A Room with a Loo (bathroom) An American Hack on Fleet Street

The story of a fish out of water who made his own pond…

…and still nearly drowned

Dan Ehrlich

1

A Room with a Loo An American Hack on Fleet Street

By Dan Ehrlich

Contents Preface Introduction Forward Chapter 1 Pinch Me...Is It Real? Chapter 2 Where It Really Began Chapter 3 Road Trip Chapter 4 What a Shame, You Missed the War Chapter 5 Homeward Bound—Almost Chapter 6 Work, Love and More Bad Choices Chapter 7 How to Keep a Good Man Down Chapter 8 Nothing Ever Seems to Last Chapter 9 The Most Idiotic Thing I Ever Did Chapter 10 Back on Track, Back on the Road Chapter 11 From Sensationalism to Heartbreak Chapter 12 Now the Heartbreak Part Chapter 13 Self Motivation Chapter 14 Bonding Chapter 15 Perks and Freelancing Chapter 16 It Just Gets Better Chapter 17 Luck and Exclusives Chapter 18 My Favorite Year Chapter 19 Money and Marriage Chapter 20 Brotherly Love Chapter 21 Out of Work, In Love

2 Chapter 22 Deja’vu? Not Quite Chapter 23 Home Sweet Home Chapter 24 Great News Amidst a Big Winter Chapter 25 And Baby Makes Four Chapter 26 A New Pal and a Double Tragedy Chapter 27 Chasing Rainbows Chapter 28 Who Would Have Dreamed Chapter 29 New World Order Chapter 30 A New Direction Chapter 31 Bipolar Period Chapter 32 It's Never Too Late Chapter 33 Road Trip Chapter 34 Will I Ever Learn? Chapter 35 At Last a Lucky Break Chapter 36 Lucky Break Part 2: CNN Chapter 37 Back on the Road Chapter 38 Back and Forth Chapter 39 Old Man River Chapter 40 The Homestretch Chapter 41 Moving On Chapter 42 Is That It? Chapter 43 What Did I Get Myself Into? Chapter 44 The Room Became Brighter Appendix

3 Preface by Colin Dangaard

Noted Journalist and Businessman

Dan Ehrlich is an enduring sailor in a sea of change for journalism – where the internet did a tsunami on the beach of traditional news work. Never again would wordsmiths do such a free and lucrative exchange of journalism for money.

Print is being buried under a digital avalanche, but only people like Dan Ehrlich can appreciate the enormity of this change. Journalists everywhere are indebted to Dan for chronicling the obvious --- journalism has not vanished, but it sure got different in a rush.

In his clear and entertaining way, Dan tells how it was, and how it is now. He was there then, and he’s here now. He has navigated the change with a spirit that is both endearing and inspiring to writers everywhere. He tells it like it was and is. At times you will be elated, and other times your heart will go out to him. He is warm and honest, one of a kind.

When I first met Dan I was the Hollywood bureau chief for the National Star, a Publication I helped launch for Rupert Murdoch. It was 1974. My office was on Sunset Boulevard, in Los Angeles. We had caused such outrage amongst the stuffy traditional press – and the elite Hollywood PR machine – that in those days we answered the phone by merely saying: “hello.”

Dan filled my door, blowing past the secretary, and greeted me with such enthusiasm I thought he was addressing somebody across the street. He showed me a story he had written on Oliver Reed. I gave it a speed read, and asked him what he needed. He said he would be happy with $400. I pulled out my personal check book and wrote him a check for $500. We did that kind of things in those days. Rupert never argued with my monthly expenses. He was concerned only with what I produced.

4 Besides, Dan had mentioned car problems, and I sure wanted him to fill my door again, with another story in hand.

The next day he was back again, and so began a relationship which has now extended three decades. I liked many things about Dan the journalist, but most of all, if he said they said it, they said it.

Dan Ehrlich is the ultimate working journalist. He has reported from many countries in the world. He has met the rich and the famous, and infamous, and he was intimidated by none of them.

This book should be required reading for anybody pursuing journalism. ======

5

Introduction

The British have long ribbed Americans about their land being an extension of the mother country, a former colony that never achieved its parent’s level of civility. But, when it comes to the contemporary UK media from broadcasting to newspapers, the USA has been the driving force of modern journalism for the entire English-speaking world.

Today's radio and television news shows, from the BBC to Channel 4 in London, with their popular magazine formats came from America. And so did the modern newspaper...from the balance layout banner head adorned broadsheets to the sensational mass-market tabloids known as the popular press.

The key to the vibrant, often rabid cutthroat nature of the UK national press in the 20th Century was, and still is, competition between multiple publications. At the time I am writing this, 2011, there are eight national daily newspapers in the UK, four quality sheets and four tabloids. Yet, in pre WW2 America, there were once that many papers alone in New York City. When they and others across the land died, America’s competitive and accountable press went with them.

The first U.S. newspaper, Publick Occurrences: Both Foreign and Domestick, published on September 25, 1690 lasted only one day before it was suppressed by British colonial authorities. This is why America built its press first and foremost on the Constitutional guarantee of press freedom. This is something other nations didn’t have. For the United States it opened the door to the mid 19th Century Penny Press Era sparked by the New York Sun selling for just one cent. Then there were just 715 papers in the US and many were revolutionary in the use sensational banner headlines for news on the front page instead ads and announcements, which had been common front page practice. By 1870 number papers had mushroomed to 5,091.

All major cities had multiple daily sheets. As late as my childhood in the 1940s and 50s I recall in Los Angeles there was the L.A. Times, Mirror, Herald Express, Examiner and Citizen News. Of those, only the Times survived. Today there are about 2,000 daily and Sunday

6 newspapers, most owned by multi media conglomerates. Yet the US still has the largest number of papers of any country.

There was little glamour to journalism pre WW2. It was a rough and coarse career field populated at one time by hard drinking, foul mouthed reporters and editor's with tempers as fierce as Kansas tornadoes. It had long been argued such an atmosphere was no place for "the ladies."

"We can swear just as good as men," was the feminist reply in the early 60s. And the women's movement was born, along with the notion that swearing was only one small measure of their equality. Women were out to prove they could equal or better men at most things long considered macho preserves, including the press.

Yet, as the American media was undergoing its own revolution, with editors demanding journalists have college educations, over in Britain the old ways were hanging on. Novice reporters continued to learn through the school of hard knocks on apprenticeship schemes at local publications or at low paying news agencies. “Journalism school, what’s that?” the Brit editor would ask sarcastically. Ironically, such negative comments were once made by editors now teaching at British journalism schools.

Yes, the Motherland has followed America down the road of having educated news people working in modern and clean, tobacco free office blocks where being the right sort of employee often became more important than what work her or she produced.

The Printed Press Historical Timeline

* 59 B.C.: Acta Diurna the first newspaper is published in Rome. * 1556: First monthly newspaper Notizie Scritte published in Venice. * 1605: First printed newspaper published weekly in Antwerp called Relation. - 1622: First regularly published British newspaper Weekly News *1690: The first newspaper is published in America, Publick Occurrences. *1702:The first English language daily newspaper is published called the Daily Courant. The Courant was first published in 1621. * 1803: First newspapers published in Australia, the Sydney Gazette and New South Wales Advertiser. * 1830: Number of newspapers published in the U.S. is 715. * 1833: The New York Sun newspaper costs one cent - the beginning of the penny press. * 1851: The Post Office starts offering a special cheap newspaper rate.

7 * 1856: The first full-page newspaper ad is published in the New York Ledger. Large type newspaper ads are made popular by photographer Mathew Brady. Machines now mechanically fold newspapers. * 1864: William James Carlton of J. Walter Thompson Company begins selling advertising space in newspapers. The J. Walter Thompson Company is the longist running American advertising agency. * 1867: The first double column advertising appears for the department store Lord & Taylor. * 1870: Number of newspapers published in the U.S. is 5,091. * 1871: First newspaper published in Japan - the daily Yokohama Mainichi Shimbun. Famous newspaper interview with explorer Stanley Livingston published. * 1873: First illustrated daily newspaper published in New York. * 1877: First weather report with map published in Australia. The Washington Post first publishes with a circulation of 10,000 and a cost of 3 cents per paper. * 1879: The benday process improves newspapers. The first whole page newspaper ad placed by an American department store (John Wanamaker) is run. * 1880: First halftone photograph (Shantytown) published in a newspaper. * 1885: Newspapers are delivered daily by train. * 1887: The San Francisco Examiner published. * 1893: The Royal Baking Powder Company becomes the biggest newspaper advertiser in the world. * 1903: The first tabloid style newspaper, the Daily Mirror is published in London. * 1931: Newspaper funnies now include Plainclothes Tracy starring Dick Tracy. * 1933: The newspaper-radio news war. American newspapers try to force the Associated Press to terminate news service to radio stations. * 1955: Teletypesetting is used for newspapers. * 1967: Newspapers use digital production processes and began using computers for operations. * 1971: Use of offset presses becomes common. * 1979s: Typewriters give way to computers for word processing * 1983: Tandy markets first practical laptop, TRS 80 100, with built-in phone modem that revolutionizes news reporting. * 1990s--Present: TV, automation and Internet cause a swift death to many newspapers and the digital news age is born.

8 FOREWARD

I’ve long been reminded of the 60s song A Whiter Shade of Pale when enduring the ever changing British weather, usually from dark grey to light grey. There’s the old winter joke that London is the only place where you get up on a cold gloomy morning, pull open the curtains and the room becomes darker. As you grow older, your body daily reminds you of this walking the cold and damp streets. However, I have found by bracing myself against a tree or wall and then pushing upwards, I can temporarily decompress my worn vertebrae and ease the pain in my back.

Although, with global warming, cold damp days are becoming less and less the norm, at least during spring and summer. Some people say southern England will eventually have a climate similar to Miami’s. Still others claim the Gulf Stream, which warms the British Isles, will stop and turn London into Moscow.

In my circumstance, I have to think of that common German expression, macht nichts, it makes no difference. I have just turned 68, my back is aching, my eyes are failing and my heart seems to beat to a different drummer than most people. This sort of sums up my journalistic life, doing what I wanted to do, or had to do, at a certain time, not keeping up a routine pace for advancement into one’s chosen career field. Yet, as some star struck actress, my career desire became an obsession that led me to dead end in all but memories and hope for the future.

At the end of it all, if it is the end, I am jobless (as if I really wanted a job at my age) and with no roots. It all came down to this -- an 11 ft. by 12ft room with a small kitchenette and a bath in a London suburb. This was my domain, from rent check to rent check. Oh, it was clean and my landlady Bernadette was kind enough to supply me with a super duvet to keep me nice and warm at night. Also, the petite nature of the accommodation made it easy to piggyback on my next-door neighbor’s WiFi web router.

9 But only five years earlier, I had a million dollar four bedroom house in Ealing, West London, a family and a known name in the UK media scene… which was no easy feat for an American in those days. Now, that seems so distant, just a fading dream as I peer out my only window and a view of the M-4 motorway flyover that blights the immediate vicinity of this green and pleasant land.

Admittedly, much of this was from my own doing. We all make choices, which at the time, we have no way of telling how they will impact our futures. I mean, things would have been a completely different story for me had I been content with being a copyboy at the San Jose Mercury back in 1966. I might have never left California to settle in London and had the family I did. On the other hand, I could very possibly have risen through the ranks and become an editor at the paper.

For the lucky few, they begin with nothing and eventually through the long hard slog wind up happy in both mind and body. These are the people for whom the bus always seems to be arriving. The complete losers, of course, are the mass of unlucky souls for whom the bus has just departed.

I guess I’m sort of in the middle. I have had some great achievements, foremost among them being married for 25 years and helping raise two children. What makes this great is that at age 38 I had all but given up hope of ever getting married. Then the woman who would occupy my time for a generation found me.

Yet, as momentous as my marriage was for me, it after all ended in failure and heartbreak. This is something I seldom felt from my chosen career field. I could have done other things, but news work grabbed me the first time I saw my name on a tennis story in my high school newspaper.

Now, 50 years later, I have to admit nothing has been more satisfying and exciting than being a reporter, covering everything from political turmoil to film festivals, from rock concerts to ski races. I even had the distinction of taking a hot tub bath with JR Ewing (Larry Hagman) of the TV show Dallas, at his Malibu Colony home. And, of course, the topper for me, a late-in-life stab at running a small town TV news department.

But, be forewarned, this is not a book about one of the journalistic greats such as John Hersey, Ernest Hemingway, Edward R. Murrow or

10 even my friend Don Kirk, who in his 70s is still slogging around Asia on assignments.

Don was young man when he won an award for a book on his coverage of the Vietnam War. Yet as an old man he covered the Iraq War. Now he’s back at his home in Korea writing for the Christian Science Monitor, and authoring more books on Asia…about six in all so far..

Then there’s one of my mentors Colin Dangaard, a real life Crocodile Dundee. He left his Outback Australian home to learn journalism from the old way, on the job, and then literally worked his way around the world on newspapers, spending around six months to a year at each job before moving on. This included sailing a leaky yacht from South Africa to Florida and years later returning to his first love, horses by establishing the Australian Stock Saddle Co. in, of all places, Malibu, California.

