Celluloid Christmas

“Stop the car, stop the car,” my brother and I screamed in unison.
From the rear seat, ripe with the smell of fresh pine, having just chosen the tree that would grace our living room; we had implausibly seen the impossible.
“What,” my dad responded, trying in earnest to curb his anger at our ear splitting outburst?
“It’s Santa, It’s Santa,” we rejoiced in perfect monophonic stereo.
What is he doing here, so far in advance of his scheduled appearance on that night of all nights, my mind silently raced!
Spinning damage control with the finesse and expertise that only a board-certified Spin Doctor could accomplish, my mom confidently informed us, “It’s just one of his elves.”
His image growing larger in the rear window as dad reluctantly backed up, my brother and I sat spellbound, unsure of what to believe.
That’s some movie magic right there!
Year after year, I try to recapture just a shred of the glory that once was a part of the very fabric, which made that time so special. The arrival of a son in our lives who now completely gets the whole Christmas thing – at least the Santa side of it – has returned to us a modicum of holiday cheer, partly from holding his revered bearded hero over his head in an effort to keep him on the straight and narrow. I get a small thrill from watching him squirm when he knows that Santa really is watching him.
Hey, don’t be like that!

All parents experience that very same pleasure. Most are just not as open about it as I am. Admittedly however, I do miss the holiday memories that were special enough, large enough, to be worthy of celluloid, perfect made for TV holiday fare. The recollections I still have, stored deep in the recesses of my addled brain contain all of the elements for a great movie. There is an innocent child, a bumbling romantic, an adolescent coming of age, even an evil villain, trying not to steal Christmas… just Christmas lights.
Wow, that used to be fun.
Alright, again with the disapproving scowl!
I’ll have you know, that like Santa, I too can see everything, so...

“You better watch out…you better not pout.”

It was sometime around the age of three, when my son began to understand that Christmas morning meant something special.
“Hey buddy,” I prodded a mere millisecond after he stirred.
I had been waiting all night for this moment.
Check that.
I had quite literally been waiting decades for that very moment, a chance to see a hint of Christmas magic as I may once have experienced it. I silently pondered whether ol’ Scrooge had felt this way, as from the outside he gazed upon a life that once had been.
“Come on; let’s see if Santa was here.”
“I want milk,” he whined.
Again, with the milk I brooded, rolling my eyes while silently suppressing my still burgeoning parenting skills.
“I hope Santa had enough milk,” I cheerily countered, referring to the snack we had left on the windowsill.
Wearily, he followed my lead.

I could barely contain my excitement as we made our way up the hallway.
“Bed man walking,” I giddily felt like shouting!
My wife on the other hand had no problem in the enthusiasm department at that time of morning opting to sleep through it instead. With a sweeping fanfare echoing only within the recesses of my mind I flicked the light switch, gasped aloud, and proclaimed excitedly, “Oh my goodness little buddy, he was here!”

Time seemed to freeze for a second as he stared blankly ahead, not blinking an eye.
“Who did this,” he asked almost angrily, looking at the obscene amount of gaily-wrapped presents that littered our living room floor.
Therapy was my immediate thought.
First him.

Then me.
Is it possible he doesn’t believe? Did he wake up at some point during my four-letter word tirade as I’d fought with the little train set?
“Who the (expletive deleted) do you think did this, me and Mommy,” my sleep deprived mind nearly screamed?
My dissatisfaction was short lived as groggily, he began to come around, yet I had still been disappointed all the same. It had taken a long time to reach the point where some semblance of true holiday joy had returned to my life. Only a couple of weeks prior, I had still harbored no feelings of festivity.

(Enter the aforementioned bad guy)
An early shopper’s hype ad, an amazingly low price, an incredibly tight window of opportunity and the need for additional DVD players in the office give me a great idea. Knowing that there will indeed be a crush of holiday bargain hunters trying to cash in on such an unbelievable deal, I scope out the store two days before said event. My calm demeanor and courteous manner works its magic on the unsuspecting sales clerk who disinterestedly reveals to me the precise location at which said video units would be found. Smiling, I thank him kindly and slink back out to the street, rubbing my hands together in anticipation, not for the reward of procuring two of these sure to be coveted items, but more for the looks of dismay and disappointment on the faces of those who missed out.

**Author’s Note:
(It’s important here to familiarize yourself with the renowned holiday favorite, “Mister Grinch.” The italicized text denotes the verses that are sung, while the regular text indicates the vocal narration. I know it’s difficult. Bear with me.)**

“You’re a mean one, Mr. Grinch!
And you’ll show them all who’s boss.
You staked out the store on Thursday,
Among the first on line on Saturday,
Mr. Gri-i-i-n-nch!
You denied Christmas gift-givers from getting off cheap,
Their scowls and their frowns, their scorn you did reap”

Walking out of the store that sale day morning to the musical accompaniment of disgruntled sighs and murmurs of disgust as I carried one unit under each arm filled the prescription I needed to ward off a case of the holiday blues, but like a trip to the chiropractor, the relief was short lived at best.

“You felt better, Mr. Grinch.
But the happiness didn’t last long.
Yes, you found it funny,
Saving the boss a little money,
Mr. Gri-i-i-n-nch!
You really weren’t happy, knowing you were wrong.
I’ll dispense with the lame lyrics; I’m really reaching with this song.”

“CUT,” I can almost hear the director scream, while he simultaneously fires the movie score composer.

Look, I’m not exactly searching for the meaning of Christmas, but there are times when I often find myself wondering, what happened to me?
Where went the magic, the wonder?
I used to think that having a kid would be enough to reignite those feelings of joy, which it does in part, but the normal stress of everyday life, work, the economy, hangs above; overshadowing what should otherwise be a delightful time of year.
The holidays are alive all around me, yet I find myself oblivious.
Maybe it started when the snow stopped, or when my growing mind began to realize that the much-needed white stuff for a geriatric sleigh fanatic was not in the forecast for the most important day of the year. Looking out the window at the brief expanse of brown lawn that as far as the nearby sidewalk, a sudden and unwanted dawning of understanding invaded my fantasy world.
“Mom,” I called worriedly from my post.
Luckily, I had still been young enough to warrant an immediate response.
“What’s the matter? Are you okay,” she asked breathlessly, having made a mad dash from the basement washing machine, setting a probable Olympic record, should such an event exist.
“How is Santa going to get here if we don’t have any snow?”
A momentary flicker of anger before applying her PhD in spin doctoring, she coolly responded, “He puts wheels on his sleigh.”
It worked for me.
Every kid wants to be older. I see it in my son, who tells me everyday he wants to be ten, something I am in no rush to see happen. With maturity comes responsibility, but kids don’t see it that way. Kids look at it with wide eyes and boundless possibility. I knew I was beginning to reach a higher plane when Christmas thoughts turned to gift giving rather than only receiving.

“A mailbox,” one of my classmates accused. “You got your parents a mailbox?”
It had not taken long for my younger brother to get the word out, resulting in ceaseless jeers and mockery from friends and classmates alike. Sure, we were not in dire need of a mailbox, but it had been both affordable and easily attainable within biking distance. It had also marked a small milestone in my young life, having had the discipline and foresight to save a few dollars from my seriously undeserved allowance!
I am not proficient in the art of gift giving.

“Ouch, I don’t see him faring well at all here,” The network sports type announcer, says with disappointment in his voice.
“I mean, what was he thinking,” the overpaid, and unnecessary second announcer laughingly adds.

“Let’s see what the judges have to say.”

“ There are no zeroes in this competition, so I give him a one. A girl needs something to show off to her friends, something to make them sick with envy. Any diamond will do.”
“Thank-you, Miss Fabulous. What about you, Mrs. Material?”
“I have a hard time awarding him a two! The choice of gift is awful enough, but Corningware? Certainly, a fine designer made piece would have suited her better.”
“Aw-w-w, whats’a mattah wit you broads? A ‘ting like this will keep her in the kitchen longer. I give him a ten, ‘cos there ain’t no elevens!”
“Well, no surprise there. Thank-you, Mr. Glutton.”
“That makes twelve points, compliments of the overweight male contingent on the panel,” the overpaid and unnecessary THIRD announcer adds unnecessarily.

