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The Low-End Charm of Boone's Farm
By Bill Ramsey | March 22, 2012
The Pulse | Chattanooga’s Weekly Alternative
If you spend time inCalifornia and drink wine, chances are you are a fan of Two Buck Chuck. In that far-off nirvana where one can freely purchase wine (or any other kind of beer or liquor) at convenience stores, Trader Joe’s is the go-to grocery store for a certain brand of premium wine with Skid Row pricing. I speak, of course, of Charles Shaw wines, which have gained a passionate following in California for their excellent taste and, more importantly, the $1.99 price tag, hence the nickname.
Visit any Trader Joe’s and you’ll find customers carting cases of Two Buck Chuck out the door, stocking up as if a nuclear winter were forecast. Indeed, many live in fear of the day when these award-winning wines’ bargain-basement price will disappear. That’s not likely. Fred Franzia, who along with his brother, Joe, own Bronco Wine, which makes Shaw and other low-cost domestic brands, has for years engaged in a war against the pretentiousness and priciness of his competitors, saying only a sucker would pay more than $10 for a bottle of wine and colorfully taunting other winemakers as “bozos in a glass.”
You won’t find Two Buck Chuck in Chattanooga, since it is exclusively sold through Trader Joe’s, the charming California-based chain of small grocery stores who’ve made their legend by selling a wide variety of high-end products at reasonable prices in stores staffed with knowledegable foodies and wine experts. Tennessee’s arcane liquor laws prohibit the sales of wine in grocery stores, and until this is corrected we’ll likely never experience the joys TBC or Trader Joe’s.
I relate this tale not to rail against the state’s laws (although they deserve to be railed against; but that’s another story), but because Two Buck Chuck reminds me of a time when bargain-priced wine was less about quality and all about bang for the buck. Even wine snobs agree that TBC is actually a very good wine. But it’s the $1.99 price tag that has made it legend and its only competitor in the low-end market prior to its introduction has been a certain stable of wines most connoisseurs would politely call swill. You know them as the flavored, low-alcohol wines that cost less than $5 and would, if consumed quickly enough, produce the desired effect—namely a cheap buzz. I speak here, of course, of Boone’s Farm and Mogen David 20/20.
Ask anyone over 40 about Boone’s Farm or MD 20/20 and you’ll likely be regaled with stories lodged deep within their high school memories. At any high school party in the 1970s or ’80s, these were the preferred beverages of our dates and girlfriends. And because they were both cheap and easy to procure (even for under-age students with bad fake IDs), they remain a nostalgic favorite. But they also occupy different levels in the social strata of teen drinking of which an entire study could be written.
It is my memory that Boone’s Farm appealed to most teenage girls because it did not taste like alcohol and had at least an element of “class.” In the supremely preppy era of my high school years, this rather dubious distinction mattered a great deal. While many girls I knew were eager to party—as eager as any boy, as I recall—they were not so eager to be seen swilling Miller Ponies or a Mickey’s Big Mouth. Sipping a glass of Boone’s Farm (strawberry was a particular favorite) lent a certain degree of sophistication to even the most debaucherous gathering. And if they sipped their way through an entire bottle, as was often the case, chances were the provider of said “fine wine” would be rewarded with some form of carnal pleasure. Rather louche, I know, but consider the time.
Less favored by my crowd’s female population was MD 20/20, the grape-flavored fortified wine we simple referred to as “Mad Dog.” Mad Dog gained its popularity as a “bum wine,” a cheap high without the sting of liquor but with a boosted alcohol content that hit the mark much faster than Boone’s Farm. Indeed, 20/20 originally stood for 20 ounces at 20 percent alcohol, something my friends and I became aware of rather quickly. The girls of my high school years rarely ventured into Mad Dog territory, but it was quite frequently used as a base for an even more fortified punch (mixed with Everclear) that became a popular non-beer option at many parties of my misspent and reckless youth.
The boys, of course, found both Boone’s Farm and Mad Dog to be of sufficient alcohol content to achieve the maximum buzz in the minimum time, which of course was the point when one was 16. And while it was certainly easy to drink oneself sick by pounding ponies, nothing said sicker than a post-party ralph-fest brought on by the sugary sweet aftertaste of strawberry or grape wine.
Nevertheless, there remains an entire cult of devotees who continue to sing the praises of Boone’s Farm long past their high school days. At the Boone’s Farm Fan Club online (boonesfarm.net) pages of testimonials declare the superior taste and value of the brand with vigor and zeal. Consider this high school memory from Sandie, who followed her own son’s post with this: “I remember drinking Boone’s Farm Strawberry Wine in high school while I was a dating a guy named Randy. He drank MD 20/20 while driving. Good times!”
Good times, indeed, and with my 30th high school reunion on the horizon later this year, I suspect a certain group of those attending will fondly recall the fruity beverage of their youth with dewy-eyed nostalgia. Living in a post-ironic era that celebrates Pabst Blue Ribbon and other downscale beers, it’s quite possible Boone’s Farm could make a comeback. But then again, my suggestion at marketing the stuff as the “Official Beverage of High School” will probably never pass muster—it’s just too obvious. After all, I’m pretty sure there’s a high schooler down the street who already knows this, so why ruin the secret—hipster marketing is all about a wink and nod.
Bill Ramsey is the creative director of The Pulse and consorted with many girls in high school who drank Boone’s Farm.
