Month: February 1997

2/28/1997

It is a strange group that hangs at The Palm in Los Angeles every Sunday night.  It started as just a dinner several years ago, but has grown to almost mythical proportions since then.  It’s still just a dinner, but food serves more as a backdrop for the chatter that surrounds it.  You see, these “gatherings” now serve a much higher purpose.  We join together to dissect, discuss and define the radio and record business as we perceive it during any given week.

Okay, so you see through my subterfuge?  We hang out to bitch and complain…and most of all, to criticize those who aren’t at the round table!

Last week it was particularly invigorating.  Usually, one or two stories run through the table that everyone finds amusing.  Or at least everyone pretends to laugh.  There is a lot of pretending done.  Let’s face it…this dinner takes place in Hollywood.  But last Sunday night, following in the footsteps of Star Wars, there were three stories that all felt worthy of sharing…call it Network 40’s Trilogy, if you will.

Anyhow, the stories are much too long for Page 6, but I thought they would be of interest here.  I could be wrong.  You decide.

The first one, entitled “Car Wars,” is pure power Hollywood.  The head of a record company had to visit a movie studio for a high-level meeting.  The studio has two parking lots:  Lot A is close to the offices; Lot B is perhaps 50 yards further away.  The record executive’s assistant was told by the movie public relations person that parking would be provided in Lot B.  The assistant, knowing the parking layout, questioned the procedure.

“Why can’t she park in Lot A?” she asked.

“We’re doing something with the Vice President that day and he’s using Lot A,” answered the PR person.

“Well,” said the assistant with hesitation, “I’m going to have to pull rank on you.  You’re talking about a vice president and I’m talking about a CEO.  She should park in Lot A.”

The PR person replied, “I’m not talking about a vice president, I’m talking about the Vice President.”

Needless to say, Vice President Al Gore got the preferred parking!

The second, “The Internet Strikes Back,” involves a certain regional promotion person from the South.  We shouldn’t mention either the promotion person’s name nor identify the record company, but the initials are in the following:  DMAWC.  You figure it out.

Anyhow, this extremely intelligent individual who works so hard that he has no time for anything else was (shock) cruising the Internet not long ago.  Of course this guy was only searching for ways to improve his promotional skills.

Somehow, totally unknown to him, he was switched from “Sale Techniques” to “Sex.”  Imagine that.  Soon, our fine, upstanding friend found a website called “Sexygirls.com.”  This website boasted uncensored, hardcore pornography at, get this, absolutely no cost.

Free porn on the Internet?  Our hero was intrigued.  He logged on.  The site informed him that to see “Nekkit Women,” his machine had to be reconfigured and suggested he click on a particular icon.  Our hero complied and sure enough, he was soon looking at uncensored, hardcore porn.

For educational purposes only.

As a good promotion person, he quickly called his boss to share his good fortune.  This was better than an add!  The boss had the company computer expert check out the site.  It seems that when you click on the icon, the website automatically disconnects you from the Internet and reconnects you through a 900 number that charges $3 a minute!

Our humble hero got the bill yesterday.  $960.  He says he fell asleep.

Sure.

The third in the trilogy, “Return of the Bad Guy,” involves me.

I had been getting calls and letters from a guy named Bobby Ocean.  Now, the real Bobby Ocean is an old and dear friend of mine, someone I’ve known for years.  We worked together in several different markets and he’s one of my favorite people.

I hadn’t talked with Bobby in a long time and when my assistant told me he was on the phone, I picked it up excitedly.

My excitement immediately turned to boredom as I listened to a dweeb who called himself “Bobby Ocean” tell me all about his limited career and even-more-limited success.  He then proceeded to rail on me about giving him a job.  I got off the phone as quickly as I could.

Well, this guy was relentless.  He sent packages.  He sent emails.  He sent gifts.  He was sending me around the bend.

My assistant buzzed me last week and told me Bobby Ocean was on the phone.  I made my assistant get back on the phone and make sure it was the “real” Bobby Ocean from San Francisco.  Assured, she put the call through.

I picked up the receiver and said, “Ocean, I’m sorry to put you through all this hassle, but there’s this loser who’s using your name, who’s been bugging the hell out of me.  He keeps sending me stuff and calling constantly.  I can’t get away from him.  That’s why I had to make sure it was you and not the jerk.”

There was a slight pause, then the voice said, “Gerry I am that jerk.”

For one of the few times in my life, I was speechless.  When I could finally talk, I said, “I’m sorry, I have to go.”

I could continue this editorial, but I feel some jerks are reading it.

So, I have to go.

