What You Hear Is What You Get

A friend and former colleague in the radio biz came by to see me today. "Super" Mike Wilson is the 7 pm to midnight jock at one of the local Hot AC stations; hot AC being just another vague radio term for the format formally known as Top 40. But before moving cross-town and taking on his new gig, Mike and I shared the same office, filling a number of off-air, behind-the-scenes positions in the programming department here at EMF Broadcasting.

Though my days as a jock are probably behind me and Mike's are just getting started, rather than actually working we spent a lot of time exchanging tales of our time on radio's front lines. Yes! At least one more person who hasn't been mesmerized, slash, bored by the same loquacious stories I’ve been sharing here in the blog. In other words Mike indulged me. But we shared plenty of laughs at the expense of some unforgettable (though not always in a good way), program directors, co-workers and listeners.

At EMF, Mike’s position had been only part-time and, though sad to see him leave, the opportunity to go full time, particularly full time on the air, was too golden to pass up. For up and coming broadcasters like Mike, those types of opportunities don't come along every day and I knew he’d go for it. But as he mulled it over this summer, I found it easy hearkening back and imagining myself again in Mike's shoes; back when I , too, was just getting started in the business.

Mike's 25 and I was 23 when I got my first full time break, so our starting points are similar. And I didn't care if they put me on overnights or weekends or holidays- just put me on. Like it was yesterday, I can remember my weeks at Spokane's KZUN and, later, KGA, feeling the same inner mixture of excitement and wide-eyed enthusiasm, bits of initial trepidation, and billowing career expectations that Mike must be going through now. For me, though the hours were wacky and often felt like I was living in a whirlwind, the most pure un-jaded fun of my entire broadcast career came during those first intense years. 

Of course, the fun didn't last. It couldn't. Like the jolt of “love’ that comes with your first crush, the initial rush of working in radio doesn’t last forever either. And by about the second firing and forth set of call letters, radio had become just a way to make a living. Much of the luster had worn off of my shiny new vocation, too. This was about the time corporate constraints, mis and micro-management, and creativity were sucked out of the experience and the unbridled joy of getting to do what you always wanted to do got turned into just a  job. I hope Mike never goes through that. But I have little doubt that at some point, he will.

It's already starting.

Mike was telling me today how his program director wants him to participate in a focus group of 13-17 year old girls because the station's numbers in that age group during his time slot are down. Nevermind  the target demographic is 18-29. Or the absurdity of requiring a 25 year-old man to involve himself in a "focus group" with school-girl teens. "Oh wonderful", Mike lamented. "Now I have to live, breathe, eat and sleep Justin Bieber and be on Twitter and Facebook all the time so I’ll know what makes high school chicks tick.” He paused before the punch line. "Hell, I didn't care what they thought when I was that age and I sure don't give a crap what they're thinking now". No matter how his boss frames it, the concept seems silly. And just a tad bit creepy, too, though Mike certainly isn’t.

I just wonder how the radio business got so sidetracked. I mean there’s always been consultants and guidelines, formulas and charts for pulling in the most listeners, and deciding which records to play. They're all necessary evils. But in the last 15 to 20 years, with the expansion of technology and diminishing number of sole proprietor, or family owned radio stations, these minor annoyances have become major artistic sticking points that chew up energy and imagination. So much of what we do now is so weighted down and attached at the hip to things like Cume and TSL (time spent listening) and narrow-casting, it’s amazing the broadcast industry as a whole can stand straight enough to take the proverbial leak.

Radio people have been replaced by focus groups, talent consultants, bean counters and the latest shiny new hi-tech programming algorithm in order to try and glean the highest ratings. Or steal the most listeners. Almost every radio station in ever-expanding corporate "clusters" are now often programmed by one person or consultant groups so that every station they own pretty much sounds the same. No matter where you are, except for the call letters, a "Star" 94.3” in Indianapolis more than likely sounds exactly like the "Star" 107.8” in Elko. And in an age when generic d.j. voice tracks can be sent easily via mp3 file or FTP sights the "personalities" might be the same in both places as well. Sure, it’s cost effective and might sound slick, too. But it costs jobs, and often feels so very, very canned. Thank you, "I Heart Radio".

A decade or so ago, local radio was either really good, really adequate or really bad, depending on how far off the beaten path you strayed. Regardless, at least the people on the air actually lived in their markets and the sound reflected the community in which it broadcast.  Not so much anymore. Another reason why so many stations sound so much the same is because they're all using the same methodology for determining their playlists. Songs don't make it off the music director's desk anymore until they've first been put through an auditorium test. That’s where groups of 30-40  alleged station listeners, or people at least within the target demographic, get to sit through an hour of :10-:15 second music "hooks", and rate how much they like or dislike each one. For their trouble, they get free cookies and coffee, and maybe a station bumper sticker.

And at the end of the hour, if enough 18-24 year old females in Omaha with red hair and blue eyes like the tiny sampling of record 'A' over record 'B', record 'A' becomes an automatic add while 'record ‘B’ likely never sees the light of day.  A programmer using his gut, instinct and knowing his audience and community anymore counts for nothing. And if you're a local unknown artist just hoping to get your demo a little local air play, forget about it. Everything's by the numbers now. If you're not on a chart, not with a major label or promoter, and you haven't tested well, your song will never be heard outside your circle of friends. At least in corporate-America radio.

