THE BIG KICK

Well, I spent most of the weekend in front of the Ol' Hi-Def, catching up on TiVo'd shows, the endless presidential campaign and one great sporting event, live on ABC . . .

In 1964 I found myself living in Kowloon. It was part of Hong Kong, when that colony's return to China seemed somewhere in the abstract distant future. Like 1984, or 2001. TV in the British Crown Colony was called "Rediffusion." I had recently married Lenore Elliott (above) of Tacoma, Washington. A brief visit to her parents, a honeymoon in Tokyo and I was on assignment: to put a "pirate" radio station on the air from Macau, the small, Portuguese-ruled peninsula close by. We lived in an apartment called a "flat." The hot water heater was a "geyser," pronounced "geezer." All very Brit. The locals played cricket, rugby and ran their horse races clockwise. But the big game was football, or as we twisted Americans call it "Soccer ".

Saturday was the Eurocup Finals. It happens but once every four years. Like an American election, but with less buildup (when seriously analyzed.) Saturday's match was a doozy. The Europeans have it down. Pregame festivities were elegant and artsy. The venue was in Vienna, a city I was lucky enough to visit once. Teams are backed by entire countries and their citizens around the world. They have traditions that predate U. S. pro football's beginnings in the 1920a by decades. In Hong Kong I became a Manchester United fan before it was called "Man U." Before David Beckham was born. I've long ago conceded that "soccer" would not catch on as a great attraction on American TV. Those of us dumb enough to give a damn know all the

reasons.

But, like the Olympic Games, World Cup or U. S. Presidential Election, it's something that only happens 25 times a century, worth checking out for a few hours. Wow, what a game between underdog Spain and the German squad, going for an unprecedented fourth European championship. The way to watch high-level soccer is like this: (1) Keep your eye on the ball. This was the easiest ever Saturday, as the ball was silver. It showed up on my LG wide screen TV like a glistening chrome pinball. (2) Until someone scores a goal, the teams switch from offense to defense quicker than basketball. And, unlike the wimps who play that game, there are no time outs. When someone goes down from a shot to the face with an "accidental" elbow, for instance, the teams play on. Germany's captain was knocked out cold for a few minutes yesterday. He returned, blood dripping down his face, and almost tied the game, which would have forced overtime, in the closing minutes with an oh-so-close shot on goal.

The star of the affair was blond, big and fast Fernando Torres (below, GETTY IMAGES) whose only goal proved to be the winner. Sports journalism, when it comes to the real football is outright majestic. The LONDON TIMES described the shot that shook the soul of Spain thus: "The athleticism, and the determination to pursue every ball by Torres is well known to followers of his first club, Atletico Madrid, and now his second, Liverpool. So in the finality of his finish."

"On 33 minutes he a scored a goal that was the product of both. Why Germany's defenders--the biggest physical specimens in European soccer--went absent without leave presumably will bring an inquest after the event. But, too late.

"When Xavi Hernandez looked up and released the ball along the ground, he set up a race between Torres and the smallest German, Philipp Lahm. Torres had a meter to make up, and as he did so there was a momentary coming together in which the forward's hand was on the arm of the defender. The Italian referee, who seconds earlier had marvelously waived the advantage without stopping play after a German foul, was silent again.

"So on went Torres, out came Lehmann to the only place where a goalkeeper has a chance to cut down the angle of a forward's approach. Torres saw him, let the goalie dive, and immaculately drove the ball right-footed across the keeper and inside the far netting. A goal to savor from every respect."

The King of Spain, everyone in the huge stadium and all of the country of 40 million citizens went nuts.  And, (3), Germany would now be on offense. To either score to tie or win. Or lose. Spain held on, in fact coming close to nailing it down several times in the second half. To put things in historical perspective. another news account stated" "Spain's sublime technique will make them the team to beat in South Africa in 2010."

I called Ex-Wife #1 on Maui. She endured Hong Kong (and many other adventurous places) with me. I was going bananas over the "grace, beauty and global significance" of real football. In fairness, she didn't see much of the game, TV reception being hazy at best on the slopes of Haleakala. And she did endure five years of madness in L. A., where we attended NFL games in The Coliseum. But she wasn't buying my enthusiasm for what I--and the rest of the world--had just witnessed, and hoped I lived another four years to see yet again. I told her about Torres and his great moves, his winning goal for God and country.  "Big deal," she said, "he still couldn't make the Dallas Cowboys."

LAST SUNDAY IN JUNE

These are the long days of Summer in the Tropics. At 6:30 in the morning the sun breaks over the glistening horizon beyond Mokapu Peninsula streaming brightness through the slits in the studio blinds. The silence is flat: total nothingness interrupted only by a crowing rooster or a motorcycle digging out on Kamehameha Highway down below.

Oh, to stop-frame the moment. Then fondle it in from every facet. The mountain air is still. No trade winds. No man made fumes. Pure God's oxygen. A trace of morning dew coats the Kukyu grass, the driveway nearly dry from its overnight rinse. As I type this, the chicken's chorus rises, from murmur to crescendo. They're not that loud; it's because the mute moment has sucked every decibel from the air. If silence is golden, this morning is platinum.

The guy down below must be frying bacon. Its aroma is the only clue of human activity in the houses nearby. The moment is so tranquil, the mood so lazy that even the birds are still, still. Not a branch moves in the jungle that nudges the bedrooms. Wiggling meters indicate that our stream is flowing. I dare not turn up a speaker and break the mood. 

All I hear is the chicklet tinkle of the keyboard. No hurry to grab the morning paper to see what first screams out from the world at large. CNN, on the monitor, on TV, can wait. This is the lull before the storm of sports to clog the TV in months to come. The studio mikes are at rest, awaiting the joyous sounds due next. 

Aha, finally the first cheep-cheep of this new day. The mynah birds come alive. Whatever drives me to keep on blogging is evaporating fast. I've made an entry to notate this moment of total peace. The Marines below are still. For now, everything is cool. Pau this keyboard. I'm heading outside to drink it all in. Then to the bakery for some fresh Kona coffee and a sinful loaf of Portuguese sweet bread.

