If we all could call in a Closer

krodHe sat in front of his locker with a towel on his head and took no questions. It was the man the Detroit Tigers depend upon to successfully seal the deal when they’re ahead in a game. The “closer.” Two nights in a row Francisco Rodriquez, K-Rod, did not seal the deal. He did not close the door. He made enough mistakes to allow the team the Tigers were beating to beat them instead. It made me think about this particular arrangement where we call on someone else to finish the job we started then allow them to suffer loathing, both self and external, when they can’t quite get it done.

Let’s say we’re writing a news story. I make the calls, do the research and start to write. I’m almost done but I’m outta gas. The words aren’t coming to me and my fingers are tired from typing. I could also use a stiff drink and a hot dog. No problem. I call in “the closer” who is tasked with finishing my story in such a way it not only the front page lead but is so amazing it goes viral and CNN employs a panel of 27 pundits to parse it and assigns it a dramatic theme song and spooky graphics.

But that’s not the way it goes down. The closer is fatigued from bailing out a half-dozen of my colleagues and depleting his hyperbole supply. By the time I call him into my game he’s got nothin’. He gamely takes the assignment anyway because closers never say “no” when their number comes up or they’re offered single malt Scotch. He taps and taps on the keyboard and I feel editorial victory is imminent. It’ll be my byline all over the paper and CNN will ask me to do a Skype interview with Anderson Cooper who will compliment my journalistic enterprise, and cuff links, while privately I will know it was the Closer who won the day for me. But that’s not the way it went down. The Closer falls short. Working on no day’s rest he coughs up three errors of fact and two blatant personal biases. I’m called on the carpet by the Managing Editor and ordered to personally write the corrections and an apology to the readers for allowing bias to breach the body of my story. 

Damn Closer! It was his job to complete my assignment, make me look good and pave the way to that Pulitzer. He apologized profusely and promised to pull himself together for the next assignment.  I just don’t know if I can trust him anymore. For now on I’ll have to pitch a complete game..from lead to nut graph to conclusion. But I can’t go on indefinitely like this. In a pique of frustration I stole the one thing that would get the newsroom’s attention and hit my colleagues the hardest. When one hapless scribe padded up to the kitchenette looking to fill his empty mug, he was greeted with Alec Baldwin’s greatest line. “Coffee is for Closers.”

My White House Correspondents Assn. Dinner Monologue

whitehousediI wasn’t invited to the White House Correspondents Association Dinner, but then again, the President wasn’t there either. So I thought I’d’ make believe I was invited to give the closing monologue. I expect the same uncomfortable silence the actual comedian usually receives.

Good evening everyone. As I stand here at the podium I can only imagine you’re thinking to yourselves, “jeez, give the poor midget a box to stand on.”  That, followed by “uh…like, who the hell is he?” I’ll help you out on that one. Well, no I won’t. You’re all reporters. Figure it out yourselves. Perhaps you can file a Freedom of Infotainment request for the anti-Semitic consultants report on me when I was a weatherman at KGUN in Tucson, Arizona that complained when I used the word “spritz” on the air, it was, uh, “too Eastern.” Yeah…Eastern European. Ashkinazi.

Of course the real reason we’re here tonight is to celebrate the First Amendment and denigrate those who would impose limits on this most basic inalienable right. That would be the current occupant of the Oval Office. It’s the perfect place for him since he’s absolutely obtuse.

I won’t waste precious time and space taking repeated shots at the President although it  would be somewhat satisfying seeing him bleed from his heart or his, wherever.

I would like to spend my time with you tonight to discuss the the First Amendment and how similar abuses of it are eerily similar to the way the Second Amendment is misinterpreted and bent to suit the desires of some.

The First Amendment says we’re guaranteed freedom of speech, press, assembly and religion.  The Second Amendment says no law can “infringe” on the right to form a “well-regulated” militia or on the right to keep and bear arms.

