Monthly Archives: April 2002

TV audition tape

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July (2002) will mark my 30th year in broadcasting. Sort of. I spent half of that time doing affiliate relations for a statewide news network. But I’ve been around radio for all of that time. Longer, really, since my father was a “radio announcer” (I like that so much better than “broadcaster” or “DJ”). I’ve now reached the point, however, that all those years are a liability rather than an asset. It dawned on me as I was filling out a profile of my experience. Ten or fifteen years is “experienced.” Thirty years is…too much experience. So I lied and put down fifteen years.

There was a time I thought I might try my hand at TV. I mean, it’s just radio with pictures, right. I rented a little studio time at a local station to make an audition tape  They pulled some stories from that day’s news and threw them up on the tele-prompter. The stories were: Rape and Carnal Abuse; 70-year-old Man Beaten and Robbed of Life Savings; Elderly Woman Dies in Head-on with Tractor Trailer Rig; Another Fatal Traffic Accident. I sent that tape to a few friends in the TV business and can onlly guess at the hours of laughter it must have produced. “More news after this…” Uh, no thanks.

Iowa graffiti

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Subway cars. Or those plywood walls they throw up around big city building sites. These are the proper canvases for graffiti (I think it’s called tagging these days). But if you live on a farm or in a small town in southeast Iowa, it’s a long way to the closest subway. On Highway 92 just East of Columbus Junction, Iowa, there’s a farm building that looks like it might house vehicles of some kind. There are no windows and the building was originally painted white so it makes a near-perfect service for local artists/vandals. I first saw the building ten or twelve years ago and each time I drove past I vowed to bring a camera next time. Next time was October of 1998.

This is my kind of art. A performance piece with an unknown number of artists who might or might not know each other. Maybe it’s that the “piece” is never complete. There’s a farm house just a couple of hundred feed up the road. Does this building belong to the people that live there? If so, they must see the artists in action. Or do they only come at night? If so, do they paint by head light? Or do they work in the dark? I find that notion kind of interesting. Do the young people of the area have a name for this building? Has this been going on for years (I didn’t look for dates)? How do you paint so near the roof line? With a ladder? Do you bring one with you?

And do the property owners ever start over with a fresh coat of paint or do they tell themselves four, fresh, gleaming white walls will merely start the cycle again? Does Mrs. Brown ever greet Mr. Brown with, “The kids wrote ‘fuck you’ on the barn again. How do you want your eggs?”

Update: Sorry, but the images referenced above got lost in the move. If I can find them, I’ll update this post.

Roadside Memorials

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You’ve seen them. Countless times. Those small white crosses –usually with flowers– next to the highway. Sometimes there will be two or three, clustered together. I’ve always assumed these marked the spot where someone lost their life in a traffic accident. What else could it be? If there’s a mystery here, it is — at least for me– why I have never seen someone placing these little markers. Not once, in almost 40 years of driving. In fact, I can’t find anyone that has ever seen someone placing these little crosses. Think of the odds of that.

And what’s the highway department’s policy on these? Do they leave them up indefinitely? For a few weeks? If they do take them down, what do they do with them? Burn them? Store them? So many questions. Jerry Whiting has been thinking about this for a while at Roadside Memorials.

More than one Steve Mays

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I recently received an email asking if we were still “on for lunch at 11:30.” Since I didn’t recognize the name or address of the sender, I replied something along the lines of: “…11:30 is good for me. Where are we going and who are you?” A couple of days later I received the following reply:

“Dear Mr. Mays: My most humble apologies. The email you received was meant for Steve A. Mays whom I was attempting to contact (in Monterey California). This particular Steve A. Mays’ email address is also at hotmail.com I spelled Steve’s given name incorrectly. The unfortunate part is you missed an excellent lunch in Monterey. (BBQ Tri-tip 3 kinds of BBQ Sausage, with all the fixins’ . I find it ironic because…….. I now know three (3) Steve Mays! Again, My apologies and I will still hold the offer of lunch, should you make your way to the San Francisco/Monterey/Fresno/Bakersfield area, guaranteed! With best regards, Les Winebarger – Madera, CA.”

I wrote back something about being pleased that one of my parallel universes was in Madera, California and included good BBQ. But it started me wondering about the other guys named Steve Mays. So I did a little ego surfing on Google to see what else Steve Mays was doing.

“One bleak day a hoodlum from Anaheim showed up at one of our Christian commune houses dressed in bib overalls and leathers, with a nine millimeter Baretta tucked in his back pocket. He had not bathed in six months and had literally slept in gutters while living as a fugitive from the law. He had not brushed his teeth in two years and, with his neo-barbarian hairstyle, he was a sight to behold. His name was Steve Mays and he was alienated from everybody- from his parents, who had tossed him out of their house years before, to the tough group of outlaw bikers he had been living with. He had been wanted by the FBI for attempted murder and draft dodging. There was also a contract out on his life.”

In 1995, Steve Mays hit .420 for the Cedarville University Yellow Jackets.

At the Berkeley-based startup Xamplify, programmer Steve Mays was one of several refugees from Industrial Light and Magic, which did the computer graphics for “Star Wars.” He also acted as Manager of Desktop Systems for the films Twister and Men In Black. Okay, now that’s pretty cool.

I found one Steve Mays that spent “nearly 25 years toiling in various communications endeavors” before going to law school. I started with (not quite a) semester of law school, followed by 30 years in radio.

