"...And Here I Sit...The Retired Writer in the Sun..."

Dozens of quickie newsroom layoffs eradicate the last vestige of credibility for Gannett...and sadder still,  for USA TODAY.


By Peter Rodman

In the weeks before 'USA TODAY' first appeared, their distinctive blue and white 'boxes' began popping up on street corners, all over Boulder.  At the time I was the Music Columnist and feature writer for the Colorado Springs Sun, and freelanced features to The Rocky Mountain News, Boulder Daily Camera, and added a weekly column for Boulder's Audience magazine, all on top of a top rated weekly radio rock/talk show.
I'd built the largest freelance circulation in the Rocky Mountain time zone on sheer guile, and a lot of hustle. 
So it was easy to scoff at this interloper, this out-of-town, know-nothing 'newspaper' (ha!) before I'd ever seen it.  
In fact, our town may even have given the paper its nickname ("McPaper") before it ever came out--I'm not sure--but it finally did arrive....and there he was, Al Neuharth! 
Lookin' studly (and semi-sleazy in a dated, Vegasy-kinda way...almost Bob Guccione style),  and we all just figured, "This newspaper is going nowhere." 

We figured wrong.   
Way wrong.

By just a month or so into its life as America's only full color news daily--in fact, America's only nationally branded newspaper--we all knew they'd changed everything, whether we were willing to admit it or not.
And Al Neuharth, God bless him, turned out to know precisely what he was doing, and bravely stood alone on principle more than once, during his long tenure there.

Just as I had recently started losing once-attainable rock star interviews to 'Entertainment Tonight' (then also a new phenomenon), this new 'one-stop interview' print outlet did not seem to bode well, for my thriving Mom-and-Pop (well...Pop) operation. 

It wasn't just what they were doing, either...it was that they were doing it well.
The rest of us daily 'feature writers' would need to up our game, and pronto--by writing in 'punchier' rhythms, for starters.
And every local paper in America would eventually need a new printing press, to accommodate the now-requisite color weather maps 'USA TODAY' pioneered.

What everybody thought would be a national joke raised our journalistic standards ten-fold.  Even The New York Times had to be on guard: Neuharth's tentacles (and more importantly, his faux-'bureaus,' consisting of carefully selected stringers) extended to every corner of the globe...just like theirs did. 
In short, USA TODAY was a surprisingly competitive, comprehensive daily digest.  

Fast-forward to the 21st century, and its new 'parent' media corporation (Gannett) began simultaneously scooping up daily newspapers all over the nation, and just as quickly disemboweling them with cutbacks. 

Here in Nashville, they bought up The Tennessean, which had long ago established itself as a bastion of reasonably good reporting and clear-eyed editorials, under the guidance of the legendary John Seigenthaler-- a key southern player for the Kennedy administration, during the incendiary 'Freedom Rider' face-offs of the early '60s.  Even Al Gore got his start there, as a cub reporter. 
You know the rest.
A few years into Gannett's ownership, nearly every familiar writer in town was gone.  Publishers came and went like weekend news anchors.  Incessant cutbacks made the Tennessean's 4 block-square headquarters suddenly seem impossibly huge and clunky, much like those oversized Talking Heads suits from the '80s, only with cement shoulders. 

Meanwhile, Mr. Interweb was weaving faster and faster.
I won't belabor the point, but the basic outline is relevant--because by now it's become fairly clear that Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, Jeff Bezo and Steve Wozniak may not always be considered heroes, after all the results are in. And I'm not talking about hundreds of years from now, either. Right now--today--it's safe to say those guys are at least partially to blame for the end of shopping malls, record stores and book stores.
And that's not the half of it. 
Think of the trillions in lost sales tax dollars, because for the first 20 years or so, internet sales managed to avoid paying any sales taxes at all!  
Content wise, it's really only been in the last couple years, that many of us have begun to figure out that this whole 'internet thingy' may turn out to be the end of facts themselves.  (At least, that's what "Morgan Freeman" says.)

The decline of newspapers and magazines was one of the more predictable outcomes of the internet, from its earliest days. For a lot of us who toiled over typewriters, the biggest loss was the romance of it all.
My friend Bob Greene, once a syndicated columnist in over 300 daily newspapers, wrote a fine book detailing a young reporter's excitement at everything from the ink, to the machines, to the deadlines, to the all night vigils, waiting to grab that first copy of your story, before dawn.

I recommend you find it...on Amazon, I guess.

Cost-cutting and the internet spawned more than just the downsizing of newspaper circulations; it actually decreased the physical size of the papers themselves--which literally redefined 'broadsheets' (like USA TODAY and The New York Times) to damn near paper-towel size. 

It was no surprise that as the internet increased corporate efficiency, labor forces would be slashed everywhere--not only in retail, but in post offices and newsrooms, as well. 
Mail volume plummeted--and the delivery of pieces of paper in envelopes to your door will go the way of the Do-do bird, soon enough.  The Post Office is on life support, at best. 
Newsroom staffing has been slashed to beyond the bone, enough to make you wonder why anybody even attends 'journalism school' anymore.
But the most profound effects of the internet and 'Smartphones' have been nothing short of evolutionary.
Worst of all (*scroll down four paragraphs to the next asterisk, if you're already glazing over), I no longer had any compulsion to 'go get a paper' before even touching my morning English muffin.  I soon found myself caught up this new "quick glance" form of writing (and reading) online, selected for me by websites and hosts, using algorithms that figured, "Hey, if he clicks on the Kardashian story, that must be what we should write more of!"  

Unfortunately, "click bait" rewards prurience--so while we're all guilty little animals,  that doesn't necessarily mean we don't want to read a lengthy feature about performance rights organizations, fighting in the Sudan, or what North Korea is really like.

But "numbers don't lie" in the computer world--so increasingly, we're now being served up stories and videos so wacky they once would have been relegated to an 11 year old's "Ripley's Believe It or Not!" comic book.  
The 'new normal' looks an awful lot like Tales of the Weird.

*Worst of all, it appears the entire human race has  rather suddenly devolved as a species, and we now sport attention spans shorter than George Costanza's penis after a nice, cold swim!  (Like you, if you skipped those 4 paragraphs!)

All of which would be bad enough...but now, factor in a corporate mentality reminiscent of the vacuum-nosed monster in Yellow Submarine, which sucked up every other monster around him, and finally...the entire movie screen itself! 
Gannett has similarly scooped up every decent daily newspaper they could find-- gutted their newsrooms, broken their unions, 'streamlined' their 'ad supplement' delivery systems (by skipping the US Mail altogether, and simply hiring down-and-out delivery folks to chuck millions of papers in driveways all over the country), and actually shrunk the physical newspapers to a laughable size, with 'columns' that often accommodate fewer than five words across!

