House of Electronic Worship-Retirement Series Part 1

microcenter1On this, my second “work” day of retirement I made a discovery. A high number of men did not show up for work today in the metro Detroit area because they were all, with me, at the House of Electronic Worship known as Micro Center. There was not one woman there. I’ll bet they don’t even have a Women’s Rest Room. Every aisle was jammed with walking testosterone depositories, some who may have needed suppositories because their cheeks were so tightened with arousal over the deals on hard drives, HDMI cables, giant screen TVs and assorted parts, blank media and mini LED flashlights. microcenter2The check out line snaked for 50 feet looking like LA’s 405 in rush hour–shopping carts filled with electronic things, things you plug in, turn on, set, reset, recharge. In this holy of holies of electromagnet forces size matters. microcenter3The size of the screen in your cart, size of your RAM, size of your lens, length of your data contract. I left completely spent even though I spent a measly 30 bucks on a cable and a keyboard…the keyboard this post is being written on. Do you feel its power? It’s USB power? It’s OK..it’ll wear off…as soon as I power down.

Retirement Reflection: 8 Workplace Lessons

20160705_071325On the occasion of my retirement this week, I thought I’d relate my long work history and the 8 very important workplace lessons I learned along the way.

My first paying job was at Mel’s Laundromat on Union Turnpike and 248th Street in Queens.  Might have been around 1962. Now, everyone knows the “mat” part of “laundramat” means you do it yourself, but I got paid 25 cents a day to do it for busy or working moms who didn’t have the time or desire to hang around a hot, steamy, dumpy store while their family’s dirty clothes went round and round in the washer and dryer for more than an hour. That first work experience taught me workplace lesson number 1 –don’t ask for a raise after blowing a bubble all over your face. The boss will never take you seriously.

I quickly moved on to a much more high paying job, scoring a summer job as an assistant counselor at Great Neck Country Day Camp in tony Great Neck Long Island. At a sweet salary of $25 plus tips for the summer, that represented a big raise and I immediately began investing heavily…in Clearasil. I did so well, they hired me back at twice the money the following year and at that income level I had an endless supply of egg creams and Clark Bars. Yes. I was living the high life. That’s when I learned workplace lesson number 2–using your hard earned money to buy sugary treats makes you fat and pimply and offensive to any and all females.

By high school I gave up my starting position on the Martin Van Buren varsity soccer team to work in the linens and domestics department of the S. Klein department store in Lake Success, Long Island. It was a clear case of irony, since despite its lofty sounding location, the S. Klein chain went bankrupt, which, unknown to me then, led to workplace lesson number 3–you are now prepared to work in the auto industry.

During my college days I scored a political patronage job with the NYC Comptroller’s officer courtesy of my mother’s connections through the Eastern Queen Democratic Club. My job was to type out the checks to people who successfully sued the City of New York for car damage from potholes. The city was not a fast payer. In 1971 I wrote a check to someone who sued the city in 1957. Maybe the city believed if they waited for the payee to croak, the check would never be cashed.  Hence, workplace lesson number 4–if you drag your heels long enough you might escape doing anything that requires actually working.

Once I entered the full time working world after graduating college I worked at a series crappy radio stations in Central New York and Tucson, Arizona. At the station in Tucson the general manager’s head popped through the roof right over the microphone while I was reading a newscast. “Dang!” he said in his big Texan drawl. “That ain’t right.” Yup. Workplace lesson number 5: Bosses will stick their heads where they don’t belong.

From there it was television station KGUN in Tucson where I was both the weekend weather caster and midweek nightside general assignment reporter. It could be confusing. One time when I covered a murder, as they brought the body out of the house a Tucson cop cracked, “why’s the weather guy here? Is it gonna rain on the stiff?”

Somehow that job led to being hired by CNN as one of the original producers of CNN2, which morphed into CNN Headline News, which much later, morphed in an unrecognizable channel I never watch. Over the next 20 years I would move from producer to correspondent, spot anchor and finally, Detroit Bureau Chief and correspondent until I was laid off in 2001 as part of that awesome merger between Time Warner and AOL. I was actually laid off one day after interviewing the authors of a book on why employee evaluations are a total waste. When I asked why I was chosen to be laid off, the boss said, “now’s not the time.” Oh. Guess what? The boss ended up getting canned too. That led to workplace lesson number 6: Karma always wins.