OK. Both good laws. The first one guarantees the right for us to shoot off our mouths, even if we sound like incoherent or insulting idiots. The second protects our right to own weapons of crass reduction, and strict constructionists might argue it gives us the right to shoot off someone’s else’s mouth, in self-defense.

Many people who do not own guns do own mouths. In some cases, they are the more harmful since they often indiscriminately fire off volleys of invective, bigotry, lies and pervasive puns without regard as to whose ears they may land upon and cause great emotional harm. Perhaps they should not leave the house before putting on an oral safety. On the other hand, there are those who own both guns and mouths. I’m guessing the vast majority are sports men and women and use their mouths to holler, “Ah seen a buck. Bang!  Deaaaaddd!” However there are others who use both the First and Second Amendments as the means to advocate putting no limits on what types of weapons can be sold, especially those with the sole purpose of hunting humans, for which there is no designated season or license you can buy at Walmart or sporting goods stores. You are permitted to wear blaze orange at will, but not really cool at a Bar Mitzvah.

I have been a journalist in TV, radio, wires, newspapers, and the web for 45 years and can honestly I never felt my First Amendment rights were being infringed upon even when an editor slaughtered what I thought was frothy word play. I’ve never owned a gun, other than a Daisy air rifle and it was pulled from my cold, muddy hands by my mother because I kept using it to shoot dirt clods at the kid next door because he had a horrible crew cut and thought he was Leslie Gore.

So I close reminding all of you we must never loosen our grip on the freedoms given to us by men with wooden teeth and steel balls. Should those rights be threatened by someone,  do not hesitate to raise your Daisy air rifle, and fill their pants with dirt. Thank you.

Knowing Lucy from a hole in the ground

Haven’t written for a bit. That’s because I was on vacation so I let my brain take a breather too…while marinating in various brown elixirs that generally mix well with pretzels and smoked meats.

With that in mind, I want to discuss holes in the ground. Specifically, the holes we stick people in when they draw the ultimate short straw. This macabre subject came to mind as our travels took us to Jamestown, New York. It’s where Lucille Ball was from and where she currently, and eternally, resides.  We noticed the cemetery where she’s buried is right off the Interstate 86 so we decided to pay homage.

A series of red hearts helpfully painted on the cemetery road directs you to the Ball family plot. I didn’t get a photo of that because it was too silly. Ball1

If you look closely, there is humility in death. Though Lucy was a huge star, she does not warrant top billing on the family stone since she was not the first to “arrive” at this spot, preceded by her parents, grandparents and father’s brother.ball4 Indeed, when she died on April 26, 1989, she was cremated and first interred in Forest Lawn Cemetery in California, but in 2002 her kids moved her ashes to the family plot in Jamestown.

ball3As we quietly stood by the plot and thought about how much laughter Lucy had given the world I couldn’t help wonder about this whole business of visiting graves. We use the euphemism of a person’s “final resting place,” but if they were actually “resting” does that mean when the person is refreshed they’d get up and go to dinner or take a walk? Of course not. A half-empty approach would be to quote Newton’s First Law of Motion that states “a body at rest will remain at rest unless an outside force acts on it.” I have a feeling there is no outside force that will reverse the effects of one’s final “rest.” Push it, pull it, cajole it, sneak up on it. Nothing’s happening.

Then I wonder what’s really down there that we’re visiting. Lucy’s ashes, someone else’s bones, worms, bugs?

I live in Michigan. My parents are both buried in Florida. garstenEvery year I travel down there and “visit” them. It makes me feel better even though I know the scientific truth of what lays below my feet. I let them know what’s happened in the family over the past year and I imagine them either smiling, frowning or asking me if I’ve eaten. It’s OK. To not visit would seem like I was abandoning them and that, I just couldn’t do. You don’t think of what’s in the box, because that would be horrible. But you know that’s as close as you’re gonna get to their last known location and somehow that’s comforting.