I'll double check my rear license plate frame, bought long ago after a meeting in Culver City. If it still reads, "One day at a time," I'll know this is not a dream. Fade up the monitor. The Makapuu Sand Band sings "Winds Of Waimanalo." How lucky can one guy be?

Me ke aloha kakahiaka from Kaneohe. 

LETTER FROM THE NORTHEAST

Aloha Ron,

Am sitting here at work (hospital lab) listening to your interview with John Cruz. Even though I like kahiko better, one of my favorite hapa-haole tunes to dance hula is "Hanalei Moon." My kumu also choreographed "Island Style," which is also a blast to dance to. John Cruz is one of my favorite artists.

Wanted to thank you for this project. I lived in Hawaii from 1974-78. My girl friend and I were looking to escape the snow after spending our lives, including college, in Western New York (Buffalo/Rochester). We toured the islands as a graduation gift from or parents (and almost didn't come home after meeting some ono local boys on Kauai and applied at every hospital. I worked first on Oahu, at the old Kaikeolani Children's Hospital and later at Wahiawa General. My friend went to Kapiolani. We lived in Waikiki near the Lolipop Club and then moved to Pearl City, Waipahu and finally Wahiawa.

I met my husband (Navy) and we were married in Wahiawa Botanical Gardens by a gay ex-priest from San Francisco. Our son was born at Kahuku Hospital and his middle name is Kuokoa, which means "independent." We finally left so that my parents could be closer to their only grandchild. But a part of us still remains, tied to the aina and moana.

We returned on our 25th anniversary and stayed at Schrader's in Kaneohe and it was wonderful: the bay lapped up under our lanai. Only spent one night in Waikiki--too much concrete and Gucci. No more sugar cane fields in Waipahu. But the mountains were still beautiful. We rode horses on the beach, saw a monk seal and visited some of our old haunts. Big disappointment for my husband: the Waipahu strip joint, Little Egypt's is now a pizza place. And no one to buy a little "Kona Gold" from.

I keep in touch with Hawaii through my halau in Rochester, Gallery Kauai. I play a little ukulele and slack key but my main thing is hula and chant. Too old to do da kine stuff that the younger dancers can do, but I love it and do what I can to tell the story,

Anyway, needless to say we were tuned to KKUA and Whodaguy Ron Jacobs when we lived in Hawaii. Listening to you now brings back great memories. Still listen to your Home Grown albums. Thank you for deciding to put your time and money into this project. I brings great joy to me because of my time in the islands, but it is so important to document this history. Dancing hula has given me a great appreciation of Hawaiian culture that I didn't haven when I lived there. I remember the struggle over Kahoolawe and even those who lost their lives at sea. It's great to listen to the many artists you have interviewed and their passion for their culture and music.

Mahalo nui loa, RJ. I hope we will see the islands yet again. May you continue on for many, many years.

Sharon Knorr 

Dear Sharon,

Thank you so much for taking the time to write. There's a bunch of dedicated folks who keep this going, it's a labor of love and aloha. I will forward the crew your note. Hearing from someone across the Pacific and the mainland still gives me chicken skin. The fact that you are listening to our house in Kaneohe--and so many other local folks and Hawaiians At Heart everywhere, in every time zone--gives me the same juice I had when radio was fun, back when you were here. I'm an Old School type. Can't "talk to" a microphone, gotta imagine who is along for the ride. From now on that includes you. Mahalo nui loa for your support. 

Ron Jacobs

ELECTION DAY IN ZIMBABWE, 2008

It was March of 1965. Two weeks out of Halawa Jail on Oahu, I was driving a new Cadillac Coupe De Ville and programming a major Los Angeles radio station, KHJ. I was on the cool side of a Sisyphusian slide, riding the karma into what would be four years in the epicenter of the rock'n'roll eruption.

There were dozens of things to do. Turn around a beaten, old radio station, make it a winner. I was platoon leader of a bunch of deejay storm troopers who had waited all their lives for this shot at the big time. Our unspoken goal was Do or Die. Either we'd make a success out of this or go back home and sell used cares or life insurance. Being a Top 40 station, I was privileged to work with veteran L. A. music director Betty Brenneman.

I usually play Beatles songs when writing these things. But in scanning my thousands of iTunes to get to them, I hit Barry McGuire's "Eve of Destruction." This song summarized the vibes and angst of the mid-60s. I Googled the song for some info. One item calls it a, "Mock-Dylan protest rant that doesn't hold up." Well, it was "folk" music, McGuire himself came from a briefly hot group called The New Christy Minstrels. Kenny Rogers was also a member. His career went on for years. But McGuire's moment of fame was "Destruction."

The song was written by P. F. Sloan, another of the folk-hippies who hung out on the Sunset Strip and populated Laurel Canyon. When I felt my radio gig was secure I bought a home near the top of that rustic mountain. Neighbors would include David Crosby, Joanie Mitchell, Steven Stills, Frank Zappa, Mama Cass and many other unknowns at the time, who would be super hit makers soon, thence icons till this day. To say the neighborhood was creatively fertile is an understatement. Like saying Kilauea volcano is "really hot."

Wordwise, the cliche "tumultuous times" barely describes 1965. Jack Kennedy's murder two years before changed everything. Gone were the Eisenhower Frivolous Fifties. LBJ couldn't stop the bloodletting in Viet Nam and quit, setting the stage for Richard Nixon and all he would bring. American society lost its bearings. Unfamiliar waves of insecurity washed over America.

The first "television war" was difficult to understand, let alone, reconcile.. "News" was what we were told by the three TV networks. Man had yet to walk on the moon. Computers were as big as refrigerators. The concept of anything vaguely resembling the Internet and its applications would be dismissed as Science Fiction.

Meanwhile, our Band of Broadcast Brothers operated in a three-story concrete fortress on Melrose Avenue. (Jeez, the prime time soap opera MELROSE PLACE was still twenty-seven years away). One of our Boss Jocks, Scotty Brink, was called off to serve in Viet Nam. The station sent a tape of each week's "Boss 30" countdown show to Armed Forces Radio in Saigon, the least we could do. (The movie GOOD MORNING VIET NAM, with Robin Williams in the roll of an Army deejay, would not appear for twenty-two years). Waikiki-born Barack Obama was three-years-old; it would be three years before his mother took him to Indonesia.

