What's goin' on?

“And I try / Oh my God, do I try / I try all the time / In this institution / And I pray / Oh my God, do I pray / I pray every single day / For a revolution“ - 4 Non Blondes, "What's Going On"

She was remarkably mean. A rough-edged, middle-aged woman who always wore sunglasses and was prone to donning sad little sundresses. She constantly smacked her gum as if chewing were an unpleasant chore that demanded to be shared. Her teeth were yellow. Her mood was always dark. And she talked down to us as though we were idiots. She had a complete lack of empathy and the depth of her indifference was a modern marvel.

Granted, fifth-graders aren’t always the best at remembering the rules, such as they were in 1975. And that type of thinking led to this wicked woman changing my life forever.

It was a hazy day as our school bus sliced through the city traffic to transport us from the east side to the west in San Francisco, my hometown. The rules were basic, and often broken with impunity. Among the most mentioned was to stay seated and not to lean forward. This rule was inconvenient because it limited our ability to flirtatiously switch seats and throw the Nerf ball around. We were six blocks from my stop where my mom was waiting. 

In an instant, the lights went out, and then flickered back on. When I finally shook the cobwebs, I saw a curious white bug on the top aluminum bar across the seat in front of me. As I discovered it wasn’t a bug, my friend asked me if I was OK. The bus had stopped short after the driver slammed the brakes, and the impact of my face on the metal bar had not only knocked me unconscious, but had cracked my front right tooth. When the other kids noticed and told the bus driver that my mouth was bleeding, she looked back at me at the next stop sign. 

She paused, lowered her glasses and simply said, “Tough”.

I stumbled off the bus, and told my mom what had happened. I had no choice. But I waited till the bus left, before my mom could scream at the bus driver in front of my friends. We went home and she did what most 4’11” Italian women do when tested like that. She made pasta and plotted justice.

Six months later, I found myself in a courtroom. Since her maiden name was Bacigalupi and not Corleone, I guess she didn’t have the “muscle” for the traditional Italian movie justice. So she went mainstream, Bacigalupi v The San Francisco Unified School District. For some reason, civil court proceedings back then happened at City Hall. It was cool to miss school, but I had to endure this ugly stainless steel band wrapped around what was left of my front tooth. I looked like a skinny, white, prepubescent Mike Tyson.

I got bored during the court sessions. So I explored City Hall by just walking into the offices unannounced and saying hello. And on one occasion, I landed in the office of Mayor George Moscone. I don’t recall why his secretary let me in, but I remember him smiling as he introduced himself. Not a hint of arrogance. No dismissive tone. No condescending rhetoric or “I gotta get back to work”. I stayed for about 30 minutes. 

Mayor Moscone

He tried to explain city government to an 11-year-old. I told him my Italian mom was suing his city. Turns out he lived in a ritzy area called St. Francis Woods, not far from my modest home. During our goodbyes, he handed me a large autographed poster depicting the engineering plans for an old-time cable car. It still hangs in my bedroom.

Two years later, I was in Social Studies class when the principal called a fellow student to the office. That student was John Moscone. And he left the classroom that day to find out that his father, the mayor, my half-hour friend, had been shot and killed. I didn’t know John. But I remembered his dad. A disgruntled city supervisor (councilman) had snuck a handgun into City Hall and killed both the mayor, and another city supervisor, Harvey Milk.

Political differences had boiled over. Insecurities set ablaze. And in the end, the city exploded into riots and burned police cars.

Zindler Interrupted (Part One)

 

"I sell you the things you need to be, I'm the smiling face on your TV, I'm the Cult of Personality."

Living Colour, "Cult of Personality," Vivid, 1988

I’m guessing Texas legend Marvin Zindler was a fan of doo wop. In 1961, a singer named Dion DiMucci recorded and released a song called The Wanderer. 

I don’t know what Marvin was up to in 1961. In fact, I don’t know how he became The Wanderer, when he did or if he even knew that he had. The song went on to become a hit. So did Marvin Zindler. 