By visiting Lucy’s last stop, it was a way to honor a talent…someone who made the world a happy place and deliver your thanks for the laughs..in person. Ball2

 

 

Revenge Rewards

28up-legroom-master675I never fly United. Not because I fear a couple of guys will suddenly wrench me out of my seat, knocking out a few teeth and putting an overall damper on my traveler-as-livestock experience. I never fly United because the nearest airport to where I live is a Delta hub and I’m a sucker for hoarding that airline’s frequent flyer miles so I can be treated like a Holstein by that carrier without paying for it. I tell you this to establish the fact I have nothing personal against United Airlines, so when I comment about that airline’s recent spectacular PR fails I do so without any baggage, thereby avoiding additional exorbitant fees.

Actually, I’m not going to pick on United. I’m going to pick on the basic business model airlines operate under. They sell more tickets than seats available as insurance against no-shows. If everyone shows up they’ve got to figure out a way to placate the pissed-off passengers for whom a seat isn’t available. Their first tactic is to offer a small bribe that gradually escalates in value until they get enough volunteers. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. In United’s case, they needed to make room for their employees and not paying customers. So they made the perfectly logical decision to wrench a paying customer from his seat, mashing his face and providing fodder for a hugely embarrassing video that would go viral within moments of it being posted. The passenger will most likely sue for a much larger amount than United would have had to pay to convince him to change flights.

I’d like to propose another way to reward air travelers for the regular abuse they suffer. Introducing TLS Rewards. TLS being an acronym for Treated Like Shit. Each time a passenger submits an instance of being treated like shit by an airline, they accrue a number of points that’s in proportion to the abuse.  Lost bag? 100 points. Whacked in the head by a passing beverage cart? 150 points. Hoping for those yummy Biscoff cookies but all they have is peanuts with your coffee? 50 points. Grabbed from your seat by a couple of security guys and your head bashed into the armrest resulting in lost teeth? 10,000 points and first class seating for life with the firm promise that once seating you won’t be brutally un-seated. Plus unlimited Biscoff cookies. When you accrue enough TLS points you become entitled to various rewards such as the chance to chase baggage handlers with the Jetway, unlimited vouchers for that all- Slim Jim snack box, permission to use a pillow to suffocate the guy hogging both arm rests and the chance to use the plane’s PA system to entertain the other passengers with your impressions of indecipherable gate agent announcements. Perks like these would seem to be just the type of mood changers that could offset the otherwise unpleasant aspects of flying, while not compromising safety.  You can still earn free flights and upgrades through existing frequent traveler programs. Under TLS Rewards, you can also earn fun opportunities for revenge…and everyone knows, that’s what we all really want. 

Classifying the Human Race by..er..Volume!

volumaicjpg

A decade ago I had one of those “eureka moments” when I realized we’ve been doing it all wrong–classifying people by their height, weight, color, hair. A truer way of defining human beings is really how much space they take up in this world based on their hygiene, manners and overall consideration, or lack thereof for fellow homo sapiens. It’s a concept I named “Volumism.” Someone who takes up more space than entitled to would be said to be “volumaic.”

I created a blog under the screen name “Chuck Roast” promoting Volumism and for a year or so, related absolutely true examples to help illustrate the concept. Looking back at those posts from a decade ago, I have to admit, they still crack me up. The old blog is still up, since nothing on the internet dies, so I invite you to check it out. I bet  you laugh a little, and as you travel, shop, dine out etc., I’m pretty sure you’ll relate…and see the light..enough to make the life-changing and space-making, decision not to be Volumaic.

From shirtless Lambs to a Hall of Fame dumping..memories of the Palace and Joe

Most every sports fan around here has personal memories of Joe Louis Arena and The Palace of Auburn Hills so I’d like to share some that mostly have nothing to do with attending events but range from almost upstaging a Hall of Fame Red Wing to dealing with a Detroit Piston who couldn’t keep his shirt on. Here goes.