Of course, with the introduction of the i-Pod, podcasts, audio streaming, satellite radio, and with consumers having so much access to music and music programming anymore, radio can't be as passive as before. They can’t simply assume they'll attract and keep listeners just because they've always been there, or out of loyalty. They can't operate as a benevolent dictator, deciding to give the audience what they think they want, then ignoring them till the next ratings period. That doesn't work anymore, either. Nowadays, radio is more inner-active and station insiders aren't as much in control. Listeners are more in charge now, and in an industry where it’s a dog-fight to grab and hold on to every last set of ears, making sure those ears feel like they have a say in things is the smart way to operate.

So these new tools and business models are in play just to survive. I get that. I don't always like it, but I get it. At least here where I work, though our on-air guys and gals work under many of the same guiding principles, they're excellent at what they do and nobody listening at home would ever know the noodling-though process that goes into almost every minute of the broadcast day. And frankly, despite my objections and laments, something's working. There must be a method to some of this madness because, at the risk of sounding too boastful, I think we sound awesome. Of course, we're a coast to coast network too, so we better be. Still, I feel a little bad for Mike, having to try and not talk down to a portion of his audience that's considerably younger. I had to do the opposite.

Going to work in my early 20's at two very traditional country music stations, I was tasked with talking and relating to a core group of listeners, the vast majority at least ten years older than me. It was a little intimidating. It was also a little bit of a let-down because as a guy on the radio, I wanted to impress girls my own age; not girls my Mom’s age. I’d have preferred jocking on a rock station, but the jobs I landed were someplace else. But it was a job, paying real money doing real work in real radio. It was also initially, a bit overwhelming,

But one of my first bosses, KGA's Tom Newman, had some good advice. Number one: relax. "What we do here isn't going to cure cancer. It’s all just ear candy." More importantly he said, "You're not announcing to a large nameless crowd. You're just having a nice conversation with one good friend. When you crack the mic, just talk to him or her and everything else will fall into place."  And he was right. Sure I had to stick to the formatics and keep my chatter to 45 seconds or less, but he was right. After that conversation, being on the air was easy. Not easy, in the sense that I was suddenly 'great'. But easy in that I was allowed the freedom and time to develop my own style and personality without the fear of an omni-present programming big-brother breathing down my neck.

And eventually, being on the radio just seemed to come natural.  Cume, TSL, the demographics, focus groups and all the other like-sounding minutia just seemed to take care of itself. And though I wasn't often Arbitron rated on the overnight shifts, when I worked at other times of the day, I could hold my own.  So I held on and had a nice 22 years on the air. And I hope the same, and even more for Mike. Even if he has to know more than he ever wants to know about Justin Bieber and the workings of the teenage girl's mind, someday he’ll look back and know it was all worth it. Have a great career, buddy!

 

September 11, 2001

I was up first that Tuesday morning and, after going to the kitchen for something to eat and let the cats in from the garage, ventured into the living room to turn on the TV. As a creature of habit, this nearly every workday ritual occasionally coincided with a smart-ass sub-conscious query while reaching for the remote:  Well, did the world blow up while I was sleeping? 

 

But that morning, the rhetorical question came back with an unexpected answer- it had.

The TV came on to the channel where it'd been left the night before, one of the news channels, and the first image to pop on was from a helicopter circling the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center in New York. The buildings were both on fire and a split screen long-range shot showed a huge plume of black smoke rising from the Pentagon in Washington, DC. I dropped the remote. I couldn't believe what I was seeing; it made absolutely no sense. Was it a joke” A bad movie? No, the TV picture had "LIVE" superimposed in the corner of the shot. So it was real. Picking the remote off the floor, I hit the up and down arrows only to find the same crazy pictures on almost every channel on the dial. 

 

What the hell was going on?

It was 6:45 a.m., California time. A deep trough of the coastal Marine layer had worked its way inland, greying out the sky over our home in Grass Valley, which is over a hundred miles from the Pacific Ocean. After endless weeks of summer sunshine, the morning overcast was as unexpected as what was on TV and contributed an eerie darkness to the start of the day. But three thousand miles away on the East Coast, it was already a beautiful day--- except for the three burning buildings.

From the back end of the house, I heard the shower stop running and a few minutes later, Amy joined me in the living room, completely unaware the country was under attack. Usually she just briefly investigates  what I'm watching, then moves on; checking outside to decide what to wear, pets the cats and goes on about her routine. But that morning, I think she did a double take and stopped in front of the TV. I told her what I knew, but my explanation made about as much sense as the people on the air, all trying to scramble the events into some sort of context. But there was no context. Nobody saw this coming and nobody really knew what was going on. Besides, the horrific images spoke for themselves. Wanting to, but unable to look away, Amy and I continued watching together until,  in stunned silence,  we saw the first tower came crashing to the ground. As the building fell and debris cloud rose, I still kept thinking- this can't be real, it can't be happening.

But it was.

With an hour plus commute, I finally had to tear myself away from the television. It was already past 7 and I needed to be on the road by 8. Downing a granola bar and milk, I slipped into the bathroom for a quick shower before getting ready for work. At 7:30, Amy knocked on the door and over the running water I heard her say, "The second tower just came down." I don't even know if I had a reaction. Numbed to just about everything I'd seen so far that morning, without making a comment I just shut off the shower, toweled off and hurriedly got dressed. It was all too surreal: the country was clearly under some sort of attack led by an unknown enemy dressed as armed hijackers. As dreadful as that sounds, though, I wasn't scared. Not until I drove off to work.