The Cult of the Record Bar
Cult of the Record Bar
A love letter to the mall record store
By Bill Ramsey | Dec. 15, 2011
The Pulse | Chattanooga’s Weekly Alternative
A couple of months ago an obscure music website posted a story under the headline “CD-format to be abandoned by major labels by the end of 2012.” Through the power of the Internet, the just-believable-enough story — which carried no byline and quoted no sources — reverberated across the web with the power of a New York Times blockbuster, at least to the music-buying public, who are so accustomed to downloading and streaming the article seemed altogether likely.
Though not true—while growing fast, digital downloading and streaming are not expected to outpace CD sales anytime soon, with one industry executive claiming 74 percent of all albums sales this year came from CDs—the article did spark a debate among musicologists and fans: If the CD didn’t exist anymore would anyone miss it?
The same story under a different headline was written 30 years ago when Sony offered the first CD (alongside the first CD player), notes New Musical Express music writer Luke Lewis, resulting in pure profits for music labels as we rushed to replace our vinyl collections with new compact discs. The story goes back further; the same apocalypse was sounded when 8-track tapes were introduced, then cassette tapes. In the digital download/streaming era, music fans lament the loss of the CD with less fervor than the death of the vinyl record, but audiophiles have noted the deterioration in quality with each revolution in format.
But that’s another story. Lost in the debate, though not lost on the casual music buyer, is not the format but the delivery method. While the ability to instantly download or stream music cheaply, if not freely, to anyone with a decent Internet connection has been cause for celebration among music buyers, the romance of buying music, as this issue demonstrates, has not. For those born within the last 30 years, this argument will mean almost nothing. If you’ve purchased a CD in a retail store at all, chances are it was either at Best Buy or Walmart, neither of which will ever be the source of nostalgic movies starring the likes of John Cusack or Jack Black.
But for those of us who grew up in the 1970s and ‘80s, buying music meant visiting the mall. Where I grew up in Hixson, that meant Northgate, and the destination was Record Bar. There really was no other choice, at least for mainstream music fans like myself and many of my friends. Back then few of us had developed eclectic enough tastes to bother with the independent record stores, places like the Nickel Bag, which, while offering some paraphernalia of great interest to more than a few of us, reeked of what kids today might call old-school hippie music. No, what we wanted was the latest Springsteen, the new Tom Petty album, the hot Top 40 single (on 45rpm), maybe a poster, a T-shirt, one of those groovy Discwasher cleaning systems.
The Record Bar was no Championship Vinyl, the fictional record store owned by John Cusak in High Fidelity and staffed by quirky geeks with encyclopedic knowledge of music, but for many it was the epitome of hip (who, after all, didn’t want to work in a record store) and for some, a career (there is a Cult of the Record Bar Facebook page where former managers and employees trade memories). It was also, with the possible exception of Spencer Gifts, the coolest store in the mall, a sanctuary and a temple, a gathering place now fondly remembered as less than a retail outlet than an iconic element of the youth of a few generations.
Of course, the Record Bar wasn’t the only store in town. Freestanding music stores began popping up in the late 1970s and preferences, if not allegiances, were formed. Across Hwy. 153 from Northgate, an oasis of cool was birthed in the form of Paradise Records in what then seemed an enormous space devoted entirely to all things music. Wall-to-wall bins of albums, tapes, posters and accessories filled Paradise, along with an impressive collection of non-mainstream records that became increasingly important as our musical tastes evolved. Before the end of the ’80s, Record Bar had become Tracks, Paradise morphed into Peaches, then Cats, before the entire enterprise folded into the megastore, or the big-box outlet. Or whatever.
For me and many of my friends, the memory of the Record Bar (and Paradise, Peaches and Cats) is as strong and personal as the music we purchased there. We combed the bins together, sharing opinions, comparing notes and flaunting our (always) superior musical tastes. In the best-case scenario, we traveled in pairs (who went to the mall alone?), bought our favorites and ran home to engage in a stereophonic battle of the bands. Sure, we loved the music, but it was the records and, to a large extent, the record store that brought us together, even those of us who had nothing else in common.
I struggle to remember the last time I purchased a physical piece of music. I’ve long since liquidated my massive LP collection and largely abandoned collecting CDs. Hell, my iPod mostly sits in a drawer, uncharged and collecting dust. I listen to music in my car and stream it on my computer at work, but there’s no evidence at home that I’m the hardcore fan and collector I was even 15 years ago.
When I moved back to my hometown of Hixson this year after 30 years away and only a handful of visits in between, I was eager to visit my old stomping grounds. As I wandered into Northgate, it seemed impossibly small, nowhere near the palatial plaza I remembered. Gone were my favorite haunts—the Record Bar, WaldenBooks and (from a later age) Mr. P’s—and, like many malls, the place had a faintly decaying air, as if it were hanging on just long enough for me to pay my respects. But as I made my way around the mall, I was pleasantly surprised to find For The Record—an actual record store. In the mall. In 2011. (See Page 8 for a profile.) It’s no Record Bar or, for that matter, a true indie record store, either. But the store gave me hope—for music, for malls, for everything that lives in my ever-more present nostalgia.
At 47, I’m too young to linger long in the past, but old enough to appreciate what made it worthy of nostalgia—and I’m not alone, as I’m reminded each time I mention the Record Bar on Facebook. While my taste in music has changed over the years, I’m pleased, even sentimental at the idea that a store like For the Record exists in my mall after all these years. While the Best Buys and the Walmarts still stock all the hits and more than a few misses, I doubt 30 years hence anyone will recall a memorable moment there, much less devote a Facebook page to the experience.