I was transferred to Detroit in 1989 by CNN from Atlanta. The timing was awful. Living in Atlanta for 8 years I had become quite the Hawks fan and grew a healthy hatred for the Detroit Pistons who had regularly beaten the Hawks and were in their Bad Boys phase, meaning, to opposing fans, they were loutish jerks–especially Bill Laimbeer.

After they won their second consecutive NBA championship in 1990 I was assigned to a rather slim story as to whether the Pistons were outgrowing their Bad Boys image and were ready to move on. I attended an afternoon shootaround at the Palace then sought some player interviews in the locker room. I had been warned about the Pistons and that they could be rough on reporters. After all, a female producer at our bureau told me how Dennis Rodman dropped his pants in front of her which, I suppose, would be classified a technical foul. I found Bill Laimbeer and he consented to the interview, which surprised me because he was about the baddest of the Bad Boys. He answered all my questions and I thanked him. Holding to his reputation he informs me “you can’t use anything you shot because I didn’t have a shirt on.” Huh? His team mate, former Atlanta Hawk Scott Hastings hears this and says to Laimbeer, “don’t be an asshole. They’re from CNN.”  Laimbeer puts his shirt back on and says,   OK roll. Now what did you want to know?” I gamely re-asked a couple of the questions just to get a soundbite for my story but I couldn’t escape him. A few months later I’m in line at the local car wash and there’s a guy in big Mercedes-Benz in front of me giving the attendant a hard time. At least he had his shirt on.

I had much better memories at The Joe. This time as an actual player. For our 25th anniversary my wife sent me to the Detroit Red Wings Fantasy Camp. It was September, 1998, a few months after they won their second straight Stanley Cup. The camp was run by assistant coach Dave Lewis. I hadn’t played hockey in over 20 years and my skates showed it. They were Bobby…not Brett..Hull CCM Tacks, which I bought while I was in college in 1972. After posing for the team photo Darren McCarty said, “hey, my father had those same skates!” 

But what a thrill to come through the tunnel from the visitors locker room onto the Joe Louis Arena ice and skate over the Hockeytown logo. The big finish to the week was a game to benefit the Save the Children charity. In this video clip, during the introductions, I almost skated onto the blue line when they were talking about Hall of Famer Ted Lindsay. When it was finally my turn, it was awesome to have “Terrible Ted” give me a little pat. 

Later in the game I would get an assist on a goal by Chris Osgood, who was skating on my line with Lindsey. Goosebumps.

My second best memory at The Joe was in 2013 while I was working for Fiat Chrysler. We played games against Red Wings alumni to benefit the United Way. The first part of this one being defended by Hall of Famer Larry Murphy. As I’m bringing the puck across the blue line, he whispers to me “take your shot!” I do, but the goalie saves it. But…even better, later in the game, as I was being defended by another Hall of Famer, Dino Ciccarelli, he playfully puts me down on the ice and I’m awarded a penalty shot. The goalie came out to cut my angle but I slipped the puck to my backhand and roofed it home. You can see it all in this video shot with a  GoPro mounted on my helmet. 

How can I forget what happened at the Palace in 1998? That’s when we scored tickets to see the Spice Girls. I was covering a long strike against General Motors in Flint but CNN was nice enough to get Gary Tuchman to fill in for me so I could run down I-75 to take my family to the show. My ears are still ringing from being among 20.000 screaming 10-year old girls and a thousand shell-shocked dads. When I got back to the picket lines Flint Congressman Dale Kildee tried his best in asking me “How were those Spice Babies?”

But my best memory of all was during the 1990 NBA finals at the Palace. I was given two tickets behind the Los Angeles Lakers bench. My father-in-law was in town from Rochester, N.Y. He’d never before attended an NBA game so who else would I take? Right before our eyes there was Magic and Kareem and James Worthy and  down the line all the defending champ Pistons–Isaiah Thomas, Joe Dumars et.al. My father-in-law’s eyes lit up, seeing these famous athletes close up. It was a night we both cherished and I always will.

