This is a terrific, dry-eyed assessment of what Joe Paterno was, good and bad. None of us are wholly good or wholly bad. But when someone is given as much influence and authority as Joe Paterno wielded in State College Pennsyvania, there’s always a danger that the myth will eclipse the reality.
It turns out there was plenty more bad than most people wanted to hear.
I don’t know how carefully you have been following the revelations of the emails that show a pattern of cover-up and deception in the top leadership of Penn State, but it’s plenty damning.
A story in Esquire provides some very interesting circumstantial evidence too.
After the incident in 1998 when a mother permitted two State College detectives to eavesdrop in another room when she confronted and accused Jerry Sandusky of molesting her son which resulted in some damning admissions and apologies, some curious things happened.
Joe Paterno was known to be a very methodical man, someone who kept appointments and never cancelled them. But one week after those detectives overheard Sandusky’s admissions, JoePa cancelled a recruiting trip and a fundraising meeting. Then he cancelled a planned family vacation. Not long after that, the State College Police decided there was no cause to continue the investigation, and shortly thereafter, Sandusky resigned.
Now what you don’t know is for the entire year, JoePa did not cancel a single recruiting trip and he never cancelled a fundraiser. There are no notes in his daily appointment diary, only records that those events were cancelled. Shortly after the police dropped their investigation, JoePa's schedule returned to normal.
It’s pretty remarkable that someone of Sandusky’s stature in college football did not get a single offer to coach anywhere else. Recently it was revealed confidentially that some athletic directors made inquiries about Sandusky and immediately lost interest in him. What’s more, Penn State President Graham Spanier told a long-time friend, when asked about Sandusky’s retirement, “he's retiring for a good reason but I can’t talk about it.”
It’s pretty sad to find out your heroes have feet of clay. My old friend Brian and I have never had harsh words in over 16 years. He grew up in Reading, Pennsylvania. (Yes, the same Reading as in the Monopoly Reading Railroad. We always pronounced it like you read a book, but it’s actually “RED-ing.”) Although he’s a Phillies and Eagles fan and my loyalties are to the Giants and the 49ers (after the Red Sox and Patriots of course), we speak affably of our teams during their respective seasons, regardless of which is doing better.
Brian spent more than 100 weekends attending Penn State games. Some of his earliest memories with his parents and uncles were attending those games. His family planned vacations around bowl games, and although none of them attended PSU, they were like Alabama and Auburn supporters and Nebraska loyalists; you’d never know nobody in his family attended PSU
It’s hard to see a friend in pain like this; striking out like a wounded lion, mildly angry and hurt when I confront him with these stories. To him, this is the grown-up equivalent of finding out Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny don’t exist, without the sarcasm. It would have been the same kind of hurt if he’d found Randall Cunningham french-kissing his wife.
I am ashamed to admit that I didn’t drop this subject earlier, when I should have. Let someone tear the rose-colored glasses off his face. Let someone else drag him from the bottom of the cave where he mistook shadows for reality into the cleansing but painful sunlight.
From now on, it will be someone else.
--30--
Remembering Dee Forsythe
Please excuse the disjointed nature of this remembrance. I take little side trips but I promise you, it’s worth the ride.
Earlier this week, I got a call from a mutual friend, Brian Youngerman, a lawyer who writes a weekly newsletter about sports with a slightly unusual take, sometimes about sports business and sports law.
Dee had “introduced” the two of us on AOL. Sometime in the 90s she found me there when I wrote about my family’s love for the Red Sox and how it’s in my blood. Brian had a forum about sports and did a Tuesday night chat. She thought Brian and I had the same sensibilities. She didn't do the chats, but she liked Brian’s writing.
Long after the chats ended, Brian continues with his newsletter each Thursday evening. He said he started writing last night and as he typed It's, he stopped.
That’s when it hit him. Besides commenting and an occasional “Attaboy,” one of the things Dee would do from time to time was drop him a teasing note correcting his It’s with the apostrophe when it should have been Its without, because he meant the possessive, not the contraction of It is.
I had to explain to him that she wasn't a grammar nazi, although I knew he didn’t take it that way. She corrected him because he was a lawyer, for crying out loud, with a master's degree in law and another in business. You’re no dummy, Brian, she was tacitly saying. You should know better.
It wasn't so much as a scowl or even a scold. It was more of a sad shaking of the head. Besides, Brian, you’re not the only one. Because I, too, had been a copy editor, she would sometimes reply to my emails with not only her response, but also my gaffes highlighted in red type. Again, her intent was not to belittle me but to say, “Kenner (that was her name for me), you’re better than this."
Yet in the short back and forth replies which sometimes resembled two jazz musicians riffing, anything goes and she would adopt a slangy, familiar tone.
I will miss her not out of grief, but her actual presence in my life, although we’ve never laid eyes on each other.
Deidre Giles Forsythe grew up a golfer, from almost the time she could walk, because her grandfather, Elmer Giles, was a minor league ballplayer who later went on to a career as an early golf course designer and architect. He took her around with him on the course, gave her her first set of clubs, and her love of the game lasted until the end. She and I talked often about how disappointed she was with Tiger Woods off the course, and how Rory McIlroy – who she’d dubbed “Our Lad” – could thrill and crush us on the course, sometimes in the same round. (The US Open is next weekend in San Francisco, and I wanted to get his autograph and a picture with him for her.)
We shared our love of the Red Sox and baseball, although I could never convince her of the value of the SABRmetrics, the esoteric stats used in an attempt to quantify and compare players of different eras. Unlike some, she did accept the validity of WAR, also known as Wins Above Replacement (player), which is used to measure a player’s overall value which is used for comparisons. Once I told her the replacement player was the same as the legendary “player to be named later,” she grokked it.
(She and my mother were much more involved with the Patriots and Celtics than I was, but I enjoyed them through her eyes.)
That was another thing, grok. That was one of her favorite words. It came from science fiction writer Robert Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land, and the first time I used it, she remembered it and it became part of our lexicon.
[One of the things I liked best about her was I could use my entire vocabulary. I could say lexicon,sobriquet, and algorithm.]
Where was I... The wall clock above this desk is a large, circular Red Sox logo which she sent me, disarming my protests by saying, “CVS marked 'em down."
We loved black and white movies, particularly screwball comedies and romances. We’d give each other heads-ups when we noticed an old favorite was coming up on Turner Classics.
But she also liked the newer ones, particularly the Meg Ryan pictures such as When Harry Met Sally, and You’ve Got Mail. (By the way, when I asked her if she recognized the plot of You’ve Got Mail, she remembered the Van Johnson and Judy Garland musical, In the Good Ole Summertime, but did not remember the original, Ernst Lubitsch’s black and white The Shop Around the Corner, which starred a callow and lanky Jimmy Stewart. Once reminded, though, she said, “Oh, that’s why Meg Ryan’s bookstore in You’ve Got Mail is called “The Shop Around the Corner.")
Not long after we got to know each other well, I teased her. “You’ve got to find me someone just like you, only 25 years younger!”
Dee revelled in my small successes and sympathized with my bigger failures, and was patient and understanding when I would overstep the line with a joke that was too coarse, and she gently pulled me up when my depression took me down the rabbit hole.