Behind the movement: Dave has long purged ... um, demons
By Bill Ramsey
The Hook | Sept. 2, 2004
CHARLOTTESVILLE, Va. — When the wit, wisdom and familiar quotations of Dave Matthews are inevitably compiled and published, a substantial portion of this potential bestseller will doubtless be devoted to Matthews' penchant for poop humor and scatological references. And that was before the recent scandal that rocked Chicago: allegations that Dave's bus had unleashed a torrent of human waste on hapless tour boat passengers.
Among contemporary celebrities, Matthews is peerless — perhaps even unique — for analogizing his inner workings to his inner workings, as the quotation above so graphically demonstrates.
No public figure of recent vintage can rival Matthews' willingness to share these intimate, moving moments — or his remarkable ability to contextualize them so fluently. It's testimony to his rakish charm that Matthews escapes the scrutiny such indelicate pronouncements might bring celebrities of more ordinary caliber. Indeed, Matthews' discharges are even central in self-appraisals of his "regular guy" image.
"I'm Johnny Boring," he tells Playboy in a February 20 Questions interview. "I work so fucking hard at being a regular guy — 'cause I'm as regular as an orange fiery turd flying out of an elephant's ass."
But does Matthews' fecal fixation reveal only a propensity for ribald bathroom humor, or is it a sign of some deeper, constipated childhood confusion?
Certainly, any psychological profile would begin with a thorough examination of his upbringing. Freud's five stages of sexual development include the anal stage (from age one to three) in which the bowel movement — and specifically the withholding of such movement — becomes a gratifying activity, allowing a child his first experience of exerting power over his parents. The degree of leniency during toilet training, Freud asserts, results in one of two types of personalities: anal-expulsive (sloppy, disorganized, reckless, and defiant) and anal-retentive (obsessively clean, intolerant, stingy, and passive-aggressive).
It's obviously impossible for us (to say nothing of repellant) to trace Matthews' feculent infatuation. But we come not purely to psychoanalyze the man. Rather, we come to celebrate his curious compulsion for anal analogies.
Matthews clearly exists on a different plane than his rock-star peers. Even while the band and organization bearing his name generate untold wealth — Forbes estimates that the band took in $28M in 2003 from performances alone — his personal indulgences are almost inconsequential.
Eschewing the wild spending sprees that other musical prodigies seem to regard as rites of passage, Matthews splurges not on cars, planes, or Hollywood mansions but on the one room of his home where he can relieve himself of the pressures of stardom) and perhaps his turbulent digestive system): the bathroom.
"I always said that if I had the money I'd get a long bathtub here in America," Matthews told a Playboy interviewer when pressed for details of his luxury spending. "The bathtub in my house in Virginia is made from three old cast-iron tubs, the ones with the feet. I want a bathtub that, if I ask my wife to climb in, she can get in there with me. It's a hell of a tub."
Evidently, Matthews spends quite a bit of quality time in his porcelain sanctuaries at home and on the road. But where does this paper trail of anal-ogies begin?
Hook editor Hawes Spencer has the dubious distinction of being the first to catalogue Matthews' excrement-focused omnibus, performing a journalistic colonoscopy in a brief but illuminating article titled "Gut-wrenching: Will Dave go out there burdened?" in a DMB tribute issue marking the band's triumphant homecoming in 2001.
His findings? No major assessment or profile of Matthews up to that time lacked an example of the singer's gratuitous potty puns or a direct reference to impending trips to the throne.
Dubbed "Mr. Anus" by sister Jane in a 1994 Rolling Stone article for his incessant allusions to his bowels, Matthews gleefully picked up the gauntlet in a 1998 interview: "Think I'm going to have a movement soon. Better go and find a quiet place. Don't want to go out there burdened," he told Spin magazine.
Writer Dave Colapinto, who has twice profiled Matthews at pivotal career peaks, related a classic Matthews comment in the opening of his 2001 Rolling Stone profile, "The Salvation of Dave Matthews": "He makes a couple of jokes about the state of his bowels: 'Things feel ... I don't know. Loose.' "
It was perhaps after eliminating the source of his pre-concert burden at the same show that Matthews spiced his stage banter with this rhetorical outburst: "Does anyone check the toilet paper after they wipe their butt? I'm just asking. I personally don't — I got an incredible confidence level. I'm an extremely thorough person. I don't need to look, but I've heard — rumor has it — that many people do!"
Indeed, maybe we're digging too deep. In divining the secrets of Matthews' defecations, we're confusing the act with its metaphorical implications.
Perhaps Matthews' excremental expositions are simply a subconscious reference to the artistic process — or an allegorical nod-and-wink in an attempt to demystify the hyper-analytic discussions sparked by the cryptic lyrics that have kept Dave on top of the rock world for more than a decade.
Whatever the case, in the Tao of Dave, shit happens — but it's the dump that is his muse: "I get visitations often when I'm having a crap," he once told Newsweek. "I have these ideas, and they come in, and I'm, oh, very excited about them. But then they vanish."
Maybe he flushed.