As a 5 day a week commuter to Sac, my radio station of choice back then was KFBK, the big Sacramento news/talker, because their traffic reports were the most frequent and best. A guy named Commander Bill did the morning updates, a job he'd been doing jovially for years. But at 8:15, after a quick update on the Business 80 conditions, in a voice that sounded both grave and a little confused, he said that'd be his last report for the morning (normally there'd be 4 more). Having just received instructions from air traffic control, Commander Bill told the KFBK world he had to land immediately because all aircraft were being grounded by the FAA-- not just over Sacramento, but every commercial aircraft flying over the continental United States had been given orders to land immediately.

If that unprecedented announcement wasn't unsettling enough, there was more to come. EMF Broadcasting hadn’t yet moved to our new building in Rocklin, California, so I had over an hour to listen to the breaking news updates coming in from all over the country. Another hi-jacked plane had crashed in Western Pennsylvania. An in-bound 747 from Hawaii was on course to crash into the Golden Gate Bridge. Others were headed to Seattle's Space Needle, the Sears Tower in Chicago. The White House and Capitol Building in DC were being evacuated, reports of a possible truck bomb outside the State Department. Except for the crash of United Flight 93 near Shankesville, Pa, these were all false reports. But in the chaos and confusion of the awful morning, nobody could possibly have known that for sure.

At ten past 9, I got go to work, shut off KFBK and walked through the front door to start my day  in the dumpy office complex K-love was housed in on Market Blvd, near Arco Arena. But the unfolding events of the morning proved too distracting. Instead of creating sweepers and imaging in one of the production rooms- where I was supposed to be- I kept finding myself  loitering in the news room, watching the two TV monitors tuned to CNN and Fox News. I wasn't alone, though. Most of my co-workers were there too, as nobody seemed in a frame of mind to be completely focused on work. The news was simply too riveting and nobody was really sure we weren't going to be attacked again. At 1:45, we gathered as a group and prayed for each other, for the victims in New York and Washington, and for our country, and were reminded, even in the midst of the crisis, God was still in control.

But after 8 and half mostly unproductive hours, I got in my Black Jeep Wrangler and headed home. The sun had earlier burned through the overcast, leaving behind a pleasant late summer afternoon proceeding a gorgeous California sunset sure to come later. But at 5:45 on a Tuesday evening as I sped eastbound towards the foothills, I should've been in the teeth of rush hour. I-80 should've been wall to wall traffic, but I almost felt alone. I could count the other cars out there with me on both hands. Though I can't say for certain, it sure looked as if most of the Sacramento work force that day had either left early, or hadn't gone in at all.

That whole week was a hard time for the country. But I was fine until Friday, the National Day of Mourning. The Memorial service was being conducted from the National Cathedral in DC and KFBK had it on my way to work. It was a clear warm day and with the Sacramento valley stretched out in front of me, I was only half listening when on the radio a boys’ choir began to sing a hymn. Then I noticed a guy on the over-crossing at Newcastle. Facing traffic, he stood at full attention with an American flag. Holding it secure in his left hand, he saluted each oncoming car with his right. I went under the overpass and in the rear view mirror behind me another gentleman was facing cars coming up the hill in the other direction. He, too, had a flag and was saluting each vehicle.

Well that was too much. With the somber music playing, and everybody still trying to cope with the carnage in NYC and DC, the enormous loss of life and feeling the country's new sense of vulnerability, my eyes started to water. I couldn't help it. It got to me. I don't think I've told anyone about that ride, because it seems kind of embarrassing now; get a grip, right? But life didn't stop and we had to go on, and still reeling from that emotional second week in September, I found myself alone in my car and openly crying as I continued that Friday morning commute. But I looked at a car passing to my left, and the lady inside was wiping her eyes too. I can't prove it, but I'll bet the guys on the overpass got to her as well.

I'm pretty sure almost anyone who was alive ten years ago remembers exactly where they were and what they were doing on September 11, 2001, too. But that's my story anyway. It's hard to believe, though, that the 10 year anniversary of that awful day is tomorrow. Undoubtedly there'll be tons of coverage and retrospectives in all mass media; so much so that by the time everybody gets back to work Monday morning, we may be on 9/11 overload. But that's okay. History can sort out all the geo-political ramifications that came later, and I'll leave the debate over cause and effect and lessons learned to those with mouthpieces bigger than mine.

But I don't think we should ever forget the worst day in our country's history. I don't think we should ever forget or tire of remembering the nearly 3000 fellow Americans who died that day, or the first-responder heroes who counter-intuitively rushed into the danger to try and save them. Or the men and women of Flight 93 that sacrificed themselves in a death match with the hijackers to re-take control of their plane and prevent the bad guys from carrying out another attack on Washington.

I also think we should remember who attacked us. We were not attacked by soldiers of another country during wartime. We were attacked by Islamic terrorists in peacetime. There's nothing noble or brave about ramming a commercial jet fully loaded with fuel and innocent passengers into buildings fully staffed with innocent office workers. Nobody should lose sight of that. And the 19 cowards who exploited our freedoms to pull it off? They are what they are- dead craven criminals. There's no earthy justification for what they did, no matter a person's faith or belief system, and nobody should lose sight of that, either.

Yet those guys offer a sober and undeniable contrast between what’s good in the world and what is truly evil. Nobody should ever lose sight of that. 

And from out of the ashes I hope we never forget 9/11, in the sincere hope that another day like it, never happens again.

