Category: Uncategorized
I Hope Trump Was Right About Detroit
I hope Donald Trump was right when he thought he was insulting Detroit, while speaking here, predicting if Kamala Harris beats him in the presidential election, declaring, “Our whole country will end up being like Detroit if she’s your president.”
I hope he’s right. Harris should hope so too, and campaign on that hope.
My love affair with the Motor City began in 1989, although it wasn’t love at first sight.
After eight years working at CNN at its Atlanta, Georgia headquarters launching Headline News, producing thousands of news casts, being promoted to correspondent and anchor, it was time for a change.
That change came when CNN Detroit’s first bureau chief/reporter, the inimitable Robert Vito, was appointed to lead the network’s bureau in Rome.
Few people wanted to take his place because Detroit was, y’know, a scary, cold, murderous, nasty place. At least that was its reputation.
I’m a native New Yorker. That kind of stuff doesn’t deter me. So I applied for the job and got it.
In the weeks before I made the move, idiots in the newsroom gave me shit warning me to buy an Uzi and other small arms with which to defend my kith and kin.
But there were also a couple of folks who actually had lived and worked in Detroit and told me to ignore the morons, one predicting, “once you live there you’re never gonna wanna leave. Just give it time and explore.”
When I asked why they left, they both said it was simply a matter of seizing career opportunities but they missed the place badly and visited often.
So we moved. It wasn’t great at first. We went from a split-level house that eventually took us nine months to sell because the Atlanta market was over-built, to a rental townhouse in suburban Farmington Hills that had plenty of room but lots of, um, rodents and at least one hooker as a neighbor.
It was colder, more cloudy and at the time Detroit’s downtown was fairly run down. But I kept remembering what those folks told me about giving it time and exploring. So we did.
As the new Detroit bureau chief and correspondent my prime coverage responsibility would be, of course, the auto industry.
CNN founder Ted Turner said he established the Detroit Bureau in 1983 because he wanted to be close to the most important industry in the world. The bureau was also in the basement of PBS station WTVS a couple of blocks from the old General Motors headquarters in Detroit’s New Center area. Again, Turner put it there because he wanted CNN’s Detroit Bureau to be near the biggest company in the most important industry in the world.
I quickly found out something perhaps Turner didn’t know about Detroit and the auto industry—how warm and welcoming both could be, especially if you showed some humility and a willingness to learn, which I did.
My new charges at the bureau instantly made me feel welcomed and were kind enough to drive me around the area as I considered places to live and explained the mile road system.
Now don’t get that confused with the “southern charm” I was used to in Georgia. Let’s just say Detroit has its own vernacular—meaning a directness that one could mistake denotes rudeness.
Example. My first real contact with the auto industry was interviewing the top numbers cruncher for Ford. He was a crusty guy two months from his retirement. When I sat down to begin the interview he barked at me, “okay, you’re new, you don’t know anything. Just shut the hell up, listen to what I say and get it right.”
I did on all accounts and after my story aired he called me, now speaking in a much friendlier tone and laughed, saying, “scared the shit out of you, didn’t I? But you did real good. Welcome to Detroit.”
Yes. I needed to give Detroit a chance.
After that I was invited to attend and to speak at a number of events where industry and PR poohbahs gave me warm welcomes.
I was even invited, several times, to appear on the radio with legendary WJR morning giant, the late J.P. McCarthy, where he’d give me gentle shit about the media bashing Detroit. I won him over by changing the subject, telling him anecdotes about Ted Turner sometimes appearing the Atlanta newsroom in a bathrobe after spending the night in his office upstairs after a particularly rough evening of, er, personal enjoyment.
I was honored to be one of McCarty’s final guests on his Focus segment the week of his last shows before he retired.
Over the years my family and I discovered the beautiful suburbs, the wonders of Michigan and above all, the friendliness of its people. We also reveled in the genius of the hard-working citizens who constantly push the boundaries of technology, mobility, education and culture.
In January, 2001 CNN’s parent company completed what would end up being a disastrous merger with AOL, and the company closed bureaus and laid off about a thousand of us in one fell swoop. I was one of them.
So now a choice had to be made. Where to go to continue to make a living. Our two kids were still in school and we very much wanted to avoid uprooting them.
But in the end it wasn’t really a question of moving. My family said they love it here. The Detroit area has everything you could want—schools, shopping, recreation, culture, major league sports teams. Why move?
There weren’t any TV jobs for me so I re-invented myself as a print reporter. Again, Detroit came through for me.
The Associated Press Detroit bureau chief Charles Hill needed a national auto writer and I had place my resume on a journalism job website. He was skeptical a TV guy could actually write—typical bias against broadcast journalists—but gave me a chance.
Yes, there was a learning curve, but again, Detroit came through for me. My editor, Randi Berris and supervisor, Mike Householder, held my hand, broke me of some TV habits and were so, so patient and supportive.