A stint as national auto writer at the Associated Press and General Motors beat writer at The Detroit News followed. Two great jobs that taught me workplace lesson number 7: going to work is more fun when you don’t have to wear makeup.

And now..the end of the road. After 43 years in the workforce I’m hanging it up. I’ve spent the past 11 years at DaimlerChryslerChryslerFiatChryslerAutomobiles as the head of its digital communications team, which is a really wonderful, groundbreaking combination of broadcast, social media and video production. The job was created just for me. How lucky is that?  It’s been a crazy ride through three owners, one bankruptcy and one gentle idiot who asked if we could post an item on both the “national and international Internet.” We assured him that since he asked nicely, we would accommodate that lofty request. I’ve been blessed with a wonderful team who will give most any of my nutty ideas a try and actually make them work. I will miss them terribly, but now it’s time to focus on my family, which has had to put up with my crazy hours and travel for many years, and to tackle some personal projects such as playing my drums for hours on end in order to smoke out those neighbors I haven’t yet met.

That leads to my 8th and final workplace lesson: When you’ve worked more years than most of your employee’s parents have been alive, it’s time to pack your paper clips and post it notes and, stop, smell the roses, and enjoy going to Kroger on a Tuesday, push the cart for your wife and carry home those heavy jugs of milk and orange juice. She’ll appreciate that.

 

 

Conventional Wist-dom

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The first political convention I can remember watching was the 1964 Republican at the Cow Palace in San Francisco. As a 12-year old my first thought was, “are you kidding me? They’re gonna nominate a candidate for President in a place called the Cow Palace?” It seemed more appropriate as a venue for judging heifers and goats at a state fair. After two days of viewing on our 19-inch black and white Zenith TV, it became apparent it was exactly the right place since the delegates were packed together as tightly as canned hams and the nominee, Barry Goldwater, was throwing out conservative red meat to the crowd poised to gobble up every morsel of anti-Communist paranoia. Sidenote: many years later when I was a weatherman at KGUN, Tucson, Arizona, Goldwater came walking thr0ugh the studio as I was preparing my map. He stopped and joked, “you’re not gonna make it rain this weekend, are you?” “Oh no, Senator. This is Arizona. We don’t do rain,” was my lame reply. He kept walking.

I don’t remember much about the Democratic convention that year. It was held in Atlantic City where we vacationed each spring break with another family long before the casino/parasites sucked the once quaint beach resort dry. LBJ was the Dem’s nominee having benefitted from taking office after the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. I do, vaguely remember Hubert Humphrey, Johnson’s running mate, being pushed to the sidelines and made to appear as the strong-willed Johnson’s man servant.

1968 didn’t happen for me. Of all years. I was 16 and working for a camp that took disadvantaged inner city kids from New York City, camping and canoeing and hiking in the Adirondack Mountains of upstate New York. White Mountains of New Hampshire and Baxter State Park in Maine. While the upheaval and violence was going on at the Democratic Convention in Chicago, I was fending off a 10-year thug at a campsite in New Hampshire who pulled my own jackknife on me. He wasn’t hard to disarm but I had to escort him on a Trailways bus back to the Port Authority Bus Terminal in Manhattan and deposit him with his parents who just couldn’t believe their darling Julio could do such a thing.

IMG_0395The closest I ever got to actually covering a convention was in 1988 when I worked for CNN. The Democrats did their thing at the old Omni Arena in Atlanta, which was about 10 steps from CNN Center. That made things very convenient. I was assigned to work, most of the week, in one of our trailers below a viaduct between the Omni and CNN Center. I honestly don’t remember exactly what I did but I do remember two things: Al Franken walking glumly through the trailer after being fired when his “humorous” commentaries fell flat, and the unbelievable large quantity of pigeon droppings that adorned our little metal workplace. When I wasn’t working in the trailer I was the Supervising Producer in the actual newsroom in CNN Center. It was a cool time. All sorts of celebrities toured our complex. The one I remember clearly was CNN’s own Larry King. I’d never seen him in person before but if “The Walking Dead” had been a thing in ’88, he’d have been either the star, or the inspiration for the series.

Over time, of course, the long death march primary system has replaced the conventions as the method whereby candidates actually win the nomination, but I still enjoy watching them. For one, I get the greatest amount of joy seeing some low-level official attempting to capture the delegates’ attention while giving a speech at 4 p.m. I confess, desperation has its allure, when it’s not mine.

