NETFLIX: A TROUBLE NOT OF THEIR MAKING

I'm no Reed Hastings. I never, frankly, wanted to be president of anything. My thing is marketing and promotion. That, I've filled a life with, since my first day at work at age six. So that's 65 years now, and I still get all excited about a great marketing job.

The plethora of problems at Netflix have their roots in problems created by the movie business; and THEIR problems were created by the rush into user technologies instead of working to solve distribution and rights issues that would get the films out to the Netflixes of the world faster.

In the days of movies being only available on film, it was relatively simple to create a system in which movies were delivered on designated days of the week to the movie theatres, who showed them, and as audiences diminished, new ones took their place. The Marquees on the theatres were the notice that a picture was playing and the movie posters in their glass and steel cases advertised what was coming up. As people strolled through a downtown, they were informed of what's was new, and coming up. Their newspaper which everyone read religiously carried more than the news of the town, but also carried the movie listings, times, and sometimes the costs. When I started working it was a quarter. (I'm chuckling.)

In the music world, the vinyl disk so necessary for playing music at home, gave way to the tape cassette, so naturally we all had to forsake our turntables and replace them with a black box which played cassettes; and that then gave 'way to another black box which played CDS, which were deemed such a good idea, that the film, giving way to the VHS tape, then gave way to the DVD.

And that's where the big problem began. DVDs were marketed like the old phonograph records. "Rack Jobbers" as they were called, not only stocked the stores with CDs but with DVDs as well and while the market - we consumers - groused about the increase in price fro $4.95 for a long playing vinyl record and $9.99 to $17.99 for a CD, to a budget-bending $17.99 to $24.99 for a movie on DVD, caused us to pull back on keeping movies at home. You could hear the bar graphs shortening as fewer people actually bought CDs and DVDs.

So to counter that erosion in the marketplace, brilliant technoids like Netflix, and countless unlicensed distributors, began offering downloadable movies and music, and some, with acres of bandwidth capabilities, even offered to stream videos. And now the whole darned thing has gone to hell.

The once filthy-rich Netflix, for example, is now in starvation mode as far fewer people are taking the time to watch highly compressed video streams of movies on their computer monitors (the easy way) or by running still more wires around their house to connect Netflix and their digital televisions, or by caving in and spending the big bucks on various wireless means of downloading/watching films and, supposedly music.

I know from my own experience that when Netflix offered free streaming, I would watch a movie about 10 minutes and then shut it off. Either it looked like a 1930s flick because the compression was so lousy, or I realized I really wasn't as into the film as I had thought. And it was free, so who cared. Click! Gone. On to the next email.

The thing that's missing in all this is the experience of getting out of the house, going to a movie theatre, and making an event out of some popcorn (which could, of course be made at home), a soft drink (again, home refrigerators abound). Today, however, one watches a theatre film amid the glow of countless web pages on digital phones, tolerates the various rings, vibrations, buzzes, and other sounds those phones make - despite the plea/request/warning on the screen before the movie started. (It works as well as laws against using cell phones while driving...and we all know how well THAT works!)

I believe the movie studios are caught in a vice with theatres and the public on one side, and technological innovation on the other. And the vice is squeezing. But there is one thing that Netflix was never able to solve, and it is the reason I ultimately cancelled the service after becoming one of their first customers: The studios weren't releasing ALL their films on DVD. With heavy copyright restrictions, legal maneuvering, films that simply didn't make it in preview showings, and for a whole lot of other reasons, Netflix just couldn't get all the movies we wanted to watch.

Our "awaiting-release" queue grew so much, it was larger than our "in stock" movie list. So we dropped back to fewer movies at a time, one or two, since there was a growing list of films we did not care to see. But the waiting queue was the real trigger. Great films were unavailable EVEN TO REED HASTINGS f'God's sake! So when my wife and I realized we had seen everything worth seeing among the available movies, and couldn't get the ones held for ransom by the studios, we began considering the option of doing without the service. Rude to Mr. Hastings, to be sure, but a small monthly savings in our bank account which we probably eat-up in seeing films first-run in a real theatre.

I'm careful not to blame Netflix. They have been phenomenally reliable, good commercial citizens, and really, really good people. We know they wanted those not-yet-released films as badly as we did, but if the distributors/studios can't get Netflix the films, who can?

Our relationship with Netflix goes back so long that we participated in their focus groups early on, and I'm pretty certain a whole bunch of similar-minded people have done the same. But given the state of the economy as well as the fragmentation of the film/digital industry, I would imagine things are getting a little sweaty around the Netflix campus. But the fact remains: if you can't get the movies your customers want to see, what kind of service is that? We went out on a couple nights recently and saw Dolphin Tale and 50-50 and realized what fun it was to just be out together, AND we didn't have to wait 6 months for them to be available on Netflix.

I used to be involved in event marketing and production; Big sold-out-arena-type productions. So I know how important ticket sales are. (We never referred to tickets sold, they're called "asses in seats" in the roadie world.) With the economy the way it is, who, beside Lady Gaga, is selling out arenas these days? Everyone's pinching pennies and the film studios are squarely in that mix.