It led to being recruited by The Detroit News to be the General Motors beat writer and three years later, tapped by then DaimlerChrysler PR chief Jason Vines to ghost write and manage his new blog. That job eventually grew to the creation of a new digital communications team which I was appointed to lead until I retired in 2016.
Even after I retired, the opportunities kept coming. I was recruited to use my many years of broadcast journalism experience to help out the Automotive News with its twice-daily newscasts.
That ran its course and I was immediately approached by a former Chrysler colleague at Franco PR to work as a consultant and at the same time, the Forbes Detroit bureau chief asked me if I’d like to be a freelance automotive contributor. That was in 2018 and I’m still working those two part-time gigs, which I thoroughly enjoy.
You see a theme here? Detroit represents open-mindedness, opportunity, fulfillment. My kids are adults but they’re still here. We didn’t skip town upon retirement. Indeed we bought a bigger house.
We live exactly one minute from a magnificent trail that connects with others for many, many miles where we often walk or bike ride.
We’re surrounded by lakes and are only 20 minutes from the Huron River where I often paddle in my kayak.
My daughter and boyfriend have also recently introduced me to the magnificent sport of disc golf. Who knew there were so many wonderful courses in the Detroit area—most of which charge no fee?
Detroit has become internationally renowned for its eclectic restaurant scene with restaurants led by adventurous chefs conjuring meals and experiences delighting diners with tastes that range from basic American fried stuff to gourmet dishes delving into an array of elements and cultures.
Thousands of new homes, apartments, townhouses and condos are opening or under construction, aimed at attracting new full-time residents to the city.
Take a look at Detroit’s skyline. That new Hudsons block skyscraper is a metaphor for the new heights our town is reaching.
Leave the Detroit area, leave Michigan? Are you freakin’ crazy?
So listen, Kamala Harris. If you become President of the United States, you would do well to make much of the country a lot like Detroit. And Trump? You were too stupid to know the insult you intended was actually a compliment.
Simplifying Self-Help
Do you rely on so-called “self-help” books to improve whatever it is you want to improve? About eight years ago I wrote about why I don’t think much of them and my unexpected reply to a college student who asked me following a speech I gave, what self-help book I would recommend to improve relationships with co-workers. It’s in the blog post to which I’ve linked.
Lately I started thinking about self-help books again for a couple of reasons. For one, while in a book store, I noticed they’re not called “self-help” books anymore, but rather less obtuse categories such as “self-improvement” or “life-improvement.”
Do those alternative categories soften the realization that one might need actual help in some area of their lives? If so, why is that necessary? There’s no shame in seeking help and we can all certainly stand to improve.
But it falls under a growing trend de-sensitize the truth. It sounds kinda harsh to say we need “help,” and clothing for larger folks is no longer labeled “plus sizes” but rather “comfort fit.” That’s fine. Self-esteem is important and I take no issue with attempts to help individuals feel better about themselves.
That leads to my main point. Self-help, or self-improvement, whichever you prefer, is much simpler than the myriad books and magazine articles make it seem. There’s no need to fill hundreds of pages with many thousands of words.
Self-help can be as simple as self-control. See? Two words.
Let’s take it further by drastically simplifying other subjects of bloated self-help books.
Marie Kondo has made a career with books and TV shows about organizing. I can boil organizing down to six words: “Throw things out. Put things away.” There. Simple.
How about leading a healthier life? So many millions of words blather on about this diet or that lifestyle. I’ll save you a lot of time with this word diet:
“Don’t eat crap. Get enough sleep. Get more exercise.”
Oh, I love the riot of rhetoric about how to get along better at work. This one is near and dear to me because I find workplaces can be one of the worst environments for spending the valuable time we have on Earth.
For this one I’m a little more expansive:
“Focus on your task. Be willing to listen more than speak at meetings. Don’t gossip. Ignore assholes. Office coffee is gross. Bring your own.”
I love the many books out there on how to negotiate—whether it’s a pay raise, business deal, price on a new car.
I’ll negotiate that issue thusly and succinctly:
“Know what you want. Know what you’ll accept. Don’t accept any less. Be willing to walk away.”
One of the more popular topics of self-help books is on relieving stress. I find plowing through hundreds of pages to find the answer is stressful, so I’ll pare it down to a less-stressful volume.
Big task ahead? “Break it down to its parts and complete one at a time rather than look at one big giant task ahead.”
Deadline? “No problem. When the deadline arrives you’re finished so you know you don’t have to live with the task beyond that. So stay focused, get it done, then relax.”
Bigger credit card bill than you can afford? “See what you can return. Pay it down over time. Learn the lesson and don’t do it again.”
See? I just boiled down five types of self-help books to a handful of words. Most of the help we need is not all that complicated and easy to understand if you don’t muck it up with pages and pages of blah, blah, blah.
Indeed, I’ll offer this brief self-help for would -be authors of future self-help books: “Keep it simple. Make it clear. Kill fewer trees.”