I still defend the choice of cookware as a gift for my soon to be wife. Her long outdated and rusty hand me downs were both an eyesore and most likely unhealthy. Disappointed by her lack of admiration in my gift, I blamed it on the far below average lack of female companionship in my life to that point, directly resulting in poor gift-giving etiquette. I should have taken a hint from my earliest attempt at courtship and tokens of appreciation.

It was during the ninth grade when I had entered into my first long-term relationship, a far cry from the long-distance relationship I was still more or less embroiled in. It wasn't cheating as n’er the two should ever meet, and at such a tender change, what were the rules that governed a relationship?

Were there any rules?

The only rule I had broken was the cardinal token of appreciation ritual. I had not exactly lost sleep or toiled long and hard in trying to come up with a perfect present for my semi-betrothed, nor had it come to me in a dream. Frankly, I don’t remember how the idea popped into my subconscious, but suddenly like a welcome visit from an unlikely stranger, it appeared to me.
Lollipops!
It was perfect, a gift that did not say anything more than

“Hey, I like you."

"I like you a lot.”
Short of funds however; a condition I had long gotten used to, I opted not for the expensive swirly candy store type, but rather the free ones I had acquired from multiple trips to the bank with mom and dad.

Well of course, it was with mom and dad.

I had no business being inside any financial institution on my own.

Hey, it’s the thought that counts, I reasoned on the lonely walk home.
No, it’s not!

Fifteen years later, with not many more serious relationships under my belt, Christmas had become a time filled with feelings of melancholy. While friends were always in abundance, at the age of twenty-one, I had felt that something more was missing, the need for a significant other
It was on a lonely Christmas Eve when I had reached out to a dear friend who had been dealing with a bit of the holiday doldrums herself. Overcoming incredible odds, we had traversed several miles in my completely unreliable Volkswagen Dasher to view the official Long Island Christmas tree. Quietly walking across the parking lot, we linked arms, and gazed upon the magnificent sight. With her head on my shoulder, lost in our private thoughts, we held each other tightly as only two close friends could, appreciating the fact that in that special moment, at least we had each other.
And that was good enough.
It’s a bittersweet recollection that gives me thought for pause, a fond memory that will last forever.
That’s some movie magic right there!

I realize unselfishly now that Christmas is all about making memories. It’s the forming of memories for a five year old that will hopefully last his lifetime. I have an abundance of Christmas recollections that could probably fill a book, not all worthy of celluloid, though Christmas with the Chicken Pox might be worth looking into. It is not an easy task trying to get into the Christmas spirit now, yet it’s all about putting on that game face to keep a child’s dreams alive. I don’t know how he will handle the truth when that time rolls around. It’s hard enough now trying to keep the facade alive with Santa sightings beginning at sundown following Thanksgiving dinner. Just days before then, our wise beyond his year’s offspring elected to join us in bed for an impromptu early morning discussion relating to Santa’s whereabouts.
“Where does Santa live,” my wife cloyingly baited him.
Thinking about it for a second or two, he removed his favorite Thomas cup from his lips, slurped wetly, then confidently replied, “At the mall.”
I remember vividly the day my mom delivered the devastating blow to my unbelieving ears. Having walked home from school for lunch one bright afternoon, I had alluded to something I was considering asking Santa for. Mom paused, working out in her mind the easiest way to shatter the trouble free fantasy world I had been living in. I can’t remember the precise words, only that they had been both honest, heartfelt and carefully delivered. There had been a minimally brief moment of shock followed by sadness, then inexplicably without hesitation I was simply okay with it. Maybe in the back of my maturing mind somewhere I had already come to understand that there really was no plump gaudily dressed senior citizen flying around the cold December sky with a bottomless bag of toys for every child in the world.

It was a bittersweet moment, an early rite of passage.

I returned to school that afternoon a changed person, mature in the fact that I now shared a sacred secret with my parents that would be cherished until my younger siblings reached their moment of reckoning.
That’s some movie magic right there.
For anywould be producers, directors, and/or screenwriters who may inadvertently stumble across this holiday tale, have your people call my people. Until then, bless you all who have made it through yet another bona fide long-winded Morty yarn.
Happy holidays to all.
And to all, a good night.

The Pen is Mightier Than...Part III: A Blog Continues.

I started a new book on the bus ride in this morning, and no sooner should I reach the bottom of page one, do I come across this quote that sums up my sole reason for launching this site in the first place.

"A son is a promise that time makes to man, the guarantee every father receives that whatever he holds dear will someday be considered foolish, and that the person he loves best in the world will misunderstand him."

- - Ian Caldwell & Dustin Thomason

The Rule of Four

I repeat myself on this site ad-nauseum, but for those of you checking in for the first time I'll make my point one more (most likely not the last) time. My love for writing and dreams of being published set aside, the primary reason for contributing here really goes back to my son, with the hope that when this beloved little boy reaches his inevitable teen angst years, he might in the privacy of his own room, visit this site to read about his dad, and hopefully think to himself, "hey, my dad was pretty cool after all." There are no sordid tales here, no exploits of unbelievable irresponsibility. I could attempt to make them up, but not having lived my life that way, it would most likely come off as just that...made up. Not all of my life is exactly G-rated, however and some of the more "PG-13" / borderline "R" rated stuff may rear its head here one day.

I have often wondered if my dad and I shared the same special bond at one time in our lives that my son and I do. I have very few recollections of my youngest years. By the time I had hit High School - if not sooner - my parents seemed to take more of a backseat in my life. I suppose that's inevitable in the lives of most folks, and quite honestly it scares the hell out of me. Will there be a great hole, a bottomless chasm in my soul when my little one reaches that point? There were times during my college years when my dad would half-heartedly attempt to regale me with a tale or two of his carefree and reckless years, probably knowing that I was only half-heartedly paying attention. I was too wrapped up in my own world, which was really beginning to open up before my very eyes to miss even a second of it. Not until the birth of my own son (once we got over the earth shattering shock of having another living, breathing life form invade our once peaceful abode), did I begin to realize what his past meant to him, and how important it must have been for him to want to share it, only to watch it fall upon deaf ears.

This past summer as I was writing the tale of a 1987 road trip to the Virginia coast ("Awry: pronounced Orrie?" ca. aug. 2008), I came to the realization that this site is not only dedicated to my son, but to my dad as well, a testament to his past as he tried to convey it to me. There are times now when I think to myself, what I wouldn't give to have that chance now, to have a conversation, to listen, to learn, to get to know him on a deeper level. I really know very little about his past, and many of those who do are either long out of touch, or just simply gone...in that final sense. In a way, it almost presents a quandary here. Do I spend some time trying to find those who are left to fill in the blanks, or do I continue moving forward, not unselfishly doing what I love, while trying to leave a footprint of myself for my son, and hopefully his kids.

Dare I look that far into the future?

In a post 9/11 world, is there a future that lies so far ahead?

Darker thoughts aside, I choose to plow forward for now, still with the hope that my son will find this place interesting enough to even drop by.

How Many Christmases?

