Radio Days: Hammerin' Hank

Hammer01March 18, 2024 (Vol. 18 No. 14) - During the period of my life that I was a broadcast journalist, I was privileged to meet people and experience events that I otherwise would never have. Such an event occurred April 15, 1977, when I was on the field at Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium to witness the uniform number retirement ceremony for the greatest (non-steroidal) home run hitter in Major League Baseball history, Henry "Hank" Aaron. I was the news director of WXLX-AM in Milledgeville, Georgia. Along with our sports director Steve Stoddard, we obtained press passes for the Atlanta Braves opening night game against the Houston Astros. The Braves won in front of a crowd of 46,969 by a score of 4-3 on the strength of two-run home runs by Jeff Burroughs and Jerry Royster - both off of the oddly named pitcher Mark Lemongello. But the real draw that night was the "Hammerin' Hank" retirement ceremony. It occured exactly three years and one week after Aaron hit his 715th home run to pass Babe Ruth. My media pass allowed me to be on the field before the game and to take fabulous photos like the one above. That's then-Braves owner and media mogul Ted Turner at the mic, which was situated at home plate during the ceremonies. While on the field, I got a chance to talk briefly with Turner. (I met him a second time seven years later at the Pierre Hotel in New York City when we both won Peabody Awards.) I also had the honor of meeting Georgia native Keith Jackson of ABC Sports, who served as master of ceremonies on this special night. I got great photos of Aaron, but did not talk to him. I gave that honor to Stoddard, who taped an interview with him. After the ceremonies, I covered the game in the press box and went into the Braves locker room after the final out. It was a heady experience for a small town radio guy. One of my strongest memories of that locker room visit was watching MLB players being interviewed while sitting at their lockers completely in the nude. Frankly, I just stood in the back, held out my microphone and kept my mouth shut. I was too intimidated - and embarrassed - to ask questions of naked men headed to or from a shower. That's the only time in my journalism career I gathered soundbites from anyone sans clothes - although there were a few politicians I suspected conducted public business while buck naked. Nevertheless, it's a night I will always remember: Hammerin' Hank and baseball in the buff. That's it for now. Fear the Turtle. Photo copyright David W. Guth, 2024.

Game On

SOTU24March 8, 2024 (Vol. 18 No. 13) - If anyone doubted that Joe Biden is up to leading our nation, those doubts should have been dispelled last night. President Biden's third State of the Union address was feisty, combative and unusually partisan - exactly what the times called for. He didn't pull any punches when it came to citing the failures of his predecessor, although he didn't mention him by name. (You may have noticed that I go to great lengths to avoid mentioning the name of our Defeated Former President.) And, as he did last year, Biden suckered unruly and undisciplined Republicans into highlighting their own failures. One could not help but feel sorry of House Speaker Mini-Mike Johnson as he sat behind the President in view of the television audience for the entire hour-plus long speech. At times, the Speaker was like a bobblehead doll, unintentionally showing agreement with Biden's statements. It was humorous watching Mini-Mike try to hide his applause of approval for things the President said by putting his hands under the desk. (Was the Speaker adjusting his woofers and tweeters? Just sayin'.) On one occasion, Mini-Mike noticeably sat quietly, refusing to applause Biden's call to defeat Russian aggression in Ukraine. (Ronald Reagan was spinning in his grave.) Many, if not most political commentators gave Biden high marks for his speech. The SOTU was followed by a response from Sen. Katie Britt of Alabama. Sure, Britt gave a youthful face to the Republican Party. However, any advantage the GOP gained from that was lost once she opened her mouth and talked. The Stepford Senator's response was weak, condescending and poorly staged. When she asked the question if America is better off today than it was four years ago, I said to myself a resounding "hell yes!" Britt may be pretty and smart (perhaps Sarah Palin smart), but she parroted the same old lies and choked back phony tears in a pathetic performance. Did Joe Biden give a flawless performance? No. Will the speech force MAGA Maggots to sing another tune? Unlikely. However, early polling suggests that Biden accomplished exactly what he wanted (and needed) to do - energize his base and sway reticent independents. Game On. That's it for now. Fear the Turtle.

How Old Is Too Old? (Part 2)

Biden&DumbshitMarch 5, 2024 (Vol. 18 No. 12) - On this Super Tuesday, a day when the defeated and demented former president is about to sow-up the Republican presidential nomination, it is time once again to ask the question "How old is too old to be President of the United States?" Six months ago in this very space, I asked and answered that question. In that blog post, I said "To me, it is not a question of whether Joe Biden or Donald Trump should win the next election. Donald Trump is the most corrupt, morally deficient and dangerous politician America has known since Huey Long. The question is whether Joe Biden is up to the job. If one judges by the merits of his accomplishments and failures in office - in other words, judging him by his record - I believe the answer is still a resounding 'yes.'" Nothing since has happened to change that point of view. If anything, the bumbles and stumbles of the moron from Mar-a-Lago have reenforced my position. Even if we ignore the evidence that shows that former President Man Child is a seditious and fraudulent sexually abusing grifter - and that's a hell of a lot to ignore - it isn't hard to see that the old fool is losing it. He mistakes President Biden for former President Obama. (Yeah, they look so much alike, don't they?) He has difficulty speaking a complete sentence, rambles incoherently and slurs his words when he talks and shuffles along like the late Tim Conway's "Oldest Man" character on the old Carol Burnett Show. Yes, Joe Biden is showing his age. And am wild about the prospects to two men born in the 1940s running for president? I am not. But let's be clear on this one point: Biden is showing no signs of dementia and his opponent is. That's not a standard I'd like to set for the presidency. But it is what it is. And, as it has been said, would you rather have a president with 81 years behind him or 91 indictments in front of him? That's it for now. Fear the Turtle.