No, this is a story of an ordinary guy who through work, luck and perseverance wound up doing extraordinary things…at least some seemed that way to me. Yet, today, more than anything else, I am one of the dying breed of people who can bear witness to the revolution that has changed newsgathering and dissemination forever.

I can still recall holding a printer’s stick and setting type by hand in my high school print shop. Then, a short time later, sitting at a Linotype machine, watching a bar of lead melt in its reservoir as I typed out my story…. a story that would be hand carried, still hot, to the lock-up, a large metal frame in which the solidified lead would be secured ready for the presses.

A few years down the line, I learned to deal with offset lithography as printing went from hot to cold type. The hot metal was replaced by hot wax used to fix the paper type -- as it was -- to the paper layout sheet from which a photo was made to help mold the sheet metal castings. The age of moveable type was over…. now it came in massive blocks ready to print.

But even then, the media industry had no idea how computers and the Internet would soon change everything to such a degree that they would relegate Guttenberg’s medieval marvel to insignificance.

11 A Room with a Loo

Chapter 1 Pinch Me—Is It Real?

It’s 7:30 pm. on the French Riviera. My cab is speeding along a narrow country road that cuts through miles of green vineyards and fruit trees. The sinking sun is beginning to give the area the type of rusty artistic hue you often see in Medici postcards. Then, out of nowhere, I reach my destination, a large farmhouse called Le Moulin de Mougins or the Windmill of Mougins, a village about 15 kilometers outside of Cannes.

This, in fact, isn’t a farmhouse or a windmill, at least not anymore. It’s one of France’s top Michelin rated restaurants. Finally, I did something right. Before flying from my modest down-market London flat to the annual star studded and opulence laden Cannes Film Festival, I bought a formal dinner jacket and black bow tie on sale in the West End. I never needed such a get-up before, yet I was wearing it tonight at an exclusive star studded dinner party given by the author Harold Robbins.

What the hell was an ordinary guy like me, from L.A.’s San Fernando Valley and a student who barely graduated from Hollywood High, doing at Cannes, experiencing things a few years earlier I would have never dreamt possible? It was another example of how a cocktail of fate, luck and lots of desire can shape your life in ways beyond your wildest dreams. I mean even when I was in college during my late 20’s, my goal, other than graduating, was eventually becoming a local newspaper city editor. Living and working in Europe never was on the table.

12 Yet, there I was at the Cannes Film Festival, a freelance showbiz reporter in my stride. I was writing stuff for American and British newspapers and magazines. Be they tabloids or broadsheets, it didn’t matter to me. It just meant shifting my writing style to another gear. And because I had a few major outlets and some good PR contacts, Cannes to me was a gold mine of stories and gossip items, all of which were worth big and little bucks…. I never quibbled about money. The more I had published, the more glam dinner invitations I received, and the more stories I lined up for the next day or week.

Now I must make it clear, I wasn’t one of the paparazzi minions dogging film stars. I was a responsible journalist of some note and most of my stories were arranged in advance by well-known PR agents such as Jerry Pam and Rogers & Cowan, the latter inviting me to the Robbins dinner.

On the other hand, if an opportunity availed itself, I jumped on it. For example, there were chance meetings with screen legend Marcello Mastroianni and ballet phenom Rudolph Nureyev, to name a couple. These developed into major stories. I will talk about them later. One of the best things about showbiz writing was being able to talk to performers I had long admired. It was better than getting their autographs and I was being paid for it, too.

The key, of course, was coming up with big name interviews and lots of juicy quotes. I never fabricated quotes. My tape recorder did a better job. Now, if the big stories didn’t come my way, I had to depend on volume, doing loads of lesser stories for whatever price I could sell them.

I sometimes gave myself a mental pinch of disbelief as I had my morning petite dejuner on my Hotel’s terrace overlooking the Cannes marina, with its odd collection of super gin palaces and assorted fishing boats. I guess you could say it was local color. Whatever, I could hardly believe I was doing things I thought only guys like Cary Grant did. And, in fact, I once saw him at Cannes, too.

Let’s see. When my daily basket of bread and rolls was placed at my table, I ordered tea “nature.” I may live in Britain, but it doesn’t mean I have to drink tea like the English do, ruined with milk. Then, my International Herald Tribune was given to me along with various movie trade publications. I never read all these. But, it looked cool just having them. Besides, I often supplied stories to the trades, which had special editions for the festival. I mean the Hollywood Reporter and Screen

13 International, in those days, were so desperate for fill copy, that I would rewrite some of my old stories relating to stars at Cannes. And the best part was that the editors knew this. But they didn’t care. They just wanted to fill up the special editions with special stories. And, all I cared about was making some extra money to cover my expenses and having my byline all over Cannes.

How different this was from my early days in news work. Not as far back as high school, but at a key point in my still to blossom career. I had spent four years in the U.S. Air Force after bombing out of my first attempt at college. My father wanted me to be a doctor. But, I had no burning desire in that direction and, as my high school work showed, a very limited ability at mathematics.

So, it was running off to the military for me, not very common for a young Jewish man, something I would find out in basic training. You might say I was a male version of “Private Benjamin.” However, my life has been considerably different from most Jews I know. How many wind up in a room with a loo? Yet, settling in London and working for the British press was part of a gradual process that took a decade.

Still, my teenage years weren’t a total waste. I dove into amateur radio as a fun hobby that would become very useful to me in the military. I was given a bypass specialists test as a radio technician and operator and spent nearly four years either running or maintaining communications equipment,

After spending nearly three years stationed in Texas and a year at a mountain top radar station in Newfoundland, the only genuine high point of my service years was having a month-long leave in Europe, courtesy of the USAF. It was 1963 and the Beatles had just been discovered, London’s Soho district was becoming fashionable and I met Brenda.

She was tending bar at the Empire Ballroom on Leicester Square and, after chatting her up, I wound up escorting her back to her flat in White City. I bring this up because at 23, this was the first time I had been in a single woman’s apartment with the single woman. But, Brenda wasn’t my first sexual encounter. That was two years earlier in a Mexican whorehouse, a low point of my service years.

And even though I tried in vain to find her the next day, Brenda was destined to be merely one of my life’s memories as I headed for an air force flight back to Newfoundland.

14 When I returned from the military, I was sadder but wiser. Yet, I was now a man -- I knew what I wanted to do…Go back to Europe and find Brenda. But, after a rethink, I decided to study journalism instead. This was a subject I grew to love at Hollywood High through the patient efforts of my journalism teacher Florence Miller.

You see, I originally took up journalism because I hated English. And there was an option at the school to substitute journalism for English. That’s all I needed to hear. I didn’t know or care about the school’s logic here, but educators felt taking journalism would help instill English grammar into students who hated English grammar. And I have to admit, they were spot on target. In fact, during my much later turns at running news shops, amazingly one of my main tasks was coaching young reporters in proper grammar.

15 Chapter 2 Where It Really Began

In 1965, I was 24 and attending Los Angeles Valley College for the second time. The first was a disastrous attempt after I graduated high school in 1959, leading me to join the military. Now I was working at the Valley News and Green Sheet in Van Nuys, a suburb of Los Angeles. This was my first regular news job. My title in those days is now part of journalistic history -- a copyboy. Since that’s not PC anymore, the title has been changed to editorial assistant and probably somewhere down the line it will again be changed to something such as web associate. Today, however, the paper has moved to the other end of the San Fernando Valley and changed its name, as well. As for Van Nuys, it has changed its character into being a suburb of Tijuana, Mexico.

As a copyboy, I was, in fact, a reporter in training, whose main job was doing things reporters and editors didn’t want to do. These were things such as going over press releases, editing some copy, pasting stories together with gallons of strangely addictive rubber cement, and checking the paper’s own weather station. And, oh, endlessly running copy from the city room to the backshop, about 75 yards-away, where the copy was transformed into hot lead type.

However, the day’s high point was the lunch truck with its assortment of semi-expensive “front” sandwiches. We called them that because they were made similar to film set props, with all the meat between the bread visible in front of the package and the rear portion being largely empty. The big decision was picking the sandwich with the most stuff visible.

The daily low point, because you could bet on it happening, was running afoul of the city desk. Two journalistic sages, the City Editor Larry Fowler and the Asst. City Editor Durwood Scott ran the city desk. And their job, other than making sure the copy desk had as little work to do as possible, was mentoring by scaring the shit out of copyboys and, yes, copygirls, with verbal barrages that could leave you suicidal. I guess their reasoning was that anyone who would crack under such drastic action wouldn’t have made it in journalism in any case.

16 Remember this was in the good old pre-PC days when you didn’t have to worry about million dollar lawsuits for hurting someone’s feelings, or should I say, causing severe mental and emotional distress.

The fact is, as reporters-in-training, we screwed up a lot. In my case, it was with grammar and news style. And the city desk duo, often playing “good cop, bad cop,” would attempt to rid us of bad habits by the fear technique. In a perverse sort of logic, the longer they daily chewed you out the more they had hope for you. Those people who didn’t illicit strong emotions from the desk were the ones often destined to be sacked.

And amazingly, their technique worked, at least with me. To this day, where it has become commonplace in America to use the preposition “over” to designate quantity, I still use “more than” to say the same thing. Thanks Scotty, wherever you are.

COPYBOY By Dan Ehrlich Published in Crown L.A. Valley College 1965

“Eight-thirty! It can’t be. I just closed my eyes a minute ago! Oh, no! If I don’t hurry, I’m going to be late.” It seems as though I say these words to myself every morning, Monday through Saturday, as a prelude to the day ahead. Who am I? What do I do? At the ripe old age of 24, I, like so many other ex-servicemen who left Uncle Sam’s protection with a vow to get ahead in life, am a full time college student by trade. But to attend school requires a certain amount of money, and, for this, I have to do what is technically called part time work. It is, in fact, anywhere from 32 to 37 hours a week in an arrangement that I at times have trouble figuring out. Normally, upon realizing I have to be at work by 9 a.m., I spring from my bed, do a quick set of 20 push-ups, run through the shower, jump into my clothes and before my mother can say “Jack

17 Robinson,”. the sound of my motorcycle, purchased for economy reasons, can be heard tearing its way up the driveway of my North Hollywood home toward my job at the Valley News and Greensheet in Van Nuys. No. I don’t deliver papers, and I’m not quite a re- porter, yet, though someday I may make it. My official title? Just call me a 24-year-old copyboy. Upon entering the pleasant atmosphere of the city room at the Valley News, I am usually swamped with questions and requests on subjects ranging from, “What did you do with that weather story you took last night?” to, “How about getting me a cup of black coffee and a glazed doughnut?” Upon surviving the initial barrage of the morning, I am free to begin the routine business, such as opening the mail, straightening out the stacks of papers in our files, checking the editor’s “out” basket for some world shaking announcements, rummaging through the old envelopes for rare stamps, which are given to a couple of collectors in the office and occasionally, when the strain isn’t too great. taking some copy to the backshop, where the type is finally set. The highlight of each morning comes at approximately 10:15 a.m. It’s so important that I try to have the decks completely cleared by then; this, of course, is opti- mistic, to say the least. The event is signaled by the blasting of a truck horn, and by the way people begin rushing for the door, you would think Santa Claus and all his reindeer had arrived. What does arrive, however, is the catering truck with its load of precious life-giving goodies. For me, this catering truck, on many occasions, is the only food I see the entire day. Because the 9 a.m. to 12 noon shift is usually ex- tremely busy due to the paper’s noon deadline on the first edition, by the time my 12 o’clock quitting hour rolls around, I am pretty well worked out. With a brief sigh of relief, I bid farewell to the staff for the day and then suddenly reality bites, my real day’s task is still to come--school! My first class at Los Angeles Valley College begins at 1 pm., but I usually arrive around 12:30 pm. in the time lapse I can be found studying, or, more likely, associating with fellow tradesmen in the city room of the Valley Star.

18 During the day session, classes for me terminate at 3 pm., at which time I leave campus and head for still another task. What this time? Doing public relations work for the East Valley YMCA, of which I have been a long time member. After completing a few press releases at the “Y,” I may get the honor of visiting my home, providing I can still remember where it is located. But these stays are usually short ones and are taken up by homework and an occasional emotional release on my drum set, which may be the reason why the stays are so short. For four days a week the evening hours either mean more school or work for me. On Monday and Tuesday are night classes and on Thursday and Friday, newspaper work. It’s about 10:30 or 11 pm., when I finally conclude my day of activities. After catching the late news on television, I may be seen doing some homework until the wee small hours of the morning. This, however, is a good cure for insomnia. Believe me, homework will do it every time. Suddenly it’s morning again. Oh, no, I’m going to be late!

A little perk I received for my efforts was a ticket for two to the gala Hollywood premier of the Cold War drama, The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, starring Richard Burton and Oscar Werner. I didn’t know it then, but this would be a foretaste of my career direction ahead.

