Guest Blogger: Shawn Wood

Shawn Wood is a commercial litigator and partner with the national law firm Seyfarth Shaw LLP. Shawn is also a monthly columnist for Chicago Lawyer magazine and a recipient of its Annual Writing Award. Most recently, he was honored by the Chicago Daily Law Bulletin as one of its "40 under 40 Attorneys To Watch" in 2005.

Shawn contributed a piece to this blog around the time of the Academy Awards. This is his second guest blog. I asked him to write a piece about the Boston lawyers who exchanged nasty e-mails, and he was gracious enough to provide the following...


ANATOMY OF AN E-MAIL
By Shawn Wood


You probably first read the infamous “Lawyers Behaving Badly” e-mail exchange through a forwarded message. Within days, it was featured in the Boston Globe and on CNN. By the end of the month, the story exploded onto every media outlet but Cartoon Network.

And when the media’s talking heads got around to addressing lessons learned, everyone missed the point.

The e-mail exchange was between two lawyers in Boston. Criminal defense attorney Will Korman had offered a job to recent law school graduate Dianna Abdala. She respectfully declined.

Actually, she not-so-respectfully declined. To do it justice, I’ll quote George Michael (and not the one with “guilty feet that had no rhythm”), and say let’s go to the tape:

Abadala: Dear Attorney Korman: At this time [which, incidentally, was well past happy hour at 9:23 on a Friday night], I am writing to inform you that I will not be accepting your offer. After careful consideration, I have come to the conclusion that the pay you are offering would neither fulfill me nor support the lifestyle I am living in light of the work I would be doing for you. I have decided instead to work for myself, and reap 100% of the benefits that I sew. [sic.] Thank you for the interviews. [signed] Dianna L. Abdala, Esq.

So you’re thinking, all right, it’s mildly annoying. The “lifestyle” part makes her sound like Nicole Ritchie, and signing her name “Esq.” is a bit much, but what’s the big deal? Here’s the exchange the followed:

Korman: “Given that you had two interviews, were offered and accepted the job (indeed, you had a definite job start), I am surprised that you chose an e-mail and a 9:30 p.m. voicemail message to convey this information to me. It smacks of immaturity and is quite unprofessional. Indeed, I did rely upon your acceptance by ordering stationery and business cards with your name, reformatting a computer and setting up both internal and external e-mails for you here at the office. While I do not quarrel with your reasoning, I am extremely disappointed in the way this played out. I sincerely wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors. – Will Korman.”

Abadala: “A real lawyer would have put the contract in writing and not exercised any reliance until he did so. Again, thank you.”

Korman: “Thank you for the refresher course on contracts. This is not a bar exam question. You need to realize this is a very small legal community, especially for the criminal defense bar. Do you really want to start pissing off more experienced lawyers at this early stage of your career?”

Abdala: “Bla Bla Bla.”

After Abdala hit “send” with those three words, this exchange was sent and re-sent all over the globe. The phrase “to pull an Abdala,” consequently, became part of our vernacular.

By the time in reached us here in Chicago (where our “lifestyle” is always a bit behind), the e-mail chain actually shows a fascinating game of telephone. Each person who forwarded the message offers a short commentary on the exchange.

One of my favorites is a guy named David Breen, who rips on Abdala’s failure to distinguish between “reaping what you sow” and reaping what you do with a needle and thread. He also comments that Abadala clearly must not be a BU grad. (Echoes of Thurston Howell’s “Ahh. A Yale man.”)

Another recipient and sender is identified as Alison Foley. Alison says she went to school with Abadala and that the e-mails “truly convey [Abdala’s] personality.” (“I had two classes with her. In both, she would come to class late, sit in the front row eating and drinking (usually chips and a Snapple), and never took notes.”)

These real-time comments also offer an opportunity to learn new online-speak. Most folks know “LOL” means laughing out loud and “BTW” means “by the way,” but one person commenting within the Boston e-mail chain remarks: “WTF is with the Bla, Bla, Bla.”

We learn something new every day.

Once the e-mail exchange was picked up by major news outlets, many of them covered the story by explaining how it “just goes to show that you need to be more careful what you say in an e-mail because it could hurt your career.” These comments seem to miss the larger point.

The more fundamental lesson here is far more simple: DON’T ACT LIKE SUCH A JERK IN THE FIRST PLACE!

This wasn’t a situation like the f-bomb laced tirade by a Chicago real estate associate that made the rounds last year (often referred to as the “monkey scribe” voicemail), where someone blew his cool and yelled at opposing counsel. If we’ve done our jobs well, we’ve all been the recipient of harsh words at some point in our careers.

The Boston e-mail exchange was entirely different. It showed a laughably snotty young lawyer (one of the most convincing antagonists since William Zabka), who spit in the face of someone who was giving her an opportunity, and then she hocked an ever bigger loogie when he tried to explain that the legal community is a small world.

Whether this was all caught on a recorded e-mail or not, whether it was in a professional setting or with a stranger on the bus, what seems important here is to avoid ever acting like such a complete jerk toward another human being (or even toward a cat or goldfish, for that matter).

In a subsequent interview with the Boston Globe, Abdala referred to herself a “trust fund baby” who has “just been taking it easy” because “she worked hard in school.” She also claimed that she was enjoying the notoriety from the all the publicity regarding the e-mails, but also said she had filed a Complaint against Korman with the Massachusetts state disciplinary board complaining about Korman’s forwarding of her messages to third parties.

Wouldn’t you love to be the attorney with the state disciplinary board who had that Complaint land on your desk? You could offer the triumphant three-word response:

Dear Ms. Abdala: Bla, Bla, Bla


If you'd like to see any other guest bloggers, click here: http://rickkaempferguestbloggers.blogspot.com

From the Archives: (Parents of) Friends

It's big news in Chicago that Jennifer Aniston and her boyfriend Vince Vaughn (a former Chicagoan) are looking at homes here because they want to get out of Hollywood. I've never met Jennifer, but I'm sure she'll love it here.




During the years "Friends" was on the air, the stars of that show rarely made it into Chicago. Jennifer did film a few movies here, and David Schwimmer directed several plays here with his theatre company ("Looking Glass"), but most of the other stars rarely made into town.

"Friends" was one of those television shows that nearly every age group watched--even the WJMK Oldies audience. And while our listeners watched it, they watched it through slightly different eyes. They saw those kids living in luxurious Manhattan lofts and thought: "How in the world can they afford those places? They must cost $10000 a month."

John Landecker, who had two grown-up daughters about the age of the Friends cast, suggested that their parents must be shelling out the cash. That comment inspired me to rewrite the lyrics to the "Friends" theme song by the Rembrandts. Although I didn't have any kids yet, I thought of John's situation with his daughters, and my little brother who brought his laundry home to mom until he got married, and had some fun with the concept.

The result was the following tune. It was a regular part of the Landecker & The Legends stage show for most of the seven years we toured.

(“Parents of”) “Friends”
By Landecker/Kaempfer

The last time you called home was a month ago today,
You just discovered what they meant by take home pay,
We know it’s hard to start a new career,
When your refrigerator’s, only filled, with pizza and beer,

But-I’ll still pay for you
You know it doesn’t matter when,
I’ll still pay for you,
When your car breaks down again,
I’ll still pay for you,
Now can you lose that new tattoo?

You keep saying that my way of life was wrong,
But you’re getting pretty stoned up in your room tokin’ on the bong,
You’ve completely cleaned the basement out of furniture,
And were still not sure, if your new roommate, is a, him or a her,

But-I’ll still pay for you
I’ll always be your daddy,
I’ll still pay for you,
I cough up money gladly,
I’ll still pay for you,
Now can you lose that new tattoo?

Why don’t you come and visit,
That isn’t too hard is it?
You know your Mother’s lasagna,
is simply exquisite,
Despite your self-assurance,
I still pay your car insurance,
Now you know that life ain’t free,
I’m still here to do your laundry,
Your dirty, stinkin’ laundry, baby.

Now I seem to have had more than my fill,
Of paying telephone and doctor’s medical bills,

But-I’ll still pay for you
You know it doesn’t matter when,
I’ll still pay for you,
When your car breaks down again,
I’ll still pay for you,
Now can you lose that new tattoo?

For the rest of the Rick Kaempfer archives, click here: http://rickkaempferarchives.blogspot.com

Half Empty: Dirty Old Men

They say that when you hit your 40s, your life is half over. We prefer to think of it as HALF EMPTY. Our age has finally caught up with our outlook on life. Remember, it is possible to turn that frown upside down...but you might pull a muscle.





"Dirty Old Men"

By Rick Kaempfer and Dave Stern




It was the summer of our 40th birthday. A group of us (all turning 40) gathered in New Orleans to relive our glory years and pretend like we could still party like 20-somethings. It was just the guys. All wives were left behind in our respective home towns...all happily allowing their pathetic aging husbands go to New Orleans for three days of decadence.

