"That Son of a Bitch!"

After the 3 radio stations I managed in LA were sold…that made a total of 6 sold in 11 years. I’d had it with the radio business….

Of course, I decided to take one more shot.

I bundled together the money, made an offer on a station in Boston, the guy accepted the offer, we shook hands on the deal. My lawyer sent him a purchase agreement. 

This was Thursday, I was excited as hell. I flew home to LA on Friday morning, I was a little hung over from the celebration with Sharp in Boston on Thursday night, but I was good.

My wife picked me up at LAX, we stopped at Pann’s for lunch. I had chicken and waffles, she had a salad. We laughed, we made plans and decided we’d move to either Beverley or Marblehead. I voted  for living in the Back Bay again, but somehow in a democracy of two, she has more votes than I do.

I waited the entire weekend for the purchase agreement to show up, I was supposed to get the document via email and then a signed hard copy to sign and send back with a 10% deposit. I didn’t get it Friday or Saturday. I didn’t get it on Sunday. I called him at noon pacific time on Monday.

He answered his phone on the 8^th ring.

“Oh hi, I was just going to call you.” He said.

“Hey man I haven’t got the purchase agreement yet.”

“Well, I ah…ahh.”

“Do we have a problem?”

“Well, uh huh, yes.” he says. I could smell the sweat from all the way across the country.

“If you tell me what the hang up is, let’s get it fixed.”

“I’m sorry, but I’ve sold the station already.”

“What? You already sold it to me last Thursday. We had a god damned deal, you and Sharpie and I pounded it over breakfast, we agreed on everything. For Christ’s sake, you sat there and made a deal with me and you were working another deal at the same time?”

“Not really.” He sounded nervous.

“What do you mean not really, what did you do, use our agreement to leverage more money from another buyer? I’ve known you for 15 fucking years, you’ve eaten at my house, you’ve been over at Christmas. My wife thinks you walk on water. We’ve hung out together, I sat by your hospital bed when everybody thought you were going to die from a god damn stroke…and this how you fuck with your friend?”

“It isn’t like that, not at all, I uh, kind of had this going on before we talked and uh…”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“It kind of came up after we talked last week.”

“We didn’t just talk, we made a deal, we forged an agreement and we shook hands on it. It was done.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry enough to complete our deal?”

“I can’t, the other deal is done.” He said.

“How much more money did you get?”

“Way less money.”

“What, you sold it for less money?”

“I sold it to the Archdiocese, for 250 grand cash and a 1.9 million dollar tax credit, plus they are going to rent the tower site from me and pay a monthly fee for program production and studio rental. They signed a ten year deal on the studio and a 25 year deal on the tower site.”

“I hope you and Jesus get along….and I hope his checks are good.”

I hung up the phone. I was pissed. The minute I set it down, Sharpe the broker called from New York.

“Did you get the agreement back yet?”

“No. He fucked me and you at the same time.”

I told Sharp the entire story, when I finished he said, “That son of a bitch.”

I hadn’t hung up from Sharpe for more than a couple of minutes when the phone rang again. It was a guy I’d worked for early in my career, he called to congratulate me on becoming a station owner, I told him the story, when I finished, he said, “That son of a bitch.”

I took the dog to the park and threw the ball for him until my arm damn near fell off, I got back, checked my phone, two messages. I called back, told them what happened and guess what? The son of a bitch thing. Both times.

When my wife got home, I told her the story of my day. She didn’t say anything, she got up poured herself a glass of wine, came back into my office. She looked at me and said, “That son of a bitch.”

Two guys from Boston start “tawkin”…

I haven’t done a post like this for a while.

I greeted a guy at work last week. He was on a mission to find a used 9 passenger SUV, 4 wheel drive. This guy was driving a Bentley and had a heavy Boston accent. He was wearing a t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, baggy cargo shorts and a Bentley ball cap. He looked a little like Michael Moore. We talked for a few minutes and I said, “You’re from Boston, right?”

“You got that right, pal.”

I told him I’d spent most of my life in Boston, instantly he switched in to full Boston mode. Examples:

“Fuckin Sox man, you believe how fucking tight the AL East is…Jesus.”

“Me and my cousin Billy come out here in the early 70’s to fuck around and I never went back, that rat bastid left and went back to Dorchestah afta a month or two, me I got a fuckin job inna gas station in Brentwood and just fuckin stayed, know what I mean?”

