Egg-Timer democracy

 Note: This is a part of my unpublished memoir I Might Be Naked For All You Know: A chronicle of my lazy-hazy-crazy days in the radio broadcasting business. 

The long-time host of the important wake-up show, a self-important fifty-something guy named Gary something or other, had developed the habit of drinking himself senseless every night and stumbling into work late every morning, nursing a monster-mother of a hangover. 

Even though I was a rookie graveyard shift pronouncer, I knew you never left an empty swivel chair in front of the microphone, even if your shift was over. Wavering between pissed-off, tapped out, and juiced up by the chance to work prime-time, I’d launch Gary’s show, explaining that I expected him any minute. Sometimes I would answer the inside line and say the same thing to the glum and resigned general manager.

I perfected talking while back-timing in order to hit the ABC news at the top and bottom of the hour and Howard Cosell’s sports at ten after. I also set the timers to tape Paul Harvey on twin decks behind the control board. You always ran a backup on the famed commentator’s feed. You could screw-up on-air all you wanted, but listeners got their undies in a bunch if Paul was MIA. They’d flood the phone lines for hours sputtering their disgust and displeasure, claiming you were part of the international communist conspiracy, and threatening to phone your boss.  I also brought the Jackson County news in on a feed from the local paper and gritted my teeth as one of their reporters, a man I would later learn was the North American body-odor champion, droned his way, word for word, through the front page of the Medford Mail Tribune. Riveting it was not.

Gary would wander in at six-thirty or seven—once or twice as late as eight—red-nosed, coughing, and throwing aspirin down his throat. He’d flap his hands to keep me in my seat and head for the john. When he emerged, he’d fill his mug with steaming sludge from the pot, drink it down, and then refill it before sliding in behind the microphone. The smell of whiskey wafted from the cup as he sank into the swivel chair behind the board, declaring that his “medicine” had made him well enough to help his listeners greet the new day.

I once asked him if he ever caught any heat about being late. “Naaaah,” he confided. “You’re lookin’ at one bulletproof mo-fo. A local institution. Been on the air in this town forever.” The fact that he was also the program director convinced me he was right.

          He wasn’t.

One morning about five I got a call from E.J. Michaels, the afternoon guy, Without preamble, he told he was the new program director and Gary had been canned.

First real-life radio lesson: nobody’s bulletproof. Second lesson: listeners forget who you are faster than you can say the station call letters, time, and temperature. Which was exactly what I ended up doing in the six to ten timeslot. Hey, what can I say? They offered me a smokin’ raise: an extra hundred a month. Even then I was a shameless show business whore.

          At nine, at the end of the news block, KYJC originated a one-hour call-in talk show hosted by David Allen, my former college professor and mentor. I loved and respected Dave. He was a great teacher, a square shooter, and an A-1 human being. I miss him to this day      

But, as much as it pains me, there’s no dancing around the truth: Dave sucked as a talk show host. He was intelligent, reasonable, and as incapable of lying as he was of being rude. In short he was the polar opposite of today’s crop of shrill, finger-pointing, fact-warping conversational mutants. Dave truly believed that his show served democracy. No matter what kind of boring drivel or bigoted lunacy a caller wanted to spew, David Allan would take him on, armed only with his mind, his microphone, and his handy egg-timer.

          That egg timer was Dave’s way of guaranteeing every caller was treated equally. He’d twist the dial to the three-minute mark and set it ticking.

Tick-a-tick-a-tick-a-tick-a-tick. When you heard the ding, your time was up. Until then, you could blather on. Democracy.

          Now, this being right-wing Southern Oregon in the early 70s, there was undoubtedly more than one storm-trooper-wanna-be in the broadcast area. The one I called “the Nazi” had appointed himself their official spokesman. Since I’ve blocked his name, can’t remember it, or may be sued if I use it, let’s call him Henry. Every morning, at eight-forty five sharp Henry called. As instructed, I’d take his name and put him on hold. Another aspect of Dave’s concept of democracy—callers went on-air in the order they called in. The Nazi always called first.