Our nationwide littering problem alone, from Gannett throwing newspapers at millions of non-subscribers' yards every week (in order to artificially pump up their circulation numbers) is a monumental environmental issue-- nearly as large (in sheer tonnage) as the Gulf Oil spill--only this one's entirely unpaid for, and nobody's being held accountable. 
Meanwhile, Gannett jacked up the famed '50 cent' cover price of USA TODAY  to 75 cents, then (in 2008) a buck, and finally in 2013, they just said WTF, and doubled it to two bucks.  The point is, nobody buys papers anymore, unless they're stuck in an airport all day.
(In fact, most cities no longer have newspaper boxes or newsstands; you'd pretty much have to go to the airport anymore, to find a decent selection of magazines and newspapers.)

Just four weeks ago, after acquiring "Cars.com" and countless other billion-dollar companies to flip, Gannett finally announced that its 'publishing wing' (including USA TODAY) will be 'spun off' (read: separated) from its main stock price, essentially creating two separate targets for investors, mainly to protect the broadcast and other sales interests.  
Gannett's newspaper holdings, including USA TODAY, became instant orphans.

Now comes the news that USA TODAY finally lowered the boom on its own newsrooms Wednesday, summarily firing dozens of renowned writers--many of whom had been with them for decades. It was (like the doubling of their cover price last year) a bold and sweeping move designed to stop the financial bleeding, and to temporarily bolster a dismal bottom line, worsened by the devastating spin-off scheme which essentially hangs their publishing wing out to dry. 
So the cuts didn't matter, the brush could be wide and clumsy, the publicity bad--none of it it meant a thing, in the world of Wall Street. 
It was "get 'er done" time, that's all.

Edna Gundersen has been the best daily newspaper rock writer in America for more than 20 years.
She's probably interviewed almost everyone I've ever interviewed, but even more pertinently...everyone I haven't!  
That's an elite club, believe me--and there's a good reason she's in it.
Early on, Edna 'cracked the code' on Al Neuharth's "style," serving up tightly-written jabs worthy of Muhammad Ali in a championship bout with everything on the line. 
And that's just it:  She could put everything in a line...literally.
And it's not just the gimmicky USA TODAY "style" she mastered.  Edna's stories yielded enough real news to make you feel like you'd just read the greatest fanzine you ever saw, as a kid.  To do that on a near-daily basis is absolutely unheard of. 
Edna's batting average would have to be higher than Babe Ruth's, and of her thousands of stories, there were certainly more 'home runs' than Hank Aaron ever imagined, let alone hit.
She will be missed.  
That happened today...along with 69 more stories just like it.  
And all with a phone call.  
No notice, just "Byeeeeee."
"And here I sit...the retired writer in the sun..."   [song link]

Apparently freelancers at Gannett, most of them anyway, remain untouched.   
The Tennessean's excellent music columnist Peter Cooper, himself a fine musician and once a full-time staffer there, still serves up quality columns of interest on a regular basis, in a now otherwise-entirely-useless newspaper.  (How long that'll last, I don't know--but this'd be an ideal time for him to up his price--because without 'im, there's literally nothin' left there.  They know it; he knows it. So why not?)  
But hey...like I say, I'm not even sure he's technically "on staff" anymore--and if he is, I'd love to see his benefit package...if any exists.  Update: Cooper left The Tennessean, a few weeks after this blog was first published. 

My friend Brian Mansfield writes for USA TODAY (mostly about country music, but an eclectic variety of other genres, too) and he has a special talent for bringing home concise album 'reviews you can use.'  To my knowledge, he's also on a freelance ("contract") basis.  I don't think USA TODAY can afford to lose him.  
He has become Nashville's emissary to the world, and has given the paper a reach it simply would not have without him,  via his succinct and often essential round-ups of all kinds of  music' comin' outta here.

I was a freelancer for my entire career, in newspapers and radio.  
The disadvantage was, there were no pensions, insurance, or regular raises.  
The advantage was, I was able to retain full ownership of my work, thereby 'selling' a given story/interview several different ways all at once, sometimes running it simultaneously in different markets, and often re-using it on radio and elsewhere for years to come. (And believe me, those expanded paydays made all the difference.)

Most of you are well aware that 'contract labor' is now the biggest growing segment of the workforce in America--and has been for many years now, ever since Wall Street figured out that if you either hired 'temps,' or made everybody work on a 'for hire' basis, you probably wouldn't need to fuss with pesky little things like "benefits," "pensions," "insurance," or "raises." Let alone, their main enemy: the dreaded UNIONS.
Believe it or not, most newspaper writers were once union members. 
And those unions were strong!

Unfortunately, the balance of power today has fallen entirely toward the corporation.  
They deal with quarterly results, and shareholder returns, and click-totals and subscription deficits, and all the rest.  God bless 'em.  
I wouldn't want anything to do with 'em, and I pity those who have to deal with them and cobble together a living wage in this atmosphere.  
I'm glad I got out alive, and lived to tell about it.  If you'd have asked me in the '70s whether those were "the good ol' days," I would probably have laughed in your face...but now I see, they must have been.

The balance of power hasn't just shifted. 
There is no balance, anymore.
"And here I sit...the retired writer in the sun..."   [song link]

I'm sure everybody already knows everything I've just written--and can probably add immeasurably to it, with much more current information than I can possibly provide, after several years of retirement.  
But when the best music writer at USA TODAY gets canned with no notice, in a terse phone call...and dozens of other key writers are "escorted from the building" like hostages their captors simply no longer needed...that says a lot about the corporate mentality behind it all.
Okay, so Gannett sucks. 
What about USA TODAY,  The Tennessean, or any of their other (gazillion) outlets is even worth a look, anymore?  Not a whole lot.
God bless Edna Gundersen.  I could have used any number of other examples here, but I happened to particularly like her rock writing.  She's emblematic of how USA TODAY won us all over in the first place, after our initial instincts might have been to pooh-pooh the whole shebang,  by delivering top-notch stuff on a consistent basis. Hers became a byline you looked for.  
How many of those are there, anymore?  
And my o my, how ruthless and cold our corporate world has become, exacerbated by a civilization in decline...click, by click, by thoughtless click.
As I wrote to her earlier today, "There is life beyond [fill in the blank]," because I no longer even know what to call a suddenly 'obsolete' job, so rendered by corporate greed and a short-sighted society.  Is being a full-time feature writer for a major daily suddenly as obsolete as being a blacksmith?
Good luck to everyone who got the ax, and even more good luck to those still hangin' on by a thread.  Y'all are gonna need it. 


UPDATE, 5/13/15:  In yet another round of newsroom 'buyouts,' USA TODAY has now lost its noted movie reviewer of the past 15 years, Claudia Puig.  
This can't be good.


________________________________________________
Here's a link to a very cool Donovan song, which I'll dedicate to all of my fallen comrades.  May they find in retirement (forced, or otherwise) the happiness I myself have found:
"And here I sit...the retired writer in the sun..." 

This article Copyright 2014 by Peter Rodman. All Rights Reserved.