1965. The world's focus was on the place called Indochina. Cultures, politics, religions, tribal feuds: They all came to blows in the previously benign country of Vietnam. I was too young for the Korean war and too old for Nam. The closest I'd been to a rifle and uniform were my few years of ROTC, drilling with an empty M-1 rifle on Roosevelt High School's football field. But in '65 my war was against the 40-plus L. A. radio stations that we were out to destroy.

KHJ's new format hit the air and we managed to get it right. We had hit the vein of young folks fed up with "old style" radio, and just about everything else. It was hard not to be "with it,"since we were playing new Beatles' tunes every few months and presenting concerts by the Rolling Stones, Simon & Garfunkel, Jimi Hendrix, The Mamas & The Papas, etc. through the summer of '65. Then, one day a white-label promo copy ABC-Dunhill Record arrived. It was different from anything we, or anyone, were playing. Sure, Bob Dylan and others filled the traditional role of minstrel and folk singer, capturing the zeitgesit. But they got little airplay: their messages were cloaked in poetry and new musical sounds.

We put "Eve Of Destruction" on the air, tentatively, ready to pull it if it bombed or caused a stink. It did neither. The record shot up the charts in "Boss Angeles." Soon it is hit #1 worldwide on the BILLBOARD charts. Flash forward to the New Century. The song is not played on Oldies stations. Barry McGuire converted to Christianity in 1971, moved to New Zealand for a while in the 1980s and, last I heard, he's back in the U.S.A.

For anyone not familiar with the words that struck such a chord in 1965, here they are. I don't know about you, but to me, it seems as if little has changed. I only hope that come November 4 the kid from Waikiki is elected president. Maybe he can rewrite history's lyrics.

EVE OF DESTRUCTION

The Eastern world, it is exploding

Violence flarin', bullets loadin'

You're old enough to kill, but not for votin'

You don't believe in war, but what's that gun you're totin'

And even the Jordan River has bodies floattin'.

Don't you understand what I'm tryin' to say

Can't you feel the fears I'm feelin' today?

If the button is pushed, there's no runnin' away

There'll be no one to save, with the world in a grave,

Take a look around ya boy, it's bound to scare ya boy.

Yeah, my blood's so mad feels like coagulatin'

I'm sitting here just contemplatin'

I can't twist the truth, it knows no regulaton.

Handfrul of senators don't pass legislation

When human respect is disintegratin'

This whole crazy world is just too furstratin'.

And you tell me

Over and over and over again, my friend

Ah, you don't believe

We're on the eve of destruction.

NO MO MODEM

The Time-Warner cable system was down for a while and yesterday was too bizarre to describe. So here's another from my 1980s book BACK DOOR WAIKIKI. This was true desktop publishing, composed on Mackinnon Simpson's kitchen table in Waialae-Kahala. There were no JPGs or icons then, nothing online, just basic word processing. So we used what was available to represent little cameras. Cute eh?

SNAPSHOTS

[{@}]

Buildings shading

Shade trees.

Convulsing

Ocean breeze.

[{@}]

Will we get help

From bellboy or waiter

When we're trapped

In the elevator?

[{@}]

Where Lippy Espinda

Would fix your fender

Stands now the glass-sheathed

Century Center.

[{@}]

My friend "The Bull"

His trunk so full

Of boogie boards

For blundering hordes.

[{@}]

They've come to cover

The "Whaling Wall"

With yet another

Building tall.

[{@}]

Power failure.

Lights out.

On Banyan lanai

Canadians shout.

[{@}]

So Hawaiian

It makes you smile

Beach sidewalk

Of Mexican tile.

[{@}]

At Ala Wai firehouse

In the shade,

Industrial strength

Volleyball's played.

[{@}]

Diamond Head lighthouse

Boggles the eyes

Stars fall faster than dollars

Through black velvet skies.

[{@}]

Cruisin' around

On Waikiki Trolley

Riding a wave

Of Oo's, Ahs and "Golly!"

Something to cheer about: The WAC champion Fresno State Bulldogs are winners of the 2008 College World Series. Always there to give the UH Rainbow Warriors a rough time in all sports and the home of some NFL greats ... a shout out to California's San Joaquin Valley and the ultimate underdogs, Fresno State.

Noted on H-1 freeway: Hawaii Russia Tours van with Hawaii license plate RUSSIA.

Still fine: In spite of being named People's Choice Favorite Chinese Restaurant of the Year, Pah Ke's on Kamehameha highway is still ono-licious, although a bit more crowded.

MAHALO to the incredible Mihana, Hoku winner John Cruz and Hawaii's original Mr. Cool, Bob Shane, original member of the Kingston Trio for the moments, music and memories now streaming.

Well, 39 days to the first NFL "exhibiton" game, so thaz it. Gotta go reboot more da kine.

BOB SHANE & THE KINGSTON TRIO

In the mid-1950s, on the eve of statehood, which arrived in '59, for many of us the center of the universe was Kau Kau Korner. It was located at the start of the Waikiki strip, at Kapiolani Boulevard and Kalakaua Aveune. The latter is the main drag that runs along the ocean at Waikiki Beach. The place was built right at the start of World War II by entrepreneur "Sonny" Sunstrom. With its glass brick facade and map of the islands outlined in neon, the building was as modern as could be. It sat at a major intersection. Kapiolani ran to and from town; Kalakaua headed from there into the action and romance of Waikiki. 

Kau Kau's signature, which became world famous, was a large sign placed right at the corner of its parking lot. It was capped with a map of the globe and had signs beneath that showed the distance from that spot to major cities like L. A., New York, London, Berlin, Tokyo, Manila, Sydney, etc. It seemed like every person who served in the military here during those years was photographed under the "Kau Kau sign."