Prompt recollections

ANNblogSince taking on a part-time position as a video reporter at Automotive News I’ve found myself filling in every few weeks for the regular anchor of our daily afternoon newscast, AutoNews Now. I hadn’t anchored any sort of newscast since 1988 when I anchored Newsnight Update for awhile on CNN.  If you’re not familiar with that show, that’s because it aired 1:30 a.m.-2:30 a.m. Eastern time and was aimed at west coast viewers and those in other time zones working off a hard night of drinking bad muscatel.

prompterThe absence of 29 years from the anchor desk was quite an awakening, especially when it comes to that thing called a teleprompter. Oh, I guess technically I’m supposed to spell it TelePrompTer since it’s a brand name that’s become generic like Kleenex for tissues.

My first anchor experience was in the late 1970’s at KGUN-TV in Tucson, Arizona where I’d occasionally handle “Good Morning Tucson,” the local cut-ins during “Good Morning America.” kgunBack then the prompter was simply a little conveyer belt onto which the operator loaded the script pages end to end. The operator would then use a little thumbwheel to get the conveyer belt moving, passing each page under a small camera, which sent the image of the script to a monitor placed under the anchor’s camera lens, reflecting it onto a two-way mirror over the lens so the anchor could look directly into it and make people believe they either memorized the whole thing or made it up on the spot.

This simple technology worked for a long time, but had it’s limitations. At KGUN the prompter was located next to a door that led from the studio to the parking lot. Every time someone went in or out during a newscast, all the script pages would go flying off the belt and the poor operator was stuck trying to gather them up and place them back on the belt in the correct order. This almost never was successful causing the anchor to deliver such non sequiturs as “A plane crash near Phoenix today resulted in lower than expected attendance at the 4H Club’s bake sale. The city council voted unanimously to plead guilty to sexual harassment charges.”

newsnight-e1491156520710.jpgBy the time I anchored at CNN the technology had actually not changed one bit. The difference at CNN is, due to the nature of its 24-hour broadcast schedule, scripts were constantly being written and delivered to the prompter and the rest of the crew just moments before they were to be read.

One night the scripts were running particularly late and the production assistant charged with delivering the scripts was running like crazy and became completely unhinged. In her rush she simply tossed the pile of scripts to the prompter operator and, as you might expect, they immediately were shuffled out of order. All I could see from the anchor desk was a young person behind the prompter mouthing, “oh crap oh crap oh crap!” while the fallen pages remained on the ground.

I should interject at this point, anchors are also provided hard copies of scripts just in case there should be an unfortunate prompter problem. The trick is, turning the pages of your hard copy in sync with the prompter so, if needed, you can dive down to the hard copy and continue reading. It’s tougher than it looks and many anchors simply use their hard copies as placemats for the coffee and danish they bring on the set, just out of view.

Now fast forward to 2012. By then I was head of digital communications at Fiat Chrysler Automobiles. A good part of my duties involved setting up a video operation at the automaker and that included having a small studio built for recording and transmitting executive interviews. The long time gap since my last studio experience became quickly apparent when the prompter was installed. I looked high and low but couldn’t find the conveyer belt/camera apparatus. When I asked someone about it, the much-younger person laughed at me as she said, “are you, like 100?” before explaining prompters had long before moved to the digital age where all you had to do was load a Word file of the script into a laptop that’s connected to the monitor/two-way mirror set up on the camera. 

This worked very well except for when, in the spirit of teamwork, I ran the prompter for one of our Italian executives who needed to record a message totally in Spanish. Not being able to understand a word of the script I just kept moving the lines up at the executive’s pace. He finally stopped in frustration and said to me, in perfect English, “you suck!” Ah, the joys of multi-linguilism.

I retired from FCA at the end of July, 2016, but was offered the part-time job I have now at Automotive News, which I enjoy very much. Every so often, as I mentioned at the start, I fill in for our regular anchor. The first time he showed me the studio the issue of the prompter came up. He smiled as he handed me the thumb-operated controller and informed me there weren’t enough people on the team to have a prompter operator so anchors were on their own.

