The Doc at the Lake

Though Lake Tahoe is one of nature's wonders and a nice place to visit, living there doesn't live up to the hype. It's expensive and crowded, and if you don't ski or gamble there isn't much else to do. Except work. So I spent the year I lived at Tahoe working on the lake's north shore at KEZC-FM Kings Beach.

It was late August of 1978. I’d just finished a fun summer working for the Spokane Indians baseball team. But not so fun was coming up empty in my quest for my first radio gig. By late August I’d basically run out of stations- at least locally- to hand off my tape and resume, a futile endeavor capped three weeks earlier by a disheartening hour with KHQ Spokane's program director, Chuck Heaton; the man who said I should seek another vocation because I'd never succeed in radio.(see "Don't Call Us, We'll Call You", blogpost 3.4.11). That’s what his carefully considered opinion and, three weeks later, am quite certain he thought he was doing me favor.

So with no regional luck, I’d have to leave town. At least if I wanted to work in radio. And that’s how I ended up working at KEZC in Lake Tahoe. And of course I’d like to tell you I got that first break based solely on my outstanding ability. But I know better. I got there because big brother Steve ran the joint and offered me the job. In fact, with almost zero broadcast experience, except college radio, it was probably the only way I'd get that first job at all. Of course going to work for family went against every grain of fiber in my body.

But if you want something bad enough, sometimes beggars can't be choosers. I was a fresh-out-of-work 23 year-old former group baseball ticket sales/delivery person, and though it wasn't the broadcast match made in heaven I was hoping for, it was a full time job in radio. KEZC (and Steve) were prepared to take a chance on me. And with an "I'll show you" attitude for Chuck Heaton, and VW Rabbit packed to the gills with all my stuff, I left Spokane and everyone I cared about to travel to the far away Lake Tahoe basin to begin my professional career. 

The destination ended at Kings Beach, the last little California burg on Tahoe's North Shore before crossing into Nevada. But the radio station itself was literally all over the map. KEZC-FM's city of license was in Truckee. The tower stood on Brockway Grade, about 15 miles away off Highway 267 near the Northstar Ski Area. And the studios occupied two upstairs suites in a funky little office building on Kings Beach’s main drag. For such an insignificant little radio station, it was scattered over a lot of real estate. 

The broadcast studio had a gorgeous view right out onto the Lake; which was a pleasant distraction from the constant state of office remodeling going on. Until the week after Thanksgiving, the air staff worked around piles of drywall and sheetrock materials, and ducking under assorted wires- nearly all of them, live- dangling all over the place. It was a Cal-OSHA nightmare. The building was one smoldering cord away from immolation; the person on duty one spilled coffee puddle and a spark from electrocution. I kept imagining the North Shore waking up one morning to the following headline: DJ burns up the airwaves and dies at post as KEZC burns to the ground.

But we all survived the transition, though I almost didn't survive the format--country. I hated country music. No, I detested it. Demographically appealing to Hillbillies and old people, I wanted no part of it. I wanted to play something relevant. I wanted to play Top 40 rock. Chicks don’t gig guys spinning records by guys named Conway Twitty?! Chicks don’t dig guys playing records that all sound like twangy fingernails scraping a blackboard. Country music sucked. There was nothing to like about it and it broke my heart knowing nobody my own age would be tuned in. Or maybe that was a good thing. I don’t know. However, you don’t always get to choose where you’re going to work or what music you get to play when you get there. So I played Conway Twittty. And survived. And eventually, mostly out of repeated forced repetition, I even developed a tolerance for Conway Twitty and country music.

Like the format, I found life at Lake Tahoe to be an acquired taste, too. But that part of the equation was taking longer; even longer than not vomiting when I sat down to play Conway Twitty songs. I missed Spokane and wanted to go home. And since I was in a strange place and didn't know anybody- and didn't really want to know anybody- I bonded solely with the people at work. Fortunately, they didn’t mind. And though, naturally, none were exactly like the friends I’d left behind in Spokane, most were close enough. In fact, it was a daffy enough crew that I eventually felt right at home. Of course I’ve been in the profession long enough now to know radio stations draw off-the wall quirky characters like a picnic draws ants. And KEZC certainly met its quota. There was Doris, the secretary. She was nice, kind of motherly and maybe the only real sane one on staff. I liked Chris Jensen, too. He was the morning guy, then later the afternoon guy.