One of my early triumphs was when I became the chief proofreader and copy editor for the bimonthly Creative Screenwriting magazine. We used to talk about how the barely capable Erik, the Managing Editor, would drive me crazy by waiting seven weeks before sending the copy to pore over with only 72 hours to finish. When I had had enough of Erik, I passed the job on to her, and now it was my turn to listen to her complain about his precarious management style.
I will think of her every day. I am surrounded by things she gave me or sold me including this very Powerbook, which was dead but she told me I could have if I thought I could make it breathe again.
Dee was a photography nut who never went anywhere without her camera. She resisted an iPhone (and only grudgingly carried a mobile, for emergencies) but was seriously contemplating getting an iPad, once she saw the quality of the images and screen. Every couple of years or so, she’d decide to replace her camera. Two cameras ago she sold me the Canon Powershot I use now.
Starting a few years ago, Dee began constructing a calendar for her family and friends, which she sent out to us as Christmas presents. For some of us, there was an actual, spiral-bound, one month per side calendar, which I am looking at now.
She began selecting images in late Summer. Her first efforts were the historic homes of North Andover. Then she turned her attention to extreme close-ups of flowers, and her last two or three were all flowers.
But long after this Powerbook gives up the ghost and the Canon gets abandoned for an iPad; when the objects she sold or gave me are gone, I will remember her.
I will remember her when a Red Sox player from the 67 team dies and when the players from the 2004 and 2007 World Championship teams begin to grace the Hall of Fame.
I'll remember her whenever I have to rewrite a sentence because I’ve crammed too many clauses into it like an overstuffed sausage.
I’ll remember her when Danica Patrick wins her first NASCAR race.
I'll remember her when I look at the picture of my eight year-old nephew in his catcher’s gear, which she Photoshopped into a little baseball card.
I'll remember her each time “Our Lad” Rory McIlroy wins a major.
I'll remember her each year at MacWorld, and on the day when I finally get my first iPad, and also, how thrilled she was for me when I told her a few minutes ago I’d just met Steve Jobs at MacWorld.
I'll remember her the next time Brian Youngerman types it's instead of its.
I'll remember her the next time I make boiled New England supper of corned beef and cabbage, and how much she loved knowing that I must put parsnips and turnips in it because that’s how Mom made it.
I'll remember her every time I reread a Robert B. Parker Spenser, Jesse Stone, or Sunny Randall detective mystery, and wonder what she would make of the new writers who are continuing each series.
I'll remember her when I recite Robert Frost’s “Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening” each year on the Winter Solstice (which was “the darkest evening of the year") because she shared her birthday with him, and had the joy of sitting at his feet when he recited that poem in the class taught by John Holmes, who was one of Frost’s students. (She loved the blog article The Power of Ritual I wrote about the poem.)
I will remember her every time I have to parenthetically define a word or explain who Duke Ellington or Philip Marlowe was because aside from my mother and my late friend Angelo, she was the only one who got 99% of my references!
I will remember how kind and consoling she was when my Mother died, and how much I regretted that these two hard core Red Sox fans had never met. And I will remember how subtly she slid into being my surrogate mother, my conscience. (She sometimes signed her emails “D a Cricket” because I told her sometimes I can hear her whispering wise thoughts in my ear like Jiminy Cricket.)
Most of all, though, I will remember and will always be grateful to her for the way she treated my Auntie Ming, who was of her generation but a late adopter to technology. Dee gave us a great deal on another of her cast-off computers, again a Powerbook, and after I set it up for Auntie, Dee became her steadfast cyber Sacajawea, guiding her through the technological thicket which sometimes frustrated my Aunt. Because they were of the same generation and nearly the same age, Auntie felt much more at ease asking her elementary questions about how things worked, and Dee patiently explained.
I will miss her more than grieve for her. Until she fell sick and her energy would be taxed by having to compose and then type an email, some days we’d exchange as many as eight or nine short and long emails about some newsworthy event, an article from The Atlantic, last night’s Red Sox game or some lineup crisis.
When she went into treatment last month, I began compiling a list of stories and things to tell her once she got well. I'd just read James Garner’s autobiography and was dying to tell her the putting tip he’d gotten from Gary Player. (Close your eyes. Once you’ve looked at the green, measured the distance, address the ball and close your eyes as you strike. Trust your ability.) I’d had dinner with Maxine Hong Kingston! I was prepared for it to be mostly a monologue to entertain her until she regained her strength. Just this weekend there were three or four stories and sports events, not the least of which was Rory McIlroy’s second missed cut in a row and Tiger Woods miraculous chip on 16 at the Colonial which he holed for a birdie. We would have discussed the words in the National Spelling Bee, and how the Celtics were mounting a comeback.
Now I really do have to do a monologue.
Rest well, Dee.
And now I can hear her saying, That was beautiful, Kenner, but it was tooo long. :-)
Talk to me: Kenn@KennFong.com.
Earlier this week, I got a call from a mutual friend, Brian Youngerman, a lawyer who writes a weekly newsletter about sports with a slightly unusual take, sometimes about sports business and sports law.
Dee had “introduced” the two of us on AOL. Sometime in the 90s she found me there when I wrote about my family’s love for the Red Sox and how it’s in my blood. Brian had a forum about sports and did a Tuesday night chat. She thought Brian and I had the same sensibilities. She didn't do the chats, but she liked Brian’s writing.
Long after the chats ended, Brian continues with his newsletter each Thursday evening. He said he started writing last night and as he typed It's, he stopped.
That’s when it hit him. Besides commenting and an occasional “Attaboy,” one of the things Dee would do from time to time was drop him a teasing note correcting his It’s with the apostrophe when it should have been Its without, because he meant the possessive, not the contraction of It is.
I had to explain to him that she wasn't a grammar nazi, although I knew he didn’t take it that way. She corrected him because he was a lawyer, for crying out loud, with a master's degree in law and another in business. You’re no dummy, Brian, she was tacitly saying. You should know better.
It wasn't so much as a scowl or even a scold. It was more of a sad shaking of the head. Besides, Brian, you’re not the only one. Because I, too, had been a copy editor, she would sometimes reply to my emails with not only her response, but also my gaffes highlighted in red type. Again, her intent was not to belittle me but to say, “Kenner (that was her name for me), you’re better than this."
Yet in the short back and forth replies which sometimes resembled two jazz musicians riffing, anything goes and she would adopt a slangy, familiar tone.
I will miss her not out of grief, but her actual presence in my life, although we’ve never laid eyes on each other.
Deidre Giles Forsythe grew up a golfer, from almost the time she could walk, because her grandfather, Elmer Giles, was a minor league ballplayer who later went on to a career as an early golf course designer and architect. He took her around with him on the course, gave her her first set of clubs, and her love of the game lasted until the end. She and I talked often about how disappointed she was with Tiger Woods off the course, and how Rory McIlroy – who she’d dubbed “Our Lad” – could thrill and crush us on the course, sometimes in the same round. (The US Open is next weekend in San Francisco, and I wanted to get his autograph and a picture with him for her.)
We shared our love of the Red Sox and baseball, although I could never convince her of the value of the SABRmetrics, the esoteric stats used in an attempt to quantify and compare players of different eras. Unlike some, she did accept the validity of WAR, also known as Wins Above Replacement (player), which is used to measure a player’s overall value which is used for comparisons. Once I told her the replacement player was the same as the legendary “player to be named later,” she grokked it.