If you watch any of our newscasts, you’ll notice we keep one hand, the hand operating the prompter, out of view. I’ve gotten the hang of it pretty well. It just takes a little practice. It seems to be a problem for some of our viewers however, since they have no idea what’s going on under the table and it’s prompted a few to ask some inappropriate questions. Let’s just say my thumb’s pretty busy.

A legging to stand on

I get the reason United Airlines didn’t let two legging-wearing young ladies aboard one of their planes, but let’s think about this. leggingsIndeed, my wife and I had just such a discussion during our recent trip to Florida. We recalled a time when travelers got all gussied up for air travel, not only to impress the other travelers, but in hopes the flight attendant might comp them a scotch on the rocks, or move them up to first class.  Nowadays you can pretty much wear a sack and flip flops when jetting from A to B.  Have people simply become slobs or too arrogant to care how they appear in public? That may be part of the answer, but I believe what’s really going on is we’re dressing for duress. During those days when air travel was considered something special, a privilege, a treat, passengers were treated as such. Airlines cheerfully checked our luggage as part of the price of a ticket and the boarding process was orderly and humane. There was plenty of overhead bin space in which to store one’s coat or brief case. One barely broke a sweat.

Air travel now? I’d rather get caught in the middle of the stampede during Free Depends Day in Delray Beach. Dress up? Are you kidding? The exorbitant fees to check a bag mean added incentive to schlep it through the airport, onto the plane and wishing and hoping for some precious overhead bin space into which you can wrestle it. I’m already schvitzing thinking about it.
binsThen there’s the whole process of simply getting on the plane. Because overhead space is such a premium, passengers who were either too cheap, too stubborn or simply couldn’t handle the bag check fees, crowd to the frontlines of the battle, ready to elbow, body check or step on the feet of fellow competitors who just want a spot to store their bag. It’s a contact sport, baby, and formal wear is not the uniform!

leggings1

When you’re finally on the plane, if not fortunate enough to be sitting in the relative luxury of first class, you’re stuffed into a seat roughly the width of a toothpick.  You squeeze yourself in as best you can, wishing you had three knees per leg so as best to adequately fold them into the stingy space in front of you,  then play to the death that game of “the arm rest is mine, sucka!”

So it’s no wonder fliers choose to wear clothing more appropriate for battle on land, seat and air as opposed to the sky salons of the past. I personally don’t care if you wear leggings, leotards or liederhosen as long as you act like a human, haven’t drenched yourself with Axe, don’t try to hog both arm rests and never, ever, ask me “so..whatcha gonna do when we get to Cleveland?” I’ll explain the terms of my parole.

Defending the flag

plowflag1In my world there are two kinds of people, flag pullers and flag laggards. Me? I’m of the former with little patience or respect for the latter.

For those of you who are wondering what the hell I’m talking about, it’s very simple. Here in Michigan, and I suppose, other places where snow falls, it’s possible to pay a service a nominal fee to plow your driveway when enough snow falls…usually about two inches. Pay one fee and someone with a plow on the front of their pickup truck will come as many times as warranted during the season. It’s a sweet deal for you if it snows a lot and they have to plow you out several times. It’s just as sweet for the plow boys and girls if it’s a light winter since they get paid the same no matter what.

plowflag3So what’s with the flag? Ah. Some time in November the plow service will stick a bunch of flags along the perimeter of your driveway to guide them when the snow piles up.  It’s a sad time for all. When the snow plow flags sprout up in the sub, it’s a surer bet than the groundhog lousy weather can’t be far behind.  They may be orange or red or green or some other bright color, but they really amount to a white flag of surrender to the coming onslaught of frigid temperatures, ice, sleet, and yes, snow. One can beat a cowardly retreat to Florida or Arizona or Aruba, but I choose to stand tall in my Sorel boots and defend the flag. There’s no more thrilling sound than the rumble of the plow truck as it magically appears without being summoned to push the demon snow into a drift at the end of the driveway so high one can climb it to dunk a basketball in the forlorn rim sullenly awaiting the change of seasons. I can return to my warm bed knowing I’m getting my money’s worth, but more than disappointed I now have no valid excuse to call in sick.

