A Flyover on the Wall

flyoverIt was somewhere over Iowa that I started paying attention to the screen in front of me showing my flight’s location. At what point, I wondered, did we enter “flyover” territory–the fairly arrogant term East/West coasters use for the area of the country between the coasts you wouldn’t think of actually landing, and, golly, find something worthy of their sophistication to do.

So having several hours to kill before landing in San Francisco I started thinking about the nation’s midsection and what I might have missed had I always flown over, and never landed in it.

Permit me a fond recollection that dates back to 1974. I had never seen the Mississippi River, or any place actually, west of Buffalo. My wife had seen it all. I had a week off from my $1.85/hour radio DJ job in Fulton, NY. This would be our first vacation since our wedding in September, 1973 and I asked my wife if we could drive to the Mighty Mississippi and back in a week. She assured me we could.

We hit the road and in short order I got my first glimpse of Ohio and the great city of Cleveland. I had hair that reflected the times and my age and the clerk at the first motel we attempted to stay in promptly refused me on the grounds that I looked like a creep.

After finding a more open-minded hotelier we hit Columbus, Cincinnati, and Louisville in short order. No money or time to do much so we quickly drove around Churchill Downs wondering what it would be like to attend the Kentucky Derby. From there we crossed into Indiana and became hopelessly lost. Somehow we ended up in Tell City, IN, then Hawesville, KY. A strong wind across the flat farmlands promptly blew my side view mirror off our awesome white Rambler. Eventually we found our way and the great Gateway Arch poked its apex over the horizon, providing a prominent trailmarker to our destination, and feeling almost weepy at seeing the Mississippi at last as we crossed into St. Louis.

We again faced the challenge of finding lodging, only this time it was due to a long parade of “no vacancy” signs. A room was finally secured at a high rise in suburban Clayton where we dumped our things and headed back to town to catch a Cardinals game in what was then, the modern, total ’70’s circle, Busch Stadium. They were playing the hated Reds and we saw Pete Rose, whom 16 years later, would slam me into a wall when I asked him a tough question just before he was bounced from baseball.

As I mentioned, we had little money, so we took the first tour of the Budweiser brewery the next morning and slurped as much free swill as we could before moving on to Illinois where we made surgical strikes in Springfield to see Abe Lincoln’s grave and Chicago where we drove around the Loop and headed back east.

We noticed the Kelloggs factory in Battle Creek, MI was an easy detour off the Indiana Toll road and guessed, correctly, they’d give us free cereal. Sure enough, “Request Packs” was given to us after a fascinating tour watching Corn Flakes made by mashing corn grits to smithereens between two gigantic rollers.
Then it was the home stretch back to Oswego, NY where we lived, via Detroit, Canada and Niagara Falls, where we pulled up to parking space, looked over at the falling water and got back in the car because we had no coins for the parking meters.

After a lifetime, to that point, of being a fairly sheltered New Yorker who thought the western border of the U.S. was the Hudson River and nothing north of the Catskill Mountains matter, it was a geographic and cultural coming of age for me. From that day on, I appreciated what lay between the coasts, the marvel of the Rocky’s, the kindness of the people, the variety of the vittles, and the cornucopia of customs and routines.  As a reporter I covered everything from natural disasters, plane crashes, trials, politics, crimes, sports, most times meeting people who opened my eyes to points of view, to courage, to mystery, to incredible sadness and misery, music, humor, triumph and joy.

Flyover country? Not at all. That IS the country.

MLK Day-The Reluctant Holiday

One Monday in January, 2002 I showed up for work at the Associated Press at my regular time, not completely sure why I was able to find a better parking space than usual but grateful. Before I could reach my desk the shift supervisor intercepted me and with amusement in her eyes asked what I was doing in the office.

“Uh…Monday,” was all I could muster.

“Uh, MLK Day,” she replied. “You get a choice of off days. MLK Day or your birthday. So who’s birthday you going to celebrate?”

“Mine, I guess,” and I hightailed back to my car, giving up my awesome parking space.