“I own that station now, gotta deli in the son of bitch, ‘nother one in Beverley Hills, Moorpark, 8 of the fuckahs. Don’t make any god damn money on gas, make it sellin other shit and cah washes.”

“The old lady and I just bought a place up in Montana, need the 9 passenger son of bitch to leave up at the airport, there in Missoula, just paak the piece of shit in my hanger, when we aint theyah. Load the fuckin grandkids innit and drive uptah our place. Fucking snow up the ass in the wintah. Evah been theyah?”

“Evah go tah Nantucket before them rich fucks from New York fucked it all up? It was fuckin paradise befoah they fuckin bought the whole fuckin place, bunch of assholes.”

“Know something, Bawbby? (I became Bwabby instantly) Ida nevah come out here if fuckin Jimmy Catah hadn’t gotten rid of the fuckin draft, Ida been in the fucking jungle, know what I mean?”

“I got this Bentley for the old lady, she don’t like the fuckin thing, make her feel guilty for some goddamn reason, I think the fuckin nuns got to her.”

“Belichik is kinda an asshole, but I love the fuckin guy.”

“I hate the fuckin Jets.”

“Know what I miss? A decent bowl of clam chowdah. Can’t get that shit out heah.”

“Fuckin Mexicans work theyah asses off, good fuckin people, got two of the fuckahs running stations foah me, got my eye onna another couple of the bastids, honest and smaat little bastids.”

“I worked haad, but I got lucky, know what I mean?”

“Grew up withoutta pot tah piss in, now I aint got enough piss foah all ah pots.”

“The old lady said to me, “Yah know I liked it bettah when we had that little house when we first was married, now there’s too much shit to keep track of.” I told her I’d sell it all and buy her a triple deckah in Dorchestah, buy her a rusty fuckin Toyota if that’s what she wants. She passed on my offah.”

And that ain’t the half of it…now if I had the right cah, I’d call the fat pant bastid up and sell it to him.

Dog People

We live in an old brownstone in Boston’s Back Bay. There are 60,000 people living in the Back Bay. Geographically the Back Bay isn’t big, it runs from the Charles River to the South End, from Arlington Street to Massachusetts Avenue. The neighborhood is, if you like city living and we do, one of the country’s best places to live. It has everything you need and you can walk to get it when you need it. It's a good way to live.

The Back Bay is not only a good place for people, dogs like it too. 16,000 licensed dogs live here. There are two fenced dog parks, one on the Commonwealth Avenue Mall a block from Mass Ave, another one, the newest, is on a piece of land alongside and just below the Mass Ave bridge. But most of the dog people, from early spring to late fall prefer to take their dogs to the Charles River Esplanade. There the dogs can run off leash, play, fight and fuck (or at least try to) to their doggy heart’s desire.

We are dog people and over time you get to know the other dog people. You see them every day. You say hello, some of them become friends, good enough friends to have drinks with after work, sometimes even dinner.  I’ve seen dog people meet over their dogs, begin to date, fall in love and get married and create a 2 dog household. I’ve also seen dog people get divorced and fight over custody of the poor, confused dog.

Dog people wear dog clothing, old, versatile, weather appropriate clothing with big pockets for treats, brushes, extra leashes, collars and plenty of plastic poop bags. Dog clothing is, fashion wise, only one small step above homeless clothing styles. I used to see a woman and her Huskie every day, month after month. One day I was eating lunch on the sidewalk of a café on Newbury Street. I heard my name and felt a hand on my shoulder. There was a beautiful, sophisticated, sparkling woman, great clothes, great shoes, perfect makeup and hair. I stared and finally she said, “I’m Igloo’s Mom.” Christ, I was stunned at her transformation. I was speechless.

Back Bay Dog people always pick up after their dogs, if they don’t pick up the shit. They get plenty of shit from the other Dog People. After a couple of vicious tongue lashings, they always fall in line and do the right thing.