Click HERE for Donovan's rare solo demo of "Writer in the Sun"

Why You Should Vote AGAINST "Adam Dread" on August 7

By Peter Rodman

Adam Dread has managed to wangle the Republican nomination for Sessions Court Judge here in Davidson County, by running unopposed. 
Nobody else wanted it.
He first attempted to run as a Democrat, when (according to The Tennessean) he was "pressed over his credentials" earlier this year, and suddenly switched over to seek the far easier GOP nod.  
The election is Thursday.  
I urge you to vote, if only to stop this fellow from gaining access to a serious position on the criminal court bench, which requires certain personal qualities I strongly believe are 'colors curiously absent from his palette,' to put it politely.  In Davidson County, a 'Sessions Court Judge' is the person who decides who goes to jail (and for how long), and who doesn't. The position of course requires judicial temperament; personal restraint; a measure of decorum; tact; and most of all...a sense of compassion or mercy.  Adam Dread has none of these qualities.




One of around 20 'photobombs' Adam managed to pull off, 
following me around at this particular event.  
(Believe me: After the first five or ten, it feels like harassment.)
Photographs Copyright 2014 by Peter Rodman.

The Nashville Scene reported almost a year ago that Dread was planning a run at the judgeship merely to legitimize his bid for a hoped-for 'reality TV show' called Judge Dread. (Har, har....get it?)
They mentioned that he'd already shot a 'pilot' last summer, and he was quoted thusly, about his potential show:
"Because of the way that would be shot, we could do five shows a day for a week. We could shoot a season in a week or two. It wouldn't interfere with me being an actual working judge."
Apparently nothing will interfere with this guy becoming "an actual working judge"--unless we, the voters, do. 
His candidacy is a hideous attempt to make a joke out of our legal system, from a self described 'stand up comedian' who's never gotten past grabbing a microphone at local events, to traffic in snark.
The biggest national exposure he's had was making a few appearances on his beloved Fox News, which is quite fitting for a character who could easily be called 'the Greg Gutfeld of Nashville.'

Even Wikipedia, normally a benign place for bland biographies, has alerted its readers that Dread's obviously self-penned biography "has multiple issues," "may require cleanup to meet Wikipedia's standards," and most tellingly, "a major contributor to this article appears to have a close connection with its subject." 
Well, Duuuuuuh!

Virtually nothing about the man is real, starting with his (legally changed) last name:  
Adam Dread was born Adam Schwalb. 
With his garish plaid pants and a seersucker smirk, 'Dread' fancies himself as a high society kinda guy, boasting of ties to Nantucket, even though he's actually from Pittsburgh. He's authored two airport-style joke books called You've Obviously Spent Time on Nantucket If...--a concept obviously lifted from the Nashville Scene's annual You're So Nashville if...issue, to which he has submitted dozens of 'entries.'

Those are just the brief outlines of what's been reported about Adam Dread.  
The next several paragraphs are about my personal experiences with the man.  I hesitated a long time before deciding to share these things, as they are not pleasant memories.  In fact, the man has dished out enough pain over a long enough time in my direction, that if this were a woman's story, you might see his bullying for what it really is: sheer personal harassment.
I don't know that it's ever crossed the line into anything legal; that's not my realm.
But I do know how badly he's made me feel, and for how long...and I know he knows that, too.  
I wouldn't want anyone like that to 'sit in judgement' of me, my family, or my friends, and that is why I am finally speaking out.
So bear with me.  
All of this is very difficult to say, because I know it'll only fire him up for another 20 years of misery...and quite frankly, I'm afraid of him.  It would cost him nothing, to file his own frivolous lawsuit against me, being an attorney. 
I on the other hand, am a retiree...living on social security.
He could clean me out in a heartbeat. 
But his campaign of bullying and intimidation toward me has been merciless. 
And that word, right there ("MERCILESS") is why I feel obligated to let you know just who I believe this person is, before you let him become a criminal court judge in our city and county.

When I was on Radio Lightning 100 during the '90s, I tried to keep my 'day job' as a flight attendant private.  The reason was simple: I didn't want to attach my work as an interviewer--already 20 years going, at the time--to a profession so many dismiss with disregard, in America.  (Note:  Around the world, crews are still treated with great respect, like they were here in the '60s.) 
Anyway, so as not to diminish the work I was doing on Sunday Night with Peter Rodman, as an interviewer, I kept quiet about my other source of income.
I brought literally hundreds of national names to the table at Lightning 100, and my ratings reflected it.  Our radio station was the place to be in Nashville, during the mid '90s.
One night, while trying to conduct a 'live' interview with either Danny O'Keefe or Richie Havens (I've forgotten which), I began hearing a terrible racket bleeding through (on the air!) which was ruining a stellar live performance by this nationally renowned, acoustic artist.
Needless to say, Adam was next door in our offices, hosting a show on our (much smaller) 'sister station,' Thunder 94. When I entered the room to ask him to turn it down, a cloud of pot smoke nearly knocked me over.  A circle of zonked pals were startled by me barging in, and I asked Adam to please turn it down immediately, as he was ruining my show. 
(Note:  I have nothing at all against pot or loud music! Unlike Adam Dread,  I am not a Republican!)
When the noise continued, I re-entered their party room/studio twice more with this same request, to no avail. 
The third time, I came roaring in--and told him if he didn't turn it down, I'd shut it down.
Either he'd leave, or I'd leave--and I was pretty sure that wouldn't sit too well, with our bosses.
I further ranted (throwing in a bit of hyperbole) that my show was literally paying for the power he was using, to ruin it!  It was ugly, I have to admit.
I felt so bad about it, I later returned again, and apologized to them all for bein' a 'buzz kill,' after my show ended.  (I may even have had a puff with them! I honestly don't recall.)
Through all of this, Adam seemed oddly amused.

I now know why.
Give him a story to tell, and he'll not only tell it, he'll relentlessly embellish it. 
And he'll re-tell it, publicly, as often as he sees you--no matter what the setting.
Including: Mutual friends' birthday parties, radio station reunions, and even somber memorials for a deceased friend.  (In recent versions, I 'm supposed to have screamed, "I'm a flight attendant!" For what reason, I have no idea.  This is not true.  At that time, I was still hiding the fact that I flew, even from Adam--and for good reason, it turns out...as you shall see, below.)


Beginning the day after that confrontation, I began finding vaguely anti-gay stuff in my inbox, at the radio station. Children's books, ripped to shreds; scrawled notes with hateful, sick messages, etc.
I cannot prove they came from Adam, but at the time I did register a formal complaint with the owner.
His reply was, "Hey...Adam's a house painter. Everybody's got a day job around here." Funny...I haven't seen "house painter" anywhere among Mr. Dread's official 'bios.'

Once Adam did find out about my 'day job,' he immediately went right there on the air, to announce (read: mock) my other occupation, strictly for the purpose of tearing apart my radio work.
And "coffee, tea or me" jokes weren't the full extent of it, either.
He continually portrayed me as gay (aren't all male flight attendants?) and (to him) inconsequential, because of it.  Never mind that I wasn't either one.
That's irrelevant; the bullying and harassment isn't.  
Rarely has anyone gotten more mileage out of the word "peanuts."


None of this, nor Adam's incessant hollering "Davy Jones, of the Monkees!" every time he saw me, really bugged me too much...until I realized--five years after we'd both left the station--he was still doing it.
Ten years?  Same thing.    
Fifteen? Same-same.
Now it's twenty years.