At 9:05, after the network news, Dave began his monologue, a review of what he thought were the important issues of the day. He’d take several logical and well-thought-out positions and invite callers to debate them. They never did. Some might say, “I agree with you, Dave” or, “I think you’re wrong about that, Dave.” But when he asked them why, he got dead air or a conversational U-turn. Often I’d hear his wheezy smoker’s sigh and once, after three or four idiotic off-topic opinions, he’d ripped the top two pages from his yellow legal pad, wadded them up, and tossed them over his shoulder.

As Dave concluded his daily the exercise in futility, I’d slip him a sheet of paper listing caller names and line numbers. Dave would nod and punch a blinking button on the multi-line telephone. “You’re on the air with David Allen on KYJC. Henry, what do you want to talk about today?”

 “The only thing that matters,” Henry would snarl. “When are we going to get smart and deport them all, David? You know who I’m talking about; the Jews. They poison our water, they put filth on our televisions and radios, and they want to end prayer in the schools.”

Tick-a-tick-a-tick-a-tick. On and on the Nazi would spew. He didn’t just hate Jews. Niggers, Spics, homos, lesbos, Catholics, liberals and what he called “Celestials,” got splattered with their fair share of verbal sewage.

Peering through the glass that separated us, I’d watch Dave doodle on a legal pad, where he’d scrawled the notes for his opening remarks. From time to time he’d light another unfiltered cigarette from the butt-end of its predecessor.

Tick-a-tick-a-tick-a-tick. Dave would occasionally interject calming words or warn Henry to “watch his language.” That only fed the fire. When I turned the caller volume down so listeners could hear Dave’s comment, the Nazi screamed louder.

Seething, I’d do my job, answering the phone, putting people in line to talk. Many of them, sadly, agreed with the Nazi, although in much more politically acceptable language. No, they didn’t hate Jews. It was just that, not being Christians, you know, their motives were a little suspect, weren’t they?

Tick-a-tick-a-tick-a-tick. As I listened to the toxic Nazi and watched Dave squirming until the egg timer dinged, I’d send him telepathic messages: Hang up on him, Dave! Blow the fucker up! Tell people what a stupid twisted cocksucker you think he is. Lose it, Dave. Just once, lose it and tell people what a pathetic, pencil-dicked, hate-mongering weasel the guy is. Please. Just once. Tick-a-tick-a-DING forever, motherfucker!!!!

But Dave never did. And when I finally worked up the nerve to ask him if I could just put the Nazi on hold and then “accidentally” hang up on him during the opening monologue, Dave shook his head and fastened hound-dog eyes on me. “We can’t do that, Mike. This show is for everybody. Even if we disagree with their opinions, we have to give them the opportunity to express themselves.” Dave took the First Amendment seriously.

And callers knew it. Nobody manipulated the three-minute egg timer with more style and élan than an elderly woman we’ll call Aunt Millicent. She fancied herself a poet and loved hearing herself on the radio. A deadly combination. Rest easy, Maya Angelou, you have nothing to fear.

“Hello, Aunt Millicent, You’re on the air with David Allen on KYJC Radio. What do you think about the protests in Washington this past weekend?” Since her daily calls never came within a philosophical country mile of the topic du jour he knew the conversation was going nowhere. But Dave was a professional; he kept on pitching.

“Hel-lo Day-vid.” The words wheezed from the studio speakers in her creaky, my-dentures-don’t-fit-quite-right delivery.

Dave’s microphone would amplify his heavy sigh as he reached into his shirt pocket for another cigarette.

Aunt Millicent would chirp out her opening poetic salvo: “The little puppy dog sat up and begged, but you know the rascal was three-legged.”

Her commandments for her daily verses were, in their own way as simple, principled, and unshakeable as Dave’s rules for a talk show: Thou shalt rhyme every other line. Thy poem shall deal with puppies, flowers, small children, birds, sunshine, and occasionally food. Nothing unpleasant will occur in the verse. Thou shalt read the final line just as the egg timer ticks to the end.

Her timing was uncanny. I visualized a gray-haired gnome in a hand-crocheted shawl, penning her rhymes by the light of a kerosene lantern. Ink quill in hand, she’d commit them to crumbling parchment, then set her own egg timer and read them aloud.

