I'm a huge Halloween fan. Like my views of Christmas, I don't celebrate the religious aspects of the holiday (in this case, something to vaguely do with Satan and Hershey's chocolates), but really enjoy the candy, costumes and horror movies. I love horror movies, though I can scarcely bring them in the house any more. The wife and kids don't like them.
So, to honor Satan's special day (besides my birthday) and give me a way to enjoy Halloween, I'm going to write and post a short story to the blog (just one story, probably, told in four parts). If all goes according to plan, this will come out on Fridays through October 31.
I'm not promising polish. I'm not even going to promise the pieces will be scary, only that there should be something there to read.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Friday, October 3, 2008
20 years late, but...
Every now and again, I get something I want. I got Luke Skywalker a couple of years back. I got George Carlin. I got John Cale. I got Gore Vidal. Today, I got one more.I came to punk music late. In my little rural Virginia hometown, I didn't hear much besides the top 40 pop stuff and the top 20 country until MTV.
When I was 12, I heard my first Billy Idol song, then saw Sid Vicious do his version of "My way." All of this was followed by stuff by Public Image, Ltd, Siouxsie and the Banshees and others.
I wanted more, but it was so hard to come by. Late night radio that bounced off the ionosphere from places out of Canada. Rough looking music videos played for filler in the early morning on MTV. None of it was available at Magic Mart or through Columbia House Record Club.
The Misfits were more of an idea than an actual sound for me. I couldn't find their music anywhere. They were practically underground, but I still knew what they were about, and with as little as I heard from them I was still a fan.
I have been patient. It's one of my few virtues, I think. I can be very, very patient. Today, my patience paid off. I got something I wanted. I got to talk about punk music with somebody who is part of it. Still.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Random music #14 & #15
(Some more lessons on music writing)
Number #14. Know when to pull the plug.
Sometimes the interview just sucks. I've had two in a row this week. One was so bad, I actually pulled it rather than go through the heartbreaking and phony process of trying to prop the guy up. He's probably a very good guitar player, very interesting musically. Speaking to him was like talking to one of the pill heads who ask for change over at the transit mall.
The option was there to not go to print, so I thanked him for his time and got off the phone. Best of luck to you, man. Hope you find your toes.
Number #15. The Chelsea rule.
Someone who rises up the ranks of fame by acting unpleasant and hard to like despite his or her obvious brains and beauty isn't acting. Chances are they've just a remarkably talented or funny asshole. But remember, a funny or talented asshole is still an asshole, particularly when they're not trying to be funny or talented.
The downside is if the option to pull the plug isn't there. Do the right thing. Be honest.
Number #14. Know when to pull the plug.
Sometimes the interview just sucks. I've had two in a row this week. One was so bad, I actually pulled it rather than go through the heartbreaking and phony process of trying to prop the guy up. He's probably a very good guitar player, very interesting musically. Speaking to him was like talking to one of the pill heads who ask for change over at the transit mall.
The option was there to not go to print, so I thanked him for his time and got off the phone. Best of luck to you, man. Hope you find your toes.
Number #15. The Chelsea rule.
Someone who rises up the ranks of fame by acting unpleasant and hard to like despite his or her obvious brains and beauty isn't acting. Chances are they've just a remarkably talented or funny asshole. But remember, a funny or talented asshole is still an asshole, particularly when they're not trying to be funny or talented.
The downside is if the option to pull the plug isn't there. Do the right thing. Be honest.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
On the radio
I was reading over at 5th column about the problems at WVPR/WVPBS. To give a little perspective about how bad things could be, I thought I'd mention the kind of radio I was used to do before I got into the relative calm of WVPR.
My first radio gig was at WWNR in Beckley. The guy who owned it was a crook named Al. Al ran a scam where people were called directly from the phone book and asked to give to some charity. I think it was about flooding. By and by people did this. A driver was dispatched to collect the check and deliver a poorly photocopied certificate of appreciation. Little to no money went to the charity. Most of it went to prop up the failing radio station.
I found this all out after he left the station permanently. You see, I was the driver.
Al wouldn't turn on the furnace. In the middle of winter, the new engineer told him the antique machines being used really couldn't handle the cold. It was bad for the tape reels, too. He wanted to turn on the furnace.