I’m telling you, we could shrink the self-help, or self-improvement, book store and library sections to maybe one shelf of single-sheets of concise advice.
It could work—so help me.
Detroit’s Multi-Towering Conundrum–The Renaissance Center’s Dark Ages
What do you do with seven giant glass tubes sticking out of the ground that happen to be the most famous and distinctive feature of your city’s skyline? That’s the question folks around Detroit are asking ever since General Motors CEO Mary Barra announced the company is moving its world headquarters out of the Renaissance Center next year to a new building about a mile north.
Some say tear it all down. Barra promised GM and the developer still putting the finishing touches on the building to which the automaker is moving will work to, um, reimagine the colossal architectural beast.
Yes, I call it a beast that should actually never have been imagined.
Some context. I lived in Atlanta for eight years in the 1980’s when I worked for CNN. It’s where I saw the first iteration of what would grow to become the actual center of the Renaissance Center.
You see, the architect John Portman built his first tubular monstrosity in the city of a hundred streets with Peachtree in their names…and now, one hotel..the Peachtree Plaza. The single glass tube instantly became the key feature of Atlanta’s skyline, showcased in every image of the growing city’s downtown.
The first time I landed in Atlanta for my interview at CNN in 1981, I looked north from the terminal and saw that thing sticking up like a 12-year boy’s first real boner. The city Sherman burnt down was rising again and finally reaching puberty.
Thankfully, over the years, as Atlanta grew, so did its skyline and Portman’s glass pipette is less prominent.
Here in Detroit Henry Ford II, the Deuce, figured he’d more than double what Portman planted in Dixie and, together with Detroit leaders, commissioned the architect to duplicate Atlanta’s Peachtree Plaza, but then surround it with four octagonal office buildings all connected by a network of passageways that would challenge even the most accomplished spelunkers.
The new Renaissance Center, or RenCen, would become the symbol of Detroit…the Renaissance City. Planted on the banks of the Detroit River, facing Windsor, Canada, the RenCen overshadowed and loomed over older landmark downtown buildings such as the Penobscot and Guardian to herald the Motor City’s vitality and prominence, or at least assert it.
If anything, the RenCen was a photogenic feature that made for effective marketing materials.
Less than 20 years later it all went bad.
In 1989 I was transferred by CNN from Atlanta to Detroit to become its new bureau chief and correspondent. The company had me spend a few days getting to know the staff and the city before moving here. They put me up in what was then the Omni Hotel in the Millender Center…connected to the RenCen by a short pedestrian bridge over Jefferson Avenue.
Of course, I had heard of the RenCen and decided, one evening, to explore this famous landmark. As soon as I entered it from the pedway I felt like a piece of dust might feel as it’s sucked into the collection bag of a Hoover. It was dark and directionless, with scant chance of quick escape.
If I was a mouse seeking a piece of cheese I would starve before finding the morsel since there was no apparent logic to the labyrinth’s layout. I wasn’t dumb enough to attempt to explore the complex because it was just too, well, complex. So I returned, disappointed, to my hotel room.
Not long after I moved up to Detroit and was with my camera crew, I returned with them to the RenCen to shoot an interview with a prominent economist at Comerica Bank which had offices in one of the towers. We weaved in and out between the towers and concourses searching for the right tube to ascend to reach our destination. We were late. We apologized. The economist laughed as he said, “This place sucks. Everyone gets lost…the first dozen times they come here.”
Another time, years later, as I was heading to a meeting a very upset man came up to me. “You look like you know your way around. Please, I heard there’s an ATM here. Can you direct me?”
Deciding this person was an honest Joe who did not deserve to have his hopes and dreams crushed, I looked him in the eye and said, “Sir. Even if I told you, you’d never find it. There’s a bank right across the street. Just head for the daylight of the exit and never stop. I want you to see your family again.”
The man instantly did as he was told. He knew. The RenCen’s tubes would suck you up like bacteria in a test lab.
The place not only didn’t make sense, but it wasn’t making any money as tenants fled to locations where employees, customers and clients could reasonably expect to find their destinations without the utter frustration of being caught in a glass and concrete hamster cage.
Just as it was given up for dead, in 1996 GM bought the place at a bargain rate and moved its world headquarters there from an historic building a couple of miles north. The automaker saved the day. Instantly, thousands of people occupied offices, supported the stores and restaurants. The RenCen had a new life!
Not so fast. Shortly after GM made the move we had an interview booked with then GM CEO Jack Smith. Nice guy. The interview was for our annual auto show special and our producer wanted to use lots of lights.
We plugged ‘em in. Our lights, and all the lights on the floor, went out. Guess the building wasn’t quite ready for prime time…or any time that required extra voltage. It took a few minutes, but the electricians did their magic and we smartly reduced our lighting scheme.
Smith was cool about it. “I guess there’s still some work to be done,” he said with an embarrassed chuckle.
There was plenty of work still to be done.
