LeeZard on Life - Commentary; Humor; Politics; Life; People

A Tale of Two Steves

2011-09-19T13:33:00.000-07:00

A Tale of Two Steves
©2011 by LeeZard

Author's note: I haven't posted for quite some time and for that I apologize. Over the past several months LeeZard has been launching a new business which has sucked up most of his time and energy. This piece, however, has been knocking around in my mind ever since mid-summer when I saw Steve Martin in concert with his Bluegrass band, The Steep Canyon Rangers.

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It doesn't seem odd to LeeZard that two of his most favorite entertainers are named Steve. Nor is it surprising that their careers - and their talents - were/are both extensive and parallel.

Steve Allen and Steve Martin were born in different generations and at almost opposite ends of the country. Allen was born December 26, 1921 in New York City and Martin August 14, 1945 in Waco, TX. Neither finished college and both found early show biz success in Los Angeles.

Steve Allen's career spanned more than half a century and touched nearly every segment of the entertainment industry. His list of accomplishments is staggering.

After more than 40-years Steve Martin is still going strong and, likewise, is an entertainment renaissance man.

It is the span of their careers along with the depth and breadth of their talents that make them LeeZard's all time faves.

The Steves began their careers doing something that would later be only a piece (or, in Allen's case, pieces) of their repertoire; Allen as an announcer-writer-pianist-producer for a Phoenix radio station and Martin performing magic tricks at Disneyland and Knotts Berry Farm. Ultimately, both found their home and rocketed to their initial fame in television comedy and, it was in that realm that LeeZard discovered each one at a different time in his life.

I remember the young LeeZard in the mid-1950s sitting in front of the old black and white TV with his dad watching the very first iteration of "The Tonight Show" on NBC. Yes, it was Steve Allen who launched
that iconic program (First Tonight Show). His style was a cross between zany and intellectual and it was both captivating and hilarious. (In this video, Steve had a monitor just offstage; one look at himself and he lost it - live TV at its best: Steve Allen Cracks up).

Likewise, I remember Steve Martin as a regular guest on the original Saturday Night Live (SNL) in the mid 1970s, also on NBC. His style was a cross between zany and zanier, also captivating and hilarious (Steve Martin/Dan Ackroyd-SNL). We wouldn't learn until later that Martin's intellect was not to be overshadowed by his zaniness.

Steve Allen went on to a hugely successful TV career, winning a Peabody Award, one of broadcasting's highest honors, in 1960 for the best comedy show (The Steve Allen Show). The TV program for which he wanted to be remembered for, however, was the much-honored and respected PBS show "Meeting of the Minds." Produced, written and hosted by Allen, the show featured actors portraying famous historical figures who engaged in debate and discussion in a talk show format.

More than 20-years later, riding his popularity on SNL, Steve Martin became the most successful standup comedian in history, filling big arenas and winning Grammys for his platinum selling albums. Either man could've stopped right there and lived the rest of their lives basking in wealth and fame. But, for each Steve, the creative juices were just beginning to flow and it is here where the parallels are most striking. While they both touched virtually every aspect of entertainment, each showed unique abilities in different areas.

Both men made the jump from TV to film, although Allen's film career was not nearly as extensive as Martin's. Steve Allen's eponymous role as the lead in The Benny Goodman Story is his most famous but the film is known more for its music than its cinematic excellence.

Steve Martin has appeared in more than 40 films, mostly comedies but he's been known to flash a serious side as well. He's produced at least six movies, several TV shows and written ten screenplays and many teleplays.

Both Steves were/are prolific writers and performers in the music field and as authors. Steve Martin has written 12 books, both fiction and non-fiction, while Steve Allen racked up more than 50 titles.

In my mind, though, it is their music that will leave the strongest legacies for both. While Allen was considered a "passable" piano player, he wrote an astonishing number of songs. Some put the estimate at more than 10,000, including at least one classic, "This Could be the Start of Something Big, (Performed by Allen's good friends Steve Lawrence and Edie Gorme)" which he used as the Tonight Show theme song, and one Grammy-winning jazz composition - "The Gravy Waltz (Performed by Mel Torme)."

Steve Martin learned to play the banjo at an early age and used it primarily as a prop in his early-career comedy routines but he is one helluva bluegrass picker. While he has been writing bluegrass music for more than 40-years, it is only in the past few years that Martin has focused on this genre, releasing two albums (one of them a Grammy winner) and touring with The Steep Canyon Rangers. For a detailed look at Martin's fascination with banjo music, see the lengthy liner notes for his album "The Crow" at http://www.stevemartin.com/stevemartin/music.html.

LeeZard recently had the pleasure of enjoying Steve and The Rangers in concert at a small outdoor venue in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains. It was intimate, sometimes funny (Jubilation Day), sometimes poignant (Daddy Played the Banjo - Live at The Grand Ol' Opry) and always brilliant.

Yes, there have more talented entertainers over the generations but none, I think, expressed their talents so successfully in so many ways as the Two Steves. Let me know if you agree or disagree.

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A final note: In researching this piece, I did find one piece of information about Steve Allen quite disturbing. Apparently, in the mid 1950s, Allen was NOT a big fan of the new music known as Rock & Roll and subsequently went out of his way to mock, if not humiliate, such artists as Elvis Presley and Jerry Lee Lewis when they appeared on either The Tonight Show or The Steve Allen Show. While I abhor his actions, this in no way diminishes Steve Allen's broad shadow across the entertainment pantheon.

For more information on Allen's treatment of Elvis (scroll down to "Allen and rock music): http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Steve_Allen.

Here is the video of Allen's impolite treatment of "The King." Note also the so called petition Allen presents to Elvis, curiously looking like a roll of toilet paper. It gets worse for "Hound Dog" in the second half of the video. For shame Steve! (Steve and Elvis)

Where's the TRICK in Trick or Treat?

2010-10-29T12:44:00.000-07:00

LeeZard is concerned that the true spirit of Halloween is lost. Forget about the day’s historic Celtic origins; I’m talking about the time-honored tradition of TRICK or treat. Back in the day, LeeZard remembers when you actually “tricked” someone who failed to give you a treat.

Wait; forget about forgetting about Halloween’s origins. It turns out the Celts also started the trick or treat thing. According to Neopagan.com, Halloween grew from the ancient Celts’ celebration of Samhuinn, the beginning of winter or the dark half of the year:

"Being “between” seasons or years, Samhuinn was (and is) considered a very magical time, when the dead walk among the living and the veils between past, present and future may be lifted in prophecy and divination.

Samhuinn, from 31 October to 2 November was a time of no time. Celtic society, like all early societies, was highly structured and organized; everyone knew their place. But to allow that order to be psychologically comfortable, the Celts knew that there had to be a time when order and structure were abolished, when chaos could reign. And Samhuinn was such a time. Time was abolished for the three days of this festival and people did crazy things, men dressed as women and women as men. Farmers’ gates were unhinged and left in ditches, peoples’ horses were moved to different fields, and children would knock on neighbors’ doors for food and treats in a way that we still find today, in a watered-down way, in the custom of trick-or-treating on Halloween.”

I understand that times have changed since I tricked if I wasn’t treated. In those days, kids for the most part went out by themselves – that is, we went out in groups of our peers without parental supervision of accompaniment. Sadly, there are enough crazies out there today that parental involvement is the safe and smart way to go. Having said that, however, LeeZard still laments the disappearance of the lighthearted trickster ritual.

Today’s teens are too cool to partake but in my youth, it was an evening for which we eagerly awaited. Not only was there unlimited candy, there also was the opportunity for creative, mostly non-vandalistic mischief.

The rules were simple, if you knocked on a door and nobody was home, you simply left. But, if you knocked on a door and the lights were on, the television blaring but nobody came to the door, the tricks were on. If someone answered but gave no treats, the tricks ramped up.

Tricks ranged from the simply sophomoric to the more elaborate. We always armed ourselves with pieces of thick pastel chalk so we could label a delinquent home as “cheap” or worse. Some of us took an old sock, filled it about a third of the way up with said chalk, tied a knot at that point and pounded the chalk to powder. This predecessor to paintball spawned great chases through the neighborhood with swinging sox throwing great puffs of chalk powder, leaving colorful marks on victims’ clothes, on sidewalks, driveways and walls.

Then there was the requisite stop at the home of someone’s girlfriend. Here there was no door knocking; we were there to leave a large deposit of toilet paper hanging from trees and anything else in front of the house.

LeeZard would be remiss if he didn’t cop to some of the more vindictive tricks from those wild days of youth. As a – ahem – mature adult, I don’t condone this sort of behavior today but good reporting requires the truth, no matter how ugly. Yes, we soaped some windows and threw eggs at some front doors but it was the final battle with a neighborhood nemesis that became legend.

There was a woman in our neighborhood we called “Cockeyed Jenny.” Even though Jenny had kids of her own, she seemed to hate kids in general. She sprayed her hose at us as we rode our bikes past her house and constantly yelled threatening epithets at our innocent pastimes of stickball or Ringolevio (see http://www.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ringolevio for information on this legendary New York City street game). Oh, we had our non-Halloween revenge – regularly cutting her hose to pieces when she watered the lawn in the summer – but it was one grand Halloween when we gained the most satisfaction.

I’m not sure who suggested it but nobody objected when we embarked on the Great Shitty Hotfoot Caper. It was a given that Jenny never answered her door on Halloween. Our job was not only to get her to the door but also to make her pay for her mean spirit. The recipe was simple, one medium sized paper bag, a fresh pile of dog poop and a lighter.

Rock, paper, scissors determined who did the deed. The winners – two of us – stealthily approached Jenny’s front door and left “the package” right at the point where whoever stepped out of the house could not miss it. While one conspirator put lighter to the paper bag the other knocked loudly on the door and at the top of his lungs yelled, “FIRE, FIRE!” Sure enough, as the culprits safely scurried into the night, Jenny appeared at the door, saw the flaming bag and did what anyone would do under the circumstances, she tried to stomp the fire out with her foot. SQUISH!!! And victory was ours.

Whether Jenny called the gendarmes or not we’ll never know. We were long gone by the time she had the fire out and cleaned her shoe. But the war was over; no more bicycle riders were sprayed and our street games continued unmolested.

LeeZard is not recommending this sort of mayhem and, frankly, in today’s environment, I’d be as worried as anybody about what youngsters might do. I am merely reminiscing the spirit of Halloweens past and the days when “Trick or Treat” meant just that.

Seattle's 2Million Dogs Puppy Up! Walk Gains Momentum - And Sponsors!

2010-10-22T13:03:00.000-07:00

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Contact: Lee Somerstein

(425) 269-3207

LFS777@comcast.net

October 22, 2010

AMCS Signs as Major Sponsor for Seattle’s 2Million Dogs Puppy Up! Walk

(Seattle, WA) The Department of Oncology and Internal Medicine at the Animal Medical Center of Seattle is the Presenting Sponsor of the 2 Million Dogs Puppy Up! Walk, scheduled for November 7^th at Seattle’s Seward Park. AMCS’s generous donation puts Seattle in the lead as the top fundraiser among the dozen cities across the country participating in this inaugural event.

“I’m very excited to have AMCS as a charter sponsor for this important event,” said Dr. Chelsea Tripp, DVM, MS, who joined the Medial Center’s Department of Oncology in July.

Dr. Tripp received her veterinary degree from the University of Missouri and completed an internship at Animal Cancer Specialists in Seattle. She is returning home after completing a three-year residency in medical oncology at Washington State University, where she also earned a Master’s Degree in that field.

2 Million Dogs’ is working to eradicate both human and canine cancer through investing in comparative oncology studies. “Comparative oncology” refers to the similarities between human and canine cancer cells. The money raised by the November 7^th walks in cities around the country will help fund leading edge cancer research institutions in this exciting field of comparative oncology and canine cancer.

2 Million Dogs 2 Miles was conceived by Luke Robinson who, after losing his dog Malcolm to metastatic bone cancer, walked with his two other dogs, Hudson and Murphy, from Austin to Boston, to raise awareness for canine cancer research. It took them two years to complete their journey. Luke later formed 2 Million Dogs, with the belief that if two dogs can walk 2000 miles to educate people about canine cancer, surely two million dogs can walk 2 miles.

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Details about the Seattle walk can be found at: https://2md2m.ejoinme.org/MyEvents/SeattleWAPuppyUpWalk/tabid/234887/Default.aspx

For more information, follow these links:

http://www.animalmedicalspecialists.com/news

http://www.2milliondogs.org

Seattle 2 Million Dogs News Release

2010-09-30T21:56:00.000-07:00

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Contact: Lee Somerstein

(425) 269-3207

LFS777@comcast.net

September 30, 2010

Seattle to Puppy Up! November 7^th

(Seattle, WA) On November 7^th Seattle will join cities all across the country in the inaugural 2 Million Dogs Puppy Up! Walk for cancer. The event is part of a national effort organized by 2 Million Dogs 2 Miles, a 501 C (3) organization that relies on the generosity of individuals and corporations to help in its mission to eradicate both human and canine cancer through investing in comparative oncology studies.

“We are thrilled to be part of this exciting and challenging effort to raise money for research that will help us win the fight against cancer,” said Bette Allen, Seattle organizer and owner of Tiny Growl, a pet product company.

“Between now and November 7^th we will recruit as many Seattle-area dog-owners to bring their pets to Seward Park and walk two miles to help raise money for research in comparative oncology,” she added.

Details about the Seattle walk can be found at:

https://2md2m.ejoinme.org/MyEvents/SeattleWAPuppyUpWalk/tabid/234887/Default.aspx

The money raised through the November 7^th walks and subsequent events will be used to partner with leading cancer research institutions to help further their work in the leading-edge field of comparative oncology.

Just like humans, cats and dogs naturally develop cancer. The work of clinical veterinary oncologists in using naturally occurring cancers in animals to better understand and treat cancer in humans is called comparative oncology. There are several factors that make comparative oncology important in the fight against human cancer:

· Pets are exposed to many of the same environmental risks as people

· The cancer cells are biologically comparable

· There is a large population of cats and dogs with pre-existing cases of cancer

· Cancer occurs in pets within years compared to decades in humans.

“Canine Cancer rates are rising at an alarming rate,” said Bette Allen. “This walk is our first step toward turning the tide.”

Several breeds seem to be at a higher risk for cancer. These include:

· Boxer

· Golden Retriever

· Great Pyrenees

· Rottweiler

· Bernese Mountain Dog

· Boston Terrier

· English Bulldog

· Scottish Terrier

· Cocker Spaniel

2 Million Dogs 2 miles grew from a cross-country walk by Luke Robinson of Austin, TX and his two dogs Hudson and Murphy. They walked from Austin to Boston to fulfill the promise Luke made to his dog Malcolm, a Great Pyrenees who died from cancer. Luke later formed 2 Million Dogs with the belief that if two dogs can walk 2000 miles to raise awareness about canine cancer surely two million dogs can walk 2 miles. \

In the past 2 Million Dogs/2 Dogs 2000 Miles has donated to the Morris Animal Foundation’s Canine Cancer Campaign, Colorado State University Animal Cancer Center, Texas A&M Imaging and Cancer Center and Tufts University Harrington Oncology Program.

For more information, follow these links:

http://www.2milliondogs.org/Home.htm

https://ccrod.cancer.gov/confluence/pages/viewpage.action?pageId=46137977

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Between Iraq and a Hard Place

2010-09-02T10:15:00.000-07:00

America’s military mission in Iraq is over; that’s what our political leaders tell us. So, is the war over? Who won?