Al's response?
"Turn the heat on for the machines? Hell, I don't turn the heat on for the people."
The station manager was named John. John used to start drinking some mornings around nine, but most mornings he held on to eleven or so. Once, after a particularly difficult meeting with Al, John went into his office, spun the cap off a bottle of booze and proceeded to chug it while the receptionist and I watched. After that, he went on a few sales calls.
I used to drink with John on Sunday nights, after the preacher came and did his show. Part of John's compensation was the use of an unheated, but generally spacious upstairs apartment. He had one of the best record collections I have ever seen and better stereo equipment than we had in the studio.
The building, which Al owned, was mostly vacant. Only the top three floors were used. The bottom two and the parking garage were considered a no-man's land inhabited by junkies, hobos and black bears. Paint huffers used to congregate on the roof under the satellite dish. One night, a grubby looking vagrant attempted to break in through the fire exit. John called the police, who were located across the street. The police declined to come over since the vagrant hadn't actually broken through the door. At that point, John fired two rounds into the door, which attracted the attention of the local cops. They carted off the junkie and collected John's gun.
I remember John telling me it didn't matter. He'd get it back and besides, he had three other guns upstairs in his apartment.
Most of the time, we were all pissed off at Al. He was late with our pay occasionally and he was always trying to scam the rest of us out of something. To get even, all of us took to breaking into his office to steal the key to the soda machine. It was a pretty pathetic rebellion, but we were radio people. None of us knew how to actually do anything else.
Eventually, he sold the station to one of the Capertons who did, at least, turn on the heat. It didn't last. He eventually turned over the radio station to a competitor. He offered to sell it to a group of the employees, but they couldn't put together the money. I don't think they even tried to get a loan. The sales manager had a felony conviction. She didn't think it would help their chances.
Eventually, just about everyone was cut loose.
I thought working in Bluefield would be an improvement. The station appeared to be successful. For the first couple of years, the place was run by a woman named Sandy. Over the course of about two years, she seemed to slowly lose her mind. She became extremely caustic and very clearly sabotaged the careers of her best sales performers.
Instead, she hired her daughter, a waitress at a local restaurant. Her friends at the restaurant called the girl "Crackhead." It was her nickname. Really, she wasn't a bad kid, but she was 21 or 22 and completely unreliable. She also had some very obvious chemical problems. Once, her mother held up the printing of the station log, waiting for her to come back with a contract for some advertising. She called every few minutes to tell us, she was on her way. This went on for a couple of hours until someone called the place she was supposed to have been coming from. If memory serves, they never saw her. The daughter was just too freaked out to admit she'd skipped the sales call.
Sandy scared the fuck out of everyone... and was also sleeping with the owner. The nasty divorce that followed directly led to the station being sold.
Actually, there was a lot of bed hopping going around. Different sales people boned each other or customers. After my first wife and I split, even I got involved in a rather pathetic office romance that lingered like infected poison oak for almost two years. There was no sex. At least, she wasn't sleeping with me. She was busy boning the very much married handyman and managed to hide a pregnancy to term.
It was pretty fucked up.
The guy who replaced Sandy made everyone believe that good times were just around the corner. Really, they weren't. Things got a little better. He had some decent ideas, but he didn't want to pay anybody anything. He referred to radio as a lifestyle, meaning it was okay to starve for the sake of working in radio. Everybody with any sense got out and almost all of us did.
Compared to any of that, WVPR is a sane, happy place. It's the happy hunting grounds for dead DJs. It's a little dull, but the pay is decent and there are benefits. The managers might not be incredibly dynamic, but no one needs a trip to rehab or should be doing time.
My first radio gig was at WWNR in Beckley. The guy who owned it was a crook named Al. Al ran a scam where people were called directly from the phone book and asked to give to some charity. I think it was about flooding. By and by people did this. A driver was dispatched to collect the check and deliver a poorly photocopied certificate of appreciation. Little to no money went to the charity. Most of it went to prop up the failing radio station.
I found this all out after he left the station permanently. You see, I was the driver.
Al wouldn't turn on the furnace. In the middle of winter, the new engineer told him the antique machines being used really couldn't handle the cold. It was bad for the tape reels, too. He wanted to turn on the furnace.