GM poured millions upon millions to finally take some of the mystery of navigating the maze with a simple innovation called the circulation ring. No more weaving in and out. Take the ring like a big traffic roundabout and bail out when you reached the exit closest to your destination. The big berms that walled off the complex from the rest of the city were torn down and the soaring Wintergarden was built, offering a bright gathering venue and passageway to the Detroit River.
Then Covid hit. People started working from home. The RenCen returned to its ghostly, pre-GM silence. After the pandemic abated, Barra said workers needed to return three days a week, but by then many of them had already relocated to other GM facilities and others just never returned.
It became time to find a smaller place for the automaker to park.
So what to do with it when Mary and all her sheep settle in their new pasture?
Some say to knock it down. Others imagine apartments, condos, restaurants, some commercial space.
In another era, it might have served well as a garrison guarding Detroit against hostile canon fire from gunboats on the Detroit River. Ah..Fort Renaissance! Tower 400 forever! We have secured the circulation ring! Remember the Marriott! It’s enough to make one forget the Alamo, which is much, much smaller and has an expensive gift shop.
Only because I’m semi-retired and have the time, I think about the future of the Renaissance Center. To demolish it would just add tons of waste to the environment. To save it would just leave tons of waste above ground where at least squatters could literally lose themselves for awhile.
Maybe get Carvana to turn one of the towers into its most giant vehicle vending machine. Wouldn’t you love to see your late model Buick do a swan dive from the 39th floor? Good way to test its shocks.
Offer bungie and parachute jumping over the river. Just make sure you packed your passport in case the winds make you wind up in Windsor.
Fill one tower with infused water for all those enjoying Detroit’s magnificent River Walk. Lotsa taps all around the tower where walkers, joggers, cyclists could fill their Stanley cups, less than a mile from where the Detroit Red Wings won their Stanley Cups. Joe Louis Arena is long gone but the ground remains hallowed. Hey…it’s all marketing, go with it.
In reality, the RenCen will probably become the banal “mixed-use” property with a variety of residences, hotels, stores, restaurants and maybe once in a while, sponsored races around the circulation ring.
I can’t wait to see how Mary Barra and master developer Dan Gilbert will reimagine the RenCen, because love it or hate it, it would be a colossal shame if our city’s signature bundle of glass towers was allowed to go down the tubes.
A Striking Difference
I don’t get out much…to cover stories, that is. Being semi-retired, freelancing for Forbes.com, I knock out most of my stories from the comfort of my home office, conducting interviews over Zoom or Teams or whatever electronic method allows me to wear sweatpants below a more suitable shirt.
But when you’re a news guy, no matter how old, there’s something you never lose—the urge to actually be out where the action is.
I’ve been covering the UAW strike against GM, Ford and Stellantis pretty much the way I described above, but the other day I decided I had to put on actual pants, and shoes, and ran down to Ford’s giant assembly plant in Wayne, Mich. In suburban Detroit, about a 30 minute drive from my house.
I told my editor I was out for “pictures and perspective.” What I really wanted was, yes, pictures, but to speak face-to-face with striking workers, learn their stories, find out why walking off the job was worth any financial sacrifice and yes, to smell the fires in those barrels along the picket lines where picketers could find a little warmth. They all smell the same and I like it.
I spoke with a guy wearing a reflective vest and a huge smile. His name is Roger. Said he’s just three months from retirement and could have easily just ridden out his time, but he told me it was worth spending time on the line to try to win financial security for, as he called them “the young ones.”
Roger told me the aggressive tactics taken by UAW president Shawn Fain were unlike anything his predecessors had attempted and at first “he scared the hell out of me.” But now Roger can’t wait to see if it all pays off.
I spoke with a woman who didn’t want to give me her name. No problem. I told her whatever insight and information she could offer was more important than her name. “OK, cool,” she said, now more relaxed. “I don’t care if we don’t get everything Shawn’s demanding, but just something better than we have now. We gotta get something.”
You don’t get this stuff sitting in your basement in front of a computer and I’d be out there every day except I’m not a full-time reporter anymore, after a certain number of stories I don’t get paid and working for free’s not the kind of charity the IRS will let me deduct.
I do think how things have changed, mainly due to technology, social media and the economy.
In 1998, when I was CNN’s Detroit Bureau Chief and correspondent I covered the entire 54-day strike at two GM parts plants in Flint, Mich. Resulting the automakers shutting down completely, costing it $3 billion after taxes.
We were out there every single day. On the picket lines, at the union halls, on the phone. Facebook and social media weren’t yet invented. The UAW president couldn’t go live, neither side posted details of their demands, offers and counter-offers. You got what you got from digging, from sources, from gumshoe reporting.
Working at CNN meant also doing about a billion live shots. I stood at a corner in front of Flint Metal Stamping for hours and hours knocking out one live shot after another, for CNN, for Headline News, for CNN International, for CNN affiliates.