Zindler. Wikimedia Commons.

For the younger generation of Texas journalists, you may have heard his name. Movie characters have used him. He was behind a scandal at a famous Texas bordello. But until you’ve actually seen him with the whole get up and all the attitude juice behind those blue shades, your vision is short on context.

I won’t belabor Marvin’s TV screen presence, his fearlessness or his intimidation. Suffice to say that I purposely asked the KTRK news director to have someone copy an air check during my job interview solely so I could go home and show everyone this crazy dude with the John Adams wig.

And of course, Marvin produced his widely worshipped Friday “Rat and Roach Report.” It was a brilliant model; poach a few restaurant inspection reports and shame these places publicly for leaving lettuce out and not storing the pork chops under proper temperatures.

And there was, “Slime In The Ice Machine.” It was a brilliant business plan. Produce a snazzy graphic. Write a catchy tune. And lump it together with Marvin’s delivery like clods of outrageous Play-Doh. When I finally began my Channel 13 tenure, Marvin was a daily occurrence. You see, he loved to wander.

It would usually begin around 3:30 p.m., right around the time work starts bubbling with deadlines, script approvals, timely voice tracks and if you’re lucky, time in the makeup chair. It’s not a time for distraction. Marvin did not care about this. He would approach my desk to discuss daily matters of interest, his opinions and his need for other people’s thoughts.

The fact that I was shoulder deep in responsibilities didn’t matter because Marvin had already handed his work off to his producer and editors for completion. Ultimately, he would wander from desk to desk before his anchor desk appearance, provoking chat and fishing for conversation. 

One day, I had some extra time and decided to send a video greeting to my friends back in California. I enlisted the help of videographer Mario Segura, and simply presented a walking tour of KTRK. I just strolled and narrated the sights and sounds, which included the commissary where two old, giggly ladies worked. Miss Noveline and Miss Betty were high energy women with sharp wits and loud laughs. I assumed they were from Louisiana. And they knew what was happening in our workplace more than upper management. 

When I sauntered into their cafe with a camera in tow that day, both Noveline and Betty stopped in their tracks. They gasped. Their eyes got big, like ping pong balls. I thought I’d done something horrible. Or had blood on my face. They both appeared absolutely terrified. And Marvin Zindler was to blame. 

...to be continued.

Uber Etiquette

 

Uber Etiquette

“Why Don’t You Come Over! Why Don’t You Come Over? Why Don’t You Come Over! And Pick Me Up? I’m Bored At Home! I’ve Nothing Much To Do! I Wish I Had A Cool Car Of My Own!” 

Pick Me Up, Twirl, Punk Love 2012

Like many of life’s pursuits, riding an Uber is a process. 

For six years, I’ve found a way to live in Sugar Land without a car. When my vehicle got totaled in 2019, I decided to try something different. Luckily, I landed at a centralized spot where 80% of what I needed was a bike’s ride away. The other 20% is fulfilled by an understanding son, and Uber. 

I bought a new bicycle at Dicks Sporting Goods on Southwest Freeway. And I learned “Ubers,” specifically how to manage my travel needs and expectations.

Erik Mclean via Pexels

The first thing I notice in an Uber trip is “driver presence.” Where are they looking before I even open the car door? How are they preparing to receive me? Do they seem approachable? 

Today, I had a weird one. I don’t like drivers who fail to say hello when you get in, or bury their honkers in their personal cell phones for a few minutes before taking it out of park. Having an Uber driver who is constantly on the phone is like having a waiter who greets your table while eating a loaf of bread.

“Yeah.. Hi!” I sarcastically belt out, assuming the seat directly behind him.  Sometimes I act like a dick. I don’t know why. 

“Yes. Hello”. 

Ivan. He has a Russian accent.

Uber etiquette is an interesting study. And so are the people who convey it. A year and a half ago, I met Origin. That was his name, the one he went by. Origin was originally from Nigeria.

You see, I like to know who these drivers are. If they don’t want to talk, I’m good. But I like to see at least an effort. Ivan today failed miserably. 