Fifty Years Ago Today, She Took My Breath Away

JanParisFebruary 22, 2024 (Vol. 18 No. 11) - Fifty years ago on this very day, my world changed forever. It was already guaranteed to be a memorable day. Late on a rainy Friday afternoon, I rounded a curve on U.S. 60 in my blue VW bug and entered the sleepy - and on this day, dreary - little town of Hawesville, Kentucky. I had taken a job sight-unseen as an announcer and ad salesman for daytime country music radio station WKCM-AM. It was my first job out of college. The country was in the middle of a recession and it was the first job I could find after several months of looking. At the end of a grueling two-day drive from College Park, Maryland, I drove up to the station, located in a small white-frame house just a stone's throw from the Ohio River and met my boss and co-workers for the first time. After brief introductions, the group went down to a small restaurant near the Ohio River bridge that takes you into Indiana. The name of the restaurant - which no longer exists - was the Captain's Table. It was much like downtown Hawesville itself, unpretentious and tiny. Over a dinner of ribeyes and baked potatoes, the trajectory of my life changed. A pretty young waitress with light brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses wearing a white dress and blue stockings walked into my life, took my dinner order and, eventually, captured my heart. She was a high school senior named Jan Marie Fillman. I was only 21. She was 17. Yet I knew right away that Jan was someone special. She literally took my breath away. Little did either of us know that 18 months and one day later we would become husband and wife. That encounter 50 years ago today launched us on a 33-year adventure punctuated by the birth of our daughter Susan in December 1983. Marriage to Jan also brought with it the added bonus of becoming a part of the extended Fillman family - something I consider a blessing. The picture I have chosen to accompany this blog entry was taken on what was, other than the day our daughter was born, my favorite day of our nearly 32-year marriage. Jan and I were dining at a street cafe along the Champs-Elysées in Paris on May 1, 2004. We spent four days in The City of Light at the end of a four-month teaching assignment in Italy. The French capitol was beautiful, the weather was perfect and our time together was golden. I had no way of knowing that my loving wife would be gone in less than three years from a cerebral hemorrhage. That's why I hold memories of that May Day, our life together and that magical encounter a half-century ago today so dear. Emily Dickinson wrote "unable are the loved to die, for love is immortality." There is also a Vietnamese proverb that is fitting on this very special anniversary: "Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away." That's it for now. Fear the Turtle.

"Hello, Mr. David"

SpamCalls2February 20, 2024 (Vol. 18 No. 10) - The phone rings, usually at an inopportune time. My smart phone screen warns me that it is a spam call. It also says the call is from an unfamiliar number - often from Houston, but sometimes from rural Kansas. But I know better. It is probably originating from India or the Philippines. Out of curiosity, I answer the phone. For a few seconds, there is no one at the other end - a sign that the spam warning was spot-on. Finally, I hear someone with a heavy, barely understandable accent ask if I am David Guth, the author of Thirteen Minutes: Death of An American High School. When I acknowledge that I am, the voice on the other end of the line says "Hello, Mr. David" - a greeting I find annoying, insulting and presumptuous - and proceeds to tell me that my book has been "specially" selected by a panel of editors for their company's promotional opportunities. It is a spiel I have heard literally dozens of times. Operating from a boiler room script, I am told how exceptional my book is and that they are prepared to give it the "worldwide" publicity it deserves. Let me unwrap this. First, while I am proud of my book, my first effort at writing fiction, I am a realist. I have absolutely no expectation of it suddenly rocketing to the top of The New York Times Best Seller List. (Don't get me wrong: I think it is a good story and I invite you to read it.) Second, absolutely no one on the other end of the line has actually read my book. The caller always speaks in generalities based on previously distributed promotional materials for my book. (That's where they got my name and number.) When I ask the callers what they think of my story's surprise ending, they usually tap dance for a few moments before proclaiming that it was "great." Next, they say they can provide me "worldwide" publicity for my book, usually for just a few hundred bucks. However, when I drill down into what these promotional efforts entail, I learn that they are based on a mass e-mail distribution of a news release about my book. Unfortunately for the caller, I taught college students about news releases and promotions for nearly three decades. What the caller is proposing is load of crap and would result in me just throwing away my hard-earned money. When these companies show me examples of news releases they have prepared for others, I shudder in disbelief. If any of my students had submitted that garbage to me, they would have rightfully earned a failing grade. Writing a book is a very personal experience. Exposing oneself to the critiques of others requires almost reckless courage. Unable to attract a traditional publisher, I published Thirteen Minutes through a hybrid publisher, where I assumed some of the up-front costs and will keep all of the royalties until I recoup my costs. In short, I invested in myself. If it pays off, great. If it doesn't, at least I tried. I have a second fiction coming out later this year, In the Moment: The Journey of the Class of '70. It is story about growing up on Maryland's Eastern Shore in the turbulent 1960s. Because of its regional focus, I am confident that it will be moderately successful, just like my first single-authored book, Bridging the Chesapeake: A 'Fool Idea" That Unified Maryland. I am under no illusion that some Indian or Philippine-based company channeling its marketing calls through American telephone exchanges is going to make me "The Next Big Thing." (If you want to get a sense of just how many of these vultures exist, click on this link.) I refuse to let them prey on my ego and wallet. I may not become a best-selling author. I can live with that. What I am not be willing to live with is being a gullible and stupid author. Caveat emptor. That's it for now. Fear the Turtle.