And we were having a great time too. Unlike our youthful partying days, we even had a few dollars in our pockets to enjoy great meals in addition to the many, many, many drinks we were consuming. And though we started to feel younger simply by being back in a non-stop partying town, there was also one moment that made us face reality.

If you’ve never been to Bourbon Street, let’s just say that the way gals earn those cheap plastic beads is an eye-popping experience. It happens time and time again, often within a few feet of where you are standing. Right there. Slightly below eye level. Accompanied by a big smile.

“Hello fresh air,” parts of them say. “Yes it is a little cold out here.”

What we didn’t realize at the time is that the audience for these free shows is chosen for its non-threatening nature. They look for men with beads—standing far away, say on balconies—or for men close by who wouldn’t dream of being a problem...

We weren’t on balconies. We didn’t have beads. And we were given show after show after show without even requesting it.

Our suspicions were officially confirmed under direct cross-examination. One young lady seemed to be following us around, earning beads after beads from nearby balcony residents. One of us jokingly said to her...

“I guess you don’t have to worry about us, huh?”

“That’s for sure,” she said.

Ouch.

Of course, she’s absolutely correct. We’re beyond harmless. Even our internal fantasies end abruptly with thoughts of divorce court, splitting up our property, and waving goodbye to our children, our wives, and our lives.

On the other hand, that doesn’t mean we don’t notice things. We’re not dead. We’re only half-way there. Our eyes are still working reasonably well. What else do we notice?

*The Spanish Language channels
When we’re channel surfing, and we come to the Spanish language channels, we stop. We admit it. We don’t speak Spanish, and we can’t follow anything that is being said, yet we stop. It’s not for the soccer games.

*Elimi-Date
This show is so wrong. One man has five women fighting over him. These young trashy women are willing to say or do anything to the other women on the show in order to get their man. It’s demeaning to women. It teaches women all the wrong values. And we stop every time we’re flipping past it.

*Princesses
OK, this is going to sound sick, but someone has to admit this. All of the cartoon princesses, and we mean all of them, are easy on the eyes (and since they are of marrying age—all of them are legal too). Jasmine could have been the girl in New Orleans following us around—in fact she looked just like her. Cinderella cooks, cleans, and let’s face it, she’s a knockout. As for Snow White, she even sings while she cleans. And Sleeping Beauty...she has the word “Beauty” in her name—AND she would let us sleep in.

Is that all? No, of course not. There are many other examples of noticing things with our eyes, but let us explain how this works in the minds of dirty old men (at least in our case). It’s the same thing every time. There are really six steps.

1. Whoa, look at that.
2. Wow, can you imagine...
3. Stop it, sicko. You’re old enough to be her father.
4. Look at what you’ve done! Everything you’ve worked for, this wonderful loving family and wife—and you’re going to throw it all away for a princess?
5. Change the channel.
6. Ah, a sporting event.

Every time our wives come into the room and complain that we’re watching yet another sporting event, we just take the punishment. We deserve it, and they don’t even realize why. Because if they knew, they wouldn’t be complaining that we’re watching sporting events.

On the other hand, when the women suddenly sit down and watch the sporting events with us, they aren’t just marveling at the athletic ability of the soaring, powerful, muscle-bound, tank-top wearing basketball stars with big feet, are they? What did that last breathless “Oh My” really mean?

Where’s the remote? I think Elimi-Date is on channel 6.



We have started accumulating our "Half Empty" columns here: http://halfemptyarchive.blogspot.com

Suburban Man: They say the darndest things, again

By Rick Kaempfer





Every day at home with my boys brings another “Darndest Things” moment, and makes me appreciate the genius of Art Linkletter even more. He was the first one to harness this unpredictable free entertainment of childhood logic, expose it to the masses, and make himself quite rich in the process.

Alas, he also owns the copyright.

But that doesn’t mean the concept itself isn’t still wildly entertaining. Two months ago I provided examples of “darndest things” from my own children, and you responded in large numbers. Last month I printed some of your responses (which I found even more entertaining.) I guess this means that this month, it’s my turn again. Next month—it’s back to you.

Here are a handful of recent “Darndest Things” moments from my own brood...



*On Easter Sunday, 3-year-old Sean was just about to eat another Hershey’s Kiss.
“I think you’ve had enough chocolate,” I said.
He looked up at me and replied: “But my butt said I could have just one more kiss.”



*10-year-old Tommy joined me on the deck for a chat.
“Dad, can I ask you a question?”
"Sure"
"You've met a lot of celebrities, right?"
"Yeah"
"Even really big stars?"
"Yeah."
"Did you ever meet Hillary Duff?"
"No, sorry, I never met her."
"Darn"
He started walking away, when I called out to him.
"Why did you want to know?"
"Oh," he said. "The girls at school would have been so impressed."



*I asked 8-year-old Johnny what he wanted to be when he grows up. He thought about this long and hard, and said in all earnestness...”I think I’ll be a wrestler in outer space.”




*I don’t want to say that Sean is spending too much time with my German mother, but he’s constantly telling me to “Vait!” and asking if we can go for a “Valk.”




*Tommy stabbed a dagger in my heart last fall during the World Series. It was time to go to school and he told me he didn’t have any shirts left in his drawer. I looked in his shirt drawer and found two Cubs T-shirts.
“What about these?” I asked.
“Dad,” he said, “I can’t wear those. The kids at school will make fun of me.”



*Johnny was turning into a one-trick pony with the stories he was writing at school. All of them were about video game characters (real or imaginary) and most of them were getting a little violent—his characters tended to die fiery deaths in a furnace. Knowing the hypersensitive school system, I gently urged him to stay away from violence before he got in trouble.
“Why don’t you write about something else?” I suggested. “What else interests you?”
“Geckos,” he said.
“Great,” I said. “Write about geckos.”
The next evening I got a phone call from his teacher.
“Mr. Kaempfer,” she said. “I’m a little worried about Johnny’s stories.”
“I know,” I said. “I already talked to him about it. I told him no more video game stories.”
“Those are fine,” she said. “This one he wrote today about geckos isn’t fine. It begins like this...
‘Once upon a time a boy gecko got into bed with a girl gecko and they made nine gecko babies...”
(The moral of the story is—never tell a writer what to write.)



*Actual conversation on the teeter-totter in the park.
Dad: What do you want to be when you grow up?
Sean: A doctor. What do you want to be when you grow up?
Dad: (chuckle) Good question.
Sean: Do you want to be a mom so you can go to work?




OK—your turn.

If you have any you’d like to share, please send them in by clicking on the word “Comments” below. (It e-mails your responses to me). We won’t make any money on it (damn you Art Linkletter!), but at least we’ll provide someone with a smile to help through another grownup day.


If you'd like to read previous Suburban Man columns, click here: http://suburbanmanarchive.blogspot.com

SHORE MAGAZINE ARTICLE: Destination Northwest Indiana

By Rick Kaempfer

(From the May 2006 issue)


We were just looking for a quiet weekend getaway. It had been a rough couple of months in our house, and the wife and I simply hadn’t been able to relax and spend time with each other. I dropped the kids off at my sister’s house, and we headed to Northwest Indiana for the weekend. We only had one rule: no plans.

My wife had looked at nearly every single bed & breakfast in the area (on the internet), before choosing the Duneland Beach Inn as our destination. (Duneland Beach Inn & Restaurant, 3311 Pottawattammie Trial, Duneland Beach, IN 46360, 219-874-7729 or 800-423-7729, www.dunelandbeachinn.com) She couldn’t have made a better choice. Even though a private party had been booked in the dining room, the staff was helpful, friendly, and accommodating. They set us up in the Tally-Ho room; a room with a fox-hunting theme to the décor. They even helped us pick out a nearby restaurant, and asked us about the next morning’s breakfast.

“What are the breakfast hours?” I asked.
“8:30—10:30,” they said.
“I don’t know, how about nine?” I asked the wife.
“How about 10:00?” she said.

She wasn’t fooling around with this no-plans idea, and I didn’t exactly need my arm twisted.

Since it was just before Christmas, we headed over to the mall to do a little shopping. We had been to Lighthouse Place Premium Outlets (601 Wabash Street, Michigan City, IN, 219-879-6506, www.premiumoutlets.com/lighthouseplace) before, but for some reason this time it felt so much more relaxing. (Oh that’s right; I wasn’t chasing a three year old through the clothing racks, while also trying to keep an eye on a 10-year-old and a 7-year old.) The collection of outlets there is legendary; Ann Taylor, Casual Corner, Old Navy, Nine West, OshKosh B’Gosh , Crate & Barrel, Polo Ralph Lauren, Coach, Burberry, Tommy Hilfiger, Gap, and many others. We only hit a few of them, because my wife was wise enough to sense the onset of my whining, and we had come to this area to get as far away from whining as possible.