The Hook | Sept. 2, 2004
CHARLOTTESVILLE, Va. — When the wit, wisdom and familiar quotations of Dave Matthews are inevitably compiled and published, a substantial portion of this potential bestseller will doubtless be devoted to Matthews' penchant for poop humor and scatological references. And that was before the recent scandal that rocked Chicago: allegations that Dave's bus had unleashed a torrent of human waste on hapless tour boat passengers.
Among contemporary celebrities, Matthews is peerless — perhaps even unique — for analogizing his inner workings to his inner workings, as the quotation above so graphically demonstrates.
No public figure of recent vintage can rival Matthews' willingness to share these intimate, moving moments — or his remarkable ability to contextualize them so fluently. It's testimony to his rakish charm that Matthews escapes the scrutiny such indelicate pronouncements might bring celebrities of more ordinary caliber. Indeed, Matthews' discharges are even central in self-appraisals of his "regular guy" image.
"I'm Johnny Boring," he tells Playboy in a February 20 Questions interview. "I work so fucking hard at being a regular guy — 'cause I'm as regular as an orange fiery turd flying out of an elephant's ass."
But does Matthews' fecal fixation reveal only a propensity for ribald bathroom humor, or is it a sign of some deeper, constipated childhood confusion?
Certainly, any psychological profile would begin with a thorough examination of his upbringing. Freud's five stages of sexual development include the anal stage (from age one to three) in which the bowel movement — and specifically the withholding of such movement — becomes a gratifying activity, allowing a child his first experience of exerting power over his parents. The degree of leniency during toilet training, Freud asserts, results in one of two types of personalities: anal-expulsive (sloppy, disorganized, reckless, and defiant) and anal-retentive (obsessively clean, intolerant, stingy, and passive-aggressive).
It's obviously impossible for us (to say nothing of repellant) to trace Matthews' feculent infatuation. But we come not purely to psychoanalyze the man. Rather, we come to celebrate his curious compulsion for anal analogies.
Matthews clearly exists on a different plane than his rock-star peers. Even while the band and organization bearing his name generate untold wealth — Forbes estimates that the band took in $28M in 2003 from performances alone — his personal indulgences are almost inconsequential.
Eschewing the wild spending sprees that other musical prodigies seem to regard as rites of passage, Matthews splurges not on cars, planes, or Hollywood mansions but on the one room of his home where he can relieve himself of the pressures of stardom) and perhaps his turbulent digestive system): the bathroom.
"I always said that if I had the money I'd get a long bathtub here in America," Matthews told a Playboy interviewer when pressed for details of his luxury spending. "The bathtub in my house in Virginia is made from three old cast-iron tubs, the ones with the feet. I want a bathtub that, if I ask my wife to climb in, she can get in there with me. It's a hell of a tub."
Evidently, Matthews spends quite a bit of quality time in his porcelain sanctuaries at home and on the road. But where does this paper trail of anal-ogies begin?
Hook editor Hawes Spencer has the dubious distinction of being the first to catalogue Matthews' excrement-focused omnibus, performing a journalistic colonoscopy in a brief but illuminating article titled "Gut-wrenching: Will Dave go out there burdened?" in a DMB tribute issue marking the band's triumphant homecoming in 2001.
His findings? No major assessment or profile of Matthews up to that time lacked an example of the singer's gratuitous potty puns or a direct reference to impending trips to the throne.
Dubbed "Mr. Anus" by sister Jane in a 1994 Rolling Stone article for his incessant allusions to his bowels, Matthews gleefully picked up the gauntlet in a 1998 interview: "Think I'm going to have a movement soon. Better go and find a quiet place. Don't want to go out there burdened," he told Spin magazine.
Writer Dave Colapinto, who has twice profiled Matthews at pivotal career peaks, related a classic Matthews comment in the opening of his 2001 Rolling Stone profile, "The Salvation of Dave Matthews": "He makes a couple of jokes about the state of his bowels: 'Things feel ... I don't know. Loose.' "
It was perhaps after eliminating the source of his pre-concert burden at the same show that Matthews spiced his stage banter with this rhetorical outburst: "Does anyone check the toilet paper after they wipe their butt? I'm just asking. I personally don't — I got an incredible confidence level. I'm an extremely thorough person. I don't need to look, but I've heard — rumor has it — that many people do!"
Indeed, maybe we're digging too deep. In divining the secrets of Matthews' defecations, we're confusing the act with its metaphorical implications.
Perhaps Matthews' excremental expositions are simply a subconscious reference to the artistic process — or an allegorical nod-and-wink in an attempt to demystify the hyper-analytic discussions sparked by the cryptic lyrics that have kept Dave on top of the rock world for more than a decade.
Whatever the case, in the Tao of Dave, shit happens — but it's the dump that is his muse: "I get visitations often when I'm having a crap," he once told Newsweek. "I have these ideas, and they come in, and I'm, oh, very excited about them. But then they vanish."
Maybe he flushed.
Bye-bye, Bob: AMs won't be the same
By Bill Ramsey
The Hook | April 1, 2004
CHARLOTTESVILLE. Va. — I woke up this morning, as I have recently, at 5:30 a.m., a disturbing trend but one I seem incapable of curing. This unwelcome development is eased somewhat by the knowledge that Bob Edwards, host of NPR's "Morning Edition," is awaiting me, reporting the news in his mellifluous, comforting baritone.
Edwards' voice is the soundtrack of these early hours as I plow through my e-mail, light that first delightful cigarette of the day, and enjoy the morning jolt of numerous cups of strong coffee. He has been my morning companion throughout my working life. Edwards himself has been up since 1am, reading the day's papers and setting up overseas interviews before anyone wakes.