It takes a true sicko to mount that long a campaign of harassment and bullying, no matter whether the initial encounter justified some teasing (it probably did) or not.

I've never spoken out about Adam's bullying in public before. He's run in many citywide elections since then, and I really couldn't have cared less. I said nothing, ever.
Until now.
For a time, he even glommed onto attorney Bart Durham's son, and together they hung a shingle outside their offices as 'Durham & Dread' --effectively hitchin' a ride on the elder Durham's omnipresent TV ads. That shingle is gone now, as the younger Durham inevitably joined Dad's law firm...and his commercials.  But before it ended, 'DUI Adam' campaigned hard, to win 'Best Lawyer' in the Nashville Scene's 'Best Of' issue. 
You are so 'Adam,' if...


I don't hate this person; in fact, I wish him well.
Everyone should move on, right?
That's my view.
But the more I pictured him inching toward a judge's bench, the more I began to consider the Adam Dread I have known, and it truly worries me to think that our county might put such a person on the bench, in a position to "judge" anyone.

Here are a few specific personal encounters I think speak to the man's character (or lack of same):

• At a casual 'Thunder 94/Lightning 100' (radio station) reunion party a couple years ago in Nashville's 'Greenhouse' bar, a dozen or so former staffers were appalled, when this guy got up (we all thought) to raise a toast to old times--like we all had--and instead repeated that same tantrum all over again, at what was supposed to be a celebration of the GOOD times we'd all spent together at those radio stations:  

   "Let me tell you about the first time I met Peter Rodman..." 
The rant that followed was a chilling moment for everyone there--eerily reminiscent of Mathew Harrison Brady's pathetic witness stand speech, at the end of Inherit the Wind.

I received notes of apology from several fellow former staffers after that night,

Frederic March as 'Mathew Harrison Brady'
in 'Inherit the Wind' (1960) c. Warner Home Video.

some of which I still have. But in truth, what was most stunning about it--and has since become obvious to most who were there--is that this person's peculiar 'tick' simply wouldn't allow him to to stop and consider where he was, or that he was ruining everyone's moment there, not just mine.
I managed to slip out of the group unnoticed, and as I was closing out my tab, Adam began bellowing from across the room, "Wait! Wait!!  Where is Peter Rodman!!"  He had his phone camera out, and had hoped to catch a picture of me angry, but I'd had nothing but smiles, and simply eased outta there. Behind me, the whole place could hear him literally barking orders at his (then) wife:  "*****, GO FIND ME PETER RODMAN, RIGHT NOW!!! BRING HIM HERE, NOW!!"
The poor thing had barely even met me that night. She really didn't know who the hell he was talking about, but you could see the fear in her eyes, as she scurried around, asking each and every person, "Have you seen Peter Rodman?" 
Finally she reached the cash register and tapped me on the shoulder, just as I was signing the bill.
"Have you seen Peter Rodman?  I've got to find Peter Rodman! Do you know where Peter Rodman is?"
"No, haven't seen him," I said, "I don't know the guy."
As she went back toward her belligerent husband, I felt a terrible sadness for her.
How had such a seemingly sweet soul ended up with this guy?
I'd like to apologize here and now to that young lady, for my fib.  I knew exactly where Peter Rodman was, that night.  Out the door.
And so was she, not long after that...I'm told there's yet another Mrs. Dread now.

The most important thing I learned that night was this:
Adam Dread can't help himself.
He has no situational awareness whatsoever.
Nastiness, for Adam, is a compulsion. A tick. 
As National Lampoon magazine once put it, "That's not funny...that's sick!"

But that's not all.

• A well-loved chef at Cabana passed away late last year, and I went to the memorial co-owner Randy Rayburn had graciously set up for his family and friends, in large part to help raise funds for them, as well as to remember a fine fellow. 

On my way to leave, I bumped into Randy and thanked him for all the great work he always does in this community, and to tell him I was particularly touched by this gesture of love for a fallen employee.
The mood was tearful, but appreciative.
Until...
Adam Dread bellied his way over, and barged right into the conversation, beginning with "Davy Jones!"
"Ha-ha, Adam," I said.  "Can't there be another joke...even just one, after all these years?"
"Listen, I'm running for judge in the Republican Primary this spring.  Randy's endorsing me...can I have your endorsement?"  Rayburn looked on, as Adam played with his iPhone.
"Adam," I said, "First of all, I'm not even a Republican...and this is hardly the time or place to be 'campaigning,' but if you would just promise to finally leave me alone, sure. Can you do that?"
"So you're endorsing me??  Hold on a sec...P-E-T-E-R R-O-D"...and on it went.
When he was done entering my name in his iPhone, he immediately said, "Hey, Randy...
 "Did I ever tell you about the time Peter Rodman and I first met?"

Despite immediately breaking his word, Adam went ahead and used my name in a print ad, listing his endorsees in the GOP primary.  I'm not sure it's been used again, but if so, it shouldn't have been.  If legitimate at all, it was only for his unopposed primary run--not the general election.  And again:  I'm a lifelong, die-hard DEMOCRAT.  Always have been, always will be.     

•   At the recent Ben Folds gathering to 'Save Studio A,' I walked in with Ben at around 7:30 in the morning...and mingled for awhile. Once again, just as I was about to leave and found myself stuck in a crowd on the floor,  Adam swung around right in front of me, with a devilish certainty in his eyes--he'd literally backed over to me, so as not to be spotted-- and stuck out his hand. "Peter Rodman!" (He towers over me, and leans into it, as if height itself were a personal achievement.)  I accepted his handshake, and as always, he took it as an invitation to try to embarrass me, if at all possible...  

"Hey Peter!" he said, suddenly acting real friendly. "Have you met my friend from KROQ in L.A.?  He's The MAN out there!" 
I smiled and shook the guy's hand, and he asked me what I did. 
"I'm just retired,"  I said. 
You could almost count off the beats: 2...3...4...
"Peter and I used to work together on the radio, here in Nashville!" (Not true.)
Then, as Ben Folds wrapped up his speech behind us, Adam looked at me with that knowing glint, and went in for the kill. 
Out of nowhere, he very loudly said to the guy (a perfect stranger to me)...
"Let me tell you about the night I first met Peter Rodman!!!" 
...and began his little 'story' once again.  "Nice to meet you," I said...and left.

I'll let those brief examples be it, for now.
Believe it or not, I harbor zero ill will toward the man, other than the pain which remains inside me, after years and years of awkward public taunting, on his part.
In addition to being totally bizarre and puzzling, his obsession with demeaning me in public is actually disturbing.  
I simply cannot believe anyone would go to a 20 year extreme, over a single bad encounter.  I've never met anyone quite like him. 

But this really isn't even about me, or about me and Adam.
I've reluctantly published the above recollections to show you why I'm alarmed that this person even has a chance to become a publicly elected judge in my county. 
But that's our system.  And so too is my right to speak out against his candidacy, and finally tell all about what I've gone through with this guy, for so many years.