(She and my mother were much more involved with the Patriots and Celtics than I was, but I enjoyed them through her eyes.)
That was another thing, grok. That was one of her favorite words. It came from science fiction writer Robert Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land, and the first time I used it, she remembered it and it became part of our lexicon.
[One of the things I liked best about her was I could use my entire vocabulary. I could say lexicon,sobriquet, and algorithm.]
Where was I... The wall clock above this desk is a large, circular Red Sox logo which she sent me, disarming my protests by saying, “CVS marked 'em down."
We loved black and white movies, particularly screwball comedies and romances. We’d give each other heads-ups when we noticed an old favorite was coming up on Turner Classics.
But she also liked the newer ones, particularly the Meg Ryan pictures such as When Harry Met Sally, and You’ve Got Mail. (By the way, when I asked her if she recognized the plot of You’ve Got Mail, she remembered the Van Johnson and Judy Garland musical, In the Good Ole Summertime, but did not remember the original, Ernst Lubitsch’s black and white The Shop Around the Corner, which starred a callow and lanky Jimmy Stewart. Once reminded, though, she said, “Oh, that’s why Meg Ryan’s bookstore in You’ve Got Mail is called “The Shop Around the Corner.")
Not long after we got to know each other well, I teased her. “You’ve got to find me someone just like you, only 25 years younger!”
Dee revelled in my small successes and sympathized with my bigger failures, and was patient and understanding when I would overstep the line with a joke that was too coarse, and she gently pulled me up when my depression took me down the rabbit hole.
One of my early triumphs was when I became the chief proofreader and copy editor for the bimonthly Creative Screenwriting magazine. We used to talk about how the barely capable Erik, the Managing Editor, would drive me crazy by waiting seven weeks before sending the copy to pore over with only 72 hours to finish. When I had had enough of Erik, I passed the job on to her, and now it was my turn to listen to her complain about his precarious management style.
I will think of her every day. I am surrounded by things she gave me or sold me including this very Powerbook, which was dead but she told me I could have if I thought I could make it breathe again.
Dee was a photography nut who never went anywhere without her camera. She resisted an iPhone (and only grudgingly carried a mobile, for emergencies) but was seriously contemplating getting an iPad, once she saw the quality of the images and screen. Every couple of years or so, she’d decide to replace her camera. Two cameras ago she sold me the Canon Powershot I use now.
Starting a few years ago, Dee began constructing a calendar for her family and friends, which she sent out to us as Christmas presents. For some of us, there was an actual, spiral-bound, one month per side calendar, which I am looking at now.
She began selecting images in late Summer. Her first efforts were the historic homes of North Andover. Then she turned her attention to extreme close-ups of flowers, and her last two or three were all flowers.
But long after this Powerbook gives up the ghost and the Canon gets abandoned for an iPad; when the objects she sold or gave me are gone, I will remember her.
I will remember her when a Red Sox player from the 67 team dies and when the players from the 2004 and 2007 World Championship teams begin to grace the Hall of Fame.
I'll remember her whenever I have to rewrite a sentence because I’ve crammed too many clauses into it like an overstuffed sausage.
I’ll remember her when Danica Patrick wins her first NASCAR race.
I'll remember her when I look at the picture of my eight year-old nephew in his catcher’s gear, which she Photoshopped into a little baseball card.
I'll remember her each time “Our Lad” Rory McIlroy wins a major.
I'll remember her each year at MacWorld, and on the day when I finally get my first iPad, and also, how thrilled she was for me when I told her a few minutes ago I’d just met Steve Jobs at MacWorld.
I'll remember her the next time Brian Youngerman types it's instead of its.
I'll remember her the next time I make boiled New England supper of corned beef and cabbage, and how much she loved knowing that I must put parsnips and turnips in it because that’s how Mom made it.
I'll remember her every time I reread a Robert B. Parker Spenser, Jesse Stone, or Sunny Randall detective mystery, and wonder what she would make of the new writers who are continuing each series.
I'll remember her when I recite Robert Frost’s “Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening” each year on the Winter Solstice (which was “the darkest evening of the year") because she shared her birthday with him, and had the joy of sitting at his feet when he recited that poem in the class taught by John Holmes, who was one of Frost’s students. (She loved the blog article The Power of Ritual I wrote about the poem.)
I will remember her every time I have to parenthetically define a word or explain who Duke Ellington or Philip Marlowe was because aside from my mother and my late friend Angelo, she was the only one who got 99% of my references!
I will remember how kind and consoling she was when my Mother died, and how much I regretted that these two hard core Red Sox fans had never met. And I will remember how subtly she slid into being my surrogate mother, my conscience. (She sometimes signed her emails “D a Cricket” because I told her sometimes I can hear her whispering wise thoughts in my ear like Jiminy Cricket.)
Most of all, though, I will remember and will always be grateful to her for the way she treated my Auntie Ming, who was of her generation but a late adopter to technology. Dee gave us a great deal on another of her cast-off computers, again a Powerbook, and after I set it up for Auntie, Dee became her steadfast cyber Sacajawea, guiding her through the technological thicket which sometimes frustrated my Aunt. Because they were of the same generation and nearly the same age, Auntie felt much more at ease asking her elementary questions about how things worked, and Dee patiently explained.
I will miss her more than grieve for her. Until she fell sick and her energy would be taxed by having to compose and then type an email, some days we’d exchange as many as eight or nine short and long emails about some newsworthy event, an article from The Atlantic, last night’s Red Sox game or some lineup crisis.
When she went into treatment last month, I began compiling a list of stories and things to tell her once she got well. I'd just read James Garner’s autobiography and was dying to tell her the putting tip he’d gotten from Gary Player. (Close your eyes. Once you’ve looked at the green, measured the distance, address the ball and close your eyes as you strike. Trust your ability.) I’d had dinner with Maxine Hong Kingston! I was prepared for it to be mostly a monologue to entertain her until she regained her strength. Just this weekend there were three or four stories and sports events, not the least of which was Rory McIlroy’s second missed cut in a row and Tiger Woods miraculous chip on 16 at the Colonial which he holed for a birdie. We would have discussed the words in the National Spelling Bee, and how the Celtics were mounting a comeback.
Now I really do have to do a monologue.
Rest well, Dee.
And now I can hear her saying, That was beautiful, Kenner, but it was tooo long. :-)
Talk to me: Kenn@KennFong.com.
Ben Youngerman, aka “The Utility Man”
A few years ago, my oldest and best friend from the Internet, Brian Youngerman, started bragging about his nephew, Ben Youngerman.
 |
| Hoping to follow in Bob's footsteps |
Mind you, every uncle knows his duty is to brag unceasingly about how incredible his nephew or niece is compared with everyone else’s. I know because I brag about Megan, Mike, and Pete. However in my case, I’m right and everyone else is mistaken.
More than once, Brian told me that Ben’s ambition was to become a sports announcer. He attended that great sports broadcasting incubator, Syracuse University, alma mater of Bob Costas, Len Berman, and dozens of other household names.
(I knew a little bit about radio. Emphasis on the “little.” My BA is in Radio-TV-Film and I had a tiny bit of success creating and producing one of the first nationally syndicated technology radio programs for public radio. But I didn't have the fire in me that Ben did.)
During the academic year, he called Syracuse basketball, baseball, and football games. When he wasn't behind the mic, he was singing in the men’s acapella group or entertaining fans during the TV time-outs as Otto the Orange. My Instant Messenger window would pop up and the proud uncle would urge me: “Turn on ESPN NOW!”