Origin though, fascinated me. He was 65, loud and proud. He’d arrived on our shores when Ronald Reagan was sharing vodka with Gorbachev, and Nancy was telling kids to say “no”. His car was spotless. 

A few months later, I met Wallace, a 24-year-old professional football player. He was all of 5’10, but solid. He carried a swagger and sensibility that the truly focused among us naturally have. He was a great conversationalist. He’d made the Cowboys practice squad two years earlier, and was working to make the full squad.  Wallace was staying with his brother in Sugar Land to train and make some extra scratch.

But Lisa was among the most expressive of all the Uber drivers I’ve known. She was an odd combination of unfortunate events and ballsy comebacks. Lisa was a genuinely happy, giggly, tattooed woman, wrapped in salt-of-the-earth cellophane. She’d moved to nearby Richmond with a helluva romance story. As we drove along Highway 59 North, she told me how she and her man had broken up long ago but reunited 17 years later. They’re now happily married with two kids. I wanted to know more, but it was a short trip. 

Reddit has endless stories from people claiming to be Uber witnesses. One driver said it was crazy how many people put their young children in Ubers for a lonely morning ride to school. 

Another had to help carry a wasted passenger into his home after the guy passed out.  Thankfully the drunkard’s friend was there to help. Yet another claimed to have picked up three Rastafarians at a construction site and pruned a $30 tip by blasting reggae on the radio. 

Etiquette? Car cleanliness and free water bottles do not alone determine etiquette.  The best uber experiences start and stop with personality in my book. These people usually deal in valuable conversational currency, and I love listening to them because I’m retired and I have the time.

Uber vehicles may just be taxis with nicer paint jobs, a reflection of new “retail” transit. But it’s the people looking back at us who really drive the engine. 

Hagrid, Cheese and the Southwest Freeway Target

 

I was in the dairy section and I was debating cheese.

In my mind, I’m wondering why Tillamook is more expensive than Kraft. And where does the Good Day brand fit into all this? It’s suspiciously and decidedly INexpensive.

Why am I in the Southwest Freeway Target for food anyway?

Hagrid. Wikimedia photo.

Just as I approach the butter, I hear a bellowing voice. “Hey brutha? Did ya hear how they got Saddam?” I turn around to see a portly fellow, dressed in green camouflage trousers with a yellow and white polo-style shirt, sans buttons. I’d never seen him before. He was grey-haired, wore glasses and had yellowing teeth. 

He was embarrassingly nice, but loud and unconcerned. Jolly and brazen. Scattered and specific all at once. I sized him up to be around my age, but older. I think everyone’s older than me.

“The Defense Department decided to drop Viagra on Iraq when they were searching for Saddam Hussein. Finally, the little prick showed up.” He laughed like Hagrid, the bearded guy in Harry Potter.

I was caught in a scenario that required careful navigation. Either stay silent and walk away, securing my place as one of those aloof arrogant jerks I’ve spent my life despising. Or acknowledge the joke and dishonestly laugh and communicate my jovial approval.

I came up with, “good one.”  Yeah, I know.

He stretched a huge smile that made his lips look like rubber bands before sauntering away behind his cart. I saw him in frozen foods a few minutes after, and later near the pasta sauces. We did not speak again.

In the end, I went with the Tillamook.

 

Citizen Canine

 

It was a whimper.

That’s how it starts, always. When she looks up at me, the lower parts of her brown eyes are pure white. That makes her look as though she’s wearing a saggy mask.  It’s a daily thing with its own simple protocol. I should be grateful my dog Minnie lets me know when she has to go. I live in a condo and tight spaces drive her nuts. But on this day, our afternoon walk turned odd. 

Minnie looks like "Predator," but has the intimidation factor of Michael Cera.

Our routine takes us near Sugar Land City Hall. Every day we stroll by, adjacent to the parking lot there. Minnie finds a scent intoxicating on the lawn. So much does she like how it smells that she poops everywhere. 