Over the 25 years he's been doing this, I have often marveled at his tenacity. I sometimes think I couldn't imagine beginning the day without him.
But this morning I learned I will soon have to.
Just short of his 25th anniversary as host of "Morning Edition" — a job he has held since the program's debut — NPR announced last week that Edwards will be replaced in the near future. The decision, according to NPR programming executive Ken Stern, is part of the network's efforts to "update its programming." Stern is quoted in The New York Times explaining the decision:
"This is part of the natural evolution of NPR, and finding the critical mix of new voices and familiar voices. This is not about individuals but about goals for the show itself. Bob is not leaving. He's going to be on the air for years to come, and that is the context that this needs to be understood in."
I'm trying to understand this, but Stern's rationale doesn't make sense to me — or, it seems, to Edwards himself.
"I would prefer to remain the host of Morning Edition, certainly through its 25th anniversary in November," he told the Times. "But apparently it's not my decision. It's my baby. I was there from the get-go. I never had any plans to do anything else."
This sudden announcement has taken Edwards and his devoted listeners by surprise and left more than few in shock. It's especially curious since the program, with 13 million listeners weekly, has grown NPR's audience share by 41 percent in the last five years. Edwards was unceremoniously told of his ouster earlier in March with no advance warning. Given the brief opportunity to absorb the shock, NPR allowed him to inform his staff before issuing a press release March 23 announcing its decision to reassign Edwards into a senior correspondent position.
Stern said that correspondents (read: possible replacements) Steve Inskeep and Renée Montagne would host the show beginning May 1 when Edwards launches a promotional tour for his latest book, Edward R. Murrow and the Birth of Broadcast Journalism.
Reading this news ruined my morning, and I listened to Edwards' show with more intensity than usual, wondering if he would say anything. He didn't.
I'm disturbed by the news of Edwards' removal not only because I'm a fan and loyal listener, but also because it shows startling hubris on the part of NPR management. I wouldn't be so hurt if Edwards himself bowed out; in fact, I'd understand it completely. Devoting a quarter century of his life to a single program that requires him to adopt a lifestyle few adults could accept — since beginning the show he has gone to bed at 6pm in order to arrive at the studio by 2 a.m. — would exhaust lesser reporters of much younger years. But Edwards is a youthful 56 and seems not in the least tired or stale. He takes much-deserved hiatuses from the show each year and returns, presumably, refreshed. He obviously loves his job.
The decision also raises the question of NPR's motivation and judgment. In an era when most news programs are frightened to lose their "name" anchors, I am mystified by NPR's explanation. Amplified by the fact that NPR relies heavily on its listeners and is often the target of public-funding debates in a conservative Congress, it's astonishing that NPR would make such a move. Edwards is far from retirement age. Arbitrarily replacing him is absurd, not to mention a disservice to public radio listeners and supporters.
It's also a maddeningly bad business blunder. I'm sure Stern believes that his own stock will rise once the furor has died down. There's no other answer. I agree with him that broadcasting requires the infusion of fresh new voices when longtime anchors become too entrenched and no longer hold the attention of their audience.
The last time I put NPR on hold for a significant time was years ago, when Edwards' longtime mentor, sports-casting legend and Friday commentator Red Barber died in 1992. Barber, who lovingly referred to Edwards as "Colonel" in a nod to the anchor's Kentucky heritage, came out of retirement to join the show's regular contributors in 1980. Edwards seemed almost to suffer a breakdown when Barber died, and he took a break to write a wonderful memoir of his years with the venerable journalist. I stopped listening because I sensed the loss as much as Edwards did — Fridays weren't as much fun without Barber.
But I soon returned to the fold, as did Edwards, and "Morning Edition" again became a staple of my morning routine.
It's an understatement to say that the show won't be the same sans Edwards, even as he's "promoted" and will continue contributing as a senior correspondent. I may even get used to it. But I don't have to like it.
Maybe I'll just sleep in.
The Hook | April 1, 2004
CHARLOTTESVILLE. Va. — I woke up this morning, as I have recently, at 5:30 a.m., a disturbing trend but one I seem incapable of curing. This unwelcome development is eased somewhat by the knowledge that Bob Edwards, host of NPR's "Morning Edition," is awaiting me, reporting the news in his mellifluous, comforting baritone.
Edwards' voice is the soundtrack of these early hours as I plow through my e-mail, light that first delightful cigarette of the day, and enjoy the morning jolt of numerous cups of strong coffee. He has been my morning companion throughout my working life. Edwards himself has been up since 1am, reading the day's papers and setting up overseas interviews before anyone wakes.
Over the 25 years he's been doing this, I have often marveled at his tenacity. I sometimes think I couldn't imagine beginning the day without him.
But this morning I learned I will soon have to.
Just short of his 25th anniversary as host of "Morning Edition" — a job he has held since the program's debut — NPR announced last week that Edwards will be replaced in the near future. The decision, according to NPR programming executive Ken Stern, is part of the network's efforts to "update its programming." Stern is quoted in The New York Times explaining the decision:
"This is part of the natural evolution of NPR, and finding the critical mix of new voices and familiar voices. This is not about individuals but about goals for the show itself. Bob is not leaving. He's going to be on the air for years to come, and that is the context that this needs to be understood in."