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| AOL IM: “Turn on ESPN NOW!” |
This time the IM windows would have the link to the Internet radio stream from Alaska. He was a bit green, but I could hear the knowledge and passion he got from his father and uncle, and I knew with just a few seasons of polish, he'd be ready for the Show.
As he added lines to an already fat résumé, he learned to juggle, emcee events, and perform stand-up comedy. He's a natural entertainer, and his biggest dilemma is choosing which path to follow.
Along the way, Ben and Brian met Dave Raymond, the original Phillie Phanatic. Inside that green pantomime character breathed the heart of a mensch, and several times over the years Dave gave Ben lots of encouragement and some very wise career advice.
In December, their paths crossed again at Major League Baseball's Winter Meetings. Ben was there trying to score a couple of minor league residencies and to schmooze. This time, he surprised Dave with a new persona: “The Utility Man”, a jack-of-all-trades shtick as a vendor, groundskeeper, usher, bat boy, umpire, and some unconventional personas including the “The Phantom of the Ballpark.” Dave was surprised and encouraged Ben to call him if he could help.Dave’s most recent advice was to be confident in his talent and not to sell himself cheaply. It was great, because when you're his age and still unsure of yourself, to get a pat on the back from one of the giants in the field washes away a lot of doubt.
This young man is on the brink of a wonderful and rich career. What shape his nascent career will take is not yet clear, but what is clear that his combination of talent and passion and ambition will take him to the top.
--30--
Talk to me: Kenn@KennFong.com.
The Death of a Legendary Radio Station
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| Ronn Owens |
KGO-AM was an ABC (and later Disney) “O & O” (owned and operated affiliate), sharing the same address as KGO television, which Disney kept. Yes, ABC/Disney was also a big corporation, but it followed the time-honored management philosophy: if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.
Following the wholesale butchery of many production and advertising staffers a few weeks earlier, the writing was on the wall. It wasn't unique to Cumulus (or broadcasting); whenever a big conglomerate devours a local company, the first order is mass firings as the new parent company employs the “economy of scale.”
[It’s called “consolidation;” combining operations to make fewer people do the work of many, clear-cutting a wide swath of devastation as long-time employees are cast out like last week’s recycling into a shrinking job pool. Say you’ve got four people doing essentially the same job in four different offices. Fire two of them, close three of the offices, and split their duties among the remaining two under a single roof. At the top of the list: the most-experienced (and not coincidentally the highest paid) employees; leaving those behind scrambling to figure out how to handle the workload of the missing on top of their own. Can’t keep up? Too bad. In this market there are dozens who will gladly take your job if you complain. For those who do manage to find work, usually it’s a substantial cut in salary; often with drastically reduced (or non-existent) medical and retirement benefits.]
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| Michael Amatori |
KGO’s entire weekday line-up of talent got pink-slipped, except for Ronn Owens. Even brandishing his Marconi Award like a cross wouldn’t have been enough to save him from these godless vampires; but years ago, Ronn’s good friend and protector, the former station manager/benevolent despot Mickey Luckoff, signed him to a “personal services” contract which was too expensive to buy out.
(The golden-throated Production Director, Bay Area Radio Hall of Famer Mike Amatori also held onto his 900 Front Street key card. Raising $200 grand for charity scores for something on the big Arbitron diary in the sky.)
It seems unfair to blame Ronn (and all the others who survived the chop); to look at them as corporate tools. But his gracelss defense of the format change might make the NAB regret giving Ronn his Marconi.
That’s the same kind of thinking as the 60s burn-outs (the anti-everything-about-America-except-our-freedoms crowd) who co-opted the Occupy movement (and punctuate every sentence with “like” as if it was a comma). An organism’s first duty is to itself. To survive. That’s true whether it’s a plant or an animal, an individual or a corporation.
Let’s put the blame where it belongs, on the politicians who gutted all the regulators like the FCC and FTC. Before “diversity” became a hot-button synonym for “minorities,” it meant freedom of choice. Nowadays the radio landscape in Dallas or San Francisco sounds just like it does in New York or Seattle, except maybe for the number of country stations.
As much as some of us disliked Ray Taliaferro and his mumbling recitation of today’s Democratic Party talking points or Dr. Bill Wattenburg’s patronizing pronouncements from Mount Olympus, at least they were different from the homogenized pap we got from the syndicated meat-grinder.
At one time, the FCC and the FTC kept corporations from swallowing up media outlets like that red gelatinous nightmare we saw in The Blob. By enervating those regulators, it became impossible for independents and small chains to fight off being absorbed by the aggregators like Cumulous.
There's lots of blame to go around on both sides of the political spectrum. The Democrats say they're on the side of the little man, and I agree, but he's the little man with the handlebar moustache on the Monopoly board.
We’ve got the best politicians money can buy.
Sixty years ago, Humphrey Bogart played a crusading newspaper editor in Deadline, U.S.A. He and his publisher, Ethel Barrymore, tried to fight off a take-over bid fueled by her greedy children who were anxious to cash in by selling off to conglomerate. “The Day” got sold and that city lost an independent voice. It was a different medium, but it's the same story.
I’ve been reading a lot about Facebook campaigns and proposed advertiser boycotts, but these seldom succeed. Outrage rarely lasts longer as it takes to type the screed.
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| Larry Ellison to the rescue? |
As I see it, the only real chance is if some Bay Area millionaire(s) decide to buy the bankrupt 960-AM and persuade Mickey Luckoff out of retirement to helm a Mickey Rooney, Judy Garland Andy Hardy-esque revival. (“Dad’ll let us use the barn, and Mom’ll help us make the costumes. Let’s put on a radio station!”)
Who knows, maybe Larry Ellison might do it. He’s just egotistical enough to want expand his Oracle brand to broadcasting.
Talk to me: KennATKennFongDOTcom.
Racing’s Terrible Toll
No doubt you must have heard about and perhaps seen yesterday’s horrific accident at Las Vegas Motor Speedway which killed two-time Indy 500 winner Dan Wheldon. It was both horrifying and mesmerizing. Within a few minutes it must have been certain to the folks in the booth that Wheldon (a colleague who had worked with some of the producers and technical personnel earlier this season for 3 races), was dead. The producer and director wisely chose not to show replays after the first 15 minutes and they did not show the wrecked chassis of his car, which track officials wisely covered immediately.
The clip begins onboard Wheldon’s car. “GO LOW! GO LOW! GO LOW!” Wheldon’s spotter screamed. The car takes flight at the bottom of the track (0:15) and bursts into flame as it hits the catch-fence in front of the O'Reilly Auto Parts sign. At 0:26 a barely audible gasp, "He's dead."
It must have been the hardest two hours of their careers for Marty Reid, Eddie Cheever, and Scott Goodyear, the men in the ABC/ESPN booth. They knew the obvious had occurred and any doubts they might have had evaporated as the minutes interminably crawled by and Indy officials were not forthcoming with details of his treatment. Normally, when a driver gets injured, within a few minutes there’ll be either a full rundown of his injuries if they're minor or they'll at least say if he's awake and talking. The silence must have echoed in their ears.
Still, they could not speculate or allow their emotions to get the best of them. The official news would not come until someone reached Wheldon’s parents in England to gently break the news.