During the 30 minute drive home, I was a bit ashamed that MLK Day just wasn’t on my radar…that it was an optional holiday per the union agreement. His birthday or yours. Didn’t matter. You get a day off.  Never crossed my mind. It should have. Not only because I grew up in the 60’s, was 100 percent aware of, and in awe of, his courage and accomplishments, recall with great clarity hearing the bulletin announcing his assassination, but because 15 years earlier, I was assigned to cover the very first MLK Day in his hometown of Atlanta for CNN.

But as I reported in the story attached here, MLK Day faced a volume of struggles in direct proportion to the challenges Dr. King faced in life. Bigotry, small-mindedness, ignorance. Indeed, there seems to be a take it or leave it attitude. Your birthday or his…which day do you want off? Doesn’t matter. Pick one.

Don’t get me wrong. There are many wonderful events commemorating Dr. King’s birthday including the annual “United We Walk” march in my community in suburban Detroit, and many, many others across the country.

I remember covering those first MLK Day activities from Dr. King’s church, on the street where the Martin Luther King Jr. Center for Non-Violent Social Change sits, where Dr. King is buried. On a map it’s called Auburn Avenue. In the hearts of those who respect Dr. King’s work, it’s called Sweet Auburn.

I interviewed all sorts of people including Rev. Joseph Lowery, head of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, and Dr. King’s widow, Coretta. She exuded peacefulness, forgiveness and strength.

Jesse Jackson and Rev. Robert Schuller were there. Perhaps caught up in the moment I breathlessly reported to the CNN assignment desk “the civil rights movement has been revived! I can’t wait to turn this package!”

All the air out of my balloon was expelled when the editor told me to just do a VO/SOT. That’s TV language for some video for the anchor to voice over and a soundbite. Don’t even write a full-length piece.  Being in the Deep South, I took what’s known down there as a hissy fit. The editor thought I was just a reporter having a tantrum. I was beyond frustrated, but had no recourse but to carry out my assignment.

So there it was. From the first MLK Day to today, 28 years later, the annual remembrance of the birth of this giant of the civil rights movement, who risked his life, and lost it, fighting for common human decency and fairness, still seems to be an afterthought. A welcome three-day weekend. Three at last.

Your birthday or his. Pick one. Do yourself a favor. Choose both. Your life is better because he was born.

Motor City Gladness

route95Some auto thoughts and recollections coming off another smashing media preview week at the North American International Auto show.

I had a friend in high school named Neil. He owned a brand new light green Pontiac TransAm, while I drove a ’62 Pontiac Tempest my dad bought for $25. No one loved my Tempest. Everyone loved Neil’s TransAm. One night, a bunch of us who were admitted “Neil’s TransAm Disciples,” gathered in his driveway and watched him install a set of Thrush mufflers that gave the car at least 5 extra sets of balls when Neil nailed the accelerator. Only Neil was allowed to nail the accelerator, or touch the steering wheel or deem to sit within the holy walls of of Neil’s TransAm…without Neil’s permission, of course. Besides, it had a white almost-leather interior and who needed the mortification of marring the chemically-produced cloud?

Honestly, I never gave much thought about cars after the gang scattered to universities across the country.
My first new car was a groovy red, 1974 Chevy Vega, which went through three transmissions in the three miserable years I owned it. Many years later, as the GM beat reporter for The Detroit News, I interviewed a union officer at the Lordstown, Ohio plant that produced my red lemon. He said to me “You owned a Vega? Well on behalf of all the men and women here at Lordstown, we sincerely apologize!”

As you can plainly see, I was less than an automotive aficionado…otherwise I might have settled on a Gremlin or Pacer, the Vega’s partners in the 1970’s Triad of Dreck.
My automotive ambivalence changed drastically when CNN transferred me from Atlanta to Detroit to be the bureau chief and correspondent there. Back then the bureau was in the basement of the PBS station, WTVS, two blocks from the former General Motors headquarters. I was told Ted Turner directed the bureau be located there because he wanted to be close to the biggest company in the biggest, most important industry in the country.

My education into the auto industry was swift and brutal. I was sent to interview Ford’s chief numbers cruncher for a sales story. He was three months from retirement and didn’t suffer newbies lightly.
“Sit your ass down, listen to what I say, learn from it and don’t ask any stupid questions. Got that?” How could I not?

I actually found the men and women of this great industry to be very understanding about my learning curve and as long as I didn’t act like a cocky dipshit, they were happy to help my learn the ropes.