 

Back to School, Part 2

It was my first year in college and supposedly, my first year of “growing up”. Yet after Mom and Dad left after that miserable weekend from Hell, I felt as clueless, small and lost as on the first day of high school. To be fair, there were people around me trying to help me assimilate. But the process was coming along slowly; too slowly. Of course I knew it was because I wasn't trying all that hard. But at that point, I really didn’t want to. Locked in a self-imposed morose that I’d grown accustomed to, what was the point? Being miserable met all my expectations

However, one of the few routines I actually looked forward to during that first semester at Whitworth was my daily sojourn to the HUB, or Hardwick Union Building. That’s where student’s got their mail and I was so homesick, peeking into the tiny mailbox window and seeing something there in the Fall of 1974 was like water to a thirsty man in the desert. Mostly it was cards and notes from family or somebody at church. But sometimes Mom would surprise me with a care package of cookies or other homemade goodies. The cookies were sometimes broken and falling apart- or even a little stale- but it was a taste of home and nothing ever tasted sweeter.  After treats, the best mail came from Glenn Vogel and my neighborhood pals. Though out of sight, hearing from those guys made me smile and feel I wasn't out of mind, too.

I was still sad, though, and weekends were the worst. Classes and other activities- like homework- ate up the days Monday through Friday. But the weekends seemed to drag on forever and I’d be blue, so I’d get in my car and just go driving. Somewhere, anywhere. I’d drive for hours out in the country and back roads around Spokane. I had no sense or idea where I was going; I just pointed the car in a direction and drove. Using several routes, these weekend excursions taught me how to get in and out of Spokane and back to campus again. Even without a map and long before a GPS, by Halloween I knew my way around Eastern Washington and North Idaho like I knew the back of my hand.

 

During these drives, the radio was always on to KJRB or KREM or KHQ- whichever wasn't in commercial. Among the hits of the day, ”Cats in the Cradle” by Harry Chapin, Chicago’s “Wishing You Were Here” and “When Will I See You Again” by the Three Degrees always seemed to come up in rotation every couple of hours. I heard these songs so much I learned to loathe them. I hated them, not just because of the annoying repetition, but because they somehow made me long for home. (Today? These classic tunes make me think back nostalgically to that time, those long solitary drives. In the moment though, I’d have sacrificed my last dollar to never hear them again)

 

And as the random miles clicked by on these aimless forays, though I didn’t want to like the Pacific Northwest my antipathy was offset by the beautiful fall surroundings I couldn't help notice on those long journeys to no place. The scenery was gorgeous. How could you not be awed by God’s handiwork? Fall comes early in that part of the world and there were colors of leaves on trees and laying on the expanse of green fields that I don’t believe I’d ever seen in the 18 California autumns I lived through.

 

The World’s Fair (or Expo ‘74) took place in Spokane that year. It was downtown in the newly constructed Riverfront Park area and coming back from my Sunday forays, if there was enough daylight left, after getting off the freeway I’d occasionally make a side trip there to stretch my legs, kill more time and get some air. As a “world’s fair”, it seemed kind of puny compared to the one in Seattle I’d visited as a little kid. But President Nixon had come to the opening ceremonies in May so I guess it was the real deal. It did feature a few interesting international exhibits along with lots of all-American rides hauling lots of happy people, kids and couples. Seeing all that happiness never failed to remind me how completely un-happy I was; naturally the prefect topper to another perfect day.

 

One ‘perfect’ Sunday I even drove all the way into Montana, just to say I'd been there. I left at 10:00 in the morning, got out to 1-90 and headed east. Three and a half hours and about 190 miles later, I was eating a late lunch at a Denny’s in Missoula. Then I turned around and went right back to Spokane. Both coming and going, though, I had to pass through the little town of Wallace, Idaho, a dot on the map notorious for nothing except its regionally famous whore house. To be clear, I did not stop. But knowing how friendless I felt that day, I’d be a liar saying I wasn’t tempted to.

 

I mean, so far I hadn’t run into any of these great girls Mom and Dad and Steve and Lynn promised I’d meet at Whitworth. Where were they? I guess they were around, likely hidden in plain sight. I just wasn’t looking hard enough, I guess, either too shy or chicken to do really focus in. So I was lonely a lot. Nevertheless, I didn't stop in Wallace and visit their house of the rising sun. Some guys probably would. I didn't. Doesn't make me a good person, though; the thought did cross my mind. I just didn’t. Call me Ishmael. Or gutless. Or bothered by a potential guilty conscious. Whatever, I didn’t stop. I drove right past the Wallace exit and kept going. But imagine if I hadn’t and been stupid enough to mentioned it to Mom. Good God, Almighty, Hell hath no fury like what my mother would reign down on her brothel visiting wayward son. She’d have me castrated. But it also could’ve been my ticket home, too; she’d get me back to California and not let me leave the house till I was 30 or something.

 

Back on campus, of the few people in the dorm I dared let in, all continued trying to make me feel more part of the group- even if I remained resistant. And I can’t explain it or point to any one reason why, but shortly after Mom and Dad’s disastrous visit, sometime during the second half of the semester, things began to change. If only a little. I stared spending less time in my room and a little more time trying to integrate myself. I remember hanging out with the guys more in the TV lounge. I also allowed myself to be drafted” into playing intramural soccer for our floor. I was even coaxed into going to the dorm Halloween party by  Ken Crawford, He and his roomie Gary Frank dressed me as a girl and with Ken as my “date”, we won first prize.

 

Their room was directly across the hall from the one I shared with Paul. And after we were Hallowwed ‘King and Queen”, I began spending more time with both Ken and Gary. They'd invite me in and we’d kill an evening, chit-chatting about sports or listening to records. (Although it seems like we only ever listened to one record, Crawford's copy of ”Procol Harum’s Greatest Hits”. Must've been their favorite because I swear I heard “A Whiter Shade of Pale” about a thousand times that semester. Ken was a large fellow, gregarious, sort of a mini-Oliver Hardy type without the bowler hat (and Laurel). Gary on the other hand, was tall, thin and wore glasses. Serious and geeky looking, he was actually neither. But I liked them both.