Nobody.

Certainly the U.S. cannot claim victory, not with almost 40,000 of our young soldiers killed or wounded; not with about (GASP!) $900-BILLION tax dollars down the gun barrels and certainly not because the war started with lies from Dubya and his goons. Weapons of mass destruction my ass.

But we all know the war isn’t over. More than 50,000 U.S. troops remain in Iraq. Call them “advisors,” call them “trainers” but whatever you call them, they are still at risk. Why? I’ve Iraq’d my brain and can’t come up with a good reason. Of course, I couldn’t come up with a good reason for the war at the outset.

This is Vietnam in reverse. In that doomed war we started as advisors and ended up defeated combatants. Just flip it for Iraq (LeeZard slaps his head in disgust). No, we didn’t get our ass kicked in Iraq as we did in Vietnam but this war is more meaningless and at least as divisive.

The losers, the real losers in the Iraqi debacle are the American families who’ve been scarred, destroyed and forever changed. Kids without fathers or mothers; parents who will outlive their children and a veteran support system stretched to the max. I can’t even begin to consider the personal, economic and social losses for the Iraqis (at least 100,000 Iraqis killed).

Let’s see, $900-billion – was there a better use for those dollars? Well, the Tea Party (poopers) scream about the $900-billion cost of Obama ‘s health care reform. Ditto the $900-billion economic stimulus package. They haven’t wasted a tea bag on the cost of the war. Talk about screwed up priorities.

Can the average American even imagine $900-billion? According to the Wall Street Journal, if you spent $1-million a day it would take 452 years to piss away $900-billion. Maybe that explains Paris Hilton’s lifestyle but, as usual, LeeZard digresses (I can’t believe I even mentioned Ms. Hilton in my blog – sheeesh). If you started at the signing of the Declaration of Independence and spent $10-million a day you’d still be at it today without hitting $900-billion.

Perhaps the August 31^st New York Times editorial put it best:

Saddam Hussein’s weapons of mass destruction proved to be Bush administration propaganda. The war has not created a new era of democracy in the Middle East — or in Iraq for that matter. There are stirrings of democratic politics in Iraq that give us hope. But there is no government six months after national elections. In many ways, the war made Americans less safe, creating a new organization of terrorists and diverting the nation’s military resources and political will from Afghanistan. Deprived of its main adversary, a strong Iraq, Iran was left freer to pursue its nuclear program, to direct and finance extremist groups and to meddle in Iraq.

Better luck in Afghanistan.

The Rose

2010-08-28T17:04:00.000-07:00

The rose that lives its little hour
Is prized beyond the sculptured flower.
- Bryant

This was a very good summer for LeeZard’s rose garden. Well, it’s not a garden per se; I have the bushes spread throughout our ¾-acre property. But we’ve enjoyed a bevy of big beautiful blooms (All the photos in this piece were taken by LeeZard). No mean feat; as many of you know, the fabled rose requires considerable care and feeding, especially in the damp Pacific Northwest.

LeeZard is fascinated by the rose. I love the flower’s look and intoxicating scent. I am not alone. More than any other bloom, the rose has a unique place in our hearts and in history.

Their lips were four red roses on a stalk.
- William Shakespeare

According to the University of Illinois Extension, roses have a long and colorful history.

“They have been symbols of love, beauty, war, and politics. The rose is, according to fossil evidence, 35 million years old. In nature, the genus Rosa has some 150 species spread throughout the Northern Hemisphere, from Alaska to Mexico and including northern Africa. Garden cultivation of roses began some 5,000 years ago, probably in China. During the Roman period, roses were grown extensively in the Middle East. They were used as confetti at celebrations, for medicinal purposes, and as a source of perfume. Roman nobility established large public rose gardens in the south of Rome. After the fall of the Roman Empire, the popularity of roses seemed to rise and fall depending on gardening trends of the time.”

In perhaps its most famous and political iteration, the rose became the symbol of factions fighting for control of England in the Fifteenth Century. The white rose symbolized York, the red rose Lancaster, hence the famous “War of the Roses.”

Beauty is an ecstasy; it is as simple as hunger. There is really nothing to be said about it. It is like the perfume of a rose: you can smell it and that is all.

- W. Somerset Maugham

My Mom cultivated a magnificent rose garden in the long narrow yard behind our small red brick Cape Cod-style home in Queens. Here was a woman who couldn’t cook worth a damn; she burned boiling water but her green thumb was magic. I’m sure that’s where it started for me.

More than anything, my backyard was fantasy Yankee Stadium all summer long. I spent countless hours with best buddy Ira Kaplowitz trading off the broomstick handle bat and pitching in the pink Spalding rubber ball, each of us doing our own play-by-play. Between ball games, though, I’d wander over to the roses – in foul territory – and stick my nose into the largest blooms, to drink in their perfume.

But friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in every fold.

- Oliver Wendell Holmes

Shortly after I purchased my first house, I began cultivating the favorite flower. I started with two small bushes and so began the agony and the ecstasy that comes with the trial and error. As with anything beautiful, the rose is target for many evils, including (to name a few):
Thrips

Aphids
Japanese Beetles
Powdery Mildew
Black Spot (especially in the Northwest)
Rust (not the metallic kind; it is a fungal disease)

Given the number of threats, the rose has an unfair reputation for being very difficult to cultivate successfully. LeeZard has found this to be a bad rap. For one thing, these enemies do not attack at once and some prefer certain types of roses. Thrips, for example, seem to prefer lighter colored blossoms. With the proper care, I’ve actually found the rose bush to be quite hearty if not difficult to kill.

So, if you love roses but feel intimidated by their supposed difficulties, I urge you to take the plunge next spring. You will find the rewards far outweigh the effort.

Finally, to end on a philosophical note, like baseball, LeeZard looks upon the rose as a metaphor for life. They bring moments of supreme beauty tempered by a trail of thorns.

But he that dares not grasp the thorn should never crave the rose.

- Anne Bront

Mosque Madness

2010-08-25T22:50:00.000-07:00

Fox News - 8/2/2010

LeeZard is troubled by the broohaha over the planned Islamic Community Center and Mosque near “Ground Zero” in New York City’s lower Manhattan. I am more than troubled; anything that breeds prejudice and hate (= ignorance) makes me sick.

Rick Lazio, the Republican front-runner in the New York State gubernatorial race, calls the imam behind the center’s development a “terrorist sympathizer.”

Sarah Palin Tweeted after President Obama expressed support for the development, “Mr. President, why are they so set on marking an area w/ mosque steps from what you described, in agreement with many, as "hallowed ground”? (Grammatical error – question mark outside of quotes – is hers).

Palin further mangles the language with this Tweet, “"Ground Zero Mosque supporters: doesn't it stab you in the heart, as it does ours throughout the heartland? Peaceful Muslims, pls refudiate." Arrrrghhhh!!

Former House Speaker Newt Gingrich (R-GA) joined the fray. He said, “it is analogous to allowing the Nazis to put a sign next to the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington. The New York imam leading the project, Gingrich charges, is a “radical Islamist.”

And, saddest of all, the Anti-Defamation League, which proclaims at the top of its Web site homepage, “Fighting Anti-Semitism, extremism and bigotry,” stunned many when it came out against the community center/mosque. Said the ADL, “while "proponents of the Islamic Center may have every right to build at this site, and may even have chosen the site to send a positive message about Islam," it is ultimately "not a question of rights, but a question of what is right."

Moreover, despite "the bigotry some have expressed in attacking" those behind the building of the mosque (which the ADL deems "unfair" and "wrong"), it is their judgment that "building an Islamic Center in the shadow of the World Trade Center will cause some victims more pain - unnecessarily - and that is not right."

Puh-leeze, you can’t have it both ways. If you are fighting bigotry then fight all bigotry. This contradictory stance is not new for the ADL. LeeZard once sat on the Board of the Seattle chapter of the Anti-Defamation League. I quit because the organization wanted to suspend the Bill of Rights First Amendment (Freedom of Speech) and block Neo-Nazi groups from marching in Chicago.

There is no evidence that the man behind the Islamic Center, Imam Feisal Abdul Rauf, has any connection to terrorism. In fact, according to Time Magazine (8/3/10) he is, “actually the kind of Muslim leader right-wing commentators fantasize about: modernist and moderate who openly condemns the death cult of al-Qaeda and its adherents — ironically, just the kind of "peaceful Muslims" whom Sarah Palin, in her now infamous tweet, asked to "refudiate" the mosque. Rauf is a Sufi, which is Islam's most mystical and accommodating denomination.”

Additionally, the proposed center is not at Ground Zero. It is actually five blocks away from the World Trade Center site and there are other mosques nearby. The Associated Press instructed its reporters and writers NOT to use the term "Ground Zero Mosque." Yet, polls show that more than 60% who responded are against the new Islamic Center. LeeZard isn't one of them.

Unless and until anyone can prove that Feisal Abdul Rauf has terrorist connections, he has every right to build that center wherever he damn pleases. I don’t like Islamic terrorists any more than I like Nazis but our democracy cannot survive if we systematically pick and choose who gets to enjoy our freedoms and who doesn’t.

A Golden Time Was Had by All!

2010-08-15T14:50:00.000-07:00

NOTE: LeeZard had the pleasure to help organize and put on a wonderful event to raise money for canine cancer research. If you are a dog lover (even if you are not), please go to: http://www.goldenretrieverfoundation.org/index.html and make a donation. Thanks!

This is the news release LeeZard sent out.

LOCAL BREEDER FIRST IN COUNTRY TO RAISE MONEY FOR NATIONAL FOUNDATION - Auction Raises $9,800 for cancer Research

(Maple Valley, WA) - It wasn’t exactly “Lassie Come Home.” It was more like a Golden Jubilee Saturday night as more than 70 people brought their dogs, most bred at Maple Valley’s SmokeTree Golden Retrievers, back to where it all began for a very special evening. Owned by David and Sally Maryatt and Randy and Julie Schepper, SmokeTree became the first breeder in the country to host an auction to benefit the National Golden Retriever Foundation (GRF).

“We’ve always held an annual dinner party for our family of owners,” said Randy Schepper. “This year, because of some serious issues facing this wonderful breed, we decided to join the Golden Retriever Foundation’s effort to raise money for research, rescue and education.”

“Cancer is rapidly overtaking our beloved breed,” said Dr. Mike Lappin, veterinarian and GRF vice president. “That’s why the GRF, in cooperation with the AKC Canine Health Foundation is funding several research studies addressing these and other critical health issues threatening Golden Retrievers.”

“We’re very grateful that SmokeTree’s auction raised money for the foundation,” said Linda Johnson, GRF Treasurer, who attended the event. “We are also thankful that the Scheppers and Maryatts will provide their auction as a model to help other breeders around the country duplicate their effort.”

The silent auction and raffle raised $4,900.00. An anonymous donor will match that amount.

Since its opening in 1998 SmokeTree has produced six champions and offers stud service. But there’s more to SmokeTree than cranking out champions. “Realizing the majority of Goldens go to pet homes,” said Sally Maryatt, “we try to maintain the wonderful "Golden" temperament. We feel the health of the dogs is extremely important and spend hours researching pedigrees to find some of the best representatives of the breed. When prospective owners come to buy a dog or puppy, they will spend hours answering questions and interacting with the dogs so they will get just the right friend.”

SmokeTree’s dogs are also known for their unique names. Their first litter in 1998, the Dr. Seuss Litter, produced their first Champion, SmokeTree’s Horton Hears a Who. Also from that litter, their first member of the Golden Retriever Show Dog Hall of Fame, Champion SmokeTree’s Hops on Pops. The Vegetable Litter produced Canadian Champion SmokeTree N Zydeco's Okra Winfrey and Champion SmokeTree's Turnip The Heat. The Movie Litter gave us SmokeTree’s Kinky Boots. You get the picture.

Surrounded by hundreds of acres of forest, SmokeTree Golden Retrievers is located northeast of downtown Maple Valley a half-mile from the Cedar River.

For more information go to: http://www.smoketreegoldens.com.
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http://www.goldenretrieverfoundation.org/index.html

Research Activities

The Golden Retriever Foundation funds health studies that further the understanding of the diseases, genetic defects, injuries and other ailments that afflict dogs in general and Golden Retrievers in particular.

GRF Leads Fight Against Canine Cancer

The statistics are chilling. Sixty-thousand Goldens -- more than the total number to be registered with the American Kennel Club (AKC) -- are at risk of being lost this year to lymphosarcoma. That’s one Golden Retriever out of every eight. There’s more. One in five Goldens is at risk for developing hemangiosarcoma.

“Cancer is rapidly overtaking our beloved breed,” says Dr. Mike Lappin, veterinarian and Golden Retriever Foundation (GRF) vice president. That is why the GRF, in cooperation with the AKC Canine Health Foundation (CHF) is funding several research studies addressing these and other critical health issues impacting Golden Retrievers.

The GRF is one of the most active breed organizations in canine health research. Since its inception, the GRF has awarded health related grants exceeding a total of $248,000. By working with the CHF, expenses are often shared with other breed clubs with similar health issues and we receive CHF-subsidized grants. Once the CHF approves proposals from research scientists, it forwards them to the GRF for consideration. The GRF relies on advice and counsel received from the GRCA’s Health and Genetics Committee, chaired by Ann Hubbs, DVM, PhD. The committee evaluates the proposals and summarizes their strengths and weaknesses based on several criteria, including relevance to Golden Retrievers, strength of the preliminary data, abilities of the researchers and quality of the facilities, scientific approach and the strength of the hypothesis.

In 2005, the GRF initiated the second breed health survey in order to identify additional areas of focus. The survey was developed by Judy Rasmuson, former GRF director and Roger Fuller, former GRCA board member. In addition the GRF continues to be a sponsor of the annual CHF canine cancer conference for the academic community.

Future research will benefit from the 2005 mapping of the canine genome, which now is enabling many new approaches to canine cancer studies, according to one of the GRF’s research sponsored scientists, Dr. Matthew Breen of North Carolina State University. “The beauty of having the canine genome sequenced is that we can then take the entire dog genome, align it with the human genome and perform detailed comparisons at the DNA level, “he said. “This means that whatever genetic research we do in humans, we can do in dogs and vice versa. We’ll have reciprocal benefit.”

Donations to the Zeke Cancer Research Fund support canine cancer studies in some of the nation’s foremost research facilities. There currently are twelve studies in progress. Donations to the General/Health Fund support comprehensive studies of the Golden Retriever population, such as hip dysplasia, hypothyroid disease, and other diseases and conditions relative to Goldens.

Golden Retriever Research:

A Legacy of Hope

With your generous financial support, the Golden Retriever Foundation funds a diverse range of health research studies investigating diseases such as several types of cancers, swallowing disorders, cataracts, SAS, and other issues of importance to the breed. In order to succeed, several of these studies require the cooperation of owners and participation of affected dogs.

For some studies, it is important that the dogs NOT be started on any medications prior to enrollment, or that biopsy or surgical samples be prepared in a specific manner, so please make contact as soon as possible when a diagnosis is suspected. Remember also that dogs owned by non-GRCA members are eligible for these studies, and please consider referring other Golden owners when possible.

We recognize that it takes great courage to look beyond one’s own sorrow when a special dog is diagnosed with a devastating disease, and we applaud the owners who participate in these research studies. Sometimes in the midst of sadness, helping to work toward a better future allows our beloved dogs to leave a legacy of hope to the next generation.