When my sister Susan and I jumped into my dented 1962 Ford Fairlane convertible, we had no idea of what we were about to experience. As we hit Hollywood Boulevard near the old Warner cinema, looking for a parking lot, we were ushered into the red carpet lane, stopping right in front of a sea of fans. I was entering a state of minor shock. “Oh shit, what do we do now?” Well, for starters, we got out of the car and as it was driven away, I simply waved to the screaming throng.

Inside the foyer, we hung around to see Burton and his wife Liz Taylor arrive. They were shorter than I expected. My sister has a brief word with Sonny and Cher and we finally went in to see the show.

Before leaving the paper to continue my studies up at San Jose State College (now University), I was promoted to cub reporter. I was given a

19 one-time only offer of a reporter’s job at the Greensheet after I had received my B.A. degree and returned to the Valley. It was a magnanimous gesture, yet it would be the start of a pattern of missed opportunities that would lead me, after several years, to becoming a freelance reporter.

Once at San Jose State, I quickly got a copyboy job at the San Jose Mercury, a major newspaper. The work was easy enough. And there wasn’t any screaming or hurt emotions here. The feeling was similar to leaving basic training in the military: your life becomes somewhat normal again. And instead of having to run copy to the back shop, we had the luxury of pneumatic tubes that sent the stories hurtling through the ceilings at 100 mph.

But the big thrill was regularly having to sort through hundreds of meters of Teletype wire copy. We were usually looking for new stories or additional information on existing stories.

You must keep in mind, as hard as it may be to comprehend, these were pre-computer days. All copy was written with machines called typewriters or variations of these. And, unlike computers, there was no spell check, erase function or most of the editing functions that computers offer. Of course, years from now, people reading this may ask: What’s a computer?

In any case, I am an all-thumbs type of guy. I mean I received a D grade in my high school typing class. More amazing is that I spent four years in the Air Force as an electronics technician. So, getting into a career field with a typing prerequisite was quite a challenge for me. This challenge was compounded, I would find later, by the fact that I was either dyslexic or had attention deficit disorder. In other words, I found reading, even the words I wrote, difficult. While in the Air force, I recall that in my attempt at learning to play chess, I was one of the few people to wind up physically injured from the game. So frustrated at losing a match, I smashed my hand through a plastic chess box, cutting myself. Wiping off the blood spattered chessboard, I put it away and never played again.

So, where was I? Oh yes, I was working nights at the Mercury and carrying a full load of college courses during the day. It was a bit much for a non-academic. Then, only a few months into the job, I spotted an opening for a reporter at a local weekly newspaper. I figured better hours

20 and a chance to write instead of doing newsroom chores, that’s for me. That was my first Big Mistake.

Remember, I said each of us make decisions which will determine our future. Will we wind up in clover or in a room with a loo? My course to become an international newsman began in what seemed like a great job at the time, a reporter at the Cupertino Courier, a tabloid weekly that was being produced by offset lithography. This was something new to me, a kid who grew to manhood with the smell of hot lead in his nostrils. Okay, that’s a bit of a dramatic overstatement. Call it artistic license, but I could smell the hot lead in high school print job.

At the time, I grew to love this job and the friendly people at the paper, especially one of my early mentors…the paper’s editor Bob Wilson. He, along with Fowler and Scott, helped me complete the first phase of my career, transforming me into a style conscious and impartial observer. But the latter trait had to be continually rammed into me.

A main part of the job, which usually took up to around 32 hours per week, was covering meetings of the city council, planning commission, and schools boards. However, council members, during the meetings, sometimes had some controversial issues so screwed up that I couldn’t control myself. I had to chime in with both a question and an answer, occasionally to the applause of the audience. Hey, maybe a talk show host would be my calling.

Council members would then call Bob to complain, “Your reporter is causing problems.” Yet, unlike the Greensheet city desk duo, Bob was a calm and cheerful guy. After all, this was a low pressure community weekly. All he would keep telling me before ensuing meetings was: “Remember, don’t participate, just take notes.”

It was difficult, but after biting my tongue a few times, I was cured of making a stand for the little guy…at least in Cupertino.

The two biggest stories during my two years at the Courier were the ground breaking of De Anna Community College and the construction of Varian Semi Conductor. You see, in 1966, there wasn’t yet a Silicon Valley. But Varian was in the vanguard of high tech firms that had begun setting up shop in an area once covered with plum tree orchards.

Being four years older than most students at San Jose State (remember USAF service), I had a more lavish and demanding lifestyle. I mean, not

21 many students had their own apartment, car, motorcycle, red pearl drum set, and even a small Styrofoam sailboat. It was like a major move when I travelled up to San Jose from Los Angeles. I had to rent a trailer to carry my stuff.

But the drive proved too much for my 1962 Ford Fairlane Convertible. The knocking and billows of black smoke filling the air during my initial entry into my parking space told me it was time for a change. I sold it and bought a 1958 Triumph TR3 roadster, one of two such cars I would own in succession. Aside from being the most enjoyable car I have ever driven, I never thought of how valuable they would become someday, another miscalculation along the road of my still – then -- rather young life.

In any case, the Courier job, along with $135 per month in G.I. Bill money, meant I wasn’t a starving student. This also was the only time in my career where I had staff jobs on two newspapers at the same time. Part of the journalism course requirement was working on the Spartan Daily, which even for an “old pro” like me was a lot of fun. It gave me the opportunity to write opinionated columns such as my denunciation of President Lyndon Johnson for expanding the Vietnam War and yet quitting in the middle of it. I couldn’t write this stuff in Cupertino.

I know I didn’t miss the 60s, even though I can only vaguely remember them. I wonder if that counts as being a part of that drug induced era. I guess being more mature than most of the students, I didn’t get as stoned as they did. Plus, the fact, I was working almost full-time as a respectable journalist, making daily trips to the Santa Clara County Sheriff’s office. I couldn’t do that with a zigzag between my fingers.

My day went like this: In class by 8 or 9 a.m. and out by 2 or 3. Drive to the cop shop to get the blotter reports for the Cupertino area. Then drive to the Cupertino city hall, check planning commission applications and finally go to the office and work into the evening. If there were night meetings, usually around 7 p.m., I would have dinner in the area, usually at the Burger Pit. I got to know the manager and for a fee he would allow me to bring in my own enormous steaks. He would broil them for me on the charcoal grill, supplying the sides.

The night meetings, especially the school boards, could go on for quite some time, with me driving the 10 miles back to my apartment at 10 p.m. Then it was chill-down time. But, being the responsible tenant, I resisted having a blast on my red sparkle drum set. Besides, I had just bought a

22 new toy…one of the few students to have a new GE 12 inch Portacolor TV set. Was this living?

Looking back at the 60s, part of the revolutionary aspect wasn’t a throwing out of the old for the new. We don’t tend to do that in America, evidenced by the amount of Beach boys and Supremes records you still hear today on the radio. No, it was really a vast expansion of choice. People could still dress and act like the respectable 1950s residents of Pleasantville or if you wanted, look like a total freak or slob and say you were part of the counter culture. Again, I was sort of in the middle. I wore flares and psychedelic shirts. But, because I had a responsible job, I also had to have a tie and sport coat handy.

For me, a high point of that time was going to the SJS spring dance and being captivated by the live group, Big Brother and the Holding Company, with their rising star Janis Joplin. Even though I had briefly played drums with a group in the air force, I had never seen anything like this performance. To walk into the San Jose Civic Auditorium to the sound of “Down On Me” was something I never expected. And to see scores of young co-eds pumping against the balcony railings, while on stage Janis was pumping out the lyrics as a plasma light show illuminated the screen behind was mind boggling. After all, it was supposed to be. Had I just entered the 60s as the era’s end was near?

Yet, possibly the most bizarre event of the 60s for me happened in class. While we were inside, other students were outside staging a militant protest against Dow Chemical’s involvement in the war. This resulted in a confrontation with the cops, who started firing tear gas. I recall that it was a hot day and the windows were open. This allowed the gas to waft into our midst.

It was gradual at first and then we started coughing and rubbing our eyes. Finally, it dawned on us; this wasn’t hay fever. Some of us closed the windows. But, it was too late. Everyone ran for the Spartan Daily office on the other side of the building. If nothing else, it made a great story the next day in the paper and was picked up by the wire services.

I should point out, because of my age and being in the military for four years, I didn’t have a youthful liberal view of things. In fact, I did a series of humorous articles in the Spartan Daily mocking the masses of student hippies. I felt it was my duty as an American to back our troops. Also, I was a charter member and treasurer of the college’s newly formed veterans club.

23 However, unlike many people who grew more conservative with age, I would do just the opposite. As I became more aware of the world about me, especially while living in Europe, I moved from being a right winger to a person a bit left of center on most things.

My road to enlightenment began after graduation in June 1968, when I officially enrolled for a post graduate degree at the school of hard knocks. Upon leaving my job in Cupertino, I had already decided on a graduation trip around Europe. But, by then, it wasn’t to be another search for Brenda. I loved the brief time I had there on leave in the air force and I wanted to explore it more fully. But there was the matter of my job-in- waiting at the Valley News and Greensheet. What should I do?

I had a meeting with Larry Fowler who said my job was waiting and he wanted me to start immediately. I told him I wanted to travel around Europe first and start after summer. But, he was as adamant as I was. If I didn’t take the job now, kiss it goodbye. Which, to my lasting sense of ingratitude, is what I did. The job didn’t matter that much to me; disappointing Larry and Scotty did. These guys were great newsmen and my mentors. But, I became obsessed with a Hemmingway-like fantasy vision of being a foreign correspondent in Europe. This was the first time such a career aspiration had entered my mind. And through the next several years, it would grow to be a passion built on complete naïve fantasy.

24 Chapter 3 Road Trip

So, jobless, but with a wad of cash I had saved from my work in Cupertino, I started my first international road trip. Stop one was New York, after driving there from L.A. in 52 hours. I had hooked on with a guy who was advertising for a driving partner. And we didn’t stop except for food and gas. Considering the interstate highway system wasn’t fully developed then, our time was quite fast.

Stop two was to see my old USAF chum George Osley in Hatfield, Mass. He was attending college, but still the same brash, fun loving guy he had been long before. Sadly I lost touch with George for about 30 years, only contacting him again as a senior citizen through the magic of online phone number searching.

And stop three was a cheap Holland-America Line student ship called the S.S. Waterman. I had booked passage in Los Angeles, one way to Rotterdam for $150. I would find during my road trip that being a student, even a slightly old one, had economic advantages.

Of course, being a would-be foreign correspondent, I had to have the proper gear -- a Humphrey Bogart beige trench coat stuffed into my bulky air force b-4 bag. I also had an almost equally bulky Smith-Corona portable electric typewriter, a gift from my aunts in Cleveland and finally an attaché case, similar to Sean Connery’s model in From Russia With Love. However, since I couldn’t get hold of 50 gold coins of the realm, I settled for a half dozen special Kennedy half dollars secreted in the case for emergencies. I remember this mainly because carrying all this stuff proved to be so stupid.

Once on the ship, I was assigned an inside cabin with two or three other guys. This was the first I knew about such an arrangement. And I wasn’t happy. Female roommates OK, but not guys.

So, using my gift for bullshit, I told the purser that, while I didn’t mind the arrangement, I suffered from irritable bowel syndrome and was worried how all that farting would affect the others. In an instant, I was

25 assigned a new room --my very own outside cabin, porthole and all. This is where I learned one great truism of life: It never hurts to ask.

The 10 day trip was enjoyable, but uneventful, except for grabbing a Viet Cong flag from some guy and throwing it overboard as any good American would do.

Once in Rotterdam, I headed for a youth hostel, bought a membership, and I was in…all of Europe’s cheap student accommodation awaited. Now, this was the height of student backpacking. I mean American kids were everywhere. We had the money and we were willing to spend it in pursuit of whatever thrill or reality we were after. And looking back, I can see I really had no idea of what reality I was after. I was simply a tourist with delusions of being a freelance journalist travelling from one story to another. And, I wasn’t even smoking dope or dropping acid to get like that.

I had no contacts, let alone contracts. I didn’t even have any clear idea of what I wanted to write or how to sell my stories once they might be written. Yet, I somehow fantasized being this trench coat clad correspondent who just happens to prefer body odor saturated youth hostels to expensive hotels. Oh, I was able to beat the stench by spreading roll-on deodorant on my bed pillow and burying my face in it at night.

The next step was transportation. I wasn’t into urban back packing. Instead, I bought an old used Lambretta motor scooter and I was off…but where to, I didn’t really know. I must admit that I loved to drive the scooter along Holland’s extensive bicycle path network. I didn’t know if I was supposed to be on them driving a motor scooter. No one ever said anything and it was a lot less scary than travelling on the main motorways.

My first stop was Amsterdam, then into Germany, Denmark, back to Germany and eventually to Munich’s Oktoberfest where I nearly, as the British say, “bought it.” Andy, a friend from the Waterman, and I were driving our scooters to see the nearby Dachau concentration camp when a school bus, I was about to pass, stopped rather suddenly. I didn’t turn to the left far enough and the mud guard clipped the bus sending me head first onto the road. As I felt my head bouncing along the street, I was glad I was wearing that full helmet I bought from a youth hostel guest back in Rotterdam.