Al's response?
"Turn the heat on for the machines? Hell, I don't turn the heat on for the people."
The station manager was named John. John used to start drinking some mornings around nine, but most mornings he held on to eleven or so. Once, after a particularly difficult meeting with Al, John went into his office, spun the cap off a bottle of booze and proceeded to chug it while the receptionist and I watched. After that, he went on a few sales calls.
I used to drink with John on Sunday nights, after the preacher came and did his show. Part of John's compensation was the use of an unheated, but generally spacious upstairs apartment. He had one of the best record collections I have ever seen and better stereo equipment than we had in the studio.
The building, which Al owned, was mostly vacant. Only the top three floors were used. The bottom two and the parking garage were considered a no-man's land inhabited by junkies, hobos and black bears. Paint huffers used to congregate on the roof under the satellite dish. One night, a grubby looking vagrant attempted to break in through the fire exit. John called the police, who were located across the street. The police declined to come over since the vagrant hadn't actually broken through the door. At that point, John fired two rounds into the door, which attracted the attention of the local cops. They carted off the junkie and collected John's gun.
I remember John telling me it didn't matter. He'd get it back and besides, he had three other guns upstairs in his apartment.
Most of the time, we were all pissed off at Al. He was late with our pay occasionally and he was always trying to scam the rest of us out of something. To get even, all of us took to breaking into his office to steal the key to the soda machine. It was a pretty pathetic rebellion, but we were radio people. None of us knew how to actually do anything else.
Eventually, he sold the station to one of the Capertons who did, at least, turn on the heat. It didn't last. He eventually turned over the radio station to a competitor. He offered to sell it to a group of the employees, but they couldn't put together the money. I don't think they even tried to get a loan. The sales manager had a felony conviction. She didn't think it would help their chances.
Eventually, just about everyone was cut loose.
I thought working in Bluefield would be an improvement. The station appeared to be successful. For the first couple of years, the place was run by a woman named Sandy. Over the course of about two years, she seemed to slowly lose her mind. She became extremely caustic and very clearly sabotaged the careers of her best sales performers.
Instead, she hired her daughter, a waitress at a local restaurant. Her friends at the restaurant called the girl "Crackhead." It was her nickname. Really, she wasn't a bad kid, but she was 21 or 22 and completely unreliable. She also had some very obvious chemical problems. Once, her mother held up the printing of the station log, waiting for her to come back with a contract for some advertising. She called every few minutes to tell us, she was on her way. This went on for a couple of hours until someone called the place she was supposed to have been coming from. If memory serves, they never saw her. The daughter was just too freaked out to admit she'd skipped the sales call.
Sandy scared the fuck out of everyone... and was also sleeping with the owner. The nasty divorce that followed directly led to the station being sold.
Actually, there was a lot of bed hopping going around. Different sales people boned each other or customers. After my first wife and I split, even I got involved in a rather pathetic office romance that lingered like infected poison oak for almost two years. There was no sex. At least, she wasn't sleeping with me. She was busy boning the very much married handyman and managed to hide a pregnancy to term.
It was pretty fucked up.
The guy who replaced Sandy made everyone believe that good times were just around the corner. Really, they weren't. Things got a little better. He had some decent ideas, but he didn't want to pay anybody anything. He referred to radio as a lifestyle, meaning it was okay to starve for the sake of working in radio. Everybody with any sense got out and almost all of us did.
Compared to any of that, WVPR is a sane, happy place. It's the happy hunting grounds for dead DJs. It's a little dull, but the pay is decent and there are benefits. The managers might not be incredibly dynamic, but no one needs a trip to rehab or should be doing time.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
bubbles
I started swimming again this week. It's long overdue. I needed something to help me clear my head and also rehab my lousy body. There are substitutes for happiness. I tend to go for food. It doesn't even have to be good food. It's a feeling of hollowness, not hunger, that drives me to go for another late-night sandwich, another bowl of cereal, another whatever.
The swimming is my way of skirting the larger problem. I'm dealing with the symptoms, not the disease. There is no cure for the disease. It just is.
So it goes.
