of these two gorgeous pups, we always have others. See, these little babies were adopted about a month or so ago, but they were indeed in our shelter and in our tender loving care for a time.

OK, I know there are hundreds(at least)of other animal shelters in the mid-Atlantic region of the USA, and I know there are thousands of homeless dogs out there worthy of your consideration, but if I failed to publicly ask, that would make me derelict in my duty. So, here I am asking.

You're on record as saying you want to adopt from a shelter. Surely you'll want to stick with that idea, it's a noble one at that, and a really nice thing to do. How about from our shelter?

If you'll adopt from us at The SPCA of Luzerne County, I'll pay the adoption fee as my inaugural present to you, the First Lady, and your loving daughters.

You have friends around here. Joe Biden, Bobby Casey, they're both from right up the road and they can probably attest to what a great organization this is. You and Senator Casey ate waffles one morning very near our shelter. Listen, when you come to pick up that puppy, breakfast is also on me. Hope to hear from you soon!

Oh, would you consider adopting a couple of really beautiful kitties, too? Thank you...