James Rising

ED Note: I am going to put WACKY era stuff on pause for a bit and go back to the earlier years.
The first time I spoke words on a radio station was from my friend’s basement.

This deserves some explanation.

Jeff Goldfield and I became buddies because he was a guitar player in a band and I hung around. I was sort of a roadie and sort of a groupie. The band broke up but Jeff and I continued and during Junior High and High School I would say we were “BFF” as the kids say now.

Oddly enough we lost touch in my senior year in High School when I moved to another town but ended up going to the same college without knowing until we met at registration. Life is weird.

When we were in Junior High (Lyman C. Hunt Junior High –imagine what we called it) Jeff had a neighbor who was an engineer at IBM. As I think back on it now I never met the guy. But he built a small AM transmitter that was frequency agile (could be tuned to any frequency) and put out either 100 milliwatts (legal) or 10 watts (not so much legal) and used a simple dipole antenna. We built a little studio in Jeff’s basement.

Jeff’s Fender “Tremolux” amp head served as our audio console. As I recall, and forgive me but this is 40 some years ago, we used the four inputs for microphone, tape recorder (maybe two) and maybe two turntables. This involved some juggling of inputs.

We of course knew not of ‘cueing’ or any of the finer technical points. We didn’t know what we didn’t know. So we just went on blindly as “WGLR”. Goldfield/Rising radio. Jeff’s name came first. It was his basement.

My “show’ was the “SS 396” show – named for a car I lusted after. We played what 45’s we had but mostly used the tape recorders for songs we lifted off the local radio stations. We became quite adept at fading in and out of the tapes to avoid the DJ’s and jingles from the other stations.

One station (WDOT-which would later figure importantly in my life) had an exclusive on a few tunes and would a layer a “WDOT Exclusive” liner over the instrumental part a few times. We would, not knowing anything about editing, just play the songs (Valerie by the Monkees was one) and do our fade thing.

I don’t recall a lot about what announcing we did. I do know that Jeff, ever the entrepreneur, struck a deal with a local Mom and Pop store to give us snacks and soda for mentions. My first radio trade!

Announcing was fraught with danger. Nothing was grounded properly and if you touched the wrong thing and the microphone at the same time you would get 110 volts AC, usually on the lips.

At ten watts we could talk from his basement to Mallets Bay. I knew this because my family had a camp there and I could hear the station. Where we went in other directions we never knew. We were 13 year olds with bikes and limited other means of transportation.

Our broadcast schedule was erratic to say the least. After school sometimes. Weekends when Jeff wasn’t doing something else or being punished. It didn’t last long and I can’t remember for sure but I think it all ended when the IBM guy took back the transmitter.

It set the hook in me deep. It took years before I would actually talk on a “real” radio station but I knew in my heart that I had found something that would be a big part of my life. I didn’t have any idea how big.

WEEKENDER Column: Facebook friends

I taught a sort of introduction to computers class at L.C.C.C. up until recently. Did it for almost 7 years. So that means the time I spent teaching people, mostly young people, about computers tracked very closely the rise of Social Media. Facebook celebrated its sixth birthday last February, MySpace (remember that?) is 7 and Twitter has been around for 4 years.

I knew enough about computers, how they worked and some history. I was fluent in sufficient software so I could impart some knowledge to some, at least for a few years. But in the later years teaching PowerPoint to kids who had used it since Kindergarten was quickly becoming like teaching how to make and use buggy-whips. They knew how and couldn’t see the point in any case.

It’s clear now that for at least the foreseeable future the amount of growth and change in the what, how and why we use computers will undergo almost constant flux. Who would have thought, seven years ago, about an I-Pad, except for future looking guys like Steve Jobs, R.I.P.? You do have to wonder who will take up the role of cosmic visionary now.
The kids I taught were, for the most part, addicted to Facebook to the point where it was a tough thing to get any attention paid to the front of the classroom. Having powerful computers with a fast internet connection in front of them they were in social media heaven.

Rather than fight I switched and joined the ranks of “friends”. And here comes the point of this rather lengthy set up. I have as of today 3,202 “friends”, most of whom I wouldn’t know it I fell over them on the sidewalk. This inordinately large number is due to me being a Facebook “whore”, befriending everybody and anybody. What’s the harm, I thought? I keep my personal data private and you can never have too many friends, right? Well…
Today is my birthday. As I write this, and it’s early in the morning, I have received over 150 birthday greetings. It’s gratifying, meaningless and puzzling all at the same time. Why would you tell someone who is for all intents and purposes a stranger, happy birthday?

And for those of you who I do know, would it kill you to send a card? With a dollar or two in it? I could use $150 about now.
-30-
Reach Jim at contact@jamesrising.com Even more rants are on his blog, updated every day that ends in “y” at jamesrising.com

Picture this: Swing and a miss.

The real story (below) Has nothing to with the sign I have highlighted in yellow. I just can’t figure out exactly what the hell they were trying to say. If they had someone who needed to read this in English I doubt they got much from it.