Indeed, there I was, in a conference room with the great Lee Iacocca at Chrysler’s old Highland Park, MI headquarters. He strided into the room with a big cigar, handed the big, wet thing to his PR guy, shook my hand, smiled and asked “what’s on your mind?”
Yeah, I was starstruck because I had just read his memoirs before moving up north.
I told him I was new, and apologized if my questions seemed simple or naiive.
He gave me another big smile and said, “don’t shit your pants, ask me anything you like and I’ll make it easy for you…and welcome to Detroit.”

That was 1989. This is now. Detroit’s always been welcome to me and my family and I can’t think of a reason to hop in my jet black Jeep Wrangler Moab Edition and leave.

2015 North American International Auto Show Days 1 and 1.5-Tiny Tomatoes to Topless Spiders

This year’s auto show was a blend of little tomatoes presented on pedestals, big vehicle introductions and dawn patrol scrums.

 

IMG_1972Being a major auto show, let’s tackle the tomatoes first. Here you see teeny tiny tomatoes perched on diminutive pedestals begging always grazing reporters to pluck them…and eat them. In what appeared to be the comestible version of Lilliput, the tomato-tots were joined by sandwiches small enough to be plucked, shucked and swallowed in one motion.

What miniature meal would be complete without a first course. Voila, spoon-sized salads so small one could only top it with Two-And-A-Half Island dressing.IMG_1969

 

 

 

 

 

 

As I moved on I found some journalists thoroughly involved…in themselves…socializing by being anti-social, but not alone.

IMG_1974

One poor guy just gave up altogether, surrendering to the rigors of covering an expansive motor show by collapsing in one of the manufacturer’s stands—an import, of course.

IMG_1975

 

 

 

 

 

 

Indeed, our company energized the crowd buzzed on free espresso and granola bars with the Alfa Romeo 4C Spider. I mean, you can’t beat curvy..and topless.

spider

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Ram Rebel didn’t cause any of the journos to yell, except those who might have missed their chance to snag more than one press kit. I can’t wait to blast Billy Idol and annoy those next to me at stop lights.rebel

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

IMG_1982When the big boss takes a walk on the floor a scrum immediately materializes even if it’s 7:15 in the morning. A reporter clutched his coffee while in the clutches of the group hug aimed at getting him to say what he said yesterday, only this time, to them.

 

We’ll do this all again in a few weeks in Chicago, the next stop on the domestic auto show circuit. New badges, new wristbands, new vehicles, new shrimp, new blisters. Can’t wait.

2015 North American International Auto Show Day 1/2

wb

There it is. My one-hand, handcuff for the next two days. Together with my surfboard sized credential a security guard will permit me passage onto the show floor of the 2015 North American International Auto Show.

Permit me a tangent. I pray endlessly for a slave to type “North American International Auto Show” for me. Thank you.

Anyway, having passed this two-pronged security protocol I was allowed to make my way toward my company’s area by hopping over dozens of planks of plywood, darting around forklifts that appeared to be driven by former polo players, tripping over half-laid carpeting, breathing in three or four hundred cubic feet of propane exhaust giving me awesome powers of circumventing the annoyance of longevity, and
avoiding a head-on collision with a journalist attempting to walk, take a selfie and shake a guy’s hand simultaneously, while accepting a breath mint.

Thought it would be fun to take a few photos of our stand being set up and post them on the company Facebook page. After taking 8 shots I heard a sound getting closer that was either a mule-deer pursuing the love of his life…or a Cobo Hall security guard. Yes, they sound that much alike. Alas, it was a gentleman in blue waving his hands hollering, “no photos!” I smiled and explained I’m a PR guy from the company. “Well, no problem, then,” he said as he smiled and walked away. Then it dawned on me he never asked for ID or proof of my employment. I might have tried that at the Chevy stand but I try to be a wiseass maybe only two times a day.