One of my favorite things to do on a Sunday morning, while she sleeps in, in good weather of course. Is to walk our dog from Mass Ave to Charles Street along the river. On Charles Street, I pick up a fresh loaf of bread from a small bakery along with a cup of coffee and a donut, usually a plain, sometimes I get chocolate covered or if I’m in the mood a croissant.  I buy a Globe from the old mick selling the papers on the corner of Charles and Beacon, walk through the Public Garden, across Arlington and find a nice bench in the sun on Comm Ave. I wrap the dogs leash around my thigh, he sits next to the bench, I drink my coffee and read the paper. Since she loves to sleep in on Sunday and I get up early no matter what day it is, she gets her undisturbed sleep and the dog and I get our walk and fresh air, it’s a perfect trade. One Sunday morning, a dog person I knew only by sight came by my bench, she said hello and asked, “Are you going to see your mother today?” It was Mother’s Day. I said, “No, my Mom is in the Midwest.” She asked me where in the Midwest, I told her the town. The Dog lady laughed, “That’s my mother in law’s home town.” She told me her mother in law’s name. Her mother in law was my Mother’s best friend when they were kids. Sometimes the world is very small.

On the corner of Hereford Street and Comm Ave, there’s an old, 4 story mansion converted to a very expensive assisted living home. The old Brahmins who live there love the dogs, they watch them from their mansion windows while they play in the dog park. Some of them, the healthy and spry ones (even the ones in walkers and wheelchairs) come out of the old mansion, sit on the benches and pet and love up the dogs. Almost all of them are retired dog people and our dogs make them smile and make their eyes light up. For their effort, they get doggie kisses and the dogs get treats. Everybody has a good time.

Our dog is a German Shepherd. His best friend is another German Shepherd named Phoenix. I’ve become a good friend of Phoenix’ “Dad”. We meet most mornings on the Charles. We talk and throw balls for our boys. Phoenix’  Dad is a civil engineer, he’s the lead engineer on the new Portland, Oregon water system. He had to leave Boston for Portland for a couple of months when construction was getting underway. His baby sister, a student at Boston University, moved into his condo and doggysat Phoenix while he was gone. The baby sister is a varsity lacrosse player at BU and rather than throw a ball for the dogs, she brought her Lacrosse racquet and flung the ball for the boys. One morning Phoenix got to the ball first and the dogs raced back for more. Phoenix was about 30 feet from me and he keeled over. The sister and I ran up, the dog was out cold. I could see the Lacrosse ball stuck in his throat and he wasn’t breathing. I lifted him up between my legs and gave him the Heimlich maneuver. The ball popped out. Phoenix took a deep breath, shook his head and was ready for more. I handed the sister a tennis ball to replace the smaller Lacrosse ball and the dogs were back in action.

Most of the Back Bay dogs get along as well as their owners do, but our dog has one mortal enemy. The dog is a big, black New Foundland named Teddy. They’ve never had a fight, but if our boy spots or smells Teddy from a block away he goes crazy, Teddy the Newfie responds in kind. The two of them make more noise than an entire pack of dogs. On the other hand, in addition to Phoenix, his other doggie best friend is little, fluffy, black and white Molly. Molly is blind and he treats her with great gentleness, kindness and love. Molly likes to snuggle up next to him. I wouldn’t suggest anyone try to harm Molly when our boy is around, you’d get your ass whipped or at minimum a nasty bite. And you’d deserve it.

The Long View on Life's Oddities and Weird Moments

At my birthday party last night, a friend asked "What's the weirdest thing you've experienced over the years?"

The first thing that popped into my mind was an incident with one of my German Shepherds. We were hiking in northern Maine on a little used trail, we were miles from civilization. This was bear, moose, deer and black fly country. The dog was off leash, ranging ahead of me and he came trotting back with a pink thong in his mouth. You can imagine what kind of thoughts ran through my head!

Another weird thing took place in the Bugaboos in Canada. I was at the end of a 4 day climbing trip and we were staying in the climbers hut.

The first floor of the hut has tables, chairs a small library and a kitchen. The second floor has sleeping spaces marked on the floor. They fit a sleeping pad and a sleeping bag, they are about 6 inches apart.
After 3 nights of sleeping next to a fart master from Vancouver, the spot next to me was taken by a big, strong, gorgeous female climber from Poland. She and her partner had climbed every big mountain in Europe and South America and were planning a climb on K-2 and Everest. My climbing partner Lance and I shared a drop or two of whisky with the Polish girls after our freeze dried dinners. We went to bed at 10 or so and I zipped into my bag next to her. I was almost asleep when she rolled over and said. "Boob, ven you go home?" I said, we were hiking out in the morning. She said, "Too bat, I vas gonna take you up the small hut on de ice and ve make luf tomorrow night." She gave me a kiss on the cheek, rolled over and went to sleep. I was wide awake all night.