It was dinner time anyway. The restaurant they recommended to us was a little place just across the street from the mall. (Café Elite & Catering, 231 W. 7th St, Michigan City, IN, 219-873-1788). I must admit we had low expectations, but we were blown away by the fine dining hidden away in this little house on 7th street. The restaurant probably can’t serve more than thirty or forty people at a time, but the food is excellent. I still occasionally have visions of the cup of seafood bisque and/or the mussels appetizer with andouille sausage in a spicy lobster broth. My wife had the filet (don’t get her started talking about those garlic mashed potatoes that came with it), and I had the scallops. Plus, we each had a scrumptious glass of wine. I was bracing myself when I opened the billfold to look at the total, and I was absolutely shocked. It was $58. Are you kidding me? I’ve spent more than that at Applebee’s.

The next fourteen hours of the weekend were probably my favorite. We really loved the atmosphere at the Duneland Beach Inn. It’s an old farmhouse, built in the 1920s, and renovated by current owner Annette Corbett in 2003. When she bought the place it had over twenty rooms, but she added the restaurant, made the rooms much larger and more luxuriant, and now there were only nine homey rooms. We didn’t leave ours for a very long time. That bed was so comfortable, the hallways were so quiet, and they actually respected the “Do Not Disturb” sign (nobody was knocking on our doors to clean the room early in the morning). We achieved a level of relaxation in that room we haven’t had before or since.

By the time 10:00 a.m. arrived; we could have floated down the stairs for breakfast. Annette’s dog Cagney was there to greet us, and it felt more like we were visiting old friends than staying at a hotel. Annette asked us what we wanted for breakfast, and when we couldn’t decide, she offered to make us special omelets. She fed us so much food we knew we wouldn’t have to eat again until dinner.

It was around 11 a.m. by now, and since we had not made any plans, we simply got in the car and started driving. I thought it might be fun to spend the afternoon in Valparaiso because I heard it was a quaint college town. On the way there, we saw a sign that read “Attraction: Winery.” Well, if it says attraction, we have to check it out, right? That’s the fun of not having any plans.

Anderson’s Vineyard & Winery (4320 East U.S. Highway 6, Valparaiso, IN, 219-464-4936) located in the middle of nowhere, was a great little find. They specialize in light fruity wines produced from fruit and grapes grown in the Midwest and as luck would have it, they also offer wine-tasting. We tried them all and found one that was so good we bought two bottles (Vidal).

With full tummies and a lovely aftertaste in our mouths, we finally arrived on the Valparaiso campus. The campus itself wasn’t that spectacular, but the downtown area of Valparaiso was an antique shopper’s paradise. A half dozen antique stores lined one side of Lincolnway, and we checked them all out. We were on a quest. Our youngest son Sean goes to sleep to the sound of a music box, and his old one had just broken (which will happen when you constantly toss it across the room). We looked at every music box and wind-up musical snow dome in every store on the street. None of them were quite right. Either they were too girly (ballerinas, princesses), or they played terrible songs (“Feelings,” “Lara’s Theme,” “Nadia’s Theme,” “Buffalo Gals,” etc.)

It wasn’t until we made our last stop (Valparaiso Antique Mall, 212 E. Lincolnway, Valparaiso, 219-465-1869) that we hit pay dirt. A beautiful snow dome with a nativity scene was priced at only $3, and I couldn’t understand why. It was in flawless condition—it probably would have sold for more than $50 at a Hallmark store. As I wound the music, I tried to imagine what warm soothing song might be waiting for me. Would it be “Away in a Manger” or “What Child Is This” or maybe my favorite Christmas song “Silent Night?”

When the tune started, I laughed out loud. It was “Chicago, Chicago.” I immediately went to the register and purchased it. This is now the most treasured tacky item in our home (and I collect them). Every time I wind the music I think of that poor schlub in China who had no idea what song this was. Either that, or Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus are bigger fans of “that toddlin’ town” than I realized.

Our last stop for the weekend was dinner at Maxine’s Restaurant in downtown Michigan City (512 Franklin Square, Michigan City, 219-872-4500). We knew it was taking a chance showing up on a Saturday night with no reservation (remember—no plans), but we also figured we could wait at the bar if necessary. It just so happened that a snowstorm suddenly hit the area, and by the time we arrived at the restaurant, it was a virtual white-out. Bad for anybody driving around Michigan City; good for us. We got a table right away.

With a jazz pianist playing in the foyer, and the wonderful aroma wafting in from the kitchen, we immediately knew we picked the perfect location to end our weekend. I got a big steak, and my wife got the crab cakes, and we sat in complete silence at the table. We were too busy drifting off into our own little relaxed worlds to care about the lack of conversation. I raised my glass and proposed a toast.

“To relaxation,” I said.

When my wife clinked my glass with hers, I saw her smile. A relaxed, content smile. That was truly a sight for sore eyes.





This is just one of my three pieces in this month's SHORE MAGAZINE. I'm really proud of this magazine. You should get a copy of it if you can--it's available in the tri-state area (Michigan, Indiana, Illinois). If you want to check out the on-line edition of the magazine, go here: http://www.visitshoremagazine.com

Guest Blogger: Doug James

Doug James has built a successful professional career on a wide range of performing talents. From commercials to voice-overs, radio to stage, corporate acting to conventional film acting. It's likely that you've heard his voice or seen his face (He was on "Prison Break" on Fox this week). He also plays with funk and retro bands "The Llamas" and "Love House", and as you can tell by this guest blog he was gracious enough to provide me, he is very passionate about his love of his music.





Enjoy Every Sandwich

I recently watched the VH1 documentary on the last year in the life of Warren Zevon. I titled this blog after a remark the singer/songwriter made to a David Letterman quire. I've made a promise to myself to do just that. Sounds corny...so what.

Presidents day weekend my wife and I took a trip to what I now consider the live music capital of the world. Austin Texas is NOT your typical Texas town. The variety of music that's offered is larger than Nashville & Memphis combined. By my count, there are about 210 live music venues in Austin. Another great music town I've always enjoyed was New Orleans but it always struck me as a bit too seedy. By comparison Austin is classy and it cooks 24/7. We were a little disappointed in the weather, it was raining and 55 and almost everyone apologized for it.

"Hey, we're from Chicago and it was 14 degrees when we left, don't worry about it." I'm looking at property for six months out of the year and thought the area would be great for my health, I'm seeking a warmer dryer climate during the winter months. I love music and culture and I've also grown rather fond of bicycling & hiking. We're still looking for a 6 month winter haven, but the journey of seeking Utopia is becoming a most enjoyable adventure.

Austin is easy to maneuver around. The 6th Street district has no less than 50 clubs and music/head shops to either listen to an eclectic array of music or shop til you drop. There's actually a Hot Sauce Shop called Tears of Joy that sells nothing but the most outrageous selection of...you guessed it. The owner is Joy Burleson and she invites you to check out her website at www.tearsofjoysauces.com. I spent about $30 and sent my brother a bottle of hot sauce called 'Nuckin' Futs'. Haven't heard back from him yet...hmmm.

Friday night brought a couple of hard choices. I have a wide range of musical influences and there's very little I don't like. I assumed there'd be a ton of C&W and I was right, the thing about Austin is, it holds about 10 tons of live music venues. Ricky Skaggs was sold out at the One World Theatre, there was an event going on that had started on Thursday and lasting over the weekend called the Folk Alliance. It was wrapping up Monday night with Arlo Guthrie & Friends. In all over 70 folk acts from all over the country were in town performing at dozens of different venues for five days.

Understand that there is live music is all over town. The Warehouse District is where Antones is located. Double Trouble (Chris Layton & Tommy Shannon) play there every Tuesday night. By the way, their former leader Stevie Ray Vaughn has a statue on the south side of the river in what's called Auditorium shores. There is no shortage of Stevie Ray wannabe's playing at clubs around Austin.

Friday night at Antones Cyril Neville and Marcia Ball performed. Cyril has left New Orleans for good. He commented that the music scene there has actually been dwindling for quite some time. It was alive during Mardi Gras and the Jazz festival but that was about it. Here he is in Austin on a Friday night in the middle of February, playing to a packed house. A few miles south at Gruene Hall, Leon Russell is playing to another packed house. Are you getting Cyrills drift?

There are venues on the south side of the Colorado river as well in fact, we went to the Continental Inn on Saturday afternoon and caught Red Volkaert(legendary guitarist for Merle Haggard)& The High Flyers free of charge. You would expect an incredibly tight 4 pc. band consisting of bass, drums, pedal steel & Red on guitar. They didn't disappoint. His voice is awesome, a commanding bass/baritone that rings familiar (he sang George Jones better than George) and he's one of the funniest guys on the planet. He looks like a Gnome with fingers as big as spring rolls that fly up and down the frets of his fender guitar. Saturday night Big Head Todd & The Monsters were playing La Zona Rosa which is in the Market District. Asleep At The Wheel was at the Old Coupland Dancehall.

Up and down 6th Street, everything from hip hop to Pete's Piano Bar (dueling pianists that play/sing everything from show tunes to Bon Jovi), karaoke if you want it, The Dirty Dog, over to the Red River District where the infamous Stubbs is located. We saved ourselves for Sunday morning to frequent Stubbs. Their Gospel Brunch is a hoot.