This is about ADAM DREAD, the made-up character who wants to be your Criminal Court Judge--and decide who raped who, who murdered who, who goes to jail, and who doesn't. You may think your own kids will never get arrested or find themselves in front of a criminal court judge, but just imagine needing compassion from a real judge behind the bench--and instead finding some guy with a stage name, hiding his plaid pants and a serious case of megalomania beneath his judicial robe. Imagine if your very freedom depended upon the mercy of a merciless social climber, best known for his self-satisfied smirk.
The election is this Thursday, August 7th.

I urge you to get out and VOTE on Thursday, if only to 
***VOTE AGAINST ADAM DREAD!!!***
in the race for Sessions Court Judge in Davidson County.

Thank you.


______________________________________
This opinion column, and all photographs contained herein are:
Copyright 2014 by Peter Rodman.  All Rights Reserved.
(except as indicated above)

Warning: 'JUST FOR MEN!'

By Peter Rodman

Me, old.

About a year ago, after noticing my disappearing face in recent photographs (and carefully determining that I was not dead yet) I decided to buy some Just for Men. 
Yup, me.  
62 years in, I was about to quit my 'purity' crusade and fake everything possible, in a mad-grab for long lost youth.  Why not, eh?  Most men my age seem to have given up and shave their heads altogether, as though an entire generation of aging niteclub bouncers suddenly appeared out of nowhere.  Everyother male boomer has either rediscovered Brylcreem and slicked it back (grown-up style)-- or at the very least foresaken the 'mullet flag' I proudly fly, to this day.  (For the record: I still call it 'a Beatle haircut.')

Me, young.

Mind you, I hadn't made up my mind to use it yet (the hair dye) but I figured I'd buy it, just in case I ever did decide to 'cover the grey'...so it would already be here in the house, in case of a dire (get it?) emergency. 
So one fine day, at the grocery store--after safely padding my shopping cart with more stuff than I'll ever eat (so nobody would notice the key items) I added Just for Men to my mountain of products at the check-out, an act which (thankfully) went unnoticed. 
As I glanced at the outside of the box, I saw "5 EASY MINUTES" and "EASY BRUSH IN!" and figured this was gonna be a breeze, if I ever tried it.  There was one kind for the hair, and another for the beard.  I bought 'em both.  You never know. 
Didn't open 'em...I just brought 'em home and put 'em in the bathroom cupboard, safely hidden behind roughly 250 clean washcloths. Which sorta reminded me of how I similarly hid a Playboy, when I was 15.  'Oh, how the mighty have fallen.'
Anyway, a few weeks later--just for kicks, I finally pulled out the 'beard' package, and began to read the warnings.  
Good thing it was an extended bathroom visit.

I first caught a glimpse of a teeny-tiny item at the bottom of the box, which said: "WARNING: IGNORE ALL THE FALSE ADVERTISING ABOVE! NOTHING IN LIFE IS 'EASY,' DUMBASS!  TRUST US: YOU MAY WELL *DIE* USING THIS PRODUCT --OR AT LEAST KILL THE CAT, WITH 
A MERE MOLECULE OF ITS RESIDUE!"  
...or something to that effect.
 
Seriously, though, it did say something about selecting a special "patch" of skin you don't care about, to die dye, for the "PRELIMINARY 48 HOUR SKIN PATCH (ALERT) TEST." (I am not making this up.) Apparently if your skin is still there 48 hours after this little experiment...it's a 'go!' 
I immediately concluded that this is an exercise nobody does,  written by lawyers on a "CYA" mission, to cover the cost of their next Corvette.  So I (like everyone else, no doubt) skipped that boring little 'safety' part.
"The wedding's tomorrow!" I said aloud, explaining my haste to no one. (There was no wedding tomorrow, but if there were, and I had to go to it, I wouldn't have had '48 hours' to test this stuff, right? So who does that test? Who buys this stuff and then waits 48 hours to see if it's okay first, before using it?  In short, who buys it and doesn't use it, besides me?  And how many weird-looking guys' dyed hairdos and beards have you seen at weddings? The answer is "Lots." So obviously, nobody's doin' the '48 hour' waiting test.) 

The real fun comes once you read the stuff inside the box.  
That's where you'll find the real directions. They come in a conveniently folded paper (obviously designed by the World Origami Champion) which, once unfolded, doubles as a bathroom-size dropcloth no thicker than tissue, giving new meaning to the term 'paper thin.' (Guess they figured we could save time, by reading both sides at once!)
As I unfolded this tome, it was beginning to dawn on me that coloring my beard would be no simple operation at all.
Turns out you're supposed to mix two tubes of this yuck together, and it would help to have a basement laboratory like Vincent Price did--or at least, a bunsen burner.

Brian Wilson "BEFORE"

 With each supposedly 'EASY' step, there were enough warnings to make Dostoevsky seem succinct.
 To summarize...
Step 1: "AVOID getting ANY mix on ANY surfaces whatsoever, as said surface/s (like your sink) will end up with a more persuasive beard than the guy on the cover of this box." 

Brian Wilson "AFTER"

Step 2: "NOTE: Once mixed, use immediately. Then, DISCARD ANY UNUSED PRODUCT! This is important because you will probably need a second application, and we'd hate for you to actually have any of this stuff available for that, thereby precluding another purchase." 

Step 3:  Do NOT massage product in with your hands, unless you've decided to personally recreate The Jazz Singer. 
Step 4: "IMPORTANT!  TIME YOURSELF! Even though the gloves will now be entirely covered in black dye (and your watch is underneath them) do NOT touch the bathroom doorknob, to go looking for another clock in the house! Just count.  It's easy: 1, 2...." 
Step 5: "Rinse product off with warm water in the shower, until the water runs clear...or until the tub is an 'even' black, which will add to your bachelor cache." 
Step 6: "Towel off as usual. (As with all the other losers using this junk, we'll just assume your towels and linens and leather couches are already black.)" 

SIDE NOTE: If you google 'images' for "Jerk in a Corvette,"this
 image is in the Top 10 results, worldwide. Try it. I'm not kidding!

In the end, I choked.  Just couldn't do it.
I decided to put everything back in the box and save it until my facial features have finally disappeared altogether.  So who knows, maybe I'll live to dye another day.
A year later, I'm still lookin' at the guy on the box, who looks almost as ridiculous as that relief pitcher for the Dodgers--you know, the one with the pitch-black Halloween 'mustache-and-beard kit' on his face.  (Brian Wilson, indeed.)
For me, the jury's still out on this stuff.  Toss it, or use it?  
For now, I'll have to defer. 
I simply cannot afford the Corvette, that goes with it. 

_______________________________________
Copyright 2014 by Peter Rodman. All Rights Reserved.

EXCLUSIVE: Garth Brooks' Shocking Nashville Press Conference

-Nashville, Tennessee, July 10, 2014-

Above, two of Brooks's better known personas from the past,
 though at Thursday's press conference he simply wore 
a sheer Bob Mackie gown he said "Cher gave me." 