I'm sure the title of this post is completely misspelled, but how would one go about spelling Christmas in the plural sense? That said, the time for levity comes briefly to an end. Yes, with the conclusion of Thanksgiving, the "holiday" season is now upon us. Here in the Greater New York Area this time of year is often met with a little bit of stress. I'm not talking about stress of the shopping and gift giving type, but the uneasiness of yet another holiday terror alert. The day before Thanksgiving, a day that more often than not finds most folks in a lighter mood as they look forward to the long weekend ahead was merely a few hours old when the powers that be went public, telling us once again not to panic, live our lives as normal, but be vigilant. Another credible threat, this time to our subways and commuter trains may be possible during this otherwise happy time of year. The sight of National Guard troops and an extra police presence has become a daily part of the fabric of our lives. Complacency is once again the creed by which we greet everyday here as we watch (I'm assuming) with some degree of horror the recent events taking place in Mumbai without seriously considering the fact that it could happen here. This is now the way we are forced to welcome in the holidays in a post 9/11 world, with unsettling thoughts, wondering whether or not today might be the day.
Will we make it home unscathed to enjoy another night with our loved ones?
I'm not a fatalist.
I'm a realist.
Last Wednesday, Thanksgiving Eve, I came across the blog site of someone I am honored to consider as an old friend. We had recently re-connected through the awesome power of the World Wide Web, something I pay deference to daily. Admittedly, my knee jerk/gut reaction to a posting titled Thankfulness Needs to Come from the Soul was, "Oh no, not another sappy holiday life changing confession, you could learn a lesson from this" type diatribe.
(Sorry, Tina).
I tend not to get caught up in the fervor of the holidays. Any warm fuzzies dissipated with the last tendrils of my youth, though having the opportunity to experience the magic and wonder of it all through the eyes of my five year-old son has alleviated that jaded feeling somewhat.
Out of respect, I did read Tina's posting from start to finish. It was compelling, well written and came from the heart. It didn't change my life however...at least not until I had reached home that evening to see the early news clips of all hell breaking loose on the other side of the world.
Timing is everything!
I don't often take the time to think about what I should be thankful for. Like most Americans I suppose, I take for granted the things I should be thankful about. I had a lot to sleep on come bedtime that evening.
Shortly following the conclusion of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade the next morning, where my son exhibited his first true hint of excitement at the upcoming Christmas holiday, having been convinced that Santa was waving at him through the television screen, I took a personal time-out to check e-mail and send one I had felt was now overdue.

Tina,

I read the recent posting on your blog site yesterday and was completely moved by your tale of what is now war torn India. Watching the Macy's parade with my son this morning was so normal, and gives me pause for thought. I'm thankful for "normal." I'm thankful to have re-connected with someone who briefly touched my life poolside at a Virgina Beach " Resort" some twenty years ago. I'm thankful that said "someone" is safe at home with family this year, celebrating the holiday far from where she spent it last year. My best to you and your family. Stay healthy, stay safe.

I often wonder how people in other parts of the country that are far removed from a major city react to increases in terror alerts, or if they are as senitively attuned to them as we are. If that weren't enough - more good news out of Washington.

WASHINGTON – A bipartisan commission is asserting the country should expect a terrorist attack using nuclear or biological weapons sometime in the next five years.
The report, which is scheduled to be publicly released on Wednesday, suggests that the incoming administration of President-elect Barack Obama should improve the capability of the United States to counter such an attack and to prepare if necessary for germ warfare.

From the very day I went public with this site, my goal was to keep this as a happy place, a sacred site to turn to just to get away from it all, have a laugh or two at my expense. I have often said both on this site and off, that I am not politically minded. Politics often brings out the worst in people. I don't take sides over which administration is to blame for the events of 9/11, and inwardly laugh at some of those who do. It really adds up to nothing more than finger pointing; he said, she said.

Now we hear that the incoming administration should essentially prepare for the worst. Shouldn't we have been doing that from sa-a-a-y-y 9/12?

Commuting in on the bus this morning, I briefly looked up from the book I was reading and was greeted with an early morning view of the New York City skyline in the distance, warmly welcoming the rising sun upon its face. Traffic was still light, the heartbeat that is New York had not yet reached its fevered pitch. Holiday lights and decorations were still glowing in that peaceful moment.

I got a chill, thinking back just a few minutes earlier to the news story I had caught the tail end of before heading out the door. Vice-President elect Joe Biden is due to make a presentation soon, discussing the probability of an imminent nuclear or biological attack.

I think of my family.

I wonder briefly, How Many Christmases?

How many more will we have the pleasure of spending together before the unimagineable happens?

I shook off the foreboding thought and went back to my book, a decent coutroom thriller that is reaching its end.

I am a New Yorker.

I return to living my life as I normally would.

Random Thoughts I: "White-Out and Writer's Block"

December 6th will officially mark the second year that this site has been up and running. Regretfully and as expected, there have been some lapses in posting with any degree of regularity. The creative burst I had over the summer was encouraging, though creative is pretty far from what it could actually be considered. I am writing about my life after all. Recently, I seem to have hit yet another dry spell, possibly due to my new obsession with the alternate site I have up and running at unknown80s.blogspot.com. The recent reprint I posted here from the magazine I am contributing to, marked my first true spurt of creativity in decades, lending truth to the idea that great things happen when you least expect it. As a result, I now keep in my possession at all times a small memo book to jot down ideas that randomly pop into my head. Usually days after such an event, I will turn to these pages in an attempt to decipher my God-awful handwriting, which by the way afforded me my first and only trip to the Principal's office, but that story will have to wait. If I'm not busy trying to decipher the aforementioned chicken scratch, I find myself scratching my head in complete confusion, wondering what any of it means. I don't know if it's in some sort of secret code or a newly developed Morty version of shorthand, but I find that I lose more great ideas that way. A theologist, philosopher, or my long departed grandmother would simply say, "if it's meant to be, it's meant to be."
I beg to differ.
I should have taken the principal and the second grade teacher who banished me there all of those years ago just a bit more seriously.
"He's going to be a doctor," my grandmother would say, obviously referring to the unwritten rule that doctor's are notorious for their handwriting.

I'm only realizing now as I type this, why that rule is indeed unwritten.

I don't type well either.

Having never taken a typing class in my life, I feel I get by alright using only the index finger of each hand. As I've mentioned on several occasions since my glorious return to the written word, many of my musings start out on the pages of a simple composition notebook. You can imagine what it must be like trying to transcribe those words when I can barely read the handwriting that placed them there in the first place. If I were actually typing upon the invention that typewriting was meant for, I would have to take out a small bank loan to cover the amount of White-Out I would need. It's amazing, but once this stuff is posted, it looks pristine (sans typo's of course). I still cringe every time I go back to an earlier posting and catch a mistake I missed during one of the many return trips to my blogging past.

Hey, someone has to read this stuff!

I recently installed hit-counters on both sites just to see what kind of traffic I was getting.

It's not exactly the Long Island Expressway at rush hour.

Talk about off the beaten path!

Not too long ago, I found myself loosely involved with a small "classic car club," for lack of a better description here. I had the great pleasure of researching and writing an article about them for the upcoming holiday edition of Forest Hills Celebrity & Entertainment. Fully behind their cause, I spent an afternoon learning how to prepare a press release for their annual Toys For Tots Run. While the end result didn't garner as much attention as I had hoped, I was still happy with the way in which it was presented. I'm now considering a press release to all of the local papers to advertise my return to writing via the world wide web. Hey, why stop there? It is world wide after all. Why not a press release to publications everywhere?

Call it a plea for help.

It was during one of the many return trips to my widely unread posting past that I thought I might take a moment or two to tie up some loose ends in classic Where Are They Now fashion. Coming off the euphoric writer's high of finally completing my first blog submission; "Return To Innocence" in December of '06, I had contemplated continuing that tale, albeit briefly in a short follow-up piece I had planned on calling "Addendum to Innocence." ©! Take note of the copyright symbol that immediately follows that incredible title! The second it came to my mind, I immediately looked around to make sure that no one was attempting to hone in on my thoughts. I mean let's face it, "Addendum to Innocence" is a great title. As a result of my triumphant return to writing, I subscribed to Writer's Digest, a great periodical filled with incentives, ideas, and general information about writer's doing what they love - writing! In one of the recent back issues there was a great article on struggling with titles. Basically the premise was, you've finally completed your masterpiece, now what are you going to call it? Apparently, one of the biggest roadblocks writers have to face is coming up with a catchy title. I'm happy to report that titles seem to represent the least of my writing problems. In fact, I'm patting myself on the back right now as I type this (not an easy task for someone who can't really type to begin with). Go on and take a look at some of the past titles. Don't worry, I'll be here when you get back.