Families of sailors, soldiers, marines and airmen were likely to see pictures of their relative standing under the sign along with ones of him, Diamond Head in the background or surrounded by hula-hula girls. The drive-inn became, rightfully, known as "world famous." Its proprietor, Sunstrom, did not shy away from publicity. He drove around town in a new Cadillac convertible, when they first added tail fins to the rear fenders. The man actually lived on the second floor of his buzzing establishment. Sunstrom could leave his quarters and drop in on his business by sliding on a stainless steel slide that deposited him in the kitchen. (Hey, how I remember these details blows my own mind, but they are the stone truth as I know it and I feel obliged to note for pop cultural history.)

The place was open around the clock, a rarity in those days in the then-sleepy town of Honolulu. Waitresses, known as "car hops" (for our younger readers) were usually well-endowed girls with pretty faces. And the muscular legs and arms to traipse to and from cars while balancing metal trays piled with food. The metal trays attached to the driver's door at the top of the car window. Ah, those nickel-and-dime days . My earliest recollection is of five-cent coffee, hamburgers for a quarter and creamy milk shakes costing the same. Kau Kau attracted a democratic crowd. Shift workers from Kakaako shops, sales people from Fort Street, Waikiki hotel crews and assorted military personnel could all be found there, eating, smoking, hustling the car hops and playing the pinball machines. The drive-inn was torn down in 1960. It was replaced as Coco's coffee shop, which became the next Waikiki all night hangout. I ran into Marlon Brandon there, alone in a booth in 1961, on his way home from filming MUTINY ON THE BOUNTY. That was a thrill, talking to him for a while. Today, the spot is home to the Hard Rock Cafe. Few who go there are aware of its glitzy history.

Then there were "us guys." We were the local kids over 15, which was and is, the age when one can obtain a Hawaii driver's license. Mostly in our parents' cars, we would haunt Kau Kau, on weekends. We would hang out there, when "hang out" meant staying long, stretching out a cuppa coffee for an hour and looking cool. We were constantly on the lookout for girls, but no sane wahine would come near the place unless with a man or in a group. Older guys ("cats" as they were then called) owned their own cars. They were at the top rung of the parking lot hierarchy, planted in the front row. These superior beings could watch the action inside the restaurant--a semi-circle of Naugahyde booths ringed the counter area--and hold court over

inferiors parked on the fringe of the parking area.

Three public high schools were close by: McKinley, Kaimuki and Roosevelt. That comprised three quarters of the Interscholastic League of Honolulu back then. The other school, Farrington, was in Kalihi. It had its own version of Kau Kau, as did the "rural" schools.

The big private school was Punahou, up in Manoa valley, with its 76-acre campus and student body generally considered snooty by those without the pedigree or purse strings to attend. I went there from grades three through eight. Then I moved to the "real world" of Roosevelt, only a few blocks away on Nehoa Street, but light years apart in socioeconomic status. It was during the transitional period that I qualified as a J. D. (or juvenile delinquent) as we troublemakers were known. No staying home doing homework for us. We were at Kau Kau as often as possible, acting cocky and smoking cigarettes, which sold for 25-cents a pack in those days.

One of the Big Men at Kau Kau was a blond Punahou boy named Bobby Schoen. He was from a fifth-generation haole (Caucasian) family, of the type where attendance at the school, founded in 1841, was virtually mandatory. Bobby cared more about having a good time than making it to Stanford, Harvard or Yale, which was the expectation of all Punahou kids. He was in the class of 1953, two years ahead of me. A big tradition of the Buff'n'Blue (the schools colors and nickname of its sports teams) is the Junior Carnival. It was an annual big deal on this small island. A carnival midway, circus rides, book and plant sales and other activities drew crowds from all over Oahu. Alumni were recruited to staff the thing. The most prestigious gig was to work in the booth that made and sold malasadas, an insanely yummy Portuguese pastry, best described as a hot doughnut, but solid, no hole. (Tourist note: While on Oahu, try some at Leonard's Bakery on Kapahulu Avenue).

For the two nights of Carnival the junior class traditionally stages the Variety Show. It was there that Bobby Schoen first performed publicly, singing folk songs and playing his guitar. But he was a familiar face at Kau Kau. Bobby would sit atop the back seat of someone's flashy "ragtop" convertible and play Harry Belafonte songs, Hawaiian "chalangalang" party music or sing classmate Dave Guard's "Scotch & Soda". For his efforts Bob sometimes received a hot cup of coffee, or even a chili dog. 

Before long, Bobby drifted into Waikiki. The "hep" place for folk music was a joint called the Rathskeller, which catered to pre-hippies not interested in tourist-type Hawaiian music. The main man on the scene was the fantastic Stan Wilson. He was a handsome Calypso, folk and blues singer who came from San Francisco, which was the epicenter of all that in the dawn of the pop music revolution, a few years before the Beatles. Stan became Bobby's idol and mentor. Another influence was famous blues man, Josh White. From them, Bobby learned how to make his guitar sing. He picked up traditional American songs from generations past. He became an entertainer.

When it was time for college Bobby moved to Northern California, couldn't get into Stanford, so he enrolled at Menlo Junior College in Atherton. There he teamed up with that other Punahou 1953 grad, and musical visionary, Dave Guard and a mainland guy named Nick Reynolds. They became The Kingston Trio. Bobby streamlined his last name to Shane. Quickly they were performing in the North Beach area of San Francisco. They were discovered by a Capital Records talent scout and signed to a contract. This all happened faster than AMERICAN IDOL speed, all times and action being relative.

x

In 1958 I was program director at KPOA, a radio station located two mile down the road from Kau Kau Korner. I was 19, but it was the third station Tom Moffatt and I worked at together. Being out in the middle of the Pacific, we received records and trade magazines, and news in general, after the rest of the nation. But then, we got the word: The Kingston Trio had the Number One record in America! The song was "Tom Dooley." It became a hit on all three BILLBOARD charts and won the guys a Grammy. The Kingston Trio directly influenced young Brian Wilson, growing up in the L.A. suburb of Hawthorne, soon to start his own group, the Beach Boys. Their rhythms and harmonies were heard, in turn, by a Liverpool group called the Silver Beatles. Those guys would soon drop the first word and go on to make musical history as the one and only Beatles.