Have I mentioned everywhere we went we were greeted with a big friendly welcome? It was pretty awesome, even to a jaded music lover like myself. This was a typical weekend. In March, the south by southwest festival is held throughout the area and it draws names like Bonnie Raitt, Buddy Guy, Bela Fleck & The Flecktones, Elvis Costello to Sheryl Crow. For hard rockers the Smoking Popes @ Emo's for alternative Death Cab Cutie and Franz Ferdinand will be performing at the Backyard. This list is endless.

A helpful hint, when you arrive in Austin, grab a CHRONICLE Proper Exposure. It's like the Reader in Chicago and will direct you to more than just music. Oh yeah, we visited some Art museums too, but that'll have to wait for another blog & time.

So get out and listen to some music, and enjoy that sandwich!



If you missed other guest bloggers (like author Kim Strickland, radio stars John Landecker & Bob Dearborn, playwright Spike Manton and many others), click here: http://rickkaempferguestbloggers.blogspot.com

From the Archives: FCC Rules!

The FCC is back in the news recently because of the heavy fines they imposed on television and radio stations (and networks) for indecency. This, of course, is not a new thing. It's been a constant battle for decades. While I was the producer of the Steve and Garry Show on WLUP AM 1000, we were cited by the FCC for indecency.

I won't argue the subjective nature of the term. Instead, I'll just site the three different definitions of what is considered obscene material by the Supreme Court.

1) An average person, applying contemporary community standards would find the material, as a whole, appeals to the prurient interest.

2) The material depicts or describes, in a patently offensive manner as measured by community standards, sexual or excretory conduct.

3) The material, taken as a whole, lacks serious literary, artistic, political, or scientific value.

Do you understand this? Neither do broadcasters. In 1991 (just after I stepped down as Steve and Garry's producer), it led me to write the following column for Chicago Advertising and Media Magazine. Back then I was a sarcastic 20-something. Now I'm a sarcastic 40-something. The FCC hasn't changed much either.



The F.C.C Rules!
By Rick Kaempfer




I have a confession to make. Outgoing FCC Chairman Al Sikes is a hero of mine. That isn't a statement that will make many friends in the broadcasting industry. Chairman Sikes is one of the most unpopular people ever to hold that position. Yet, I'd like to come to his defense. He has, after all, accomplished two things for which he hasn't gotten enough credit. He has made radio "safe" for children, and he has turned the F.C.C into a viable money making operation.

Sikes made cleaning up radio one of his priorities when he took over. He oversaw changes in the rules that made it a fineable offense to discuss bodily functions of any kind on the radio. He was the visionary that realized radio was responsible for turning America's children into foul-mouthed little devils. It's hard to believe now, but just a few years ago children were saying nasty rhymes like "Beans, Beans, They're good for your heart, the more you eat the more you fart." and "Nanny Nanny Boo Boo, Stick your head in doo doo." Pardon my French, but I print these graphic rhymes to illustrate a point. Thanks to the new rule, obscene childhood rhymes like these, are a thing of the past.

I admire his morality, but few moral men manage to combine this with such an acute business sense. He knew that every city had at least a few wacky morning shows. He also knew that these shows ventured into the area of dirty jokes occasionally. Think of your top ten favorite jokes. Are any of them dirty? Don't get me wrong, that Bob Hope is a funny funny guy, but even he also surrounds himself with buxom babes and makes off-color references. And he is America's cleanest comic. So, when Chairman Sikes expanded the rules to also prohibit any words "depicting a sex act", he was displaying his genius business sense. He was just opening up the coffers and letting the money come in. He just waited for letters from outraged "listeners". Case closed, we have a letter to prove it. Now if you wouldn't mind sending us a few thousand dollars, and just make the check out to "The United States Government". Sikes was starting up his own deficit reduction plan before it was fashionable.

Unfortunately, there is a downside to all of this. Sikes is stepping down, and his replacement has some mighty big shoes to fill. Luckily, I have a few suggestions that will carry on the quest of Chairman Sikes, allowing his successor to protect America's children and reduce the deficit at the same time. The new Chairman will come out smelling like a rose, because he or she will have sniffed out the only real problem areas my hero didn't address.

Since Sikes has gotten that pesky First Amendment out of the way, the first order of business should be an outright ban of the words "Less Talk" and "Non-stop music". These may be the most dangerous words of all. Studies have shown that children exposed to disc jockeys saying "Less Talk" every 3 1/2 minutes, lose the ability to reason. These same studies suggest that hearing the phrase "non-stop music" while the music is being stopped, permanently damages a child's capacity for logic. For America's sake, please ban these words. Who knows, this may also be a money making opportunity until the disc jockeys get used to avoiding these phrases.

The second suggestion is long overdue. It is time to ban "Two-first name disc jockeys". Every station has at least one of these. What kind of a message are we sending America's ethnic children? Program directors have an inbred fear of ethnic names. They hire a Bob Sosnowski, and soon the radio public will hear a "Bob Michaels". It's standard. They say; "Just use your middle name and put an "s" at the end of it." On the surface, the logic is sound. You will never forget your new name because your mother used to call you that when she was mad; "Robert Michael, you're in big trouble, young man!" Yet, what kind of a message is radio sending little Spiro Stopanopolis? He is being told he is "different", and will never be allowed to say "less talk" on the radio. This rule is vital and destined to be a big money maker for the F.C.C. Sock it to 'em. Lets get a few bucks back into the treasury of the "Good 'Ol U.S. of A."

I feel very strongly about my free advice. I'm even thinking about changing my name as a protest if these new rules are not enacted. My middle name is James, so from now on, call me "Rick James". Wait a minute. That one is already taken. Wow, I wonder if his real name is "Kaempfer"? Come to think of it, he does look like he could be German.

Half Empty: Our Music Was So Much Better

They say that when you hit your 40s, your life is half over. We prefer to think of it as HALF EMPTY. Our age has finally caught up with our outlook on life. Remember, it is possible to turn that frown upside down...but you might pull a muscle.





Our Music Was So Much Better

By Rick Kaempfer & Dave Stern




You know you’re getting old when you say this phrase: “Our music was so much better than music today.”

It’s a rite of passage, as inevitable as ear hair and hot flashes.

We knew our parents were hopelessly out of touch with the youth of America when they mocked the music of our generation--rock and roll.

Have you listened to rap music lately? Consider us to be just as hopelessly out of touch with the youth of America as our parents were. We guess that we can understand the attraction of the thumping beat, and we’re down with those street lyrics, but whassup wit’ the subizzurban kizzids rapping ‘bout ganstas, pimps and hos?

You can mock three-chord rock and roll, but at least it was authentically our music. The lyrics spoke to our generation. They dealt with issues that affected us. No gangstas, no pimps, no hos.

Our lyrics delved so much deeper than that, into our wants and needs. What did we want to do? Queen summed it nicely in 1978’s “Bicycle Race.”

“I want to ride my bicycle. I want ride my bike. I want to ride my bicycle. I want to ride it where I like.”

That’s lyrical depth right there. The kids today have people like 50 Cent (singular), but they’ll never experience the kind of lyrical beauty provided by people like The Beatles. They didn’t just preach to us, they asked important questions. Remember this gem from 1968’s “The White Album”?

“Why don’t we do it in the road? Why don’t we do it in the road? Why don’t we do it in the road? Why don’t we do it in the road? No one will be watching us. Why don’t we do it in the road?”

Why indeed? Makes you think doesn’t it? We weren’t pretending like we knew what it was like to put a cap in some pimp, but we did know how to beg our women for a little love. It was part of who we were, and what we dreamed. We wanted to ride bikes. We wanted our women to consider places other than the back seat of the car. But most importantly, we wanted to have fun.

This was something we could still do as recently as 1986. The words of Wang Chung said this more beautifully than we ever could.

“Everybody have fun tonight. Everybody Wang Chung tonight. Everybody have fun tonight. Everybody Wang Chung tonight. Everybody Wang Chung tonight.”

Amen, fellas. Those were the days. When music was music. When lyrics actually meant something. When people could Wang Chung their little hearts out.

The kids of today will never be able to experience that kind of depth. They’ll never know the thrill of really committing to something (like boogie oogie oogie-ing, until they can boogie no more.) They’ll never learn about the gritty underbelly of Asian-American race relations (like the funky Chinaman from funky Chinatown that was chopping them up and chopping them down.) They’ll never know about diseases they may contract (like Cat Scratch Fever).

And that’s just sad.

So what can we say or do to rectify the situation? We may not have the answer, but the wordsmith Sting from the 1980s supergroup “The Police” certainly does:

“De Doo Doo Doo, De Da Da Da, is all I want to say to you.”

And he doesn’t just say that for himself. He says that for our entire generation.




We have started accumulating our "Half Empty" columns here: http://halfemptyarchive.blogspot.com

Suburban Man: Woodpecker Warrior

By Rick Kaempfer









It sounded just like a jackhammer.