So I look forward to the unusual arrangement of both conventions running back-to-back this time around. Someone is bound to do something foolish or personally destructive, but on the other hand a new political star may be born. Just ask Hillary Clinton about one such star who wowed the crowd at the 2004 convention in Boston, then outshined her own candidacy in 2008 and is completing his second term. Is it her turn, finally? Will Donald Trump rock Cleveland…or turn it into a casino/condo development? Don’t know but I have a better TV now and I can’t wait to watch…in color.

An Unfriend-ly Warning

Unfriend In this past, horrible week when, it seems, we should be focusing our anger on innocent people being killed by cops and innocent cops being killed by criminals, I’ve seen a disproportionate amount of invective aimed at…Facebook friends.

Oh, it’s been building up to this idiocy. All political season anyone who expresses an opinion from the left, right or sideways is obnoxiously shouted down as being either a moron, cretin, or, worst of all, an acolyte of Taylor Swift.  But during this past tense week I have seen this philosophical intolerance escalate to the point where Facebook posters are making what they honestly believe is the strongest threat of all against those with whom they disagree…unfriending! Oh yes! Express an opinion at odds with a certain cranky individual with whom you’ve spent years sharing photos of your dog, anecdotes about your ineffective dermatologist and recipes for breakfast cereals made from Elmer’s Glue and bam! Relationship over. You’re crossed off his/her virtual list of friends you’ve never actually met and who would never show up for your funeral or kid’s Bar Mitzvah.  The upside is, who the hell cares? Honestly, I never, ever look at the number of Facebook friends I have and if you dump me I’d never know, or care.

I can see it now…

Guy 1: “There’s too much violence. We must have gun control!

Guy 2: “Piss off. I belong to the NRA. Guns are good. I’m unfriending you!

Guy 1: “Oh no!  I recant everything I ever said about gun control. Can we still be friends?

Guy 3: I’m unfriending both of you morons.

You like what I write? Read on. Don’t? Move along. I don’t care. My page is my page and yours is yours. But don’t whine like a spoiled, simpering snot who holds your breath if you don’t get the biggest slice of birthday cake or shows up at the Apple store just as the last, latest iPhone is sold. If you honestly can’t stand to read an opinion that doesn’t match yours then go to your room, close your eyes and imagine a world that revolves around you. Believe me, Copernicus could use the laugh.

So here’s my new policy. I catch you whining on my feed about how tired and exhausted and pissed off you are about certain people’s opinions and then level the “unfriend” threat, boom, there you go. Maybe you care about being unfriended. I’ll never know you were gone.

 

My endorsements for Veep

Trump and Hill are busily narrowing down their choices for running mates. The best choice would seem to be one that’s both complimentary and complementary to the top of the ticket offering constant support when needed. As a good citizen I have decided to offer some suggestions.

trumpmadFor Trump, a large mirror available at a moment’s notice to reflect back his own image, so when Donald nods yes, his running mate would do the same. Indeed, a mirror could never have a mind of its own since it must mind whatever is facing it. That makes it convenient for the mirror’s master to be compliant in every way without the ability to act on its own. This seems like the perfect partner for a man who would appreciate a fresh bouquet of narcissus on his desk each day.

hillmad.jpgFor Hill, the clear choice would be a bail bondsman. There is little that is more inconvenient than having to search for someone to spring you from the slammer, especially after hours. Even a “chance” meeting between bubba hubby and the U.S. Attorney General won’t do the trick, especially if the judge has already headed for the first tee. Can you imagine if Hill is POTUS and smack in the middle of a meeting with Putin she’s busted, tossed in stir and has to holler, through an interpreter, “hold that thought, Vladdy! I’ll be back as soon as I make bail!” Indeed, it won’t be long since Veep Murray Scheister, the bail bondsman will be on the spot.

Of course, when all else fails, there’s always a stuffed panda. Who doesn’t like a panda? And panda-ring is what DC is all about anyway.