The cars were driving on a 1.5 mile high-banked oval track in Las Vegas, built for NASCAR. Stock cars have fenders and quarter-panels covering the wheels. If you graze another car, usually you don’t send him out of control. But open wheel cars are very different. When wheels touch or one wheel is grazed by the front wing of another, it’s disastrous. Las Vegas was known as one of the smoothest, best paved tracks, which lulled the drivers into driving “flat,” meaning they never lifted off the accelerator.
The initial crash occurred about a quarter mile ahead of him, but when you’re travelling at 220 MPH, that means your car moves forward 321 feet per second. That’s more than a whole football field and one end zone. “GO LOW! GO LOW! GO LOW!” his spotter screamed, but it was too late. Wheldon could not take evasive action. Another car came down in front of him and that’s when his left front wheel went over the back of that car, launching Wheldon’s car airborne, tumbling like a child’s toy into what’s called the “catch-fence,” which is nothing more than normal chain-link fencing three feet off the ground meant to keep flying debris from injuring spectators, above the SAFER barriers, which are engineered to absorb shock.
Wheldon’s cockpit hit the bottom of the SAFER (Steel And Foam Energy Reduction) barrier and continued into the catch-fence, erupting in flames as it happened. It's unlikely he survived the impact.
Wheldon was universally loved and respected in the garage. He was always known as the fellow who had an extra moment to talk to a fan, pose for apicture, sign an autograph. Countless anecdotes were repeated yesterday from fans who said he knelt down to talk with their child and didn’t just talk, he asked questions and listened. Just two weeks ago, a young friend, Matt Weaver, who writes about NASCAR and Formula 1, covered his first Indy race. He walked through the paddock area and chatted with Wheldon, who was warm, kind, and gracious. They weren't “the big shot series champion” and “the newly-minted journalist;” they were two guys who loved racing.
The race was red-flagged for nearly two hours. After the parade of tear-filled and ashen faces left the driver's meeting, the inevitable announcement was made. Wheldon’s fellow drivers chose to drive a five-lap tribute to him, during which his number 77 was the only number displayed atop the scoring pylon.
Perhaps the saddest ironies are that even though Wheldon had won an Indy Championship and had twice won the crown jewel, the Indy 500, first in 2005 and then again this May, he still had no full-time sponsor going into this, the season's finale. Because he was such a good driver, he was asked to test the new, safer 2012 Indy cars.
The adoption of that car will come one season too late for Dan Wheldon.
On Sunday morning, just hours before his death, he signed a contract to drive next season for Andretti-Greene racing, run by Mario’s son, Michael, who was his team owner when Wheldon won his first Indy 500.
He was going to take Danica Patrick’s vacated seat.
Talk to me: KennATKennFong.com.
The clip begins onboard Wheldon’s car. “GO LOW! GO LOW! GO LOW!” Wheldon’s spotter screamed. The car takes flight at the bottom of the track (0:15) and bursts into flame as it hits the catch-fence in front of the O'Reilly Auto Parts sign. At 0:26 a barely audible gasp, "He's dead."
It must have been the hardest two hours of their careers for Marty Reid, Eddie Cheever, and Scott Goodyear, the men in the ABC/ESPN booth. They knew the obvious had occurred and any doubts they might have had evaporated as the minutes interminably crawled by and Indy officials were not forthcoming with details of his treatment. Normally, when a driver gets injured, within a few minutes there’ll be either a full rundown of his injuries if they're minor or they'll at least say if he's awake and talking. The silence must have echoed in their ears.
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| NASCAR tribute decal for Talladega 10/22 |
Still, they could not speculate or allow their emotions to get the best of them. The official news would not come until someone reached Wheldon’s parents in England to gently break the news.
The cars were driving on a 1.5 mile high-banked oval track in Las Vegas, built for NASCAR. Stock cars have fenders and quarter-panels covering the wheels. If you graze another car, usually you don’t send him out of control. But open wheel cars are very different. When wheels touch or one wheel is grazed by the front wing of another, it’s disastrous. Las Vegas was known as one of the smoothest, best paved tracks, which lulled the drivers into driving “flat,” meaning they never lifted off the accelerator.
The initial crash occurred about a quarter mile ahead of him, but when you’re travelling at 220 MPH, that means your car moves forward 321 feet per second. That’s more than a whole football field and one end zone. “GO LOW! GO LOW! GO LOW!” his spotter screamed, but it was too late. Wheldon could not take evasive action. Another car came down in front of him and that’s when his left front wheel went over the back of that car, launching Wheldon’s car airborne, tumbling like a child’s toy into what’s called the “catch-fence,” which is nothing more than normal chain-link fencing three feet off the ground meant to keep flying debris from injuring spectators, above the SAFER barriers, which are engineered to absorb shock.
Wheldon’s cockpit hit the bottom of the SAFER (Steel And Foam Energy Reduction) barrier and continued into the catch-fence, erupting in flames as it happened. It's unlikely he survived the impact.
Wheldon was universally loved and respected in the garage. He was always known as the fellow who had an extra moment to talk to a fan, pose for apicture, sign an autograph. Countless anecdotes were repeated yesterday from fans who said he knelt down to talk with their child and didn’t just talk, he asked questions and listened. Just two weeks ago, a young friend, Matt Weaver, who writes about NASCAR and Formula 1, covered his first Indy race. He walked through the paddock area and chatted with Wheldon, who was warm, kind, and gracious. They weren't “the big shot series champion” and “the newly-minted journalist;” they were two guys who loved racing.
The race was red-flagged for nearly two hours. After the parade of tear-filled and ashen faces left the driver's meeting, the inevitable announcement was made. Wheldon’s fellow drivers chose to drive a five-lap tribute to him, during which his number 77 was the only number displayed atop the scoring pylon.
Perhaps the saddest ironies are that even though Wheldon had won an Indy Championship and had twice won the crown jewel, the Indy 500, first in 2005 and then again this May, he still had no full-time sponsor going into this, the season's finale. Because he was such a good driver, he was asked to test the new, safer 2012 Indy cars.
The adoption of that car will come one season too late for Dan Wheldon.
On Sunday morning, just hours before his death, he signed a contract to drive next season for Andretti-Greene racing, run by Mario’s son, Michael, who was his team owner when Wheldon won his first Indy 500.
He was going to take Danica Patrick’s vacated seat.
Talk to me: KennATKennFong.com.
Curling up with a warm e-book
Last week was my birthday. Because most of my family was out of town, all merriment was postponed. My sister Karen called to find out how I celebrated my birthday. She was surprised by my response.
I went to the library and took out a book I'd been saving for my birthday, The Prince of Frogtown
, by Rick Bragg.
Most people are surprised to learn that I enjoy reading more than almost anything else I can talk about in polite company. I'll read nearly anything: graffiti, cereal boxes, fine print on User Agreements, anything. I'll spend hours surfing the web learning about architecture, French Impressionist painters, Ernie Kovacs, nearly anything. I tell people I'm like a magpie. A magpie is a bird which will pick up tiny objects and bring them back to its nest. People who live in the country know better than to leave a window open without a screen, because a magpie will see an earring gleaming in the sun and fly in to steal it.
I was one of the earliest adopters of the Internet, and I understood it was the greatest invention of the 20th Century. I had not known how quickly it would dominate the publishing world, sucking away readers from newspapers and magazines the way a factory trawler wipes the ocean bottom clean. Had I known, I would not have been so overjoyed.
