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.

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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?

 

 

 

Death and Kisses-A Bittersweet Vacation

IMG_0340Just returned from a short vacation to Pennsylvania that combined the celebration of the maker of sweet Kisses, with paying homage to a most bitter event in American history. IMG_0312

Not surprisingly, the crowds at the former far surpassed those at the latter, but then again, at the end of the virtual tour of a Hershey factory you’re handed a free sample–a tiny Hershey bar.
After touring the solemn battlegrounds of Gettysburg, you’re left with bewilderment at the magnitude of death and hatred fellow Americans leveled against each other. In this disgusting election cycle, that philosophical battle is fought between candidates and between their supporters and detractors with lethal vitriol in both social and mainstream media.

IMG_0310In the course of 24 hours and about 40 miles, we visited both the Valley of Death, seen from the summit of Little Round Top where visitors reverently took in the enormity of the horrors that occurred there, and Hershey’s World of Chocolate, where thousands of chocoholics jammed the massive visitor’s center to join the free tour to see how Hershey bars are made, and to buy key rings and earrings and other tchochkes that look like Kisses and Reese’s Pieces.

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Don’t get me wrong. I take no fault at enjoying the kitschy  town that Milton Hershey built and dedicated to celebrating his namesake brand. What’s not fun about chocolate? We enjoyed our visit very much. I think what I appreciated the most, though, was learning that Mr. Hershey, in creating Hershey, PA, did not want it to be just another company town that amounted to little more than a barracks for his workforce, but a living community with services that enriched the lives of his employees and their families. IMG_0330Diverting from the main drag of Chocolate Avenue, with its Hershey Kisses-shaped streetlights for the benefit of tourists, Hershey’s vision is evident with modern schools, recreation areas and beautiful homes and gardens. All financed by the world’s collective sweet tooth. IMG_0302

But it is also heartening to know the crowds in Gettysburg were as ardent in their reverence and curiosity with regard to the pivotal Civil War battle. Sure, you can buy any number of Gettysburg souvenirs and stay at the Gettysburg Battle Field Resort, which bothered me for some reason. Smiling selfies taken overlooking the scene of massacre are regrettably de rigueur for those who just revel in the view and not the scene. IMG_0318

I think of what Union Brig. Gen. Gouverneur K. Warren thought when he stood in about the same spot as this statue of him on Little Round Top and saw the valley undefended against the Confederates. IMG_0309History records he quickly sent a message to the top brass to send in some troops, which they did. But man, that moment could really have benefitted from a quick break…for a Hershey Bar.

 

 

 

 

A Suit of Armor All

Since long before Ponce de Leon made the boneheaded conclusion he could find youth in Florida, man, and woman, have sought the secret to turning back the biological clock to at least Cellulite Saving Time.  While Pitiful Ponce thought the answer spit forth from a fountain and countless others believe all it takes is a surgical nip and tuck, I believe I have found the answer…and it’s been hiding in plain sight since its invention in 1962.

armoralllogoMy discovery came as I endured the annual ritual this morning of de-winterizing our cars, which entails vacuuming, scrubbing the salt from the carpets and of course, Armor All-ing almost every interior surface of the vehicles.

It doesn’t take much. Just a little spritz and the colors of the leather and plastic surfaces suddenly become vivid as if viewed through Timothy Leary’s LSD enhanced eyes. The old Jeep Patriot discovered its long-dormant self-esteem and the rough and tumble Wrangler took on an even more brazen than usual smirk, begging to preen in front of a reflective storefront, or someone driving a Chevy.

A turn of the key brought with it the sound the engine made only miles from having left the showroom all those years ago. As I put each in gear to return them to the garage, I swear they actually skipped.armorallbottle

So what is this Armor All I speak of? This all-purpose elixir of inanimate youth? It turns out an unknown polymer chemist named Joe Palcher conjured up the potion that would one day become the pump bottle of youth.  He found that whatever he tossed together in a bottle would create what he called  a “miracle formula” for protecting rubber, plastic and vinyl from harmful ultraviolet rays.  His friends convinced him to market it and named the stuff “Tri-don” which, spelled backwards, with adjusted hyphenation, spells “No-Dirt.”

A decade later a marketing man bought the rights to “Tri-don” and renamed it “Armor All Protectant” and eventually had it patented. I won’t go into the subsequent history of the company’s business developments because all I’m really interested in is wondering what else this stuff does?

Could you wipe your skin with it and make it shine and tighten wrinkles? Or would you end up looking like a Naugahyde bucket seat sat on by a sick child? Could you mix it with Jack Daniels and seal your digestive tract from impurities? Could you apply it your boss’s stale ideas and make them fresh…for the first time?

Such possibilities! All I know is my cars are humming with youthful vigor, spontaneously switching my satellite radio to the “Testosterone Revving” channel and winking their headlights at sexy Italian sports cars during traffic light stops.

I know I’ll have to eventually re-apply the Armor All but then again, Ponce de Leon always figured he’d have to take a second sip at the fountain.