The theatres are also having a major dry spell. People don't stroll past them downtown any more because the movie houses are not there. They've moved to the shopping malls where, unfortunately, the crowds are diminishing at the entertainment centers because they're over shopping at Wal-Mart, and two hours in a movie theatre is neither on their schedule, nor in their budget. We saw the flick "50-50" with only 6 others in our local 150-seat theatre at the 1:00 p.m. showing, and there were 17 people attending a 3:00 p.m. show of "A Dolphin Tale" - two of the top movies currently running. Of course we saw them on weekdays, so I'm sure a few more people saw them at night.

A FARM STORY I WILL NEVER FORGET

When I was living in Turkey as a member of the great United States Naval detachment near the successful and growing city of Karamürsel, I would often sit in my barracks room which looked out across a field and the main road coming in from Yalova where the ferry terminal was. Beyond the road were the hills. Green in winter and spring, yellow, wheat-colored in the summer and fall. I would see ancient trucks occasionally driving the curvy dirt roads leading back into those hills where I knew farmers lived and worked growing everything from cattle to everything that tastes good about Turkish cuisine.

As I would observe the farm roads, occasionally passing by would be a donkey straining under the weight of a Turkish wife, her husband manning the whip and giving the animal its directions. Indespensible as asses are, they still need to be reminded of their jobs. It was hard work, I'm sure for those farmers, but the atmosphere they created was resolutely placid and respectible.

My good buddy, the late Jim Klipa, and I both spoke fluent Turkish, he better than I, and so we decided, on one day off that we'd walk up the road across the way and just see what the farmers were doing. We knew from all the Turks we'd met up to this time, that we would be quizzed about everything from how the U.S. congress operated, to what our president was up to (it had been Dwight D. Eisenhower when we left the U.S. in 1959, and it was John F. Kennedy when we returned in 1961.) And just as we had left the U.S. John Foster Dulles had been replaced by Christian Herter as Secretary of State, but the news was slow in arriving in Turkey. Consequently virtually the moment we stepped off the plane, curious Turks were asking us if we knew John Foster Dulles!

It was fascinating that Turks knew about our Secretary of State but didn't care much about who was president. Well, until Kennedy took office. They loved him. But years later, it hit me that really is IS the Secretary of State who represents U.S. interests overseas. Look at Hillary Clinton: hardly a week goes by she isn't somewhere in the world, shaking hands, greeting people, carrying the U.S. philosophy everywhere she goes. It is rare that our president takes such a trip. Consequently, throughout the world, our Secretary of State is the face of our government. And day after day, we military people in Turkey would find a friendly Turk sidling up to us asking after John Foster Dulles. And you know what? We filed that away, brought it home with us, and it made us care about our government a whole lot more and made us eager to vote when an election came around.

The hills and the city of Karamursel, just east of the U.S. Military Base which closed and was handed over to the Turkish military in 1976.

I don't have to think too hard to recapture the date we walked up into the rolling hills. It was Saturday, July 4th, 1959. Not only was it not a workday, but it was one of our most important holidays. As always when we were off base, we were in civilian attire, jeans, button-down-collared shirts, and tennis shoes. We said hello to the Air Force policeman at the gate and walked over to the dirt road, there was a friendly Turkish farmer (dostu bir Türk çiftçisine) and his esek (eh-shek - Donkey). "You are American askerinin" (soldiers)?" he asked - more a statement. Evet (Yes) we answered. And then Jim said, "Bugün özgür bir gün var." (we have the day off today). Instantly we were conversing and walking up the hill, the three of us and the esek. The conversation was bright and fun as most of our opportunities to speak Turkish were work related and involved the Turks working on our base, most of whom spoke at least some english.

I heard Jim blurt out, "Bugün bir Amerikan tatil!" (Today is an American holiday). "Biliyorum, dedi, 4 Temmuz" the farmer quickly replied, "I know! It is the 4th of July!" Now that impressed us! Further impressing us, he gave us his given name, Ersan. Finally! A Turk not named Mehmet!!

We came to a small dale or valley which was full of beautiful green trees and there was a bit of a breeze blowing from the Marmara Sea in a southerly direction and it looked like an event was going to take place. Near the large farm house and barn, trees grew in a rough circle and in the center tables were being set up bottles and dishes were being placed, and the Turkish women were, as usual, gabbing and laughing hysterically as they set the tables. The men, grouped together were smoking pipes and cigarettes and talking about farming, and things they had to accomplish.

Lying on the ground in the shade was what I thought, at first, was some sort of horse. But when it moved, I realized it was a dog! A HUGE dog of a size I had never seen - and I'm the son of a veterinarian! I learned his breed is called Kangal, and they are traditionally guard dogs of herds of other animals. They are also stern, and very businesslike, guards of their human owners. This, I found out when I approached him in my usually-wary way. His bark - and humongous teeth - caused me to jump back a few feet, until his owner came over to me and patted me on the back, telling the dog I was his friend, "Arkadas! Arkadas!" , which softened the dog's attitude, letting me pet him. The owner commanded, "Kadar!" (Up!), and before I could move I had two beefy legs on my shoulders and what seemed like a two-foot tongue licking my face! This "bekçi köpegi" (guard dog) remains the largest canine I have ever personally known. I am six foot three, and I was looking up into his large brown eyes. (modern day example at right.) Very soon, I also realized he probably weighed about 150 pounds or more, and that made me know that I would not want to startle a Kangal!