Since it was setup day there’s no free food around the floor, preventing me from grazing like a Costco shopper lunching off free samples. I decided to try the new food court. It looks a bit like smaller version of a food court in a mall, without the screaming kids or a Manchu Wok. The pizza looked good..deep dish..so I stepped up to the counter. “What?” asked the clerk. “Pepperoni,” I grunted back. The young lady gives me a look that says “no crap, that’s the only kind we have,” and just wiggles her index finger over the squares of grease apparently begging me to choose one. So I wiggled my finger back and she seemed to get the message. $9.32 later for one slice of index finger wiggle pizza and a bottle of Vernors, I sat down at one of the stylish Formica tables. First bite? The pizza was colder than Putin’s heart. Oh! Silly me! I didn’t realize they were selling FROZEN pizza! Ah!

Well Monday and Tuesday the free food will be flowing, rendering the Food Court adjourned. More tomorrow.

In fact, you DO need those stinkin’ badges…and a wristband too!

My first credential to the North American International Auto show was just a thin piece of paper with my name and “CNN” clearly typed on it. You shoved the thing in a plastic holder and wore it around your neck for three days. It was fine. More than sufficient. A security guard or someone who thought they knew you but forgot they didn’t who needed to see your name and affiliation, could.  The paper badge swingin’ from the top of your spine did the trick to get you in the door and that was that.

That was 1990.

IMG_1945It didn’t take long before something that was simple and functional was replaced by something else that was small and hard to read. It was a little plastic badge like the server at a Big Boy might wear, or a sales clerk at the feed store. The pitiful plastic thing hung on a flimsy chain that froze your neck every time the forklift drivers left open the giant doors to the loading docks, allowing polar blasts to permeate the show floor. Nevertheless, you wore the badge, you got past the security guards so you could do your job.

Well..not quite that simple. One year they stuck a “VIP” ribbon onto my badge. Well..I was a network guy so why the hell not? But then a blowhard from a local affiliate whose ego needed a building permit noticed his badge didn’t have the ribbon. “Why do you have a ribbon?” he bellowed at me. “Because I don’t suck,” was my only reasonable response. “Harrumph!” was his best reply. “I’m going to force them to give me a ribbon!”  Tough. Local boy didn’t get the ribbon. Just wasn’t a VIP, I guess. My best guess is the person at the credentials desk just pegged him as boastful moron.

IMG_1944The ribbon disappeared after that year and local boy shared the same media credential as every other reporter and there was peace in the land.  As a sign of progress, large credentials, the size of standup paddle boards were created. One could read a person’s name and affiliation from Philly. But for some reason, that wasn’t quite enough to proved to the dour security guards you were cool, so a second level of validation was created…a plastic wristband!  Now one needed to present the proper credential, and a wristband, all of the proper color, to be allowed entrance onto the auto show floor. If you cut off the wristband at the end of the day, you had to wait again at a special desk to get a new one.

Now some reporters and industry people would receive the ultimate symbol they were important by finding a lovely lapel pin with the auto show logo and their name etched in it. I don’t know what the criteria for getting the pin is, but when I worked for CNN I got one. When I didn’t…I didn’t. All I do know is when a pin-able person sports the thing the pin refusniks are very jealous and say things like, “Oh, nice pin. You must be special. I must be trash even though I’ve been covering this show for 25 years.”

Some auto shows don’t put any effort at all into their credentials. One major show gives you the paper badge and a holder, but, psych, no lanyard from which to attach the thing to your body. You can clip the thing to your pocket but you find yourself bending over all day picking it up off the floor and a reporter with a plate of handout shrimp trips over your ass, losing most of his seafood swag.

Should be a fun show this year. I have my giant badge, holder and a lanyard. But boy, I wish I had that VIP ribbon.

 

 

 

Left-Handed Compliment

GorlzannyStories in the local papers today heralded the fact the Detroit Tigers finally signed a left handed reliever since the team didn’t have one. I suppose it’s important to have pitchers from each handedness since it affects the matchup between pitcher and left and right handed hitters. I remember when I was an 8-year old pathetic Little Leaguer. I played the outfield, but wanted to try out to be a pitcher. I had all the attributes. I’m left-handed, and couldn’t hit. In three years in the Little League I got 2 hits, 4 foul balls, 3 walks and struck out a million times.