Makes it hard to get any reporting done. I’d have to tell the sound tech to kill my mic so I couldn’t be heard over the satellite feed. Then I’d quickly make a call or two in between live shots to try to dig up some new nugget of news I could report.
Frequently, other reporters on the scene would stop and listen to what I was saying to see if they were either missing anything or if I was fulla shit.
I remember two of my friendly competitors—one at the AP, the other at USA Today paying especially close attention as I was on the air. You must know print reporters are contemptuous of broadcast journalists, figuring we’re all about hair and make up and not about honest reporting.
When I got off the air, they walked up to me and actually said, “we were listening to you and everything you said was right.” Well, why wouldn’t it be? Since we were friends they took no umbrage when I shot back, “bet you wish you could say that about your stories.” All’s fair on a breaking story.
That strike went on so long it actually jeopardized a promise I had made to my the, 10-year old daughter. Remember, this was 1998. The Spice Girls were huge. I had scored free tickets to their show at the late, great Palace of Auburn Hills, about a 30-minute drive down I-75 from Flint.
CNN, bless ’em, understood the gravity of the situation and actually sent in a reporter to relive me while I dashed down the freeway, took my daughter to see Baby, Sporty, Posh, and Scary—Ginger had just left the group, sad. It was, to that moment, the best day of her short life. Then I ran back up to reclaim my spot staking out the endless contract talks.
When the merciful end of the two-month ordeal was about to come to an end, there were no social media posts, no Tweets, or whatever they’re called now, no Facebook Live webcasts.
The most plugged-in reporters got tips on their phones from their best sources, then, to make it more official, a guy came running out of the Holiday Inn where the talks were going on and yelled, “hey! Press conference in 30 minutes! Get inside and set up!” That’s all we needed. So analog! So fun.
There’s something about being outside, on the scene, building relationships, swapping tips on where to get the best sub sandwiches for lunch. The folks at the plants ALWAYS know the best lunch spots. It’s never a chain place.
The guy at the local deli named for the guy who owned it was freakin’ Picasso of subs. Best bread, best meat, best cheese, best bullshit to share when picking it up. Wasn’t always bullshit. The great sandwich guy was also a great listener and often picked up tips he’d exchange for tips.
You don’t get that stuff sitting at a laptop or scrolling emails and texts on your phone. Sure, it’s convenient and fast, but it’s not as fun, and I bet the chainstore sandwich you ordered from Doordash sucked compared to the Stradivarius of Subs wrapped in wax paper with a fat pickle tucked in by the guy at the deli by the plant.
Well, it was fun getting out for a morning, chatting with folks just hoping to get their share of the bounty and a better life. Made my life better too…before I descended back to the basement.
An Open Letter to the UAW and Detroit 3 Automakers
Dear Contract Combatants:
I’m writing to you to request you move the expiration date of your labor contracts because it conflicts with a date related to my domestic bliss and continued marital comity.
You see, my wife and I were married on September 15th, 1973 about 370 miles east of Detroit in our native state of New York.
We were but 21 at the time and not yet even experienced enough in our careers to call us “green” meaning we had no congizance whatsoever of your quadrennial exercise in contractual Hunger Games.
We led fine and happy lives through our early married life, always approaching celebration our anniversary with happy anticipation and thoughts of expensive gifts and meals.
But in 1989 that all changed. CNN transferred me up to the Motor City from Atlanta to take over as the bureau chief and correspondent at the network’s Detroit Bureau. We covered a wide region and variety of stories from suicide doctor Jack Kevorkian to hurricanes, crime, medicine, government…everything, including, of course, the auto industry. Indeed CNN founder Ted Turner created the Detroit Bureau to cover, as he accurately called it, “the biggest industry in the world.”
That meant covering the contract talks between you guys and of course the contracts always expired on either September 14th or 15th. Since you almost never reached a tentative agreement by the expiration date we beat reporters would get stuck awaiting the white smoke to appear languishing, sleeping, filing, doing thumbsucker live shots, killing time until something happened.
Yes, you automakers fed us well. Any reporter of a certain vintage will not forget GM providing an almost endless supply of Dove Bars.
Good eatin’ but it kept me away from home on our anniversary which caused a combination of disappointment, anger, tears and fat chance reliving honeymoon night.
On our 20th anniversary in 1993, CNN took pity on me and sent former Detroit Bureau chief, the late, great Bob Vito to spell me at Ford headquarters. Nice touch, but Vito didn’t show up until 11:30pm on the 15th from Los Angeles because, as he put it, “I hadn’t had a Lafayette Coney in years and I had a craving.”
Not only was he very late, but had terrible chile dog breath. I got home with about 3 minutes left on our “special” day.
Every contract since, whether I was working in TV, the Detroit News or flipped over to PR at Chrysler, we’d have to time-shift celebration of our anniversary to avoid being screwed by you guys not shaking hands on a deal on time.