Interesting, huh, how things have a way of working out? Bob Shane is now retired, living in the Phoenix area. He and I got together on the phone last week to reminisce about Kau Kau Korner and what's happened since. We premier that conversation, along with some great music, today on WhodaguyHawaii.com.  Bob Shane and I hope you enjoy it. 

GEORGE CARLIN STORIES

I awoke at 2 o'clock yesterday morning.  CNN was on. Below the pictures scrolled news that George Carlin was dead. The man was (1) a longtime inspiration who, to my regret, I never bumped into during my Haolewood years and (2) one the handful of disc jockeys who had the talent, ambition and awareness to move on up the show biz ladder. (Once, during a stoned, all night hangout with actor Reni Santoni, he made the observation that, "Radio is one notch above juggling.")

In the 50s and 60s some deejays broke out of the radio circus and hit it big. The biggest of all was Johnny Carson. Dave Garroway, who worked here at KGU during the Korean War, was the original TODAY Show host. Rufus Thomas, Dick Clark, Johnny Otis, Wink Martindale, to name a few, began in the solitary confines of a radio booth. So did my buddy Michael C. Gwynne (right, see June 15, 2008 blog). I emailed Mike to send me an anecdote about the amazing Mr. Carlin. This came back from Mt. Kisco, New York:

 

Met him once at lunch in the 80s as he walked by a movie set I was working on in his Beverly Glen Canyon neighborhood.

He was walking his dog and saw the lunch set up on the street and came over to say hello to Corey Allen who was directing.

        I was touched he recognized me from something.

We chatted. His dog seemed to really like me.

Then Robert Wagner, also a neighbor, showed up with his dog and the two canines took an instant dislike to each other so lunch was over even tho I already given George's dog some of my steak, with his permission of course.

In 1972 I went to San Diego to program KGB Radio. I took the gig because it made me the highest paid PD in the country, and to learn about FM. Our thing was to be "progressive." KGB began a series of live, stereo broadcasts from a club called Funky Quarters. It was on El Cajon Boulevard, close by San Diego State. An Italian-Lebanese dude named Tony Habib ran the place. His sidekick, talent booker and bouncer was Paul Loria (below left). We all became friends. Funky Quarters showcased people like Jim Croce, Loggins & Messina, Jose Feliciano, Seals & Crofts and other musicians who would become stars in the 1970s. And George Carlin played there, three times.

He always sold out the place, SRO crowds. Carlin loved to rap and hang out. "He would stay after the show till four in the morning, telling stories to the help and anyone who was around," Paul recalls. "It was a laugh a minute." One time Paul closed down the place, shut the front door and found George Carlin on the sidewalk, kissing the building." Paul asked him why he was doing that. Carlin replied: "I left and thought about how much I dug this place. Best club I ever worked in. So I came back to kiss it and say thank you." 

When I talked to Paul last night he told me a story I guess I'd forgotten. Turns out that even though no one could stop Carlin from saying whatever was on his mind, I actually helped do so one night. It was on his second visit to Funky Quarters. I had a place on Maui at the time, upcountry on Piiholo Road in Makawao. Being gregarious and appreciating their efforts, I made friends with some of the botanists who were perfecting what came to be known as Maui Wowie. I was the rare outsider invited to their yearly "Grower's Conventions." These mad planters brought samples of their best product, passed them around and compared the effects of their work. At the end of the night everyone was plotzed out of their minds, stoned on the mightiest grass ever grown.

I received regular goodie-packs from Maui to keep me from missing home and enhance my offtime hours listening to the "far out" music we played on KGB-FM. I passed out pakalolo to a few friends, among them Paul and Tony. When they told me that Carlin was coming to town I provided them enough seedless super shit to make The Man as happy as he wanted to be. On opening night Paul rolled a fat joint of this paralyzing pot and passed it to Carlin. He smoked most of it and it was time to go on. "I don't know how he could walk," says Paul, "but he staggered out onto the stage. He got to the mike and then just stood there. Saying nothing. Staring out at the audience." Paul thought sure that Carlin was about to pass out from the effects of the cannibals he just consumed."

According to Paul this frozen moment lasted over a minute. Finally George Carlin spoke. "I'm so loaded I have no idea what I'm doing," he told the audience. Paul says, "Then he went into a wild, one hour stream-of-consciousness bit like Lenny Bruce that was the funniest thing I ever heard in my life." The people roared and gave Carlin a long standing ovation. Then he exited the stage and plunked himself into a chair. "Man," said George Carlin to those around him, "I was so loaded I forgot my act, couldn't remember a thing."

Not only was Carlin a brilliant humorist and a true man of the people, he was always dead honest. And no one could stop him from speaking what was on his mind. Or using his infamous "Seven Words." But for one night in Southern California a spliff from Maui froze his brains. The great growers of Haleakala, by way of a joint that passed through my hands, had managed to silence George Carlin, freak him out and make him forget where he was and what he was doing. That's as close as I ever got to the man. But I'm sure happy I had a part in warming his heart that time at Funky Quarters. We love you, George, and hope you're in the highest place of all.

THE ARENA

I am big on slogans, phrases and blurbs. Much of my time has been spent motivating people. Stimulating those in the biz, to draw attention to one of our enterprises. Or one-on-one, to people I'm giving advice, whether solicited or not. When I arrived in L.A. in 1965, the job was to get KHJ out of the gutter. And we indeed actually went from worst to first. In a field of over 40 stations in May, KHJ came out of the toilet to become the #1 station in "Boss Angeles" by October.

When I was assigned a cubicle called an office at 5515 Melrose Avenue, the small size meant nothing. I was there. It was my opportunity, the shot, that mattered. I was finally in the Big Game: time to put up or shut up. First thing I did was hang some stuff on the wall. I knew it was going to be a battle. Good to have some motivational material displayed in the bunker. I posted a copy of the L.A. radio ratings. In those days ratings were compiled by a company called C. E. Hooper. How unsophisticated they, compared with today's methods and resulting displays. Hooper hired people to call anyone listed in the phone book. "What radio station are you listening to?," they asked. The time of day and name of the station were noted and written down. That was it. There were no "demographics." No one knew what the word meant, back then.