The manager, who was really one of other kid’s fathers who looked like he was living from nitro tablet to nitro tablet, decided give me a tryout. He not only liked that I was left-handed, he liked the fact that the location he chose for my to pitch to him was next to the Mr. Softee ice cream truck.  He was also intrigues with my submarine delivery. Given the fact I was barely four-feet tall, submarine delivery meant most of my arm was underground.

He crouched in the catcher’s position and told me to “burn it in Eddie!” I reared back and fired a high, hard one, right past him and into the headlight of a parked car. Now a headlight is barely six-inches in diameter so I figured the skipper would be pretty impressed with my aim, but instead he shoved another nitro onto his tongued and sucked in slowly.

“OK, Eddie, put one right here!” he urged, pointed to his mitt. Wondering why he didn’t praise my “headlight pitch” I shook off the sign with ideas of my own. Sensing I had another unpleasant surprise awaiting him, he ordered his son, the pimply third baseman to get him a large chocolate milkshake from Mr. Softee.

Jutting my jaw with purpose, I wound up, fired the horsehide and planted that baby smack into the grille of a ’62 Pontiac Tempest.

“Shit,” the skipper said, “glad that wasn’t mine. What else you got, kid?”

“Oh, watch this! It’s my money pitch!” I replied.

Yeah, it was a money pitch alright. It knocked the milkshake out of the skipper’s hands, costing him 45 cents.

He actually never said another word. Devastated his lefty prospect turned out to be nothing but a southpaw sociopath, he just walked away, trying to suck what was left of the milkshake through a bent straw.

The first base coach ran up to me, told me never to handle a baseball again. But my parents paid for my full-season participation in Little League so they were compelled to play me the minimum two innings per game.  I mostly played the outfield after that and actually caught a few flies, but to this day I just know if skip had let me pitch a few more I would have found my groove..and maybe taken out a fire hydrant.

Random EDlines 2015 Predictions Edition

  • A major ballot issue among the Amish will be same hex marriage
  • It will take only two shows to discover there never was a real Stephen Colbert, but rather a guy named Morty Schwartz impersonating a Catholic dude impersonating a conservative talk show host. Word!
  • CNN will change its format to 24-hour continuous tittering by Anderson Cooper.
  • Fox News will update its long-fraudulent slogan to “Scared and Imbalanced.”
  • MSNBC plans no changes since it has no viewers
  • Longtime viewers of HGTV’s “House Hunters” will revel in the first murder of an obnoxious couple by a real estate agent, leading to a wildly popular spinoff “Love Them or Waste Them.”
  • The Weather Channel will finally throw in the towel with the new series, “Just Look Out the Freakin’ Window.” It will score its highest ratings in years.
  • NASA will suffer a major embarrassment when it triumphantly announces it has discovered life on Mars, only to be told the agency’s big telescope was focused on Mars, PA, a suburb of Pittsburgh, population 1,686. Guess whose planet will be looking red?
  • Shirley MacLaine will cap off an amazing career by recording duets with her other selves.
  • Taylor Swift will break up with her other selves and sell 3-billion records singing about it.
  • One of Taylor Swift’s other selves will record a rebuttal song but unimpressed consumers will shake it off.
  • One of the biggest movies of the year will involve a plot to end Seth Rogan’s career.
  • Arianna Grande will reach her adult height of two-feet, six-inches and be tragically swallowed by Nikki Manaj during an especially vibrant performance of “Bang Bang.” Jessie J will feel left out.
  • The Nobel Peace Prize will be given to CNN for ending the irrelevant war of words called “Crossfire.”
  • “The View” and “The Voice” will merge, renamed “The Void.”

I Cheated on Seinfeld

seinfeldJPGWere you a “Friends” or  a “Seinfeld?” Just as you can’t be a White Sox AND a Cubs fan, a Mets AND and Yankee fan, or support both the Lakers AND Clippers, I don’t see how it would have been possible to watch both programs with equal fervor. But I broach this sensitive subject as a means of long overdue admission.

friendsjpgFirst, a very mild disclaimer. Jerry Seinfeld and I grew up within a few miles of each other in Queens. For several years he dated the daughter of childhood friends of my parents. Seinfeld, the girlfriend and I all attended Oswego State University, although Jerry ditched out after a year or two and transferred to Queens College back in NYC. I never met him but saw him around campus. Of course he wasn’t famous yet but I remember him because he was kinda goofy looking with wire rimmed glasses and big cuffs on his jeans. At least that’s how I remember him. My parents met him when he was my friend’s date at weddings or Bar Mitzvahs and he always had to leave early to do his set at some comedy club to hone his craft. So, in short, I have no connection with him at all, I just wanted to tell you that story as the basis for why I watched his show. I couldn’t believe that goofy looking guy who dated my friend was now a star. Incidentally, he and my friend stopped dating before he became a big magillah.