(Picture Morty patiently waiting in front of his computer screen as his imaginary "following" cycles back in time through his life via the blogging archives on this very site.)

"I told you so," he silently triumphs.

I'm really not big on ego!

I have an alter-ego.

For some, "Morty" is my alter-ego, for others, it's Tom, the legal name by which I was born with. The amount of people who know me as Morty still amazes me. They understand I have a proper moniker, yet continue to consider me as Morty.

It drives my wife crazy.

My five year old son laughs out loud when he calls me Morty.

I resisted the idea of being called Morty from the very day in 1981 that my dad had uttered it. Prior to beginning my continuing education in college, he had proudly proclaimed that Morty was his nickname during that time in his life.

I was mortified at the thought.

Thoughts again return to the wisdom of my long departed Grandma:

"If it's meant to be, it's meant to be."

It was!

In lieu of rambling on; something I have become particularly adept at, I will spare you any addendum's for now. Had this been a real typewriter, I would have well been on my way to a third jar of White-Out. Instead, I inwardly groan in Carpal Tunnel agony, probably as a result of improper hand placement upon the keys, or the abuse and overuse of the PC based "Control Z" undo function.

PoliTricks or Parlor Tricks?

**This is my first official Reprint, something I won't be making a habit of. As this is timely for the moment, I thought I might put it out there for the world outside of my little piece of paradise**

Morty 10/08


Here we are already in the fall of 2008 with another presidential election looming on the horizon.
WAIT!
I know what you’re thinking, but before you turn the page let me take a moment and happily plagiarize myself. Take a journey back in time with me to just over a year ago. Forest Hills Celebrity & Entertainment has just reached its one-year milestone. On page twenty-two, a guy who reluctantly goes by the name of Morty introduces himself in his very first magazine column, making a promise (similar to that of your run of the mill politician) to “keep this space lighthearted, a place of refuge…would rather not discuss politics.”
I still adhere to that, steadfastly ignoring the inundation of radio, print and TV ads during this otherwise pleasant time of year. Recently however, I came across an article that inadvertently caught my attention.
Pet owners prefer McCain over Obama.
WHAT!?
Is this all it takes nowadays to reach the coveted top rung of the ladder?
Doesn’t anyone recall our days of yore when a parent’s greatest aspiration was to see his or her child strive for the presidency?
“Do all of your homework and study hard or you’ll never become President,” was the common threat.
Did any kid really dream of actually being President one day? No one in my close-knit circle of friends ever had. This begs the question, what kind of circles do you have to travel in to meet someone with such purposeful ambition? The names, Biff and Muffy come immediately to mind.
All right, that’s a grossly unfair cliché, but I just couldn’t resist.
When did being a pet owner become some kind of presidential prerequisite? I would think that being a parent might hold a bit more presidential precedence.
Are there different levels pertaining to presidential pet ownership?
Does your dog obey?
Can he do tricks, catch a Frisbee?
Maybe that’s a bit too Democratic. Let’s try something Republican.
Does he fetch your slippers, get the paper?
Is there some type of presidential pet chain of command?
Would a dog owner make a better leader than a cat lover? Dogs take more work to train and require constant companionship, while cats are more independent.
Fish don’t count!
A close friend of mine used to drop a line into his five-gallon aquarium to see if they would bite.
They didn’t. Tropical fish are above that.
He wouldn’t have made a good president.
I was once a pet owner! Do hamsters count?
I’ve gone through four in recent years. Teddy, my first guy was of the longhaired Teddy Bear variety.
I know.
The name wasn’t very original.
He used to love to eat Fruit Loops, Frosted Flakes and other high Sugar content cereals. It broke my heart when his two-year lifespan came to an abrupt end in just under six months. Raising pets is a learning process, something I’ve since mastered. As a result, Teddy’s successor’s fared just fine.
I’m also the proud parent of a five-year-old son.
I know; kids don’t count!
He doesn’t want to be president, which is a shame. Recently elected Student of the Day at school, he’s off to such a promising start. Local residents may have seen his picture hanging in Starbucks where he was Customer of the Month at the age of four.
Apparently, raising children is also a learning process.
I could never be President.
To begin with, I’m just not old enough. I also don’t own a real suit, and just barely get by tying a tie.
I’m an exceptionally fussy eater, which could prove problematic while traveling abroad.
I can’t dance.
In the past, it would usually take a good number of drinks to get me anywhere near the dreaded wood floor. I shudder to think how the media might treat this. I can see my picture splashed across the front page in my faux-suit and crooked tie, eyes bloodshot from just enough champagne flutes to get me in position for an old-fashioned high society waltz. I have no business at such formal affairs. I have no clue where the salad fork belongs in the scheme of things, or which fork is actually the salad fork to begin with. I don’t like salad anyway. I can, however eat meat AND potatoes with the same fork!
I have a record.
I don’t know how far back they go with these background checks, but my Second Grade trip to the Principal’s office would certainly not bode well.
I have lousy handwriting, and an even worse signature. I can almost hear the congressional snickering every time a bill would require my John Hancock.
Finally, relocation to the D.C. area is just not an option. Both my wife and I have decent jobs here, and are relatively content in the cramped little space we call home. She recently acquired her driver’s license and thoroughly enjoys getting behind the wheel. A demotion to passenger status in the back of a stretch limo would probably make her crazy. I tend to defer to her, as she is the primary decision maker in our house, similar to that of ex President…
Whoa!
I almost went back on my original promise right there (similar to your run of the mill politician). I’ll quit now while I’m ahead, and spare you my political views, except one. Should I accidentally indulge in a few too many champagne flutes this New Year’s Eve; resulting in the appearance of my name on some future political ballot somewhere, ignore it.
At least until I’ve been upgraded to dog owner status!

