Tagged: Ed Garsten
Retirement Diaries: What I learned…after a single week
It’s been a week since I swiped my badge for the last time and walked out of Corporate America into the nebulous world called “retirement.” One savvy co-worker with a “no shit” attitude called it straight. “You’re not really ‘retiring,’ you’re just walking out the door and quitting!” Technically that’s true. Philosophically it isn’t since I’m not seeking full-time work but would be open to a thing now and again just to keep my brain sharp and my annoying self out of my wife’s hair in between bike rides, kayak paddles, bourbons on the patio and pushing the shopping cart at Kroger.
What have I learned after one week of intentional unemployment? I learned I missed the convenient ATM at work but not the over-cologned colleagues who always seemed to be standing just ahead of me on the escalator in an effort to cause “death by olfactory overload.” I learned that telling people you’ve retired causes immediate glances at your legs to see if they’re being held up by either a tripod, long loaf of French bread or cane signed by your erstwhile co-workers. Just because you retire does not mean you’ve given up your ambulatory rights.
It took only 17 minutes to tire of people cracking that I would now be eating dinner at 4 p.m., placing my teeth in a glass each night or would become a shuffleboard savant. I’ll have you know my late father was captain of the 3-time champion Buttonwood shuffleboard team in Greenacres, Fla. and taught me the intricacies of the game which includes blasting the other team’s discs into what’s known as “the kitchen”–the dreaded 10-off trapezoid.
I learned that utilizing senior discounts is not a stigma, but rather an excuse to say “nyah, nyah” to young punks stuck paying full price.
I learned Millennials is just another name for “Generation C”–C standing for “Ciphers.” Indeed, one former co-worker of that ilk said he could accomplish more but just “didn’t have the bandwidth” at this time. Or any discernable skills. In my brief retirement I let that sink in before pouring another bourbon to help me forget it.
I suppose I’ll learn a lot more as time passes and my full-time working life fades into distant memory. Of course there are people I will miss and those I regret missing–with every round. But the bottom line is so far I’m enjoying the time with my family even if every time I appear unexpectedly I hear one of them whisper, “he’s still here!”
House of Electronic Worship-Retirement Series Part 1
On 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. 
The 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. 
The 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
On 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
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.
The 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.
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.
Let’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’.
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
After 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.
Canadian Like Me
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
Just 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. 
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.
In 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.
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. 
Diverting 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. 
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. 
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. 
History 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.
My 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.
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
Last 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.
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.
edLINES 