plowflags2Eventually, the Earth’s trip around the sun takes us to spring and the white of winter gives way to green blades of grass and crocuses, offset by the bright snow plow flags that have done their duty with honor.  It is time to show what one is made of. Pull the flags as a show of optimism and certainty we have seen our last blast of snow, or, be a flag laggard, timidly leaving them to wilt and rust and clash with spring’s welcome hues while you await for the sky, and flakes, to fall “one more time” even though the temperatures are high enough to melt them on contact. Flag laggards will leave them up  way past Easter, perhaps hoping they will guide the bunny should their driveways suddenly be covered with a foot of snow leaving the kids to search for eggs in their boots and mufflers.  Maybe those who celebrate Passover fear Elijah the Prophet will get bogged down in a drift and say “feh!” rather than knock on their doors.

No, I am a devoted flag puller, punctually yanking those damned flags out on the first day of spring as I silently mock the flag laggards all around me, but leave them neatly piled in my garage…just in case…winter suddenly decides to have..a banner year.

Observational Snit

Faces-Sucked-By-Smartphone-3Some observations about lack of observation. Over the weekend my wife and I took a quick trip down to Florida and found ourselves at the sprawling Sawgrass Mills mall, just to kill some time before heading to the airport for our return to Detroit.

As we strolled down the outside section call The Colonnade we were approached by two friendly women who asked, “Hi! Are there any restaurants here?” Were they freakin’ kidding?  All one had to do was lift one’s head beyond one’s smartphone and there, in front of your famished face, would be the site of no fewer than three restaurants.

I got thinking about this episode and how people have grown less observant in this era of almost constant focus on what’s on one screen or another, rather than what’s actually in front of our own two eyes, within earshot of our cochleas and just a sniff away from the assembly line of our olfactory nerves.

Example. Something bad happens. Any eyewitnesses? That’s the question police and journalists would ask. Police want to crack the case. Journalists want to tell the story. Eyewitness could provide valuable information. What did they see, hear, smell, notice? How about a description of the assailant or crook? Oh sure, eyewitnesses are still sought, but it’s more likely someone will step forward with a smartphone video or audio recording. Ask the person what happened and the answer probably will be, “Duh, I dunno, but I shot this video because I thought it would get a lot of views on YouTube or CNN would buy it. Here. Watch.” True, the video would surely be more accurate than someone’s recollections but it simply points to the fact we’re in a world now where electronic devices are doing the seeing and hearing for us with the information going to a memory card, instead of our memories.

In the workplace this lack of personal observation results in inability to sense a co-worker’s sentiments, whether it’s acceptance of an idea, willingness to contribute to a project or impending desire to commit the most serious workplace sin, cooking fish in the office microwave oven. Hmm..didn’t notice, but I got the feeling there may be a dead body in the office supply cabinet, which would make an awesome Instagram post.

smartphonekidsI think of young children and what they’ll tell their kids. “Oh little Emma…my parents took me to the Thanksgiving Parade. They told me the floats were awesome. I don’t remember…I was tweeting about how much the butts of the mounted police horses stunk. Why don’t we go this year. You can Snapchat your friends with shots of Santa diddling his favorite elf…they’ll go viral!”

I grew up idolizing so-called “observational” comics like Woody Allen, George Carlin, Richard Pryor, Lenny Bruce and much later, Jerry Seinfeld. They saw and heard things that went on in life, pointed them out, commented on them and turned them into hilarious routines delivered to live audiences by use of their mouths, enhancing their humor through vocal inflection, timing and physical gestures.George Carlin Performing On Stage

Nowadays, I fear to observe means to capture on a device, delivering that observation via unspoken words on the web and any laughter is the recipients private experience.

As the observational comic might ask, “What’s the deal with that?”