Legal I.D.'s and Hitting the Post

1.
It was "Free Hour," which simply meant just that in literal terms. I was in my second week of a budding college career choosing to begin my continuing education path at the Long Island campus of the New York Institute of Technology. Having no interest in leaving the comfort and security of home and even less enthused in joining a fair percentage of my graduating classmates at a nearby two-year school, New York Tech would at the very least, mark a fresh start for me. Still feeling awkward and overwhelmed, I took a seat alone in the nondescript classroom on the lower level of a building known as Education Hall, noting with some cynicism that a willing donor had yet to surface with enough cash in the coffer to earn the distinction of having his or her name adorn the front of the building. The decision to go to college immediately following thirteen years of regular schooling had been met with some reluctance on my part. Having gone through the unpleasant registration process, enrolling in a number of classes I really could not have given a damn about, I spent those early days simply going through the motions. Looking around the nearly filled classroom, I relegated any disparaging thoughts to the back of my mind and began to feel the first hint of excitement. I was about to take a major step, pursuing a dream that had festered within me since childhood. Undismayed by the large amount of people who had made a similar decision, I personally vowed not to get lost in the crowd, to rise above the throng of nameless, faceless others and make my mark.
I’ve been told that my fascination with radio began at an early age. In my High School Sophomore year, I orchestrated the set up of two separate stereo systems at a backyard party with the plan of mixing records and cassettes, effectively keeping a constant flow of music playing. Known as segueing in proper radio terminology as I would later learn, it eliminates the uncomfortable silence between songs also known in radio-ese as “Dead Air.”
Sometime during my Junior High School Years, I placed a call to New York Disc Jockey; Del Demontreau during his tenure at WNEW 1130-am. It was deep into the middle of a sleepless night for me. My brother, with whom I shared a bedroom exhibiting no signs of insomnia slept through my first fifteen minutes of fame. Del had asked listeners to call in with a favorite joke. Having recently heard a real doozy from my Grandfather, I rose to the challenge, shocked when the man himself answered the phone on the first ring! Ginger, our beloved mutt and another light sleeper had taken that moment to saunter upstairs and check on the commotion I was so carefully trying not to make. Nearing the punch line, I froze mid-sentence at the sound of the door quietly creaking open, convinced that I was about to find myself in deep trouble.
“Hold on a minute,” I whispered frantically to a patient Mr. Demontreau on the other end.
Hearing the unmistakable sound of her claws merrily making their way across the linoleum floor, I released the breath I had been holding.
“Sorry, it’s only my dog,” I said with great relief.
I returned to the comfort of my bed following the animated conclusion of our phone conversation, and eagerly awaited my late night public debut. My mind began to wander, when suddenly I sat bolt upright in a panic, realizing with a doomed certainty, that come morning I would indefinitely find myself seriously grounded. Downstairs, my parent’s had gone to bed with the radio on as they always had, tuned to the very same station I had only minutes earlier hung up with.
“Don’t mention my name, don’t mention my name,” I silently pleaded.
He did.
Rather than bask in the glow of my sudden fame, I listened intently for the angry sound of footsteps rapidly ascending the stairs. I could barely hear the sound of my voice coming from the radio speaker over the incessant thudding of blood pumping in my ears, perfectly synchronized to the rapid beating of my swiftly aging heart.
The moment passed without incident. Sighing with relief, I laughed quietly, then rolled over with a mischievous smile across my face, sleep still a long way off.
During those younger years, the local radio stations of choice were 66 WNBC, and 77 WABC. There was no need in making a habit of calling on-air talent to request songs. With a music library of not much more than the current top 40, it was a good bet that whatever you had wanted to hear was not far off. Add to that the fact that the line was always busy anyhow, it was not worth the time to pick up the phone in the first place. My accidental discovery of another radio station, which came into the home not via conventional airwaves, but rather through the tiny speaker on the television set changed everything I had known about radio, which was not much. I had no idea from where WNYT originated, but the fact that the DJ’s were easily accessible, and willing to play requests made it an instant fave. It sounded to my untrained ears like a real radio station, and I found no fault in the fact that it was only available via the local cable company's What’s On Channel. I never grew tired of hearing my name mentioned on the air.
A few days prior to the beginning of my educational evolution, I elected to take a drive and familiarize myself with the campus layout. The college grounds at first glance seemed to be carved right out of a deeply wooded forest, a realization I had come to as I made my way from its hub to the oddly distant buildings on the north campus. Following the posted road signs, I found myself on a picturesque winding road that would eventually terminate at Education Hall, home of WNYT radio. The call letters seemed to ring a bell somewhere in the back of my mind, but feeling almost inspired by the pastoral beauty of the land I had failed to comprehend the enormity of what was not just mere coincidence, but fate!