The Write Stuff?

2010-08-07T23:09:00.000-07:00

©2010 by LeeZard

Is digital communication destroying the art of good writing or, is it merely continuing the evolution of our language? It’s a question that’s been on my mind for a while. I’ve thought for a long time that it’s the former. All this abbreviating to save time (minutes!) and space for emailing, texting and chatting, I thought, eliminates the use of proper punctuation and spelling, not to mention creative word usage. That would be tragic to LeeZard, who cherishes good writing.

I’m rethinking it, though. After all, how did we get from Old English, the written and spoken Anglo-Saxon language circa 1000 AD, to our modern version?

One of the best examples of beautiful writing in Old English is the classic poem “Beowulf,” a portion of which appears here with a modern translation:

Hwæt. We Gardena in geardagum,

LO, praise of the prowess of people-kings

þeodcyninga, þrym gefrunon,

of spear-armed Danes, in days long sped,

hu ða æþelingas ellen fremedon.

we have heard, and what honor the athelings won!

Indeed, our language is constantly evolving. It was no great leap from Old to Modern English. There was Middle English circa 14^th century, as in Chaucer’s “Canterbury Tales (Click on the image for a larger view):

Heere bigynneth the knyghtes tale
Here begins the Knight’s Tale

Whilom, as olde stories tellen us,
Once on a time, as old tales tell to us,

Ther was a duc that highte Theseus;

There was a duke whose name was Theseus:

Of Atthenes he was lord and governour,

Of Athens he was lord and governor,

And in his tyme swich a conquerour,

And in his time was such a conqueror

That gretter was ther noon under the sonne.

That greater was there not beneath the sun.

And, Early Modern English circa early 17^th Century, as in the King James Bible (1611):

And hee said, A certain man had two sonnes:

He said, "There was a man who had two sons.

And the yonger of them said to his father, Father, giue me the portion of goods that falleth to me. And he divided unto them his liuing

The younger one said to his father, 'Father, give me my share of the estate.' So he divided his property between them

And not many days after, the yonger sonne gathered altogether, and tooke his journey into a farre country, and there wasted his substance with riotous liuing.

"Not long after that, the younger son got together all he had, set off for a distant country and there squandered his wealth in wild living.

And when he had spent all, there arose a mighty famine in that land, and he beganne to be in want.

After he had spent everything, there was a severe famine in that whole country, and he began to be in need.

However, if you look at a copy of the original King James Bible, it is, to LeeZard, unreadable (Again, click on the image for a larger view):

Now let’s look at what LeeZard calls “Digital English:”

nd he sd, sum man hd 2 sons

And he said some man had two sons.

In Digital English, note the absnce of uppr case at the strt of the sntnce. Ur gttng all ths, rt

lol

roflmao

(LeeZard looks at the above and shakes his head) Arrrgggghhhhh!

So, what are we to make of all this? Yes, language evolves but as we see in the examples above, even as it evolves good writing does not go by the wayside. Nay fair maids and merry men; to the contrary, good writing goeth forever.

Heck, LeeZard didn’t even touch on Shakespeare who, I’m not embarrassed to admit, gives me a headache. Why, because he wrote in Early Modern English. Yeah, yeah I have to give props to Will; he was a pretty faire writer and he really did transform the language – almost single-handedly building the bridge from Middle English to Modern.

To answer my own question, then (What are we to make of all this?), LeeZard is write back where he started. Digital communication is killing good writing. In fact it’s a massacre!

Car Tales

2010-08-06T18:15:00.000-07:00

Car Tales

Fans of LeeZard (Both of you) know well his love affair with The Blue Streak (sigh). Cars play a big part in our lives. We remember our first car, our first family car (infant seat won’t fit in a roadster, dammit) or our mid-life crisis car. I remember them all, from the lemons to the lemonade.

I’m not quite a motorhead. Oh, I could change the oil but I choose not to. I remember my first best friend, Arnold Feldman. His dad owned a gas station (and bought Arnie a cream-colored 1960 Volvo for his 17^th birthday) and we used to help out on weekends. I tried working on the engines but hated the weird angles at which you had to twist your hands and wrists; hated the resultant scraped and bleeding knuckles. Nonetheless, I love anything on wheels or tracks and want to drive ‘em all. I read Motor Trend, Car & Driver, etc. to stay current on trends, styles, road tests and the like. As you all know, I dreamed of owning a Porsche since teenhood.

Each car in LeeZard’s life is tied to a story – or many stories. Indulge me, please, as I share some of them from my youth.

1963 – Unsafe at Any Age

Ralph Nader may have doomed Chevrolet’s rear-engined Corvair (with his book, “Unsafe at Any Speed) but I have the fondest memories of GM’s VW wanna-be; it was the first car I drove, a 1962 Monza. It belonged to my next-door neighbor’s dad. Son Neil was almost a year older than moi and had his learner’s permit. In those days, the New York State driving age was 18, unless you took a Driver’s Education course, which earned you your freedom at 17. I was barely 16 and chomping at the carburetor. No problem, Neil was ready to teach me and I took to it like a bird to flying (unless you’re an emu).

1963 – LeeZard can’t Dodge the Bullet

The 1957 Dodge Coronet was the ultimate big-finned, chrome heavy land yacht of its era. Dad’s was gold and white and I drooled over Chrysler’s innovative – and short-lived – push button gearshift novelty. Shortly after a lesson or two in the Corvair, I was ready for prime time.

My parents took frequent weekends to travel with their friends to one of the resorts in New York’s famed Borscht Belt in the Catskill Mountains – a misnomer if ever there was one; the Catskills are verdant rolling hills (But, I digress as usual).

This particular weekend, they drove up with Aunt Ruth and Uncle Bob, who lived around the corner. As soon as they left – Friday evening after Dad got home from work – I was in my mother’s purse searching for her keys.

(LeeZard in 1957 with The Dodge)

I can barely describe my emotions as I started the engine; fear, exhilaration, freedom, POWER. I slowly pulled from the curb and eased my way to the stop sign at the corner. I stopped, really stopped, and looked every which way praying for no traffic. Seeing none, I turned right on to Francis Lewis Boulevard, a wide expansive road (four-lanes if it was striped) that runs the length of Queens, and headed north toward a favorite hang-out. “Nothing to it,” thought I.

After a few moments I was feeling very comfortable behind the wheel, albeit at about 25 MPH. Everything was fine until I stopped at a red light on Linden Blvd. right near the city line. I made a perfect right turn onto Linden and crossed into Nassau County. Almost immediately a blue and orange Nassau County police car appeared in my rear view mirror and LeeZard freaked. Even though I was doing nothing wrong my panic froze my brain and I immediately pulled to the curb on my right – which alerted the cop who pulled in right behind me. Crap; no license, no registration.

Needless to say, I had to leave the Dodge parked right there. It was a long walk home, made longer by the traffic citation in my jeans pocket and the knowledge of what lay ahead. When the parental units arrived home Sunday night there was hell to pay. There would be no Driver’s Education in LeeZard’s future, no license at 17. Dad accompanied me to court where I dutifully paid the fines out of my meager allowance. It was a low point in my teen years.

Chevy Freedom – Pontiac Power

I forget what happened to get my driving ban lifted but, miraculously, I did get to take the driving class and acquire my automotive liberation on my 17^th birthday. We were now a three-car family. Big brother (by 10-years) Barry was still at home and was driving his own ’51 Chevy. Dad was in his dream car, a 1962 Pontiac Bonneville (See “Speed: http://leezardonlife.blogspot.com/2010/07/speed.html). And, he traded the Dodge for a very pedestrian 1964 Chevy Bel Air with an anemic six-cylinder engine. I hated it for its Chevy Bel Airness and I loved it because it was my ticket to teen freedom.

It was in the Chevy that:

I got my first ticket – on the day I got my license. I was lost and made a very illegal U-turn on the Northern State Parkway, cutting off a state trooper in the process.

Lynn Kantor left a burning cigarette on the front seat while we went bowling. The seat was doing the smoking when we came out and the hole was about six inches in diameter.

I first heard the Beatles (“I Want to Hold Your Hand”), on 1010 WINS with “Murray the K.”

Got into my first accident. Honest, SHE ran a stop sign and T-boned me.

Went “parking” for the first (second, third, etc.) time. Couldn’t even get to first base on an error.

But, it was my Dad’s love of Bonnevilles that spilled over to the entire family.

After the ’62, he bought a 1966 silver four-door with a black vinyl top – The Grey Ghost. It was huge! Brother Barry, by then an assistant buyer for Gimbels, bought HIS dream car, a screaming red 1970 Grand Prix with a white vinyl top. Gone in 60 days! It was stolen less than two months after he bought it

Do (it in) the Continental

My mom’s sister and her husband – Aunt Ruth and Uncle Bob – lived around the block from us in a corner of South Queens directly under the flight approach to Idlewild (now JFK)) Airport (Yes, LeeZard is old). There was more than a sibling rivalry there; Uncle Bob was partner in a bio-chemistry lab and invested wisely as my dad struggled with a small shoe store. I figure that’s a big reason why dad’s Bonnevilles were such a big deal for both my parents; they were constantly trying to keep up.

Bob’s 1957 Chrysler New Yorker, for example, was nicer than dad’s Dodge. I think the ’62 “Bonnie,” as we called the Pontiac, was dad’s return salvo. But there was nothing even close my dad could do when Bob purchased a lightly used black 1958 Lincoln Continental Mark III. Talk about a land yacht! It was the biggest, heaviest car out of Detroit since the end of WWII. A shade over 19-feet long, it weighed in at just under two-and-a-half tons.

Leezard’s favorite spec, though, was not the 430 cubic inch, 375 horsepower engine. No sir; it was the 80.1 inches – 6-feet 7 inches – width of the beast. It was the only car I ever drove in which I could lay down in the back seat without having to bend my knees. Can’t you see the possibilities? LeeZard sure did!

Aunt Ruth actually drove the Mark III regularly and after many, many months of begging she finally let me borrow it for a date. With my 17-year old hormones raging I called the “fastest” girl I knew. Luckily, there was no need for pretentions; we had an “understanding.” I simply described the car and we had a date. Today it’s called “friends with benefits” or just “hooking up.”

LeeZard knew of the shortest, darkest dead-end street in that part of South Queens and drove there immediately after picking her up. I parked and killed the engine. Looking at each other across the wide expanse of front seat, we grinned, broke into giggles and scrambled over the back of the front bench into rear seat parking heaven.

Li’l GTO

Who didn’t love the GTO when it first appeared in 1964? With that 6.5-liter badge on the front quarter panel and an eponymous song by Ronny & the Daytonas, the GTO was truly the first American supercar. At 17, the car was far beyond my reach until my brother’s friend Dale became my auto-hero.

Dale was one of the few of my brother’s friends who treated me as a peer instead of the annoying little kid (which, admittedly, I often was). He also shared my abiding love for anything on wheels and owned a ’64 silver GTO with a Hurst 4-speed manual stick.

I don’t remember how or why I happened to be riding alone with Dale that day when he turned to me and asked, “Do want to drive?” Can you say forever grateful?

To this day Dale remains one of the nicest men I’ve ever known. Over the years he’s stayed true to his automotive-loving roots, owning one Corvette after another. He is a regular on the classic auto racing circuit in Florida.

First Love

She was a blue 1964 VW and it was love at first sight. She also was the first car LeeZard was able to purchase with his own money. I loved her because she was truly mine. I loved her for her simplicity – no options beyond a simple, tinny AM radio. No air conditioning and the heat was merely a knob you twisted to open a vent between you and the rear mounted engine. Unfortunately, the love affair was short-lived thanks to the American-made spark plugs used by the previous owner. When LeeZard went to change them, the made-in-the-USA plugs were frozen into their European metric slots. Unable to afford the major repair job to pull the plugs, I sold her.

White Dream

Not a car, but it had wheels; two of ‘em and it was a sheer joy to ride. Other older brother Steve lived in D.C. and no longer had use for his 1965 305cc white Honda Dream. “Ride it as long as you like,” he told me, “then sell it and give me the money.” Now, 305cc is not exactly a monster bike but you could certainly go fast enough to kill yourself, which was fast enough for moi (I think I broke 70 MPH once or twice). Talk about freedom!

Beyond that, the bike was a chick magnet when LeeZard needed all the chick magnetism he could muster; believe it or not, I was painfully shy when it came to meeting women. I rode it for two years before I sold it when I moved to D.C. for my first big job in broadcasting.

Finally, What Was I Thinking?

LeeZard is embarrassed to admit it but in 1970, I purchased – in its first model year – an AMC Hornet. With no apologies to Adam Sandler, it was a true piece of shit car - no carpet, leaked like a sieve when it rained, severe power outage. What was I thinking?

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So there you have it, LeeZard’s youthful car tales. Care to share some of your own? Leave them as a comment below and drive safely out there.

Name that Name

2010-08-02T01:40:00.000-07:00

I’ve always been fascinated by names – people’s names, locales, bands, dogs, cats; you name it (hahaha). Funny names, stupid names, cute names. A name tells you something more than well, the name.

It’s generally believed the Chinese were the first to use surnames, some 3,000 years before the birth of Christ. Unlike most others, however, the Chinese surname goes first, not last. The early Romans used multiple names for a while then dropped the custom.

During the early Middle Ages people were generally known by their given names. But, as more and more Johns and Williams roamed the countryside it probably got confusing so adding a second name became the popular means of sorting it all out. By the 12th Century it was unfashionable to not have a last name.

Different things became last names:
• Your profession – Mason, Miller, etc.
• Your home town
• Your father’s name – Leif Ericsson, for example. The early Israelites began naming their children Shmoil ben (son of) Joshua.
You can read a great article on the history of surnames at http://www.mayrand.org/meaning-e.htm.

With that background let’s enjoy LeeZard’s fascination with names. For example, what profession did the name Lipschitz come from? How about major League Baseball pitcher J.J Putz (he pronounces it like the verb "puts" and I don’t blame him). Then there’s the Yiddish surname Schmuck. Oy Vay! In German the word means Jewel (“family jewels?). It could be based on the polish word Smock (serpent) and that might explain the slang use of Schmuck for penis. How that all evolved into a synonym for idiot in modern slang I don’t know. I like to think LeeZard’s penis is anything but idiotic.

First names are also worthy of attention for a variety of reasons. LeeZard has always wondered why Christians will name a child Christian while he’s never met anyone named Jewish. A very good and credible friend swears she overheard, in a hospital emergency room, a mom call her two boys “le MON jell o” and “or ON jell o.” Yup, named for the ubiquitous jiggly fruit dessert.

In 2004, Buck Wolf wrote a piece for ABC News (Read the entire article at http://abcnews.go.com/Entertainment/WolfFiles/story?id=116513&page=1):

“Is your child Unique? Many children are, and it says so on their birth certificate. In the last five years, more than 1,000 little girls in the United States have been named Unique — and they're presumably expected to live up to their parents' expectations.

Baby naming is America's newest creative outlet. When actress Gwyneth Paltrow gave birth Friday to her first child, she and husband Chris Martin proclaimed that the girl would be named Apple Blythe Alison Martin, raising the question: Was the child named after her mom's favorite fruit or her father's laptop computer?

If little Apple Martin does get teased on the playground, let's just hope she one day meets a boy who's Sincere — and that is mathematically possible. Last year, 256 boys were actually named "Sincere," according to Social Security Administration records.