Although I spend hours on my iMac surfing the web, I have yet to fully embrace the world of portables including handhelds. I have a Twitter account, but I'm not a self-absorbed Jersey Shore denizen who believes everyone is interested in what I just ate or where I got my latest tattoo.
I spent a good deal of my working life in bookstores and newsstands. I loved the smell of the old oil-based printer's ink when I cut open a fresh bundle of newspapers. (I don't miss getting my fingers dirty.) I love opening a fresh newspaper no one else has touched, turning pages and folding them over, and then folding them in half again, lengthwise, so I can read it the way commuters do on the subway.
I came to believe some of the best writing was ephemeral; printed on cheap paper that yellowed and got brittle after a few hours in the sun.
Once the Internet took hold, I found I was only buying a newspaper to do the crosswords and sudoku. I'd read all the stories before I went to sleep and I got the latest before I hit the streets.
I wonder if future generations will know the intoxication I feel when I enter a used bookstore and take a deep breath of the intoxicating aroma of mildewing paper and decades-old tobacco smoke.
Talk to me: Kenn@KennFong.com.
I went to the library and took out a book I'd been saving for my birthday, The Prince of Frogtown
, by Rick Bragg.Most people are surprised to learn that I enjoy reading more than almost anything else I can talk about in polite company. I'll read nearly anything: graffiti, cereal boxes, fine print on User Agreements, anything. I'll spend hours surfing the web learning about architecture, French Impressionist painters, Ernie Kovacs, nearly anything. I tell people I'm like a magpie. A magpie is a bird which will pick up tiny objects and bring them back to its nest. People who live in the country know better than to leave a window open without a screen, because a magpie will see an earring gleaming in the sun and fly in to steal it.
I was one of the earliest adopters of the Internet, and I understood it was the greatest invention of the 20th Century. I had not known how quickly it would dominate the publishing world, sucking away readers from newspapers and magazines the way a factory trawler wipes the ocean bottom clean. Had I known, I would not have been so overjoyed.
Although I spend hours on my iMac surfing the web, I have yet to fully embrace the world of portables including handhelds. I have a Twitter account, but I'm not a self-absorbed Jersey Shore denizen who believes everyone is interested in what I just ate or where I got my latest tattoo.
I spent a good deal of my working life in bookstores and newsstands. I loved the smell of the old oil-based printer's ink when I cut open a fresh bundle of newspapers. (I don't miss getting my fingers dirty.) I love opening a fresh newspaper no one else has touched, turning pages and folding them over, and then folding them in half again, lengthwise, so I can read it the way commuters do on the subway.
I came to believe some of the best writing was ephemeral; printed on cheap paper that yellowed and got brittle after a few hours in the sun.
Once the Internet took hold, I found I was only buying a newspaper to do the crosswords and sudoku. I'd read all the stories before I went to sleep and I got the latest before I hit the streets.
I wonder if future generations will know the intoxication I feel when I enter a used bookstore and take a deep breath of the intoxicating aroma of mildewing paper and decades-old tobacco smoke.
Talk to me: Kenn@KennFong.com.
Doing the Double
It was possible until a few years ago for professional drivers to “do the double” on Memorial Day Sunday and drive in both the Indianapolis 500 and the Charlotte 600. A driver would finish the Indy 500, hop onto a chopper parked on the infield and transfer to a private jet and fly to Charlotte, changing firesuits along the way. Then NASCAR spoiled the fun; exercising its muscle over the cluster#@$* that was IRL and Champ Cars by moving up the green flag of the Charlotte 600 to make that impossible.Although it’s no longer possible for the drivers to compete in both races, their loss is the viewers’ gain. By narrowing the gap, NASCAR made it easier for racing fans to catch both races and then sit down to dinner with their families. On Sunday, like millions of other race fans around the country, I plan to do the double! (For me it will be a triple, as I will be recording the Grand Prix of Monaco at 4:30 AM and watching it later.)
For a long time, ABC (which has owned the rights to the Indy 500 the same way CBS owned the Masters) broadcast the race on a delayed prime-time edited racecast. This meant either embargoing one’s self to avoid learning who won the race (which was difficult even in the pre-Internet, pre-ESPN days) or surrender and listen to the Indy Radio Network live and then watch the race later knowing the outcome.
Besides being the first four-color daily newspaper, the USA Today revolutionized the special section. From the time it started publishing the special Indy 500 pull-out on the Friday before the race, I started buying it. They printed a full page with full-color illustrations of each car and a head-shot of each driver. It was a lot easier to follow the race when you had not only a list of the cars, drivers, numbers, and teams, but also full color illustrations. I took that page and cut out each car and pasted each to a file card. When the race telecast was still delayed, I would listen to the radio call at my kitchen table with the cards lined up in starting order. Then as the race progressed, whenever they gave a full-field list of the running order, I’d move my cards around to match the positions. When a car went to the garage, I’d turn the card so the image was upside down.(Some years later, the USA Today added the Charlotte 600 to that section, with the same, full-color illustrations of each car, head shots of the drivers, numbers, and teams.)
I’d listen to the voice of Paul Page and his classic station break cue to the engineers at the stations on the network: “You’re listening to the greatest spectacle in racing!” (That was their cue to insert their local commercials and do the station ID.) I remember how he’d hand off the play-by-play to his reporters stationed around the track who would describe the leaders as they approached and passed their vantage points and then handed off the play-by-play to the next track reporter. I could almost picture the full grandstands at the Start/Finish line with the cars lined up in rows of three. Then Jim Nabors would sing “Back Home Again in Indiana” and we’d hear, “Gentlemen, START YOUR ENGINES!” That night I'd watch the race again, for real this time.
I no longer buy the USA Today the Friday before Memorial Day, prepare the index cards and shuffle them for lead changes and every ten laps. Now that I have the Internet, I can sit here with a hot dog and a Coke (of course!) and watch a leaderboard updated in real time using official scoring while I watch the actual race, live. (Thanks to the Internet, I met someone who has known Paul Page and Chris Economaki, and I secured his promise that sometime this weekend he’d shake Mr. Page’s hand and say “Thank you” on my behalf.) Although I get to see the race live and have access to more information now, I feel less involved with the race than I did when I was shuffling my cards around. Now I understand my friends who are a generation older than me when they tell me they felt closer to the action in a baseball game when they only listened. It forced them to pay closer attention.
I wish I could go back.
Talk to me: Kenn@KennFong.com.
The cacophony of idiots
In a lot of ways, the Internet is wonderful. But this is yet another case of the frivolous cacaphony of nonsense created by the vox populi. A lot of what I see on the Internet is like this. The small "d" democracy of the Internet gives license to anyone with a keyboard and a loud opinion, without the necessary common sense to go along with it.
Stop for a second... How do you think people get to be top of their profession in a hard science such as nuclear physics? By spending their days playing golf or watching Star Trek episodes? They work hard studying their discipline and we should respect that.
When I was working in an urban movie theater, from time to time there would be a story about how difficult it was for us to survive because of the competition from Netflix or the monsterplexes in the malls with 20 screens and ten different movies and free parking. I worked in a small, pre-WWI neighborhood theater with only four screens, surrounded by one-hour parking meters with the only free parking two blocks away in a dark lot under a freeway overpass littered with shards of broken autoglass on the asphalt. (A sure sign if you park here, some crack addict is likely to break into your car to steal your stereo.)