The conversational buzz in the room, now filled well beyond its capacity, quickly quieted down once the door was closed, signaling that the meeting was about to begin. I eagerly scanned the faces at the front table, trying to match them to the voices with whom I had long been familiar. Following the brief introductory summaries of the executive board members, it was time to decide in which department to begin my radio career. I had hoped to get on the fast track to sitting in the coveted pilot’s seat, broadcasting to the untold millions. Nearly ninety percent of the attendees that afternoon harbored the same aspirations. Opting for the path of least resistance I introduced myself to Music Director, Eddie B. The radio station consisting of only three rooms was smaller than I had imagined, I considered during the brief tour I had been afforded, but my brief feelings of disappointment turned to awe when the on-air light was lit, and the DJ’s voice resonated through the house speakers.
The following afternoon, I reported for my first day of work, where I was given a more in-depth look into the inner workings of the music department. My first official task seemed akin to something a lowly private might be expected to undertake in his earliest days at Boot Camp. I would be re-cataloging the entire music library from A to Z, using a slightly more complex structure than that of the Dewey Decimal System. In short, I was beginning a career in broadcasting as an unpaid stock boy. By the time I had reached the artists that began with the letter B, I had acquired an interesting skill, a small piece of knowledge that only a scant few might appreciate. I now knew the exact corresponding number of every letter in the alphabet, something I would dazzle my family with on a nightly basis.
“Go ahead, any letter,” I would prompt my mom.
“S.”
“Nineteen,” I responded without hesitation, the letter S indeed being the nineteenth letter in the alphabet.
Twenty-seven years later, I still know all of that by heart.
Proving my dedication, I stayed with that grueling chore for weeks, and made a few new friends along the way. There was Ron G, who had attended the same introductory meeting, declaring his allegiance to the news department, Steve H, whose love for Jazz music had earned him the nickname “Jazzman.” He went the management route and reported to the Operations Director. Eddie B, without exaggeration had become like a mentor to me, allowing me to sit in on production and recording sessions, making sure that staff members knew who I was and urging me to observe as many air shifts as my schedule would allow. Readily heeding his advice, I spent a lot of time around General Manager, Maria Milito who allowed me to sit in the air studio during many of her broadcasts. She was bright, she was entertaining, and she was never condescending. It would be an injustice not to mention other members of the senior staff who were equally as open to helping the newcomers forge ahead in shaping the radio station's future. Sports Director, Angelo S, News Director, Tracey M, and Operations Director Bruce W all come immediately to mind. I learned a lot from behind the scenes, but the daunting site of the control board was still a little intimidating.
I remember the first day of my Radio 101 course, held in a group of rooms just across the hall from the radio station. Sitting in Studio A, we listened to Liz and Paula, the instructors who would be taking us through the fundamentals of basic radio production. The control board was old enough that we had to wait for the tubes inside to warm up before it was usable. I kept thinking to myself, there’s no way I’m going to be able to do this, but when my turn finally came and I sat in the big chair, cued up my first record, hit the start button, and brought up the volume all in one fluid motion, I felt both the rush of excitement and the calm of relief sweep over me.
I could do it.
I would do it.
And there was no stopping me!
2.
“Learn production,” Eddie would repeatedly prompt me. Looking around at the vast array of equipment and complicated patch bays that dominated the radio station’s production studio, my confidence level wavered. Sure, I was starting to get used to the lab equipment just across the hall, but that side is made for mistakes, I surmised. This side is the real world! I continued at my own pace, working hard enough in more mundane tasks to remain a viable member of the radio station staff. There were the unlikable trips to the campus copy room where I would collate, staple, and stuff numerous copies of the WNYT playlist, a weekly accounting of the music and artists that were part of the daily on-air rotation, followed by multiple post office runs. Located several miles from the campus, it would often result in the search for a nearly non-existent parking spot upon my return. Probably the least favorite of my freshman tasks, I dutifully performed it week after week for the sake of the cause.
MTV was still in its infancy during those days, music videos still a novelty and WNYT’s Video Rock Night, a long-standing tradition had always served as one of the most popular events on campus. The video compilations were often donated by the very record companies who had been the recipients of the hastily mailed playlists. The big hit of the evening however, had been a student film version of an old Flash ‘n the Pan tune called Media Man, expertly produced by a small group of WNYT staff members. I’m surprised that in this age of technology, that not one of them has had the foresight to put it up on Youtube. Maybe my opinion is skewed somewhat, but to me it was a masterpiece.
Now beginning to feel some degree of acceptance, I attended the New York Tech homecoming dance at a nearby catering hall with a number of senior staff members, having been asked to join them there as part of the group. The highlight of that first semester however, came on a cold November Friday night, in a parking lot behind the old Northstage Theater in Glen Cove where I boldly parked my 1970 VW bug in front of the backstage door. A lifelong Beach Boys fan, funds were tight in those days, and sadly I had not possessed enough cash to purchase a ticket to lead singer Mike Love’s performance in support of his newly released solo record, Looking Back With Love. Dressed in my black satin WNYT staff jacket, I slyly coerced an unsuspecting roadie who was probably as impressed with my self-important college radio status as I was, into letting me inside. Miraculously, when my childhood idol walked into his dressing room several minutes later to find me nervously standing there, he was both cordial and accommodating, agreeing to participate in a telephone interview the following afternoon. I had yet to figure out a way to pull off this feat, but was too excited to worry about it.
The next morning, a very groggy sounding Eddie B answered the phone and selflessly agreed to meet me at the station later. Now all I had to figure out was how to conduct a rock and roll interview. The next several hours were spent busily writing down the questions and then practicing them aloud word for word. I breathlessly arrived at the station at 2pm sharp to find Eddie with everything set to go. Going over my notes one last time, I nodded from my microphone in the adjoining room. Tape was rolling when I picked up the phone and dialed up the lead singer of the legendary Beach Boys. He was undeniably patient while I irrefutably demonstrated my inexperience.
“The best thing I like about this album is that it sounds just like the Beach Boys,” I began proudly.
It was a ridiculous statement.
How was I supposed to know that solo albums are created as an extension of something beyond what the artist is generally known for?
It would not be the last time that I would show my naïveté. Several months later, asked to conduct a phone interview with Danny Elfman of Oingo Boingo to cover the release of their second album, I reluctantly agreed.
“What’s your favorite track,” he cloyingly baited me?
“To tell you the truth, I really don’t know anything about you guys yet,” I lamely replied.
I could hear the resonant groaning from both the other end of the phone and the other end of the radio station.
Charlie Midnight, a new artist on the Columbia records label unexpectedly dropped by the studio one afternoon and once again I was in the right place at completely the wrong time. He was a big, tough looking brute who came from a shady past. By this time, I was getting better at sticking to the simple questions, “What were your influences, tell me about this track, tell me about that cut.” It was following the end of one such tune when he began relaying the tale of a working girl during his days as a bouncer in a bordello. I looked at him blankly, having no idea what he was talking about.
What can I say?
It was a learning process.
Hosting skills aside, I had finally become proficient enough in the area of production to present these interviews for air on WNYT’s The Rock Rap, where they came off only semi-flawed, yet succinctly believable. I was becoming comfortable now, and while the road ahead would undoubtedly be paved with the occasional missteps and mishaps, my dedication had not gone unnoticed. Accompanying Assistant Music Director Ana C to a press conference at the midtown Manhattan offices of Elektra records provided clear proof that I was now a recognized (and to some degree), respected staff member. Sixties legend Del Shannon, in town to promote his newly released comeback LP would be meeting with members of both the mainstream and college radio communities. Unfamiliar with his contribution to the music world, I carefully studied the label-produced bio and mentally prepared a few insightful questions should the opportunity present itself. The excitement of feeling like I was actually on the inside overshadowed the whole event. An Elektra representative took us through the protocols of how the conference would be handled. Leaving the room, he gave us time to gather some thoughts, as we eagerly awaited the arrival of this 1960’s icon of whom I still knew little about. The rest is a blur, yet the interview in its fully produced capacity still lives on cassette tape somewhere within the cluttered confines of my apartment.
Subsequent press conferences included Patrick Simmons of Doobie Brothers fame, Greg Kihn, and Lou Ann Barton; a blues singer whose debut record had been produced by ex-eagle member and soon to be solo artist in his own right, Glenn Frey. Still relatively clueless, I referred to him as Glenn Fr ‘A’ y on the final production of that aired interview.