Chris had been in the Air Force and, at first, seemed like a real solid Boy Scout type. Buttoned down and professional. But behind the control room door, once the mic was off, the real Chris came on. A non-stop wise-cracker, Chris reveled in lightly biting the hand that fed him; mocking the weather guy, teasing the news lady and making jokes about the playlist- and artists on the playlist, including  one of his faves, Conway Titty. He also lambasted the sales people, Steve and the listeners; especially the listeners. Chris saved his best material for them, for no other reason than listening to our silly little station and bothering to call in. Of course, it was only after they hung up, and mostly to amuse me. But he never used profanity or got too personal, and it was always in good fun. So yeah, Chris and I got along real well.

When I was promoted during the year from nights to mid-days, a hefty fellow named Brad Riegle joined the staff. However, Brad's brand of humor came with much more of a bite than Chris' skewing towards the profane and immature. Naturally, this bothered me not in the least because back then, those two words pretty much described me to a tee. So Brad and I were a good fit, too. But part of my job was to stick around and read three minutes of local news and weather at the 6:00 shift change between Chris' afternoon show and Brad's evening shift. That placed all three of us- me at the guest mic across from Chris, Brad behind him pulling records- in the same small studio at the same time. Whenever I looked up from my copy, both guys were in plain view. If I’d been a serious professional, this would’ve been highly problematic. But I wasn’t. And neither were they.

 

As the “guest” I didn’t have control of my mic. And every now and then as I was reading through the day’s headlines, Chris would put his mic in cue (meaning nobody could hear what he was saying except the only other guy in the room with headphones on- me) and whisper random, but amusing words and phrases like-

 

 "You're drooling again"

"Excrement”

“Brad dreams of having sex with donkeys”

 "My dog boinked your dog"

 

I could be reading a story on the latest Tahoe Regional Transit Authority meeting, or a car accident on North Lake Boulevard and in mid-sentence suddenly hear Chris talking to me in the headphones. Sometimes, though, the distraction wasn't audio but visual and I'd look up and see both Chris and Brad mooning me. Trust me, nobody wants to see that. About the only thing they didn't try during these 'frat house' times was the age-old lighting the news readers' copy on fire. But the gag was simple; make the news reader keep reading as if nothing was going on. Naturally, I failed miserably and the audience would a giggling school girl instead of a newsreader. And yes, I know- it was childish and stupid. But, I believe, that was the point.

 

Then there was my first brush with an actual living breathing stereotypical greasy sales guy. Del Tierney was our Herb Tarlek ("WKRP in Cincinnati") before there even was a Herb Tarlek. Del was Herb's prototype, right down to the loud sports jackets and white leather shoes. The man reeked of polyester, days' old Marlboro smoke, and too many years on the road hustling for a buck. He also displayed an insincere smile that couldn’t hide some pretty un-stellar denture work. Nevertheless, Del could sell. The man oozed slime, bad taste and put-on charm, nevertheless Del could sell. And whatever integrity or scruples he’d come into the world with had long since been shed, as a snake sheds its skin. Nevertheless, Del could sell. Yet, for some reason, I liked him. Del Tierney was an interesting creature to know.

However, the guy I hung out with the most was Dennis Croucher. Dennis started at KEZC 8 weeks after I’d come on board, and took over the morning show, which was why Chris got moved to afternoons. Not a huge guy, though taller than me, Dennis (or "Doc" as he preferred) managed a garden of thick red hair on his head with half his face shrouded in a full-on red beard. He looked like a domesticated Yosemite Sam. And with a deep, gravelly voice, he also came with a set of pipes to die for. Doc Croucher was a sociable drifter, moving from town to town and never staying in one place too long. Wherever he found himself, though, he always made lots of friends; especially with the ladies. However, with three trips to the altar already under his belt, by the time I knew him Doc was fairly committed to remain single.  