I lived in Chicago for many years, and the sound of a jackhammer in the morning wasn’t even that unusual to me. But this jackhammer was slightly different. This one was hammering directly into my upstairs bathroom window...no more than fifteen feet away from my bed. And it was 6:00 in the morning.

When I opened the window to see what it was, the hammering stopped. I looked around the neighborhood to see if anyone was doing home improvements at this ridiculous hour, and was greeted with total blissful suburban silence.

“That’s weird.”

Maybe I was imagining things. I went back to bed. I had just fallen back asleep when the hammering started again.

”What the hell is that?” Bridget asked.

This time I didn’t just look out the window. This time I went down the stairs and onto my deck to see what was going on outside the bathroom window. Sitting in the gutter just above my dormer eave was a cute bird with a jackhammer beak. He didn’t fly away at first. We just stared at each other.

“It’s 6 in the morning,” I said to him.

He wasn’t swayed by my logic. It wasn’t until I screamed like a rodeo cowboy that he flew away from the eave, landing about fifteen feet away in a nearby bush. That wasn’t good enough for me. I charged at him, and this time he flew away onto someone else’s property.

“And stay out,” I said to myself.

I was feeling pretty good about successfully protecting my home until the next morning at 6:00. The jackhammer was back. I know the early bird gets the worm, but maybe someone should tell these birds that the early bird also gets a broomstick up his keester.

Now that I knew exactly where he was, I opened the window, and swung up toward the gutter with my broomstick, hoping to scare him away. He flew away immediately.

"That's right, Woody," I taunted.

Woodpeckers are sort of cute, but let’s face it-- the term “birdbrain” wasn’t invented out of whole cloth. He was no match for me. I was giving him the Teddy Roosevelt treatment—-walking softly and carrying a big stick.

Of course, the next morning he was back again at 6:00.

Each successive morning I got madder and madder. I’m a pacifist at heart, and I do respect nature, but this was causing me to have murderous thoughts. I started dreaming about grabbing him by the neck and snapping that hammering beak right off his head.

I was gritting my teeth as I choked him in my sleep...
“It’s...(choke)...6.... (choke)...in....(choke).... the...(choke)...*&(^....(choke)....morning....(choke)...
you...(choke)...smelly....(choke)... pecker!” (SNAP!)

When the jackhammer woke me up again the next morning, I sprinted across the hall, grabbed my broom, opened the window—-and this time I was swinging to maim or injure. Sensing my rage, the coward flew away. I actually screamed at him as he flew away...using a word that I shouldn’t have.

“(Insert Expletive Here)!” I screamed.

I wanted blood. I really did. I wanted him dead. It turns out that it’s a good thing I didn’t kill him, though. When I looked up woodpeckers on the internet later that morning, I discovered that it was a crime to kill them. It’s against the Federal Migratory Bird Treaty Act.

I had to go to Plan B. According to several websites, woodpeckers can be scared off by loud noises. This wasn’t really an option as far as I was concerned. Using loud noises to get rid of loud noises seemed to be defeating the whole purpose.

Another website said woodpeckers are repelled by bad smells, and they sold a stinky spray. I was about to order it when something distracted me at home (which isn’t difficult to do with three kids running around). I forgot all about it until I was going to bed that night.

I made a mental note to do it first thing in the morning. Only a strange thing happened that next morning. For the first time in more than a week, the woodpecker didn’t come back.

And he hasn’t come back since.

A friend of mine (who knows a little bit about these buggers) told me that this is the time of year woodpeckers mate. His morning house-jack-hammering was probably a spring mating call. He probably stopped coming around because he found a female woodpecker.

Cute, isn't it? Woodpecker love.

I guess I wish them the best.

As long as they honeymoon in Hawaii.

Mom

These are the Kaempfer's.








Happy Mother's Day from the three standing up (Rick, Cindy & Peter) to the one sitting down. That's our mom, Hildegard.





“Why don’t you ever write about your mom?”

I’ve probably gotten that question a dozen times since I started this blog five months ago. The answer is a little complicated, but let me see if I can explain. First and foremost, Mom wouldn’t appreciate it. She doesn’t like the spotlight. I’ve known this for twenty three years.

In fact, I can remember the exact moment I found out. It was April 1, 1983—somewhere between 6 and 10 a.m. I was on the air on WPGU in Champaign-Urbana, doing the morning show with a girl named Karen. We thought it would be hilarious if I called my mom. I was twenty years old at the time. The call went like this...

Rick: Hi Mom.
Mom: Richard!
Rick: How are things at home?
Mom: Ach, fine.
Rick: Mom, I’m afraid I’ve got some news for you.
Mom: What is it?
Rick: I got married.
Mom: What????
Rick: And she’s on the line. Say hi Karen.
Karen: Hi, Mrs. Kaempfer.
Mom: Hi.
Rick: And we’re expecting.
(Long Silence)
Rick: You still there?
Mom: Mmm. Hmmm.
Rick: Are you OK?
(Even longer silence)
Rick: Mom?
Mom: Mmm. Hmmm.
(Even longer silence)
Mom: You better talk to your father.
Rick: Mom, before you give him the phone, there’s one more thing I need to tell you.
Mom: Oh no.
Rick: April Fools.
Mom: What?
Rick: April Fools. I’m not really getting married. Karen’s not my wife...she’s not even my girlfriend...and we’re not expecting. We’re on the air right now.
Mom: RICHARD, IF I HAD A KNIFE I VOULD STAB YOU!

She really said that.

After that, for some reason, she didn’t want to come on the air with me anymore. She never came on the Steve and Garry show during the nearly five years I produced the show, despite repeated requests from Steve. And she was adamant about it. He pushed especially hard on the day the Berlin Wall came down, but Mom wouldn’t talk to him. My sister eventually did, but she refused his request to get a piece of the wall for him. My mom’s mom (Oma) eventually did talk to him too, but she told him off and hung up on him when he told a Nazi joke.

What can I say? The women in my family are tough. I’ve learned not to mess with them.

I hosted my own show on the Loop in the early ‘90s, and Mom wouldn’t come on. I produced the John Landecker show for ten years, where my German heritage was a regular bit--and Mom wouldn’t come on the show.

When I say she doesn’t like the spotlight, I know what I’m talking about.

Still wondering why I haven’t written about her on the blog?

Mom and I aren’t huggy/kissy/”I love you” close. That’s not the German way. But we are about as close as Germans can be.

I have a tremendous amount of respect for her. When I look at my mom I see a woman who has overcome an enormous amount of adversity—moving to a new country as a teenager, not speaking the language, being forced to work in an abusive old folks home, widowed in her forties, alone for nearly twenty years—and I marvel at her strength.

To be honest with you, I don’t think I could have accomplished a thing in life without my mom. She may not understand me, but she has always been there to back me up, to pick me up off the floor, to push me toward my next destination. When I needed help, there was nobody in the world more reliable. She gave me the one quality that has done more for me than any other—inner strength.

Without Mom, I never would have had the toughness to make it in the cutthroat radio business. Without Mom, I never would have been able to write my book, or my novel, or my blog. Without Mom, I never would have been able to stay at home to raise my kids. I ask for her help and advice literally every day.

She is always there for me. Always helping me in whatever way she can. Always rock-solid. More dependable than any other person on the planet. She’s got my back.

To me, that’s real love.

Mom and I don’t need to say the words...even on Mother’s Day. When I see her today, I’ll give her the present she told me to give her, I’ll wish her Happy Mother’s Day, and I’ll show her that I love her in the same way I always do.

I’ve got her back too.

And she knows it.

Guest Blogger: City Mom Kim Strickland

Kim Strickland is a pilot for a major airline, a novelist, and a mother of twin boys. Her novel "Wish Club" is about a women's book group that reads a novel about witchcraft and tries one of the spells for fun, only to have the spell actually work. Nuttiness and mayhem ensue.

She is the yin (City Mom) to my yang (Suburban Man). In our dueling columns we've discovered that the only real difference between us is our area codes. Oh, and I think she's a chick, too. And a mom. And that's why I asked her to write another guest blog for Mother's Day weekend. Check out some of her other great columns. I have a link on the right--listed under Links to Rick's Picks (A City Mom).




Mothers Day
By Kim Strickland

Mother’s day is fast approaching, that marvelous day when we pay tribute to our mothers in the time-honored tradition of giving hundreds of millions of dollars to the Hallmark Corporation. Yes, Mother’s day is tons of fun, especially for us mothers. And who doesn’t need another bottle of Jean Naté?

My personal favorite part of Mother’s Day is breakfast in bed. My husband and the boys clatter around in the kitchen, then come clamoring up the stairs shushing each other, with the dog and cats expectantly in trail. When they enter the bedroom, I pretend I didn’t hear any of the ruckus and act surprised to see the breakfast tray. The experience is made all the more heartwarming if, before delivery, they’ve managed to take the foil wrapper off my Pop-Tart.

