PMSimon.com

Katharine Hepburn's dead, and I can only imagine what's going through the minds of people under 30 years old. Probably stuff like "Who?" and "Do you think there'll be tickets left for the 7:30 show of 'Charlie's Angels' at the AMC?" I think it's a safe bet that most people under 30 couldn't name a single Katharine Hepburn movie if you spotted them Spencer Tracy. This isn't necessarily evidence of anything. In fact, there is actually no reason in the world that anybody that young SHOULD know who she is. No relevance to their lives. Past history.

Celebrity's like that. Short of being President, everyone's forgotten, some more soon than others. Can't avoid it. What gets scary is when you casually toss off a pop culture reference, one as familiar to you as your own name, and all you get is blank stares- what it means is that you've passed from the "youth" category into the "your parents" category. You remember Katharine Hepburn? Might as well bring up Jimmy Durante, Eddie Cantor, Pola Negri. Didn't all the movies you saw when you were a kid come in black and white, with no dialogue? And everyone walked really fast? Did you go to school on the School Stagecoach? Did they have sex back then?

But you can take heart. Today's youth will be tomorrow's... you. And they'll throw out names like Avril Lavigne and get blank stares from their kids. Don't believe me? Ask a kid under 15 who the Backstreet Boys were. Things are moving even faster these days. That's not such a bad thing, either.

 Share

As if Mondays aren't rough enough, it's a short week and I gotta get so much stuff done in such a short time it isn't funny. But I'll do it. Gotta. Someone has to.

Holidays are always weird for me- I'm never ready for them, I never have anything in particular planned. This year is an exception. We finally planned something out in advance. I'm not convinced it'll all happen. I'll believe it when it's over and I have the receipts. Until then, I have a million things to write, a million chores to accomplish, a million things on my mind. Just thinking about it makes it feel like a million more things to do.

First, there's the shortened work week, which is usually a signal for most people to slack off. For those of us who have to write about things in the news, it's the opposite, because with less going on, there's less to write about. Maybe someone famous will die (thank you, Kate), or some weirdness will happen (hello, Baylor), but, mostly, it's a week of nothing. Fortunately, my background in radio gives me the ability to prattle on for hours about nothing in particular, filling air and space with random words to make it appear like I'm coherently discussing important events. See? Just like that. So I have a week of breaking rocks ahead of me, and you have a week of reading incoherent, aimless blather. But be grateful- it's a short week. One workday's already in the books. Together, we can do this.

 Share

Some people never learn.

A particular radio host wanted some publicity at my other site and sent me an item in an e-mail that wasn't particularly newsworthy or time-sensitive, so I put it in the pile of things to do today and worked on more immediate tasks first. When it didn't instantly appear in the news, she wrote an e-mail to my boss.

Yes, she "told" on me.

Now, some background: eight years ago, the very same host went to my boss pleading for a tryout at a station I was (nominally, it turned out) programming. Unlike my present boss, who knows protocol and the truth, that boss insisted we give her an audition and booked her and her entourage to come to the station. She was booked for two days and lasted one- she a) had her flunkies steal guests from other shows on the station, b) booked lousy guests without approval, c) pretty much ignored everything I told her to do, and d) treated the station staff, especially the support staff, like crap. I wasn't pleased with any of it, but d), to me, is a capital offense for someone who DIDN'T EVEN WORK THERE YET. I called her at her hotel and told her not to come in for day two.

Now, it's eight years later, and she "needs" me for some ego boosting. And, you know, despite her attempt to make me look bad, I went ahead and ran an item. Why? I don't need "revenge." I do OK on my own, and I wouldn't gain anything but temporary satisfaction by doing the thumbs-down routine. But I also know this- someone who behaves like her will never quite succeed, and she'll never understand why. She'll miss out on jobs, or get canned by a quick-trigger boss, and she won't realize that when you treat people you think aren't "important" enough like garbage, those people will not forget. And they talk. And that's how you get a reputation. It goes without saying, too, that today's insignificant drone could very well be tomorrow's very powerful person.

I didn't go around telling people this story, and I'm not attaching any names to it even now (and don't ask me to- I won't). I don't have to. Several people over the years have told me stories, and they were all the same- a prima-donna attitude, lackeys stepping on everyone's toes, mediocre or worse ratings, not worth the trouble. There'll probably always be a clueless PD or GM who just hasn't heard the stories, or refuses to believe them, so she'll find work. But she'll never quite make it the way she thought she would. If she reads this, which I doubt, maybe she'll now know why. And maybe she'll realize that talent isn't the only thing you need to have to succeed.

 Share

And so we reach the holidays relatively unscathed. (Maybe you're not there yet, but I'm wrapping things up early- time to get outa town for a little bit) I think I'll leave you with my July 4 Emergency Room story. I'll warn you right now, it doesn't really have a punch line or even much of a point. But since it's that time of year...

It was July 4th, 1995, and it was my last trip back to our home on the beach in Long Island before moving to L.A. for good. I'd come back to help Fran pack, wrap things up, and have my last taste of decent pizza, salt sticks, and deli before heading west. The basement- we had a basement there, unlike here, where basements just don't exist- was the problem spot, tons of garbage we'd carted from Pennsylvania and Florida to Jersey to Pennsylvania to Albany to Long Island, and I went down to clear it out. While I was in there, I saw that the movers had beaten me to some of the work- they'd thrown some of the loose stuff in plastic garbage bags. Well, OK, I thought, I'll just grab those bags and carry them out to the curb.

Tip: when grabbing a bag full of garbage, make sure you have an idea of what's in there. More specifically, assume there might be something sharp waiting to spring out when you grab the bag.

Kitchen knife. Long, thin, cruddy kitchen knife of unknown origin. Long, thin, cruddy kitchen knife of unknown origin through my right palm.

The first thing that goes through your mind when you've accidentally stabbed yourself is a two word phrase, the first word being "oh" and the second your choice of two common four-letter words. (Mine began with F.) As the blood spurted out of my palm, I yelled for Fran, who admirably handled the cleanup and transport to Long Beach Memorial Hospital's emergency ward. I know she did this only because I didn't, and SOMEONE had to have handled it. I blanked out after "Oh F! FRAN!"

The next memory I have is sitting in the waiting area with a towel wrapping my hand and holding it up above my head. I sat that way for a long time. Hours. Many hours. Maybe about 8 or 9 hours. While I was wondering about things like tetanus and nerve damage and lockjaw, I surveyed the scene around me. Every seat was occupied, every other one by a worried-looking woman sitting next to a young man, probably her son, with a hand wrapped in a towel. I realized that they all couldn't have had a knife mishap in the basement, and then it hit me- these were firecracker casualties. Every single one of them had done the didn't-let-go-of-the-M80-in-time routine. And they were all looking at me like I'd done the same thing, only since I was clearly an adult, I had no excuse.

There are times in life when things seem to stand still, when time just refuses to proceed at a normal pace. This particular halt in life progress was because, well, it was a holiday, there was only one doctor in the ER, and I'd been triaged to the back of the list. Eventually, I got in to get stitched up and doped out of my misery, and we finally got out of there at something like 2 am, by which time the room had filled again with would-be Gruccis nursing their remaining fingers.

The moral of this story is... I don't know. Maybe stay home for July 4th. Maybe stay home, period. You can't get hurt if you never get out of bed. Bedsores, maybe, but injury, probably not. Something like that. Look, it's a holiday. You can't expect me to be coherent.

And may your weekend be fun, safe, and mishap-free. And computer-free, too- go outside and enjoy life away from this thing for a few days, OK? Great. Talk to you next week.

 Share