I'm trying to understand this, but Stern's rationale doesn't make sense to me — or, it seems, to Edwards himself.
"I would prefer to remain the host of Morning Edition, certainly through its 25th anniversary in November," he told the Times. "But apparently it's not my decision. It's my baby. I was there from the get-go. I never had any plans to do anything else."
This sudden announcement has taken Edwards and his devoted listeners by surprise and left more than few in shock. It's especially curious since the program, with 13 million listeners weekly, has grown NPR's audience share by 41 percent in the last five years. Edwards was unceremoniously told of his ouster earlier in March with no advance warning. Given the brief opportunity to absorb the shock, NPR allowed him to inform his staff before issuing a press release March 23 announcing its decision to reassign Edwards into a senior correspondent position.
Stern said that correspondents (read: possible replacements) Steve Inskeep and Renée Montagne would host the show beginning May 1 when Edwards launches a promotional tour for his latest book, Edward R. Murrow and the Birth of Broadcast Journalism.
Reading this news ruined my morning, and I listened to Edwards' show with more intensity than usual, wondering if he would say anything. He didn't.
I'm disturbed by the news of Edwards' removal not only because I'm a fan and loyal listener, but also because it shows startling hubris on the part of NPR management. I wouldn't be so hurt if Edwards himself bowed out; in fact, I'd understand it completely. Devoting a quarter century of his life to a single program that requires him to adopt a lifestyle few adults could accept — since beginning the show he has gone to bed at 6pm in order to arrive at the studio by 2 a.m. — would exhaust lesser reporters of much younger years. But Edwards is a youthful 56 and seems not in the least tired or stale. He takes much-deserved hiatuses from the show each year and returns, presumably, refreshed. He obviously loves his job.
The decision also raises the question of NPR's motivation and judgment. In an era when most news programs are frightened to lose their "name" anchors, I am mystified by NPR's explanation. Amplified by the fact that NPR relies heavily on its listeners and is often the target of public-funding debates in a conservative Congress, it's astonishing that NPR would make such a move. Edwards is far from retirement age. Arbitrarily replacing him is absurd, not to mention a disservice to public radio listeners and supporters.
It's also a maddeningly bad business blunder. I'm sure Stern believes that his own stock will rise once the furor has died down. There's no other answer. I agree with him that broadcasting requires the infusion of fresh new voices when longtime anchors become too entrenched and no longer hold the attention of their audience.
The last time I put NPR on hold for a significant time was years ago, when Edwards' longtime mentor, sports-casting legend and Friday commentator Red Barber died in 1992. Barber, who lovingly referred to Edwards as "Colonel" in a nod to the anchor's Kentucky heritage, came out of retirement to join the show's regular contributors in 1980. Edwards seemed almost to suffer a breakdown when Barber died, and he took a break to write a wonderful memoir of his years with the venerable journalist. I stopped listening because I sensed the loss as much as Edwards did — Fridays weren't as much fun without Barber.
But I soon returned to the fold, as did Edwards, and "Morning Edition" again became a staple of my morning routine.
It's an understatement to say that the show won't be the same sans Edwards, even as he's "promoted" and will continue contributing as a senior correspondent. I may even get used to it. But I don't have to like it.
Maybe I'll just sleep in.
Comic conventions no longer just for 'geeks'
By Bill Ramsey
Bakersfield Californian | July 2006
“Never look a Trekkie in the eye.” Those words were thrown down like a gauntlet from a costumed “Star Wars” fan scoffing at the approach of an the old-fashioned Star Trekker through the throngs of the tens of thousands in attendance at this year's Comic-Con in San Diego. If “Star Wars” fans think Trekkies are crazy, the under-30 Manga set was baffled at the lot of them.
Comic book conventions have come a long way since I attended my first one 29 years ago, when Spiderman, Superman and, of course, Trekkies, were in abundance. Today, updated still are plentiful, if unrecognizable to me. But there are also hundreds of new, high-tech comic book heroes — and anti-heroes — appearing at a rate accelerating as quickly as Hollywood can convert them to a movie or hot new video game.
There's certainly none of the comic book geek stigma I suffered when attending my first comic book convention in the 1970s with my fellow social outcasts. By the 120,000 people who attended this year's Comic-Con International convention in San Diego July 20-23, including some of Hollywood's hottest actors and directors, being a comic book fan is being “in” with the celebrity crowd — or so you’d think. Even the 3,000 credentialed press corps fell under the spell of the phenomenon. And that’s exactly how the comic convention has evolved: a bona fide pop culture extravaganza.
This year, I was among that throng for the first time in decades, fascinated by the gargantuan size and appeal and, admittedly, tapping a long dormant geek desire to view a modern convention and what I'd been missing since I last attended one more than a quarter-century ago.
The 36-year-old Comic-Con began like many other comic book and science fiction conventions. The first was held in 1970 in the basement of the historic U.S. Grant Hotel in downtown San Diego and reportedly attracted only a few hundred fans. Today, it occupies acres and acres of every available space in the cavernous San Diego Convention Center, spilling out onto downtown streets and into the city's harbor parks.
If comic book geeks have quietly inherited the earth, they have also inherited Hollywood, with the comics-to-screen hoopla becoming more the norm at each year's massive gathering.