26 “Gebt mir ein artz (Get me a doctor),” I remember telling the gathering throng of bus passengers and onlookers, as I lie in the street. Luckily, my head was okay, at least physically. But, even though I was wearing heavy clothing, I sustained severe bruising on my arms and legs. And a bit later I couldn’t help thinking of the spectre: A Jewish tourist and would-be newsman meeting his end on the road to Dachau.

It wasn’t too long before an ambulance came and took me to a hospital which itself looked like something left over from the War. I was bandaged up and sent on my way, which wasn’t as easy as it seemed. Andy was there with his Vespa, ready to drive me to my scooter. But that was several miles away and hanging on to his Vespa, with my arms in bandages, wasn’t an easy task. Isn’t it remarkable what you can do when you’re young? I recall later joking: “A funny thing happened to me on the way to Dachau.”

My Lambretta had been placed on the side of the road and appeared in good shape, aside from scrapes and scratches. My observations then and now are that Northern European people tend to be very honest and very helpful…as long as there’s no war in progress. It’s when you travel south of the Alps that you have to watch your belongings with a sharp eye.

Andy and I were staying at a cheap Munich hotel. During one of our forays to the festival, we managed to meet a married New York couple, also from the boat. So together we spent the next couple of nights prosting (toasting) each other at the various beer halls. The Oktoberfest sort of shows the normally staid Germans at their happiest and at their worst. They drink enormous mugs of beer until they pass out, piss out or puke out. In fact they call the restrooms there pissorts. This, after all, was the setting where Hitler first gained power, the beer halls.

Be that as it may, there I was Jewish Dan prosting with the best of them to endless renditions of the Tom Jones song “Delilah.” The lyrics were so deeply planted in my mind that I found myself singing the song days later. The worst time was when you had to relieve yourself. That meant going outside to the rain and excrement soaked grounds, searching for a pissort or a secreted tree, only to find women squatting at the very one you picked to water. In an age of sexual equality, about the only advantage a man has over a woman is that we can piss anywhere, even into a bottle.

When the fest ended, Andy and I headed over Austria’s Brenner Pass to Italy and a brief visit to lovely Trieste. Here is also where we split-up,

27 Andy heading into Italy and I down into Greece and eventually Israel… where else?

But, there was the matter of Yugoslavia to negotiate. This was during communist times and a westerner simply couldn’t drive through the country without a proper visa. My jumping off point, Trieste, was a charming subtropical appearing town. It’s at the top of the Adriatic and is the last town in Italy before entering Slovenia. Trieste is earmarked by a town center filled with lush palm trees, a large lighthouse and a coastal walk along lovely manicured lawns and shrubbery.

Heading out of Trieste, I hit the border, bought a visa on the spot and I was off, down the Dalmatian Coast through Croatia and Montenegro. It was in the town of Ivanograd that the main road I was on headed into the mountains. Before long, the paved road became a dirt road and I was buffeting my way towards Kosovo. I mean, I was in a dense mountainous forest and I didn’t see any other vehicles coming or going.

After a few hours that seemed mainly uphill, my rear tire went flat. It must have happened due to the combination of rocks and all the weight of my luggage. Well, I could manage the front tire, but I had no idea of how to change the rear wheel, hooked to the drive train. Never fear. My salvation was soon at hand in the form of a British doctor who came bouncing up the trail in his Land Rover. He stopped and asked if he could help. And, he knew exactly what to do. It took awhile, but he did it. I was overjoyed at that moment. He gave me his card and headed north. I thought I was still going south.

Finally, the hillside broke and I saw an almost fairytale vision, the town of Pec in Kosovo. Much of this area had been part of the old Muslim Ottoman Empire. And the mountain hugging town with its minarets accenting the skyline, resembled a Hollywood movie scene. I had my tire repaired and headed for Kosovo’s capital Pristina.

Evening in Pristina was strange. About all a tourist could do was have a cup of the normal 50 weight coffee and watch an endless parade of residents walking back and forth up and down the well lit main street. It was like a chain of people going round and round the same path.

The next day, firmly out of the mountains, I headed south towards Greece, first crossing Yugoslavia’s Macedonia and then into the Greek province of Macedonia. Both sides claim the right to the name and of being the birthplace of Alexander the Great.

28 As for Greece, this was a tense time for the birthplace of democracy. It was being ruled by a military junta which enacted strict import controls. Basically, you had to leave the country with whatever you brought into the country, such as my Lambretta. I figured on selling it in Athens before hopping a boat to Israel. I would find this wouldn’t be so easy, since the customs authorities had a record of what you brought into the country.

The date was now late October and the weather was cold enough up high so that mystical Mt. Olympus was covered in snow. But, for me, the journey to Athens offered three high points. The first was driving through the Pass of Thermopylae with its enormous statue of the Spartan King Leonidas. Having seen the 1962 movie, The 300 Spartans, I couldn’t help imagining the scene of the battle. Yet, it was difficult, since history has the pass near the sea and today it’s miles from the sea.

Later that day, I stopped by the mythical Spring of Aphrodite and, throwing caution to the wind, had a drink from it. You can get pretty sick drinking water around these parts. But, legend has it that a drink from the spring insures a great love life. Say no more.

Yet, the most memorable experience -- aside from a touch of the runs, possibly courtesy of Aphrodite and from all those fresh tomato and onion salads immersed in 50 weight olive oil -- was travelling to Delphi on a moonless night. Delphi, home of the legendary oracle, was high in the Mt. Parnassus massif.

I had planned to stay at the youth hostel there, but didn’t plan my driving time right and wound up the lone vehicle on a totally unlit, winding switchback accented road. There were two scary aspects to this trip. First, every time I had to slow for a switchback, my generator powered headlight would dim way down to a point where I couldn’t see anything on the road.

The second thing was the area itself…talk about eerie….this after all was the home of the muses and the playground of the god Apollo. Dark or not, I had to take breaks during the long ride. Yet, as dark as it was, the white face of Parnassus shone through almost as if being moonlit. And, the heavens were awash with stars as clearly visible as the scenes produced by a planetarium. It was easy to see how the ancients conjured up their gods and constellations. I tell you, every time my headlights went dim and the scooter almost stalled, I was half expecting to be struck by a lightning bolt.

29 Finally I arrived at Delphi and the welcome youth hostel. It was not too soon either as my scooter had begun losing power just before journey’s end.

The next morning I put sightseeing -- even attempting to consult the oracle -- on hold, while I had my scooter examined by the local mechanic. He cleaned out about a kilo of compressed carbon from my muffler and the Lambretta was as good as ever.

When I was told there was no more oracle at Delphi, I had to settle for the spectacular view down to the sea and the knowledge that having drunk from Aphrodite’s spring would assure me of some good fortune.

Finally I was ready for my last push towards Athens. Needless to say, the drive down the mountain in daylight was a lot easier and propelled me to Athens late that day.

This was my second visit to Athens, the first several years earlier when I was in the air force. But, this time it was merely a stop-off point for catching a boat to Israel. However, there was the matter of my scooter. I had to either leave with it or sell it to another foreign tourist who was leaving the country. I found such a person at the youth hostel. He was an Egyptian student heading north. And he wanted my Lambretta. But, my big mistake was letting him take a solo test drive. He didn’t come back.

An entire day went by and no Egyptian. Finally, the next day I had to report it stolen, which itself was a bureaucratic mess. Yet, wouldn’t you know it; that afternoon he came strolling back into the youth hostel as if nothing had happened. “Where the hell have you been?” I asked. “I had to report the scooter stolen.” But, he didn’t seem to understand. “Where is it?” I asked. He told me in his broken English that he had broken the scooter by mixing way too much oil with the gas, instead of the normal 25 to one gas-oil mixture. He left it outside of town.

Yet, at that point, with me due to leave the next day for Haifa, my concern was more to get the bike transferred to his passport and, yes, to get some cash off of him for my faithful Lambretta. I was worried he could be arrested for having a stolen vehicle. You see, by reporting it stolen, it was taken off my passport. The problem was this guy was rather ignorant and wouldn’t listen to reason. He, in fact, wanted me to help him repair the scooter he had disabled.

30 I told him I didn’t have time for that, but I would go with him to the customs office to transfer ownership. For some reason he balked at this and walked away. It was the last I saw of him. As I was boarding the Greek cruise liner, travelling steerage this time, I wondered what would happen when he hit the Macedonian border in a stolen Lambretta. But, those thoughts soon disappeared with me immersed among a boatload of Sabras heading home to the Promised Land.

------

Chapter 4 What a Shame, You Missed the War

On arrival in Haifa, I did the obligatory kissing the ground of the homeland, much to the bemusement of the dock workers. I stayed there for a day before taking a train to Tel Aviv, which was my first experience with unsophisticated Israelis who had a passion for eating sunflower seeds and spitting the shells onto the train floor. They covered it like a blanket.

I must admit until this time I was a complete washout as a foreign correspondent. I was too busy being a tourist on the move. A basic truth I would find much later was that most people can’t do much career-wise until they’re settled somewhere and have contacts. In Tel Aviv, a housing agency hooked me up with an old woman, a concentration camp survivor, living alone in an apartment on a beachside street. The rent for a furnished room was reasonable and the place was comfortable. And listening to Ina talk about the 1948 war was fascinating. But, she didn’t like to go back to her time in the concentration camp. In fact, I didn’t even know at which camp she had been imprisoned.

Israel, which only a year earlier shocked the world with its stunning Six Day War victory, was still a big news source, as it has remained, and it finally gave me a chance to stay put for awhile. It was where I did my first ever freelance feature.

I wandered into the Associated Press bureau and asked if they needed any help. “You should have been here last year,” they said. “That’s when we needed people.” But the bureau chief said he was always open to freelance features. You see, my fantasy was largely based on being the

31 answer to an editor’s prayer, a much needed reporter who just happens to be there at the right time. That would have definitely been “a bus was arriving” situation. Since my bus had long since gone, I either had to take what was on offer or wait around a few years until the next war.

I would later find that being a successful freelance foreign correspondent was a mixture of luck and knowledge of world news spots and events, of being in the right place at the right time. It was also a matter of making advanced arrangements. For example, I could have used my contacts at the Valley News to send some stories to them, a ready market. The local market will normally be your first contact.

At this point, the idea of self motivated freelance work was alien to me. And, besides, I had no idea of what stories might sell. To that extent, the bureau chief gave me a hint. Arabic Jewish immigrants had been pouring into the country, but they were not being absorbed by the newly affluent Eurocentric Israeli society. “Your assignment Mr. Ehrlich, should you decide to take it, will be to talk to Jews from Arab lands and the Israeli government about the measures being taken to assist these people to integrate into Israeli society. However, should you screw this up, AP will deny any knowledge of you.”

Forgotten in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict had been the plight of some 700,000 Jews driven from Arab countries after successive wars with Israel. And, while the Arabs have never accepted their Palestinian refugee brothers in great numbers, the Israelis were quick to do all they could to assist fellow Jews, at least in getting them to Israel.

And, back then, I was quick to accept the task of helping them, too. My story centered around the ancient port area of Jaffa, now essentially part of Tel Aviv. Before 1948, Jaffa was the home of a mainly Arab population. After 1948, it increasingly became the home of Arabic Jews, people, who aside from their religion and morality, were culturally Third- World Arabs. They simply set up housekeeping in former Arab homes.

The stark difference, at the time, between central Tel Aviv and the Jaffa area was shocking. A good comparison might be the proximity of affluence and poverty in Washington D.C.

The Israeli government had a stated goal to welcome and resettle Jews from all over the world. However, at the time, it was dragging its feet when it came to Arabic Jews. And that was largely due to the fact that all the political power was in the hands of the affluent and well-educated

32 European Jews. Yes, a class system had been created in the Promised Land.

So, I talked to slum people who had a smattering of English, to government officials, took photos and wrote the story, which was bought by AP. I did another story about the growing number of beggars in the city and how much money some could make on a good day. That was accepted by AP, as well.

Then, when a job opportunity came my way, I felt I was on a roll. The Pittman Publishing Co. needed a researcher to work on the Who’s Who in World Jewry. They decided to give me a tryout, full-time, which meant an end to freelancing. Besides, I didn’t care much for writing that I never got to see in print. But, the job proved to be a bit much for my minimal secretarial skills and it didn’t last, a condition that would haunt me again in less than two years.

It was about this time when romance entered my life, at least for a moment. She was one of the few Jewish women in my life that I dated. And, as is the case with most of the women I have met since, Natalie was petite and cute as a button, in a Jewish way. Oh, and she was also English, a portent of the future for me. She and a girlfriend had been working on a kibbutz before heading to Tel Aviv. I can’t recall where I met her, but our friendship as foreigners abroad grew.

However, she was a traditional Jewish girl who had the usual no-sex- before-marriage rule. Which is odd, because many Jewish husbands complain they can’t get sex after marriage. So, we played around for a few days before she left. Still, she did give me her London phone number.