Hooper issued three numbers for each station in a town, before they were called "markets." One was for alleged morning listening, from 7:00 am till noon. Afternoons were defined as from noon till 6 pm. Night time comprised 6 pm till midnight. The respondents' numbers were converted into an "Average Share (of 100%)" and that was how ad budgets and programming were determined. Period. 

I made a chart showing KHJ's average number. It was a 0.3. Which meant one-third of every 100 people in the area listened to the grinding, stiff 1940s-type programming the station was broadcasting. (I guess, considering KHJ was one of the nation's first stations, coming on in 1922, that could be considered "modern.") One program originated from the bedroom of Steve Allen and wife Jayne Meadows. Now, Steve Allen was and is one of my all-time major idols. But by '65, when the Beatles breakthrough was already a year old, a breakfast-in-bed show was a bit, uh, moldy.

As program director, one of my first assignments was to fire Michael Jackson. No, not that Michael Jackson. The perfomer-turned-Weird-Creature was all of six-years-old then. The elder Mr. Michael Jackson, was and is, one of radio's pioneer talk show hosts. The classy Brit simply moved to another L.A. station when released and was a major radio force there for years. (Rush Limbaugh was 14-years-old at the time Jackson was stylishly inventing two-way talk radio).

My Hooper chart showed the previous ratings and then, like a baseball scorecard, had blank slots for the next 12 months. Next I put up a picture of my mentor, guru and idol. When it came to drawing crowds and shining the spotlight on the object of his choice: Colonel Thomas A. Parker, the manager of Elvis, was in a class by himself. By being in the right place at the right time, something for which I thank God daily since it's happened so often, my buddy Tom Moffatt and I met Presley and Colonel in 1957. How we did it is indeed another story. A wild one, which I finally wrote and was published, first in a magazine, then online. But, that's another subject for another time.

The fact is that within 24 hours of meeting Colonel and his only client, the most amazing performer I've ever seen--and that includes a whole bunch over the years--Moffatt and I emceed Elvis' two shows in Honolulu Stadium, November 9, 1957. The biggest crowds ever in this then-territory (statehood was still two years away) went, as it was then called, Ape Shit. I witnessed mass hysteria. People turning berserk over a raw electric performance by a swinging cat in a gold lame jacket and his three backup musicians. Young girls going orgasmic in ways I never imagined. And the men and boys cheered as if their football team had come back to win at the final gun after being down three touchdowns going into the final quarter.

I'm always interested in process. The part of me that wasn't also rockin' like never before, studied the Colonel and how he ran the entire operation. Elvis was as spontaneous as any performer I've seen. But much of his show was a careful, oft-rehearsed drill, which was run as if Vince Lombardi was driving the great Green Bay Packer teams over-and-over through their basic plays, down to every movement and when it would  happen. No coincidence that the Pack destroyed their opponents in the first two Super Bowls ever played.

Our local NFL team served as a metaphor for what we were attempting. The 1964 Rams stunk. Soon a new coach with a new system was installed. They became winners and were playing for championships within two seasons. And the Lakers, Dodgers, USC Trojan and UCLA Bruin teams were not doing badly, either. My job perks allowed me to watch NBA playoff games from courtside, sit behind home plate during a World Series, attend a few Rose Bowls and see O. J. Simpson when his name was synonymous with grace, speed and elusiveness on the football field.

Most people don't realize--and why should they--that a radio station's "team" of deejays are never together at the same time, in the same place. When the all night man is sleeping the midday jock is on the air, etc. But we held DJ meetings every two weeks during my years there. KHJ had great swing men 0n my watch. When our meetings took place, usually around 10:oo am, in a wood-paneled conference room, the swing guy filled in on the air. The meetings were taped so that he could get a sense of both the information and the mood of the event.

The last item I posted on my office wall was something I remembered from long ago, first reading it in Punahou School's Cooke Library. To me, "Roosevelt" first was the president in office when I was born: Franklin D. Roosevelt. He was a deity to my parents and almost every adult I knew. Then there was Roosevelt High School, the mortal rival down Nehoa Street from Punahou's large, lush campus. When I finally shifted there from the "elite private school" (whose most famous grad currently is Barack Obama), I learned that the place was named after the 26th president of the United States, who preceded FDR and was his major role model. The public school's teams were called the Rough Riders. This I learned when history was taught seriously and the Internet was inconceivable, let alone available to instantly Google anything one needs to know.

I began at KHJ after coming off 30 days in Honolulu's Halawa Jail. Sounds dramatic but it was a now-ridiculous drug bust (possession of three milligrams of marijuana) on a federal charge, no less. But that, too, is another story. In Hollywood I was out to prove everything, to everyone. I remembered "Teddy" Roosevelt's exploits, especially his winning battles in the Spanish-American War. He was a Leader. He inspired his troops. And he was a winner. At the neighborhood library, off Sunset Boulevard, I found a copy of perhaps TR's most famous quotes. Copied it down. Back at the office I typed it in capital letters and tacked that sheet of paper to the wall, where it stayed during my four years there. 

The Hooper ratings turned into winning numbers in the fall of 1965 and remained on top. But whenever something seemingly tough, an "overwhelming obstacle" was tossed in our path, I read President Roosevelt's kickass words of wisdom, and came out of my office fighting. Here they are, from a speech that TR gave in Paris on April 23, 1910.

It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points our how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the great enthusiasm, the great devotions, who spends himself for a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory not defeat.

I didn't print that out and put it on the wall when we began WhodaguyHawaii last July. I know those words by heart now. I also know that they are the stone cold truth. So many mahalo to my pen pal over many years, Marc Schoenitzer in Northern California, for the email he sent. It reminds me of all my personal ups and downs. I've had a bunch of  both. Trust me, up is better.