I never took my eyes off of the big prize however, and nearing the end of the spring semester turned my thoughts towards becoming an air personality. The first step would be to record an air check (radio-ese for demo tape). Not a lot of attention was paid to classes that week as I prepared for my first step towards super-stardom. An important part of the air check was not only the vocal prowess of the individual, but production techniques as well. There was more to it than just successful segues. Learning to talk over music at the proper level sounds simple enough until you hear yourself in a pair of headphones. Getting used to the sound of your voice on tape is an even more difficult task. While the radio station was not governed by the FCC due to its lack of FM frequency, we followed closely many of the FCC rules and regulations, one of the most important being the Legal I.D.; the identification of the station call letters and broadcast location at the top of every hour. There are those who sing in the shower. I’m pretty convinced that I spent several hours in mine, practicing the all-important delivery of the legal I.D.
“Rocking The Island. WNYT, Old Westbury.”
Hmmm, I would think. Let me try it more Harry Harrison, WCBS.
“Rocking The Island. WNYT, Old Westbury.”
The natural echo of the shower was great for CBS-FM style impersonations. What came out on the air check however was pure Morty, or pure Mawty before I corrected the regional New York accent. Two days later, my mailbox (another sure sign that I had now reached full staff acceptance) contained my returned air check reel with a note affixed that simply read, "O.K. for air."
The dream had now been realized.
It would be a while yet before I would have my own time slot. Newbie’s were generally relegated to fill-in status until something became available. Nearly a week had gone by before an opportunity arose for me to do an hour on General Manager Maria Milito’s show.
My hands were shaking and my heart was racing when I sat down upon the hard cold stool in front of a microphone that seemed suddenly menacing.
Music fading, I hit the start button on my first record. The Cars; Shake it Up began to play for few seconds before I very unconfidently brought the audio level down, turned up the mic and began to speak.
“Rocking the Island, WNYT, Old Westbury,” I shakily began, sounding as if the floor beneath me was trembling violently.
The hour went faster than it should have been allowed to. By the end of my unmemorable debut, I was a bit more at ease. When a fill-in shift opened the following afternoon for an entire four hours, I skipped the first of many classes to do it. By the time summer had rolled around, I was comfortably embedded in a slot of my own, and continued to cover fill-in’s whenever possible. There was late night Saturdays spent with The Battle of the Towns crew, Al Richards, Scotty H, and “The Thing,” followed by a later night trip to the diner with my freshman counterparts Ron G and Steve “Jazzman.” When September came, we were excited to be a fully recognized part of the team, attending the radio station's introductory Open House now as seasoned veterans. I like to believe that we treated the new freshmen with the same respect that we had been given. We were also becoming much more attuned to the radio industry and as a result, the three of us decided to take it a step further and attend the Intercollegiate Broadcasting System's (IBS) convention in Washington D.C. Had it not been for Steve’s insistence that this was a great idea, I probably would never have gone. Not a seasoned traveler by any means, the idea of going to D.C. seemed preposterous, yet on a cool March morning in darkness, I climbed into my trusty VW and drove to the Farmingdale residence of the Jazzman. The journey to our nation’s capitol in Steve’s far trustier, yet only slightly roomier vehicle took roughly five hours. Camden, New Jersey; a town we knew nothing about had shone like a beacon in our quest to reach D.C., only because of the numerous signage touting the mileage in which it would be reached. We sailed past the exit, continuing south with much exaggerated fanfare. Most of the conversation revolved around radio, Steve pondering the idea that most frequencies should remain within the same format, thus if listening to a New York jazz station at 101.9, it would make sense that when coming into range of a new station at the same frequency, the music should remain unchanged. We were know it all college kids, together on the road for the first time. As D.C. loomed closer, the excitement mounted, but in the back of my mind, there also lurked a sense of foreboding.
From my earliest days of childhood, I had developed a phobia for elevators. My mom claims it started from the days of a stroller, recalling an incident in a department store where the operator closed the doors and I immediately became frantic. I distinctly recall an event in later years, taking a trip into the city on a Saturday morning with my dad. Arriving in the darkened lobby of the small building, we stepped into the elevator and began to ascend. Reaching our destination, the doors refused to open. I panicked, while my dad tried to explain the car would return to the lobby where we would unlock the floor and try again. The site of the imposing steel door on the other side of the now open elevator doors once we’d arrived the second time was almost too much for me to bear. I could successfully count the times between then and the current moment in my life that I had since entered an elevator. Now, with hotel reservations at the Capitol Hilton, I prayed that we would be on a lower floor. My preoccupation with these thoughts precludes my earliest memories of seeing the historical buildings that dotted the landscape. My first impression upon crossing the border from Virginia was, wow, this place is a dump, an opinion that was completely alleviated once the capitol district came into view. The sight of the White House and the Washington Monument from the lobby entrance was inspiring. Receiving our room assignment from the reservations desk eliminated that happy thought however, as I stoically approached the bank of elevators, destination, ninth floor. I didn’t breathe when the doors closed and we were suddenly whisked upwards. Unused to the feel of that type of movement, it tickled my stomach a bit, quickly allaying my fear. Safely arriving upstairs, I had reached a personal milestone, conquering the phobia I had nursed for so long. It had been my love for college radio that had come to my aid that day. I suppose experts might negate that, calling it Peer Pressure instead.
Our days had been spent attending a number of different presentations, our nights in the hotel ballrooms where we had been treated to a number of free concerts by up and coming bands including The Accelerators, and The Philistines, neither of whom progressed much further in the industry, and REM, who did okay. We carried a tape recorder and microphone with us, trying to amass as many artist I.D.’s for the radio station as possible. Basically, it entailed stopping by the record company booths, and allowing their people to say, “Hi, I’m so and so. You’re listening to the Island Rocker, WNYT. Steve, a major David Letterman fan in those days had been on a personal mission to take the artist identification one-step further, intending to bait someone into saying the words “It’s just plain big.” I had never seen the piece that inspired this bit of whimsy, but the game dominated the entire conference.
In our free time, which was voluntarily plentiful, we toured the mall area, visiting the top of the Washington Monument, another monumental step in my elevator recovery program. Obsessed with a Beach Boys concert that had taken place on those very grounds only a year ago and having seen the resulting HBO special on several occasions, I tried in vain to place where the stage had been, probably missing some of the finer nuances of this historic piece of real estate. Upon my return home I had garnered a new obsession; watching the news, always with the hope of catching a glimpse of my now beloved Washington D.C. My love for the movie D.C. Cab, an admitted guilty pleasure, was a direct result of that trip as well.
3.
Changes were taking place both within the radio station and the very industry as well. New faces included Scott A, a heavy metal fan whose primary obsession was Rush, Lisa S, a transfer student from the nearby community college I had forsaken over a year ago, Mike M, whose devotion to new music quickly landed him in the music director’s position. Donna V, a neighborhood friend of the Jazzman made her niche in the news department, and Marianne S, the biggest Greg Kihn fan I have ever known was welcomed aboard. I, for one remained primarily a hit-radio man, my mind still not as open to the prospect of new music as it should have been. I vehemently abhorred the terms New Wave and New Music. Moving up the corporate ladder, I ascended to the position of Production Director. Steve and Ron followed as well, with Ron becoming News Director, and Steve taking the top spot as General Manger. We weren’t above going to the post office however, which at times had become rather enjoyable. P.O. box 429 was always crammed with packages, most of them being new record offerings from their respective labels. I specifically remember Steve and myself returning to the station one day to pore through the latest acquisitions. We couldn’t wait to give the new Hall and Oates tune a spin, the two of us awestruck as "Say It Isn't So reached its conclusion. I would bet that Steve’s opinion in these later years might read a bit differently, if he remembers that moment at all. I don’t know why I do, but simply chalk it up to the inane talent I’ve come to realize for remembering some of the most inconsequential details of my life.
The Production studio was also the scene of one of the most poignant moments in my college radio years. On May 10 1982, a large group of staffers gathered around, spilling into the hallway. Radio history was about to be made with the official sign-off of Musicradio WABC.
From Wikipedia:
…the day WABC stopped playing music, is sometimes called "The Day The Music Died". WABC ended its 22-year run as a music station with a 9 a.m.-noon farewell show hosted by longtime WABC disc jockeys Dan Ingram and Ron Lundy. The last song played on WABC before the format change was "Imagine" by John Lennon, followed by the familiar WABC "Chime Time" jingle, then a moment of silence before the debut of the new talk format.