I was into my second month in Israel. I had obtained temporary residency status, something I wouldn’t need since a lack of work and having seen all the movies in town left me bored. I decided to leave for the penultimate stop on my road trip—London. Natalie mandated that. To be honest, Israel was a lovely place to visit, but at the time, unless there was a war on, it was too dull for a young single American. And the sort of jobs available were largely for Hebrew speaking applicants. Still, it was nice to know I was accepted there…after all, you never know when you may need a refuge.

33

Chapter 5 Homeward Bound—Almost

You may recall I said that my relocating to Europe was a gradual process. This would be my second step, the first one being my 1963 visit. In late November I flew, student rate, from Israel to London with a stopover in Istanbul. The stopover was a bit unfortunate since I had exceeded my baggage limit at the re-check-in and had to bribe an official to let me carry everything on the Turk Hava Yolari plane.

In London, I stopped at the Holland Park youth hostel and almost immediately hooked up with Natalie. She lived in the working-class London area called Cricklewood. We dated a bit and I really felt I was falling for her. I should explain, as a teenager I didn’t date much. You might say I was a delayed adolescent at this point, a lonely American six months on the road. And to this day, any woman I see more than two times is a person with whom I feel I could have a long-term-relationship.

Unfortunately, Natalie didn’t feel so strongly about me. I recall after an opera we saw in the West End, the real curtain came down at the Leicester Square tube station. There she said she couldn’t see me anymore. I never really found out why. At the time, I assumed she either had another love interest or her parents didn’t approve of me. I would have to wait four years to ask her for some answers.

During all of this, I had started looking for work. A trip to the London Press Club was very useful for this task. I remembered that my being a member of the American journalistic society, then Sigma Delta Chi (now the Society of Professional Journalists), gave me visitor privileges at most

34 press clubs worldwide. London’s club, at the time on Fleet Street, was then the historic home of the UK media. It appeared as plush and warm as everything a foreigner might expect of an English gentlemen’s club. This included a rather pricey dining room that was pushing my ready cash a bit hard.

No, for me the club’s usefulness was its library where I found copies of the UK Press Gazette and its pages of help wanted ads. Through ensuing visits to London, this publication would prove invaluable to me. On this instance, one ad caught my eye: Local reporter wanted at the Wood Green Weekly Herald, Wood Green, North London. I applied for the job and was hired on a trial basis.

I quickly moved from the youth hostel to Wood Green, a mainly working class area whose main claim to fame was Alexandra Palace, a large hilltop auditorium/dance hall that was the first home of the BBC. I rented, on a weekly basis, a room called a bedsit. This was simply a bedroom in a house filled with similar bedrooms. It had a large window affording a view of the rooftops, a closet and a sink. The toilet and bath were communal arrangements up one flight of stairs.

I would find this sort of accommodation widespread in London, and all of the UK, then and now. Oh, and one other thing, the electricity was supplied via a coin operated meter in my room. I can’t recall how much each hour cost, but since it was then approaching winter, it was considerable. And you had to make sure you had plenty of coins on hand if you didn’t want to freeze on Sunday, when most of the shops, which could make change, were closed.

So, I was ready for my first regular news job in London, a bit apprehensive but confident in my role of local reporter. After all, this is what I had been doing for two years in Cupertino. My beats were the borough council, police and courts. The first major challenge for an American journalist was British spelling and grammar. We think we speak the same language and today, thanks to a proliferation of American culture, we’re closer than ever… but not in 1968. (See appendices)

Words such as “color” and “program” were spelled differently. A flashlight was a torch and an apartment was a flat and you say tomato and I say tomato with a long A. And the money was a real treat. Complete decimalization was still two years away and the old British tender was about as numerous as the stones in a rock garden. But, I must admit a strange fascination with the hexagonal three pence piece, the thruppenny

35 bit. You could lag one across a long stretch of the Hyde Park Serpentine and it skimmed beautifully.

But, to a budding not so very young reporter these differences were nothing compared to America’s wide-open legal system and the rather secretive British system. It was one thing doing town council meetings, but I jumped in the UK court scene as an ignorant and arrogant foreigner, which was a big mistake.

Journalists covering the cops and courts in the US were allowed to say whatever was on the police blotter and whatever they heard in court. This wasn’t the case in the UK. News people had no right to know anything in a nation without a written constitution. When suspects were arrested in Britain, you couldn’t say that until they were formally charged. Until that time, they were “helping police with their inquiries.” And unless police gave you their names or they were released by the suspect’s lawyers, I mean solicitors, they would remain anonymous.

I relate this now because then I simply reported the crime and court stories as I would at any local American paper. The editor was furious and I was soon out of a job. I guess I was down, but not quite out, in London. Then again, that wasn’t exactly true.

With my means of support gone, there was no point continuing to live in Wood Green, which was a good distance from central London. I headed back to the youth hostel and asked if they allowed long term stays. They said no, but gave me the address of a place that did. I didn’t know it then, but I was heading towards the bottom of the barrel, what was commonly called a dos house or hostel for down and definitely outs. This is where I learned about the real working and non-working people of London. In actual fact, for a dos house this wasn’t that bad of a place, probably because it was located in the World’s End area of the swinging 60s upmarket Chelsea borough. It was more properly called the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea.

The hostel seemed to be divided between single laborers, the single unemployed and a few students. We slept in military-style dormitories and had the use of communal bathrooms. Aside from the gloomy Victorian nature of the building, it was similar to the many youth hostels I had frequented…But there was the food. In 1968, the ethnic revolution, that was to transform London from a culinary garbage can to probably the most diverse quality dining area in the world, had not yet taken place.

36 This was when overcooked tasteless meat and vegetables were the norm and bacon fat was used as a butter substitute in a working-class delicacy known as fried bread. Yet, nothing then earmarked English cuisine as dinner dessert. No matter what it was, from overcooked apple crumble to fruit trifle, it all came immersed in a yellowish, semi-thick, almost tasteless, nasal looking topping they called custard.

It was Christmas, and I was prepared to see the New Year arrive in London, while checking out further job opportunities. Yet, it was as if I had my one wish, a chance at a job, which I screwed up and was now being shown the door.

A few days into 1969, with no work prospects or love life, I decided I had had enough of Dickensian living and made arrangements for a cheap flight to New York via Luxembourg.

These were the days before airline bucket shops and cheap flight consolidation tickets. For most young Americans on a budget, travelling to Europe was by charter plane or boat. But, there was also Icelandic Airlines. It alone was running cheaper flights from Europe to New York, via Iceland. The catch was that they all departed from Luxembourg. For me it meant getting the boat train to Frankfurt, Germany, a real treat in winter…crossing the English Channel on a wildly bouncing ferry. Even though this was during my pre-sailing days, I still had sense enough to know the best way to avoid becoming sick, as were half the passengers. This was accomplished by my getting a chair directly over the ship’s centerline and facing backwards.

From Frankfurt, where I actually bought the ticket, the airline provided a bus through the night to Luxembourg. As I recall, being so worried I would go over my baggage allowance, I wound up wearing a third of my clothes. I looked like a Peter Sellers character in a fat suit, plodding onto the turbo prop Viscount to the bemusement of the cabin staff, some of whom were sporting the standard “we’ve seen it all before” smirks.

I had been away a little over six months when the plane arrived in New York. I can’t remember if it was JFK or Newark Airport, I just felt a bit relieved to be back, even though my halfhearted attempt at being foreign correspondent was a bust. I took a bus to Cleveland, Ohio to visit my aunts Marilyn and Sarah, from my father’s side of the family. It was nice seeing them every few years. Besides my father and sister, I was their only close relative. So, they treated me as visiting royalty.

37 Then it was back to my parent’s home in Sherman Oaks, a somewhat upmarket section of Los Angeles, in the San Fernando Valley. Only, it wasn’t their own home. My father, an upholsterer by trade, had dabbled in real estate during his senior years, but wasn’t successful. And this was a generation before the sub-prime collapse. You might say my dad was about the first guy to actually lose on property in Southern California. So, now he and my mother had been spending their retirement years managing a swanky apartment complex. For their efforts, they had the occupancy of a large two bedroom apartment, one which they lived in for about 20 years. For me, it would be my on again off again home for the next decade as I inched closer to my true destiny…a room with a loo.

38 Chapter 6 Work, Love and More Bad Choices

I wasted no time getting back into job hunting mode, while in hindsight thinking how foolish it was giving up my Greensheet opportunity so I could go chasing rainbows. But, not dwelling on the past, my faith in a bright future was proven in a short time thanks to an ad in the CNPA bulletin… Wanted: Reporter in Beverly Hills. What could be more inviting than that, other than AP asking me to run its Paris bureau? Beverly Hills was only a 20 minute drive from Sherman Oaks, over Coldwater Canyon. I applied and editor Bill Reeder said, “Welcome to the Beverly Hills Independent.”

I have to admit, for a first full-time job after graduation, the BH Indy had the Greensheet beat, hands down. I mean being a weekly, there was virtually no pressure. And, the chic location in a courtyard office building on Canon Drive somehow felt better than the blue collar environs of Van Nuys.

And even covering the city council meetings was a large cut above the average. I recall one evening an agenda item read: To be considered, the establishment of the American Film Institute. Stepping up to speak in favor of the proposal were Hollywood greats Gregory Peck, Paul Henreid and George Stevens. I even had a chance to talk to Tom Brokaw, who then was a reporter for the NBC station in Los Angeles.

For lunch, there was the Little Club, next door and for dinner, well BH was a bit too pricey for a weekly reporter. It wasn’t before long that I had enough money saved to move into an apartment closer to work. Yet, it was just across the L.A. city line, making it far less expensive than renting in BH. Getting an apartment came at the right time, too. I was about to meet my “dream girl.”

39 But, let me backtrack a bit. I joined the Air Force in 1960 with two high school pals -- Gary and my best friend Mike, who was a very manipulative person, later becoming a car salesman and con artist. While Gary and I served our whole four-year enlistments, Mike somehow got out in six months. Anyway, Gary and I, both being single in L.A., became close friends, at least as close as you could to Gary. He was a somewhat solitary person, living with his former musician turned bartender father in an ageing apartment in an equally ageing section of Hollywood.

While I had studied journalism, Gary had a degree in sociology…the big thing in the 60s. Yet, trying to get a job then with a bachelor in sociology was like trying to teach today without a credential. He needed a job, any job. So, when Bill, the BH Indy editor, asked me if I knew anyone who wanted a part-time job covering high school sports in Beverly Hills, I suggested Gary, with a glossy recommendation that strained my credibility as a journalist. He got the job and wound up working there, part-time, for several years.

Gary and I would attend Alumni Club singles dances at the old Ambassador Hotel on Wilshire Boulevard. It was at one of these I met Noreen, who would be my first long lasting love affair. I mean there were others such as Natalie, Gail and Barbara, but from the moment I met her at the dance, I felt she was a keeper. I was 28 and going on 19. She was 24 going on 19, so we were a near match.

But for this story, my next action was arguably the worst decision of my life. Yet, that has to be weighed against how my life evolved much later. As a rule, let me advise all reading this: Don’t make hasty decisions that may be momentary triumphs leading to long-term tragedy. The trouble with this advice is that at the time you’ll probably have no way of knowing you may be heading for disaster.

After working at the BH Indy for about a year, I made the acquaintance of the United Press International reporter for the area who told me his firm was looking for a person to work in the showbiz feature section. I jumped at the opportunity after he put a word in for me. I mean this was an international wire service. It could be the fulfillment of my earlier short-lived trench coat attempt.

You may recall I said my main journalistic challenge, being all thumbs, was using a typewriter. I mean the hunt and peck method to me was hunting and often pecking the wrong key. Well, this job turned out to be

40 largely a typing job, preparing mimeograph masters for printing. This meant error free masters. I just didn’t have the coordination for this and wound up spending most of the day correcting errors on the few masters I completed. The bottom line was I lasted about a month there and agreed with my boss, this wasn’t for me. I left to an uncertain future. As was the case with the Greensheet, there was no returning to Beverly Hills. It was part of the pattern I had developed, taking gambles with good jobs for what I often mistook as better offers…. cases of reaching for the rose, yet only to be cut by its thorn.

It was now 1970. Though unemployed, my relationship with Noreen was going strong. We did all the things young lovers did at her place and mine. She was a student teacher then and I remember helping her with some essays she had to write and her being supportive of my new job hunt. However, I didn’t recognize, possibly because I’m a rather shallow guy, that there wasn’t much maturity and warmth in our relationship. We seemed to be two rather inexperienced lovers experimenting with life. But, it was fun and Noreen gave me a real reason to succeed.

It was about this time that manipulative Mike, my high school friend and the guy who got me to join the Air Force, offered me a job at a Pontiac dealership in San Jose. He was the assistant manager there. Since I needed work and loved the Bay Area, I quickly went from journalist to car salesman. And this was a real education in dealing with people and the other salesmen.

As for Noreen, she didn’t seem to mind me being so far away -- not a good sign. But, the fact that I was so quick to leave L.A. was also a curious sign. I mean, if you really care for each other, this isn’t an action you take hastily, something that would come back to haunt me about 30 years later. In those days, commuter airline flights were dirt cheap, so we flew back and forth for a while. We seemed to be enjoying each other so much that I gave her an engagement ring, which she hesitantly accepted. Again, this was not a good sign.