Somehow, though, I got him de-plastered from my shoulders. He probably outweighed my mere 150 pounds, and since he had been told I was a friend, he followed me around the rest of the day, even though I noticed that throughout the afternoon and evening he visited the sheep corrals regularly, just checking on his real charges. My pal Jim stayed away from the dog: his five foot three-inch frame was simply no match. (More about Kangals in America)

Seeing we had paid our respects to the dog, our friend Ersan, who had been hanging out with a small group of men, yelled to us, "Arkadaslar. Buraya gel ve bizimle konusun!" (Friends! Come over here and talk to us!) Immediately we were handed bottles of soothingly cold Efes bira (Efes beer) and the party began in earnest. It wasn't long until the zurna and ney players were sounding the traditional Turkish invitation for a group line dance, another Turk plucked an Oud (like our mandolin), and it all started. Jim and I, having no clue what to do, just followed along as the dance line grew and grew.

The foods were grand, the music - and the belly dancer - was like something out of a movie. Jim said to me, "You know. I could definitely get used to farming if this is what they do on their days off!" We knew they celebrated frequently because we could hear the Zurnas clearly, from our base perhaps a mile and a half away. Ersan was having quite a conversation with whom we took to be the senior farmer in the group, an older gentleman not unlike Fuat Pala in my previous blog below. A few minutes later the elder farmer approached us. He spoke softly, almost like a preacher, measuring his words carefully, "Ben nasil önemli bagimsizligini oldugunu biliyoruz. Türkiye bagimsizdir. Biz bundan gurur duyuyoruz!" Roughly translated, he had said, "I know how important independence is. Turkey is independent,too. We are proud of that!"

The depth of feeling Turks generate is simply astounding. I never tired of talking with Turks - which as in America - all speak the same language even though "Turks" as with Americans are of many differing backgrounds, and may speak as many as three other languages as well. There are Greeks, Armenians, Syrians, all sorts of people whose past generations moved nomadically throughout the areas east and south of the Black Sea including Georgians, Russians (who introduced the famous blue eyed Turks which will stun you should you ever see one), and of course there are Turkish citizens who came from the middle eastern countries and all over the northern Mediterranean. Just like America, everyone basically came from somewhere else originally.

This particular day brought a sacrificial lamb or two to the barbecues, and there were so many fruits and vegetables, and gallons of çay - Turkish black tea from up in Samsun and Trabzon areas along the temperate shores of the Black Sea. After dinner, trays upon trays of sticky, crispy baklava, cakes, and sweet candies were served, the music started up again. Our elder friend, got up and left the table and walked down the hill to the barn. We assumed nature had called!

But, in just a few minutes, the music stopped and the crowd of people gathered around our table. Jim and I stood up, thinking there was going to be a seance or something, and suddenly, up the hill from the barn came our elderly friend. But now he had two books under his arm, a blanket wrapped around him and he stopped as the crowd spread apart to allow him into the circle. He had a Turkish newspaper rolled up in his hand, which he lit with a match, and he held his "torch" high, with the books in his other arm, the blanket wrapped around his body, and yelled out in an attempt at english, "Hoppy Boortday Ameddicah!!" He held this Statue of Liberty pose while everyone applauded and whistled, and Jim and I were dumbstruck! I couldn't see through the tears...everything was a blur. I looked at Jim and he was red-eyed too. More telling: everyone else was emotional as well. I've never felt my country so appreciated.

By next Fourth of July, 2012, it will have been 53 years since that day in the hills near Karamürsel. And in that half century, I have met and befriended many, many Turks, while attending Turkish-American festivals, and have had business dealings with Turks. Each time I meet one of these proud, curious, enlightened people, my mind immediately returns to the Karamürsel hills where my boss, the Navy Commanding Officer, Captain James H. Fortune and I would occasionally sneak way to fish in the streams; and Jim Klipa and I hiked many times through the hills, never failing to meet up with someone who had been at the great "Happy Birthday America party." I had been permanently changed.

You see, if you go to Turkey, and you pay careful attention to the wonderful people, you will begin learning the rudiments of a deeper thought process. Their thorough comprehension of what human life is, well, it's almost spooky. Their curiosity is unending, their appreciation of their surroundingss is enormous, and I feel more complete for having confronted this new dimension.

I feel like I want to say a little more. I mentioned "the late" Jim Klipa above. Jim was a great friend I met the first day at TUSLOG Detachment 28, Karamursel, Turkey. He was brilliant and I looked up to him, because he had been in the Navy a year or more longer than I had, most of my time to that point spent in bootcamp, then on to Yeoman and Turkish language schools at Bainbridge, Maryland before flying out to Turkey.