But when he was on the radio the babes all seemed to come out of the woodwork. They'd call the studio line all morning, just to hear my voice, he’d tell me. It wasn’t out of arrogance or cockiness, though, but rather a genuine bewilderment; like, why? He didn't get it. But with that low resonating voice, probably from all the tobacco sticks he'd inhaled over the years, Doc's deep, rich on-air presence was a sure-fire hit with the chicks. They ate it up and on most weekday mornings I’d bet anything that at least half the female population of North Lake Tahoe- or more- were tuned in and in a tizzy because of Dennis Croucher. Yet despite all the time I spent with him, whatever Doc had going that made him click with the opposite sex, none of “it” ever rubbed off on me. Around women I remained a total goober. And I couldn’t blame Conway Twitty. It just was.

So I watched, tried to learn and wished I could be like him. Like Doc Croucher, that is, not Conway Twitty. But even if I was still a big zero away from the office, I was sure having a good time at the office. Like Chris Jensen’s, Doc’s wry sense of humor was continuously on display. But unlike Chris' in-house ridicule, Doc's humor tended to be more 'global', poking fun at the stuffy, pretentious, and absurd going on outside KEZC’s walls. I came on right after Dennis, at ten in the morning. He'd hang around, or go and come back until I got off the air at 2 and take me with him to lunch at one of the nearby watering holes, usually either OB’s Board in Truckee or the tavern at Pelican’s Pier in Carnelian Bay.  

Pelican’s was 'Doc's' favorite place at the Lake, but whether there, or  at OB’s or someplace else, lunch always seemed to be his treat. “I take care of my friends” he said every time the check came. Nobody was getting rich at KEZC that was for sure but Dennis always covered the fare and never let me buy. As we ate and gabbed, I didn’t drink much, just enough to relax. But Dennis could put it away. He'd polish off 3 glasses of beer before I’d gone through one. But you couldn't tell. He was always in control of himself as he held court, entertaining all comers with wild stories of his life, hardly any of them believable. He sure told them as if they were, though. Regardless, it was great being a part of his inner circle, but also amazing he and I ever got any work done. Sometimes we were gone all day and into the evening. But those were definitely my salad days at KEZC.

 It wasn't all fun and games, though. Everyone pulled 6-day work weeks and, being low man on the totem pole, I usually drew the least desirable time slots, including the Saturday night  6 p.m.to midnight shift. I got that one a lot. But one of these long boring nights in particular stands out and Doc played a huge role in it. It was a nasty crummy Lake Tahoe winter night, with snow and freezing rain coming down outside as if it’d never stop. But inside, for some undetermined reason, the heater had gone out in the building and wouldn’t be repaired until Monday. A tiny little space heater had been set up in the frosty studio. But otherwise, anyone working till Monday would be broadcasting in cold and bleak surroundings. But not that night; not for me, anyway, because Dennis came to the rescue.

I’d been on the air about an hour. Around 7:00 I left the studio to refill my coffee cup and heard footsteps coming up the stairwell. Whoever it was had to be an employee because nobody else would have a key to get in at that time of day. I was right. Just like a St. Bernard coming to the aid of a lost hiker in the Alps, Doc threw open the front door and happily bounded in- a girl in one hand, and brand new unopened bottle of brandy in the other. I wasn’t exactly sure why he was there, but after introductions were made and his lady friend had stepped into the powder room, Doc leaned close.

Speaking conspiratorially, he whispered, “I've already got something to keep warm tonight. This little baby here is yours", and pointed to the bottle. No wonder I liked the guy, though I wouldn't have minded if he'd kept the booze and left the girl. I didn’t swallow the bottle, merely filled my coffee mug maybe twice over the next 5 hours. Okay, it was three times, but who's counting? Ah, but the brandy went down nice and smooth. And as the records spun on and on and, thanks to a growing buzz, my insides grew cozier and cozier; I began to lose interest in the cold studio and wintry night. And my show. Here's another song on KEZC. Now leave me alone. However this particular Saturday night stands out, and not merely because of Doc's hospitality.

 

It was November 18, 1978, the night of the Jonestown Massacre in Guyana. The first bulletins trickled across the wire about 10 p.m. and at first I thought maybe I was drunk because it all sounded made-up: unconfirmed reports… a California senator and some NBC-TV news reporters gunned down…. ambushed att an airstrip in Guyana?? Where the hell was Guyana, and why was a California congressman and the national media there with him? I tore the wire copy off the teletype and, whether I believed it made sense or not, read it as written at the 10:30 news break. At 11 the top of the hour Mutual Broadcasting System feed led with more details. The initial reports were true and getting worse. 