Two hours later, when I’m down in the kitchen cleaning up that very same breakfast tray, I ponder what Mother’s Day means to me. It’s supposed to be a day where we say thanks to Mom. Give her a day of rest. A day off. But I’ve never had a Mother’s Day off. I mean, a day off for a mom? What’s that? It would mean pretending you didn’t have children.

When a person makes the commitment to motherhood, a day off, for the rest of your life, is essentially out of the question. Sure, you can leave the kids at grandma’s for the weekend, but even then, although you’re children aren’t physically present, they’re still very much in your thoughts. Have you ever tried to see how long you could go without thinking about them? Worrying if they’re okay? Happy? Crying? Being stuffed full of too many cupcakes at Grandma’s house? I know I couldn’t make it for 24 hours.

This is the bond you make with the Universe when you bring a child into this world. You’ve created a link every bit as real as an umbilical cord. But here’s the thing: It’s more of a one-way cord. The love and concern and worry pours through to your child and sure, you get some of it back—but not all of it. And that’s okay. It has to be okay. It’s really the only way for the system to work. If you’ve done your job, your children will go out into the world with confidence and they’ll flourish, achieving all the goals and dreams they can dream and maybe even, occasionally on holidays, remembering to send you a Hallmark card.

That’s the reward. Not the card, but the happiness of your children. Nobody should decide to go into motherhood as a means of accumulating a collection of unopened bottles of Jean Naté. Being a mother isn’t about having or expecting the unconditional love of your children. It’s about giving your children unconditional love—without expectations.

I don’t think anyone who decides to become a parent really comprehends what it is they’re getting themselves into. I know I didn’t. I don’t mean that in a bad way. I mean that it’s a life experience that can barely, and only with very great difficulty, be put into words. When people tell you the tried and true phrase, “It’s the hardest thing you’ll ever do, but the best thing you’ll ever do,” you can hear it, but you won’t really get it, until your kids are already here.

Earlier in life, my maternal urges were thin to non-existent. I was the fun-loving, party girl. I still don’t know what the hell happened. I never had any great affinity for children, especially not other people’s children. Sure I babysat when I was younger, and I did a good job, but pretty much those little munchkins were just a means for me to put myself into a new pair of Calvin Klein jeans.

I don’t remember all the driving factors that made my husband and I decide to become parents. Everyone else is doing it—seems to come to mind. Certainly listening to new parents didn’t help the case for parenthood. I remember my husband saying things like, “It would be fun,” and “Kids add the unexpected.” Then the next thing I knew, we ended up with these kids.

The best thing that ever happened to me.

My boys have brought me joy and laughter every single day they’ve been in my life.

While these are just my humble thoughts on what it means to be a mother, I know the jury’s still out for me in terms of my performance as a mom. My kids are only nine. I still have plenty of time to completely screw them up. But I do love them more than my own life, and I have only the best of intentions with regards to their upbringing. In this, I imagine I’m not alone.

All I know is, at least for now, if you love your kids and do your job to the best of your abilities, when that breakfast tray shows up on Mother’s day morning—your little angels will have, oh so lovingly, removed the foil wrapper from your Pop-Tart.

From the Archives: Mother's Day Rap

When I was still working on the radio, my boys provided a constant stream of material. Every year on Mother's Day, we would go into the studio and produce an audio present for Bridget.

This one was probably my favorite Mother's Day present for Bridget. One long-time fan/listener of the show said it was her favorite bit we did in the ten years of the John Landecker Show on WJMK. It's a rap song starring all three boys. Tommy was seven. Johnny was five. Sean was nine months old. All three can be heard on this hilarious recording. Thank you to Vince Argento for his production magic (and artwork).

A few words of explanation: The words Johnny says in the song ("Allerticott" and "Baga") are Johnny's made up words--inside family jokes. He said them in fits of anger (allerticott) and for comedy purposes (baga).


Click on this link to listen to the song: Mother's Day Rap

It's short, less than a minute long.



For the rest of the Rick Kaempfer archives, click here: http://rickkaempferarchives.blogspot.com

Half Empty: Applying to co-host The View

They say that when you hit your 40s, your life is half over. We prefer to think of it as HALF EMPTY. Our age has finally caught up with our outlook on life. Remember, it is possible to turn that frown upside down...but you might pull a muscle.



As men in our 40s, we're due for a midlife crisis. This is the age that many men get a girlfriend or drastically alter their lives. Since we're not getting girlfriends (we would implode with self hate)--it looks like we'll have to drastically alter our lives. This is our first attempt...

A few weeks ago, just after Meredith Viera announced she was going to the Today Show, we sent the following e-mail to Barbara Walters at The View. Alas, she decided to go with a "name" and a "woman"--Rosie O'Donnell, and all we got back was a lousy form letter response. We'll break through one of these days...







Dear Ms. Walters:




Congratulations on the great success of The View.

We read with great interest about Meredith Viera’s impending departure from the show, and while we were grieved that she would no longer be one of the gals, we just know you and the producers will choose an excellent replacement.

We’re sure there have been hundreds if not thousands of applicants already, but we wanted to alert you to two candidates you might not know.

In our opinion, the perfect candidate for The View is well-educated, thoughtful, entertaining, intelligent, sexy, strong and feminine. We realize this is a little unorthodox, but we would like to nominate ourselves for this job, because both of us fit the bill so perfectly. In order to be a little less self-serving, we’ll nominate each other.

“I think Dave Stern would be the perfect replacement for Meredith Viera. I know, I know, he’s a man. However, he was nominated as ‘Fem of the Year’ by his classmates on the playground when he was young, and while he’s not attracted to men per se, he does have three daughters and will someday ‘closely examine’ the men who date them. He also throws like a girl. Dave is well-educated and intelligent—he has a masters degree in Advertising—and thoughtful. How many people do you know who call their mother every day to see if she’s OK? As for sexy, this man is a paper salesman. If that doesn’t ooze sex appeal, I don’t know what does.”
--Rick Kaempfer

“I think Rick Kaempfer would be the perfect replacement for Meredith Viera. Granted, he’s also a man. But you should feel how soft his hands are...they feel like a baby’s bottom. He’s also a stay at home Dad (three boys) who cooks and cleans. Isn’t that sexy? (Although just between you and me, the poor dear has kind of let himself go.) As for entertaining, he was in radio for twenty years. He even wrote a book called “The Radio Producer’s Handbook.” Think how great it would be to have a co-host that could help produce the show! As for intelligence, his sons are pretty smart, so even though his intelligence isn’t exactly ‘on the surface,’ it has to be in there somewhere or his boys wouldn’t be so smart.”
--Dave Stern

I know it will be difficult to choose between us, but please keep in mind that we aren’t competitive and won’t be offended if you choose only one of us. The other promises to remain a fan of the show.

Best regards,

Rick Kaempfer (choose me) & Dave Stern (choose me)



UPDATE: According to recent gossip, Star Jones may also be leaving the show soon. We have another letter ready to go--just in case.




Of course, another requirement of a mid-life crisis is complete and utter self-delusion. That's why we've decided to go ahead with the following plan: Please click here: http://www.petitiononline.com/thewho69/petition.html and sign our petition to have our faces included on Mount Rushmore. We already have 3 signatures.






We have started accumulating our "Half Empty" columns here: http://halfemptyarchive.blogspot.com

Suburban Man: Emergency Rooms

By Rick Kaempfer




I always thought Emergency Rooms were supposed to be scary. They certainly seemed scary to me when I was a kid. We used to go there as a family to wait for my little brother while he was being stitched up every month or so. The waiting room was uncomfortable. Sick and injured people moaned in pain and dripped blood on the floor. Nurses and doctors came running in and out. Monitors beeped. Ambulance alarms whirred. And everyone waited for hours.

That’s what I was expecting the first time I accompanied my oldest son to the Emergency Room to get stitches. He was eight years old at the time and had a very deep cut in his chin. I tried to prepare him emotionally for the whole Emergency Room experience, but he looked at me like I was crazy. He had been there a few times before with his mother and wasn’t concerned in the slightest. I gave him a comforting hug.

“You are so brave,” I said. “I’m so proud of you.”

He actually rolled his eyes. That choked me up. This kid was like one of those cowboys in the old time Westerns. His eyes were saying…“It’s just a flesh wound, Hoss; let me dig out the bullet in peace. Now go out there and keep them rustlers away from our herd.”

He was still nonchalant when we walked into the Emergency Room and awaited our turn with the triage nurse. He made small talk with her, wincing only slightly when she looked at the gash on his chin.

“Does it hurt?” she asked.

“A little,” he said.

“A little?” I thought to myself. “That thing is going to need ten stitches.”

“It’s a pretty big cut,” she said, “but we’ll take care of it for you.”

“Are we going back there?” he asked, pointing to the door behind her.

She nodded.

Uh oh, I thought. Here it comes. Now he’s going to remember what happens behind those doors; the needles, the prodding, the pain. I prepared for the hysterical reaction. I saw how he behaved when some small thing went wrong, like his macaroni touching the vegetables on his dinner plate, and could only imagine what was coming. I hunkered down for the fit of all fits.