Swimming is great because you can hide in the water. You're isolated from sound. You don't have to listen to anyone. You're not required to talk. It also moves your attention from the laundry list of day-to-day concerns and aggravations to a very short list of unavoidable, easy-to-understand obligations. You need to remember to breathe. You have to keep from drowning. Everything else is secondary.
The downside, at least this week, is that I'm horribly out of shape. I'm in the worst shape of my life and it shows. 20 laps in a short pool at lunch equals me feeling like death warmed over for a couple of hours. It will get a little easier. I'm only committing myself to three times a week with the hopes of increasing my swim to about 40 laps per session. Beyond that, who knows? Maybe I'll lift some weights or do some kind of roadwork.
I'm trying not to get too complicated. I've got plenty of that already.
The swimming is my way of skirting the larger problem. I'm dealing with the symptoms, not the disease. There is no cure for the disease. It just is.
So it goes.
Swimming is great because you can hide in the water. You're isolated from sound. You don't have to listen to anyone. You're not required to talk. It also moves your attention from the laundry list of day-to-day concerns and aggravations to a very short list of unavoidable, easy-to-understand obligations. You need to remember to breathe. You have to keep from drowning. Everything else is secondary.
The downside, at least this week, is that I'm horribly out of shape. I'm in the worst shape of my life and it shows. 20 laps in a short pool at lunch equals me feeling like death warmed over for a couple of hours. It will get a little easier. I'm only committing myself to three times a week with the hopes of increasing my swim to about 40 laps per session. Beyond that, who knows? Maybe I'll lift some weights or do some kind of roadwork.
I'm trying not to get too complicated. I've got plenty of that already.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Races with Eyore #1
So, this thing about the Jefferson Jackson Dinner...
Um... yes, the Democrats are ignoring West Virginia.
Obama's camp said they would. Call it one campaign promise they're doing their best to keep.
Wanna know why? Because if Obama were to come here, what would every article say within the first two paragraphs? What would every national newscaster say inside the first 30 seconds?
That he lost the primary here by 41 points to Hillary Clinton. The articles and reporters might mention issues of race or they bring up some lingering difficulty connecting with rural, white working class voters. Both are true. Others, like me, would mention that he didn't bother to campaign here, which is also true. Stepping inside the state picks a bunch of scabs and emphasizes problems the Obama campaign really hasn't overcome or really tried to.
So, yes, the Democrats are ignoring West Virginia... big time. Sure, they're spending money on campaign offices and staffers. It really isn't the same thing or even a reasonable substitute for a couple of speeches delivered in the coal fields. The money is the equivalent of a ten foot pole.
All of this doesn't change how I feel about Palin. I'm still voting against her.
Um... yes, the Democrats are ignoring West Virginia.
Obama's camp said they would. Call it one campaign promise they're doing their best to keep.
Wanna know why? Because if Obama were to come here, what would every article say within the first two paragraphs? What would every national newscaster say inside the first 30 seconds?
That he lost the primary here by 41 points to Hillary Clinton. The articles and reporters might mention issues of race or they bring up some lingering difficulty connecting with rural, white working class voters. Both are true. Others, like me, would mention that he didn't bother to campaign here, which is also true. Stepping inside the state picks a bunch of scabs and emphasizes problems the Obama campaign really hasn't overcome or really tried to.
So, yes, the Democrats are ignoring West Virginia... big time. Sure, they're spending money on campaign offices and staffers. It really isn't the same thing or even a reasonable substitute for a couple of speeches delivered in the coal fields. The money is the equivalent of a ten foot pole.
All of this doesn't change how I feel about Palin. I'm still voting against her.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Ever green
This morning was cool and crisp, kind of a hint of the season coming from down the block. It was a long, hot summer. We ran the air conditioning at my house, something that would have seemed like blasphemy a few years ago.
I grew up thinking of air conditioning as being a treat, not a necessity. I don't think it was actually something we even used in the car. It was something to be savored while on vacation, in a motel room. It was something to be enjoyed while at my grandmother's house in Michigan, along with jelly donuts and barbecued ribs, but it was a luxury and luxuries are unnecessary.
I loved the old house my mother still lives in, but in the summers it was blistering hot. We opened all the windows around the first of June and only closed them, briefly, when it rained. My mother put huge, steel shop fans in the windows. I don't know where she got them, but they were twenty years old when we propped them up in our windows.