Jim was one of the many sailors who helped raise money to support the Kocamustafapasa Orphanage in the Bomonti sector of Istanbul. It was run by the Catholic Little Sisters of the Poor who do needed work around the world, and so at our base radio station we had a fundraiser. Jim contributed to it financially, but also helped organize the presentation "ceremony" in Istanbul where we presented milk and blankets to not only the orphanage, but to a Little Sisters of the Poor-operated home for the elderly. As the picture at left shows, we arrived in force, and meeting the young people in the orphanage was thanks enough for us, but the scene was repeated at the old folks home, as well. It was front-page news in Istanbul that American Navy and Air Force men and women had raised that much money. (more about it here.)

Jim's two year tour in Turkey ended a bit before mine, and he was transferred to Washington, D. C. Several weeks later, I received my next duty station and it, too, would take me to Washington. Jim, a Navy Personnelman (administrator) was stationed at the Bureau of Naval Personnel, and I was being assigned to the office of the Chief of Naval Operations, Admiral Arleigh Burke. I was a Communications Technician A-Branch (administrator). The difference between Jim and I was merely levels of security clearances, nothing more.)

Not only was it a coincidence that he and I were stationed in D.C. but a further coincidence was that we were both living at Quarters K - a barracks and Naval schooling operation set between a confluence of several freeways in Arlington, Virginia with BuPers (Jim station) on one side, and the Pentagon (me) on the other. The third side of this triangle was Arlington Cemetery and the Army's Fort Myers. Jim had fallen deeply for a WAVE at Bureau of Naval Personnel (BuPers) and he and Wilma spent a lot of time together, and when they married I was frequently invited over to their apartment for wonderful dinners, or we'd all go to the concerts at the Watergate floating concert stage on the Potomac right behind the Lincoln Memorial.

SADNESS ENDS THE STORY

I got out of the Navy after my 4 years was up, but stayed in Washington because I had been working part time at a radio station there, and was taking courses at legendary broadcaster Alice Keith's National Academy of Broadcasting. After graduating, I flew back to California where I had a job waiting for me at a radio station in Oroville, California. But Jim and Wilma and I corresponded for many years. I tried many times to find them, but they had opted for lengthy careers in the Navy, so who knew - in the days before the Internet - where they were.

Then I got very bad news. I began using the "new" Internet to try to find Jim and Wilma. What I found was devastating. In mid to late 1996 Wilma was diagnosed with lung cancer. I can only imagine Jim's deep grief. He would have taken it very hard. Wilma's case was terminal and she passed away April 25 of 1997, and her cremated remains were inurned at the Garrison Forest Military Cemetery not far from their home in Reisterstown, Maryland. Jim must been left at sea by her death. I cannot imagine the depths to which he would have sunk because, frankly, I've never met two people so perfectly suited for each other, true partners, so hopelessly in love, and such kind and decent people who, when they looked into each others' eyes communicated deeply. Further researching, I found that Jim had died exactly one month later! I knew something was up with that. Too coincidental. My suspicions were proven out after I went through several months of bureaucratic wrangling, even telling a couple of fibs along the way, anything I could do to obtain a copy of Jim's death certificate and to learn the circumstances of his death; and it was my worst possible nightmare. In cold black letters: "Cause of Death: hanging/garage." My tears welled instantly, not so much because Jim had taken his life, but because I felt the great love story had its plot twisted, the latter pages of which were supposed to end the story but had been ripped out and replaced with an ugly finale.

I just know that Jim felt he wanted to be with Wilma. Because I knew Jim, I knew there was simply no value to a life without his sweet partner. They left at least one adult son whom I never knew, and I have never found whether there were other children.

An Epitaph upon Husband and Wife by Richard Crashaw TO these whom death again did wed This grave 's the second marriage-bed. For though the hand of Fate could force 'Twixt soul and body a divorce, It could not sever man and wife, Because they both lived but one life. Peace, good reader, do not weep; Peace, the lovers are asleep. They, sweet turtles, folded lie In the last knot that love could tie. Let them sleep, let them sleep on, Till the stormy night be gone, And the eternal morrow dawn; Then the curtains will be drawn, And they wake into a light Whose day shall never die in night.

Jim and Wilma always had "that magic" of being like one person, finishing each other's sentences, reading each other's thoughts, talking for hours over dinner. The little quick glances and smiles which spoke paragraphs about their mutual love and respect. In my eyes, it was perfection. And my personal belief is that, since they were both heavy smokers, it was cigarettes which spoiled it all.

Death and love can be forever. Fortunately, Jim and Wilma are buried side by side at Garrison Forest Military Cemetery in Owings Mills, Maryland.

When I tracked down all this information, I called a valuable and longtime friend in Baltimore, Dr. Dan Leahy whom we have known since he was a teenager. Dan is a Stanford graduate and is Professor of Biophysics & Biophysical Chemistry of Johns Hopkins Medical Research Center in Baltimore. He's a leading cancer researcher and so there was reticence, and even some forwardness in asking him if he would grant me a favor and take a drive - about 25 minutes west of Baltimore to the Garrison Forest Military Cemetery - and to find, then take a photo of, Jim and Wilma's common grave. So, the following weekend, Dan drove out, enjoying the ride through the countryside, found the grave and took the photo at left. I was conflicted over imposing on Dan's busy world, but he completely understood my need to wrap up this horrific chapter of my life devoted to my friends Jim and Wilma. So, thanks to Dan, at least some remnant of the Klipas lives on. Two of the nicest people I've ever known. Certainly the saddest possible story of two people whose desire to be together in love trumped all else.