“Follow me,” she said.

We followed her through the door to the kid’s section of the Emergency Room. Suffice it to say, it has changed a little over the past thirty years. The colorful walls were painted with cartoon fish. The gigantic fish tank contained a rainbow of tropical fish worthy of the Shedd Aquarium. It was like walking onto the set of “Finding Nemo.”

When they opened the curtain to his room, he was actually excited. He jumped onto the bed, pressed the buttons to raise it to the level he preferred, adjusted the television to the proper angle, and began changing channels. While the nurse put the numbing agent on his chin, he was watching a Tom & Jerry cartoon on the Cartoon Network.

“Do you have any video games?” he asked.

I was about to chastise him for his prima-donna demands when the nurse surprised me.

“Sure,” she said. “What kind of video games do you like?”

“Do you have Super Mario Brothers?” he asked.

“I’ll go get it,” she said, and walked out of the room before I could even utter a response. My boy looked up at me and smiled.

“Dad,” he said, “You’re gonna love this one.”

I’ll admit it. I found myself watching him progress through the levels of the video game instead of watching the doctor stitch up his chin. When the stitching was done, and the doctor told us it was OK to leave, we both had the same reaction.

“After this next level,” we said.

She smiled and said, “I’m sorry, but we need the bed.”

My son started to get upset, so I put my hand on his shoulder to comfort him.

“Don’t worry,” I said, “I’m sure you’ll injure yourself again. We’ll be back.”

“You promise, Dad?” he asked.

“I promise,” I said.





This article was originally written as a Suburban Man, but it can found in the current issue of "Get Healthy Magazine", a publication of the Times.


For the rest of the Suburban Man columns, click here: http://suburbanmanarchive.blogspot.com

SHORE MAGAZINE ARTICLE: Happy Trails

By Rick Kaempfer

(From the May 2006 Issue)



“The biggest trouble-maker you'll probably ever have to deal with watches you shave his face in the mirror every morning."
-- Unknown Cowboy Philosopher

When a typical day consists of rushing from one place to the next, hurrying to pick up kids here, or drop them off there, or sprinting to catch the train to and from work, or eating in the car because you don’t have time to prepare a meal, or squeezing in a trip to the store to get your shopping done before coming home to collapse in a heap at the end of a frenzied frazzled day, it’s no wonder that when vacation time rolls around the last thing you want to do is the same thing...in a different location.

Sometimes you just want to mosey. When it’s time to mosey, there’s no better place to do it than a Dude Ranch.

What is a Dude Ranch Vacation?

“Don’t squat with your spurs on”
--Unknown cowboy philosopher

A Dude Ranch vacation is everything that our world isn’t. In a world of deafening noise, a dude ranch is quiet and peaceful. In a world of deadlines, a dude ranch is a place where a clock doesn’t dictate your day. In a world of high speed internet access, a dude ranch is a place where things move at a much slower pace.

A typical week at a dude ranch includes campfires, horseback orientation and training, horseback riding through the countryside, and lots of time spent in the great outdoors. Most dude ranches are geared to families, and offer activities like nature hikes, visits to local artisans, swimming, rafting, skeet shooting, archery, mountain biking, rock climbing, hot air ballooning, and fishing. For the less adventurous, many of them also have pools and hammocks and lounge chairs. “Vittles” at dude ranches range from the traditional cowboy campfire fare to gourmet dining, and most of the prices quoted by dude ranches include the cost of meals. It’s like a land-locked all-inclusive resort.

You can make a dude ranch vacation into anything you want it to be, provided you want to get away from the rat race.

Where do you find dude ranches?

"The quickest way to double your money is to fold it over and put it back into your pocket."
-- Unknown Cowboy Philosopher

There are more than five hundred dude ranches in America, and most of them are listed at www.DudeRanches.com. That website has more than 470 listings of dude ranches in thirty-three states and Canada. The listings are pretty bare-bones in terms of information (address, phone number, etc.), but many of them include links directly to the websites of the dude ranches themselves.

If you really want the full dude ranch experience, you’ll probably want to head out West. Most of the Western States have a bevy of dude ranches, but there are a few states who really take pride in their cowboy heritage. Colorado, for instance, has over a hundred dude ranches. Wyoming, Texas, Montana, Arizona, and California also have quite a few. Think of what it would be like to experience the traditional cowboy lifestyle surrounded by some of this country’s most breathtaking scenery. The beautiful mountains and wide open spaces of these states are a perfect setting for riding. It really is very much like going back in time...without having to give up essential modern conveniences like beds, bathrooms, and showers.

But how do you know which dude ranch to pick? There are so many choices, it’s almost overwhelming. One way to help narrow the search is by checking with the various state dude ranch associations. Most of them provide “grids” which are easy to use and really helpful in the selection process. For instance, they can help you find which dude ranches are better for expert riders or beginners, which ones have the most additional activities, or which ones are rated the highest by visitors. Once you narrow down your search, a simple call to the dude ranch itself will help you learn more.

Most of these places are family run, and when you speak with the owner, you’re really getting a feel for what the experience will be like. Keep in mind that a ranch’s main focus is the riding program, so ask specifics about their instruction (What do you learn? How much time does it take to learn it? What sort of instructors do you have?), and the types of rides (all-day, 2-hour, unguided, guided, children’s, etc.). If there’s another part of the dude ranch lifestyle that you absolutely want to (or don’t want to) experience, this is the time to ask. Don’t settle for one that doesn’t have everything you want. With over 500 dude ranches in this country, you’re bound to find one that is absolutely perfect for you and/or your family.

What should you pack if you’re going to a dude ranch out west? If you’re going to the mountains remember that the temperatures fluctuate wildly from day to night. All of the dude ranches out there suggest you wear layers, and that you ride with long sleeve shirts, cowboy boots, a cowboy hat (with a hat string—that’s important so it doesn’t fly off), leather gloves, a bandana to keep the dust out of your mouth, jeans (no need to bring fancy stuff), and don’t forget sunscreen and insect repellant.

Local Dude Ranches

"Good judgment comes from experience, and a lotta that comes from bad judgment."
-- Unknown Cowboy Philosopher

While the Midwest isn’t exactly known for its dude ranches, there are a few that come highly rated in our area: In Michigan, the Rockin R in Bear’s Lake (45 miles southwest of Traverse City), in Illinois, the White Pines Ranch in Oregon (near Rockford) and in Wisconsin, the Woodside Ranch Resort in Mauston (15 miles northwest of Wisconsin Dells).

Rockin R Stables, 9061 Thirteen Mile Road, Bear Lake, Michigan, 616-864-3539, www.therockinr.com.

The Rockin R Stables is a throwback to the old cowboy experience. The lodging ranges from bunkhouses for groups, to campsites, to teepees (you read that right), to old fashioned log cabins, to a romantic honeymoon log cabin with a hot tub. They have a saloon, a general store, a stagecoach, rodeos on the weekend, and of course, riding stables. They say they can handle any level of rider, from the novice to the pro, and the Rockin R does have the advantage of riding trails that will take you to a point overlooking Bear Lake.

White Pines Ranch, 3581 Pines Road, Oregon, IL 61061, 815-732-7923, www.whitepinesranch.com

White Pines is a dude ranch just for kids, although they do occasionally have adults-only weekends. This ranch is a favorite destination for summer camps (during July & August) and school groups (the rest of the year). It’s more than just a fun place to visit, it’s educational. Several school districts in Illinois have actually made a weekend trip to White Pines a requirement for their students. That’s because in addition to the traditional dude ranch activities (horseback riding, hiking, campfires), White Pines also has outdoor education programs for students and teachers to study fossils, wildlife, vegetation, natural springs, and more. The kids stay in dormitories and are served buffet style in a cafeteria. Each kid is assigned a job and has to help with clean up after every meal.

Woodside Ranch, Highway 82, Mauston, Wisconsin 53948, 608-847-4275, www.woodsideranch.com

Woodside Ranch has been attracting visitors since the 1920s. In the past few years it has been expanded to include a conference, business, and fitness center, but the main attraction here is, and always will be, the dude ranch. The riding stable has over a hundred horses for riders of just about any level, but they also have ponies for the youngsters so that the parents can hit the trail. Is there a bar? Is this Wisconsin? You bet, although Woodside calls it a watering hole (read—adult watering hole). They also have a private pool and sauna, and a private fishing pond stocked with bass. You can choose to stay in a one, two or three bedroom cabin, or in one of the main lodge ranch house rooms (which sleeps two to six people), and the food is served family-style in the main dining room every night.

It’s Not Just a Vacation, It’s a Philosophy

“Don't worry about bitin' off more'n you can chew; your mouth is probably a whole lot bigger'n you think.”
---Unknown Cowboy Philosopher

The one sure thing about visiting a dude ranch is that you’ll run across one of these unknown cowboy philosophers offering a little homespun wisdom. It may make you chuckle a bit as you sit around the campfire, but after you return to your life, when you least expect it (during rush hour traffic, or waiting for your kid’s soccer practice to end), it will pop back in your head. And at that moment, you’ll know precisely what he meant by; “Never approach a bull from the front, a horse from the rear, or a fool from any direction."