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/10/11/world/middleeast/customs-officers-strike-in-kuwait-halting-oil-shipments.html

Three thousand striking customs officers disrupted oil shipments from Kuwait on Monday, escalating the labor unrest that has been gaining momentum in recent weeks in the emirate.
Demanding higher wages and better working conditions, the workers refused to give customs clearance to as many as five tankers loaded with oil for export, and said their strike would continue indefinitely. The Kuwait Times reported that the state petroleum company was scrambling to find other port workers who were not taking part in the strike to complete the customs paperwork for oil shipments.

Some pictures need very few words.

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/09/07/world/asia/07briefs-CrocBrf.html

Sunday Morning Wrap:

Monday 10/3/11:

Rant D’Jour Change the channel, please.

Blog Post Adultery? Fine. The Bible says to.

Tuesday 10/4/11

Rant D’Jour Not with a bang, but a fizzle.

Blog Post Tuesday Review: The Beaver (Mel Gibson)

Wednesday 10/5/11

Rant D’Jour Dead? You’re dead?

Blog Post Baseball Been, Berry, Berry Good To Me.

Thursday

Rant D’Jour Closed. And ode to commerce.

Blog Post Radio DaZE: Keep my name out of it.

Friday

Rant D’Jour What makes you happy?

Blog Post Picture This: NY TIMES typo

Saturday

Rant D’Jour Hugh Hefner is OLD!

Blog Post Aggregate Saturday

Saturday Aggregate:

What I know about blogging can be scratched on the head of a pin with a dull butter-knife. Oh I know how to post, add pictures and videos and such. But to get people to read this crap? Clueless. About a year ago I started this exercise in futility to try and find a way to make an additional income stream out of ranting. It ain’t gonna happen, this much is clear. It takes more than good writing, I have discovered and I am not willing to do much more than write. So long and short I am going to reduce the output here and concentrate on more lucrative avenues. These will still involve writing but won’t involve all the nuts and bolts this takes.

I will still update this in some form or another daily, that’s a given. I am taking the juiced section and will begin to do a little more with that. I will probably still write a review. But the daily Rant (rant d’jour) is history. Buh bye. Don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.

In a way this whole exercise, except for a brief shining moment when the petite lap giraffe catapulted my numbers, has been like the old advertising joke. You know what doing a good job and not advertising is like? Pissing your pants in the dark. It give you a warm feeling but no one knows but you.

Sorry, both of you. Commerce beckons and in this economy (how SICK are we of hearing that phrase?) I have to answer the call.

Still here. Muted somewhat.

Hugh Hefner is turning 86 soon. Since 1953 Playboy magazine has been a part of the culture although some would say it has no culture. But the effect that playboy has had on the American male is without question profound. As a boy approaching manhood girls were a big mystery. Sometime around the age of twelve or thirteen the mystery for various hormonal reasons becomes top of mind. A young male is wired that way and it’s perfectly natural for him to be curious about those mysterious young ladies in sweaters and skirts that we sat near in class.

Playboy, we were told by the older boys, has pictures of these very exciting creatures with their clothes off. Oh my! And so the quest to see the centerfold was on. Now I grew up in a very small town in Vermont. I am guessing that in any town a boy of twelve or thirteen is not going to strut into the newsstand and ask for this months Playboy and get away with it. Besides I think they cost like 3 dollars and that, my friend was a fortune in those days.

So how to get a peek at the gate-fold girl next door? Well the usual path was that somebody’s father had the magazine and it was up to that boy to get us the goods. And so it was that the concept of sex became intertwined with intrigue and outright stealing. And we wonder why sex crimes are such a problem in our society.

Here’s the thing about those playmates. Oh it was exciting for sure to see them in the altogether. But it was hard not to compare what was on the pages of the magazine with what we saw in real life.

My first girlfriend, Carol Dufault, looked about as much like a playboy playmate as I look like Tom Cruise. Oh Carol was a great gorl and a better person than me, but compared body to body to what Old Hugh had in those magazines…well. And so early on I came to this conclusion. Those girls in Playboy, they didn’t exist in real life. They were creatures that were somehow brought to earth, photographed and then sent back to the planet of beautiful and somewhat over inflated women. In a way I think that’s the real damage that Playboy does to men. It raises expectations that can never be fulfilled. At least in my experience.

Hugh’s first Centerfold was Marylyn Monroe. Now that he is turning 86 he has decided that he will be buried next to the blonde bombshell so in perpetuity he and Norma Jean will be together. It’s somehow fitting and at the same time a little weird.

OK. so it’s only a “in” instead of an “it’s”. No big deal. Juts a photo cap. BUT..it’s in the New York freaking Iimes. The end times are with us, folks.

In a world full of war, death, destruction, catastrophe and broken promises you have to take joy where you find it.