 

 

 

 

Morley and the Sacred Marriage

saferLast Sunday my eyes teared up as I watch the retrospective of Morley Safer’s career on “60 Minutes” on the occasion of his retirement. Who knew he would pass from the scene only a few days later.  Oh, my verklempt moment had nothing to do with him packing it in after a million years on the air. It had more to do with the perfection of his writing. Marrying his avuncular narration with video, writing short sentences, masterfully using the medium to tell a compelling and memorable story. For any of us who write for television, Safer was one of a very few to whom we could only hope to emulate, and never quite get there.

My tears were also drawn by the realization the art of television writing is becoming a lost one, as stations and networks rely on extemporaneous live reports that escape thoughtful writing and critical editing. Expediency and penny-pinching come with a high cost. Skilled television reporters and writers are being forced onto the street and replaced with so-called “citizen journalists,” bloggers and social media gadflys who may not have had the experience or training, learning the vows of the holy matrimony between words and video, economy of narration, video storytelling. Much too often I see scripts from wannabees and hacks who bang out words having never looked at a frame of video figuring the editor “will find something to cover that line with.”

I learned the hard way. I started my broadcasting career on the radio and eventually migrated to TV. The first time I handed a poorly written script to an editor who saw no relationship between the available video and my words he spat to me, “you realize, asshole, I don’t have one shot that matches what you wrote! Look at the damn video!” Those words have stayed with me to this day and I’ve passed them along to subsequent offenders.

I was blessed during my 20 CNN years to work mainly with one shooter to the point where we knew each other so we would each come up with lines and shots that matched perfectly, always avoiding the dreaded generic “wallpaper” shots that offer no value to the story.

In my capacity as Head of Digital Communications at Fiat Chrysler Automobiles, I’m a constant drumbeat to our video producers to write tight, look at the damn video before writing and make certain pictures and words are in complete lockstep. It’s a continuing battle but one that is in hand.

Which brings me back to the genius of Morley Safer, for whom this marriage was sacred…and one on which he never cheated. The same could be said of the late, wonderful Bruce Morton, whose verbal dexterity was a key driver of my decision to enter broadcast journalism.morton2

Sadly, as the Safers and Mortons pass from the scene, the beautiful art of television journalism is fading from the scene as well…and that brings tears to my eyes.

My Personal Comic Con: Dr. Smith and me

Lucky kids! There was no such thing as Comic Con when I was growing up. The closest thing was when the clown from the local kid’s show sat at a table in a department store and gamely signed 8×10 glossies of himself and let parents take pictures of him with their little darlings who usually marked the moment by deciding the clown’s lap was a good place to dispose of their lunches.

But many years later I scored a meet-up with a true TV sci-fi bad guy and, to say the least, it wasn’t what I expected.

As a kid I was a regular viewer of “Lost in Space.” The stories and effects were cool for that era, but what really kept horny pre-teens like me engaged were the form-fitting outfits worn by the female cast members–especially Angela Cartwright, who had grown up quite nicely since her days as the precocious daughter on “Make Room for Daddy.” Oh, mama!

So while I was on an assignment with CNN in Atlanta and received a call from the national assignment desk that the Showbiz Tonight program needed me to pick up an interview with a “Lost in Space” cast member who was in town, I had thoughts of quality, fantasy time with Ms. Cartwright, or maybe Marta Kristen, the luscious blonde who played Dr. Judy Robinson. No such luck. I was told I was to report to the Marriott Hotel in Gwinnett County, in suburban Atlanta where none other than Jonathan Harris, who played the icky Dr. Zachary Smith would be waiting for me. Just c’mon up to his room. harris2

My crew and I knocked on his door and rather than being greeted by a villainous vulture known for his devious deeds, the man leading us into his suite gave us hugs, big, BIG hellos and appeared less a bad guy than some incarnation of Angela Lansbury.

Dressed in a grey sport coat, silk shirt and ascot, thespian Harris shooed us into the suite with sweeping waves of his elastic arms, wide eyes, arching brows and a mellifluous order to “sit! sit! eat something!” as he pointed to a table full of 15 kinds of danish, bagels, butter, jams and jellies.

We made small talk as the crew set up, but there was no discussion of plot lines or cast trivia. The warm and tender host only wanted to hear of my family and love life and career aspirations. “Oh, silly boy!,” he laughed. “Once that camera rolls you can ask me that nonsense about the show and I promise you I will make up some simply wonderful answers that will make you a hero at the station!”

That’s exactly what happened. I really only had a few questions supplied to me by the Showbiz Tonight people, targeted at whatever angle they had in mind. The interview lasted but a few minutes, but all this time I can’t get over being in a hotel room with the dastardly Dr. Zachary Smith, who turned out to be a pussycat in every sense of the word.johnathanharris

Sadly, there are no photos. Selfies didn’t exist yet since early cell phones were the size of Rhode Island and barely made calls, let along take photos. That’s fine. I will always have that image in my mind’s eye of being lost in amazement at being in a hotel room with the ebullient nice guy who played the bad guy, who was Lost in Space.