I watched “Seinfeld” from the beginning. I related to all the characters and they just sounded like the authentic New Yawkers I grew up with. They were neurotic, selfish, loud, idiotic, and hilarious. The show wasn’t really that great at first but I never gave up on it.

Then this other show hits the airwaves with a bunch of shiksas who were beautiful and they were impossibly good looking guys and they, too, lived in New York. I resented them immediately as Seinfeld copycats and for being so damned good looking. I refused to watch “Friends.” I also thought the title was generic and derivative. But mostly it seemed like “Seinfeld for Goyim” aimed at the vast population of the country with no interest in watch a sort-of Jewish show, even though Jerry and his parents and Uncle Leo were the only Jews.

So you can imagine my horror when “Friends” turned out to be a perfectly hilarious show with a very talented cast. I immediately resented this because my decision to ignore the show was proven to be idiotic but I wouldn’t relent due to both pride and devotion to my lifelong hobby–sulking.

The tide turned a little when I discovered Jennifer Aniston. I’d always had a crush on Courtney Cox since her “Family Ties” days, but Jennifer was a new revelation. So beautiful, so sexy, so talented, so unattainable. I became a closet “Friends” watcher when reruns played. I wasn’t proud. I felt like I was cheating on Jerry and Elaine et. al. But why should I feel guilty.?You know the characters in Seinfeld never felt guilty…ever…no matter their transgressions against humanity…or cereal.

But it was too much for me. The inner conflict, the mixed loyalties, the realization that not even the glorious Jennifer Aniston could make me support a show that contained a java joint with the too-cute name “Central Perk.”

I’ll admit it. If I see a “Friends” rerun as I’m grazing the channels, I may stop for a minute or two, but I can say I have never watched a complete episode of that show. I do own every episode of “Seinfeld” and “Curb Your Enthusiasm,” the vessel of inappropriateness created and starring “Seinfeld” co-creator Larry David.

I’m sure, however, if I ran into Jerry Seinfeld and came clean about dipping into “Friends,” thereby admitting to channel-cheating, he’d shrug with a “who cares?” air as he walked away deadpanning, “not that there’s anything wrong with it.”

 

 

 

An Alternative Remembrance

It was a tough end to the year with the loss of a dear co-worker. The combination of that, skimming the local obits as I’ve done every day for a million years, and seeing the annual reviews of famous people who died the past year put a thought into my mind. This may sound like a downer but it definitely isn’t. It’s quite the opposite.

What I think would be absolutely amazing would be a recap of the passing of people who made impacts on our individual lives. Solicit the public to send in a photo and a paragraph or two describing the person, and why she or he made an impact on them. Could be friend, acquaintance, co-worker, relative, anybody. Put ’em all together into one big recap. I think we’d learn about some wonderful people whom we’d otherwise never know about. Maybe we’d find inspiration in their lives that would spark new commitments to creativity, courage, honesty, devotion, a new hobby, taking a chance on an unfamiliar challenge. Perhaps some priceless anecdotes would cross the transom.
The obsession with celebrity is certainly nothing new and I’m as guilty as the next person for sometimes falling under its spell.
But when I’m asked who the most memorable people were that I interviewed over the years during my journalism career, I always respond that they were the people who overcame adversity with no complaints, brilliant researchers looking for ways to make our lives better, children with innocent views of life, anyone with courage and creative talent.
Sure, there were always famous people that crossed my path and they’re good for name dropping or the memoirs I’ll never write.
But it’s people leading normal lives making an impact on those closest to them I admire the most and think deserve a little recognition they may have been too modest to seek in life, simply had no interest or the opportunity to do so.
One thing that makes us better people is learning about the best people and what made them that way. What a shame not to share the brilliance of their lives.