Tick-a-tick-a-tick-a-

“And the baby bird flew from the nest.”

Tick-a-tick-a

“And disappeared in the sun just to the . . .”

Tick-a-DING!

“. . . west. Thank you Day-vid. God bless you.”

 

Dave Allen died in 1973, a victim of his own chain-smoking and probably the stress induced by sharing the ionosphere with the likes of the Nazi. I think he would be appalled to see what talk radio has become. After all, Dave believed it was all about democracy—that everybody should get to talk until the egg timer dings.

Somebody notify Rush Limbaugh; I’m sure he’ll welcome the suggestion.

 

Learning to Love an Unlovable Dog

 

 

Carolyn J. Rose

 

Every time I scrub the kitchen floor—and, for the record, that isn’t nearly as often as I probably should—I have fond recollections of a dysfunctional dog. 

When my father died nearly 20 years ago, he left a huge empty spot in my heart and my life. He also left a 45-pound dog named Ugly, a dachshund/Labrador mix with enough bad habits to drive even a veteran dog whisperer to shouting. Ugly barked at rocks. He carried rocks into the house. He dug holes. He clamped his jaws around things he wanted and refused to let go, even in exchange for a chunk of steak. He ate cantaloupes and cucumbers off the vine. He couldn’t be left alone in a car because he’d chew the seatbelts and the seats. He’d stand on his hind legs and use his front paws to pull plates off the table. If we opened the refrigerator wide he’d try to climb in. If there was one time he came when I called instead of staring me down, I can’t recall it.

 

Despite all that—and also because no one else would take him—Mike and I adopted him. At the urging of my aunt, who thought it might improve his self-esteem and behavior, we changed his name to Dudley. It had no effect.

 

It was too hot to fly him, so we bought my father’s Jeep from the estate, and drove from the Catskills to Vancouver. On the first day we slipped him a doggie downer. It also had no effect.

 

He bounced around the back seat like a metal orb in a pinball machine. He tried to climb into the front. By the time we’d gone 100 miles he’d shredded the dog toys we’d brought to entertain him. He was the reason we ate our meals in the car or motel rooms, took a wrong turn in Chicago, and missed out on a close-up view of Mount Rushmore.

 

We deluded ourselves into believing that once he got used to us and a new home, he’d abandon many of his bad habits. He didn’t. We lived with them. We laughed at them when we could. And we focused on the few good things he did.

 

First, he was protective of Bubba, our 10-pound Yorkie/miniature Schnauzer mix. He once held off a pit bull until its owners could get it under control.

 

Second, he was a sound sleeper. He didn’t interrupt our dreams by barking at the door. He could log a straight eight hours without needing to empty a bladder we estimated to be roughly the size of a small watermelon.

 

Third, when I dropped or spilled something, he was on the job. He licked it up and then licked in a circle around it. When he was finished, he’d grin as if to say “Job done.” I’d see a clean spot perhaps a foot across. Many times, to avoid a session with the mop, I’d toss down a few glops of peanut butter or bits of sandwich meat and he’d get to work.

 

Dudley died of stomach cancer more than 10 years ago. I don’t miss the barking, the rocks dropped where I was most likely to trip over them, or the holes in the garden. I don’t miss his stubborn attitude. But when I see blotches on the kitchen floor, I miss his deep-cleaning abilities.

Simply The Best

 

Proudly Presenting !!! 

            BEST OF

                CLARK COUNTY

                      2021

Perusing a recent Sunday Columbian over my morning coffee and strawberry-smothered waffle, I picked up the section paying tribute to our local faves. This yearly ritual involves purveyors of food, drink, herb, entertainment, health and beauty, home and garden, sports and fitness, metaphysics, spot welding, trapeze artistry, white magic, and various and sundry other occupations and fixations, all urging their friends and fans to vote them into the vaunted position of head exalted poobah of the niche they fit into.

          Maybe I’m sounding a tad cynical. I’ve never fared well at popularity contests. Perhaps I’m permanently embittered by only finishing third in the high-school balloting for “most likely to be down at the pool hall if anyone needs to know where I am” competition. I finished 238^th in a field of 237 in the “cutest Senior boy” voting.

