PMSimon.com

Threat level: increased to orange.

Travel day: tomorrow.

Inconvenience anticipated: elevated.

Timing: everything.

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Orange? Yeah, it slowed down security at Fort Lauderdale- the line wound around and doubled back on itself and snaked around so that the front of the queue and the people way, way back were right next to each other on opposite sides of the rope. The line didn't move for 20 minutes, then, suddenly, a burst of activity- we went from not moving at all to ramming through the checkpoint in no time. After that, everything else was easy.

The flight back was busy but not at all full ("plenty of good seate still available"). I amused myself watching ESPNews (many repeats of the Bobby Knight-Steve Alford interview clip) and Boomerang (Looney Tunes! Ruff and freakin' Reddy! Even some ultra-obscure Paramount late 50's-early 60's schlock under the Harvey banner!) and Nickelodeon (The Fairly Odd-Parents, of course). Incident-free, on-time, no traffic- not bad for "high alert."

"High alert," the President and his minions say, means for you to go about your normal business but just keep an eye peeled for, you know, bad guys. (I'd be happy to turn in McNabb and Akers after Sunday's game, because it turned out bad, but I'm pretty sure that's not what they mean by "bad guys") That's what we did in Florida- our normal business, despite downright cold weather (it warmed up today, in honor of our leaving) and the nature of our business, which I won't go into here but will just say that it's, well, difficult. We did get to spend some quality time with family, so it was a good trip, but I kinda feel like I now need a vacation.

We spent much of our time in Boca Raton, which is as it always has been, home of a) the early bird special, b) people wearing way too much cologne, and c) the worst drivers in America. It's also the home of the worst-timed traffic lights in America- instead of facilitating smooth traffic flow, the lights are timed to stop you at every intersection. Add that to the inability of the drivers to perform simple maneuvers such as changing lanes or driving as fast as the speed limit allows (25 in a 45 zone is typical... in the left lane), and it's getting impossible to get around Boca these days.

But get around we did, and it was, on many levels, good to be back in South Florida. We still like it a lot- it's Fran's former home, we still have friends there, and it's where Dad is, all good things, of course. But California's still home, and it feels good to be back, good to know we'll be in our own bed tonight, good to see Ella the World's Most Famous Cat, good to stop moving for a little bit. Normal returns tomorrow.

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On the plane ride back home, I perused a competing talk radio trade magazine and realized that it had never- not once- mentioned me. I have friends who write for that publication and they'd never mentioned me. As far as that thing is concerned, I don't exist.

This shouldn't bother me. I know I've established a name for myself in the business, and I know that a significant number of the movers and shakers of talk radio are well acquainted with me, so it really doesn't matter that a magazine with a fraction of the circulation of my own column has neatly edited me out of the picture. But it does bother me.

It's about ego, I know, but it's also a matter of career considerations. There's a book a friend sent me called "Brag!: The Art of Tooting Your Own Horn Without Blowing it," and it's all about the fact that if you don't tell people about the wondrous things you've done, nobody will know and you won't go as far as you can in your career. This tends to conflict with my natural reticence to reveal a whole lot of details about myself- yes, I know I write a LOT about myself, but not a lot about my career. And according to this book, that's a major problem.

That, in part, is why I finally interviewed myself for the All Access "10 Questions" column- I got tired of people not knowing what I've done, and of people taking credit for things I did. So it's up there for all to see. I'm not sure it's enough, however. This bragging thing can get addictive. Getting attention for yourself can get addictive. I used to cringe when my name appeared in print; now, I want to be in every paper, every day. There are a couple of ways to accomplish that, but the easiest will get you a lethal injection in most states. But I think that, at long last, it's time to get noticed.

That's where you come in. Feel free to drop my name into conversations. "Hey, have you checked out pmsimon.com, Perry Michael Simon's daily net column and pseudo-blog? You really should"- that'll work fine. Memorize it. And when YOU get interviewed, dropping my name will work wonders for me: "Of course, the greatest mind in the history of talk radio is Perry Michael Simon." Try saying it with a straight face- works better that way. Best of all, if you're a panelist at a radio convention sponsored by a competing magazine, by all means mention me as many times as possible. I'm not above bribery to accomplish this. You mention me (positive comments only!) at the R&R or Talkers shows, with the editors of said publications present, and I'll buy you lunch.

Hope you like pizza.

Really, this is long overdue. I want recognition, and I want it now. Together, we can make 2004 the Year of Me. Do it for world peace, for America, for... me. I'm worth it.