 

Besides Gary and Ken, I became friends with floor-mates Lance Jones, Lee Ramaley, Greg Neff, Mike Ruebrecht, Ken Young, Dave Matsamura and Rick Smith, or as everybody called him. "Smitty".  (“Smitty" had been at Whitworth a year before I got there and was still taking classes two years after I graduated. For all I know he might still be. I guess he just liked being in college). And there were the two Brad Sprague's, too. I wonder what the odds are of being on the same college dorm floor with two guys who shared the same name? Probably better than the odds of me getting a date that semester. But Brad L. or “Big Brad” was 6’2” and Brad A, or “Little Brad”, 5’5”’ so it was easy telling them apart. 

And if homesickness, loneliness or self-pity once again tried blotting out too much of the big picture, and none of my new friends were around to distract me, "Mom" Hendrick's door was always open, and she was always ready to lend a sympathetic ear. She was wise and compassionate and I always felt better after having one of our little ‘chats” And slowly-- very slowly-- I started to get it. Being at Whitworth and living in the dorm wasn't so bad after all.

 

But probably the best friends I made that first semester was Bill Woolum.  I liked Bill almost from the start. Though I was a mere freshman from California and he was a sophomore from Kellogg, Idaho, Bill took the time and went out of his way to befriend me. A big strapping kid, I could listen for hours as he retold stories of his youth and of working summers in the Kellogg silver mines. More than knowledgeable in sports, Bill was also well versed in the absurdities of life, and on a dime could crack a well-crafted witty joke or marvelously raunchy one-liner, each punctuated with an infectious bellow of a laugh. I loved hanging with Bill. He was great company.

 

And whenever I felt like doing the proverbial cry in my beer thing, Bill was good counsel, too.  On the days when I was feeling a little bluer than usual- wish he’d been around the weekend my folks were up- Bill would take me with him over to Idaho to kill part of an afternoon. Though I was only 19, that was the drinking age in Idaho so Bill would take me to one of his favorite haunts, the Laker’s Tavern in Coeur d’Alene, where we’d shoot some stick, laugh, talk sports, laugh and knock back a few, sometimes a little more than a few. And by the time we started the 40 mile trek back to campus, whatever my mood when we got there, after the Old Milwaukee on tap and hours of Bill’s stories and good humor, I was always happy when we left. If I never see him again, I'll always have fond memories of my days spent with Bill Woolum, a great guy and a great friend.

Another buddy I made that fall wasn't even a registered student, he was a guinea pig, a little brownish-orange critter named “Flip”. I still don’t know why I thought living in a small room with a stinky guinea pig was a good idea but having “Flip” around turned out to be sort of therapeutic for me; it was good looking after something besides myself and got my mind off my own problems. Given to me by a friend of a friend, Paul was on board with it, so Flip moved in.

 

Having the guinea around gave me a reason to go to the dining hall, too, if only to stuff my pockets with a culinary favorite of all small furry rodents- lettuce. Flip loved his greens. I know, because he was very, very regular and his cage, located right under my desk, required much cleaning up after. When I was studying, I let him out so he could get some exercise. His little squeaky nose took a whiff of everything at eye level, satisfying his curiosity then he’d move on to the next object or corner. He seemed happy enough and was a distraction from the books. But Flip only lasted a couple months.

 

I came back from my journalism class one Tuesday afternoon and, as I always did, peeked in his cage when I set my books down. It looked like he was curled up in a corner asleep so I left him alone. An hour later, though, when I’d heard no stirring and I noticed he was still in the same position, I picked him up and discovered Flip had gone on to that great exercise wheel in the sky. Nobody could figure out why, either. Sometimes little animals like that don’t do so well in captivity. I suppose I could’ve taken him to the science lab and let them do an autopsy. But instead, I buried him by the fence next to the football field.

 

However, and for reasons I still don’t get, after the guinea pig died Gary Frank started calling me "Flip", too.  He said it was out of respect for the dearly departed rodent and its keeper; that I was quiet and small like the real one, too. But living in fairly close quarters, it didn’t take long for word to get around and soon everybody on the floor was calling me “Flip”. At first I didn't like it. My inborn shyness and desire to stay under the radar was now going head to head with an easy-to-remember nick name. But that easy-to-remember and interesting nick name was starting to help me feel less like I wasn't just an anonymous homesick freshman hoping for parole at the end of the semester anymore, and more like I belonged there. Okay, being named after a dead guinea pig may not have been the most image enhancing handle. But for the first time since arriving on campus I felt accepted and liked. I couldn't believe it, but everybody who'd been scary strangers in early September, in late October were now my friends.

And I began joining my new friends in some long Friday nights of M & M's, Dorritos, beer and poker. These South Warren poker parties moved from room to room, all were penny ante (played with real coins) and to play all you had to do was show up with a cup or cap full of spare change. There was no minimum or limit and we played until last round or until you ran out of money. But if you were in good with your roommate or had coinage stashed inside a car ashtray or something there were no rules prohibiting the acquisition of more change in-game. We didn't play Texas Hold 'Em all night like everybody does now. It was dealers choice;  5 card draw, 7 card stud, Spit-in-The-Ocean, Day Baseball, Night Baseball, 7 card draw (deuces and the suicide king wild), and a simply stupid game called “Chicago” (or Indian Poker).
 