When I was the program director of WVBF in Boston, my afternoon drive guy, Magic Christian had a listener record the following: "Hi, this is Patti Hearst and whenever I'm hiding out in Boston, I always listen to the Magic Christian on 105.7 WVBF" the next day I was talking to three FBI agents.

When I was working with the amazing Chuck Riley, (you may remember him as Chuck Dann on CKY and KQWB) he bought an Avanti from the company that retained the rights to build the car after Studebaker went out of business. The cars were highly customized as far as paint and interior décor. Chuck ordered a chocolate brown with brown suede interior. One day in the parking lot he was yelling for help, he couldn't get out of the car! He had worn a suede top coat and it interacted with the seats like Velcro.

At WVBF we had 3 black women on staff, Choice Joyce our receptionist, Claudette, a sales secretary and I hired Pam Hamilton to do the all night show. Pam was from Long Island, an Emerson graduate, she played the violin and wasn't exactly soulful at the time. I overheard Joyce and Claudette talking one day about Pam. Claudette said to Joyce, "That sistah don't know she's a sistah!"

          I have many, many more...but I have a hockey game to get ready for! Go Broons!

Bombs in My Old Neighborhood.

I have a long history with the Boston Marathon; my first in the early 70’s was a revelation to me. I was behind the wheel of the Fairbank’s owned WKOX news car. ‘KOX at the time was the only broadcast outlet allowed to have a vehicle on the course. There I was in the station’s Mustang with Bob Bruce and Bill Galvin, driving right behind the “Statie’s” motorcycles and the photographer’s truck, positioned just ahead of the lead runners from the start in Hopkinton all the way to the finish line on Boylston Street in Boston. Every town you pass through on the course has its own unique way of cheering the runners on, from the beer drinkers at the Happy Swallow in Framingham, the Wellesley girls cheering, the families along Heart Break Hill, the crowds in Kenmore Square and the final turn onto Boylston Street and the finish line…the smiles, the cheers, the encouragement for the runners, more cheers for everyday runners than for the elites who were right behind our news car.

The Marathon, almost 40 years ago offered no prize money, it was and still is run by the BAA, a lot  has changed but the people along the course haven’t. I know people who have witnessed the marathon every Patriots Day of their lives. It’s always been much more than a road race. It’s a way of life, a part of life a celebration in the only state in the Union that still celebrates Patriot’s Day.

Later, I lived and worked in the part of Boston where the bombings took place yesterday, it hit me hard. I know those streets, walked them every day, I used to get my glasses and contacts at the store that the first bomb went off directly in front of. I worked in the Prudential Tower, just across the street from where the 2^nd bomb detonated.

I read earlier today that Boston is a tough town, but “once you’re in, you’re in”, how true that is. I live in California now, but I’m a Boston guy and have been since my early 20’s. I’ve gone to see the Red Sox and the Marathon on the same day. I’ve sat in the VIP stands and watched the race’s finish. Jan and I have watched the runners on Comm Ave from our roof deck. We’ve walked through the smiling crowds to get a beer and a sandwich in the middle of a Patriot’s Day afternoon as the last runners chug down Boylston to the finish line.

The Marathon, until now has been a celebration of a 117 year old race, a city, its people and the tens of thousands of people from all over the country and the world who come to run in the “Boston” to cheer for the runners, fast and slow and to be embraced by the people of Boston and all the towns along the route. This has had an effect on me that I could never have predicted; one of my first thoughts yesterday was “good thing the fire fighters of Engine 33 are close at hand.” Jan and I thought of our friend Mary who manages a restaurant right around the corner from the blast. So many friends and neighbors, so close, including Mrs. Lee at King Lee cleaners a block away on Newbury, the guys at DeLuca’s market, so many, so close.

Boston is a tough town, but under the toughness is a big, damn heart. Boston is where our country began, where the first shots of the revolution were fired, where the tea was dumped, the city where the British fled from the guns on Dorchester Heights, the town where Ben Franklin swam in the Charles and learned to write and print. Tough town, tough people.

Go to Boston some time, walk the history on the Freedom Trail, sit on a bench on the Common and contemplate it and take a look at the people. They’ll get through this and next year, on Patriot’s Day there will be another Sox game and a world class marathon to celebrate. They are too tough and too big hearted not to.