The world hasn't gone completely crazy. The most popular baby names last year were Jacob, Michael and Joshua for boys and Emily, Emma and Madison for girls. However, some of the newest Americans clearly reflect their parents' interests.

For instance, in designer brand-crazy America, you don't have to drive a Lexus to have a Lexus. There were 270 girls named "Lexus" last year, according to the SSA. Another 265 boys were named "Armani."

Alternate spellings are also on the upswing, including Nevaeh (Heaven spelled backward), Canon (like the camera) and Skyy (like the vodka).“

I’ll end with a few more of LeeZard’s all time faves:

Bands (that reached some level of popularity)

Jane’s Addiction – Only because in high school LeeZard dated a girl named Jane. We fought every time we went out but dated on and off for about three years.
Kinky Friedman & the Texas Jewboys - Are we asking for a cross burning on our lawn?
Anthrax - Terrorist Rock?
Bad English - I ain’t got no comment.
Booker T and the MG’s - Only because it reminds LeeZard of the classic British roadster, even though it really – in this case – stood for Memphis Group.
Cheap Trick - LeeZard SWEARS he’s never paid cash for sex. Paid through the nose, maybe.
Def Leopard – Probably had a seeing-eye gnu.
Doobie Brothers - LeeZard always gets the munchies when he hears a cut by this band.

REO Speedwagon – Car nut LeeZard appreciates the group’s respect for history; REO stands for Ransom Eli Olds, founder of the Olds Motor Works (to become GM's Oldsmobile Division) and the REO Speedwagon was actually one of his models.
Toad the Wet Sprocket – LeeZard knows that was a Monty Python skit but it sounds so….so obscene.

Locales

Humptulips – A small town on Washington State’s Olympic Peninsula. LeeZard has actually been there but has never tried to hump a tulip.
Quogue – Indian name for a town on Long Island. LeeZard likes saying it over and over.
Boca Raton, FL - Espanol for Mouth of the Rat.
Intercourse, PA - Oh, those wild Amish people!
Bird-in-Hand, PA – Oh, those lucky Amish people!
East and West Egg, LI – Fugitive poachers started these towns in the early 16th century.
French Lick, Indiana – Because it’s the home-town of Boston Celtics’ legend Larry Bird, of course!

People LeeZard has actually known (No disrespect meant – this is about names whether we like ‘em or not):

Marcia Hertz
Mrs. Manbeck – Elementary school principal. Rhymed with Henpeck and she probably did.
Robert Schmalz – Yiddish for chicken fat.
Steve Dichter – Pronounced dicked-her.
Mr. Schnell – Middle school teacher whose name in German means, “Fast.”
Judy Winkelstern – What’s not to like?
Mrs. Petty – Third grade teacher because she was.
Bruce Funkhouser – Great guy, great name!
Bruce Winston Bulls – Grand name for a grand man.
Jim Stutzman – Mr. “Stutz” Bearcat, another great car.
Hazel Krackow – Was probably Polish.
Jay & Harold Wanderman – Twins who finally settled down after many restless years.
Jane Yellen – LeeZard’s “Jane’s Addiction;” we were always yellin’ at each other.

And, one of LeeZard’s journalistic heroes, Walter Cronkite who, at this point would say:

“….And, that’s the way it is.” (Yes, LeeZard actually met Uncle Walter at a broadcasting convention!)

My Card You Cad

2010-07-26T00:09:00.000-07:00

NOTE: LeeZard rarely writes fiction and, he's never tried his hand at (writing) erotica. For some reason, though, the following story appeared in my head.

Is it erotica? Is it soft porn? Is there a difference?

Dictionary.com defines erotica:

"literature or art dealing with sexual love."

It defines pornography:

“obscene writings, drawings, photographs, or the like, especially those having little or no artistic merit.”

The definition of soft porn is more involved:

“it is less explicit than hardcore material in depicting or describing sexual behavior. Softcore does not depict explicit sexual contact, but ranges from simulated intercourse to nudity. While both softcore and hardcore feature sexual situations with the intention of arousing the viewer, the key difference is that softcore does not clearly show aroused genitalia (including masturbation), ejaculation, or penetration (vaginal, anal and/or oral)."

As one not to challenge the creative process, I humbly present the following. I tried to write from both a man's and a woman's perspective (after consulting with some actual women) and in a manner that both would enjoy without finding it offensive. Please let me know if I succeeded.

---

My Card you Cad

“If you walk by me one more time,” Tony said to the attractive young woman, “you’ll have to stop and talk to me.” He spoke as she walked by for the third or fourth time; he wasn’t sure of the number but he now suspected there was a method to her meandering.

He was leaning against the jamb of a finely stained set of oak double doors between the formal dining room and large sitting room in a lovingly renovated 19^th Century Victorian home in the Northwest section of Washington, D.C. He had no idea who owned the home but, as an architect, appreciated its stately grandeur.

It was a large party in a big house and he was the guest of a guest. He’d driven down from New York City in his 1960 Porsche 356B Roadster, likewise lovingly restored. Staying with a buddy who heard about the bash from the friend of a friend, Tony reluctantly tagged along. He wasn’t even dressed for a party, clad in a pair of slightly wrinkled Levi’s, an old favorite golf shirt (although he never played) and beat up loafers sans sox.

He wasn’t big on anonymous parties. He hated meaningless small talk with strangers and, if forced into the situation, usually parked his tall lanky frame against a wall to observe. He wasn’t anti-social and he certainly wasn’t a wallflower despite his penchant for finding a comfortable wall upon which to lean. Nor was he unpopular or afraid of meeting new people. On the contrary, he was both glib and intelligent with as many social invitations and obligations as he chose to enjoy. It was merely that he preferred meaningful conversation in smaller groups peppered with familiar faces.

In fact, he was particularly popular with woman. Tony’s trim build was finely tuned from regular workouts and strenuous games of racquetball. His black wavy hair was just long enough without looking unkempt, a few curls always dropping to just above his eyebrows. Sharp blue eyes missed very little going on around him and a strong chin supported a mouth with lips the girls called sensuous. An air of self-confidence and a slight aloofness added a bit of mystery to an already inviting man.

He was self-confident without arrogance. In fact, he seemed totally unaware of his affect on women and, truth be told, had never in his life actually “picked up” a strange woman. He wasn’t shy but he wasn’t overly forward either. Actually, he wasn’t even sure why he made the comment to the woman now standing before him. But, he was glad he did; to his eyes, she was beautiful.

She wore a wine-colored loose-fitting crewneck sweater that did little to hide the swell of her breasts. Her jeans were not the $300 skintight designers favored by most of the women at the party but he could still enjoy the outline of a firm well-rounded bottom. She was nearly as tall as his 6’1” with shining blond hair falling softly to her shoulders. Sky blue eyes showed a hint of amusement as she openly appraised the man before her.

“I thought you’d lost your tongue,” she said, surprised at her brashness. “My name is Penny and, no, it’s not short for Penelope; it’s just Penny.”

“Tony,” he replied, offering his hand. She took it and they both silently noted the firmness of the handshake and the warmth of each other’s hand. It was not a nervous sweaty warmth; to the contrary, it was the room temperature warmth of two people at home in their own skins.

Penny wasn’t shy either but neither was she forward. Like Tony, she’d never in her life picked up a man nor had she allowed herself to be picked up – although many had tried. In her early 30s, she’d never married, concentrating instead on her career as a buyer for Philadelphia’s premier chain of women’s boutiques.

Perhaps it was the two glasses of Chardonnay on an empty stomach; Penny was not exactly the party girl. For some reason, however, as soon as she’d spotted Tony leaning against the wall, she felt an unfamiliar physical attraction. She liked his understated good looks and how fine he looked in an outfit that would look unfashionable on anyone else. And, she had to admit, she liked the way his jeans outlined a nice firm butt. Like Tony, she knew virtually no one at the party. She, too, was in D.C. visiting friends and she’d lost them in the big crowd spread throughout countless rooms. She was bored and considered leaving on her own to hail a cab when she spotted him from across the sitting room.

Without even thinking, she slowly walked across the room and through the double doors; half hoping he’d say something as she passed. When he appeared to take no notice of her, she took her time surfing the food spread on the long dining room table and retraced her steps past him. Nothing.

Taking it as a challenge, Penny worked her way in the opposite direction, exiting the sitting room through a single doorway into a long hallway. She circled through the most fabulous kitchen she’d ever seen and, after a few moments appreciating the space, reentered the dining room for a second pass. Tony was still there, taciturn as ever.

“Alright,” she thought to herself, “you get one more chance pal.” Without waiting, she turned on her heel and returned through the double doors.

“If you walk by me one more time, you’ll have to stop and talk to me.” And so it began.

They stood in the doorway for about 20-minutes, getting the usual preliminaries out of the way; “Where are you from? What do you do? Etc.” Finally he suggested, “Let’s take a tour of this place. I like old homes and it seems they’ve done a great job restoring this one.”

The ground floor was jam-packed and abuzz with conversation. There was no music; this was, after all, D.C. and politics provided the soundtrack. Tables of food offered varying cuisines in the large sitting room, the dining room and the parlor off the front door. Each room featured newly stained oak trim and shiny wood floors punctuated with carefully chosen imported rugs. The walls were painted in hushed pastels of blues, greens and tans. Each room seemed to be strategically lit with real Tiffany lamps or sophisticated, tasteful chandeliers. The antique furniture throughout reflected the tone and history of the house without overwhelming their surroundings. The only nod to modern times was the magnificent artwork throughout. From oils to watercolors, prints, and sculpture, it felt like walking through a gallery.

Tony was obviously enjoying himself while Penny was silently enjoying Tony. It just felt comfortable to be strolling the rooms with him, weaving through the crowd and casually discussing this and that. She also enjoyed the fact that this was clearly not a man “on the make.” She had no illusions of “love at first sight.” While Penny was no virgin – she’d had her share of lovers – she was also old enough to be cynical yet young enough to believe in “possibilities.” For now she was merely enjoying the moment.

“Do you want to check out the upstairs?” he asked. Penny could tell he was embarrassed by the question. “It’s…it’s not what you think,” he said, “I really want to see what they did on the second level.” He almost looked vulnerable and she liked him even more.

What makes you think I’m thinking anything?” she replied with an easy smile. Tony grinned back with an inward sigh of relief and he liked her even more.

“I didn’t want you to think I’m being presumptuous or manipulative,” he explained. “I don’t operate like that but you don’t know me….” She stopped him before he could go any further.

“I’m a big girl, Tony, you don’t have to explain yourself.”

A steady stream of people moved up and down the stairs but the crowd thinned considerably as they reached the second floor hallway. Several doors on either side were open and showed bedrooms as beautifully furnished as the rooms downstairs. They entered one in particular where a small group was standing in front of a painting on the wall. It was an original Georgia O’Keeffe and it was stunning – a brightly colored flower, subtly and erotically suggesting a woman’s genitalia.

As Penny and Tony enjoyed the painting others began drifting away and they found themselves alone in the bedroom. They’d wandered through the home together for almost two hours and rather than an uncomfortable silence, they enjoyed a companionable respite from the hubbub of the party. Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Tony slipped his arm around Penny’s waste, gently turning and drawing her to him. He kissed her with confidence, tenderness and warmth. There was no urgency, no overt show of passion and, surprisingly, nothing sexual. It was more a meeting of the minds as well as the lips – and, extremely pleasant. When it ended, he held her briefly and she rested her head on his shoulder. He took her hand as they slowly walked out of the room, each enjoying the interlude in their own way.

“You want to get out of here?” Tony asked. “It’s past midnight and, except for you, I am totally bored with this wing ding.” His hesitance was gone; they’d reached an initial level of trust and understanding.

“Sure, where to?”

“Good question. I must admit I’m not into clubbing. Dancing is not my thing although I like to sit and listen to a good jazz band now and then. I’d suggest the One Step Down (D.C.’s oldest jazz club) but by the time we get there and find parking it’ll be close to last call.”

“Do you have a car here?” Penny asked. “Let’s go for a drive.”

“You want to go “parking?” Tony feigned shock with a twinkle in his eye.

“No, silly. I want to go for a drive. When we do go parking it will be indoors.” Now, Tony’s shock was real. At the same time a little voice was going off in Penny’s mind. “Did you just hear yourself? You’re shamelessly coming on to a complete stranger!” She hit the off button in her head and smiled to herself.

“Listen Penny, I want you to know I’m not a one-night-stand-kind-of-guy. I’m no rookie but I’ve never done anything like this before – not that I’m against it,” he laughed. She liked his laugh. It was sincere; his eyes told her so.

“I’m not the pick-up-a-guy-and-seduce him-type either, Tony.” She stopped him and her eyes seemed to go right through him. “Please don’t judge me, though. I am no slut.”

“I wouldn’t be here if I thought you were, Penny. Is this our first fight?” That last one broke the ice and they both dissolved into giggles. “How about a drive to Dulles?” he suggested. “We can watch ‘em take off and land for awhile.”

“How did you know that’s one of my favorite things to do?”

At that hour the 26-mile drive from D.C. to Dulles International Airport took less than half an hour. Their conversation flowed easily as they shared some family histories and, more importantly, began talking about past lovers. Both in their 30s, both never married, both with disappointments, mended broken hearts and the resultant caution about new relationships.

Tony exited the freeway just before it became the Dulles Access Road. He proceeded south on VA SR 28 until he came to the airport’s southern border and exited westbound, looking for a quiet vantage point with a view of the runways. He found a lonely two-lane blacktop called Willard Road a short distance from the airport’s security fence. He pulled off the road into a widened turn-around along the shoulder, pointed the nose of his car toward the runway lights and killed the engine. Even with the Porsche’s bucket seats, Penny was able to lean over and snuggle against Tony as he placed his arm around her shoulders.

It was late and air traffic was minimal. They were able to enjoy the relative quiet broken only by the occasional roar of a red eye arrival or departure. They’d talked virtually non-stop for almost three hours and now simply enjoyed each other’s company in comfortable silence. After about 30-minutes Tony looked at her for a moment and lifted her chin with his hand. Kissing her gently, he asked, “How’d you like to head back to my friend’s place?”

“Can we go parking?” she replied.

In Tony’s mind the drive back to D.C. took forever. Surprising himself, he felt a little nervous as he glanced over at Penny. She was staring out the passenger window, humming some nameless tune. As if she felt his eyes on her, she turned around, smiled and put her hand on his right thigh. Any tension Tony felt slipped away.

The house was dark when Tony pulled into his friend’s driveway. He led Penny to a rear entrance with direct access to the guestroom. Probably built as an addition to the original house, the room offered complete privacy. Sparsely but tastefully furnished with a double bed, small dresser and a beautiful goose-necked wooden rocking chair, the room felt right. The bed was centered on a circular area rug with a muted paisley design in reds, blues and greens.

Tony quietly shut the door. Taking Penny’s hand he asked, “Can I have this dance?”

Despite the lack of music she slid easily into his arms and said, “I thought you don’t dance.”

“I don’t dance at clubs,” he whispered in her ear, sending a shudder through her entire body as he expertly led her into a slow foxtrot. In a low pleasing baritone he began singing:

“Strangers in the night exchanging glances
Wond'ring in the night
What were the chances we'd be sharing love
Before the night was through.

Something in your eyes was so inviting,
Something in your smile was so exciting,
Something in my heart,
Told me I must have you.”

