Carrie and I buy a car...

Carrie Fisher and I are walking down the street, We're holding hands, we've been walking for a long time.

"Jesus, I'm tired of walking, we need to buy a car to get around." Carrie says. "Walking is good for us, but this is insanity."

"What do you want to get?"

"My Mom had a Thunderbird when I was a little girl, I loved that car."

"Maybe we can find one, keep walking."

In an hour or so, including a stop for coffee and a donut, we realize we're in North Hollywood. Strip Malls, body shops, recycling centers, manicure shops and tacky bars line the streets, finally we see a used car lot and damned if they don't have a white 55 Thunderbird up on a display lift. Carrie is so excited she wraps her arms around my neck and gives me a movie star kiss. Carrie is sweaty from all our walking, so am I, but it doesn't matter. A guy with a neck tattoo, sticks his head out of the window of his 4x4 Tacoma, honks his horn at us and yells "Take it to a fucking motel you assholes!" We were kissing in the crosswalk and he had the green. Carrie says, "Good idea." I nod my approval and we jaywalk to a drive up to the door motel called The Loveland and check in.

3 hours later, moony eyed, but refreshed we step onto "Nick the Greek's Only the Finest Pre-Owned Automobiles" lot. Out of nowhere Nick appears, he's short, wrinkled, he's wearing a polo shirt that's is at least 2 sizes too small. White chest hair is sticking out of the neck of the shirt. He has garlic breath because he just finished a lamb Gyro, his hand shake is greasy. Carrie is repulsed by his greasy shake, she sticks her hand into the open window of a customer's tan Camry and wipes her hand on the headrest. I maneuver around so I can put my hand on Nick's shoulder in a gesture of confidence and friendship. I wipe my hand on the shoulder of his maroon polo.

"We'd like to take a look at the 55 T-Bird."

Nick doesn't respond, he's checking out Carrie's boobs.

"Excuse me, I said we'd like to look at the T-Bird."

"Don't I know you from somewhere?" Nick says. His eyes still on Carrie's boobs.

"No." Carrie says.

"You look familiar to me I swear to god I know you."

"Not a chance,"

Nick shrugs and says, "Okay. Let me get it down off the lift. Hey, Alonzo, get that fucking Bird off the lift, we got a couple of hot ones, they want to look at it." An old Mexican guy in a worn, white stained mechanic's jumpsuit comes out of a two stall shop, The name tag on the suit says Alberto. Alonzo is wiping his hands on a greasy rag. He's wearing knee high black rubber boots. It took awhile, but he got the T-Bird on the ground. It won't start. He heads back to the shop for a jumper cart. Nick looks nervous.

"It's a shit box Carrie, let's go."

"No, no, it looks like the one my Mom used to have."

Nick turns to me, "She likes the car, you say her name is Carrie?"

"Connie, dammit." Carrie says. "My name is Connie, you fat Greek shit!"

Carrie likes to move around town incognito, can you blame her?

An hour later we drive off Nick's lot in the T-Bird. Carrie is driving. I notice we leave a faint trail of blue smoke every time she steps on the gas, same thing when she lets off. The valve train is noisy and it has slight rod knock. It pulls to the left when she hits the brakes. All that matters to me is Carrie is really happy.

"I'm so fucking happy honey, we have a car and we don't have to walk everywhere. LA sucks when you have to walk all the time."

"You hungry?"

"Starved." Carrie whips into In 'N Out. We order to go. We get two Animal style, we share fries and a large strawberry shake On the way out, Carrie drives over the curb, I hear a clunk.

"Stop the car baby, I need to see what that sound was." She pulls to the curb. I look at the car and get back in. I have to slam the door twice to get it to close.

"What happened?"

"A chunk of bondo fell off the right rear quarter panel. You know this car used to be red?"

"What?"

"Never mind, just drive."

"Let's show our new car to my Mom, she'll be so excited, she'll pee her pants."

"How would you know, she wears those new Depends, doesn't she?  Are you going to eat all  the fries or are you going to share them?"

Carrie is driving with her knee as we get on the 101, she hands me the shake and the fries. A napkin blows out of the car as she does, we get passed by an asshole driving a silver Audi in 3rd gear, the napkin is stuck in his wiper, he gives Carrie the finger, she flips him back. Carrie turns to me and says with a smile,"Don't you be a pig baby and eat them all." She turns on the radio, LA Woman by the Doors is on, Carrie turns it up, the right hand, aftermarket speaker goes to hell when she does, she starts banging on the dash.

"Get your hands back on the wheel, I'll feed you fries sweetheart and stay in your damn lane." The Doors sound like shit on one channel.