MEET FUAT PALA: LAST OF THE GREAT TURKISH FARMERS

I believe Fuat Pala is my hero. No, I mean really! My father was a country veterinarian. I grew up being most comfortable around farmers, their families and their work, and their goodness. When I went to Turkey, I had the joy of being stationed right in the center of the farming community along the south shore of the Sea of Marmara, about a 4 hour ferry trip south and east of Istanbul. My Turkish friends were far from the education elite, but were wonderfully hospitable, friendly, down-to-earth, realistic people. Farmers. My type of people.

I have translated this article (badly since my fluency in Turkish left me rather quickly when I returned home from my military service in Turkey in 1959). But the underlying message, I believe, comes through clearly. It was in Turkey that I learned how, even without formal education, farmers are the most intelligent people I have ever met. This story, from my great friend in Ankara, Mehmet Ekizoglu, via the Nature Club of Kusadasi, Turkey, really nails it. I knew many "Fuad Palas" in my time in Turkey. He tells their story.

Fuat Pala is 67 years old. He lives near Kusadasi, Turkey and is a regular at the colorful Tuesday and Friday markets there. Thousands of people shop in markets, but it is interesting how many are able to see Fuat in his local costume for the first time. People think Fuat is being cunning, knowing his costume draws attention. But it is the way he has always dressed.

His space is a small bench in the marketplace, and his products are seasonal. Many believe he's a man selling products in a costume, but they don't know how hard he works at his life's trade.

He was born, and still lives, away from Kusadasi in a village called Gökçealan. He entered school in 1950 and left the same year. He became his parents' shepherd, and after military service, he became a farmer.

By his own effort, Fuat purchased 2 acres of land and began working it. The land in the Kusadasi region is the most fertile and the area grows beans, peppers, eggplant, okra, tomatoes, watermelons (you can't BELIEVE how good Turkish watermelons are - both the red and the seedless yellow varieties!)

"I am what I am," says Fuat, "Earth is essential to humanity. The soil is alive for me. We get many nutrients from the soil and mother earth always gives birth to blessings." He continues, "People harm the earth, poisoning it." He adds that he feels agriculture is becoming impossible with so much pollution. It is harmful, kills birds, and vegetable eaters often don't really know what dangers lurk in the soil their products are grown in.

He says people feel the natural products he sells are a bit more expensive, but those who know how he grows his products without modern day "medicinal pollution" being added, thoroughly natural products cost more to raise. And as far as his dress, it is the way it has always been. "My father dressed this way, so I dress this say," he says, noting that dress is adjusted according to the seasonal heat.

Köyümle us an hour from his field by horse. "My only vehicle," he adds, "I feed her, I reward her every time she is good to me." Friends to the end.

Fuat enjoys the "portable movies" that come to the villages and he prefers the larger cinemascope films and the Anatolian heroes he can emulate.

Pala wears Efe (gentleman) dress, which "keeps the soul alive."

"Be so kind as to attend school," Fuat says, "Education is very important. BUT school education is not all there is to "life". "Life is good," he says, adding "but my advise is: do not drink."

Living near a tourism fifteen minutes from a city like Kusadasi, his life is contemporary, but his costume is traditional. He continues to farm his two acres of land, educating people about growing natural products, and enjoying the pleasure of living in a dignified manner.

While many of Fuat's peers enjoy retirement, he says he cannot imagine a whole world away from the riches of he and his wife's environment. With no formal education, he is very smart. Smart enough to know that growing things without chemicals which adversely affect the environment and human health, and enjoying life as honorable and honest people, Fuat Pala feels he is living up to his responsibility.

HANG ON TO YOUR ROOTS. IT'S GOOD FOR YOU!

OK, read my life page (Click Here) and you'll learn about how after doing a dismal job of becoming a gymnast while I was slogging through four years at Menlo-Atherton High School, I fell back into the sport while deeply into my 30s. Deeply! It happened because I met Ray Lorenz (now Ray Bright and it's too long a story).

I was program director of KPAY AM & FM in Chico, California after having slogged through four years in the U.S. Navy post high school, and 4 or 5 years as a disc jockey and program director of a little station in Oroville, California 30 minutes south of Chico. I also did a daily 4 or 5 hour radio show, for a long stretch in the mornings until I found a (rare) disc jockey willing to get up at 4:30 a.m. every day and was an inventive, talented, blabbermouth and wanted to be a morning man. It is, after all, the prized radio audience, but I had been challenged to beef up the mid-day ratings, as well, so I took over the mid-day slot. It was a great time slot: ooze into the station around 9:00, get a little paperwork done, play some of the new records coming in, grab a bite late morning, do my 10:00 to 2:00 show, do a bit more work and go home. Perfect.