WNYT observed the moment of silence with near reverence. Scotty H, a big fan of the Top 40 format was especially moved, nearly to the point of tears. In the coming weeks, he would institute his own Top 40 format, something that was entirely unheard of in the realm of college radio, another benefit of not being governed by the FCC. A fan of the genre myself, I signed on to do one of the new weekend shifts. Following a different programming clock, seemed an easy enough undertaking, but it wound up being surprisingly challenging. Most of the tunes were considerably shorter than the typical music the station played during the week, which meant a lot of quick thinking, and breathlessly running around the studio looking for additional songs to fill time. Scotty also had me obsessing over a well-known DJ technique called Hitting the Post, wherein the jock talks over the introduction of the song, right to the moment when the vocals kick in. It takes a good degree of finesse to get it down. I still find myself mentally doing it today whenever a song begins playing.
4.
New York Tech played host to a small number of rural legends. Heading north on the often lightly traveled road to Ed Hall, one couldn’t help but to notice the imposing structure of an old building nestled deep within the woods. A refuge for professor’s and staff, the French Chateau was reputed to be haunted. Offices inhabited the first two levels of the edifice. Off limits, the third floor, often darkened even during the daylight hours was reserved for apparitions only.
Another pseudo-legend claimed that it was possible to reach the buildings of the central campus from its distant northern terminus via the deep, dark woods. A small number of ‘NYT staff members sated on wine and giddy with Spring Fever dispelled that myth one early May afternoon. Two bottles down and a third one just opened, the idea sprung out of nowhere. With a sense of bravado and foolhardiness, we set off into the forest Blair Witch style, long before the Blair Witch Project creative team had even come into existence. With no form of communications to keep us connected to the outside world, we could very well have succumbed to whatever evil resided in those woods. After all, we would be circumnavigating at what we hoped would be a safe distance, the rear grounds of the fabled French Chateau. No one knew where spirits disappeared to during the daylight hours. We were more concerned with the final bottle of spirits disappearing before our very eyes. Taking advantage of the false sense of daring and overall silliness, the often-reserved Jazzman turned to Scott A, his heavy metal nemesis and uttered words that I shall not long forget:
“Scott, I know it’s just the wine talking, and you’re a really great guy and all, but I have to tell you, man. I think Rush really sucks.”
The ensuing laughter carried across Long Island’s north shore acreage, from the nearby mansions to the far-off destination of the central campus, the rumor/legend downgraded to fact upon our greatly celebrated safe arrival.
My favorite tale of Tech lore comes from that of WNYT itself, the little station that could, would or did, at a time when I believe it may have been broadcast on the AM radio band, before finding a new home on Cablevision. Rumor had it that certain members of the late 70’s staff had taken it upon themselves to boost their coverage over a more widespread area, with the notion of tapping into the power of one of the campus streetlamps. The signal surged like a rapidly advancing storm front, crossing the Long Island sound to Connecticut where listeners of 660 AM WNBC were suddenly treated to a new sound, The Island Rocker, WNYT. The broadcast coup did not last long, once the authorities became involved. Punishment was swift, the station ordered to cease and desist, Their FCC license revoked. Is there any truth to all of it? I don’t know, but it was always an entertaining yarn.
During my tenure there, we did come into an AM transmitter for a short period, compliments of Scotty H, who in his determination was adamant towards getting WNYT on the air and Top 40 back on the dial. We wasted no time in turning it on one Friday afternoon. Chief Engineer, Johnny C and I climbed into his red Chevy Nova, driving away from the building to assess the extent of our new signal coverage, only to find disappointment before reaching civilization at the other end of campus. John, displaying his extensive engineering expertise, chose to attach a long metal wire to the unit, and string it out the window where Scotty, exercising his then unknown talent scaled the nearest tree, faux antenna clenched tightly between his teeth.
I wanted to tap into one of the fabled streetlamps.
“We’ve got some real height now,” he yelled, his body lost in the maze of leaves and limbs.
Returning to the car, we were ecstatic to find that the signal reached several miles further, well beyond the reach of the New York Tech property line. History however, chose to repeat itself in the form of a phone call from the Westbury Drive-in, one of the last theaters of its kind on Long Island. Rather than the traditional speaker to hang on the inside of the car window, the theater used a small number of low wattage AM transmitters to broadcast the audio for each of their movie screens. One of the transmitters suffered the sad misfortune of broadcasting on the very same frequency that we were. Ghostbuster’s patrons lodged complaints that it was tough to hear the movie over the competing sounds of The Island Rocker.
Thwarted again.
The disappointment minimal at most did not last long.
FM TOP 40 HITS NEW YORK. The message scrawled proudly across the hallway blackboard in Scotty’s unmistakable handwriting referred to the long-awaited debut of Z-100 (WHTZ). With the birth of Scott Shannon’s Z-Morning Zoo, WNYT responded with the Steve and Scotty Show, a short-lived college version of a top 40-morning show. Many of us had become instant Z-100 fans. Proudly showing our approval, we submitted a sixty-second commercial for a contest touting the Zoo’s favorite alcoholic refreshment, Hiney wine. In horrific karaoke fashion, we butchered The Beatles Twist and Shout, Jazzman providing a blistering lead vocal, backed up by the inept yet somewhat in tune, Morty, Johnny C, and News Director Donna V. WNYT did not win the grand prize, but the afternoon spent putting that small piece together served as another magical moment which will live in our hearts and minds forever.
Following the demise of the Steve and Scotty Show, due mostly to the ailment known as graduation, Johnny C and I, with Steve’s blessing, took the reins and began doing The Morty/Johnny C. Show. By this time, the radio station had also signed on with Suffolk County cable, now reaching an astounding quarter of a million homes, a figure essentially unattainable for any college station airing in the traditional FM style. To further promote both our own show, and the radio station as a whole, John and I began an innovative campaign we called the High School Salute, wherein we would devote an entire show to a participating school based on mail-in requests. It had been an amazing success, and at the small number of institutions where we had actually made an appearance, we were treated like superstars. My radio dreams had far exceeded any expectations. Catering to my inflating ego a bit, I placed a call for the second time in my life to real radio station, introducing myself to Scott Shannon as Morty of the world renowned (in my own mind) Morty/Johnny C. Show. Lightning struck again, when my call was aired, heard this time by a considerably greater amount of listeners. John and I also paid a visit to Howard Stern one afternoon at a local WNBC-AM remote broadcast. Inspired, the two of us were always in search of new ways to keep the show fresh. We took our show to the great outdoors one Wednesday night, setting up just outside the air studio where we placed a harried phone call to the office of Public Safety; the campus security team.
“I don’t want to raise any alarms here,” John frantically whispered, but I just saw a couple of guys taking equipment out of the radio station.”
We started the stopwatch precisely at the call’s conclusion, clocking the response time. Had that been an actual emergency, my story would have ended there. Thieves would have had ample time to take the furniture and blackboard as well.
Discipline charges were never filed.
A return to Washington D.C with over thirty WNYT staff members had been a big highlight in 1984. During the week of the IBS convention, one was hard pressed not to run into someone wearing a WNYT satin jacket. John and I submitted a one-hour pre-recorded show for the newly formed WIBS radio, a closed circuit broadcast that would be running twenty-four hours a day via the hotel’s information channel. Bringing further attention to both the station and the show, the two of us incurred the expense of having several T-shirts made up, highlighting the WNYT call letters on the front. The back of each shirt read either, I’m Not Morty, or I’m not Johnny C. I often wonder if I may have missed a calling in the field of promotions. I felt then as I still do today that we should have won an award from the Inter-Collegiate Broadcasting Systems committee. I put to use my creative flair, coming up with a dramatic scenario and utilizing the talents of additional air staff members.
John and I are detained at the D.C. airport by FCC agents for executing a certain number of on-air indiscretions.
Through the use of flashbacks via low budget sound effects records, we presented what was essentially a greatest hits compilation of some of the best Morty/Johnny C comedy bits. Sadly, any recordings or tapes of that one hour of fame have long since disappeared. I’ve expended a lot of energy over the last several decades trying to recoup pieces of my past in the form of books and music, but nothing tops my list more than finding a copy of this long lost nugget.
An on-air enigma in my mind, I never lost touch with the basics during that period. I spent a good deal of time training new staff members in production basics to help get them started on their chosen path in the field, while simultaneously producing a weekly on-air interview show similar to the Rock Rap. Out on the Streets centered on the music of local artists, most of whom were overjoyed at the fact that someone other than fans and family members would be privy to their music. I had pretty well mastered the art of the interview by that point and had the distinct pleasure of interviewing the short-lived keyboard player of the Marshall Tucker Band, for a Rock Rap exclusive.
I put to use my still emerging talent in the field of promotions coordinating a WNYT night in the New York Tech pub featuring Vōg, an incredible group of local musicians who had achieved some success in the European market and were hoping to accomplish the same on home soil. Standing in traffic atop campus speed bumps, we handed out flyers, mostly to drivers whose cars had already received them by way of our aggressive parking lot campaign. The night had proved a resounding success similar in scope to the long defunct WNYT Video Rock nights.
5.
The end was nearing, and not due to graduation. Somewhere along the way, Cablevision of Nassau had pulled the plug on the radio station choosing to go the canned music route in lieu of a bunch of unseasoned college kids. Shortly thereafter, Suffolk County followed suit, offering us a new home on their newly instituted Cable FM frequency. I didn’t know the first thing about Cable FM, nor did any of their subscribers. "Off the air and we don’t care", had become our new slogan, uttered primarily by a disgruntled John and myself. The first show we did on our new frequency failed miserably. The phone, which had always rung consistently without a moment’s respite remained silent. The rest of the station had been affected as well, the overall pulse, excitement and morale now nearly non-existent. I half-heartedly ran for Program Director, my first shot at moving up to the Executive Board. I lost that promotion to a relative newcomer and was bitter at their decision, a choice that in hindsight made perfect sense. My mind, still not fully opened to accepting new music had made me a lousy candidate. The IBS convention that year was held in New York City, another downer. John and I, in an effort to relive the glory days had come up with a scandalous plan to launch an alternate radio station. WBRU, The Brew, would air on 640 AM by way of the old transmitter, which had lain in a storage closet since its brief heyday. The theory was to use the bathroom showerhead as an antenna, the metal of the interconnected hotel plumbing easily dispersing the signal throughout the building. We would plaster, walls, doors, and bathroom stalls with flyer’s announcing the existence of the pirate radio station, unveiling our identities only at the end of the long weekend. We created taped shows in advance, which were to play throughout the day and allow us the opportunity to partake in conference events. We worked towards that common goal with the fire and fervor of the old days.
It was a masterful plan.
It didn’t work.
Maybe plumbing was not a great conductor after all.
Symbolically, the end of WBRU, spelled the end of my radio career and aspirations. I have no recollections of those last days spent at WNYT. I dropped out of New York Tech, taking a full time Audio Visual position at Hofstra University; my first real job in the real world.
Three years later, John and I had the opportunity to work together again, this time at a professional radio station, where he was comfortably entrenched in the position of Chief-Engineer. My time spent there, as morning-show producer to WDRE’s Larry the Duck is a tale for another time.
WNYT continues to broadcast today, in a far greater capacity via the Internet. The potential of homes that the station is reaching worldwide is staggering. In 2005, I had the great pleasure of attending an ‘NYT reunion, spending an hour on the air with John, whom I had loosely kept in touch with over the years and old pal Ron G, whom I literally had not seen in decades. Our chance meeting in the parking lot before going inside was heartwarming. We vowed to remain in contact, and have kept that promise. Shortly following that far too brief afternoon, Ron had e-mailed me, commenting on how much smaller the place had seemed. It had been the first thing I noticed when we walked in the door. Jokingly, I had written back saying, "maybe it’s because we were all a little smaller back then."
Several hours later, I wrote him back again.
"Maybe because back then, it was all larger than life."

Morty,
October 9, 2008