Now, aren’t you glad you aren’t at The Palm on Sunday?

2/21/1997

What are you giving up for Lent?”

It was a strange question.  One I hadn’t heard since my childhood.  Stranger still was from whence it came.

Her name was Lola…she was a dancer.

Okay.  Her name wasn’t Lola.  And although she worked at an exotic dance club called the Pink Pussycat, she insisted that she wasn’t a dancer.  In her own description, she was a teller of tales…a spinner of sagas…a filler of fantasies.

Whatever.

I have seen her work and you can trust me on this one:  She is a storyteller of epic proportions.

I woke up rough that morning.  My mouth felt as if it had been stuffed with dusty cotton…lips pasted together with that white glue that mysteriously appears in the middle of the night…a swollen tongue that tasted like the bottom of an ashtray in a Peterbilt cab after a coast-to-coast run.

Ashtray…how apropos.  It was the day after Fat Tuesday.  Ash Wednesday.

Now, Fat Tuesday had merely been the strawberry on the sundae of a month of total and complete debauchery.  The 30 days of celebration, culminating with Mardi Gras, that directly precedes Lent can only be fully understood by a good Catholic, preferably from the South.  Although what a good Catholic gives up for Lent is what it’s all about, somewhere along the way, the degree to which one parties preceding the loss of a particularly evil sinful act makes the season of Lent all the more important.

I had, however, one problem.  I was neither good nor Catholic.  But I am a true son of the South and I certainly know how to party.  The fact that this particular party happened to coincide with the period just before Lent was strictly coincidental.

But I was game.  Besides, she had asked.  It was, indeed, the only thing she had asked of me since we had met.  And I felt I owed her an answer.  Particularly since I had asked a good bit more from her.  And she had given.  Happily.  Without hesitation.  With vigor.

“Have you ever been to New Orleans?”  I answered her question with one of my own.

“What has that got to do with Lent?”

Hmm.  She was not going to be easily put off.

“They’re real good about giving things up down there,” I said, finally giving her an answer.  Kind of.

“Tell me about it.”

“There’s a Gavin Convention going on,” I said, trying to sound excited.  “A bunch of radio and record people will be running through the French Quarter at all hours of the night.”

She popped her gum loudly.  “And?”

“And there will be a bunch of panels.”

She leaned back and blew the hair out of her eyes. “Panels?”

“Yeah,” I nodded.  “Different people will sit and discuss different topics for what seems like hours.  The audience will nod off…those who don’t leave…and after each is over, everyone will tell everyone else how boring everything is.”

She closed her eyes.  “I hate this Gavin Convention.”

“There will be some bands playing,” I tried weakly.

I thought I heard a snore.

“Of course,” I stammered, “we could drive to Palm Springs.”

She was in the car before I could find my toothbrush.

Ordinarily, Palm Springs is rather ordinary.  This weekend would prove way different.  Ordinarily, it takes between two and two-and-a-half hours to drive to Palm Springs.  This day we made it in 90 minutes.  Ordinarily, there isn’t a lot to do.  However, this weekend, Palm Springs was the home of the Urban Network Convention.  Ordinarily, Palm Springs is a sleepy little town filled with a lot of old Cadillacs driven by people with blue hair.  This weekend, the place rocked.

From the opening invocation to the Old School party that closed down the house, the Urban Network Convention was the place to be.

For those of you who don’t know, Urban Network is a sister publication of Network 40 and their annual convention rocks the party that rocks the party.

Here was a gathering of radio and record people who were truly happy to be sharing time, space and information with each other…where kinder garden and Old School combined curriculum…where programmers listened intently while record executives outlined their problems…where record executives listened to the problems outlined by programmers…where retailers explained the truth of sales vs. programming.

And the music…only one word describes it…WOW!

From Spearhead, Mozaic, K-Ball, Teddy with Immature, Rahsaan Patterson, Tasha Holiday and Eric Benet to Tisha Campbell and Tichina Arnold, it was nothing short of fantastic.  But the best was saved for last.  For those who believe Elektra’s Sylvia Rhone has the best ears in the business, let me give you just one more example:  Ray J. This 16-year-old younger brother of Brandy is going to be a star.  With his sister singing backup, Ray J brought down the house Saturday night.

Sunday morning, the question was still unanswered.

“Well,” she asked while balancing an ankle on my hip, “have you decided what you’re giving up for Lent?”

I studied the perfect leg through half-closed eyes.  It certainly wasn’t going to be her.  “Absolutely.”

She sat up quickly.  “What?”

“The Gavin Convention.”