I feed Carrie fries and hold the strawberry shake so she can suck on the straw while she drives, we get off 101 at Desoto and take a right on Roscoe. We stop in front of an old two story apartment building, it's a fake Spanish with tiny decks in front of the sliding glass doors of each apartment. The decks are so small, two little chairs take up all the space and the wrought iron railings are rusty and peeling. The door buzzer doesn't work. Carrie suggests I toss the rest of the shake at her Mom's window to get her attention. My arm isn't as good as it used be, but I hit the slider dead center. The strawberry shake looks like modern art as it slides down the glass. Carrie's mom sticks her head out, looks around, she wearing a multi-colored, flowing caftan and has a scarf around her head, The music from her apartment is really loud.

"Carrie, what's that music your Mom is playing?"

"Some bullshit from the "The Unsinkable Molly Brown" last month it was the soundtrack from "Tammy",  God I hated that shit when I was a kid. Come to think about it, I still hate it!"

Debbie finally notices us standing on the sidewalk and says she'll buzz us in. We have to wait at the door until someone comes out so we can get in the building. We waited around 10 minutes until an old man with a shirt, tie, coat and no pants comes out."Carrie, remind your Mom the door buzzer doesn't work" I said as we went through the door. "At least the guy had fresh boxers on."

"I've been telling her that for months." We got in the elevator for the short trip to the 2nd floor. It doesn't take long, seems longer though because the elevator smells like cat pee. Carrie and I take a right out of the elevator, walk to the end of the hall. Carrie says, "Fuck! Mom's place is in the other direction!" We turn around and head back. One of the apartments has yellow police tape crisscrossed over the door.

"Is that where Durst lived?"

"Uh huh, Mom says he was one weird bastard."

We get to Carrie's mother's door, we both beat on it so Debbie can hear us over the music, Carrie kicks the door and hurts her foot, she's hopping around when Debbie opens the door and says, "Where the hell have you two kids been? I've been waiting forever."

More to come, maybe...

Jim Harper explains us and a lesson for you…

George got a nice note from Detroit’s Jim Harper:

“This is the most productive and potentially “golden” advice any morning jock could ever expect to receive. And it’s free! Then again…generous. Old Pros do that…never when asked, but when you least expect it and they sincerely want to help talent. I hope jox realize that Bob’s phone call script/outline should be stolen and produced with a killer-close…tomorrow! And George’s break-by-break then repeat-outline is a million dollar secret.”
Nice work, Gentlemen.

Thanks, Jim.

George and I were chatting this morning about something that’s always irritated the hell out of both us, especially about morning show talent.
The big sports news, the news really, is Baseball’s League Championship Series have started.  Dodgers-Brewers, Red Sox-Astros. The winners go to the World Series. It’s huge, even for people who don’t avidly follow baseball or listen to sports radio,

Here’s the deal, all over the country, radio people, who know zip about baseball, will begin pontificating on baseball. It happens every year. Don’t do it, you’ll sound like a moron.


I had an afternoon talk show host, a smart, interesting guy, great numbers. He knew nothing about sports and hated baseball. We carried baseball on the station, we did it for the cume, but that’s another story.. Anyway, our team ended up in the World Series. For the Series, we set up a remote broadcast studio in the parking lot right by the main gate of the ball park. We’d move the station to the ball park every afternoon prior to the home games. The talk show host pitched a bitch because he didn’t want to sound like an idiot on the air. The solution his producer and I came up with was simple, surround him with experts. We had an ancient, regional sales manager who had been a pitcher in AAA ball for the Phillies. He was so old, he played before MLB expansion! The guy knew baseball in and out. He was always fun to go to a game with, he carried a baseball with him and explained each pitch and the grip needed to throw it. We put him with the talk show host. We found baseball writers, TV guys (even Bob Costas dropped by) and retired ball players (Gary Carter) to join our guy for his shows prior to the games. Our guy was good, he knew when to shut up and he began asking the right questions. He got the “experts” to tell their stories. He was relaxed and comfortable with baseball during those shows. He did a great job doing something he initially didn’t want to do. There was a lot of laughing and good times on the radio, just guys talking about baseball. The callers asked good questioners and the experts gave them great answers.
When the teams moved on to play in the other teams home ball park. Our once reluctant talk show host couldn’t wait to get our sports guy on the phone to talk baseball.

The Series went 7 games, when our team won it, the happiest guy in the ball park was our talk show host, who a few weeks earlier hated baseball.

Jack Cole (RIP) was a pro.

And let that be a lesson for you.

BTW, We didn’t originate the games, but we carried them and made them our own. We won numerous awards for out sports production. Our production director was at the presentation ceremony in in New York and the committee was blown away that we weren’t the originating station for Marlin’s baseball.