In a stunning press conference viewed by 60 record executives, five local bloggers and a guy from Ireland, Garth Brooks announced Thursday morning that he has actually bought Music Row, which will henceforth be known as 'Billy Joel Row.' 
“I want to preserve the character I found when I got here,” he said, introducing the COO of  ‘BJ Row Ltd.,’ former Nashville Mayor Bill Boner.  “And this is definitely the first character I was aware of, when I got here.”
In an additional nod to environmental concerns here in Music City, Brooks said he plans to plant guitar amplifiers along the center strip of every major thoroughfare in town, so as to reduce traffic and increase musical awareness. 

Garth Brooks's proposed 'Ben Folds West End Median' design

This unprecedented program will be known as ‘AMP,’ but even Brooks couldn't say exactly how that might help traffic flow...or who would do the mix.

Thursday morning’s press conference was so shocking that Taylor Swift could be seen off to the side, looking aghast. (Not at Garth’s announcements, but at the fact that he had actually assembled so many of her ex-boyfriends to hear it.) In addition to Mayer, Kennedy, Gyllenhaal, & Stiles (Brooks's law firm) several actual country stars attended--including Sheryl Crow, Kid Rock, Lionel Richie, Richard Marx, and Peter Frampton.
[Updates to follow.]
                                
                                                                                            --30--

___________________________________________________________________

Copyright 2014 by Peter Rodman. All Rights Reserved. 

Memories of Fort Hood, in Unbroken Sunlight

Note: When I first wrote this column, I never thought it would apply all over again 5 years later, after essentially the same thing happened, in the same exact place. I'll never forget the faces of those kids--which is what they were, really--as long as I live. And they should never have to worry about their safety at home, on the largest and (supposedly) most secure base in America. But this story is not about those tragedies at all; it's about the family of soldiers of Fort Hood, and how a civilian came to know them, and got a rare glimpse into their lives...

By Peter Rodman
November 5, 2009

I am dressed informally here, because we've
just "ferried" our empty 747 all the way
home from another mission to Eastern Europe.

Hearing today's tragic news about Fort Hood brought back memories--many of them pre-dawn or post-midnight, as we landed 747s on-base, to deploy 400 troops at a time to Iraq or Kuwait or Afghanistan, on MAC (Military Aircraft Command) charter flights, beginning in 2003.

These were unscheduled charter flights--whereby, under Federal law, the military can (more or less) commandeer commercial aircraft, in order to move troops and supplies, worldwide.
It was volunteer work, but we did get paid for it. The hours were hugely unpredictable, but a tiny sacrifice, compared to the true sacrifice of our service men and women...which is humongus, on a daily basis.

The troops would sometimes sit there all night long, on school buses, waiting--either for us (to drive in from our dumpy motel just off-base in Killeen, Texas, where we'd just spent the night) or more often, to accomodate some eastern European airbase's arrival curfew--so as to smoothly and safely effect their secure transfer, on other end of the trip.
At the designated time, they'd walk 50 yards or so by the hundreds across the tarmac, and board our airplane--having sat in a packed school bus for as many as six hours overnight, without complaint. I was honored to receive (and still have) several coveted "base medals," which are rare indeed, from base-commanders at Fort Hood and elsewhere. They would tell me it was because I helped coordinate their passage, in some small way...but in truth, I still feel guilty that most of the rest of my crews didn't get 'em. Actually, I think it was just given to whomever they arbitrarily selected to hand out the one or two coins they had, and I just happened to be the crew member greeting the Commanders out on the ramp.

Fort Hood is totally in the middle of nowhere.
Few outposts in mainland America are farther from anything.
It takes almost ninety minutes by van, to just get from Austin out there, in completely flat and barren land, and the entrance itself is at least three or four miles long. The airstrips are nothing but flat concrete, for as far as the eye can see. The base shop (a little convenience-store type of thing) is the only thing of any interest whatsoever, and it is of no interest, whatsoever.

When we first started going, in 2003, the troops were young, and 'gung ho'.
Imagine 400 large rifles, each at their seat beside the uniformed soldiers--unstowed, on a 747! It was strange, to say the least.
When the base commander shook my hand, before we would close the airplane door, he would look me in the eye, and almost tear up: "Take good care of them," was all he said.
These kids had been drilled and drilled and drilled, and I don't mind telling you, they proudly liked to think of themselves as 'killing machines.'
One kid looked up at me once, and said, "You know that saying about about 'winning hearts and minds'? I have a saying, too..." With that, he motioned toward his weapon. "One in the heart...and two in the mind."

Many of these young men and women had hardly ever flown before; were shocked at how "good" the coach-style meals were; had no idea how to operate the movies; and in fact, were totally amazed, to see such "luxury," onboard an airplane. I got the clear impression they had not grown up as children of wealth.

Fully 70% of the troops onboard missions we did (which were to drop troops off at a European airbase--'staging area'--and retrieve another full load, coming home, in later years) were "minorities." The ones who weren't were largely farm kids, by their own description.
That is the volunteer army. (I always say to people, "Next time you root against the Williams sisters at Wimbledon, remember...they ARE the Americans!!!")

The vast majority of today's troops (that I saw, on many MAC missions) are tattooed; love hip-hop and rap music; and enjoy texting, and ultra-violent video games.
I would say a majority are either black, hispanic, asian, or a beautiful combination of various races, including white.
Many are of Arabic descent, too.
Keep in mind, "Maliks" are easily as common as "Franks," in today's American army.

By 2006, some of the same faces began showing up--only now they were seasoned, weary adults--not children, anymore...on their *third or fourth* tour, of Iraq or Afghanistan. Understandably, as the nationwide fervor for 9/11 revenge became less focused, the troops I flew seemed to express less of a 'patriotic' motive than they once had, when the war began--and spoke more of their service as a 'career move,' now--something to set up a secure future, for the families many of them had already started. A surprising number had decided to remain "career soldiers."

That's me out on the tarmac, individually
greeting 400 fully armed soldiers
we are flying off to war.

At Fort Hood, like Camp Mirimar, Fort Bragg, and others, there'd be nothing but horizon, at dawn or dusk...and the purity of that scene was often broken only by barbed wire, way in the distance. Lots of orange light shone off the cowlings of our huge jet engines, and filled the endless sky, as they either anxiously filed onboard (in the appropriately-named 'fatigues'), ready to go fight...or...wearily exited the aircraft, after making it all the way home.
To even see a tree there was rare, and quite beautiful.
The light plays very differently on planet earth, when there's not much else in the way...

It's hard to believe, I know...but the troops never quite knew where we were taking them--it was top secret, especially from them! ("Come on!" they'd whisper. "Where are we going?")
We were under strict instructions not to discuss or answer questions about our destination, until the onboard commander either announced it himself, or the Captain did so, halfway (or more) over the Atlantic Ocean.
To this day, I rarely discuss which cities these were, but they were (in some cases) quite unexpected (for me, anyway) locations in Europe, indeed.

Our planes were decorated by the crews with many flags and banners, thanking them for their service--unlike any plane you've ever seen. Occasionally, I would have to take down some George Bush 'speech' a crew member might hang on the airplane walls, defending his political actions--because this was not a political statement for any of us...just a patriotic one.