It wasn’t exactly Sinatra but it was absolutely perfect as they both closed their eyes, drifting into their own world. Neither Tony nor Peggy remembered who began but it didn’t matter. She pulled his golf shirt free of his pants and slid her hands under to rest on the small of his back. His hands slid under her sweater and settled in the same place.

Tony still hummed Sinatra’s song and the dancing became a gentle rocking in place. Their bodies molded together as if to begin learning about each other. Their lips met, their tongues touched and slowly explored. As with their first kiss, there was no urgency, no overt passion. Time slowed; there was no need to rush.

Rather then end the kiss, Tony simply extended it down her neck and held his lips there while he drank in the scent of her perfume. Reading his mind, she said, “It’s called White Linen. Do you like it?”

“MMmmmmm,” was his only response.

Penny slid one hand down and under the waistband of his jeans, feeling the top curvature of his butt. “Mmmmm yourself,” she murmured. At the same time, Tony’s hands went north, finding the clasps of her bra and unsnapping them in one smooth move.

Now she could feel him harden as he used both hands to slide the bra straps down the sleeves of her sweater until he was able free her breasts and the bra fell to the floor. Rather than move his hands to her chest, he pulled her even closer and the feeling was electric for them both. Her nipples hardened under the fabric of her sweater and a small groan escaped Tony’s lips. They stood motionless for a moment. Time slowed even more; there was no need to rush.

Penny removed her right hand from the top of his butt and slid it around to feel his hardness through the Levis. She began undoing his belt and lowered his zipper while Tony’s hand moved under her sweater and brushed her right breast. He didn’t grab, he didn’t squeeze but gently massaged and held it in his hand as if it were a piece of fine art. Her hand slipped under the leg band of his boxer briefs, wrapped around his hardness and held it.

After another moment, he pulled back slightly – much to her disappointment – until he knelt before her, undid the front of her jeans, slid them down and pulled each leg free of their confinement. Now, he leaned in to enjoy the scent of her true woman’s perfume before lightly kissing the black lace panty fabric over the outline of her nether lips. Her knees nearly buckled until she felt his strong hands firmly grab her rear cheeks, pulling her even harder against his lips.

She placed her hands on his shoulders for balance. “Stop,” she was nearly gasping, “before I fall over.”

She thought she heard him no, felt him, laugh before he pulled his lips away and rose to his feet. He removed his jeans, took her hands and led her to the rocking chair, sitting down with her standing in front of him. The seat of the chair extended far enough in front of the arms to allow Tony to pull her, still facing him, onto his lap. Though both still partially clothed, they melted into each other’s arms for a warm sexy hug. Penny’s panties were soaked and she could feel Tony’s hardness through his underwear. The affect only served to excite them further.

They kissed again, long and lovingly. Again he ended with little kisses trailing down her neck. Tony lifted Penny’s sweater over her head and resumed kissing down her neck and across her breasts, bringing tiny squeals of pleasure to her lips.

Now, Penny took the lead. She held his hands and drew him up from the chair and over to the bed. As he removed his shirt and underwear, Penny folded back the bed’s comforter and removed her panties before crawling under the cover sheet. Tony slid in next to her and, for the first time, their naked bodies came together. It was one of those magic moments and they held each other silently, savoring the feeling.

Without a word, and running kisses from her neck to her breasts, Tony rolled to his side and then gently on top of her. He slid easily inside and balanced to avoid putting too much weight on her. Penny felt him fill her to the fullest and let out something between a soft moan and a sigh. Tony moved slowly, gently inside her and looked down at her face. Words were unnecessary as their eyes joined and said it all. Afterwards, they held each other and talked quietly until they drifted away to a restful, satisfying sleep.

They awoke shortly after sunrise and made love again as slowly and gently as the first time and just as satisfying. As they were getting dressed, Tony said, “I don’t want this to be a one night stand. Without being presumptuous, this was very special and I’d like to see where it goes. Can I come down to Philly next weekend to see you?”

“I’ll have to check my schedule,” she said, barely suppressing a grin.

Tony went to his wallet and pulled out a business card, placing it face down on the dresser. Handing her a pen, he said, “write down your phone number and email; I’ll call you during the week to make plans and get directions.”

Still joking, she replied, “You’re not one of those jerks who falsely promises he’ll call just to ease his one night stand guilt are you?”

Playing along, Tony said, “How did you see through me?” They laughed at their mutually cynical humor and hugged. “C’mon, I’ll drive you back to your friend’s place.” He placed the business card back in his billfold.

They talked easily as he drove, stopping at a Starbucks along the way for lattes and croissants. When they arrived at her destination Tony walked her to the door, took her in his arms and whispered, “What a wonderful night. I’ll talk to you soon and see you next week.” And he was gone. Penny went into the house, closed the door and took a deep breath.

“Damned wonderful night,” she said to herself.

He’d packed his bag and threw it in the Porsche’s boot before they left his friend’s house so Tony slowly made his way through D.C.’s side streets winding his way to New York Ave. – U.S. Route 50 – and ultimately the Baltimore-Washington Parkway, I-95 and the New Jersey Turnpike.

Before hitting the freeway, though, Tony needed to gas up. Finding a Chevron station – only the best petrol for his beloved Porsche – on the outskirts of D.C., he pulled in and stopped at the pump closest to the mini-mart. He preferred using cash rather than plastic and headed inside to pre-pay. Still in somewhat of a fog over the last 12-hours’ events, Tony was distracted as he pulled two 20’s from his wallet. He never saw the business card with Penny’s number on the back fall from his wallet to the floor.

Ballinger's Way

2010-07-23T18:35:00.000-07:00

NOTE: Stew Ballinger recently left us at the age of 95. He was as unlikely a pioneer in progressive FM radio as you could imagine. Yet, in 1975, he gave a wandering band of broadcast gypsies the creative chance of a lifetime and KZAM was born. In honor of Stew, I am reprinting here an article I wrote in 2005 for the Seattle Times on the occasion of KZAM's 30th anniversary reunion. Thanks Stew and may you forever enjoy your role in that Great Musical in the Sky.

Alexander Stewart Ballinger Obituary: View Alexander Ballinger's Obituary by The Seattle Times

---

Friday, April 1, 2005
Radio
Recalling the heady days of progressive station KZAM

By LeeZard  Special to The Seattle Times
With apologies to the Beatles, it was 30 years ago today Sgt. Pepper taught this particular band to play.
On April Fools' Day 1975, a new radio station hit the airwaves with a wildly eclectic combination of music and news, turning Seattle on its ear. The call letters were KZAM (92.5 FM). Kuh-ZAM!

LeeZard 1975 - Your Hippy Dippy Newsman

In April 1975, Seattle's lights were still flickering from the Boeing Bust. The Pike Place Market Starbucks was the only one on the planet. It was post Richard Nixon, but pre-grunge; Bellevue Square was an outdoor shopping center in a sleepy bedroom community. The only Seattle mariners were at Fishermen's Terminal, and there was no such bird as a Seattle Seahawk. Our music was on vinyl, and CD meant "Civil Defense." When we referred to anything digital, we were talking about our fingers and toes. We used typewriters — if we were lucky, electric ones.
At KZAM, a bold and lucky group of us were doing "progressive radio," featuring long sets of songs, often thematically or musically related and unbridled by the three-minute-per-song limit of Top 40 AM stations. The music ranged from a smattering of Bach to a taste of Gershwin, a dose of pure jazz and a full helping of rock. The news was Hunter S. Thompson meets Edward R. Murrow. Occasionally, we threw in a bit of the Marx Brothers.
"KZAM filled a big hole on the FM dial," recalls Ann Wilson of Heart, then a young aspiring musician in Bellevue. Wilson and her sister Nancy "always listened to them; they played entire album sides, and we recorded them on our reel-to-reel tape machines."

DJ Shelley Morrison gets some love from
jazz pianist/singer Les McCann in 1976.

Says Seattle Times rock critic Patrick MacDonald, "The timing was perfect for KZAM — the station appeared at the height of a huge cultural shift, and they were right on top of it."
In those days, women on the radio were a rarity, but KZAM featured three talented female DJs in its initial lineup: Hawaiian Leilani McCoy; the cultured Mercer Islander Shelley Morrison; and the hilarious Jersey Girl Marion Seymour.
The DJ staff also included the droll Tom Corddry; the musically worldly Jon Kertzer; the offbeat Davidson Corry; and, on weekends, Vashon Island's gentle giant, Bruce Winston Buls.
At the same time, the Wilson sisters were trying to find an audience for their band, Heart, and working on their first record, called "Dreamboat Annie." Kertzer, who was KZAM's first music director, proudly says, "we were the first station in the country to play the album."
Ann Wilson says, "The station made a huge contribution to Heart's success. Our mom actually called the station and asked them to play 'Dreamboat Annie.' That they took Mom's call was amazing!"
Heart was just part of the vibrant music scene KZAM featured. The station was among the early sponsors of street fairs, Bumbershoot and, later on, the Seattle Film Festival.
"Sense of community"
As children of the '60s, we on the staff reflected the consciousness of that era, and in the news department we used music, humor and irreverence to engage our audience.

From left, Paul Schell, LeeZard and Charley Royer,
two days before Royer won the 1977 mayoral race.

This was my bailiwick, along with news director Denny Fleenor, veteran New York broadcaster Jim Stutzman, hard-charging Jude Noland and a University of Washington intern, Joni Balter (now an editorial writer at The Seattle Times). In honor of the feminist perspective of the era, we tucked our tongues in our cheeks and called County Executive John Spellman and Mayor Wes Uhlman "Spell-person" and "Uhl-person."

But KZAM's reporters were serious journalists. We went in-depth, spurning the usual radio "rip-and-read" headline style for longer reports on issues like energy and the environment, post-Watergate government and politics. Traffic was not a factor, except at the Evergreen Point bridge tollbooths and the bulge on the old Mercer Island Bridge.

"It's a shame people aren't going after it [the news] like that anymore," says former Seattle Mayor Charles Royer. "I remember the people and many of them went on to help make this city what it is today." Royer appeared live on the two-hour "Sunday Mag" show, taking phone calls with opponent Paul Schell two days before he defeated Schell in 1977.

When the Seattle School Board struggled with the issue of forced busing to achieve integration, for example, KZAM organized a two-hour call-in show with key decision-makers. To make sure as many people as possible heard the program, we created an unprecedented ad hoc network to broadcast simultaneously on three other Seattle radio stations.

"KZAM still means something in my life," says Tom Corddry, the program director who guided us — and later helped create Microsoft's Encarta program. "It gave me a much greater sense of community. When I left KZAM, I knew I'd never leave Seattle."

"The music we loved"
Musically, there was never a set play-list. A set of music could start with the Stones, segue to the Amazing Rhythm Aces or the Marshall Tucker Band and end up with an acoustic Eric Clapton or a brief taste of Andres Segovia.

"We played the music we loved," recalls Kertzer. "We didn't pay attention to the charts; we wanted to play great music, whether it was folk, blues or jazz." Other "off-the-top-40-chart" artists KZAM played included Randy Newman, Ry Cooder, Bonnie Raitt, Warren Zevon, Steely Dan, Leo Kottke, Emmylou Harris, Pat Metheny, Oscar Peterson and Chick Corea.

Thirty years later, my memories are still crisp: standing in the wings at the old Paramount Theatre, with its threadbare carpet and squeaky seats, talking to a new artist waiting to begin his concert. It was Billy Joel, who was nervously whistling the tune of his hit single, "Piano Man," while awaiting his introduction. Then there was the first Seattle concert by the man who appeared simultaneously that same week on the covers of Time and Newsweek, Bruce Springsteen.

We also got to see our heroes' warts. After I worked for weeks with Ella Fitzgerald's agent to schedule an interview before her concert at the old Seattle Center Arena, a very grouchy Fitzgerald slammed the dressing room door in my face, sputtering, "I don't give a flying [bleep] what my agent said."

KZAM in its purest form was on the air until 1979. The local owners, led by Stew Ballinger and Howard Leendertsen, wallowed in monthly five-figure deficits when we first arrived, but they took a huge leap of faith with this group of radio vagabonds. Our success finally pulled the station out of the red, but never enough to recoup its cumulative losses. In late 1978, the owners sold KZAM to Sandusky Newspapers and, one by one, the original crew drifted away. Consultants were hired, the format eventually changed and what was once KZAM, today is KLSY.

But to those of you who were there in 1975 — and can still remember it through the Purple Haze — I say cherish those memories of KZAM. We will never hear the likes of it again.

LeeZard worked at KZAM from its inception in 1975 through March 1979.

Who Wants to be a LeeZardaire?

2010-07-16T23:02:00.000-07:00

Who Wants to be a LeeZardaire?

“Honey, do you want to be a millionaire?” TWBGF* asked.

“A million isn’t what it used to be,” I replied, “but it’s a good start.” So, Wende sent me the link. Which is why my alarm went off at four this morning and at 5:30, triple viente 1% extra foamy latte in hand, Leezard was #123 in line to audition for the TV game show “Who Wants to be a Millionaire.” The popular show was holding auditions in Seattle today, the crew’s third city this week (Las Vegas on Wednesday, Cleveland on Monday).

The doors would open at 6 AM and at 7 we would go in to take two trivia tests, one for general knowledge and one for a special Netflix promotion on movies. We were lined up outside the Bell Harbor Conference Center on Seattle’s lovely waterfront. A huge – and I mean HUGE – cruise ship was sitting at the adjacent cruise terminal dock. It was like standing next to a skyscraper, with level after level of stateroom terraces looking out over the several hundred hopeful millionaire-to-be. Would someone please tell that guy with his bare beer gut hanging over the terrace on the fourth level that we are not voyeurs!

With at least 90-minutes to kill, I began taking stock of my “competition.” There was no rhyme or rhythm to the crowd. It was an amazing and diverse mix of people with every physical description from every walk of life. They ranged from those dressed for success to those who didn’t seem to care and right on down to the middle aged woman with her multi-colored hair up in rollers. YOIKS!

Precisely at six the doors opened and we began filing in, more than 400 hopeful contestants with dollar signs dancing in their heads. We found ourselves in a “holding area,” snaked in lines up and down until the lobby outside a large auditorium was packed. These folks have it down to a science. With one hour to go in the holding area they organized a series of small expeditions to the rest rooms. They knew their java lovin’ Seattle audience.

Following the bathroom breaks they gave us our instructions and an idea of how the rest of the morning would go. Pretty straight ahead stuff – two 30-question, multiple choice trivia tests, one on general knowledge and a movie test for a Netflix-sponsored series of special shows. They gave us each a “collectible” fridge magnet with the show’s logo on the front and a unique identifying number on the back.

Shortly after seven, we filed into the auditorium, received the test envelopes and took our seats. Another young, borderline perky crewmember gave the next set of instructions; don’t open the envelope until the test begins, fill out the answer scan sheet with your name and identifying number, etc. The spiel was peppered with many uses of the word “awesome.” My next seat neighbor and I counted at least 15.

The first test was general trivia and I dove right in. The questions ranged from easy (depending upon your generation), such as, “Henry Kissinger served as Secretary of State for what two presidents?” to challenging: “After Pluto was downgraded to a dwarf planet, which planet became the furthest from the sun?” to downright ridiculous, “Which three birthstones are in the correct monthly order?” At the end of the 10-minutes my next seat neighbor muttered, “Well, that was humiliating.” I didn’t feel that discouraged. I knew I had at least 20 right while guessing at the other ten. They wouldn’t tell us the passing grade.