Meanwhile, I was doing very well as a car salesman. This, I found, was common among new metal hawkers. Novices to the game were filled with enthusiasm, but were ignorant to what they actually were doing to customers. It was their belief in their own honesty that made them good salesmen. Yet, it was when they began to realize how disreputable some of the wheeling and dealing was that many hot newcomers suddenly became cold, unable to give cars away, eventually either leaving or being fired from the dealership.

41 But, for the better part of a year, I was making real money, more than I ever earned at newspapers. So much money I even bought a 21-foot sailboat. This proved a real pleaser for Noreen. And I even named it after her. The boat was berthed at the Redwood City Marina and sailing in San Francisco Bay was a treat…the wind and chop, plus the fact I was still young enough to enjoy being bounced around as we beat to windward. This made for a romantic moments I still can remember.

I should point out that I’m one of the army of “seat-of-the-pants” hobbyists. I learn by doing. And until I bought this boat, my only sailing experience was on my 11-foot styrofoam Sea Snark I sailed in the sheltered Marina Del Rey waters. I learned to sail my 21 footer by watching other sailors and reading a how-to-sail book. Amazingly, it worked. Before long, Noreen and I were heading for San Francisco, 30 miles distant and eventually Sausalito. The wind was perfect as we reached through the Bay Bridge and past Alcatraz. I had long wanted to sail by that island and I finally did it.

After an evening of lust at the dock, we started heading back the next morning. It was then Noreen presented me with a challenge I couldn’t refuse. She wanted to sail through the Golden Gate Bridge like the other boats. However, the flood tide was racing in as the larger yachts were heading out. I had never sailed in a current like this before. It seemed I was being pushed back 10 feet for every foot forward.

But, I knew just what to do. I got about 100 yards behind a large sailboat and did exactly what it did. When he would tack I would, back and forth, back and forth. It was actually a lot of fun, like being in a yacht race. Eventually, we were making headway and finally the shadow of that magnificent span covered my boat. We were through. Well, not exactly. I sailed out far enough to give Noreen the thrill of the Potato Patch, a choppy bit of water just outside the bridge, before heading back to Redwood City.

That rough water was a portent of things to come only a couple of weeks later. I was starting to wise-up about the car business. My epiphany happened about the same time my engagement suddenly ended with my ring being mailed back to me. I was hurt pretty badly, something that would increase with time. This, plus a growing awareness of the sleazy nature of the car lot, spurred me on to quit the job, move out of my nice apartment in San Jose and head back to L.A. There, I once again moved in with my parents.

42 The scenario was so common, yet I didn’t want to see it coming. You have a good thing with a young woman, your first big affair. Then one party leaves for a job or college only to be left by the other once she meets another guy in your absence. God, I hate movies like that.

Chapter 7 How to Keep a Good Man Down

As time moved on so did I, progressively more and more. It was 1971 and even Dustin Hoffman, as the Graduate, didn’t travel back and forth between L.A. and the Bay Area as much as I did. And it wasn’t over, either. After all, I still had my boat moored at Redwood City.

Once in Sherman Oaks, I tried to patch things up with Noreen, but to no avail. To this day, I don’t know what happened. All I remember is her final cold words to me: “We could probably make it together. But I want more than that.” I wonder if she got it?

Looking for work was the only thing I found as depressing as my busted romance. It got so bad that in desperation I placed this ad in the California Newspaper Publisher’s Association weekly help wanted bulletin: “If I don’t get a job I’ll kill myself.” I understand the CNPA has since banned such ads. But amazingly it worked. The next thing I knew, I got a call from Dick Tracy, that’s right, the editor of the San Gabriel Valley Tribune in West Covina, saying he was impressed by the ad and wanted to see me. After which I was offered a reporter’s job. This was my first position on a six day daily newspaper.

This also became a time of amorous adventure and more lessons in life, after all these now were the “Soaring 70s,” the last era of free love. It was one of the few times I acted the player…I was told it was the best way to get over her. Life is funny that way, when you’re actually looking for the love of your life, you have no luck, but when you’re hung up on a lost love, you might have women all over you.

It was also the time of the 1971 Sylmar earthquake that shook the San Fernando Valley. I recall I had been getting ready for work and putting on my socks when what seemed like an express train sped under the

43 apartment building. Things were falling and breaking and the quake caused the swimming pool to flow into the building foyer.

Sherman Oaks was not too far from Sylmar, the epicenter of the quake. I was able to drive to that part of the San Fernando Valley where I got some good photos of the devastation and wrote a page one story for the Tribune.

The drive from Sherman Oaks to West Covina was about 40 miles, so it wasn’t long before I got an apartment on my news beat, Rosemead. My job was to cover Rosemead and Temple City, as well as the nearby Sheriff’s sub-station. I enjoyed the cop shop, which I hit early morning before coming to work. West Covina was still about an eight-mile drive. Reading the daily blotter reports was literally a better eye opener than five cups of coffee. Once-in-a-while the deputies would bring out the graphic crime scene photos to really set up my day. They knew the effect the often gory snaps would have on my senses. “Wakey, wakey time, look at this.”

As I said, during this time I found it rather easy to meet women. The permissive nature of American females often made them the predator. I recall at one L.A. singles bar being picked up by one and invited back to her Marina Del Rey apartment. And, of course, in those days, she had to be on top.

During a date with another woman, we stopped at a wig shop because she wanted to look at some hair extensions. That’s when I noticed the shop also sold men’s wigs. Well, say no more. My baldness had been progressing since my early 20s and I thought a Tom Jones cut would make for a few laughs. I never dreamt of where that hairpiece would actually lead me.

First, for a joke, I wore it to work and had people rolling in the aisles. It was fun making a spectacle of myself. The wig, in fact, had been cut for my head and didn’t look that bad to anyone who didn’t know my actual follicular state, something I would prove a short time later. I bet a colleague at the office I could pick up a chick wearing the wig. So, we both went to a West Covina singles bar and before long I not only met a young woman, but after a few beers, much to my surprise, she was at my pad. Then it hit me: What do I do now: Just whip it off, say surprise and jump into the sack with her?

44 The truth is I didn’t have the guts to do that so I continued the seduction with the wig in place. But, let me explain, this was a hot summer night and my apartment had a lousy air conditioning unit. The wig was not cemented to my scalp and I was sweating before foreplay even began. The perspiration rolling off my scalp caused the wig to float up, giving me as twofold job, satisfying the woman and myself while trying to keep the hairpiece from floating away. Of course, by this time the mood of the moment had been ruined by the summer heat coupled with my anxiety and the need to frequently move one hand from her body to the top of my head, trying to secure the wig. Needless to say this wasn’t to be one of my better flings. But, the wig stayed on.

Meanwhile, the job continued, even though I was finding it boring doing mainly local news. After all, I was going to become an international correspondent. That boredom came to an end when I violated the infamous “don’t shit where you eat” workplace rule.

Her name was Mary, a somewhat attractive and curvaceous reporter whose desk was near mine. We had simply been work associates until I held a small party at my place. Mary had been drinking heavily and passed out on my couch after the other guests had left…another first for me. I covered her with a blanket and retired to my bedroom, alone. The next morning I awoke, bleary eyed, to Mary walking into my room. She came over to thank me for letting me crash on the couch and the next thing I knew I had pulled her into bed with me and before we knew it was afternoon and we were sharing my shower. It’s good to be a reporter, even a local one.

This was the start of my own mini fatal attraction. Mary and I became quite close sexually. Until one night right, in the middle of things, her bedside phone rang. It was none other than the fiancé I never knew she had. He was calling her from the Bay Area and the conversation became quite loving and even tearful. When she hung up, I questioned her. Then she freely admitted to being engaged, even though she wasn’t wearing a ring.

Indignant at being in a ménage et trios, I told her off. I got dressed and that was the end of the affair. Well, since this didn’t follow the Graham Green novel, it wasn’t that simple. Mary became upset that I was upset with her. This was the ultimate example of a woman doing the dirty deed but blaming the guy. She somehow felt she had the right to have her fiancé and me. But, because I said “no way,” she enacted the “hell hath no fury” scenario. This included angry faces and even spitting at me in

45 the newsroom, and threatening me with a steak knife while a group of us were having dinner together.

This all got back to the editor who wound up buying some story she cooked up. He then fired me for causing problems among the staff. So ended my stay in the scenic San Gabriel Valley smog basin.

------

Chapter 8 Nothing Ever Seems to Last

The next thing I knew I was heading north. What, again? Mike, who had moved on to manage a Toyota dealership in Redwood City, once again came to my rescue by offering me a job there. This was great since my boat was only a mile away. And I have to admit that selling Toyotas was a world of difference from selling Pontiacs. There was no BS involved. The cars were so popular it was simply a matter of accept the price or go somewhere else.

Then, good fortune smiled on me still another time in the form of a reporting job offer at the Fremont News-Register, across the Bay. In a flash, I left the better paying car sales job for a $150 per week news job at a 10,000-circulation daily. The News-Register was published by the Alameda Times Star up the coast near Oakland. It was a decent looking sheet, yet its most distinguishing aspect was that it was in direct competition with another paper, the Argus. At the time, I couldn’t think of another suburban community in the state with two competing dailies.

This made for some spirited competition and late hours. Then there was the pay. In those days, when many news people were unemployed, just having a job made you something special, even if it was for slave wages. “You’ll never get rich in journalism,” my San Jose State professor said. His words rang true at a paper such as the News-Register.

I had been working there a few months when the sports editor and his reporter quit over a pay dispute. Sports writing had been my first love going back to high school days, so I quickly volunteered for the job. This pleased the editor Dick Kerr greatly since he had an immediate replacement. And, I was over the moon: I had my first editorship.

46 My first task was to hire a full-time reporter. I only had two part time students on the sports staff. So, I looked through the old resumes on file and saw Stan’s name. I called him, asked if he was still looking for a job. He said yes. Then I shocked him by saying if he could get over here in an hour he might have one. Needless to say, he raced over and we were on track to resume normal sports coverage.

Fremont, which at the time was spread out over several areas, was a part of the Bay Area’s major league sports market. So, while covering the local high schools was our main meat, we had press passes to the major league teams. Oh, and there was the Fremont Drag Strip to cover. That’s now been transformed into a mall. But back then the Fremont Raceway was about as famous as the old Gm plant.

We normally had from four to six sports pages daily. Two to three would be reserved for local coverage, with the rest given to wire-fill copy of the majors. For us, press passes weren’t rated too highly. We actually never had time to travel 45 miles to the games. Oh, but I did go to some drag races.

The sprawling and growing Fremont area meant we had several high schools and the then Hayward State College to cover. This wasn’t easy for a small staff during baseball season. I had one reporter stay in the office manning the phone for scores, which were called in to us. Stan and I would cover the start of a couple of games and the final innings of two others. The main things to get, under the circumstances, were color, photos and possibly some quotes. The games we saw to their conclusion were often our featured stories. This, since we could give an eye witness account of the wins or losses.

Again, remember there were no computers in wide use yet. We had manual typewriters. And there wasn’t time to Tip Ex out the typos, we just x-ed over them and continued writing. Even photo cropping was done by hand. And, when we couldn’t find the paper’s one cropping wheel, I had to revert to the “old way,” which only I seemed to know…the trusted diagonal line method.

Things were going along just fine. The staff was happy and close knit. We had gained the respect of the athletic community to the point where we were asked to play the Oakland Raiders NFL team in a quarter of basketball before a regular high school game. Needless to say, the News- Register five were outclassed by the likes of Ken Stabler and Art Shell.

47 And then the roof fell in. The publisher in Alameda decided to sell the paper to the Hayward Daily Review, which owned the Argus. In short, the paper was killed and we were suddenly out of work. But, we had a last day closing party at a bar conveniently located next door. My crew wanted to leave early and start partying. Being the gung ho pro, I refused to allow this, saying if they left before deadline I would hold back their checks.

By this time, after thinking I had finally found a home, I was both pissed-off and frustrated. It was late summer. I decided to sell my car, which was a very stupid move since it was a now classic TR3. Then I gave up my apartment and moved on to my 21 foot boat in preparation for an epic voyage from Redwood City to Los Angeles.

------

48 Chapter 9 The Most Idiotic Thing I Ever Did

After crewing on a Santana 27 earlier in the summer of 1972 for a racing series, which included a 500-mile trip from San Francisco to San Diego, I felt I was ready for my own ocean adventure. My little Tempest 21 was strong and heavy. Oh and against tradition of bad luck, I took Noreen’s name off it. That proved to be a bad move. It was a marine plywood boat sheathed in fiberglass fabric. It had working sails and a 5 hp Seagull outboard motor. The cockpit was roomy as was the cabin. Remember, this originally served as my love nest.

The big problem I had then was money. With no job and little in the bank, I had to cut corners to equip the boat for the voyage. Looking back, the only sensible thing I bought was a rather cheap rubber dinghy from a surplus store. But, being the learn-as-you-go guy, my coastal voyage would become a lesson for a lifetime.