Minnie

I follow up with a wrinkled Target bag, the most resilient of all the grocery and superstore bags I’ve tried over the years. But on this day, Minnie curiously walked on the other side of a pedestrian pole. I didn’t notice because I was looking up doggie bibs on Amazon. By the time I looked down, she was fully tangled and making it worse by freaking out.

I decided to stay clear. Let her figure it out. And when Minnie wiggled out of her red harness, she just took off. I watched her gallop towards City Hall. I kind of just stood there. This had happened once before, and it had gotten weird. Her direction was aimed at the front stairs.

I gave chase. Unfortunately, I’m not as spry as I used to be, and never quite got up to full speed. As Minnie approached the steps, a car she ran in front of slammed on the brakes. And as I watched my dog disappear through an opened City Hall door, the driver side window rolled down.

An elderly woman with high grey hair and cat-eyed glasses with a sparkly neck chain shouted, “what a beautiful animal!” I nodded, waved and smiled and finally got to the stairs. I limped up 15 of them and got through the City Hall entrance. I figured I would just follow the mayhem. Minnie is not only not a threat, she’s actually afraid of people. Especially children. When we go to a park, she can’t have fun. And she’s prone to running away from toddlers. This place was nothing but a snow globe of threats to her. 

Where the hell is she? I don’t see anyone backing up in terror. I don’t hear screams of fear from Minnie’s menacing size and shape. Her shoulders look like glaciers and her form has been compared to a greyhound. God, I hope she didn’t run upstairs to Mayor Carol McCutcheon’s office. 

In the end, I never went through the metal detector. And I thought it unwise to ask security where my 71-pound dog was. I left the building, gathered myself and made my way home. Upon arriving at the entrance gate, I saw Minnie sitting patiently and panting. She’d had an adventure. But we didn’t discuss it. I put her red harness back on and we went back home.

Anchor Mist

One of the first news anchors I ever worked with was a chap named Ashley Webster. Ashley was from England and conveyed many of the tell-tale signs of an Englishman. He was peacefully proper. He displayed a mature attitude towards duty. And he sounded like no one else in tiny Helena, Montana, then market 210. It was an odd work of art, how a lad from London’s East End shadowed the news backdrop among the eastern slopes of the Rockies and the legends of Montana’s “Rocky Mountain Oysters” (google it).

Last time I saw him, Ashley was doing network reports for Fox Financial. He was a great guy with great news instincts. But he couldn’t walk the mist.

Early on, I tried to personally capture that thing that made news anchors seem elevated. Not just talking audience numbers. I wanted what I refer to as The Anchor Mist.

It didn’t take long for me to see how some TV news anchors, very few, seem to effortlessly exude a charisma and confidence unique to our profession as broadcast journalists. These rare news readers carry sway without really trying, the kind of people who simply have that dignified way of carrying themselves. They are unafraid and always willing to engage in an array of debate scenarios, and they’re the best at them. They pursue subjects with the verbal aggression that might make weaker stomachs queasy.

I first recognized this syndrome when I worked in Las Vegas, with Gary Waddell. He was the main anchor at KLAS when I anchored mornings there in the early 1990s. Even as we’d whizz by his billboards on group motorcycle trips to Sunday breakfast, Gary (who rode a Harley Ultra) never took himself too seriously. He was really smart. But he didn’t advertise it.

Later, here in Houston, I met perhaps the best example yet. I spoke only briefly with anchor Sylvan Rodriguez on a few occasions and finally understood why he commanded such Houston market respect. Sylvan seemed to understand people really well, and that gave him The Mist. The fact is, pros like Sylvan can seemingly impress people not only on air, but every day during the afternoon meetings and newscast postmortem.

These are the people that everyone listens to. Coworkers will often follow them for drinks every Friday after the 10 p.m. kicker. Others ask them to record cell phone greetings.

The way these professionals approach people and subjects can be subtle and remarkably effective, like a soothing, calming mist. Their grace isn’t particularly obvious or easily identifiable. But The Mist feels good. It’s not distracting. It can tingle your spine, but it won’t knock you over. A good mist is always refreshing. And people are usually drawn to it. An anchor with Anchor Mist is always controlled. Dignified. Elegant. Modern day examples of Houston mist include Mia Gradney and Ilona Carson.