In “Chicago”, everybody gets one card, dealt face down. When everybody’s dealt, all at once everyone picks up their card and holds it on their forehead. Everyone at the table sees your card except you. You could have an Ace or a deuce, but you don't know. You bet on what you see and hope your card is high. One night, there was a “Chicago” hand where the highest card showing was a four of hearts. Greg Neff had it- and obviously didn’t know it- but after round and round of bets, for whatever reason, everyone else at the table had folded but me. So I just kept raising; surely I was holding something better than a stinking 4 of hearts. There was probably ten bucks in the pot and I was imagining how I’d spend it. But when I called him and we looked at each other’s cards, Greg's three of spades had beaten my two of clubs. I told you it was a stupid game.

 

However being in college was finally fun. That was the longest, loudest laugh I’d had- and shared with others- all semester. And as the nights- like that one- and days ticked by until mid-December, it was odd finding myself thinking I didn't want that once unpleasant three months to end after all. I’d started to like my classes and dorm mates and, much to my shock, had started to like Spokane and Whitworth College. I was beginning to think- and believe- how badly I’d misjudged it and hadn't given it much of a chance. But now I knew now it was a good school, a fun place to attend school. There was something really special about the place. I had friends there, too. People liked me. And now I was going to turn my back and leave it all behind.

On the night before I left  Whitworth College, for what could’ve been the very last time, I shook hands and said goodbyes to people who, in September, I hadn’t known; wasn’t sure I wanted to know, but was certain they wouldn’t want to know me. Now they were a part of my life, a good part, and I hoped I’d get to see them again. But when I drove off the next morning, there were no guarantees. Because of my deal with Dad, I hadn’t committed to the spring semester and, technically, had forfeited my room and place in the dorm. And it was too late to change my mind. If I chose to come back, the only thing the registrar’s office could do was leave me on a South Warren waiting list.

 

In essence, I’d screwed up in reverse. Instead of looking forward to going home- like I thought I would- now I kind of wanted to stay. That is NOT how I felt in September, although the end results were about the same. In September, I’d have done anything to stay where I was. And by December, part of me- most of me- wanted to stay where I was. I didn’t want that Friday night to be my last night in Spokane or the end of my days at Whitworth College. But with my car loaded as if they were, on the morning of December 14, 1974 I began my return trip home, setting off in a driving snow storm.

 

I was lucky to make it back all in one piece, too (see “Somebody Up There Likes Me”; blogpost 2.1.11), and after getting home, for a spell I semi-contentedly settled into life post-Whitworth. After leaving in such bad weather, I enjoyed an unusually warm Northern California January; playing golf and baseball with my neighborhood buddies, and basically just hanging out a lot. We even went to a couple Oakland Seals games. However, there was the issue of my agreement with Dad- which got in the way of me having such a good time. So I also went out job hunting several times a week, though, admittedly, in a mostly half-hearted way.

 

But one night on the way back to Sac from the hockey game in the Bay Area, I was bragging to the guys about being able to get hammered in Idaho, about how cool it was being out from under parental control, to do whatever I wanted, anytime I wanted. How Whitworth hadn’t been such a bad place after all; that I’d made some really good friends. The car got quiet until, from the back seat, Scott Winter asked a very simple question, “Then what are you doing here?” I had no answer. That’s when I knew I was going back. And to be honest, when it was clear my lackluster efforts would rule me out from holding up my end of Dad’s deal, I started counting the days.

 

On February 6, 1975 I began the return trip to Spokane and, in contrast to the previous fall, this time willingly. And I ran into weather, from Redding on, as bad as when I’d left Spokane in December. It was a difficult journey. But I didn’t care. God guided my path, I was able to get the classes I wanted, was able to get back into South Warren and I got to room with my best friend, Bill Woolum. It’s like the stars were all perfectly aligned, just for me. And when I finally got back to campus the following evening, it was the start of the most exciting four year adventure of my life; some very awesome days were waiting just beyond the horizon. And I'm forever glad I got to go back.

 

On this subject, however, I just hate having to admit both parents and my brother were right.

 

Back to School, Part 1

After getting stuck in a slow moving parade of commuters this morning led by a big yellow bus, there's no doubt the kids are back in school and summer vacation is officially over.

 

It's been early June since heaving my last heavy annoyed sigh at this daily inconvenience, so long, I almost didn't remember how to do it with enough self-righteous vinegar. But a short delay in the drive to work is nothing compared to the mammoth dislike I felt as a kid when three months of summer fun came to a screeching halt the day after Labor Day. Sure, I warmed up to the idea once the leaves started to turn; but during those first few weeks in September, I literally loathed being a conscripted classroom shut-in. But if going back to grade school in the familiar surroundings of my own neighborhood was a pisser, imagine the seismic shock waves of stress trembling through me on me the first day of school, upper education style, about 900 miles from home.

If I had to go to college- and out of high school I really didn't- Whitworth College (now University) would have been at the bottom of my list. A JC close to home, or maybe one of the UC system schools would've been more to my liking. Maybe someplace like, the University of Southern California. I always pulled for their football team, anyway. And the weather in L.A. is always nice, at least compared to Whitworth, based in the dark, foreboding far-away tundra of Spokane, Washington.

But, no, brother Steve ended up at Whitworth and somehow hooked up with his first wife, Lynn, there, too. And though hardly a Bible college, Whitworth was also a place unashamed of its traditional and Christian values. So, with Mom assessing me an immature pagan and Dad finding me woefully unprepared for the real world, and both, for years, insisting I strive to follow in my freaking brothers footsteps- Whitworth was naturally the perfect place for me. It was settled.