I set sail on a Monday morning, arriving that afternoon at San Francisco’s St. Francis Yacht Club in the shadow of the Golden Gate. I had hoped to find a crew at the club, and I didn’t have to wait long for an eager young novice sailor. John was a student at Purdue University in Indiana and had been touring America. Now at land’s end, he was ready to go to sea…it was his bad luck he met me.

If ever there was a sea voyage based on what you should not do, this was it. We sailed under the GG Bridge without a radio, proper running lights and proper safety harnesses. Instead of flares, I bought some cheap bottle rockets.

49 Our first day was fine. The boat handled the Pacific swell with no trouble. We sailed into the night and through it, startled at one point by dolphins dancing around the stern. It was both eerie and romantic….the silence, darkness and the dolphins. Yet, a gentle breeze persisted and eliminated the need for the Seagull.

When dawn broke, we were off Santa Cruz and headed in to the Santa Cruz Marina to refill the gas tank and take a break. That didn’t last long though, since I wanted to jump across the bay to Monterey by late afternoon, an overly optimistic goal. The rule of thumb was head almost due east to Fish Harbor and the currents would take you north to Monterey. But in mid-bay, the wind died and I tried to start the Seagull, only to have the spark plug fly out of the cylinder head. The threads were stripped. “Oh, fine. Now what?”

Well, we just bobbed around for a spell, trying to fill the sails with something…I remember even blowing on them. And, amazingly, we were making some headway, mainly from the current.

It was pitch dark when we spotted what had to be the marina. So, using the rudder, we sculled our way inshore. It was a slow process, which proved a mixed blessing. Inching our way forward gave us time to realize we were actually heading for the beach, with the Marina seawall to our starboard. Using the rudder and an oar, we managed to slowly turn the boat around and eventually enter the marina.

Talk about having a good sleep. John and I were so tired after that workout it was a matter of instant Zzzzzs. But, I was up early and headed for a machinist who was able to repair the Seagull. So, after a full day in Monterey and with a favorable weather forecast, we prepared to leave early the next day for what turned into an adventure of a lifetime.

The morning was sunny and clear and the sea was moderately calm with force 2 winds. The marina office gave us the all clear on the weather front, so it was all go. Our goal was to sail day and night to Morro Bay, about 110 miles down the picturesque and dangerous Big Sur coast. The engine was again working as we used it to leave Monterey Bay. We didn’t think anything of the fact the fishing boats were coming in to port, while we appeared to be the

50 only ones going out. It was fabulous sailing by Carmel with its wind twisted Cyprus trees and the Pebble Beach Golf Course. Before long, the coast began to drop away and we barely could see cars traveling on Highway 1.

By then we were using the sails and reaching nicely from a northerly wind. This went on for a few hours until we approached Point Sur, highlighted by its large lighthouse. For those who don’t know, Point Sur and the Big Sur Coast had a reputation as being one of the major Pacific black spots. The winds, currents and rocks along its shore, through the centuries, has caused numerous disasters. Now it was our turn.

As we sailed abeam of the point, the wind dramatically increased and I decided to reef the main. But, for some reason I wanted to let out the jib first and made a key error that set in motion a series of events that resulted in a remarkable mini saga.

In my haste, I secured the jib sheet to the mooring cleat on the wooden cockpit combing without taking it in for a few turns on the wench. The wind had become so strong that it ripped the cleat from the combing, leaving the sheet and jib flying wildly. I changed tack immediately, pulled in the starboard sheet but all the vibration caused my starboard side mast spreader to collapse. This meant, with no mast support on the port side, we could only sail a starboard tack on a south westerly course, taking us further out to sea.

But this was just the beginning. The wind and swell increased as we raced by the now distant Point Sur Light. The fact we could still clearly see its flashing beacon wasn’t a bit reassuring. I was too busy trying to get the mainsail down and the engine started. I was lucky with the mainsail, but no luck at all with the new repaired Seagull. They never start when you need them.

Now here’s the scene: It’s a beautifully clear late afternoon. The bright sun is getting lower and the waves are becoming higher while the wind is getting stronger. The formerly calm sea is now covered with white caps and in the middle of all this, with no other craft in sight, is our 21 foot boat heading southwest about five miles offshore.

The next calamity came with a gust of wind. It somehow broke the life raft I had just bought, and had never used, free from its

51 bonds. We could only watch as it cartwheeled across the sea. What next? I was starting to get worried. That feeling would evolve into a surreal experience that would last all night on a trip that people might get from LSD, yet one that could make us the envy of windsurfers everywhere.

As the sun died, the waves grew larger, building up at our stern. With the mainsail down, I now wanted to drop the jib and put the main back up. But I couldn’t. The jib had become jammed and tangled at the masthead. So, that was that! Not exactly, as the boat started sailing down the waves, I began to notice it wasn’t answering the helm well. At times it felt as if there was no rudder at all.

52 Going back a couple of months, I had my original rudder replaced at a Redwood City boatyard. At the time the repairman said he had to fit a new rudder over my old shaft. So, there we were, in the middle of the Big Sur Coast, facing heavy seas, and I realized I was the one who got the shaft. By the lack of response I was getting from the tiller, I figured the rudder had fallen off and I was getting some help from the mounting plate, something that would later prove to be wrong. In any case, I wasn’t in a position to make use of any warranty in Redwood City.

As the sky grew dark the swells increased dramatically, breaking at our stern. I tried again to get the engine going, but no luck. Before long, we were riding the surf, speeding down swell after swell. Then it happened, the first of several knockdowns. Luckily, John and I did have life lines tied around our waists. I had John on the tiller, trying to steer on whatever was left of the rudder. I had positioned myself in the cabin hatchway, looking astern and guiding his hand on the helm. “Hard to port,” I would yell. “Hard to starboard.” But every so often a wave would catch us from abeam and we would broach, only to pop back up again. Ready for another disaster? The boat’s forward hatch popped loose and went the way of our virgin raft. This is very serious since the boat could be swamped with water pouting in through the bow. I rushed inside and jammed my clothes filled duffle bag into the open hatch. It seemed to do the trick. But more to the point, at the speed we were traveling, the bow wasn’t shipping much water.

It’s hard to describe how surreal this whole saga became as night and the waves encircled us. “Oh, if I only had a VHF radio.” But that would have been too normal for me. Here we were -- one recreational sailor and a Midwestern youth battling mountainous seas in a 21 foot boat. How mountainous? My boat’s mast was 26 feet high. And the swells rolling behind seemed much higher. Yet amazingly, for the most part, we just kept sailing ahead of them as they broke behind us.

Just as amazing, I wasn’t scared at all. I was numb. I could only react to the changing circumstances, such as the near disaster that was about to happen. On the course we had been sailing, thanks to my broken spreader, the waves had been breaking on our starboard (right) beam. This left us vulnerable to knockdowns when a rogue wave could overtake us. On one such incident, the boat was

53 knocked down severely and the cockpit was flooded. Oh, and John was gone.

Yes, my young crewman had been washed overboard. But, luckily, not lost. We had earlier secured our lifelines to mooring cleats. As soon as I realized what had happened, I grabbed his line and quickly hauled him back on board. Seemingly unfazed by his near death experience, John grabbed the tiller and I continued piloting him down the waves as if nothing unusual, aside from this entire voyage, had happened.

By now we were far enough out to sea so that land was barely visible. Finally, when a container ship passed inside of us, I realized we had to change course if we didn’t want to wind up in the south Pacific. The wind was more even and had moderated a bit, even though the waves seemed just as big as before. So, with the jib still jammed in place, I swung the boat around to the port side, putting us on a heading for land…somewhere. Luck was with us, the mast held, even without the starboard shroud.

In the distance, we could see another cargo ship bearing down on us. But I knew, at our speed, we would miss it. As it closed on us, I figured it was about time to fire off the bottle rockets. Unfortunately, they had become soaked like everything else on the boat. Chalk that up as a minor screw-up. It would have been a major one had the ship ran us down.

At this point, we seemed to be sailing a bit easier with the waves building further back. But more important, the boat was sailing itself. Call it divine intervention or just luck, but the boat was sailing itself towards land and I didn’t have an auto pilot. It just kept on going heading south-east with no one at the helm. Even when a stiff breeze caught the sail and caused the mast to bend like a palm tree in a hurricane, it didn’t break. And, the boat kept on sailing by itself. John and I were dumbfounded and also very tired. Seeing we couldn’t do any better than what nature was doing, we decided to go below and get some rest.

At first, that was another challenge. The pounding the boat had taken had broken open a large bottle of cheap after shave lotion that had mixed in the bilge with a gallon of gasoline. The noxious smell was almost overpowering. It, along with the rolling and bouncing, caused me to dive for the cockpit so I could puke my guts out. “I

54 needed that,” I said as John and I hunkered down for our sail into whatever destiny awaited us.

I recall we got hit by a couple of good waves. I would have sore ribs to prove it. But, we were so out of it by then, I think we just passed out from exhaustion. And the next thing we knew it was morning…morning and we were still alive. Or were we? I carefully opened the hatch. The wind and waves had died and the sea was all choppy in the extreme. In fact, I actually preferred the waves to the chop. And above it, our weather worn jib was still flying from our arching mast.

Getting our bearings, we climbed out of the cabin and in between the chop we noticed other boats, fishing boats. We were in the middle of the Morro Bay fishing fleet. We couldn’t believe it. I reached inside the cabin for my bugle. Yes, I had my old military bugle that I bought as a boy for $8. At last a chance to do something right. As we sailed near one boat, I started blowing SOS on it. That’s one thing, as a former ham radio operator, I did know… Morse code.

After blowing the tune for a few minutes, one boat, the Mallard, came to assist us. I figured it was partly because my repeated SOS was driving the crew nuts. The captain got a line to us and took us in tow until the Coast Guard cutter arrived which shot a line to us with a radio attached. When asked by the Captain, “What the hell are you doing out here?” What could I say? I simply replied we started out the day before from Monterey after the harbormaster there told us it would be a great day to go sailing. “Monterey. You sailed in your small boat from Monterey. That’s more than a hundred miles and you did it in a day?”

The cutter took over from the Mallard by shooting a proper tow line to us and pulled us several miles to Morro Bay, where we were told to anchor. After that, we cleaned up the boat a bit and guess what? The engine fired right up when I pulled on the starter cord. It’s always that way, isn’t it?

I was directed to the Morro Bay Yacht Club which had a guest dock and moorings filled with much larger boats that had taken refuge from the heavy seas. I still can remember several people watching as our bedraggled craft rafted up along side another sailboat. “Were you out in the storm?” a woman asked. It was then I

55 knew our voyage was over. Yes, but the ordeal wasn’t. The Coast Guard inspected my battered boat and fined me $15 for not having a bell on board.

Upon inspection, I found my rudder was still there. But it was simply turning free on the tiller shaft. The Redwood City repairman and master of mediocrity had only fastened the rudder to the shaft with set screws. They probably began coming loose with all that sculling in Monterey Bay.

The next day John thanked me for the swell time and hopped a bus to L.A. I managed to rent a mooring at Morro Bay and got a lift to Sherman Oaks from my father. He drove 200 miles to get me in his 1953 Dodge pick-up truck, only to be stopped by the cops on the way back for leaking gasoline on the road from a faulty fuel pump.

I had a local yacht broker sell the boat for me. And that was that. Except, I did manage to do a feature article on the adventure for Sea Magazine. It was a “what not to do” story.

------

56 57

Chapter 10 Back on Track, Back on the Road

Nineteen-seventy-three was a rather normal year for me, filled with a mixture of success and failure. But, most of all it set in motion events that would determine and become my future, both professionally and domestically.

Not too long after my sailing nightmare, I got a job in Las Vegas, of all places, reporting for the Review-Journal. It was the usual beat reporting job. In other words, with the exception of the occasional spicy crime story, dull. The RJ was one of a new breed of corporate newspapers that was determined to take all the fun out of journalism. I mean American journalism during its heyday was a raucous and raunchy trade filled with foul-mouthed drunks who somehow became geniuses when at a typewriter.

But, such people had by then been weeded out of the business. After all, there were loads of women in the newspaper business now. At the RJ, there was carpet on the floor and a ban on all drinks and food in the newsroom. Oh yes, they were now called newsrooms. The city room of old had been reduced to a desk.

But, it can’t be denied when the 60s women’s movement was picked up by the business establishment, the world as men knew it changed forever. And, there has been no better example of a revolutionary change than in what we now call the news media.

The pioneering newswomen of the early 20th century had to be as tough as the men that were ridiculing them. They had to drink, smoke and swear with the best of them. Yet, even in the early 60s, editors would maintain that the crude atmosphere of the city room was no place for ladies. To which women replied, “We can swear just as much as men.”

But, what no one at the time realized was that in most things where women become involved, their normal sensibilities win-out. It’s kind of hard to argue being uncivilized is better than being civilized. If nothing else, it’s just good business. So there never was a swearing and drinking contest between the sexes. As far as the business establishment was concerned, the women’s movement provided two main advantages. It held down wages in our trade war with Japan and it helped modernize inefficient industries, such as the news media, into neat and clean efficiently run, politically correct operations. In a word: Dull.