Retro Binging Brings Character Clarity

How you doin’? Thanks to streaming services like Netflix, Hulu, et. al, it’s easy to sit for most of one’s natural life and binge on a favorite or fashionable program. Seems like most viewers indulge themselves on current or recently departed series but since last summer we’ve been binging long-gone series: “Friends” and “Frasier”. The result is a retrospective recasting of my feelings about certain actors and characters.

friendsretroLet’s start with “Friends.” We were not regular viewers when the series aired in the 90’s and early 2000’s. In fact, I had never seen an entire episode before my wife and I decided to kill some brain cells by watching the whole 10 year run over the course of a few months last summer and fall. Going into this all I had to go on was my years ago crush on Courtney Cox from her days as Alex Keaton’s girlfriend on “Family Ties,” glimpses of Jennifer Aniston as the hot babe on the magazine covers, Lisa Kudrow as the goofy sister of a character who looked like her on “Mad About You,” and then the guys to whom I paid no attention..especially David Schwimmer who just seemed, from the promos, like a whiny guy who needed an ass loosening.  After more than 200 episodes and living through the interminable Ross and Rachel drama, Joey’s up and down and down and down and up acting career, Monica’s OCD, Chandler’s SO NOT HAPPY schtick and all the rest, I decided the following:  My crush on Courtney Cox was crushed by her character’s OCD, Jennifer Aniston is a gifted comedienne but should never wear bangs, Lisa Kudrow was the best actress and her character the most fun to watch, to act that dumb but engaging, Matt LeBlanc had some mean acting chops, Matthew Perry WAS SO NOT GONNA HAVE ANOTHER SUCCESSFUL SERIES, and David Schwimmer would be whiny forever. Honestly, Rachel should have kept going to Paris and found a hot guy in black turtleneck loaded with gift cards from a trendy cafe’.

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In the case of “Frasier,” the analysis is much more concise. On “Cheers” Frasier was merely a pompous loser. On that character’s spinoff, Frasier evolved into a pompous loser with an awesome apartment in Seattle. Indeed, his brother Niles and father, Martin were much more fun to watch but the female characters, Daphne, played by  Jane Leeves, and Peri Gilpin’s Roz were the secret sauce that gave the series its bite. Indeed, while psychiatrist “Frasier” may have been the titular character, in retrospect he’s the one who needed his head examined and his shrink-rapt brother, a blow-up doll.

Goodnight everybody!

 

 

 

It’s the Bang, Not the Bullseye

daisyAfter reading a combination of serious, ridiculous, paranoid, well-intentioned, sensible and idiotic commentary on gun control, I’d like to offer an aspect regarding an unknown number of those who oppose such legislation. This segment of society would be those who desire guns for neither self-defense, sporting nor murderous purpose. These are people who are so simple, they just want guns to make a big bang, possibly in place of the lack of ability to do so naturally.

When we were kids in the 60’s it was quite acceptable to play “War” or “Cowboys and Indians” with Daisy air rifles. They were cool. You racked the gun and when you fired it made a small boom. If we wanted to actually shoot something we stuck the muzzle of the gun in the ground and when you fired a little clod of dirt spilled out. If you didn’t have a Daisy you could buy a roll of caps for your other toy guns so you could at least make a little “pop.” Either way, our need to pull a trigger and make a noise was fulfilled.

That was childhood during a more innocent time. Now there are individuals who want a bigger bang AND a lethal projectile to substitute for actual sex they can’t have anyway. A common term is to “jack a shell in the chamber.” For these idiots I would create ordnance that makes a noise but fires only Tic Tacs. I would then change the term to “E-jacking a shell in the chamber” since that’s what the whole exercise is designed as a substitute for. These morons could keep their guns, harm no one, satisfy their inadequacies and the world’s a safer place because no one is being shot and they’re not on the street practicing their other hobby, sexual deviancy.

There’s probably enough of these of these cretins to account for a good number of votes and if the firearms industry would simply serve their very specialized needs and thereby reducing the amount of lethal force in the hands of those who shouldn’t have it, the world might be just a little safer place.

Worth a shot.

 

 

A Hero on the Battlefield, Home and Shuffleboard Court

dadsoldierJPGMy father was a war hero who captured a house of 52 Germans by speaking Yiddish that the idiots thought was Deutsch.

dadengineerHe was a chemical engineer who worked on piping for nuclear power plants and factories that made Nestles chocolate and all the fluids produced by Dupont and Union Carbide that either keep your car from overheating or providing an alternative to panty hose.   In spite of his heart condition he taught me to drive…then he taught me how to curse at other drivers, but never give the finger. Both hands on the wheel, you know.

My father was pretty quiet but was a master punster. He despised country music and at the very mention of it he’d affect a twang and sing his own terrible corn pone verse:  “She fell down the sewer, and they called it sewer-cide.”