Most people never question this, but I have wondered for decades why the popular sports are all played with a ball. My sport was gymnastics until I grew to the point my reach exceeded the height of a horizontal bar or a set of parallel bars, so I had to compete with bent knees - which is a deduction each time you bend them. So it was not a lengthy career. Couple of weeks. I was crazed about trampoline and tumbling, however. Pommel Horse? Not so much. Vaulting? Meh. But my own attention to this non-ball sport made me realize that FBBS were the big sports at Chico State (Football, Basketball, Baseball, Swimming). I wondered if they did gymnastics there. So I consulted the sports directory and sure enough found Ray's telephone number, called him up and asked if he'd like to do a radio interview during the noon hour on my show. He said he would, but he'd like me to visit a workout session first. Ideal for me, as it would stimulate the questions I would need to ask to even sound reasonably intelligent. (Keep in mind, this was about 20 years post-high-school.) It turns out that Ray and I have nearly identical personalities. We don't ask why, we ask why-not. The way he publicized gymnastics was to have the whole team go through the crowd at the local swimming hole in Chico and hand out flyers which told me he had a novel approach and that is step one in drawing a crowd. So then I attended a competition. It was winter by then and the gym was cold. The audience consisted of about 35 people and me. But after about the 5th meet, I realized these 35 people were the most loyal of fans and we all started to know each other's first names.

I was getting to know Ray a bit better, and he'd been on my show a couple of times as it is his nature to be funny, yet informative, hence the ideal interviewee. I noticed we were getting phone calls, and of course we were plugging the next meet. Ticket prices were harmless (I believe it was something like $2.00) and the mid to late 1970s were the free-for-all years following the hippie '60s, so people were pre-programmed to try new things, so we offered them gymnastics. My day got shifted. I was going in to work much earlier in the morning, still doing the noontime radio show, but I was getting out of the station by at least 3:00 and dropping in on workouts at the University where Ray and his team were extraordinarily patient in teaching me the ropes of the "modern" sport, and answered every question with demonstrations. It was awesome to become informed enough to know what moves to watch for in that week's competition. The one thing I thought burdened the competitions was that the announcing was brief...name only...who's up next and that was it. "Ray," I said as I sidled up to the coach, "You're never gonna get people in this place if you don't tell them how the game is played. Why doesn't your announcer give more information to let the audience in on the big secret." "Will you do it?" he countered. "Well..." I really didn't WANT to do it. I didn't know enough about the sport to be even reasonably intelligent. "Naa," I said, "I don't want to do it, but with Baseball, Basketball and other big-crowd sports, the audiences don't need to be told what's happening because they've all played those sports in school. Nobody has done..."

"Gymnastics," Ray said, ending my sentence and nodding his head "yes".

OK. So now I had homework. Teacher that he is, he wanted ALL my questions, written down if possible so I wouldn't forget what they were, and we'd have "class" each day for a month. THEN I would become the announcer. Aargh!

Well it all worked out, and as the announcer, I became a teacher as well as scorekeeper. In the course of the accelerated learning schedule, I got to know the personalities of the team members, and that could enter into my comments as well. It got to be like a party, and the crowd numbers began to rise.

I noticed one young lady always came in just before a meet started, would walk three steps up into the right hand bleachers, would position her pillow just so, would sit down and never missed a single move. Meet after Meet she was there, all alone, enjoying the competitions immensely and even supporting the home team with a yell now and then.

One day, while visiting a commercial client, a womens' store, I found the mystery fan. She was organizing clothes on the racks in the store. I ran back to Jeannie Posey, co-owner of the Posey Fair store, and said, "Who's that out front?" "C'mon," she said, dragging me by the hand up the aisle. "Kathleen, this is Jan Claire. Jan, this is Kathleen." You know how shy girls will sometimes stare at the floor in situations like that. She did. I was in the throes of PDT (Post Divorce Trauma) and was NOT looking for a relationship. But she was a sweetheart. We became good friends, and she's been my wife now for 34 years.

Last month, February, 2011, I set about contacting all those team members and the coach and even a couple of the women's "Gymcats" from Chico State. I'm proud to say we now have an active mail-list going, many are on my Facebook page, and it is more than a pleasure to have everyone talking to each other again. Even the coach, now retired, but Karaoking his way to stardom in south Florida, is in touch daily. This is what dreams are made of: that your past will ride right along with you as you age.

So hitch up your old friends, get back in touch, and enjoy the comfort of bringing past pals along with you into the future. It's well worth it!

IT IS ONE WORLD AND WE ARE ALL PASSENGERS

Humans are tribal by nature. Most of us have our immediate tribe we call "Family", and we have the extended-family tribe, some of us even have work tribes, play tribes, school tribes and others we belong to. The reason, of course, is that humans biologically need interaction, and in this respect, we are not much different from our animal friends.

I have always been tuned into my tribal nature even to the extent that I have always felt sorry that I had a dog as a pet, or a cat, who, themselves, are tribal by nature and yet I prevent them from their natural gene-given enjoyment of others of their kind. When you think about it, there really are very few animals which prefer solitude.