This year is our 50th anniversary. I’m now semi-retired but working freelance. I have informed my clients that I’m out of the mix this time around on the 15th. No matter what happens…deal, no deal, strike, no strike, I’m a ghost.
Even though technology..and common sense, has elminated the need for reporters to sleep at the various automakers’ headquarters awaiting word that you’ve either reached a deal or are playing the game into overtime, I’ll be spending the 15th blissfully someplace else, celebrating the fact my wife and I haven’t drawn pistols at dawn after half a century together.
But then, dammit, the clock will tick, the calendar will turn and the 15th will turn into the 16th and if you guys don’t figure it out by then I’m out of excuses.
So help a reporter out. Move the date your contracts expire to, say, the spring. How ’bout April 15th, tax day? No one celebrates that. How hard would that be? Maybe I’ll even buy you all Dove Bars.
Thanks very much,
Ed Garsten
Jimmy and Rosalynn: An Up Close Encounter
Seems like a good time to post this as former President Jimmy Carter and former First Lady Rosalynn are in what their grandson described as their “final chapter.
I was 24 when he was elected president. He came out of nowhere a one term governor of Georgia, former naval officer and deeply religious man. His improbable win for the White House over incumbent Gerald Ford was looked at as a move by the American people to clean house after the Watergate scandal. Carter was seen as an honest guy with a big smile and 180 degrees difference from the Nixon era. They lost his reelection bid to Ronald Reagan after failing to bring home the Americans being held hostage in Iran. Plus, I mean honestly Reagan could talk the antlers off an elk.
Well, after that, I never gave Carter another thought until 1986 when I was working as a correspondent for CNN based in Atlanta.
Georgia native Carter built his Presidential Library and Museum a mile or so from CNN headquarters, and I was assigned to cover its opening well ahead of the opening ceremony.
I was among the handful of reporters invited to tour the place our guides, none other than the former President and First Lady Rosalynn. They were fascinating to watch from a distance of really only about two feet. Very quiet, very humble, very, very sharp.
Just before kicking off the tour, the couple made eye contact with every reporter, silently judging us I guess, certainly snapping indelible mental photos of us so they would never forget who we were, should we come into contact again. Or if they didn’t like our stories. Then we were treated to Jimmy and Rosalynn’s interaction with each other.
Here’s a man who had been the most powerful person in the world is quietly and respectfully asking his wife, but next Roselyn right here should instruct him as she pointed to one of the many gifts bestowed upon them from various heads of state and don’t forget this one. Yes, dear, the former president replied with a mild look and chagrin for not thinking of it himself.
But when we came to what was called a campaign room with memorabilia from his successful first campaign, you can see his bright blue eyes shine. Rosalynn backed away and let Jimmy do the honors.
As he described all the cool stuff on the walls and shelves and showcases from a moment that must have seemed like the highlight of his life. Kind of reminded me of a guy in his mancave showing off his big TV, sports autographs and a chip and dip bowl on the shape of his favorite football team’s helmet.
At one point, the former President looked over to his trusted partner who gave the equivalent of the “wrap it up Jimmy sign, time to move on.” And he did.
Now, regardless of what anyone thought of his politics, it was fascinating to see these two very public and once powerful figures in a more intimate setting, joking with each other, trusting each other bantering with us reporters, as if we bumped into each other at the local coffee shop down in their hometown of Plains, Ga. and then they invited us over. Hey, why dontcha come over, take a little tour of our new house just moved into? Yeah, for sure.
An indelible memory of a wonderful day in my long career of a former president and first lady who served the world long after they left office. It was cool, all right. Even if they scared the crap out of you when they locked out to your eyes like those kids in the Village of the Damned, but it was just a way of saying, I see you, treat us well in your story–and if you touch anything, I remember who you are.
Well, I don’t know how many days Jimmy and Rosalynn Carter have left in his life, but I’ll always be thankful to the former First Couple for that one.
Graduating Seniors
I like discounts but I don’t like being discounted. That’s why I’m letting it be known here and now I’ve not only graduated, I’ve gravitated towards a new classification. Enough word play? Ha! Ask ChatGPT for that kind of linguistic gymnastics.
So yes, I’m at a certain age where I’m offered, and happily accept, so-called “senior discounts.” Might be a buck or two, but I’ll take it, because who wouldn’t accept even a minimal deal?
But here’s my deal, and I offer it to all of you who spent enough time on Mother Earth to be called a “senior.” It’s time to graduate to another, higher, more meaningful and inclusive grade level.
We used to call dumb guys who got left back in 12th grade as “super seniors.” Well, I believe if you’ve made it past the years of toiling for a paycheck, shelling out for child care, college, weddings, Bar Mitzvahs and are onto enjoying whatever years you’ve got left in the tank, you’re pretty freakin’ super, but not stagnated as a “senior.”
Oh no. Considering all our experiences, insights, challenges faced and met, wisdom and matchbook collections we’re beyond “senior moments.”