On high speed, the inside of the house sounded like an airstrip. On low speed, the inside of the house sounded like a smaller airstrip.
One side of the fan was covered with a welded iron mesh. The other side, naked blades spun, drew in bugs who flew too close to our home and converted them into bug cutlets. I hated the fans. I was a little afraid of them.
Mostly, I was content to sweat. Summer then wasn't all that bad. I stayed up as late as I could and slept as close to noon as I could get away with.
This was a hard summer. At my house, we got by, working like ants, but saving like grasshoppers. There was no rest. There was no peace. The highpoint of the summer was the visit from my Dad, brother and stepmother and a chaotic dinner with his grandsons that was over too soon. There were a lot of low points.
There were good things. I learned I have a strange, but (not at all imaginary) support system. We're all a little damaged, a little awkward, but we're sort of a community. I got to know a few people from the old, old days. I still feel pretty good about not going to the reunion. I read some decent books. My youngest made me laugh. He prodded and poked the cat until the dumb old fleabag nipped at him gently. My son told the cat not to eat him. He's almost three. The cat is four.
I learned my weird luck is still holding firm. I was the beneficiary of strange gifts, including a bunch of canned food, dried beans and pasta from a friend who was leaving town. It helped when the money ran out, though meals got creative for a week or so. You can do a lot with chickpeas, really.
It was tough all over and the heat made it feel worse. Driving home one night, I passed a line of topless bar, happened to glance over and saw three women, in barely more than their underwear, sitting outside in folding chairs, smoking cigarettes. They looked weary and bored. The parking lot, obviously, was empty, and there was no money to be made.
That's a tougher summer than mine.
This morning reminded me summer was just about over. The days are getting shorter and the holidays are in my thoughts already. I hate the time is gone, but I'm glad I don't have to spend the minutes again.
I grew up thinking of air conditioning as being a treat, not a necessity. I don't think it was actually something we even used in the car. It was something to be savored while on vacation, in a motel room. It was something to be enjoyed while at my grandmother's house in Michigan, along with jelly donuts and barbecued ribs, but it was a luxury and luxuries are unnecessary.
I loved the old house my mother still lives in, but in the summers it was blistering hot. We opened all the windows around the first of June and only closed them, briefly, when it rained. My mother put huge, steel shop fans in the windows. I don't know where she got them, but they were twenty years old when we propped them up in our windows.
On high speed, the inside of the house sounded like an airstrip. On low speed, the inside of the house sounded like a smaller airstrip.
One side of the fan was covered with a welded iron mesh. The other side, naked blades spun, drew in bugs who flew too close to our home and converted them into bug cutlets. I hated the fans. I was a little afraid of them.
Mostly, I was content to sweat. Summer then wasn't all that bad. I stayed up as late as I could and slept as close to noon as I could get away with.
This was a hard summer. At my house, we got by, working like ants, but saving like grasshoppers. There was no rest. There was no peace. The highpoint of the summer was the visit from my Dad, brother and stepmother and a chaotic dinner with his grandsons that was over too soon. There were a lot of low points.
There were good things. I learned I have a strange, but (not at all imaginary) support system. We're all a little damaged, a little awkward, but we're sort of a community. I got to know a few people from the old, old days. I still feel pretty good about not going to the reunion. I read some decent books. My youngest made me laugh. He prodded and poked the cat until the dumb old fleabag nipped at him gently. My son told the cat not to eat him. He's almost three. The cat is four.
I learned my weird luck is still holding firm. I was the beneficiary of strange gifts, including a bunch of canned food, dried beans and pasta from a friend who was leaving town. It helped when the money ran out, though meals got creative for a week or so. You can do a lot with chickpeas, really.
It was tough all over and the heat made it feel worse. Driving home one night, I passed a line of topless bar, happened to glance over and saw three women, in barely more than their underwear, sitting outside in folding chairs, smoking cigarettes. They looked weary and bored. The parking lot, obviously, was empty, and there was no money to be made.
That's a tougher summer than mine.
This morning reminded me summer was just about over. The days are getting shorter and the holidays are in my thoughts already. I hate the time is gone, but I'm glad I don't have to spend the minutes again.
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