It is my tribal nature that is the root of my interest in other tribes. When I left the comfort of my family and school tribes and joined the U.S. Navy tribe, I was subjected, instantly, to a new and strange culture. But very quickly I learned their "language" and became friendly with the tribe's natives as well as my fellow newcomers. I did well in the Navy because of my natural curiosity. Somehow I developed an open mind which accepted new tribal members easily, finding similarities and respecting differences. Heck, I had people in my new tribe, just as in my High School tribe, and even in my family tribe, who were Mexican, Portuguese, French, British, all sorts of members who had come from other tribes.

But it wasn't until my plane landed in April of 1959, at Yesilkoy Airport in Istanbul, 6,433 miles from my home tribe, that I was confronted with being among tribal members I knew nothing about, and faced with that one really only has two choices: recede from the unfamiliar, or join in the fun. Fortunately for me, I chose the latter. And my years in Turkey were, indeed, fun. As I quickly learned 52 years ago, the human family is generally warm and welcoming, given a fair chance and some understanding.

My Turks - and I have many of their tribe now in my tribe, fast friends whom I will never forsake - have bequeathed to me so much understanding and passion for their tribe that it opened my mind to other tribes. In fact, my wife caught on to this, and we now have great friends among three groups that are not traditionally friendly with each other. We have some wonderful Greek friends. Greeks and Turks have always had friction. Well, come to think of it, I'm not sure about what very early Greeks and Turks were like, but for the last 5,000 years, anyway, they've had their frictional moments. We also have some Armenian friends. In fact I buy my Turkish black tea from an Armenian grocer an hour away down in the valley. It's the real tea, fresh from the hillsides of Trabzon, Turkey.

I will say, I feel badly that these wonderful folks have to carry around the burden of ancient past history. It often makes me think that by those same reasons Greeks, Armenians and Turks don't get along that I should, therefore, probably be permanently irritated with American Indians, and perhaps French fur traders, and even, oh my! Canadians, eh? But I'm not. It's ok if they wish to be irritated with me - although I should caution them that their irritation should be tempered by the fact that my family has been in the United States since 142 years before it became the United States, when William Short I landed at Cabin Point on the James River in what later became Virginia, in the year 1634! The family members he spawned fought in the Revolutionary War, the Civil War, the Spanish-American War and all the wars to this date. Our tribe has a whole lot of people we could be royally pissed about.

Negativity is a disease. If you want to carry the disease around with you, it will grow worse over time. Or you can take a pill and get over it.

My personal pill is in a little bottle I've carried around with me as long as I can remember. The bottle is labeled "Understanding". My regular dose of Understanding helps me realize that everyone deserves a chance, and that the people I know today are not to blame for anything that happened before they were old enough to do something about whatever ailment affects them. The other nice thing about taking Understanding, is that the daily pill makes me immune to the problems suffered by my friends.

When I visit my Greek friends, they know I lived in Turkey and they know I have Turkish friends, but they also know I have nothing against them, so we get along beautifully. My Turkish friends also know that I understand at least 5,000 years of their peoples' history and I have nothing against them either. My wonderful Armenian friend knows this too. There is a "your burden isn't my burden" ingredient in my pill bottle. That's sports, folks.

Oh! Sports! A career in which I met even more people - whole teams of people from China, Canada, Russia, Germany, Italy, France, Cuba, Brazil, Australia...well, if there's a country on earth that has a national gymnastics or figure skating team, I have friends there. We've met.

It is a great ride, going 'round and 'round on Good Ship Earth, and as much as you love your family tribe, there are so many others you could be sharing your love with. Go ahead. Don't just go around for the ride. Bring a friend along.

THE ELEPHANT SANCTUARY...BECAUSE SOMEBODY CARES

We've all been to circuses and zoos where elephants are one of the main attractions. They have entertained us for centuries, once trained through grueling days and months of being beat on, and treated unkindly, and we've paid admissions to see the result.

Fortunately, animal scientists have found that elephants have feelings too, and that perhaps we've been wrong in treating them badly in order to stand on their hind legs and do tricks for us.

If you have been around elephants as much as I have - as the son of a veterinarian who was frequently called to the San Francisco zoo to consult on various animal affairs - you would have a closer attachment to these magnificent beasts. They are precious giants with the attitudes of a princely nature. We've all read the stories of what has been done with elephants whose entertainment careers were ended. Stored in sheds barely sizable to fit them, iron bars blocking their every move, put on trailers and hauled from shopping mall to shopping mall while the owner made money on their misfortune.

Finally someone - with a huge heart - realized that elephants should enjoy their retirement and a place was found with lots of acreage, a mild climate, and supporters who realize that elephants would be happiest if left alone, with their own kind.

That would be the phenomenal Elephant Sanctuary in Hohenwald, Tennessee. But don't start buckling your boots and planning on heading out there to visit with the elephants. They're retired. Humans not invited. The whole object is to let them get back to the nature which drives them, a roll in some first class dust, a swim in a muddy pond with friends, eating sweet Tennessee grasses, being able to choose their own friends. Small payback for the tortures they endured, and fitting payback to be able to loll and talk to friends.