Celebrities abound at Comic-Con each year. Aside from such regulars as directors Quentin Tarantino and Kevin Smith are the actors who populate the movies based on comic books. This year, “Spiderman” star Tobey Maguire stopped by to talk about the upcoming “Spiderman 3.” Nicolas Cage and Eva Mendes were there to promote their upcoming “Ghost Rider” movie — a spin-off of a lesser-known, bleaker Marvel Comics series.
Back in the 1970s, you were lucky to encounter a minor cast member from the “Star Trek” series, or maybe an aging Adam West to talk about the old Batman television series. But that didn't matter as much as meeting your favorite artist or writer. For comic book fans, such talents as John Byrne or Marv Wolfman were the celebrities. To get an autograph, snap a photo and spend a few moments chatting about your favorite character was what made those conventions a thrill. More than that, said Brad McGill, a longtime comic book fan and former convention dealer from Chattanooga, Tenn., it was the one time each year you could be among your own kind.
“I felt like I was somebody,” McGill said, who fondly recalls attending the popular Chattanooga-based Chattacon during the late 1970s. “We were the geeks at school, but at the convention we were kings of the world for a weekend.”
In their early days, comic conventions were mostly held at discount hotels in dingy ballrooms on the outskirts of town. But that didn't matter to fans of the era. We were in search of our own personal Holy Grail – the one comic book we had always wanted but lost or never found.
I still remember my first convention, the same Chattacon that McGill also attended in my hometown of Chattanooga in 1977. Like Comic-Con, Chattacon fans attended year after year, kindred spirits who enjoyed the company of their fellow geeks in a place where nobody was pointing fingers and sniggering. Here, they were free to argue the finer points of the construction of the fictional Starship Enterprise or ponder comic book plot lines for hours. And, as McGill pointed out, it was $10 for a weekend of all the beer you could drink and the priceless enjoyment of being around fellow fans.
Things have changed, but there still are acres of comic books and toy comic book characters for sale at Comic-Con, although the convention has evolved into at least a quarter of a mile of visual feasts in the form of big-screen animation, movies, film shorts, interactive video game displays and musical performances.
For many, the freebie comic books, buttons and toys are just as much a draw as the endless number of photo ops with sometimes scantily clad costumed comic book characters. Fans also can claim bragging rights as the first to try upcoming video games and at least snippets of comic-inspired films not yet in the theaters.
Such young fans as Bakersfield actor, comedian and aspiring comic book writer Michael Armendariz represent a newer generation. A member of the local comedy troupe The Blacklist, the 27-year-old Armendariz began pursuing comedy after high school, but his fascination with comic books runs deep into his childhood.
"Growing up, ever since first Superman movie, I was into them," he said. “From about the age of 10 on, I began reading Batman and superhero stuff."
Armendariz attended his first Comic-Con 13 years ago and is still an unabashed fan who counts the event among the highlights of his year. Asked about the changes the event has experienced in those years, Armendariz said the introduction of movies and media into the world of comic books and science fiction are a natural evolution.
"Back in grade school,” he said. “I'd go to meet my favorite artists and writers. Now, it's a nice blend, because I like movies and comic books. I've seen an ebb and flow over the past decade. Things go in cycles, but comics never lose their popularity. Most people these days go for the Hollywood scene, not the comic books, but the core characters and comic book lovers are still there."
What is encouraging is that at the center of every year's Comic-Con is the very serious business of comic book collectibles, from boxes of well-read comics and newer editions from up-and-coming comic book artists to elaborate displays of vintage comics with some very high price tags. That's where dealers like Scott Hudlow come in.
Hudlow is an archaeologist, instructor at Bakersfield College and veteran exhibitor of comic books popular and rare. This year was his 10th at selling comic books and his fifth at Comic-Con. For Ludlow, comic books will always be the mainstay of these conventions.
"The show has changed due to many factors, and it has simple grown extremely large,” Hudlow said, taking a break from his booth filled with displays and dozens of boxes of comics. “Movies and media guests add people, but for the most part, these guests are not on the floor, so they don't really affect the day-to-day business of the show for dealers.”
Hudlow, who grew up as a comic book fan and collector and visits smaller conventions around the state and western region several times a year, said the San Diego event is truly comic book Mecca for fans and dealers.
"Comic-Con is fun, but it's also stressful due to its size and the amount of distractions around you, like the people in outlandish costumes,” Hudlow said. "It really is a world unto itself. It really doesn't compare to anything else.”
For him, and for geeks like me, it will always be the comic books that bring me back.
Bakersfield Californian | July 2006
“Never look a Trekkie in the eye.” Those words were thrown down like a gauntlet from a costumed “Star Wars” fan scoffing at the approach of an the old-fashioned Star Trekker through the throngs of the tens of thousands in attendance at this year's Comic-Con in San Diego. If “Star Wars” fans think Trekkies are crazy, the under-30 Manga set was baffled at the lot of them.
Comic book conventions have come a long way since I attended my first one 29 years ago, when Spiderman, Superman and, of course, Trekkies, were in abundance. Today, updated still are plentiful, if unrecognizable to me. But there are also hundreds of new, high-tech comic book heroes — and anti-heroes — appearing at a rate accelerating as quickly as Hollywood can convert them to a movie or hot new video game.
There's certainly none of the comic book geek stigma I suffered when attending my first comic book convention in the 1970s with my fellow social outcasts. By the 120,000 people who attended this year's Comic-Con International convention in San Diego July 20-23, including some of Hollywood's hottest actors and directors, being a comic book fan is being “in” with the celebrity crowd — or so you’d think. Even the 3,000 credentialed press corps fell under the spell of the phenomenon. And that’s exactly how the comic convention has evolved: a bona fide pop culture extravaganza.