Now fully alert, I tried to gather as much information as I could before our midnight sign-off. But it would take till the next morning before the rest of the grim story became known- the mass suicide of over 900 unfortunate souls, followers of the deranged Rev. Jim Jones. They’d been forced at gun point to drink cyanide laced Kool-aid. Congressman Leo Ryan and the TV reporters were killed to prevent them from reporting to the outside world what they’d seen. It was a terribly disturbing story. BUT it was the first really big news story to break while I was actually working and on the air.

Of course, that means nothing to anyone who hasn’t worked in our industry. But to a radio rookie guy- even one who'd kept company with a bottle of brandy most of his air shift - it was most certainly a fascinating night to be working. I'm glad I only drank just enough not to forget it. But besides bearing gifts on a cold night, Dennis taught me a lot about radio, too. Not just mic technique and technical stuff. He taught me the nuances of being a professional broadcaster; he taught be how to be an announcer without announcing. He pushed me to be real, not phony, and never open the mic unprepared. Most of all, taught me to believe in myself, although, admittedly, this may still a work in progress.  

I didn’t- and still don’t- like my voice or delivery and whined because I couldn’t sound as good as Doc. But Doc, 16 years my senior, said it’d taken him a long time “to get this good”. Of course he’d laugh, but in the next breath say it’d probably take a little while for me too. But it I kept working at it, it would come. “With age comes perfection. Just like a fine wine” Then he’d chide, "Besides, there’s already a Doc Croucher and the world doesn’t need another one. They want an original Rocket. Nobody else has your God-given talents. So for crissakes, just be yourself and shut up. I think you're good, okay?" And after awhile, at least when I was working around him, I even started to believe him. 

Sometimes these coaching sessions were conducted while out to lunch at OB’s or Pelican’s, over a meal or two and a brew. And as the day or evenings glow began to fade and Doc stopped flirting with the waitresses, he’d become a little more mellow and serious and get back to business. Our business. “Look, you’ve been given a gift. You get to talk on the radio for a living. Do you know how many people who listen and call in would die to trade places with us? So get off your ass and get off yourself. You're one of the lucky ones; not only are you young, but you can talk and read and have enough talent to blend the two into a pleasant sounding radio personality that should lead to a nice long future in our profession. So quit effing with yourself and, tomorrow, when you go back in there, just sit down at the effing console and do it."  Sage advice.

 

Doc kept me going during those KEZC months, a time of life that was very hard for me. Though I kept busy with work, my homesickness for Spokane had yet to erode. I still wanted to go back. And Doc knew that. I told him so. So he helped me the best way he could, by challenging me to keep working at my craft and get better so that someday, I could go back. And I did. A few months later, I was able to leave Lake Tahoe and KEZC and find my way to the morning slot at KZUN AM & FM, broadcasting from Opportunity, Washington, in the Spokane Valley.

It was a happy ending for me. But radio is such a transitory business and not long after I left Tahoe, Doc drifted away also, off to parts unknown. Which was sad because, during  a few dark days that came once I did get back to Spokane (which I never saw coming), I wished I could've called him up and let him verbally kick me in the ass and tell me to get back up on the horse- all in the spirit of  friendship, of course. I missed our "encouragement" sessions.  There were days I really needed to hear his voice. But I don't know what happened to Doc. I never crossed paths or heard from him again either. However, I'll always remember his kindness when I was a young insecure broadcaster. There was still so much I didn't know, but at the dawn of my career, Doc was there to take me under his wing and teach me how to fly.  

And while I never did learn to love life at Lake Tahoe, I didn't really hate it either. I still could barely stomach Conway Twitty. But the 9 months there at Tahoe, I think, were well spent; and not just because it’s where I got my first radio gig. It sticks out positively because for the first time I got to know and be friends with, and be accepted by, other broadcasters. No longer on the outside looking in, I was now really in. And that was pretty cool.  So I look back and count it an honor and a blessing to have been part of the KEZC crew that year.

But Doc was the best of the bunch.  He made a difference and helped me grow professionally. So wherever you are, Doc Croucher- and though it was for only a short time- thank you for being my mentor and my friend.