It’s called “Theater of the Mind”.

Personal sidebar: My first date with my wife was the 7th Game of the World Series between the Marlins and Cleveland. The Cakes hasn’t been to a baseball game since!

• 
  

  • 
    

Funny how things happen, isn't it....

     Ray, George and I celebrating Geo's birthday a few years ago on the porch "Up in the Canyon"

It's October 3rd, my pal George's birthday. He's old like me. I've known George since the early 70's and we've celebrated a bunch of birthdays together, maybe too many. Not really, we're both glad we're still alive. This year's birthday is being celebrated in Tampa, Geo's baby daughter, college girl is throwing a party for him. I hope he can keep up with Cami and her friends. I know he'll do his best. Know Geo like I do, he'll fade.

In 1996, George and I were working together in the Fairbanks Corporate office in West Palm Beach. When our Boston stations were sold that spring, I was transferred to West Palm. I hated to leave Boston, but I needed to eat, so off I went. In short order, I was out of my relationship in Boston. 

In January of '97 I was at a charity event at a classy bar on Clematis Street in downtown West Palm. I let myself be picked up by a dazzling, British woman. In a few weeks we were a "thing". She swept me off my feet so to speak. In March, I took her to the Palm Beach Film Festival, Formal dress for the banquet, Very nice evening at the Breaker's Hotel, we had a great time. I pulled in her driveway at 1 in the morning, Sheila put her hand on my arm and said, "Love we have to take some time off." I asked "Why?" Sheila continued in her posh, Brit accent, "My husband is coming home for a few weeks and I can't let things get messy. We have an understanding between us, so you can see how this could create a problem don't you Robert? We can resume in when he leaves."

I was stunned, I was speechless, I didn't know what to say, I simply said, "Get the fuck out of my car!" 

I drove home and drank a half a fifth of Basil Hayden and went to bed. On Sunday morning my head was pounding. I took the dog for a walk, The dog and I drove to the Palm Beach News Stand and bought the papers. I swam in my little pool, by 10 that night by hangover was gone. I decided I was finished with women. I also decided I was pretty much done with everything except work. I stopped going out, I stayed home all the time. I went to work and went home for 7 months. George and our buddy Eric would come over on Saturday night, I'd cook, we'd get drunk, smoke cigars and watch "Cops" on TV.  I just stayed home in my little house on Rutland Blvd.

 

For months, I read a shitload of books, made excellent meals and played with Straka the Dog. I had enough money to finally pay off my divorce attorney, my back taxes and keep up with spousal support all at the same time. No sweat when all you do is shuttle from the office to home day after day. I even saved a buck or two.

7 went by, I finally agreed to go out for dinner on George's birthday. Eric, George and I met at an Italian place on Clematis, the food was good, so was the wine. We drove over to Palm Beach, hit a few spots. Eric didn't have a jacket on, at Au Bar, they made him slip into one of their "emergency" jackets. Eric, the spitting image of John Candy, was a 50 long and they tucked his fat ass into a 42 short and portly. It was a greasy, brown, nubby wool number. It looked outstanding with his Hawaiian shirt. Eric didn't care he reveled in it. A snotty Pam Beach type, said "Nice jacket." Eric, a Harvard drop out, said, in his deep baritone voice, using his best upper class Boston accent with a wide but insincere smile on his face, "Why don't you go fuck yourself,"

                                                       Eric Chaney, RIP. One of the best.

The three of us went to another club and as usual George faded from the scene around 10:30. Eric and I felt the urgent need to smoke a cigar. The Chesterfield Hotel's Leopard Lounge was just down the road, off we went. Eric in his huge, black, early 80's Fleetwood sedan. (he bought it from a funeral home) Eric loved his old Caddys and me in my 5 Series. 

The Leopard Lounge was empty, just a piano player, a tired looking woman server, a bartender and a guy with two women sitting at the bar. Eric and I sat down, we ordered from the bartender, lit our cigars, Eric asked me, "What do you think?" I said, "I think I just saw the best looking woman I've seen since I moved to Florida."

It was Jan. She had been to a birthday dinner for her friend Susie, they ended up at the Leopard Lounge too. Jan, Susie and the guy, neither of us can remember his name, joined Eric and me, we started to chat. The stars and the moon aligned, I gave Jan a ride home. We made a date, I got a peck on the check and the rest is history.

A few weeks later George starting calling her Cakes and that's how that got started. 

We were talking about Geo's birthday last night. I said "1997." Jan said "21 years", We both rolled our eyes.We always remember George's birthday!