This year, I was among that throng for the first time in decades, fascinated by the gargantuan size and appeal and, admittedly, tapping a long dormant geek desire to view a modern convention and what I'd been missing since I last attended one more than a quarter-century ago.
The 36-year-old Comic-Con began like many other comic book and science fiction conventions. The first was held in 1970 in the basement of the historic U.S. Grant Hotel in downtown San Diego and reportedly attracted only a few hundred fans. Today, it occupies acres and acres of every available space in the cavernous San Diego Convention Center, spilling out onto downtown streets and into the city's harbor parks.
If comic book geeks have quietly inherited the earth, they have also inherited Hollywood, with the comics-to-screen hoopla becoming more the norm at each year's massive gathering.
Celebrities abound at Comic-Con each year. Aside from such regulars as directors Quentin Tarantino and Kevin Smith are the actors who populate the movies based on comic books. This year, “Spiderman” star Tobey Maguire stopped by to talk about the upcoming “Spiderman 3.” Nicolas Cage and Eva Mendes were there to promote their upcoming “Ghost Rider” movie — a spin-off of a lesser-known, bleaker Marvel Comics series.
Back in the 1970s, you were lucky to encounter a minor cast member from the “Star Trek” series, or maybe an aging Adam West to talk about the old Batman television series. But that didn't matter as much as meeting your favorite artist or writer. For comic book fans, such talents as John Byrne or Marv Wolfman were the celebrities. To get an autograph, snap a photo and spend a few moments chatting about your favorite character was what made those conventions a thrill. More than that, said Brad McGill, a longtime comic book fan and former convention dealer from Chattanooga, Tenn., it was the one time each year you could be among your own kind.
“I felt like I was somebody,” McGill said, who fondly recalls attending the popular Chattanooga-based Chattacon during the late 1970s. “We were the geeks at school, but at the convention we were kings of the world for a weekend.”
In their early days, comic conventions were mostly held at discount hotels in dingy ballrooms on the outskirts of town. But that didn't matter to fans of the era. We were in search of our own personal Holy Grail – the one comic book we had always wanted but lost or never found.
I still remember my first convention, the same Chattacon that McGill also attended in my hometown of Chattanooga in 1977. Like Comic-Con, Chattacon fans attended year after year, kindred spirits who enjoyed the company of their fellow geeks in a place where nobody was pointing fingers and sniggering. Here, they were free to argue the finer points of the construction of the fictional Starship Enterprise or ponder comic book plot lines for hours. And, as McGill pointed out, it was $10 for a weekend of all the beer you could drink and the priceless enjoyment of being around fellow fans.
Things have changed, but there still are acres of comic books and toy comic book characters for sale at Comic-Con, although the convention has evolved into at least a quarter of a mile of visual feasts in the form of big-screen animation, movies, film shorts, interactive video game displays and musical performances.
For many, the freebie comic books, buttons and toys are just as much a draw as the endless number of photo ops with sometimes scantily clad costumed comic book characters. Fans also can claim bragging rights as the first to try upcoming video games and at least snippets of comic-inspired films not yet in the theaters.
Such young fans as Bakersfield actor, comedian and aspiring comic book writer Michael Armendariz represent a newer generation. A member of the local comedy troupe The Blacklist, the 27-year-old Armendariz began pursuing comedy after high school, but his fascination with comic books runs deep into his childhood.
"Growing up, ever since first Superman movie, I was into them," he said. “From about the age of 10 on, I began reading Batman and superhero stuff."
Armendariz attended his first Comic-Con 13 years ago and is still an unabashed fan who counts the event among the highlights of his year. Asked about the changes the event has experienced in those years, Armendariz said the introduction of movies and media into the world of comic books and science fiction are a natural evolution.
"Back in grade school,” he said. “I'd go to meet my favorite artists and writers. Now, it's a nice blend, because I like movies and comic books. I've seen an ebb and flow over the past decade. Things go in cycles, but comics never lose their popularity. Most people these days go for the Hollywood scene, not the comic books, but the core characters and comic book lovers are still there."
What is encouraging is that at the center of every year's Comic-Con is the very serious business of comic book collectibles, from boxes of well-read comics and newer editions from up-and-coming comic book artists to elaborate displays of vintage comics with some very high price tags. That's where dealers like Scott Hudlow come in.
Hudlow is an archaeologist, instructor at Bakersfield College and veteran exhibitor of comic books popular and rare. This year was his 10th at selling comic books and his fifth at Comic-Con. For Ludlow, comic books will always be the mainstay of these conventions.
"The show has changed due to many factors, and it has simple grown extremely large,” Hudlow said, taking a break from his booth filled with displays and dozens of boxes of comics. “Movies and media guests add people, but for the most part, these guests are not on the floor, so they don't really affect the day-to-day business of the show for dealers.”
Hudlow, who grew up as a comic book fan and collector and visits smaller conventions around the state and western region several times a year, said the San Diego event is truly comic book Mecca for fans and dealers.
"Comic-Con is fun, but it's also stressful due to its size and the amount of distractions around you, like the people in outlandish costumes,” Hudlow said. "It really is a world unto itself. It really doesn't compare to anything else.”
For him, and for geeks like me, it will always be the comic books that bring me back.