We were also losing business because our customers would have to interrupt their movie after 55 minutes to run out and feed their parking meter or risk a $40 ticket. Our city was using parking citations as a major revenue source, consequently they had parking officers constantly patrolling our neighborhood hunting for violations.
❝Yet another case of the frivolous cacophony of nonsense created by the vox populi.❞
2011 March Madness® Brackets Contests
Yeah, I know the NCAA® registered the name, March Madness®. Let the ’em sue me for using it without their permission. This not a comprehensive list. There are others designed specifically for handheld devices, and I saw at least three which could be downloaded at iTunes or the Apple App store. Nearly every sports radio station, sports website, offshore gambling casino has their own.Before we start, courtesy of the invaluable The506.com, here's a schedule for the tournament showing each game, the network it's on, and the announcing team. For those who want a prettier listing, here's the official NCAA list of games and networks, sans the announcing teams. I redid this chart for myself, changing all the times into Pacific Daylight Time. My chart lists the teams, their seeds, region, time, network, and announcing team. [Tuesday night update: I reinserted Eastern Daylight Time. The chart now displays EDT and PDT. And I’m updating the game match-ups with the results from the play-in games. My lawyer told me to remind you all that I am human so if I made any mistakes, it's your fault for not double-checking on your own.]
All contests require registration, so I suggest signing up early. You probably want to submit your brackets early to prevent getting locked out by heavy traffic on Thursday morning. Most contests permit you to start a bracket and save it without submitting, so you can do it in parts.
Some of these contest sites provide a bracket you can print out. Here’s an Excel spreadsheet bracket, courtesy of CollegeHoops.net. They also offer a PDF version and they have their own bracket contest. [Tuesday night update: their contest appears to be closed. When I went to register, it says “Bracket Entry is now locked.“]
Let’s start with the official March Madness® NCAA Men’s Bracket Challenge, on SI.com. It doesn’t say what the prizes are without signing in. Also has a printable bracket. [Tuesday night update: this contest permits up to five separate entries, with one bracket per entry. No prizes are listed -- or if they are, they’re hidden. Deadline is Thursday, 30 minutes before tip-off. There are some nice features even if you don't enter, including interactive brackets so you can try out different scenarios. I think I may submit an entry here based purely on Mascot vs. Mascot.]
CBS Sports Bracket Challenge.First Prize: a trip for four to the 2012 Final Four®. CBS is the official broadcast host of March Madness©. This site also has a Round by Round contest which allows you to submit new picks after each round, so you don't get eliminated early, and a Bracket Manager which you can use for your own friendly bracket contests. [Tuesday night update: this contest closes at 11 AM EDT/8 AM PDT. And don't forget the Round-by-Round contest which lets you update your brackets after each round.]
If you think you can pick all 64 winners perfectly, FoxSports.com’s $1,000,000 Bracket Challenge, sponsored by Hooter’s. Second prize is a 60" Westinghouse HDTV and a month’s worth of Hooter’s wings. BracketContest.com also offers a $1,000,000 First Prize for an unblemished bracket. [Tues... etc. This contest closes on Thursday morning Noon EDT/9 AM PDT. If you win the million, they pay it out as an annuity over 40 years.]Yahoo Tourney Pick ’em
Looks like the best all-round site. Top prize is ten grand, but like some others, you'll cash a cool million if you pick all 63 games correctly. It also has a good bracket manager for your own competition among friends, but you can join an one of their established groups based on your alma mater or other criteria and pick against them. (No individual prizes for winning any one group, though.) Best of all, it has a Scenario calculator in which you make a few choices, and it generates selections based on those choices. [You know what this is by now... This contest closes at tip-off Thursday morning.]
The New York Times Bracket Contest.First prize, two iPads, one for the Men’s bracket and one for the Women’s. [Contest closes 11:30 AM EDT, 8:30 AM PDT.]
ESPN Tournament Challenge.First prize is $10 grand, second place is $5 grand. [Thursday tip-off.]
Coke Zero NCAA Bracket Challenge sponsored by Chili‘s.
First prize, a luxury trip for four to the 2012 Final Four®. Other prizes include an LG HGTV, free Chili’s Food. [Thursday: 11 AM EDT/8 AM PDT.]
The cheap skates at USA Today’s March Mania contest put up less than two grand in prizes (First Prize, $1500, Second, $250, Third=$100) Their Bracket Central features printable brackets and a bracket manager for your personal contests. [Thursday: Noon EDT/ AM PDT.]This information presented for entertainment only. No gambling, please.
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Talk to me: Kenn@KennFong.com.
Marshall or Profiles in Douchebaggery
Once in a while you meet someone so thoroughly steeped in douchebaggery that it takes your breath away. I don’t mean someone who is truly evil or malicious; those draw no admiration from me. But you very rarely meet someone who is so obnoxious even skunks won’t cross his path out of professional courtesy.
❝He’s so obnoxious even skunks won’t cross his path out of professional courtesy.❞
Exhibit A: Marshall.
Marshall looks mild-mannered behind his Clark Kent glasses, but when you look past the glasses and peer into his soul, you find such a vast and cavernous void that it could double as a yodeling venue. We started off on a slightly off note. He’s a tech guy, a specialist who installs and maintains networks in your home and business. I’ve known enough of these guys to mostly like them. They are used to being patient with their clients; pretending not to discover that the equipment was unplugged or a connection was loose.
(They do this for two reasons. They don’t want to rub your nose in your own stupidity and they know you’re likely to do it again, which means another service call for them. Ka-Ching! They fumble around and say “hmm” a few times, explain it with some equivoce, and hand you a bill saying the problem was “BSAK.”
When you ask them what that means, they explain that “BSAK issues” are pretty common. It‘s too technical to explain, but I fixed it. What they don't tell you is “BSAK” means “Between Seat And Keyboard,” meaning, you dunce, why didn’t you check all the connections first?)
I was discussing an issue with some web code with someone who did a little web design. Marshall heard two sentences, and right away he had to tell me why I was having that problem. Never mind that he was never a professional web designer. He knew better.
One afternoon, not long after I received my new business cards, I was passing them out. I had included a calendar on the back, and most people immediately commented how handy that was and how they would hold onto the card, which was why I chose that feature.
❝He’s so obnoxious even skunks won’t cross his path out of professional courtesy.❞
Exhibit A: Marshall.
Marshall looks mild-mannered behind his Clark Kent glasses, but when you look past the glasses and peer into his soul, you find such a vast and cavernous void that it could double as a yodeling venue. We started off on a slightly off note. He’s a tech guy, a specialist who installs and maintains networks in your home and business. I’ve known enough of these guys to mostly like them. They are used to being patient with their clients; pretending not to discover that the equipment was unplugged or a connection was loose.
(They do this for two reasons. They don’t want to rub your nose in your own stupidity and they know you’re likely to do it again, which means another service call for them. Ka-Ching! They fumble around and say “hmm” a few times, explain it with some equivoce, and hand you a bill saying the problem was “BSAK.”
When you ask them what that means, they explain that “BSAK issues” are pretty common. It‘s too technical to explain, but I fixed it. What they don't tell you is “BSAK” means “Between Seat And Keyboard,” meaning, you dunce, why didn’t you check all the connections first?)