SONGS I LIKE

Jesse Kalima

ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY is one of my faves since it mysteriously began to arrive about six months ago. Diablo Cody's column alone makes it worth reading, but all media are covered, subjectively with reviews and objectively with LISTS. I'm a Tabulation Junkie. The current E.W. double issue contains their lists of the top pop cultural people and things of the past 25 years. (The back page compresses a review going back to the beginning of time). Last night we put together some songs for a bed-ridden friend who loves Hawaiian music. Here, in no special order, are some songs that I never get tired of hearing:

• Ka Mamakakaua, Palani Vaughan
• Winds Of Waimanalo, Makapu'u Sand Band
• Kuu Lei Awapuhi, Hapa
• Days of My Youth, Kui Lee
• Mele O Kahoolawe, Olomana
• Kawohikukapolani, Makaha Sons
• More Love, More Power, David Kahiapo
• Kona Kai Opua, Richard Kauhi
• Toad Song, Keli'i Reichel
• Hoonanea, Willy K.
• United We Stand, Millicent Cummings
• We Are The Children, Country Comfort
• Just A Closer Walk With Thee, Melveen Leed
• Kamakani Kaili Aloha, Nathan Aweau
• The One They Call Hawaii, Pomai & Loeka 
• Ke Ala O Ka Rose, Peter Moon
• Only Good Times, Beamer Brothers
• Waimanalo Blues, Pierre Grill
• Friends, Cecilio & Kapono
• Hoonanea, Willy K.
• Kuu Ipo Ika Hee Pue One, Beamer Brothers
• Waikiki, Invitations
• Sweet Someone, Don Ho
• He Po Lani Makamae, Makaha Sons with Robi Kahakalau
• Three Canoes, Walter Keale
• Lei Pakalana, Jesse Kalima
• Hawaii 78, Israel Kamkawiwo'ole
• Island Music, Leon & Malia
• Kaula Ili, Moe Keale
• Shells, Surfers
• All Hawaii Stands Together, Dennis Pavao
• Kaulananapua, Cyrus Green & George Groves
• Come To Me Gently, Olomana
• EA, Sudden Rush
• Pauoa Liko Ka Lehua, Gabby Pahinui
• Sweet Someone, Invitations
• Ahi Wela, Raymond Kane
• Oh Akua, Ken Emerson
• Beyond The Rainbow/Aloha Oe, Don Ho

OK, there are "choke" omissions. I made the CDs for my friend. This is a totally personal and eclectic list. We have over 13,000 titles in the WDG collection. I interviewed all but two of these musicians and many of the composers. That means a lot to me. Some are classic songs performed by artists other than those associated with the original recordings. ROLLING STONE magazine once featured "Desert Island Lists," comprised of songs one would take along if stranded on a lonely island. I am on an island, not stranded. But these tunes would keep me in touch with the aina -- and that, after all, is what aloha is about.

WELL BRED, WELL FED

Like any good household with pets, the animals come first. The world's coolest dogs live here at Deborah and Cherry's. They are momma Ula and son Maui, seen here being fed one of their doggone gourmand meals. These two eat better than most humans. Certain Arab sheiks, George Clooney, Queen Elizabeth, Barbara Walters, John Madden and Kiara Cvitanovich probably dine better, if they wish. But here in Nanakuli, where the last of the manapua wagons cruise the hood, serving delicacies to sidewalk patrons, this pair of pooches knosh nonpareil.

Cherry's cooking is legendarily delicious amongst those who have chowed down his local specialties, chief of which is ox tail soup. And Debbie's cooking is not chopped liver (which is the one treat she can't make like my momma). On any given Sunday I might awaken to the aroma of bacon, rice or potatoes and the eggs cooked scrambled funky, the way I love them. When Cherry makes dinner he usually brings Deb a small dish of the sauce or gravy he's concocting about an hour before dinner is served. He often buys buns from the Filipino bakery down the road and serves them toasted with garlic butter. Hardly a knife is touched, everything is soft enough for even the highly toothless, like me.

The two doggies, who are always as quiet as an Indian tracker wait with biblical patience until it is time for their serving. It is always a bit of what we humans have consumed. But often it is a blend of chopped and sauteed meat freshly prepared just for them. These are dogs who do not yelp, yip or yap. They do not nip at knees or snarfle crotches. They enter and leave rooms on cue, as if on stage at the Globe Theater. If they piss or shit, they do so like some animated animals, who, of course, are never seen doing so and give off no vile aroma. If one of these dogs were Arab and the other a Jew, there would be peace in the Middle East.

I don't know how this came to be. And I ain't asking. They are just another part of my leeward Oahu getaway hideout, like the MasterCard commercials say: Priceless.

FROM THE NANAKULI BUREAU

Written on Debbie's Mac under the mango tree.

The idea to put together a studio with the ability to host live musicians and broadcast shows around the world on the Internet came to me in early 2007. (Details are in the Mission Statement, a sublink on the WhodaguyHawaii home page. Hope you read it sometime). I knew that this cause was of the highest priority:  To spread Hawaii's culture through its music--Paradise to the Planet--using the new technologies. Not IF you build it, but WHEN you build it, they indeed will come. The response to this project is a hot as anything I've been involved with.

This is a Polaword of what happens, production-wise during a busy day at our Kaneohe cottage/studio.  Yesterday was filled with behind-the-scenes activity, known as, "The rest of the story."  Not in school, which I dropped out of, but at my first paying job at age 18, I learned forever that: It is always about TEAMWORK. I thought it would be fun to list some of the soopah people I talked to or met up with yesterday,  A Day In A Once Boring Life:

Old morning deejay metabolism still functioning, I'm up at 4:00 a.m.  Talked to my buddy Allen Daviau (a five time Oscar nominee for shooting pictures like E.T., COLOR PURPLE, BUGSY, etc.) about his new gig. I am ragging him in an avuncular way about stayin' alive.