 I worked with Mia when she interned. Even and especially then, as an eager collegiate ripping scripts and putting them in order, she displayed obvious symptoms of The Mist. Professional and attentive to detail. She honed it at Channel 39 and uses it well now at KHOU. Ilona Carson is simply the best news anchor in the entire market, hands down. Lots of market observers are still scratching their heads on why 13 ever let her go. She’s got big skills. Unbendable, like you want in a truth teller. Warm enough to sell funnier, happier stories that look awkward when introduced by harder-edged anchor personalities.

Granted, much has changed since I was walked to the exits 15 years ago. But solid and effective communication has not. More and more, less experienced, less engaging, less credible people are appearing on TV and computer screens mispronouncing words and playing the facts like a carnival shell game.

Then again, what the hell do I know? I only anchored weekends. I could feel it. But I later realized I could never, ever embody The Mist.

 

Barber

I’ve not always had great friendships with barbers. And as I waited for a recent haircut, certain things began to dawn on me and prompted more than a few questions.

My first ever haircut was an absolute disaster. For some reason, I vomited on the poor guy, which should tell you all you need to know about how I process stress. It was a local barber close to my home in a neighborhood known as Forest Hills. I remember it being dreadful. Cleanup required coordinated efforts to manage my discharge, and a trip to the store for air freshener. My mom was appalled, but smiled, nonetheless.

And my fears of the barbershop pole didn’t improve in the 6th grade when another guy accidentally sliced my ear. I’d arrived at Fisherman’s Wharf at 5 a.m. that day to board a big boat and embark on a five-hour fishing trip. The early hour, combined with the rough San Francisco Bay waters seemed to slow me, and I later fell asleep in the chair. When I nodded off, the scissors clipped the top of my right ear. My mom was appalled, but smiled, nonetheless.

The barbers of my youth were not at all that distinctive; mostly older gentlemen with graying hair, spectacles and a short-sleeved shirt made of some strange paper-like microfiber. These men were usually soft spoken. They smiled a lot. Many had red noses due to scotch cocktails after the day’s last cleaning.

The barbershops were always straight forward. Mine had the typical checkered floor and that mysterious blue-green potion where the combs lived in a clear jar. I never knew what that stuff was. And I never asked.

Fast forward to today. My Sugar Land spot still holds a blue and red pole hanging on an arm connected to the storefront. Inside, the configuration is still the same. But today’s barbershops have more chairs on average than yesteryear. Gone is the one- or two-chair shop. Mine has five and they’re all filled as I approach. My 80s barber would never dream of blasting music during procedures. The owner in Sugar Land is a 32-year-old kid from Richmond, and he cranks Zeppelin. I’ve asked him if that’s a strategy to attract older customers with deeper pockets. He assures me it is not.

As I ease down on a leather sofa to wait my turn, it occurred to me that walk-in appointments are rare with online booking. I wonder if anyone under 40 has ever called to make an appointment. I commented on how much this exiting client looks like Nate Bargatze. No one finds it amusing, highlighting, I later noticed, how little conversation exists between client and cutter. Today’s guys seem more focused on the task and less likely to enjoy conversation. They make an effort, but it’s a lie. I’m twice their age, and weight. What the hell do we have in common?

I’m also perplexed why all clients are faced away from the mirrors, and I suspect it’s a new trend to keep clients from nitpicking before the job is done. Or maybe to build up the drama. My guy takes about 30 minutes. It’s a good job, and I leave happy. I briefly ask him why he faces his customers away from the mirrors as he works. He says it’s so he can more easily access his tools on the shelf under the glass. Makes sense. I’ve concluded that the experience today is different from my memories, but not by much. I guess like furniture, hot tea and baseball, there’s not a lot of room to change the formula. By the way, I paid $57 for my recent trim.  $5 used to cover it.