 

Steve and Lynn backed the idea, too, although they didn’t shove it down my throat, as Mom and Dad did. They were more subtle, intimating how Spokane was a nice laid back town and Whitworth, a friendly close-knit campus. As an added bonus, with the ratio of girls to guys slightly skewing in favor of the guys (more co-eds than dudes), there was also a suggestion that my odds for meeting a nice girl or two along the way were much better at Whitworth than going to college someplace else. So they urged me to try Whitworth, but not anyone’s sake but my own; to expand my horizons, and circle of acquaintances, and prove a point to the folks- and myself- that I was up to the challenge of being out on my own.

I knew better, though. I was a slug. No girl would want me even if I was only guy at Whitworth. Plus, I'd already been to Spokane and on campus twice- dragged kicking and screaming,  once to see Steve in a college play and later on, to his wedding- and found the campus and the city lacking any redeeming qualities. Both times I left town wondering why my brother would consciously make Whitworth his college career destination of choice. For sure, I wanted no part of it and was beyond shock when I got opened up Whitworth’s letter of acceptance. I was hoping nobody would find out, but Mom had collected the mail and seen the return address. She knew. To this day, though, if Whitworth College was willing to let in a middling student like me, then I firmly believe their admitting standards were suspect. Nevertheless once they did, and with USC or UCLA apparently not wanting me, I was good as gone.

 

The question remains, though, why I’d balk over putting practically three states between me and my parents. It was every kid’s fantasy, and should have particularly been mine. But I’d had an okay year at American River Junior College, had been a successful first time Little League Coach, had a lot of good friends in Sac, was making some new ones, and had an okay part time job. I thought I was doing all right for 19 years old. I just wanted my own place and didn’t want to move roughly 800 miles to get it.

 

The die was cast though; it was Whitworth or nothing. In that case, I’d have taken nothing, too, but that really wasn’t the choice. Basically, I had no choice and once Dad dropped me off after a grueling 14 hour drive spent in long stretches of uncomfortable stony silence broken only by occasional arguing over the matter, I was officially a Whitworth freshman.

 

And as I suspected, I hated the place from the beginning.

 

I missed my friends, bummed out about being in such a cold lonely place and intimidated at the whole idea of dorm life and college in general. I was stoic and sullen and didn't go out of my way to talk to too many people right away, either. In other words, I was probably an ass. One person I did talk to was my first roommate, Paul McDonald. Like Whitworth, I didn't want to like him either, but couldn't help myself. Paul was a skinny, tall quiet kid from Wapato, Washington who reminded me of John-Boy Walton. But Paul wasn't a creation of Earl Hamner, he was the real deal- an absolute peach of a person who must've been given an extra dose of empathy at birth, because he genuinely seemed to understand and y care about my well-being, and took great pains to look out for me.

Paul also had a pretty little blond girl friend, Adrianna, also from Wapato, and both kept insisting I join them in many of their activities--including mealtimes and movies. Two or three times a week, they'd cajole me into having a meal with them in the dining hall. Paul knew I didn’t like to eat alone, and was avoiding the dining hall almost altogether. But I’d go with them and we’d wait in line together and once inside, Paul would practically force me to eat. Loading up his tray with more items than he could possibly want, when we all sat down he’d transfer the excess over to mine. They wouldn’t let me leave till I’d cleaned my plate.

 

Then on movie night Friday’s, Paul would disappear (leave a few minutes early) and  Adrianna, knowing I had no date or the prospect of ever getting one,  would come over and ask me to escort her to the Auditorium so she wouldn’t have to walk alone. Of course Paul was already waiting there for her and when Adrianna and I showed up, they’d both take one of my arms- so I couldn't sneak away- and we’d all three go in to see the movie. It was silly and I knew what was going on. But they were both very kind and sweet to me, more so than I deserved and appreciated more than I could ever tell them.

God must’ve been working behind the scenes in all of this too, though, because of the 1200 plus students on campus that semester, He couldn’t have put me with a better first roommate. I was too stupid to realize it then, but God had truly blessed me. But if Paul was good for me, when I think about it now, I must’ve been pretty lousy for him. In my own zone way too often, I flat out sucked at being his, or probably anyone else’s, roommate.  But when my misery needed his company, during that first semester away from home, Paul was always there. So I am truly grateful for Paul McDonald.

The room Paul and I shared was on the second floor of South Warren Hall. It faced east, towards Cowles Auditorium, and overlooked the parking lot. And mixed into the landscape when I looked out the window, was a literal mini-forest of tall pines. However, this posed a problem for me because I began to enjoy that view and didn’t want to like anything about being at Whitworth. But when the sun came up on clear fall mornings and I got up and looked out my window, the panorama was certainly much more inspiring than my first look at the world each day back home in Citrus Heights, which was always the side of the next door neighbors house.  

Still, during those first months I remained mostly alone and quite timid. I felt like a fish out of water. Except for classes, I hardly went anyplace else on campus. And if Paul and Adrianne didn't force me to go to the dining hall with them I seldom ate at all, opting instead for a candy bar in the Student Union Building. (I guess that’s why Paul sometimes felt led to ‘force-feed’ me. He probably knew I wasn’t eating much). But if I was hungry, but too shy to be seen in the dining hall, I'd tap into my checking account (and the money I made working over the summer), and take myself to dinner, usually at the same place. In fact, I began going there so often (Mr. Steak on North Division) that the manager began to know me by sight.