Another dear friend in L. A., with whom I go back the statehood year of 1959, is Rocky Gardiner. She's originally from New York,  but we met in the KPOI parking lot at 1701 Ala Wai watching a giant weather balloon unroll. (Don't ask). Rock took her interest in the stars to a career as an esteemed astrologist. She wrote a column in VOGUE for years but switched to the L. A. WEEKLY when she moved to Haolewood in the late 60s. If you check our WDG Credits page you will see Rock listed as our Official Astrologer.  She selected our 7/7/07 start date. I talk to Rock whenever events begin to freak me out, or for her glimpses into the future.  I spoke with her yesterday morning an hour after my Virgo moon came out of Mercury in retrograde--or something like that, OK? That explained why people from my past were popping up like mushrooms in cow pie during the past few weeks. Rock says things will be a bit more mellow and I am most certainly ready for that.

Then Ms. Millicent Cummings, bulging with child, dropped by on her way to town and then to Kauai. This is release weekend for ALTAR NATIVE, which, IMHO, is a CD masterpiece. She picked up the company videocam and we arranged for me to get some copies of the album to send to friends.  

Last week I jumped into the Pacific Ocean for the first time this century. Whee, it was fun, as I indicated in the SANDY BALLS blog. But portions of Kailua Beach remained in my right ear. As much as I love the land, that was driving me nuts, so I raced downtown to see the man for these matters, Dr. Gene Doo. I first went to him with a sore throat, bad thing for a deejay, back in 1976. Since then, besides his thriving practice with normal folks, Dr. Doo has become the man who treats the voices and ears of many of us who rely on those parts for a living. Dr. Doo still has all his hair and great sense of humor. He put a thing in my ear, I heard and felt high-pitched sucking, with some big rocks shooting by. "Looks like Kailua sand to me," said Dr. Doo. I left healed, with a few tubes of drops and an appointment to finish the job next week. 

I was blocks away from Millicent, by now at her shared Maunakea Street digs. She was on the sidewalk, this hugely hapai woman, doing an interview with Melissa Moniz of MIDWEEK, Oahu's most widely-read newspaper. On the sidewalk were the new CDs and wonderful posters. After six years, her CD baby is born. The human one looks like he's gonna arrive during some high note during one of mama's Kauai shows. 

Uncle Tom Moffatt called in from his car, on the ferry to Maui. He has a rare vinyl album by Stan Wilson, the first folk and calypso singer to arrive in Waikiki in the 1950s. I need a song or two from one of Stan's LPs to include in my phone interview with Bob Shane, founder of the Kingston Trio. I interviewed Bobby, by phone, at his house near Phoenix. We talked Old Days Kine and managed to get in the Hawaii origins of the Trio, a major influence in American music in the second half of the 20th Century. Moffatt left the LP with Dunbar Wakayama, founder of Audio Media, the studio where the pros work, and my friend forever, seemingly. Dig it: There is no turntable in this state of the art studio. Dunbar took the record to his Pearl City house. We discussed how he'll email some MP3 tracks to Kaneohe, so we can finish assembling the show. 

That job is done by Ed Kanoi (one of Mihana's Lip Smack Boyz). Ed was with me at KKUA before my daughter was born, and that is soon to be 32 years ago. Ed and I discussed upcoming shows and a newly arrived 750 GB drive, needed for backup. I also pestered him to have his girlfriend, who works at Verizon, get me the extra cell phone stuff I need using her discount.  Remember, I am Jewaiian. 

I spoke with Cyril Pahinui, a big Hoku winner and old friend. We've been trying to sync our schedules for months so Cyril can come play at da house. We also talked about young Peter Moon, Jr., who Cyril has taken under his wing. The legendary Peter Moon, one of Hawaii's most gifted and innovative musicians, has not been well. As I have on many of the shows, I say, "Hang in there bruddah Moon. We all love you and pray for your mana." Saint Teresa Bright dropped off a copy of her next CD, which I am dying to hear, here in Nanakuli. 

Owana Salazar called to confirm the date of her visit to da brah-cast studio, which is July 16. She, in turn, told me of a high-spirited wahine on Kauai, Kaiulani Huff, who is doing some Old School Hawaii Activism. Ms. Huff is camped on a beach, on which there are ancient Hawaiian anthropological treasures as well as spiritual artifacts. This place is scheduled to be turned into more ugly, cement condos. It appears I've found another cause to take up. Here we go again. Slack key master Cindy Combs, who was on Oahu for the Hokus, is heading back to Hanapepe, Kauai.  So we gossiped on the phone till it was time for her plane to depart. We all love Cindy. She is featured on the Hoku Review show with John Berger, now streaming from Kaneohe HQ. 

While driving and doing errands, I spoke with two of my best buddies, Mitch Fisher in L. A. and Paul (Sid The Soaker) Loria, in San Diego. Both are going through medical hassles. In each case, things were made worse by hospital mistakes when they checked out! Scary stuff. Makes you wonder who you can trust. Fortunately the guys, now back home and scheduled for second operations, the prognosis is good. 

I reached Honolulu Skylark, on the Big Island, just back from her chores at the Hokus. She is on the HARA board and also presented major awards. Sky is the first female announcer I invited to be on WDG. She accepted and that is why we present Instant Class and Flawless Hawaiian Pronunciation at the click of a button. She and I decided to correct the consistent omission of first year Hoku Na Hanohano winners from the list of previous recipients.  (I accepted one for the KKUA Radio HOME GROWN album project. And there were many important winners of the first Hokus ever, who for some reason have been purged from the records.  Or maybe just got lost and dey no like admit it We have a year to fix that). 

Besides talking with the folks above, I received a bunch of emails from people discovering our new MySpace, plus the usual incoming stuff. Paid the bills. Chowed down on leftover fried chicken, muffins and donuts (!) and managed to watch some videotaped TV.  HAHAHA,

Lakers! 

At noon I headed for the Nanakuli Hideaway, also known as Cherry's Kitchen.  Gotta decompress from this thrilling-but-draining week.  And to rekindle my dream as we prepare to head into Year Two. I can't say it enough: I am blessed to have such wonderful friends and supporters who pitch in, in so many ways, to Keep It Going.  IMUA, OHANA!

Sorry, no da kine fotos, I stay pau hana, li' dat.