Even those few of us who (privately) thought Iraq was an idiotic decision, supported the troops enough to volunteer to transport them, and did nothing to dissuade their enthusiasm, ever.

It was a simple decision, to me. Our troops needed replenishment, and were stretched too thin. The fresher they were, the sooner we could (hopefully) end all this madness.
Many times, I would go off to cry, on my own, after watching an innocent young woman or man embark upon possibly their last life adventure. And most times, fewer people returned, than we had first brought overseas.


I will express one firm political opinion here, and that is that I found it disgraceful, that Americans were not even allowed to see their coffins coming home, for six full years.
I truly believe we must always see the cost of war, before we embrace any deployments at all.
Some of those coffins contained the bodies of people I was proud to serve, if only for a moment--and more importantly, were proud to serve me, in the most ultimate, meaningful way.
They gave their lives.
It HONORS them to look...and to remember.
That bond with those troops has never diminished, for me--although I no longer choose to fly the MAC charters. (I'm too old for those kinds of hours!)



Today on CNN, I actually heard a reporter say this:
"Authorities cannot confirm whether the gunmen got their uniforms in one of the many 'army surplus supply' stores, located just off-base."
Really??
How dumb is it that we even even have Army uniforms for sale in stores, just outside our bases?

We have a lot more work to do, in deciding when (and where) to fight.
But no matter how you feel about the war(s), it has to bring a lump to anybody's throat, that several hundred kids (soldiers) are about to deploy tomorrow, regardless of the fact that 31 of their group (who were also ready to deploy) were injured today, and a dozen killed.
Some no doubt lost their best friends, today.
That is what they will leave behind, as they board an empty 747 on that same tarmac, sometime in the next couple days.
Talk about 'heavy hearts'...one can only imagine.

I pray tonight for the victims, their families, and the larger 'family' of servicemen and women, worldwide. And I offer a special prayer to Fort Hood--and to our Arab-American soldier-patriots, who will endure (with their usual grace) the inevitable 'additional scrutiny' imposed upon them now, through no fault of their own.
God bless America...all of it.



______________________________________________________

This Article is Copyright 2009 by Peter Rodman. All Rights Reserved.
______________________________________________________

Dominic's Bells

May, 2009

By Peter Rodman

“The Ice Cream Man! The Ice Cream Man! Oh, Mom….please?”

He was not just any ice cream man... 
He knew every kid by name, and no matter what street game or baseball card ‘flip’ he interrupted when driving by, he seemed perfectly attuned to his pint-sized customers. Despite the fact that we were just kids, he treated us all like old friends, each with a story all our own.
The bells were as real as police sirens were, back then--five or six *actual* silver bells, which hung above the front windshield, operated by a simple dirty pull-string, from the driver’s seat of the small, white ‘Frosty Bar’ truck.
‘Dominic’ was his name, and he’d knowingly coast through our Long Island suburb (appropriately called ‘Plainview’) not once, but twice a day, at his peak.

He spoke our language, and could calculate for you instantly your maximum affordable treat that day.
His waxy green cups of ‘Italian ice’ came in every flavor imaginable, and he never went a day without fully re-stocking even the most obscure delights.
Root Beer Italian Ice?
“I got it,” he’d proudly say, bustling around the side window of the refrigerated truck.
Coconut Crunch Bar?
“Of course! Don’t you know me, by now?”
How about that new Cake bar?
“Come on!!" he’d say, “Who’s got everything!”
He did, that's who!

The ice cream was never stale; the choices were never few.
Most folks today will be offered whatever the guy happens to have, no matter how long it’s been there.

Dominic was different; very different.
He prided himself on knowing everyone’s favorite, and almost before the truck came to a stop, he’d have each group of kids' array of pops handy, flailed like a frozen deck of cards, in a single olive-skinned hand, richly bronzed by the sun, shining down on his truck.

In the days before central air conditioning, we’d sometimes run straight up to the small white truck, just to feel the glorious fog of refrigeration coming full-boar at us, out the window.
Dom’s fancier items were thirty five cents, back then. (That’d be your ‘Sundae on a Stick,’ for example.)
After a hard day of stoop-ball in the blazing sun, somewhere between 2:25 and 2:35, you’d hear those (real) bells, chiming ‘just so,’ in the distance.

Like Dominic himself, they were slow and steady.
But the truth is, he was always checking his watch, and racing to get the transactions done, because his signature trait was arriving in each and every neighborhood at precisely the same time every day.

Sometimes, in a mad desire for the ultimate sugar rush, you'd try to pry the entire Italian Ice loose from its cup, and flip it upside down--so you could get to the intense, half-inch sweet-flakes (which we called "The Crisp") at the bottom. More than once, Dom agreed to replace my ice for free, after I'd clumsily flipped the whole thing to the ground, diggin' for that sugar at the bottom of a 'cherry ice.' But he made no bones about being in business for business, and his generosity had its limits.
Again...lessons learned.

Our summer days were filled with far more sophisticated dealings than our parents could ever fathom. We’d ‘flip’ (read: gamble) our baseball card collections in elaborately devised schemes, sometimes way beyond the basics of matching colors or teams, and into positions, averages, triples hit, or a combination thereof--so complicated that the ‘pot’ could grow to sixty or seventy cards at times, before the winner took all.
So let’s not romanticize those days as somehow “innocent.”
Fact is, we were ruthless little gamblers, willing to devise the most complicated set of rules possible, in order to take home that winner’s pile by mid-day, before the actual playing of street-ball began.
I can now sadly reveal that I sometimes made foolish wagers on purpose, just to make my friends happy--so glad was I to be included at all, in the proceedings. I'm still that way.
With the Yankees down by two runs in the bottom of the eighth, I’d suddenly say, “I’ll bet they win!”
Then would come the knowing glances, in the downstairs den of whomever's house it was.
A long pause, and then...
“Really, Rodman?” (We always called each other by last name. It seemed to confer a toughness, upon our scrawny little seven and eight year old personas.)
“Yup! In fact, I’ll bet you Hector Lopez homers,” I’d say.
At this point, the bet would have to be made official. The sealing of the deal was always done by hooking your pinky fingers together. If this was not accomplished, you had no contract. More than a few times, I was able to invoke this clause, in order to save my ice cream money. And more than a few times, Dominic’s bells would absolve me of the need to go through with another obviously masochistic wager.

“Dom,” as we came to call him, also taught us a lot about personal responsibility. He knew full well that some of us were slightly poorer than others, on the block. (In retrospect, my pennies must have been a dead giveaway…or maybe it was the long delay, as I occasionally ran inside the house at lightning speed, snuck upstairs to my parents' bedroom closet, and filched my final few coins from my father’s inside, right pants pocket.)
Either way, Dom knew us all, and knew us well.