The movie test was next and I breezed through the first 15 questions. It was downhill from there as the questions became progressively more difficult and obscure. “Well,” I thought at the end, “that was humiliating.” To ease the tension while we waited for results, the crew tossed logo’d T-shirts into the crowd. LeeZard is wearing his as he blogs.

After about 15-minutes, another crewmember returned with the scores and an edgy silence filled the hall. Number 123 (LeeZard!!) came up third on the “pass” list in general trivia; I’d be back for an afternoon interview. It was 9:30 AM and I’d been up for five hours but I wasn’t tired. I had a 12:30 callback so I drove home, puttered around for a couple of hours and headed back to the city.

I also had to fill out the contestant application before returning and it clearly sought an insight into LeeZard’s personality – the basis for the interview, I figured:

· What makes you unique?

o I’d like to say my sense of humor but there are those who would argue otherwise and,

o My ability to view life through LeeZard-colored glasses and write about it

· What’s the one thing you do that makes people laugh?

o Only one??

· What is one thing people don’t know about you?

o I went to the original Woodstock – in a suit(!) – and didn’t hear a lick of music.

· Is there a movie you obsess over? How many times have you seen it?

o Any Mel Brooks film – too many times to count and,

o “The Great Escape – “ more than 50 times.

· Your friends would say you are the best at? Most likely to?

o Best at being moi. Most likely to take a risk.

Application in hand, I arrived back at the auditorium promptly at 12:30 and took my seat. Of the initial 400-500 hopefuls, about 150 joined me now. My name came up third and I walked to the front of the hall and took a seat across a small table from a very pleasant young woman who briefly glanced at my application. “Congratulations,” she began, “how did you hear about the audition?” I told her of the brief exchange between TWBGF and moi. “Awesome,” she said.

After one or two more questions it was over. The interview took less than two minutes and I never got to use my quasi-rehearsed, high-energy and witty rejoinders. “Thanks very much,” my interviewer concluded, “we’ll send you a postcard in a couple of weeks.”

“Did I pass the interview?” I asked. “Awesome,” she laughed.

I figured I did well; She took copious notes for such a short session and threw in six “awesomes.”

(*The World’s Best GirlFriend)

LeeZard at the Beach

2010-07-15T20:18:00.000-07:00

When things get a little crazy, I go to the beach.

It usually calms me. Sometimes crazy follows me there.

Let's go to the beach!

New Dawn of day

To watch the sun,
Rise out of the ocean,
We awoke before dawn,
And stumbled to the beach.
We came with a bottle of wine,
To toast the new day,
A blanket to cover the sand,
And a sleeping bag for warmth.
We were four new friends,
Ready to greet the morning.

A gentle golden light,
Creeps over the horizon,
Darkness retreating in its path.
The moon and morning star linger,
To join us,
To watch the sun,
Rise out of the ocean.
Our eyes focus east,
As an orange pathway,
leads to the sun.
Bright light frames the clouds,
As daytime,
Moves closer to the beach.

The ocean stirs,

From its nighttime rest,
As Sandpipers
Begin to scurry about
Little white, busy birds,
Skittering one way then another.
A lone seagull,
Swoops down to the water,
Seeking an early breakfast.

It is peaceful,
Quiet.
The four of us together
Alone in our thoughts.
A golden edge of sun,
Peers over the clouds,
Slowly, steadily,
Rising from the ocean’s edge.
In just moments,
Night becomes,
The new dawn of day.

Ocean City Blues

Awhish, Awhash, Ssss, the waves go pounding through my brain.

Plodding aimlessly alone in the cold, soft Ocean City sand.

Forty degrees but getting warmer all the time.

I meet a girl. Hey, that’s why I came.

Talking, running, chasing, falling, feeling, walking.

Back to the side street hovel her family has for the weekend.

Stay for dinner? Sure.

Gloom, roast beef and me; that’s what we had for dinner.

Her mom grills me while dad serves hostility on the side.

Let me outta here, I scream inside my head.

We leave together, looking for some beach night fun.

Walking with a new friend and finding newer friends.

Hanging out with strangers and nothing to do.

Hey, she says, my folks are going out, let’s go back.

The hovel again, but not as dumpy, now that it’s just us,

a dirty mildewed couch and an off-speed tape-deck --

a recipe for some quick summer love.

Eighty degrees and climbing,

‘til mom and dad come home.

Out I go, like some garbage distastefully discarded.

Walking alone again, cruising the boardwalk.

Fifty degrees and plummeting. Down.

Luckily, I brought a blanket.

Wrapped up warmly, until—

a cop, protecting Ocean City from the likes of me.

It’s a city ordinance, kid.

No blankets, wrapped around your person, on the boardwalk,

during the summer, after dark, before 6 a.m.

On the beach again, cold, cold me, and my unwrapped blanket.

A lot of freaks begin to gather, and, soon, we’re talking.

Wrapped up again in my blanket.

A speed freak, a she-speed freak, shares my blanket.

There’s a lot to be said for body warmth. We doze.

Same cop, another city ordinance.

No sleeping on the beach, kid, during the summer,

after dark, before 6 a.m.

Awake on the beach, listening to the nighttime surf,

mindlessly counting the waves.

Six a.m. at last, a steaming cuppa joe, then the beach,

suddenly alert to watch the Ocean City daybreak.

The clouds are grey, tinged with cotton candy pink,

light slowly enveloping the night,

the sun, growing, slowly growing out of the ocean,

shimmering, no, floating right on the water.

I am transfixed during the best moments of a shitty weekend.

Full day light, and I sleep next to a 17 year old speed freak,

chattering away about how she wants to come home with me.

Time to hit the road, alone, and into the new day.

Seventy degrees and climbing.

Lucky Vacation Tune

Palm trees dancing in the breeze,

Are you for real or just a tease?

We met just a few short hours ago,

So, is it yes or is it no?

I want to lay with you in the nighttime,

Doesn’t matter if you want to be mine.

I want to throw you down on a beach dune,

I want to sing a lucky vacation tune.

Let’s get out of this dingy bar,

Let’s hop in my bargain rental car.

Let’s drive ‘til we lose the road,

Let’s ride ‘til I lose my load.

I want to lay with you in the nighttime,

Doesn’t matter if you want to be mine.

I want to throw you down on a beach dune,

I want to sing a lucky vacation tune.

I’ll hold you and make you sigh,

I’ll caress your silky inner thigh.

If you say no I will not cry,

I’ll go home and tell vacation lies.

I want to lay with you in the nighttime,

Doesn’t matter if you want to be mine.

I want to throw you down on a beach dune,

I want to sing a lucky vacation tune.

The clouds are grey, tinged with cotton candy pink,

light slowly enveloping the night,

the sun, growing, slowly growing out of the ocean,

shimmering, no, floating right on the water.

I am transfixed during the best moments of a shitty weekend.

Full day light, and I sleep next to a 17 year old speed freak,

chattering away about how she wants to come home with me.

Time to hit the road, alone, and into the new day.

Seventy degrees and climbing,

By the Sea

The real me lives by the sea,

With flying hair and sun kissed brow,

I’d give anything to be there now.

But, it’s in the city I stay,

With traffic all day,

And all night.

What a terrible sight.

I hide in the city

But just for awhile.

The time is coming to leave.

The real me lives by the sea,

With flying hair and sun kissed brow,

I’d give anything to be there now.

I’ll leave the smog for ocean fog,

And sand between my toes.

And in my head I’ll surf the waves,

And dream away my woes.

For, the real me lives by the sea,

With flying hair and sun kissed brow,

I think I have to go there now.

The sea, the sea and me.

Command Performance; Oily Edition

2010-07-11T21:44:00.000-07:00

Command Performance;

Oily Edition

The phone rang the other morning and LeeZard was both shocked and elated to hear from a dear old friend.

“There was an old blogger who lived on a lake,

So busy he had no time to take.

I waited and waited.

My breath it was bated.

So, I called to see if he’s awake.”

“Mother Goose,” I almost shrieked, “it’s been too long. I’ve been meaning to call but I have been busy.”

“I know and I forgive you, I do.

“But things are getting so bad out there,

I flew here on a wing and a prayer

With the hope of writing a thing or two.”

“In other words,” she concluded, “it’s the oily bird that’s getting screwed.

Well, I couldn’t say no to my favorite guest columnist so, without further ado, take it away MG!

---

Oil oil from state to state
It’s turned the Gulf sticky.

But I know BP will skate

And that makes me feel icky.

The oil companies stuck together,

They thought any storm they could weather.

But when BP’s well bled,

It’s corporate pals fled,

Hoping to keep their tax breaks forever.

Little Miss Moffitt,
Sat on her Toffitt (whatever the hell that is)

Despite the big spill

BP will still profit.

Humpty Dumpty sat on the beach.
Humpty Dumpty knew he shouldn’t preach.

But all the king’s horses

And all the king’s men

Screwed it up again and again.

Hey diddle diddle

This is no time to fiddle

The Gulf is near ruin.

Make BP clean it

And make sure that you mean it

So we’re not sittin’ here stewin’.

BP PRODUCTS TO BOYCOTT (IN THE USA - from BP's site - let me know if I missed anything):

BP GAS STATIONS (NOTE: BP merged with Amoco in 1998. BP has eliminated virtually all AMOCO stations in the U.S.)
ARCO GAS STATIONS (WESTERN U.S.)
AM/PM MINI MARTS - FRANCHISES AT ARCO & BP STATIONS
CASTROL MOTOR OIL

Speed!

2010-07-05T23:37:00.000-07:00

Speed!

©By LeeZard

What’s the fastest you’ve ever driven? I’m not talking about all the racecar drivers out there (Dale!). I’m asking all of you everyday out-on-the-freeway motorists. For LeeZard, it was 140 scary, exhilarating MPH. Not bragging. It’s just a fact. Because scientists and sociologists study everything, of course there are studies on driving fast.

According to DrDriving.org:

"Psychologists who study how we perceive things discovered a type of homeostatic process called level of adaptation. Take the case of speed. The brain records the sensations our body experiences and stores them along a continuum from smaller to greater. The range of speed that we're used to travelling creates a specific level of adaptation. This is the speed your body expects to feel in particular segments of roadways. These sensations are part of your road schema ("Schemas" are slogans or pictures we make-up in our mind about everyday situations as we experience them, over and over.).

One of the thrills that some drivers consistently report is the sensation of acceleration. They talk about it as if it were an addiction they're in love with. Like with addiction in general, there's the inevitable tendency to keep pushing the range higher and higher in order to maintain the same amount of thrill. Physicians talk about developing a tolerance level for addictive drugs, requiring higher dosages to do the same job, in a continuous process of increasing intake. A similar process may be operating with speeding."

LeeZard prefers to break it down to its most simple form, especially for men; it’s a macho thing. It’s a story we can tell to the guys or something we can (ahem) subtly drop into a conversation when we try to impress a woman. It’s a macho thing.

I think I’m a mixture of both the speed schema guy and the macho speed guy. While I like to think I’ve learned humility over the years, I still have an (male) ego and, in the right setting, LeeZard loves to tell the 140 MPH story. But, there’s also the part of me that just loves to drive as fast as I can before the car flies off the road (or I freak myself out).

When I was a new teen driver my dad drove a white 1962 Pontiac Bonneville. It was a huge luxury four-door chrome heavy land yacht but it was beautiful. And, it had a 389 cubic inch V8. When dad was kind enough to let me have it, I punched that hammer down, burning rubber off every stop sign on the side streets of Queens. All 305 horses screamed like an automotive banshee. At nearly two tons (which penciled out to about 87.5⊄ per lb.), I’m sure I wasn’t going as fast as it seemed but it sure got those 17-year old hormones flowing.

Long-time LeeZard fans will remember The Blue Streak (sigh), which I had to sell last year. Please bear with me while I bring our new friends quickly up to speed.

The Blue Streak (sigh) was my dream car, a 2003 six-speed manual, midnight blue Porsche Boxster S Cabriolet with saddle tan leather interior. I bought it, used, in 2005. A Porsche was my dream ever since my brother used to lend me his 1960 356B back in the early 1970s. It wasn’t a very fast car in those days but it cornered like a Porsche always cornered and was the first true sports car I ever drove.

In 2005 I was in a position to by a used Porsche thanks to the introduction of the Boxster in 1997. It was in every aspect a Porsche but, compared to the rest of the prestigious line, it was relatively inexpensive when it first appeared at around $40K. The “S” model, with a larger engine and sportier set-up, was introduced a few years later because purists complained it wasn’t fast enough (see above re: speed.).

I found The Blue Streak (sigh) on eBay after looking for some time through all the conventional motoring Web sites – Porsche and otherwise. The pictures looked great and the ad said it was originally a company car, owned by Porsche of NA and had only 14K miles on it. When I called to inquire, the seller explained that his avocation was to “buy a fast car, keep it as pristine as possible” and sell it after awhile to finance the restoration of an older classic. Then, he’d sell the restoration to buy a different fast car, and so on. He was selling the ’03 Boxster because he’d found an old Volvo 1800 to restore.

LeeZard is not exactly a motorhead but I know enough to know that a guy like that – if he’s on the level – is just the seller I’m looking for. Problem was, he lived in Syracuse, NY and I was in Seattle. The pistons were lined up in my favor, though; I knew someone – the president of the Washington State Association of Automotive Technicians to be precise. I called him and asked if her could help me find a shop in Syracuse to inspect the Boxster. No problem.

Bottom line, for $100, some guy, whose boss said, “knew everything,” raved about the car. “I put it up on the lift,” he gushed. “This baby is amazing. You can eat off the undercarriage. Come and get your car!” That was saying something because Syracuse is located in New York State’s notorious “Snow Belt” and the salt from de-icing the roads is murder on those undercarriages and engines.

At first, I priced automotive transport companies, which averaged about $2K for the cross-country trip. “Hell,” thought LeeZard, “why don’t I just fly to Syracuse and drive it home?” Not only would it be cheaper, it obviously would be the road trip of my life. I had the (vacation) time and I had the money so, despite it being mid-November, I flew to Syracuse. I would let weather forecasting and maps determine my route home. There was no way I would put my new baby in any danger by driving in winter weather. I would go as far south as I had to, or drive hard west to stay ahead of storms. Perhaps I’ll blog about the whole five-day trip some other time but this piece is about a specific four minute, eight-mile portion. ZOOM!

I’d just crossed the continental divide heading west on I-84 in Wyoming and into Utah to avoid bad weather along I-90 to the north. As I drove out of Wyoming and into the Beehive State the freeway flattened and straightened. I’d been on the road for three-and-a-half days and virtually speed limit compliant. I used the Boxster's cruise control at about seven MPH above the limit. Out west, that’s usually 77 or 82 MPH. I was going relatively easy, still getting used to this magnificent machine.

Out in the wide open spaces, though, on this unseasonably warm morning under a blue sky and fluffy white clouds, I was cruising along an endless straightaway with nary a vehicle in sight. “Hmmm,” says I to me, “this is time to see what this baby can do.”

Oblivious to any patrol aircraft that might be overhead, I downshifted to fifth gear, punched it and The Blue Streak (sigh) was born. At 80 MPH, the Boxster leapt forward like a jackrabbit. The engine located behind and below the cockpit (for 50-50 weight distribution front & back) screamed that famous Porsche howl, like a min-jet taking off. It redlined at 115-120 and I smoothly shifted to sixth. LeeZard was entering a new dimension.