On Daniel John Plonsey’s discography the list of “Ensembles in which I Play/have Played” includes The Benchers, a.k.a. The Coconut and the Lifeguard (88-90) (w/ Steve Mays, Joy Krinsky and Mark Dickinson)

“Anyone looking into the eyes of Aviation Boatswain’s Mate 1st Class Steven Mays has a chance at seeing it  the fire and determination to be No. 1, the commitment he makes to the sport of wrestling and the intimidating stare that warns his opponents that his 119 lbs. is not to be underestimated. Those who get that chance on the mat may only see it for a split second, though before they are picked up and taken down.”

Nuff said.

I found a Steve Mays that shared my interest in the theater but I was a little bothered by the “fifth-year student” reference.

“DePauw Little Theatre opens its 1997-1998 season this weekend with Sam Shepard’s play “True West,” a contemporary play about two brothers from very different worlds struggling with their conflicting views on life. Austin, played by freshman Jeff Elliott, is an aspiring screen writer living a conservative life. On the other hand, his brother Lee, played by fifth-year student Steve Mays, is a drifter who has no particular plan for his life. The excellent portrayals by Mays and Elliott make for many humorous and dramatic exchanges throughout the play.”

Near the end of my search (I got bored) I learned that Steve Mays was a co-founder of the Alabama Crimson Tide Yell Crew.

So what have we got here? Outlaw biker-turned-preacher; baseball player; wrestler; computer graphics programmer; broadcaster; actor; musician; and cheerleader. Steve, if you’re reading this… don’t be a stranger. Drop me a line.

Miss America uses Google

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No big surprise, really. Almost everybody uses Google. But I was pleased to learn that even Miss America uses the same search engine I do. Katie Harman –Miss America 2002– was in town today promoting breast cancer awareness. I was on hand to record a public service announcement for one of our network advertisers. Miss America thought she was scheduled to record a TV PSA and seemed relieved to learn it was “just radio.” I mean, hell, she could have come down in her jammies with no make-up to do a radio spot. But she was as charming as you would expect Miss America to be.

According to the official Web site (“The World’s Leading Provider of Scholarships for Women”), 75 women have worn the Miss America crown in the Organization’s 82-year history (they explain the disparity). And it’s a tough gig. Katie told us she logs 20,000 miles a month, changing location every 18-36 hours. I asked if she takes a notebook computer with her on the road and she does. And she says she spends a lot of time online (she likes WebMD a lot).

Miss Harmon is 21 years old and hopes to “obtain an M.A. in Bioethics and ultimately work in health care management.” We did a little media thing and she answered some questions put by local reporters. All pretty serious, cancer-related stuff… so I kept quiet, except for the Google question. Here are the questions I really wanted to ask:

* During the Miss America Contest, did you call each other by your first names or by state?
* Do you keep in touch with the losers?
* How many squat-jumps can you do?
* Do you know where your senior ring is?
* When you go home for the holidays, do you get a lot of shit from your family? “Hey, Miss America! Get up here and clean up your room!” “Yo, Miss America! Bring me a ham sandwich.”

But I got caught up in the protocol of the thing. I mean, Jesus, she just voiced a PSA on breast cancer. I did suggest it would be funny if, at her next news conference, she waited until all the photogs got their cameras set up and then said, “Guys, I really don’t like having my picture taken.”

I look good in theater restrooms

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Maybe it’s the lighting or the tile, I can’t explain it. I first noticed it many years ago when I was a little more conscious of my appearance. I’m not a good dresser and my grooming is just so-so. But one day I dashed into the men’s room at a movie theater and saw myself in the mirror. This was how I wanted to look all the time. At first I thought it was just that theater restroom but the city or size of the theater didn’t matter. I look just as good in the Seattle Cineplex as the small art house in Kansas City.

I’ve never shared this information with anyone because there’s no way to verify it. I can’t take my wife with me for the obvious reason. And she’d tell me I looked good anyway. I can’t take a male friend (“Hey, I think I look pretty cool in the men’s room mirror… would you come with me and tell me what you think?”). I thought about trying to sneak a camera in but discarded that one pretty quickly. There’s just no acceptable explanation for taking photographs in the men’s room.

So we have here one of life’s little jokes. Sort of a “Restroom of the Magi.” I’ve been given the gift of seeing myself look just the way I want to look but I cannot share this experience. Perhaps I should be happy there is any place where I feel good about my appearance.

To those of you who know me and might have occasion to see me in a theater restroom, please don’t say anything. If you agree that I look damned fine, just give me a thumbs up or the OK sign and let it go at that.

Moon over Kennett

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My original idea for a blog was to persuade half a dozen of the more interesting people I know to jot down a few lines every week or so and I’d post them here. It required more organization than I could muster.

Last week I received an email from one of The Six that perfectly captures my original idea. My friend had taken a photograph he had to share. Now, you either get butt-crack humor or you do not. I would have guessed there were lots of websites dedicated to this phenomenon but a Google search didn’t reveal much.

For me the best part is the image of my friend coming out of his office, spotting the photo-op, racing back in to find and load his camera, then dashing back to the street to take the picture. That requires a… joie de vivre that’s very rare, in my experience.

As I thought about my original concept I became mildly depressed that I could only come up with six interesting friends. After receiving the butt-crack photo, I consider myself fortunate to know that many.