The elephants at the Hohenwald sanctuary only see humans at feeding time, or when an illness is suspected. Minimal human contact allows them to relieve the stresses humans have subjected them to in the past. Look at the "Elecams" which give us a look into their private lives without disturbance. Or learn, as Oprah Winfrey featured on her show, about Tarra and Bella, CBS TV's Steve Hartman's paean to the unusual friendship formed by an elephant and... a dog! These two are so popular there's even a Tara and Bella giftshop!

If you feel strongly enough, perhaps you could find a way to send a check to the Elephant Sanctuary. For $30 you can feed Lottie, Minnie, Ronnie, Debbie, Frieda, Liz, Billie, Tarra, Shirley, Sissy, Winkie, Dulary, Misty, Tange or Flora. You could also donate in memory of elephants who have passed on "In Barbara's, Lota's, Tina's, Jenny's, Queenie's, Zula's, Bunny's or Delhi's Memory." for one day or, for $60 you can feed two of them; or for $540 you can feed all seventeen for a day. Or you may choose to feed one elephant for several days. However you can help, you'll never know how grand you'll feel until you've done it. And any day you look in on the Elecams you'll have your reason for supporting "the girls" affirmed.



Learn more about Elephants.

NOVEMBER 30, THE DVD RELEASE: "THE BOYS"
One Movie You Will Want to Keep Forever

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I use Facebook to keep up to the minute on the activities of friends, and lately the excitement has peaked with the forthcoming release of "The Boys" - a movie not to be missed and on DVD November 30. Two of those Facebook Friends are cousins, whose fathers are among the most musical and amazing talents ever. Should you see either of the brothers on the street, they probably wouldn't warrant a second glance. Yet much of what we have enjoyed through our lives came from their creative minds. One wrote the music while living in London, the other wrote the lyrics in Los Angeles, sometimes they switched writing roles, but, even though physically doing their work on different continents, their unforgettable, unstoppable, treasured music, woven into the fabric of countless Walt Disney films, has stayed in our hearts! Think about how many Disney songs you know the words to and they most likely came from The Boys:

After a plethora of Academy Awards, Annie Awards, Golden Globes, Grammies, Songwriters Hall of Fame, Variety Club, Walk of Fame stars and the National Medal of Arts, we may not know the names Richard and Robert Sherman, but we certainly know their music. If you've ever been thoroughly infected with the tune, "It's a Small World" you know, after singing it in your mind the rest of that day or longer, that you've been hit by Shermanosis! It's that thing that keeps a song in your mind for hours, days, weeks.

C'mon now: your life wasn't complete until you had memorized the words to "Supercalifragilisticexpialidocius" or "Chim Chim Cher-ee" from Mary Poppins. What about "In the Tiki Tiki Tiki Tiki Tiki Room" from Disneyland's Enchanted Tiki Room? And thanks to the film releasing Monday, November 30, you'll get a chance to learn about these heroes of the silver screen and their contribution to the world's musical lexicon. Richard and Robert Sherman. The Boys - which happens to be the name of the movie.

Now, at long last, we'll be able to recognize them on the street and give them our thanks for their stunning contribution to American and world culture. There lives, as depicted in the film, were not as simple and Disneyesque as one might imagine, and the credit belongs to Gregg and Jeffrey Sherman, the sons who made the movie. You get the truth, full-on, just as things happened, and you walk out of the theatre feeling as if you just passed that physics test you knew you would fail.

Richard's son, Gregg, and Robert's son, Jeffrey, using their great personal knowledge of their fathers' combined career with Disney, have created a tribute film which is second to none in finally exposing the two men most responsible for you and I knowing how to sing Disney songs. They've become more than songs. They're carols by nature of their belovedness.

Watch a bit about them here, but you will want your own copy of the movie. It is truly a treasure. And about two treasured people.

When Jerry A. Ranger and I wrote the stage musical "Off Shore," Richard Sherman was there to help. Kind words of advice, clever ideas for lyrics, Jerry was in heaven. "How can I help?" Richard had offered. No credit. Nothing wanted, other than the opportunity to be of service.

Richard sat at a piano in the Disney Concert Hall in Los Angeles and wowed a standing room only crowd merely by playing and singing a few Disney favorites. The room reeked with belovedness. Well deserved. This is the magic of these two guys resulting from the magic they created musically in all those magical films we've all watched since childhood.

Congratulations Jeff and Gregg. Your filmed tribute to your dads is top notch, thrilling to own, and will never be forgotten!

More about Robert B. Sherman
More about Richard M. Sherman
More about the film The Boys
Buy the movie HERE

NOTE: Opinions expressed on this website are those of its author. Since he writes merely to get things off his chest, he may, or may not, make requested corrections, but you are most certainly welcome to point out where they are needed...and where he might need some additional education on a topic after you've considered that he is, after all, a native Californian and, therefore, subject to wild whim swings. Just click on "Send Me a Note" which appears below if you feel the need to fire away.