          Still, I decided to try to approach the publication with an open mind. Lets see now: “Best Towing.” Now how can you apply objective criteria to that category? Your car didn’t slide off the truck and into oncoming traffic?

          Best Budtender? Won by Jerrel Mean of High-5 Cannabis. Hmmm. What exactly does a Budtender do? Do they measure the pupils of his customer’s eyes after they sample the product he’s “tended”? Count the number of “Whoa, Dudes” he got on Yelp? ”There were three awards that went to marijuana-related categories. Now, historically, being of the “Dave’s not here!” school of marijuana purchase and usage, this feels extraordinarily bizarre to me. I have never a smoked legal joint in my life. It just doesn’t feel right passing a spliff around without the imminent threat that you might have to flush your entire stash down the toilet. Fear-driven adrenaline always enhanced the buzz.

          Moving on. “Best Happy Hour.” How do you measure that? Stroll through a bar between five and seven in the afternoon and count how many people are grinning? “Best Piercing?” Is that measured by the number of holes punched? Or by the most unusual places their customers have hung metal danglies? Here’s one of my favorites. “Best Disaster Restoration.” Holy crime scene, Batman!!!

          I suppose this is a truly American kind of exercise. Competition is a big part of who we are. And we feel compelled to rank things. First, second, third. Gold, silver, bronze.

          We really need more categories, so everyone could be voted best at something. Here are a couple I’m in the running for: “Best slow but stubborn lap swimmer.”  “Top Baritone Ukulele player with fat fingers.” “Gold medal in combining bizarre leftovers with egg whites for breakfast.”

          I could go on and on, but I won’t. After all, I’m in the running for “Most succinct blog by a retired Disc Jockey.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

                             

Really? I had to have that?

 Carolyn J. Rose

 

The great closet cleanout of 2020 left me with much more space and a smaller wardrobe of clothing I wear on a regular basis. It was easy and fairly painless to toss faded, sagging, or pilled items. It was harder to toss the things I’d moved to the far side of the rack while telling myself they might fit next year or I might find something they’d go with.

 

Bidding those articles farewell led me down memory lane to recollections of the clothing I “had to have” during my teen years and later. If you’re bold enough, or have an adult beverage in hand, return with me now to the closets and drawers of yesteryear.

 

Kilt skirts with large safety pins to hold them closed. Mine was a red plaid and I wore it with knee socks. Not being in possession of a flat stomach this was less of a “look” and more of a “look away.”

 

Wrap around skirts. Mine was a green and gray herringbone pattern with leather-topped pockets. Since I have a water glass figure, the overlap in the back fell short of common decency. Especially when the wind blew. Many small safety pins were required to avoid having to file an environmental impact statement.

 

Oxford-cloth shirts with button-down collars. They were about five bucks each in the mid 60s. It took my entire weekly allowance to buy one, but I ponied up for several. It was nearly impossible to iron out the wrinkles in the days when clothing dried on the line. In the winter, I ironed only the collar, cuffs, and a narrow strip on either side of the front placket. I covered the rest with a sweater.

 

Mohair sweaters. Warm and fuzzy. Sounds like a good combination. But carry along a roll of tape or a lint remover because those little hairs will stick to sofa cushions, theater seats, and the jacket of the boy you told your friends you’d never go out with unless he was the last male on earth.

 

Hush puppies. These look great for a few weeks, but they soon reach the point where no amount of brushing will bring the nap back to life.

 

Saddle shoes. Right out of the box these were a study in contrast. But the white sections were magnets for dirt, grass stains, marks left by the metal legs of chairs in high school classrooms, and other substances. White shoe polish dulled the shine and rubbed off. In a few weeks, the thrill was gone.

 

And don’t get me started on those little neck scarves with the ring to hold them in place, or the triangular head scarves my grandmother fashioned from fabric left over from the dresses she made for me through my junior year in college. And don’t let me go on about dickies, but do tell me about what you “had to have” back in the day, or even last week.