I’d already come to appreciate the solid construction of the car. Convertibles rattle – not this one. As I flew past 100 MPH the ride was smooth and silent, the wind noise minimal. At 120 my hands tightened on the leather wrapped steering wheel. 125, 130 and the eerie quiet of the ride began to fool me. Was I really doing 130? 135, Holy Shit! At 140, I was done. The Boxster wasn’t. Top speed for the S model is listed at 166 but when I saw the speedometer touch 140 I admit, I lost my resolve and I’m not ashamed to admit it. I satisfied LeeZard’s “speed schema” and that was good enough for me.

Blue Streak, Blue Streak,
I’m ridin’ in the Blue Streak.
Flyin’ down the Interstate,
Top down, feelin’ great.

She’s a low slung mean machine,
Drive ‘er fast, keep ‘er clean.
Tap the brake, make the scene,
Hit the curve, she won’t lean,
.
She was on Ebay,
That’s the way you buy today.
Low miles, High style,
Punch it down, eat the miles.

Blue Streak, Blue Streak,
I’m ridin’ in the Blue Streak.
Flyin’ down the Interstate,
Top down, feelin’ great.

Fat tires, leather seats,
Jump on in, have a treat.
Ain’t no Beemer, ain’t no ‘Vette,
Ain’t no car that’s beat her yet.

Never thought I’d own this ride,
Never thought I’d get inside.
Hit bottom, got clean,
Life’s good, got the dream.

Blue Streak, Blue Streak,
I’m ridin’ in the Blue Streak.
Flyin’ down the Interstate,
Top down, feelin’ great.

Keep on Bloggin'

2010-07-04T15:53:00.000-07:00

Keep on Bloggin’

Back in February my barrister wisely counseled that I (temporarily) shut down LeeZard on Life while job hunting. Reluctantly, I agreed. LeeZard often writes openly about many personal issues, issues that aren’t really the business of prospective employers.

But, LeeZard also misses blogging and, as I approach two years of under-employment, I am willing to take what I consider the minimal risk of returning to the blogosphere. if you Google LeeZard’s real name (What? You didn’t know LeeZard wasn’t my real name?), this blog never appears. So, let’s catch up before we re-embark on my life journey through LeeZard colored glasses.

I wish I had a lot of good stuff to report since last we blogged but so far the arrow still points mostly south. Let’s start with the good stuff.

Thankfully, I am still blessed to have my sobriety (4,407 days as I write this) and the wonderful Wende (TWBGF) in my life. Her love, emotional support and sometimes-mutual wackiness keep me going without falling into the pits of despair. Why despair you might ask? Let us count the ways (not whining here, just faithfully reporting the good, the bad and the ugly).

As mentioned above, I’m still looking for that elusive gig and the clock keeps on ticking; at this point, each passing month makes it harder for someone of my years to get hired. That’s the reality. I’ve had few interviews but when I do interview, I do well. Keep hearing the term “over qualified” a lot. I still think it means “too old” but that’s just moi.

As a result, Chateau LeeZard is no more. I hate clichés but buying the townhouse was the perfect storm of bad timing. I closed in late 2007, about a month before the bottom fell out of the housing market and a couple of months before someone actually noticed – or bothered to tell us – we were in a serious recession. It also was four months before record-setting rains damaged an earthen dam on the Green River (the river is a block from my place), causing leakage where the dam meets the river bank.

The dam was built in the 1950s to control annual and catastrophic flooding in the valley. After the damage, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers announced it would have to release more water than usual from behind the dam and, in the event of serious rains, greatly increase the chances for, you guessed it, catastrophic floods. This came on the heels of news that the levees along the river were deteriorating and there wasn’t enough money to repair them all.

The powers-that-be decided that thousands of large ugly black plastic enclosed sandbags along the length of the threatened valley – and on its wonderful hiking/biking trail – would do the trick. While property values throughout the region began their steady fall, ours in the valley began to drop like a big rock in the river.

One year after I bought the condo, I began my under employment, although I prefer to call it my new career as a consultant-without-clients. Does this sound like whining yet? Wait, I’m just getting started.

Shortly before I lost my job, a degenerative back condition rendered me unable to walk. It took two surgeries to get me back on my feet. Unfortunately, I was falling off my feet financially.

I’d been able to meet all my obligations with the combination of unemployment benefits and my emergency stash – mutual funds, the remains of my 401k, etc. By July 2009, however, I was on my ass and had to notify my lender I could no longer pay the mortgage. Foreclosure loomed. In fact I was literally days from the bank auction when a last minute short sale offer arrived. Looks like it will close soon, averting the dreaded “F” word. The offer is for $140K less than I paid for the unit.

Okay, even I’m getting tired of hearing all this bad joo-joo but wait, there’s more. My 28-year old son got married Memorial Day weekend. I wasn’t invited. And, this is the lad who wouldn’t pop the question until he talked it over with Dad. Then, last November he cut off communication with no warning and no explanation. He merely stopped returning calls, emails, texts, chats, anything. What happened?

After a few frustrating and agonizing months I learned from a professional (and an expert in treating alcoholic families) that children of alcoholics usually don’t begin to deal with their issues until they near 30 and, when they do begin that process they start to uncover long buried – and often angry – feelings. This, she explained, often results in “a cessation of communication that could last for years.” Whoopdeefuckendoo.

Ten days before the wedding he sent me a letter, telling me in the most hateful, hurtful and insulting manner possible that I wasn’t invited. Do ya think I hadn’t already figured that out?

I may be a recovered alcoholic but it’s the disease that keeps on giving. Fortunately, it is the tools that I’ve learned in recovery that help me every day to deal with every day. This is why I may go through brief hours or, in one case, days of despair but always reemerge with the faith that I will be okay and the strength to do the next indicated thing(s).

And, finally, last Friday I was diagnosed with Type II Diabetes. So, I will close for now, with the following little ditty. In the meantime, watch this space for the return of the usual LeeZard antics.

Hi Sugar

Hi Sugar, high sugar.

It’s not very sweet.

I’ve got Diabetes,

Must watch what I eat.

It’s not a surprise

And, yet I feel shocked.

It’s in my gene pool

But my world has been rocked.

I got it from dad,

And from his mom, Molly

And on my mom’s side

It was Grandpa, by golly.

It’s “only” Type Two

Says cousin Roberta.

She ought to know.

Type One

Tries to hurt her.

It’s the best of the worst

Though she’s not dismissive.

She says of the two

Type Two’s less invasive.

Nonetheless I feel changed.

Bad things can arrive

Unless I do things

To help me survive.

So sweet sugar dear

Do not despair.

I’ll watch my high sugar

And live life with care.

LeeZard: Goin' to the Dogs

2009-08-20T13:52:00.000-07:00

©2009 by LeeZard

LeeZard attended his first dog show recently.I wanted to see a friend at work.

Background:
"Dude" is the oldest and best friend to Wende (TWBGF!).Dude & her husband Randy raise championship Golden Retrievers.Randy also is nationally known - and sought after - as an excellent handler of show dogs.

LeeZard brought his trusty camera to the Olympic Kennel Club show in Enumclaw, WA and, in addition to capturing Randy in action, found himself with a gallery of dog close-ups. Portraits? Dogtraits? Whatever, these guys are soooo expressive.

Enjoy.

Woodstock, Sort Of.......

2009-08-14T10:30:00.000-07:00

©2009 by LeeZard

Millions of people will tell you they were at Woodstock in 1969. Only about half-a-million are telling the truth. I am one of them.

I was a young (22) Washington, D.C.-based correspondent for a fledgling radio network operated by Metromedia. At the time, Metromedia was the single largest owner of non-network (ABC, CBS & NBC) affiliated radio and TV stations in the country. In those days, by the way, the FCC allowed only a maximum ownership of seven AMs, seven FMs and seven TV stations by a single company.

Everyone had heard of this Rock & Roll festival near the small town of Bethel in upstate New York but nobody was prepared for the historic event it would become. On Friday August 15, 1969 I flew to New York City to attend a friend’s Saturday night wedding. At about 6 a.m. Saturday morning the phone rang at my parents’ house (where I was staying). It was my boss in D.C.

“It’s a disaster up at that Rock thing in New York – 20-mile long traffic jams; nobody can get near the place by car. There’s a plane scheduled to take off from LaGuardia at 9:30 to bring volunteer doctors up there. I don’t care how you do it; get your ass on that plane.”

Luckily I had my trusty standard reporter’s issue Sony TC 110 cassette recorder with me (Don’t leave home with out it!). All I needed was a way on the plane. Necessity, as they say, is the mother of invention. I quickly devised a plan.

Also on the luck side, my uncle owned a biochemistry lab and, he had one of those little black doctor’s bags. He used it to carry around some of his instruments. The bag also was the exact size to hold my recorder. Voila! After a quick explanation, Uncle Bob kindly lent me his precious bag. Donning an older suit still in my former bedroom closet, I grabbed a cab to LaGuardia Airport as “Dr. Somerstein.”

I had no trouble locating – and talking my way aboard – the plane. Nobody would dare question a guy in a suit carrying the little black bag. Our ride was a reliable old DC 3 two-engine job. Configured to seat about 30, the plane was a bit more than half full. We took off shortly after 9:30, heading north into a dark grey sky with building thunderheads off in the distance.

Our destination, we learned, would be Monticello – ten miles from the festival site on the farm owned by Max Yasgur. From there, we’d be flown in by helicopter; the only way to get there.

As we flew north, the sky got darker and darker and, the air got choppier – much choppier. The sturdy little DC 3 was flopping around like a feather in the wind. More than one MD had his head in the handy little bag in the seat pockets. It was scary. Nonetheless, we arrived safely at Monticello and Dr. Somestein raced to the front of the line to grab the first helicopter.

The choppers were also being used to shuttle in the performers scheduled to play. I did make the first trip and my riding companions turned out to be Canned Heat, whose hit “Goin’ Up the Country” opened the Woodstock movie. Thankfully, the helicopter trip was far smoother than the plane ride.

Upstate New York is very lush and green, whether it’s the thick forests of the Adirondack Mountains or the rolling farmlands of Sullivan County. I was enjoying the view from several hundred feet in the air when I looked down and saw the green pastureland interrupted by a huge black mass off in the distance. As we neared it became apparent the black mass was people, hundreds of thousands of people – The Woodstock Music & Art Fair (The official name).

We landed at the rear of the concert site and near the emergency medical tents. The crowd was so large I could barely see the stage, except for the tall rigs holding the lights and speakers. It was still relatively early in the day so the speakers were silent. It was an awesome scene nonetheless.

Also near the tents was a large bank of pay phones, our only communication with the outside world in that pre-wireless era. I took my place in one line and waited my turn to phone D.C. to proudly announce my accomplishment of making it to Woodstock. I was pumped; I was the youngest member of the staff and this was my first BIG story. It was not to be.

It turned out that Metromedia’s New York City station; the venerable and legendary WNEW-AM already had two reporters working the concert. I was assigned to do a few reports on the emergency medical set-up and then, to leave Yasgur’s Farm (WHAT!!!????) and interview the residents on the surrounding farms. That was it. Get the interviews, go home (I did have that infernal wedding Saturday night).

Yes, I was one of the 500,000 people who actually made it to Woodstock. I am probably the only one who never heard a lick of music.

Out There?

2009-08-13T09:59:00.000-07:00

©2009 by LeeZard

Hang on to your antennae; LeeZard is going UFO. I wasn’t going to write about this but then I saw a story in the Seattle Times, “Crop circles lure visitors to Wilbur, Wash.” (http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/localnews/2009651729_cropcircle13m.html) and I had to hit the keyboard.

I don’t want to get into the crop circle debate but it brought to mind something LeeZard observed last week in the sky over Lake Kathleen in unincorporated King County, WA. Wende (TWBGF!) lives on a beautiful 1.25-acre property along the shores of Lake Kathleen and, as we often do on clear summer nights, we were sitting on the deck enjoying our after-dinner lattes and cigars. When I’m away from urban light pollution, I like to gaze at the night sky and look for shooting stars or man-made satellites. Sometimes, I just stare and wonder what/who is out there? For LeeZard, it is a calming and humbling experience.

I was lying stretched out on the wicker couch with my head in Wende’s lap (aaaahhhhh) when I noticed something odd. “Wende,” I said, “check this out.”

Above us and to the west there was a point of light – that’s the only way to describe it – moving south-to-north and it struck me as odd in a couple of ways. Firstly, it appeared to be moving at a great rate of speed and, it was at a very, very high altitude. Wende, who is well-versed on all things aviation, observed, “it’s probably a military flight.”

“Hmmm,” said I, “with my limited expertise, that’s still awfully high up for military.” And, for the moment, that was that.
(NOTE: The photo to the right is NOT an accurate representation of what I saw but, it is close. The point of light I saw was not quite as bright)

A few moments later, though, it was back, this time retracing its flight from north-to-south. I again called it to Wende’s attention and we both watched until it disappeared in the distance. “I’m no expert,” I said, ‘but that’s no military flight pattern I’ve heard of.”

TWBGF nodded in agreement and went into the house for something. But, LeeZard was now entranced. I stayed outside and continued to lay on the couch staring upward. About ten minutes later it reappeared behind me and to the east but again flying north-to-south. Sure enough, a few moments later, it retraced its route south-to-north. YOIKS!

Now, every star in the sky was beginning to move (in my mind’s eye) as I waited for what I was certain would be another viewing. I blinked a few times to clear my brain and waited – and waited. “Wende!” I shouted. “Come out here, NOW!!”

For a third time, the point of light appeared overhead, flying its original path to the west, north-to-south and, a bit later, south-to-north. Then it disappeared, apparently for the last time; I waited another half-hour with no more sightings.

This morning, as I was writing this, I called Wende and asked her how she would characterize what we saw. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I just don’t know. I want to say it was erratic bit it wasn’t; it was flying a deliberate pattern. It was too high for a plane. It was just….this high flying….light.”

I didn’t even consider calling any “official” agency to report what we saw; we all know how that ends up. But, I still wonder. What was it? Who/what is out there?

GTM

2009-08-05T12:31:00.001-07:00

©2009 by LeeZard

(NOTE: The following post contains several references to marijuana use. This reflects a lifestyle and mind-set that are more than 30-years in the past. We know much more today about the dangers of all drugs, even so-called entry-level "recreational" drugs such as pot. LeeZard today lives a clean life and neither condones or recommends the use of any drug unless it is under the supervision of a physician.)
--------------------

It’s come to this in our digital social networking age; I learned of GTM’s death when it was posted on his Facebook page. So it goes:

"And in the end, the love you take, is equal to the love you make"

In lieu of flowers, we would suggest donations to the organization that totally got George and treated him with the love and respect we all should be so lucky to receive as we near the end of life. The non-profit organization is Capital Hospice, 209 Gibson Street NW, Suite 202, Leesburg, VA 20176

GTM was George Taylor Morris, probably my first and best buddy in broadcasting and, my first dope-mate. His obituary (http://news.prnewswire.com/DisplayReleaseContent.aspx?ACCT=104&STORY=/www/story/08-02-2009/0005070171&EDATE=) refers to George as a “radio icon.” That doesn’t do him justice. He was unique in so many ways; I don’t know where to begin. How about at the beginning?

I met GTM in 1967 when we were two-thirds of the News Department at WHLI – The Voice of Long Island – in Hempstead, NY. It was my second job in broadcasting, my first full-time gig and I was still learning the ropes of broadcast journalism. Yes, those were the days when you could use the words “broadcast’ and “journalism” in the same sentence with a straight face.

