Socially Not-worked...er....Networked?

All right already, I've stepped into the realm of Facebook. I tired...er...tried MySpace but never really embraced it the way the music industry is now hanging on to it. Of course, now, rather than being a cool place to hang, MySpace has transitioned into a portal for indie music acts to post new songs in hopes they gain traction among the hipper-than-hip crowd. Which by the way, now considers MySpace to be "your father's website." And does dear old dad really want to see you sucking on a beer-bong, sporting a new pelvic tat and having your navel jewel polished by RanDee the pale-faced Goth? I guess everyone wants to be "seen." Never mind that these snaps may come back and bite you on the butt (your butt...the one tattooed with the profile of Marilyn Manson. Nice!) Anyone, everyone can see your MySpace. Enter Facebook.
Now only "friends" can view your pictorial adventures at Spring Break. Safer? Yes. Still, what's the obsession with wanting your 15 minutes of infamy? I guess it's always been a pounding urge in many of us to "be somebody!" Yo! I coulda' been somebody. Are we that desperate for fame? A basic need bubbling under along with food, clothing and shelter. Meh.
I guess it's just cool...and a lot of us just want to show the world exactly how "wacky" we are. I will say, there are some pretty creative videos I've seen posted on all the aforementioned social networks along with YouTube. But some? Just more candidates for a Darwin Award...numbskulls that continue chlorinating the gene pool. Anyway...back to Facebook. I now have a Facebook account and am lording over the social network kingdom. I have rekindled unnecessary acquaintances with superficial "friends" by posting a note on their virtual "wall"; and I have labored over their posted "status" reports ad nauseum (I really don't care to be updated on your whereabouts or your fractured feelings twice per hour...I've lived this long without knowing, I believe I can muddle through another day without knowing.) But to be honest, I am enjoying the Facebook experience. I have even added the Facebook app on my iPhone so I can receive status updates whether I'm shopping at Target or over-taxing my heart trekking up Cowles Mountain. Man, I am socially networked. So, I will continue to lurk, sneer, chuckle, grin and enjoy what now has become an obsession among 30, 40, 50, 60 somethings. My only lament is knowing that now that I am into Facebook it must be on it's way out.

Well....Hi There!

As I think about being on the radio I reminisce back to when the radio seed was first sowed in my "garden of ether." As a kid I never went to bed with out my transistor--a GE with a crappy earphone--under my covers. I'd listen to the disc jockeys and not the music. Who cared about the music, you could find that at Arbuckles Music Store on Garvey Ave. in Monterey Park where I spent my (de)formative years. My first 45 RPM--It's My Party by Lesley Gore. My hots for Lesley were torrid...and yes she knew how I felt. I wrote her letters everyday for a year, mailed them to Mercury Records, her record company, and told them over and over how I felt about this "older" woman; after all, she was born in 1946. And in 1963 I was a mere pup of 12 but knew in my heart of hearts I could satisfy this older 17 year-old minx. After nearly 300 letters it finally came. The sound of trumpets accompanied my treasure. Much like when Ralphie received his "Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle" in The Christmas Story. Although I knew my first rock n' roll love would NEVER shoot My eye out! Maybe a few gouges here and there..... My treasure was an autographed 8 x 10 black and white glossy of my true love. Yes, touched by her own hand. Signed just for me...even though my name didn't appear anywhere on this masterpiece. Later in life I had the opportunity to interview my sweetheart. I still felt the pangs of a Montague yearning for the Capulet. We spoke. I gushed. We felt the warmth of our words melt into each other then she hit me with it. She had not personally signed any of her PR photos in 1963--none that went out in the mail anyway. After I removed Cupid's arrow and broke it over my knee I let her go. Now she and I could continue our lives--albeit without each other--in bitter emptiness. Ten minutes after the interview concluded I was over her. Yes, dropped like a hot rock, I must move on. Much like in this blog. So now I come to the real reason for this diatribe.

Much like the connection I had with radio dj's of old and certain female singers as well, I must say goodbye to a radio colleague. Harry "Happy Hare" Martin lost his battle with liver cancer yesterday. Now here was a radio icon. Even though I never knew Harry in his heyday on KCBQ when 60% of all radios were tuned to his morning show, I had the opportunity to know him in 1979 till the day he left this earth. He was a gracious man who some say would make you always feel like the "star in the room." And others would say, they never knew him...but upon accepting a first handshake and a hearty "well hi there" they BECAME the star in the room. Happy Hare also had the uncanny ability to make those who listened to him feel the same way. He was larger than life, louder than life and kept his "positive meter" always pegged. This city is a better place for the likes of Happy Hare...and his home in the afterlife? We'll the decibel meter up there is 100% with "well hi there" to every spirit he comes in contact with. You are missed Harry.