Of course he was a great husband who schlepped 90 minutes each way into Manhattan from our Queens home on bus and subway  to make a good living. He often didn’t arrive home till after 8 p.m. but he still had time to help me with my math homework since I was as hopeless with numbers as Stevie Wonder with watercolors.

smilingJPG

My dad was a great practical joker who hated cigars. When a guy lit one up in our little apartment during a card game, he shot it out of his mouth with a rubber band. Oh yeah, he was an excellent shot with a rubber band and taught us the secret to give it some extra zing. I’m not sharing, just in case you light up a cigar in my house.

 

In his later years he was the captain of the condo shuffleboard team and led it to the Greenacres City, Fla. championship 3 times. shuffleboardJPG One of his proudest achievements was when he served on the condo board and scored a water fountain for the shuffleboard courts. He’d beg you to take a drink. The fountain dispensed the coldest, clearest water and he’d smile as he watched you take what he knew would be a satisfying sip.

The last time I saw him was during a visit in March, 2007, two weeks before he died unexpectedly two days after his 85th birthday.  This photo is the last one I took of both my parents and my family. lastphoto

But the last image I have of him was sadly waving goodbye to us as we pulled away in our rental car to head to Palm Beach International Airport for the flight back to Detroit. Didn’t realize then he was saying goodbye forever.  My mom passed away nine months later. Cherish each day with your parents. You never know when that goodbye wave is the final one.

Pot Luck Lunches? Deal Me Out

potluckThere was a pot luck lunch in my office today. I brought a sandwich. For myself. I don’t participate in pot luck meals. Crock pots containing mysterious substances intimidate me. Whatever is laying in repose in those aluminum pans may, in fact, taste good, but they appear to me like yet to be identified tissue samples. Some baked goods seem acceptable until I’m informed they are topped with cream cheese rather than frosting. Someone thoughtfully brought in a bag of Doritos, which proved to be a worthy accompaniment to the turkey and swiss cheese sandwich I made with my own hands. I won’t even get into the ridiculous number of condiments perched on the table ready to do battle with my senses. No, when it comes to pot luck lunches, I’m not gambling. But man, those brownies looked good. Crap! They were made with sour cream. The bastards! I’m out.

Canadian Like Me

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In his 1961 book “Black Like Me” author John Howard Griffin recounted his firsthand experiences with being the target of racism in the Deep South, when he tinted his skin so he appeared African-American.

I thought of Griffin’s experiment and book when I stumbled into a much less high-minded and serious episode of appearing to be someone I’m not. For one night, everyone around me thought I was Canadian.

My daughter’s boyfriend is from Nova Scotia, living here now, and had never been to a night time major league baseball game. Checking the Detroit Tigers schedule a few weeks ago, I noticed that June 7th was “Canadian Tiger Fans Night,” and with one ticket package you received a voucher for a swell t-shirt proclaiming you a Canadian Tigers Fan. So of course, I bit on that faster than a Quebecker on a pan of poutine.

I noticed a difference even before I donned the shirt with a maple leaf and the Olde English D on the front and map of Canada on the back. It happened when we exchanged our vouchers for the shirts and the young man handing them out gave us a little smile similar to the one you might give someone who doesn’t speak English. I wanted to help him relax by saying, in English, “it’s ok, eh? we have t-shirts in Canada too.”

People kept stopping us asking if we were really from Canada and did we come all that way, which is comical, or pathetic, since Canada is just a mile away across the Detroit River. We were also asked to turn around so folks could see the backs of our shirts. One or two asked, earnestly, “What is that, a map of Canada, or Ontario, or…something?” Something. Eh?

It was after the game, though, when I honestly felt the pain of being on the receiving end of either xenophobia, or simply the effects of too many 10 dollar beers in a 75 IQ body. As we walked down the ramps toward the exits, a few morons started shouting at us in their worst Canadian accents, “Hey! You Canadian guys! You enjoy the game, EH? Sorry the Blue Jays lost, but no worries, EH? Did you know this wasn’t a hockey game, EH?” I knew they were idiots and probably drunk but for the first time I felt stung as a target of, if not something as serious and ugly as racism, but, as something I could only define as “differentiation.” I immediately recalled “Black Like Me,” as I looked down at my red Canadian Tigers Fan shirt, a scarlet tee, providing the faux skin disguising me as a citizen of the Provinces, and identifying me as a convenient target of stereotype and ignorance.

But this has a happy ending. One of the offenders, a kid from across the river in Windsor, Ontario, confided that he regretted missing the chance to get one of those t-shirts and herald the fact he’s a proud Canadian Tigers fan. Maybe next year. No worries. Eh?