I was still living at home, or at least occasionally sleeping there. George, although five days younger than moi, was so much worldlier – at the ripe old age of 20. He’d already been in radio for four years and, as a California émigré, rented this big old house just a block from WHLI. Needless to say, in those nascent Hippy years, GTM’s place became party central – and my home away from home.

Blessed with that warm smile and engaging personality, he also had a deep rich voice, a golden full-faced beard and silken hair almost to his shoulders. Everyone was drawn to him. That never changed over his life and career.

WHLI in 1967 was one of those radio station dinosaurs, even before the FM revolution. There were two big broadcast studios, replete with sound locks (heavy double entry doors with dead-space between), those old fashioned “on air” signs that lit up inside and out and “staff announcers” – not DJ’s – who never operated the control board; they merely gave the call letters and announced the artists.

The on-air sound consisted of Mitch Miller, Lawrence Welk, and others of their ilk. GTM and I spent most of our down-time, though, making demo DJ tapes in the small cramped production studio in the back, where all the record company “discards” were stored; The Beatles White Album, Cream’s Disraeli Gears, Vanilla Fudge, and others of their ilk.

The station had one of those ancient telephone switchboards with all the cords. On slow weekend shifts we figured out how to dial operator once, connect all the lines and have ten or more operators simultaneously talking to each other.

“Operator.”

“No, this is the operator.”

“Excuse me, THIS is the operator!”

Times ten; It was hilarious.

We were soul mates from the start and, even after I left ‘HLI in 1968 to seek my fortune in the Big Time of Manhattan and George – ever the ramblin’ man – went north to help pioneer progressive FM radio in New England, we stayed in touch. As a side note, GTM’s obit leaves out this very important part of his career, the early days of Rock & Roll FM Radio. I think it was here that GTM first reached his full creative potential. More on that in a moment.

Our paths didn’t cross again until late 1971. I was more seasoned, returning to New York after two years as a correspondent and editor for Metromedia Radio News, a 650-station national network. I landed at WOR-FM, one of the nation’s first “Top 40” FMs, doing loud, highly compressed “20/20 NEWS.” It was a joke but a high-paying one; the station crammed 90 percent of its news into eight ten-minute newscasts between midnight and 8AM. Guess who pulled that shift.

GTM was a DJ at rockin’ WPIX-FM before jumping to WWDJ-FM, which stormed the NY Market from suburban New Jersey. By then, the FM band was just getting its head of steam as something more than an educational and classical music dumping ground. The Progressive FM movement was still in its early stages as well.

George and I immediately renewed our close friendship. We spent our days off together, driving around in his beater VW Bug, smoking lots of Jamaican and Columbian weed (@ $125 a pound!) and literally living the high life as quasi-celebrity bachelors in the Big Apple. Which brings us to THE Road Trip.

It was a Friday night, the second weekend of October, 1972. George and I were looking for a party in the red brick apartment jungle of Astoria, Queens. When we found it, we quickly lost it – a crowded and boring soiree in the Indian Summer swelter of an un-air conditioned two-bedroom. We climbed back into GTM’s VW. “It’s only 10 O’clock, George, where do you wanna go?”

“Well,” he answered with that gleam in his eye. “Right under your feet, under the (makeshift wooden) floorboard, is a pound of dope. A bunch of guys I know have a band and they are rehearsing in a rented A-Frame up in the White Mountains (of New Hampshire). If we leave now, we can smoke our way north and be there by morning.”

That was the nature of the relationship; it didn’t take much for one of us to come up with some crazy spontaneous idea and the other to quickly agree. As many of you recall, the VW bugs in those days didn’t have much power to begin with. The squirrels under GTM’s rear hatch were short a few more acorns. So, off we went into the night, avoiding the parkways and thruways, chugging along and toking away at a thrifty 45 MPH or so.

I had my reporter’s standard issue little Sony TC110 recorder and a couple of cassettes filled with our favorite tunes – from Jimi’s Purple Haze (how appropriate) to Led Zep, The Stones, and others of their ilk. I don’t think I’ve ever chain-smoked pot like that – before or since. But, chain-smoke we did all the way up, singing along with our Rock & Roll heroes. Occasionally we’d slip into “our” theme song.

I have no idea where it came from or which one of us made up the deep, introspective lyrics. But, over the next four decades, whenever we’d see each other or speak on the phone, it always started with:

Gimme a break, a break, a break, a break, a break, a break.

Oh, gimme a break, a break, a break, a break, a break, a breeeaaak.
(Repeat Ad Nauseum)

After almost seven hours on the road we were on the downside of an extended marijuana high and sorely in need of coffee and some grub. With pot-parched throats and empty bellies, we stopped along U.S. Route 2 at an all night truckers’ café in St. Johnsbury, VT.

Several eggs-over-medium and hash browns later, we hit the road for the last hour’s drive to the Notch. I rolled a couple of doobies, lit them, hit the play button on the Sony and handed GTM his joint. By the time we approached Franconia Notch, we were flying high – again – and meandering the White Mountain roads.

“It’s way too early to bother the guys,” observed George, knowing the night-owl lifestyle of Rock bands. “Let’s find a place to pull over and catch some shut-eye.”

It was still dark, that darkest hour before dawn, as we pulled off the narrow, twisty two-lane road and stumbled out of the VW. I grabbed the cassette player and followed George across the road to a small clearing. All of a sudden the hours-long marijuana-driven trip caught up to us and we gratefully sank into the soft dewy grass. Our timing was beyond perfect.

Just moments after we lay down the eastern sky started to brighten. We watched, transfixed, while a clear line between night and morning began to sweep the mountainside across from us. As the panoramic splash of autumn color erupted before us, my little Sony, as if programmed for the moment, started playing The Beatles’ “Here Comes the Sun.” It was one of those peak life experiences that you never forget and, in many ways, encapsulated my relationship with GTM: long lasting, filled with beautiful images and experiences.

Later that year, George and I had the pleasure of working together again, this time at WLIR-FM in Hempstead. ‘LIR was one of the first successful progressive FM stations in the country, along with New York’s WNEW-FM, WBCN-FM in Boston (where GTM also worked), KSAN-FM, San Francisco and KMET-FM, Los Angeles.

This time, we were both established broadcasters, confident in our abilities and ready to break the bonds of traditional radio news. While the music folks spread their free-form wings with longer cuts running together in theme or music-related “sets,” GTM and I let loose with longer form, issue-oriented news reports peppered with musically driven high production values, irreverence, humor and an emphasis on the highest journalistic standards.

We worked like a baseball team’s smooth double-play combination. We could ad lib a newscast together, tossing cues back-and-forth almost telepathically. And, when we laser-focused on a particular issue or story, it was lights out. Despite the lousy $90 a week we made, it was the ultimate radio high.

While we were both good reporters and broadcasters, George had something special. What made GTM unique was his ability to far surpass the old radio saw about "painting pictures with words." As people reminisce about GTM, they talk of his "encyclopedic musical knowledge." That's fine and dandy but it doesn't come close to his creativity. George literally created and projected - with that deep resonance - images out of thin air. I remember watching him one day, sitting in that tiny news booth at 'LIR, as he started talking on the air about a simple birthday gift. He held his arms up as he spoke, holding the imaginary gift in his hands and rolling it over in his palms as he described it to his listeners, simply and elegantly. It was magnificent!

The great ride at ‘LIR lasted until I moved to Seattle in 1974 to become News Director for a new FM station there, KZOK, “OK 102-and-a-half.” GTM and I stayed in touch, though. He eventually moved back to LA for a while and I visited for a few days, meeting his wife Gail. Yes, George pulled a pound of dope out of the freezer (“Keeps longer in there.”) but I could see that GTM, after all those years of ramblin’, was beginning to settle down.

George and I talked on the phone off-and-on over the ensuing years, through his ground-breaking-once-again at XM Satellite Radio to most recently – and sadly - shortly before he began to lose his voice and battle to throat cancer. Every time we talked, even if it was years between conversations, we picked it up mid-sentence as if we’d talked the day before. That’s the way it is with life-long buddies and probably how it will be when we meet at that Great Radio Station in the Sky.

Rest in Peace, My Friend

George Taylor Morris
1947-2009
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0YcMJjRlgJI

Michael Jackson Ain't All That

2009-06-26T19:56:00.000-07:00

©2009 by LeeZard

LeeZard is already burned out on the Michael Jackson brouhaha. I’m sorry, boys & girls but Michael Jackson isn’t (wasn’t) Elvis. He wasn’t The Beatles or Frank Sinatra.

Let’s put aside, for the moment, Jackson’s penchant for diddling little boys, the apparent denial of his Blackness and whatever other “foibles” soiled his fable. As an icon, he doesn’t measure up to the “A” list above. Why? Is Leezard just being contrary? I don’t think so.

While MJ fans argue that his record sales are the equal to those of the Beatles and Elvis, the “official” count shows otherwise – by at least a quarter-of-a-million (that will certainly change as MJ sales have skyrocketed since his death). But, anyone can diddle with numbers (much better than diddling with little boys!). Let’s take two examples from my generation and look at the bigger picture, starting with The King (MJ was merely “The King of Pop”).

Elvis changed everything. It’s not out of reach to say he jump-started the Rock & Roll Revolution. While he perpetuated the despicable practice of White artists covering (read that stealing) songs originally performed by Blacks, Elvis brought that music to the masses. His recording of “Blue Suede Shoes” shined the spotlight on the immensely talented Carl Perkins. His version of Chicago Blues Man Arthur Crudup’s “That’s Alright Mama” was one of the first Elvis tracks recorded by Sam Phillips at Sun Records. Presley’s first big mainstream hit was, likewise, a White cover; Big Mama Thornton recorded “Hound Dog” before Elvis.

Elvis Presley’s influence goes way beyond music (and film). His mixture of rockabilly, country, R&B and Blues opened the door for Black artists and, in its own way, helped usher in the Civil Rights Movement. In fact, before his discovery by Svengali-esque Colonel Tom Parker, many radio listeners thought Elvis was Black. In the 1950’s, teen-aged boys (and pre-teens like LeeZard) copied Elvis’ longer hair, sideburns and pompadour, not to mention the swagger and sneer that drove the girls wild. Elvis Presley’s impact on our world and his legacy are unquestioned.

The Beatles changed everything. Omigawd, where do we start? They:
• Brought a whole new British-style of Rock and Pop music to America;
• Introduced production and recording techniques never before seen in the music business;
• Started the long-hair-is-okay-for men revolution;
• Influenced clothing and other fashion styles on both sides of the Atlantic;
• For better or worse, popularized the recreational use of drugs;
• Introduced the world to the mystical music of Ravi Shankar and other artists from the Indian sub-continent;
• Likewise introduced the world to non-traditional forms of spirituality such as Yoga and meditation;
• And, perhaps most importantly, helped bring the Anti-Vietnam War Movement to the masses.
The Beatles’ impact on our world and their legacy are unquestioned.

In that context, let’s take a look at Michael Jackson’s impact on our world and his legacy. What did MJ leave us?
• Fond memories of an amazingly talented youngster leading the Jackson 5;
• The Moonwalk and other dance steps we could never imitate;

• “Thriller,” the biggest selling album of all time;
• The “Thriller” music video, arguably the most-innovative video ever;
• A sequined glove (only one) and jacket;
• A saddening series of photos showing Jackson’s futile attempts to use plastic surgery to become less Black;
• Oh yeah, and the shattered lives of who-knows-how-many young boys.

While MJ is often credited as “the driving force” behind the famous and star-studded “We are the World” charity (for those starving in Africa) single, the idea for the project actually came from Harry Belafonte. MJ, along with Lionel Richie, penned the lyrics.

Was Michael Jackson a brilliant artist? Certainly. LeeZard has "Billy Jean" and "Thriller" on his iPod. Was he a ground-breaker in the world of Pop Music? Absolutely. Is he in the same class as Elvis and the Beatles? Leezard doesn’t think so.

Fill the World with Joy

2009-06-23T22:15:00.000-07:00

(NOTE: LeeZard is sad. The seemingly endless wars in Iraq & Afghanistan, the shooting - by an 80+ yr. old flippin' neo-Nazi - at the Holocaust Museum in D.C., hate crimes against gays, North Korean nukes and terrorist kooks. Can't we all play nicely together?? And, so, I offer the following plea in the darkness...or, is it a fart into the wind? You decide)

Fill the World with Joy
©2009 by LeeZard

I’m walking on a mountain trail,
Through valleys ever green.
The warm sun shares blue sky,
With cotton pillow clouds.
My heart is free,
My head is clear,
My life is filled with joy.

From oceans deep to mountains high,
Bring peace upon the land.
Every boy & girl, every mom & dad,
All around the world,
Make them free,
Their future clear,
Let’s fill their days with joy.

It’s just a dream, I know,
But I was born to dream.
I dream of hope and pray for peace,
No babies born to die.
This dream is free,
The vision’s clear,
Let’s fill the world with joy.

So join me now, Let’s join our hands,
Let’s make this dream come true.
Refuse to fight. Let’s make things right,
And help our fellow man.
This dream is free,
Our way is clear,
Let’s fill the world with joy.

Brother Can You Spare a Job

2009-06-16T11:35:00.000-07:00

©2009 by Leezard

I’m not depressed (yet) but, for my generation, this is our Great Depression. I don’t want to get into discussions or debates about this current state-of-the-economy versus THE Great Depression. Suffice it to say that this is the worst I’ve ever seen and, LeeZard is not just whining about his sad state-of-the-economy.

Before I do start whining, let’s look around. I’ve never seen more of my friends out of work. I’ve never seen so many small-to-medium businesses withering away in so short a period of time.

What’s happening to the auto industry is mind shattering – even if they did bring it on themselves. Banks failing, government bailing – it all leads to unsmooth sailing.

Okay, now let’s pour ourselves a glass of fine whine. Before we raise the glass, however, let’s put some caveat on a piece of toast; I am not writing this for pity nor am I writing to complain. I pledged at the beginning that I would write about life through LeeZard colored glasses. This is my life today and we’re all stuck with it. But, hey, if someone reads this and wants to offer me a gig, I wouldn’t spill any whine on ‘em.

LeeZard has been unemployed since last October. I’ve been un-and-under-employed before, but not like this. Local job listings are sparse, competition for the fewer jobs is fierce and freelance/contract gigs are like fog, easy to see but hard to get your hands on.

Panic hasn’t hit but I’m sure it’s riding around the neighborhood. Am I scared? You bet your sweet potato I am. Even though Uncle Obama raised my unemployment compensation that barely pays my mortgage. Because of my well-documented health issues over the last half of 2008, I’ve pretty much burned through my emergency resources, not to mention the co-pay medical bills I can’t co-pay thanks to my insufficient COBRA.

Finally, and most scary, my “retirement fund,” which is invested in my beloved “Chateau LeeZard,” is seeing shrinkage like George Costanza’s member.

Having said all of the above, LeeZard still has hope for the future, all our futures. Call me Pollyanna (please don’t! I hate that movie) but I’ve ridden hope and faith for my 11-years of sobriety and despite all my whining, I still have a very rich and wonderful life. I’ve also learned to let go of the things I cannot control – virtually everything around me. That eases a lot of pressure and allows me to take care of my stuff (all together now) one day at a time.

Hang in there girls and boys.