Despite whatever wounds we’ve suffered, setbacks faced, enemies battled, in-laws tolerated, we survive and thrive through the ongoing wars of life.
That’s why I will now be known not as a senior citizen but as a “LIFE VETERAN.” Battle-hardened but not hard-bitten, still fighting the good fight from the comfort of my laptop and patio.
Oh, we life veterans have plenty left to give. Always ready with an anecdote we’ve told a million times, advice based on our decades of having gone through the same shit as “lower classmen and women”–those are people who, until this writing, may have aspired to graduate as senior citizens.
I will also suggest a special branch of the VFW where that acronym stands for Veterans For Wisdom. A place we can gather, bullshit to each other over cold longnecks and trade, yes, bits of wisdom based on experiences from our earlier lives. Never too late to learn.
AARP, take notice. I know you’ll accept anyone 50 and over for membership. 50? Those are still kids. Life veterans still wear Dockers that are older than 50. Yes, we’re in our own graduate-level class and quite satisfied.
What’s the age level to be classified as a life veteran? There is none. You’ll know it when you qualify. You look down. You’re wearing slip-on Skechers. It’s the uniform. Life veterans—wear it proudly—you’ve earned the right not to bend…and a senior discount.
A Percussive Tribute To Tony Bennett
And that’s that. I had the good fortune of being brought up by parents who appreciated good music. Show tunes (we lived in NYC), big band, symphonic music, jazz and yes, the great vocalists. They didn’t do rock or country.
The records would just appear in a little metal rack next to the old Westinghouse hi-fi in the room in our 400 square foot apartment in Queens I shared with my older brother.
My father was an virtuoso whistler, but my mother was the singer. She actually cut a 78 rpm demo record that, sadly, disintegrated many years ago. We played the grooves out it. At one time she aspired to a musical theater career. Instead she sang around the house all the time, almost never with the correct lyrics. Didn’t matter.
Music was always part of our lives. Our apartment was too small for a piano, so my mother got us accordion lessons because at least the right hand was the same as the piano and we learned to read music.
She later brought home a nylon string guitar she got for 10 books of green stamps. It came with a little pamphlet with the diagrams for the G, C, D7 and G7 chords. Enough to play about a million songs.
All this time we’d play those records. I learned all the tunes for Broadway shows I’d never see because cast albums for Camelot, Fiddler on the Roof, My Fair Lady, Funny Girl and Carousel were always spinning on the hi-fi. I did eventually get to see Fiddler but only the movie versions of the others. Same tunes, but not the same.
Then one day Tony Bennett’s “I Left My Heart in San Francisco” showed up. Of course, we knew Tony’s music from his TV appearances and on the radio, but this album was a revelation.
Oh, the title tune was, of course, the big hit, but the deeper cuts were what cut more deeply to me. “Once Upon a Time,” “Love For Sale,” “Tender is the Night,” “The Best is Yet to Come.” The whole damn thing.
It wasn’t only the warm tones of his wonderful tenor, but the intricate phrasing, the syncopated timing on some, his ability to sustain a note or clip one in an irrestible stacatto. As kids might have said way back when, “it sent me!”
Well, I certainly couldn’t play the accordion or even the guitar, really to Tony. No, it had to be the drums. It was right around the time that album came out when those plastic tops started appearing on coffee cans.
I had my mother save me an empty on. I filled it with coins and paper clips, put a little slit in the plastic top and, ha! I had my first snare drum.
I’d take my desk chair, pull it up to the hi-fi, place my coffee can snare between my legs and using number 2 pencils as my drumsticks.
But I needed a cymbal. Ha! Used some flat metal pieces from my Erector set and covered them with tin foil. Not bad.
Then I placed the needle on Tony’s masterpiece and banged away at every gorgeous cut. I quickly picked up the beats when Tony got jazzy, attempted soft brush strokes for the ballads, gave it my best shot when Tony got creative with his phrasing but never, ever quit.
The album would end and I’d just place the needle back to the beginning and start again. I didn’t do that with any other album or artist. It was just Tony.
Oh, we had stuff from Frank and Barbra, but not Bing or Dean. I remember playing a bit to Sinatra and maybe even a little Streisand’s first couple of albums, but no one as often as Tony Bennett.
Over the years we’d see entertainers from that era pass away: Sinatra, Crosby, Martin, Milton Berle. I always thought when Tony Bennett left this Earth, that pretty much closed it out.
Back in the 1990’s when I had the dough and room, I finally bought myself a real drum kit and a better record player.
Then I found an old copy of “I Left My Heart in San Francisco” in an antique mall. My parents’ record was long ago lost.
What a thrill to be able to finally do Mr. Bennett’s music justice. Well, if you’ve heard me play, you might think his survivors would have a case for musical malpractice. But it’s just nice to be able to pay tribute in some little way…even if it does disturb the neighbors.