A drive to work free from tailgaters. A gas price sign closer to $2 than 3. A string of green lights. All things that can make the morning commute a bit easier to bear.
A voice mail light that’s not lit. An email account with no spam. A desk that you cleaned off the night before. It doesn’t take much to start the day off right.
A meeting that lasts less than half an hour and actually accomplishes something. A quiet lunch with a co-worker where the job is not the main topic of conversation. A project completed on time and done well. These make work more bearable.
A swift and safe ride home. A loving greeting at the door. Dinner with conversation about the day’s small victories and defeats.
If every day could have most of these things, how happy would you be?
The cynic in me wants to say that bad days are what make us appreciate the good days.
The cock-eyed optimist wants the cynic to jump off the Market street Bridge. A good day would be to see Mr. Cynic float downstream and bother Harrisburg or other points south.

Some times it doesn’t take much to be happy. My Father once told me that happiness is just unhappiness turned inside out. I didn’t understand it at the time and there are days when I still don’t. But on a good day I get it.

Radio DaZe: WHYN over

WHYN wasn’t all bad. It was pretty easy work. I was on the air from 5:30am to 9am, did a small amount of production (certainly nothing like the truck loads at WJNC) and shot out the door. Oddly enough WHYN had the poorest production room I ever worked in. Just under-equipped and hard to use. It was stuck in the basement like an afterthought. There was an auxiliary room upstairs just off the lobby but it was even worse.

Coffee had always been a big part of my daily routine. Lots of it. WHYN had a coin operated coffee machine in the break room that dispensed something that tasted like ass. So I invested in an electric percolator and fired that thing up every day when I arrived. The discerning listener must have heard it burbling in the background. In a way it probably added some ambiance to the morning show. God knows it needed it. Most likely they never noticed with all the reverb on the air.

I loved that McCurdy console. It was almost impossible to distort and was clean as a whistle and a breeze to operate. I will always love Rock ‘n Me by Steve Miller because I could peg the VU meters all the way to the right and hear the reverb wash over the guitar drum breaks. It didn’t take much to amuse me.

WHYN did have a tremendous audience, especially Cume-wise. They had a request phone with at least 20 incoming lines and when you did a contest all those lights were something to see.

Don Wilkes and Mike Schwartz kept calling. What balls these guys had! Trying to steal the morning man from the biggest station in town. I finally went in for an interview (Again). Don and Mike laid it out for me. They were going to take the automation off WACKY 102, hire jocks and go live. They made me an offer. Then I had to sit down and chat with the genius who had put together what was WACKY 102.

Bobby (Jim Bouldebrook) Brooks was a flamboyant guy who dressed well and was full of himself. He had strong opinions and wasn’t afraid to tell you that he was right, you were wrong. He scared the crap out of me. During the course of our conversation he made it clear that he had no use for DJ’s or live radio.

“I think it’s insane to have some stupid DJ talking about his wife’s cunt on the air,” he said. Looking at me like that was my deal. I was flabbergasted. The silver lining was that he was leaving to go to Florida to start an ad agency so he wouldn’t be in the picture.

Don and Mike’s offer was tempting. I was bored out of my skull at WHYN and I could see that if WACKY 102 got some traction in the market that my life at WHYN would become miserable. What was I supposed to do? I took the job.

Bob Charest and Phil Drumheller were less than pleased, to say the least. I did notice that as mad as they were there was never any counter offer. I guess they were as bored with me as I was with them.

It’s customary in radio when someone on the air gives notice that you either let them go right off or at the very least take them off the air. I fully expected to walk out that day with my headphones in my hand and make my way to WACKY where tons of work had to be done.

Bob and Phil elected to keep me on the air. I just shrugged and went in and did my job. I had given them two weeks and I would do it, even though it would cramp my plans to get WACKY up and running.

I had done this on a Friday and I went in to do my normal shift on Monday. The overnight guy handed me an envelope with one of the long-winded memo’s they were famous for. The long and short was this. I was not to make any mention of the competition or the fact that I was leaving. OK, I was fine with that. I was to do my job and be professional. Fine.

AND…I was to refrain from saying my name on the air. All jingles featuring my name were removed from the control room. WTF? The newsman was instructed to not refer to me by name.

In all my years of radio, before or since I had never, ever heard of something so stupid. If they were that concerned then just show me the door. I was seething. I did it for one day, then went in to the brain trust and asked them if they really thought this was the best way to handle this. They were beyond rude to me and suggested that if I hadn’t quit they were going to fire my ass anyway. That did it.

The next day I came in and did my show without saying my name. I also avoided saying the call letters and didn’t play any jingles. The station went for the entire morning drive shift without any identification. When I got off the air Phil and Bob came up with a new plan. I would sit out the rest of my notice in the break room. OFF THE AIR!

It must have been great for morale, me sitting there drawing caricatures of Phil and Bob with horns coming out of their heads and showing them to anyone who ventured in the break room.

NEXT: WACKY 102!