Although he never showed favoritism, he’d cut you some slack on occasion, if you were short. (Money, that is.)
In fact, Dominic actually gave most of us--now dentists, dee jays, brokers, and lawyers--our very first experience with actual credit! He began to keep ‘accounts’ on each and every kid, and if yours got up towards three or four dollars, he give you a ‘warning.’ But there were a couple of heartbreaking occasions, when Dom simply had to put his foot down, and he did so compassionately.
“Sorry, Pete,” he’d say, shaking his head the way a quiz show host does, when you’ve almost won.
“I wish I could do it for ya. But I’m gonna have to cut you off, until you pay a little. Next time, okay?”
And the bells began to jingle, as he pulled the string, and drove away--slowly at first, out of respect and in sympathy with his penniless customer--and then proudly again, jingling 'just so,' for the next group of kids, on the next block.
It never occurred to us, quite frankly, that Dominic knew any other group of kids better than those of us on Burton Avenue. That would seem impossible. Even if you asked me today, I’d have to guess that the 15 or 20 kids on our block were his favorites--but from the vantage point of a man now much older than Dom was then, it seems pretty clear that could never have been the case...could it?

Fact is, he was an expert at what he did. I’ll bet he made a pretty good living at it, too. Back then, there were lots more kids around, and everybody knew who their neighbors were, which must have helped business immensely, in the way of what is now known as ‘peer pressure.’
Eventually, Dominic saved up enough for a very large truck, the kind that had heretofore only been used by the faceless corporate drivers for “Mister Softee.” Even way back then, we were able to discern the difference between a corporate truck (like “Good Humor”) and our
very own local, independent Ice Cream Man.
With his own growth came inevitable change. Now, he had a virtual candy store inside, and you could actually step up into the truck. In fact, he no longer had to go outside and around to the window at all, to serve you. He could simply get up out of the driver’s seat, and take a few steps back into the ‘store.’
But somehow, it wasn’t quite the same.
He still carried the vast array of our early childhood favorites, but in this fancy new setting, they seemed somehow small, and pedestrian--almost as if he should have had ‘soft’ ice cream dispensers...kinda like…like the “Mister Softee” guys.
It still feels like heresy, to say that.

In truth, by that time, we were beginning to outgrow it all.
Voices started to lower. Your trip out to the street to see the Ice Cream Man was (strangely) beginning to seem almost…embarrassing. I can actually remember at some point looking up and down the block, to make sure nobody saw me, before running out to my old friend, Dom.
I had become a paper boy by then, so here I was, finally able to afford his wares, and yet…suddenly mortified, to even be seen, getting them. It seems like that little ‘life lesson’ has repeated itself, a few times over--but like so many others, it all started beside Dom’s truck. It was the stock market, the grocery store, the country club, and the bank, all at the same time.
I am reminded by some fellow former patrons that Dominic actually had a "loyalty" incentive program.
(Not that he needed one.) He distributed "charms" with each purchase, which were like tiny, colored 'pieces-of-eight' to us. If you collected ten charms, you got a free ice cream. This was, without any doubt, the first "frequent buyer" program any of us kids ever experienced.

Dom’s own business began to falter slightly, at around the time he invested in the new truck. It wasn’t his fault, really--the demographic bulge of we ‘baby boomers’ had simply passed on through that part of the snake, that‘s all.
He hung on for a few more years, even though most of us were in junior high school, by then. Heck, there was always gonna be a ‘youngest’ child, in some family, who knew Dom’s schedule as well as any commuter on the Long Island Railroad ever knew theirs.

Now, I live in Nashville.
We still have Ice Cream Men, yes--but I must tell you, there’s something slightly...surly, about them.
There are no jingling bells anymore, for one thing. Just this immensely irritating, pre-recorded jack-in-the-box music, with a decibel level to rival any F-15 Fighter Jets that might be flying overhead. If you took the most annoying possible ditty, say, “Pop Goes the Weasel” (which happens to be one they use), and canned the ‘Pan Flute’ guy playing it over and over through Eddie Van Halen’s Marshall Amp at around “10,” you’d understand ‘Ice Cream Man, 2009.’
“Gut mah galfriend wit’ me tuuh-day,” he’ll say, and you get the feeling this job might just be keeping somebody out of jail.
Oh well, God bless him anyway.

Speaking of which, today was Easter.
Dominic would never come on Sundays, let alone Easter! It was a matter of mutual respect.
But it’s Easter 2009--not 1959--and today, the guy came lumbering through the neighborhood, blaring “Silent Night,” of all things.
That’s nothing new, either.
From “Happy Birthday” to “Beethoven’s Ninth,” my new Ice Cream Man has ruined more songs each summer than I can recall. His company seems to choose the pre-recorded tapes based upon one criterium:
“Will this be annoying enough, if you play it over and over, and over again?”
I never knew “Silent Night” could fit in that category…but I do now, and we can look forward to hearing it all year long--except on Christmas day itself, when he’ll probably be blasting “(Roll Out) Those Lazy, Hazy, Crazy Days of Summer.”

And sure enough, what few little kids reside in this neighborhood are still alerted by that ‘music,’ from deep inside their solid brick houses and even deeper within their tiny hearts, almost as if they’d just received the Bat Signal.
It would not surprise me in the least, to find out that there is, in fact, some sort of Darwinian DNA connection between children and the sound of an approaching ice cream truck--then, or now.
Who knows? In future times, we may evolve to where actual antennae emerge from their ears, when the truck is within range!

Once he arrives near your house, a nearly century-old seduction reveals its newest innovations:
The driver will knowingly slow his pace to a crawl, and increase his volume just enough to make ANY adult cave into any childhood demand, if only to stop the music.
His wheels will barely move now...as he allows for the time-tested persuasion ritual (read: begging and whining) to run its full course.
At the end, the score will always be “Ice Cream Man 1, Parents 0,” whether they acquiesce, or not. (Think about that one.)

Something about all of this seems intrusive and obnoxious to me, at 57.
Am I wrong, or were Dominic’s bells a little more friendly, and a lot more real?
They seemed to speak to us, like an old friend coming to visit every day, at the exact same time.
Am I wrong, or are these new guys just careless intruders, out for a buck?
They come after dark sometimes--and many times, not at all.
Nobody knows their names, either.

Surprise, surprise:
I am wrong!

It turns out not to matter at all.
To a kid, it all means the same thing--even if they have no name, nor any real face that they’ll be able to attach to it, or remember as fondly as I do Dom’s, over 50 years later.
Call me a grumpy old man, but I’m going to ‘date’ myself anyway, and say it just ain’t the same as it once was.

Still, there is something…something almost holy…in the timeless connection between a kid, and the Ice Cream Man.“And the children solemnly wait
For the ice cream vendor
Out into the cool of the evening
Strolls the pretender
He knows that all his hopes and dreams
Begin and end there”
--Jackson Browne, ’The Pretender’

I don’t honestly know what ever happened to Dominic.
A tiny part of me wants to find--and restore--his original, little ‘Frosty Bar’ truck.
In fact, I wouldn’t even mind driving it around the neighborhood each day, secretly extending ‘credit’ to the kids while waving to the parents, and learning everybody’s favorite flavor by heart--but I’d only do it, if you let me ring those silver bells by hand, just like he did.
That would be nice.

Meanwhile, I’ll just have a ‘lemon ice,’ please…

Copyright 2009 by Peter Rodman. All Rights Reserved.