I was discussing an issue with some web code with someone who did a little web design. Marshall heard two sentences, and right away he had to tell me why I was having that problem. Never mind that he was never a professional web designer. He knew better.
One afternoon, not long after I received my new business cards, I was passing them out. I had included a calendar on the back, and most people immediately commented how handy that was and how they would hold onto the card, which was why I chose that feature.
Trevor Bayne Hot Lap at Phoenix International Raceway
FIRST HERE ON BLOGGER. SpinDoctor500Blog and AZ Republic sports writer Michael Knight was interviewing Trevor Bayne before Sunday’s race and young Bayne offered him a hot lap around Phoenix International Raceway. Read his account here.
“Why don’t we take off our seatbelts? It’d be a little more fun!” Bayne chuckled.
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Talk to me: Kenn@KennFong.com.
Rookie Trevor Bayne wins 2011 Daytona 500 in 2nd NASCAR start
Young Bayne was asked to hold out his hand prior to the race. “Are you nervous?” he was asked. Trevor held his hand steady and said, “No, sir.” During the coverage, Fox broadcaster and former Daytona 500 winner Darrell Waltrip, a lay preacher, had nothing but praise for the polite young man, mentioning more than once that Bayne had led his team in private prayer after the public invocation which preceded the race.
Keep Your Eye on the Ball
The other day I was in a meeting for a civic organization I’ve joined. Although I joined and participate in their activities, the jury is still out as to whether I will continue with them, but that’s another story, although I touch on it briefly here.
A group of us were in a department meeting. Sitting in with us was an academic, a bonafide top authority in his discipline, who had done his Ph.D. on the field we’re in. He was here to do a follow-up to see how the environment had changed in the ensuing five years. We’d all approved his presence and we spoke frankly as we always do.
A group of us were in a department meeting. Sitting in with us was an academic, a bonafide top authority in his discipline, who had done his Ph.D. on the field we’re in. He was here to do a follow-up to see how the environment had changed in the ensuing five years. We’d all approved his presence and we spoke frankly as we always do.
The Power of Ritual
About 40 years ago I was playing a lot of chess. I was nothing special, but I could beat just about anyone who didn’t play in tournaments. Bobby Fischer had just become World Champion, and chess was booming in the United States. The Bay Area was a thriving greenhouse of chess talent, perhaps second only to New York City, because of its proximity to the University of California in Berkeley, and Cal’s arch-nemesis, Stanford, on the other side of the Bay.
One Spring I went to a master chess tournament in a bar on College Avenue called “The Loft.” I recognized a few familiar faces, but no one I had met. I watched a few games. To someone who has never played tournament chess before, watching a chess game must seem duller than watching Jello coagulate, but to someone who plays, it's a mind-boggling torrent of combat.
I don’t remember exactly how I introduced myself to Dennis Fritzinger, but I do remember that afternoon, I got him to sign a tournament book of games, a tournament in which he had scored respectably. Dennis was the first chess master I’d met who was more than polite to me. He answered my questions about his game that day, and when I saw him at another tournament, he remembered me, and said hello first.
One Spring I went to a master chess tournament in a bar on College Avenue called “The Loft.” I recognized a few familiar faces, but no one I had met. I watched a few games. To someone who has never played tournament chess before, watching a chess game must seem duller than watching Jello coagulate, but to someone who plays, it's a mind-boggling torrent of combat.
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| Gary Snyder and Dennis Fritzinger |
“We All Need Our Cookies”
Recently I joined the East Bay PEN, the Professional Experience Network, an organization composed of professionals who help other professionals. Couple of weeks ago, I attended my first General Meeting. Although I’m a new member and I haven’t yet completed my training, my résumé coach, Mr. Ben English, looked me square in the eyes and said, “You’re going to attend this meeting.’
We’d only just met, but I knew this much: if Mr. Ben English says I’m attending a meeting, if I know what's good for myself, I’m gonna attend that meeting.
I sat quietly, trying to get the lay of the land. Because I was the FNG, I didn’t feel it was my place to say anything. (Vietnam vet slang for “Freaking New Guy.” Except they used another word instead of “Freaking.” You never wanted to go out on patrol with the FNG because he’s green and he’s gonna get you killed.) Much of the meeting concerned attendance. Why were members dropping out after a few weeks? What could the organization do to serve them better (and reduce the rate of attrition)?
We’d only just met, but I knew this much: if Mr. Ben English says I’m attending a meeting, if I know what's good for myself, I’m gonna attend that meeting.
I sat quietly, trying to get the lay of the land. Because I was the FNG, I didn’t feel it was my place to say anything. (Vietnam vet slang for “Freaking New Guy.” Except they used another word instead of “Freaking.” You never wanted to go out on patrol with the FNG because he’s green and he’s gonna get you killed.) Much of the meeting concerned attendance. Why were members dropping out after a few weeks? What could the organization do to serve them better (and reduce the rate of attrition)?
Just because a dog can talk, doesn't mean you should listen
In Sunday’s New York Times Op-Ed pages (yes, pages, even though no trees were sacrificed for my convenience), comedian/actor/musician/author Steve Martin wrote about an unpleasant experience he had at the 92nd Street Y as part of their speakers series. Mr. Martin is currently on a book tour promoting his new novel, An Object of Beauty, about the world of art, a subject Mr. Martin, a serious collector of modern art, knows well. The promoters of the Speakers series knew he was on a book tour promoting this novel, and they knew the subject of it.
This fact is undeniable: the promoters at the 92nd Street Y knew the reason Mr. Martin would be in town and what he was promoting. They asked Mr. Martin to select his interviewer; he chose an old friend, Debra Solomon, an art scholar and contributor to the New York Times. They were informed of his choice of interviewer and in the course of due dilligence, were provided with a bio of Ms. Solomon, which was used in the marketing of their appearance. (Mr. Martin and Ms. Solomon had engaged in a public conversation before an audience some years ago in Washington, D.C. and remembered it was rewarding, so they were looking forward to yet another.)
To be clear: The 92nd Street Y knew Mr. Martin was promoting a novel about the world of art. They knew that he had asked an art critic to participate in the conversation. They included this information in their advertising and press releases about the appearance. Mr. Martin and Ms. Solomon knew they had signed a contract to appear on a certain day and time and have a conversation between each other. Ticket buyers were informed of these facts as well in the advertising and promotional material.
This fact is undeniable: the promoters at the 92nd Street Y knew the reason Mr. Martin would be in town and what he was promoting. They asked Mr. Martin to select his interviewer; he chose an old friend, Debra Solomon, an art scholar and contributor to the New York Times. They were informed of his choice of interviewer and in the course of due dilligence, were provided with a bio of Ms. Solomon, which was used in the marketing of their appearance. (Mr. Martin and Ms. Solomon had engaged in a public conversation before an audience some years ago in Washington, D.C. and remembered it was rewarding, so they were looking forward to yet another.)
To be clear: The 92nd Street Y knew Mr. Martin was promoting a novel about the world of art. They knew that he had asked an art critic to participate in the conversation. They included this information in their advertising and press releases about the appearance. Mr. Martin and Ms. Solomon knew they had signed a contract to appear on a certain day and time and have a conversation between each other. Ticket buyers were informed of these facts as well in the advertising and promotional material.