This is just one of my three pieces in this month's SHORE MAGAZINE. I'm really proud of this magazine. You should get a copy of it if you can--it's available in the tri-state area (Michigan, Indiana, Illinois). If you want to check out the on-line edition of the magazine, go here: http://www.visitshoremagazine.com

From the Archives: Incurable

I wrote the following story as humor therapy for my wife after we were rejected for health insurance. In 2003 I was let go by WJMK, and Bridget and I applied for private health insurance with Blue Cross/Blue Shield. They rejected us because my oldest son Tommy had gone to a psychologist for "educational support." The school had recommended to us that we get him help, because he had been identified as "highly gifted intellectually."

Apparently, insurance companies consider this kind of child as high risk--because even though we supplied Blue Cross with a letter from the psychologist saying "he has no mental disabilities of any kind--this was just for educational support"--they rejected him again because his condition wasn't considered "Curable." Once you're rejected by one insurance company, no one will touch you. That led Bridget to return to the workforce full-time so that we could get family insurance coverage.

As you might suspect, we found this incredibly irritating. I decided to use that rage and write a satire. That's the background and explanation for the following story....




INCURABLE
By Rick Kaempfer




There was no doubt about the diagnosis. And there was no cure.

Sean Harrison’s little boy was going to have to live with his condition for the rest of his life….however long that may be. The 8-year old boy in the Spiderman pajamas was blissfully ignorant of his fate. Sean leaned over and gave him a kiss on his cheek.

“Good night, Peter,” he said.

“Good night, Dad. Can I read my ecology book in the morning?”

“We’ll talk about it when you wake up,” Sean replied.

“Awww, Dad,” Peter whined.

This was heartbreaking. Sean knew that it wouldn’t have come to this if he hadn’t lost his job. He had to get private insurance for his family, and that’s when he found out about his son Peter’s condition. The skilled underwriters and actuaries at the insurance company were the first to translate the “doctor-speak” in Peter’s medical records, and when they pointed it out to Sean, he felt like such a fool. The diagnosis was right there in black and white.

Peter Harrison has a pre-existing condition.
Peter Harrison is high risk.
Peter Harrison is a genius.

The insurance company had no choice to but reject Peter. The psychologist who tested his IQ had to admit that Peter was incurably gifted. This was a chronic condition. But insurance companies had never before encountered a man with the sort of interminable spirit that Peter’s father Sean Harrison possessed deep within himself. Incurable wasn’t in his dictionary. Sean Harrison was determined to cure his boy. After his wife left for work in the morning, Sean began enacting his plan.

“Up and at ‘em,” Sean said, opening the curtains in Peter’s room.

“Is it time for school already?” Peter asked.

“No school today, young man.”

“Is it Saturday?” he asked.

“No, you’ve gone to school for the last time,” Sean said. He was grinning from ear to ear.

“WHAT?” Peter screamed.

“Calm down, son,” Sean answered, patting the youngster on the head. “You’re nearly finished with second grade already. The rest is all repetition.”

“I don’t understand,” Peter said, scratching his head.

Sean could barely contain a smile. It was working already.

“Today we’re going to watch the Three Stooges all day long,” Sean said; a stack of videos in his hand.

“Can I read my ecology book after the Stooges?” Peter whined.

“I’ve taken all of the books out of the house,” Sean admitted. “From now on, it’s you and me and Mr. TV.”

“But Dad…”

“But nothing. Sit your butt down.”

The lilting tones of the song “Three Blind Mice” came over the speakers as Sean and Peter settled in on the couch with a bowl of popcorn and a couple of frosty cold beers.

“Dad, can I have some milk?” Peter asked, ignoring the hilarity on the screen.

“Drink your beer and enjoy the show.”

“But Dad…”

“C’mon, that’s a frosty mug.”

“Dad, why is Moe poking Curly in the eye? That will scratch his retina.”

“It’s called comedy, son. Enjoy.”

“Dad, NO! Tell Curly not to eat that thermometer. Mercury is toxic!”

Sean shut off the TV. This was going to be much more difficult than he could have ever imagined. A lesser man would have quit and resigned himself to his fate. But “quit” and “resigned” were also not in Sean’s dictionary. After all, he had been legitimately laid off.

The door bell rang.

“Ah, your instructor is here, my boy.”

For the first time all day, Peter’s eyes lit up.

“School?”

“I guess you could say that.”

There was something familiar about the imposing man who stood on the other side of the door. Peter was sure he had seen him somewhere before. He was big and strong; his neck the width of Peter’s shoulders. The tattoos on both of his gigantic bare arms were clearly visible. Peter was instinctively afraid of him.

“Where’s dis genius?” the squeaky voice asked.

“That’s him, right there,” Sean said.

“Dad, what’s going on?” Peter asked; his voice nearly as squeaky as the big man’s.

“This is Mr. Tyson,” Sean explained. “He’s going to teach you how to take a punch.”

“DAD!!!!”

“Come on, Mister,” the big man said. “I ain’t gonna hit that kid. He can’t be more than fifty pounds.”

“Forty three and 5/8ths,” Peter quickly corrected.

“If you don’t, he may never get medical insurance,” Sean begged.

“If I do, he’ll need medical insurance,” the big man answered.

“C’mon, Peter. Stick your chin out. It only hurts for a few seconds.”

“DAD!!!”

“Kid, your old man is completely nuts,” the big man squeaked on his way out.

Sean ran after him. “Not incurably!” he screamed down the driveway.

Sean was mentally drained by the time he plopped down on the couch next to his frightened young son.

“Dad, what is going on?”

“Time for some rap music,” Sean exclaimed. He wasn’t going to give up without using his trump card.

“Then can I read my ecology book?”

“You mean after we bust some rhymes.”

“Dad….”

“C’mon, Homey. You gotta schnizzle my grizzle.”

“Dad, you’re embarrassing yourself.”

The music started and Sean got Peter off the couch.

“Watch my fingers. See how the first two fingers stay together as I do this chopping
motion? That’s a classic rap move.”

“Dad, we live in the suburbs.”

“Want to listen to 50 cent or Snoop Dog?” Sean asked.

“What about Mozart?” his son countered. “Mom told me Mozart was composing concertos at my age. My piano teacher taught me the beginning of ‘Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.”

Sean walked over to the stereo and shut if off. He was ready to say uncle.

“Look, son, I’ve got some bad news for you.”

“We’re going to watch some reality TV?”

“No, not until tonight,” Sean said. “I’m afraid this is much worse than that.” Sean put his arm around his young boy. “You got a condition, Peter” he explained.

“You mean I have a condition,” Peter corrected.

Sean winced at the reminder of the problem before him. He patted Peter’s bony shoulder. This was so sad.

“Yes, you have a condition. You see, son, you are what the insurance business calls ‘incurable.’”

“In what way?” Peter asked.

“Peter, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

“A molecular biologist, why?”

Sean broke down. The insurance company was so right about this boy. This wasn’t going to be cured by a few punches from a former heavyweight champion of the world. This wasn’t going to be cured by the driving lessons he had booked with Nick Nolte. The tears came from somewhere deep within him. Peter rushed over to hug his weeping father.

“Dad, I’ll be OK.”

“No, you won’t,” Sean explained. “It’s incurable. I’m sorry it’s come to this, but we have no choice. We’re going to have to cut you loose, boy.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve done the math. A broken leg here, a few pairs of broken glasses there, an obvious need for braces, four years at MIT. You’re much too big of a risk. We’re going to have reject your application.”

“Dad,” Peter said. “I’m your son.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do, Dad,” Peter calmly explained. “Remember when mom said that there was no way that I could be your son because I was too smart—and she had those DNA tests taken?”

“Those were inconclusive.”

“The odds were something like one billion to one in favor,” Peter reminded him.

“OJ’s odds were like that too.”

“Dad, I look exactly like you.”

Sean slowly wiped the tears from the corner of each eye.

“We can’t get insurance for you,” Sean explained. “You’re eight years old and you may never get insurance again the rest of your life. We just thought you were smart. We didn’t know it was incurable.”

“Can’t you call other insurance companies?”

“Once you get rejected by one company, they all reject you.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Oh Peter. Sweet, sweet, Peter.”

“Dad, is it really so bad to be gifted? What do these insurance companies know?”

“Peter, these people are professionals. Do you need me to bring out the financial pages to show you how well the insurance company stocks are doing?”

“Maybe they have really smart people working for them,” Peter said.

“That’s right, son. And really smart people have decided that being incurably smart is dangerous. Who would know better than them?”

He looked at his frail incurable eight year old boy sitting beside him. And just when it looked like the situation was hopeless, a ray of light appeared.

“What if I decide not to go into molecular biology? What if I go into the insurance business instead?”

What indeed. And a child shall lead them.





For the other "From the Archives" posts, click here: http://rickkaempferarchives.blogspot.com