She threw her arms around me and squealed, “I’m so glad you see it my way.”

It was an easy call.

2/7/1997

Hold everything.  Stop all the presses.  Notify the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi and whoever else might be interested…the Pope and all other religious leaders…the United Nations…et cetera…et cetera…etc.

Had I thought about it, I never would have believed it would take this long.  Of course, since I never thought about it, I didn’t really know how long it was taking, so that whole point is moot.

I feel so humble.  I know many and far better men than I have spent countless fortunes and lifetimes in their futile search.  Why I was chosen to be imparted with this special wisdom, I don’t know.  There can be no denying the fact that I am now The Chosen One…and the rest of my life must reflect that fact.

I wear the mantle modestly.  Where before I was egotistical and verbose, I now cover my shoulders with a cloak of humility.

“Why me?”  I ask myself.

“Why him?”  Everyone else asks.

Why ask? The bottom line is that I found the answer to the eternal question…the answer no one else could find.  It was revealed to me in the most special way.  It is strange that the search for the true meaning of life has ended in the office of the Executive VP/GM of Network 40.  I found the Holy Grail when I didn’t even know I was searching for it.

Go figure.

How, you might ask, did this come to be?

I was on the phone with a certain Sr. VP of Promotion and we were discussing the offer he just received from another company when the meaning of life became crystal clear to me.  I shared it with him and he agreed.

I would tell you his name, but then I might have to share the spotlight with him.  I shared the secret; that’s enough.  I have only so much humility.  I must take full credit. I mean, it’s only fair.  He was the first to learn after me.  That should be enough for him

Did I tell you how this discovery has changed my life?  I’ll get to that.  But it occurs to me that many of you reading this column don’t believe I’ve really found the secret to the meaning of life.  Right now you think that I’m just meandering to fill space so I won’t have to write about something relevant.

Who can really blame you?  Why should you think that I have discovered the meaning of life?  Am I so special?  There are certainly many more who are more worthy than I.  Nevertheless, the fact is:  I have been chosen.

Or in 1990 parlance, “I the man!”

My life is forever changed.  You’re reading this column now…soon, you’ll pass bookstores that feature thousands of books that I will write on the subject.  I will become a household name.  My words will be studied by millions.  I will become known far and wide as the wisest person on the face of the earth.  Kings and presidents will seek my counsel.  Children will speak my name with reverence.

And if I’m really lucky, I’ll be on Oprah!

What?  You want me to share the meaning of life with you?  You want me to reveal the secret of the universe to a group of lowly communicators and promoters?  Why should you be worthy of such a noble gesture on my part?

You’ll give me a VCR, a track date and send my winners to Hawaii?

Done!

The answer to the search for the true meaning of life?  The secret of the universe?  It’s simple.  It’s…

er.

No, I’m not referring to the NBC hi t series, E.R. I’m talking about er.  Lower case.  Pronounced together.  Individually, the letters don’t stand for anything else.  Just er.

You’re not getting this, are you?

See, when I was speaking with the Sr. VP of Promotion, he told me about another company that was interested in his services.  He told them he was happy where he was.

That’s when it hit me…er.

I said, “You’re happy, but you could always be happier.”

Get it?  Happy-er.

And that, my friends, is the secret of life.  Think about it…er is what drives us…er makes us tick…er is why we do the things we do.

I’m happy.  But does that make me stop seeking out people, places and tings that could increase that sensation?  Of course not.  I want to be happier!

I make a lot of money.  Most Americans would say I’m rich.  But do I put my feet up on the desk and stop working?  Nope.  Why? er.  I want to be richer.

You’ve got the haircut…the shades…the car…the lifestyle…the look.  You are cool.  Do you stop?  Do you back away from that cutting edge because you are cool and you know it?  No sir. er.  You want to be…you need to be…you have to be…cooler.

You’re getting now, aren’t you?  I feel that you are.  Because before you were reading fast.  Now you’re reading faster.

Once you understand that er drives you…that er is the meaning of life…then you can harness er and reach your full potential.

Hey, you’re pretty.  But you’re going to try that new skin lotion, aren’t you?  Because you want to be prettier.

You are smart, right?  But you’re still going to listen when others speak…you’re going to a seminar or two…you’ll be at the panel discussions at conventions…because you want to get smarter.

So the next time someone asks you what you want, tell that person.  “er.”  And as soon as you master er, you can move on to est.

As much as it hurt you to admit I’m right…you know I am.  Come on.  Say it.  SAY IT!

Gerry was great…now he’s greater…soon he’ll be the greatest.

I CAN’T HEAR YOU!