 

I guess in a family restaurant like Mr. Steak, a lonely looking single dude must've stuck out like a sore thumb.  Nevertheless, when I was there, Carmen, the manager, always made me feel like the most important person in the joint. He was a big, loud, friendly Italian guy who always wore a little carnation in his lapel. Why a big Italian guy was managing an American-fare chain restaurant I don’t know. But he always made time to talk to me. He got me to confess I was in college and away from home for the first time and I think he began to feel sorry for me because on nights when I only had money for a salad and a coke, Carmen would bring me a couple of big dinner rolls- on the house.  “Your mother would want you to keep up your strength. So eat. If you want more, let me know.” And sometimes when I did ask for a full meal off the menu, he wouldn’t charge me at all. "Don't worry about it. Your money's no good here anyway. Besides, you look like a starving college kid, so tonight dinner's on me".

 

Of course he was exaggerating; I wasn’t exactly starving. Through candy bars, care packages from home and meals with Paul and Adrianna, I was eating enough to stay alive. But yeah, I liked Carmen. Who wouldn't? He gave me free food. Plus, after Paul and "Mom" Hendrick, our kindly dorm mom, he was the one of the first people in Spokane to make me really feel at home, or at least okay about being there. And though eating off campus probably retarded my initial college growth, somehow it felt safer being in the anonymity of a restaurant with a bunch of strangers, than in a room full of college students. For some reason, I just knew I’d be completely alone in Levitt Dining Hall and subject to intense mocking, either for not having anyone to eat with or because I was clearly a loser. That’s why I often ended up at Mr. Steak.

It was during those days I felt as if my life was completely upside down. College was supposed to be fun. Living on campus in a dorm was supposed to be fun. Being young and free to experience new things, meet new people and expand my horizons was supposed to be fun. What could possibly be so appealing about going back to Sacramento and the land of parents? What was holding me back at Whitworth? I didn't know the answer to that puzzle, but knew I couldn't wait for the term to end so I could get the hell out of there and hopefully never set foot in Spokane or at Whitworth again.

It didn’t help that Mom called from home once a week to see how I was doing. But I sounded so depressed she'd apologize for calling and hang up. She’d call again later on, but my outlook didn’t change much. But I think we all thought it'd be better when she and Dad came for a visit and when they did at the end of because I’d been feeling so isolated since getting to Whitworth, I was actually glad to see them. But, after arriving on Friday night by Sunday morning I couldn’t wait to see them go.

 

The first night I introduced them to Paul and  "Mom”Hendrick, and then they took me to dinner, but it wasn’t a happy time. Mom was on me about my hair and why I wasn’t giving Whitworth a chance. I had laundry and homework to do Saturday morning, so they didn’t come out again till Saturday afternoon. In the daylight I was able to show them around school and try sounding more enthused about the entire Whitworth experience. However, they saw through the act and took me out to dinner again and again not really to eat, but to have a nice, long talk. And again, nothing was resolved

 

We went round in circles for a couple of hours, I thought I could convince them that sending me to Spokane wasn’t working out; that it’d been a mistake. That I’d do much better going to college closer to home, or at least in California. But we fought and argued- not just over the scholastic logistics- but everything. Especially Mom and I. Too busy stewing in separate soups of anger, with positions rigidly premeditated there was no room or consideration for any counter arguments. Just arguments. Almost non stop.

 

I’m not sure where she was coming from; but during the course of the meal, slash, discussion I barely listened. My beef all along, besides being homesick, was being told Whitworth was it, where I’d be going to college, case closed. I resented how the decision came down. And all that subdued fury was now coming to the surface. It was embarrassing. People were looking at us and Dad had to keep telling us to calm down. I think had the whole Whitworth debacle been my idea, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have wasted so much time resenting it; I might even have liked it, liked being there. Or I still might’ve hated it. But at least, coming or going, it would’ve been on my terms. It’d be my destiny I was charting. Not them doing it for me.

 

During dinner I hardly ate anything. I don’t think Mom did either. Hostilities had ceased by the time we left Klinkerdagger’s, but it was a weekend of intransience, two against one; Mom and Dad, especially Mom, against me. However, before they left the next morning I did manage to extract one concession. It was actually Dad’s idea. He said if I finished out the semester he'd give me all of Christmas break and the month of January to find a job. If I did, I could get an apartment, stay in Sacramento and never have to go to college again if I didn't want to.

 

But if I didn't find a job, then I'd have to go back to Whitworth for the spring semester and finish the entire year. After that, negotiations would re-open whether to return again, quit college altogether or attend someplace else.  When we shook hands on the agreement outside their hotel, it sounded great. All I had to do was hold on for another month and a half and then I’d be free. Once back home, if I couldn't land a job in six weeks doing something, than I was completely lame and deserved whatever Whitworth threw at me in the spring.

 

So, we had a deal. Still, that may have been one of the worst weekends of my entire 19 and half years of life. Though I hated the aloneness I often felt during that first semester at Whitworth, I was happy to be left alone once Mom and Dad had left for the airport. I almost felt like celebrating, but there was nobody to celebrate with. So I had a solitary lunch at Bob’s Big Boy feeling terrible that the cold, disheartening and emotionally charged weekend had left behind more bad feelings and questions than smiles and answers. Then I went back to the dorm and tried to concentrate on a little more homework

 

However, though gone, I wasn’t quite allowed to forget Mom and Dad had been there. Dad called that night when they were back home and said Mom cried on the plane all the way back to Sacramento and, as the remaining fall semester days unfolded, I should just think about that and my crummy attitude. Swell. As if being in Spokane and at Whitworth wasn’t sucking enough, now I had that on my brain too. I wanted to curl up in a ball and blow away in the blustery fall winds. Or cry.