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The mad cow story hit the wires earlier today. Guess what I'm having for dinner?

The incubation period for mad cow's 7 to 40 years. Check back with me then.

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It's raining and cold in L.A. right now, and there's nowhere to go and nothing to do, not to mention that TV is all-Christmas specials and "very special episodes," with nary a basketball game or other sporting diversion on offer. Such is Christmas eve when you don't celebrate Christmas- like any other night, except more boring.

But don't let me bring you down, man.

Here's hoping you get what you want and deserve this year. Merry Christmas, and you can have my share of the egg nog. The stuff's just gross to me.

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Every time the wind picks up, we lose power.

It's windy tonight. The power's out.

I think I'll just sit here and imagine what I'd be doing if the lights worked. Probably nothing, just like now.

Merry Christmas.

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The Marmalade Cafe was crowded with families tonight. A lot of them were multi-generational- the parents, their adult kids, the grandkids, all together for the holidays. I watched some of them and I wondered what they were thinking.

People spend their entire lives looking for their parents' approval. You always wonder what your father thinks, or would think, about what you do, how you turned out. Does the burly older guy over there think his thirty-something son with the mullet turned out the way he expected? Does the mulleted guy wish his father approved of his career choices, his marriage, his life? What kind of conversations do they have, or does dad hold it back, loving his son but, still, somewhat disappointed with the result yet not wanting to let on what he thinks?

I don't have kids, so I can't know what a father feels when he sees his children succeed and fail, turn out better than/same as/less than expected, thrill and disappoint. As a son, I know that I want my father to be proud of me, and while he says he is, I know that my career path wasn't exactly what he expected. I'm never exactly sure that he, or anyone else, is clear on what I do for a living, but that's my fault- nobody sits around thinking that they want their kid to do whatever it is I've done, even though I've been a success at it (success at what? My point exactly). Whatever's happened, I hope I've done Dad proud. I've tried to be the very best lawyer-turned-radio-executive-turned-programmer-turned-consultant-turned-writer I can be.

That's the kind of thought most sons and daughters have at some point, even if they don't particularly even like their parents. The sense of being judged is inescapable. It shouldn't be so important- you can't live your life according to someone else's standards- but it is and you do. In a normal case, it's just something that resides in the back of your mind. In some cases, it's positive- you remember lessons learned from your parents and apply them in a constructive manner (basically, my situation, even if mom and dad didn't think they were raising a guy who'd end up making a living in the creative field). In extreme cases, it's debilitating, making the child unable to make a move without being paralyzed by "what would my parents think?"

But it's always there. And it was there at dinner, at the big table where an extended family laughed and jostled and passed the dinner rolls, at the table where crew-cut-grandpa and ruddy, conservative dad and mulleted, hulking son/grandson shared stories, at every table with every family together for their once-a-year holiday reunions. Dad looks at son, son looks at dad, son wonders if he's made dad proud, dad thinks... and what he thinks defines their relationship. That's how it will always be, even when the parents are long gone and the children are grown- parents always looking over your shoulder, you're looking over your kids' shoulders, circle of life and all that.

And if I'm a psychiatrist, I leave my business card on every table in every restaurant during the holidays. From these meals, impressive therapy bills are made.

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George Steinbrenner fainted today at Otto Graham's funeral. The Boss and I now have something in common. No, I didn't faint at Otto Graham's funeral. I wasn't invited.

But I did faint in a notable place. It was about 30 years ago (30 years already!), and we were in Venezuela, of all places. I remember riding a bus into Caracas, looking at teenage boys in ill-fitting uniforms toting rifles at the top of hillsides along the route. I remember being ushered into the birthplace of Simon Bolivar, father of the country. I remember it was hot, the air was thin, the courtyard was spinning, and...

plunk

...I remember being assisted to my feet, and I remember that somehow a glass of Long Island Iced Tea materialized and several Venezuelan gentlemen were smiling and insisting I take a sip. And for the rest of the tour, I remember people chuckling and smiling and looking at me.

It's the way things work- something purely natural happens to you- nothing that's your fault, and you get laughed at. You trip, people laugh. You puke, people laugh. You choke, people laugh. All you can do is pray that when the next embarrassment happens, you're at home where only your loved ones can laugh at you.

It's best, in fact, not to leave your home. Ever. You go out in public, it'll end in tears. Trust me. I've fainted in a Latin American nation's most sacred spot. It wouldn't have happened if I'd stayed home. Sorry, Venezuela. And, George, I feel your pain.

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