In fact, I’m thinking of placing the needle in the grooves right now, and playing along, to “Once Upon a Time,” because now that Tony’s gone, that time has now passed.
The Seven-Year Itching
I wrote two stories today. Not 300-word quickies, not 1,500 word deep-dives. Somewhere in between. It wouldn’t be a big deal but in a few weeks I’ll be celebrating seven years since I swiped my badge to releasing me from then-Fiat Chrysler into the free air of retirement.
Just the other day, when I mentioned to someone I had a fairly full schedule of interviews and meetings related to my two freelance gigs, the person asked, “why, why still work so hard if you’re retired?”
The answer is so easy. First of all, it’s never work to me. Writing is recreation to me. Has been since I was a kid. Second, and this is the big one, because every time I interview someone I learn something. There’s little more satisfying, besides indulging in a giant anything from Cold Stone Creamery, than speaking with a young entrepreneur, or technology whiz who came up with a brilliant idea, had the guts to take it further, build a business, create something that will improve a process or our lives.
I’ve always said journalism is the ticket to a free education, and, someone will also pay you while you learn!
I manage my time so I’m never putting in the hours of an actual working stiff—just enough to keep my brain filled with new stuff and fodder for the handful of Forbes.com stories I file each month. I do a little consulting for Franco PR—an absolutely joyous opportunity to work with a bright, creative, fun and adventurous staff that also yearns to learn and puts up with an old war horse’s war stories.
Yup, I have plenty of time to kayak, play a little ice hockey, bang on my drums and make lots of noise with my collection of electric guitars on that big, new Fender amp I just bought.
So if there’s such a thing as the seven-year itch during retirement, it’s the itch to keep my gray matter, mattering, even as my graying hair thins and falls. Who cares? As long as there’s something under my noggin’ that’s working, I don’t care what used to be on top of it.
The Coronation Rumination
I had no intention of watching Charlie’s coronation but one of the mixed blessings of aging is the inability to sleep past 5 a.m. I mean, you’re either hungry, gotta pee, or both. Usually both. So I was up.
Satisfied the latter first, then settled in with a bowl of Raisin Bran, a cuppa coffee, the digital N.Y. Times then whispered “blimey!” to myself, so as not to awaken the other inmates of my house.
I trundled over to the computer, found the NYT’s live feed of the ceremony and gawked at the screen watching an ancient rite that reminded me of an attempt back in the 1970’s to initiate me into the Elks Club. At least they served wine and cheese and they didn’t hide me while pouring old oil on me.
I’ll admit, it was fascinating for awhile, then disturbing. On what was supposed to be the best day of Charlie’s life, next to that blissful night with his polo pony, his literal crowing glory, he looked like someone about to undergo a colonoscopy with a fire hose.
When the Archbishop of Canterbury performed the actual crowning, he seemed to screw the thing on Charlie’s noggin’ and I’m imagining Charlie thinking, “balls, it fit in the store!”
Regardless of your opinion of the monarchy, the coronation was a rare opportunity to witness a version of a process a thousand years old and hadn’t occurred in over 70 years, or roughly as long as “The Simpsons” has been on TV.
So I was watching Charlie’s face and demeanor throughout. Some body language experts later said it showed he was taking his ascension to the throne very seriously as well as feeling the weight of his new responsibilities, which include, mainly, not dying.
I’m thinking the guy is 74 and has very mixed feelings about the whole turn of events. On the upside, he’s finally King of England, but on the downside he only got the job because his beloved mother passed away.
The other downside is he and the new Queen had to wave to his subjects from the balcony of Buckingham Palace wearing those crowns and looking like they just left a bad Halloween costume party.
But when you think of someone at last landing the job for which he’d been preparing most of his life, it makes you think of your own career. You work hard, you put in the hours, you build relationships, you get the promotions you sought, maybe hired away for a prestigious, big bucks position then get to the point where it dawns on you how much you gave up for all that.
It happened to me a couple of times and then it hit me how much time I lost with my family traveling around, chasing stories, going on business trips. I made some good dough, but missed the priceless part of life.
So I retired early. I have a couple of very part-time freelance gigs I enjoy that allow me to use my skills but after almost seven years I’m reducing my load even further.
Which brings me back to King Charles III. He got the job at last. Performed all the duties required of royals. He had no competition since as long as he was alive when his mother died, he was next in line.
But you have to wonder if the old chap feels any satisfaction, any sense of accomplishment, retains any goals, or, instead, wonders if the whole thing was worth the wait.
Well, now, at age 74, he’s stuck with a big, new job for the rest of his days. Kings don’t tend to retire and join pickleball leagues.
Yeah, that’d make me take on a dour demeanor if someone plunked heavy headgear on me and hollering for an unknown guy in the sky to save me.
Personally, I wouldn’t be surprised if the newly crowned King Charles III snuck a peek at his youngest son, relegated to the third row, thinking, “lucky bastard, he escaped while he was still alive.”
edLINES 