The best part of my time at the RJ was when I left for the day, or evening as the case was. These were the days when Vegas hadn’t yet become an ever-growing family theme park where nothing is free. When I got off at night I could head to a few smaller casinos and have a free ham and eggs breakfast (Yes, I eat ham and bacon, and pepperoni), usually between midnight and 4 a.m. Or, I could drive to the Silver Slipper, have my payroll check cashed and receive a free food voucher and a free hand at blackjack or Kino.

It was mid winter 1973. During my time off, I would hang with a friend I met at my apartment complex near the University of Nevada campus. Even though our acquaintance only lasted a few months, he would have the most profound influence on my future.

Bob was a skier from Salt Lake City, who worked at a gun warehouse in Vegas and drove a super sporty Corvette. One day he told me, “If you really want to meet women, go skiing.” It would be a few years before I would realize how accurate that claim was and how certain events in your past can lead you to an unexpected future. “Yes, but we are in the middle of a desert,” I replied. “That’s okay. I know a place,” he said and we hopped in the Vette and headed out of town.

What a lot of people don’t know is that the area west of Las Vegas isn’t as desolate as it looks. Driving north for 20 minutes, you take a cut-off that leads straight into the mountains. Within minutes, pine trees appear and there’s snow on the ground. A few minutes later, you arrive at the Lee Canyon Ski Area, then a small skier’s spot with a chairlift, draglift and café/bar.

This is where I tried my luck at skiing for the first time. It’s also where I made a fool of myself on snow for the first time and it made me realize that to pick-up women you first had to know how to ski, not fall as I did most of that initial day. I recall my biggest challenge after renting some beat-up gear was learning to use the T-bar lift. Just making it to the top was a victory for me. Once there, getting down wasn’t such a problem since I did most of my skiing sliding on my ass after falling. The après ski effect was just as bad. My jeans were soaked. This didn’t impress a couple of women we met at the ski bar.

Yet, this single day was all it took to hook me on skiing. I went back a couple of times and found that by the third outing, my jeans weren’t quite so wet anymore.

Winters pass quickly in Vegas. And the summer heat hits you in mid spring. In my case, the flu also hit me and I was pumping myself up with cold medicine. Then while walking to the university library, I was in back of a guy who dropped his portfolio, spilling papers all over the place. I sprung into action, running over and helping him gather them. However, the sudden rush of adrenaline didn’t seem to abate, even after several minutes. My heart was racing and I felt dizzy.

I drove myself to the hospital and they had me hooked up within minutes. I had something called atrial fibrillation. This is a condition that would hit me periodically for decades to come. The normal treatment would be a shot of digoxin to bring my heart rhythm back to normal. I guess the fast living and odd hours in Vegas wasn’t my cup of tea. And, neither was the job at the RJ. So, I left. Yes, it was back to mom and dad in Sherman Oaks.

Then that autumn, the Arabs and Israel were at it again in the Yom Kippur War, called that because it began on the most sacred day of the year for Jews. I immediately got the bug to go there to try my luck again as a foreign correspondent. This is noteworthy for me, mainly because it set in motion a series of trips back and forth from L.A. to Europe that would eventually lead to my expatriate status.

I managed to get a cheap charter flight to Frankfurt, Germany and then got on an El Al flight to Tel Aviv. Of course, by the time I arrived the war was over. Remember, to have a crack at a breaking news story you have to be there when the story breaks. But, the massive US airlift of equipment to Israel ordered by President Nixon was continuing. I recall lying on the beach and seeing massive US Air Force transport planes flying in every minute or so. So, I managed to get some office work at the Reuters bureau and did a couple of freelance stories for the Greensheet. But, nothing long-term was in sight and a Reuters correspondent advised me I could do better in London.

After a couple of weeks, I flew to London and started hitting the boards on Fleet Street. Being an insular American, seeing this center of journalism, even in its dying years of glory, was quite an experience compared with the one or two sheets in most US cities. At almost every corner there was the head office of another publication. The combined circulation of the national dailies and weeklies was in excess of 20 million copies. Now that’s all gone. Most of the papers are still around, but at widespread London locations. And the circulations aren’t what they used to be, either (see article: Fleet Street Memories). Anyway, at the time I heard that the country’s first independent all news radio station, London Broadcasting, had been launched and freelance people were being hired. Since I had done some shift work at all news KFWB in L.A., I was a natural for LBC…or so I thought. I was put to work on the news writing and copy tasting desk. These were mainly overnight 12-hour shifts. And when the bleak dawn broke, I could barely drag myself to the Fleet Street bus stop where I caught the No. 15 to my B&B hotel near Paddington Station.

The real eye opener in the early morning hours came during breakfast break. London then was dead after midnight. I mean once the tube stopped running, so did just about everything else. Pubs, for example, shut at 11 p.m. And along Fleet Street, the heart of British journalism, the only place open on that dark damp street was a little dive called Mick’s Café. It was the type of place you wouldn’t be caught dead in unless it was the only game in town, which it was. And, its distinction meant that it catered to a variety of patrons, from reporters to press room men, from street sweepers to dossers.

Its bill of fare was simple: Breakfast and a few sandwiches served around the clock. Of course, dining at 3 a.m. meant stale sandwiches, often the home of a few flies. My favorite was canned corned beef. It crumbled within the bread and was so tasteless only a dash of Coleman’s English mustard could give it some character. But at 3 a.m., Coleman’s also served another purpose. It was so strong it literally blew away the cobwebs from your eyes and cleaned out your nose through sneezing.

You couldn’t help noticing that the same few street people (dossers) seemed to nurse a cup of tea every morning at Mick’s. And when the melancholy song, The Streets of London, was released, I couldn’t help thinking of those early morning coffee breaks at this dreary café.

The shifts seemed to dry up as LBC’s budget went dry, the victim of an advertising drought. The problem was businesses in Britain knew nothing about radio adverts. This was a totally new thing here. And from my observation at the time, the UK business establishment, still mainly Anglo-Saxon, was very resistant to change. It would take a massive influx of immigrant business people to revolutionize everything from restaurants to radio advertising.

Meanwhile, I somehow got in touch with Natalie, the girl I met in Israel back in 1968. She still was unmarried, working as a dental assistant and happy to hear from me. We dated a couple of times, she came to my hotel room for some heavy petting, and a short time later she ended the affair as she did before, simply saying she didn’t want to see me anymore. Go figure. I mean Freud couldn’t figure out women, so why should I try.

When the Natalie thing fizzled and the LBC shifts seemed to stop, I read an ad from John Morgan Travel for chalet ski vacations. It sounded wonderful…a week in fabled Zermatt, Switzerland, staying in a chalet with a group of people. And at the time it seemed very inexpensive. So within a few days, I was flying to Geneva, a city I would visit scores of times during the next 25 years.

Once at Zermatt, I rented a pair of short skis designed for beginners. At 33, I was learning to ski big time at a big resort. At first I took a few lessons with the group and as was the case back at Lee Canyon, I found using ski lifts more challenging than skiing. I also borrowed a page from my “teach yourself to sail” method by positioning myself a way back from an advanced ski school class, copying, or trying to, what the instructor was doing. I found this an express way to skiing proficiency, without paying for it. Zermatt, with is famous Matterhorn peak towering in the distance, was a beautiful resort. And the chalet vacation concept was a great idea. Two young women, trained in continental cooking, served us breakfast and dinner daily at our communal dining table. The food was great, the wine just passable, but who cared after a few glasses, and you were able to meet and talk to new people.

My first proper ski excursion ended too quickly. My money was running out and the next thing I knew I was heading back to California. While my parents were glad to have me (Jewish parents never like to see you fly away from the nest), I was beginning to feel self-conscious about always winding up back with them

I arrived back in midwinter and couldn’t wait to try what I had learned at Zermatt on the smaller, yet difficult runs in the mountains around Los Angeles. Another thing strangers to L.A. don’t realize is that Southern California has mountains as high as 10,000 feet and an hour’s drive from L.A. Day ski areas such as Mt. Baldy, very appropriate for me, and Mt. Waterman became my frequent haunts.

I managed to get some freelance news writing work at L.A. TV and radio stations, but instead of sticking it out to see what developed, I couldn’t wait to save up enough money so I could fly back to London. Despite the lousy food and perpetually damp weather, the romance of being in Europe had grabbed me more strongly than ever.

------

Chapter 11 From Sensationalism to Heartbreak

I waited until summer before flying back to London. That’s when I had enough money saved to pay my expenses for a while. Each time I had visited London I progressively wound-up staying longer. The first time in 1963 was for a week, the second in 1968 was for two months and the third visit in 1973 lasted four months. I was determined to break my record still again.

After checking-in to my old Paddington B&B hotel, I began looking for work and soon spotted an advert in the UK Press Gazette: Fleet Street News Agency Seeks Reporter. Excited, my first impulse was that a major news agency on Fleet Street, i.e. Reuters, AP, was looking for a reporter. The fact was, the name of the firm was Fleet Street News Agency and it was actually located in Exmouth Market, a little more than a half-mile from Fleet Street.

I called about the job and was surprised to be invited over for an interview. The office wasn’t what I was expecting, either. For one thing Exmouth Market was just that, a small street of local shops and lined with market vendor stands. Fleet Street News Agency was at the end of the street where the market emptied into Roseberry Avenue. From the outside, the office looked like a local photographic studio. But once inside, it was almost like a Harry Potter story. It was a beehive of activity, with the newsroom on the third floor filled with journalists.

I was met by the news editor Adrian Needlestone who talked to me about my experience and the job. I showed him my clips and I was hired. However, I always felt Adrian, who was also Jewish, sensed I was one of the tribe and offered me the job because of that. It really didn’t matter. What did matter was that I had entered another world, almost a parallel journalistic universe from the formulaic and staid American news establishment. I was joining the world of British pop journalism. Or as we Americans know it: Sensational tabloids. John Rodgers, who had the distinction of helping launch the careers of many top UK news people, then owned the Fleet Street News Agency. It had become well known as the home for journos on the way up or on the way down. The Weakest Link’s Anne Robinson once worked there, as did UK Press Gazette Editor Tony Loynes and veteran UK Parliamentary lobby correspondent Rob Gibson.

The operation was on three levels: the news side, photography and photographic library. FSNA sold breaking news stories and news photos to the news media in the UK or anywhere, for that matter.

The key element I would learn, often the hard way, over the following few months, was the American inverted pyramid style of news writing was counter to the tabloid ethos.

Under the traditional inverted pyramid style, which is used by UK quality broadsheet newspapers as well as most American sheets, the reporter places the important elements of the story at the wide top and gradually places the less important material towards the pointed bottom.

However, I found tabloid writing to be far more logical. The pyramid is not inverted. The reporter’s job is to find the strongest or sharpest news angle associated with the story and place it at the top of the sharp point. He milks this angle for all it’s worth and then starts filling the lower levels of the pyramid with less important material.

Most of my work dealt with feature stories, eventually leading to celebrity interviews. But, in between, I was called upon to help with news stories.

British public officials, then and now, tended to be very secretive about information. Knowledge is power and no country has guarded knowledge over the centuries more than the UK. In a nation where there’s no right to know and no written constitution, the press has long existed at the pleasure of the Crown. This means reporters have to be real diggers. There are few press release stories here. Most reporters learn early on, whether they like it or not, being an investigative journalist is part of their career. Here’s how I described it in Editor & Publisher: Brits in USA by Dan Ehrlich Published in Editor & Publisher

Ever since multiple-choice school work replaced written essay exams in the United States, British hacks have been sought by American publications. First they were in demand by supermarket tabloids and in more recent years on mainstream newspapers and magazines.

Amazingly in the rigidly conformist nation America has become, their desirability flies in the face of U.S. corporate employment criteria since most British journalists don't have journalism school degrees, if they have university degrees at all. Most learned the trade the old way, i.e., refer to "Journalism for Beginners."

So what makes them so special? Nothing really, other than in many cases their own inflated opinion of themselves. But to be fair, this trait is equally matched by the sanctimonious and closed minds of many politically correct Americans reporters and editors who in robot-like fashion spew out an endless river of mainly boring sanitised verbiage.

True, British journalists have more international perspective on issues and we are in love with their cute accents. But, for routine stories, this is more than equalled by our attention to slight details such as direct quotes, attributions, names, dates and ages---things often deemed irrelevant in British news stories.

No, the true value of British journalists is having come from one of the world's most competitive press systems....a system where "scoops" are still commonplace and not simply some word relegated to history as has America's cut-throat sensational press...a press that once had multiple daily papers in most large cities. New York had eight, for example.

Oh, and there's one other thing....not having the luxury of multiple choice school exams, most Brits who succeed as journalists are fully literate and can place Serbia on a map.

British hacks are better diggers than their American counterparts largely because of the secret nature of UK governmental and public service institutions. In the US public officials do a lot more to keep the media happy. Here you can often get more information by claiming to be a humble taxpayer than a journalist. Example: While working for a London news agency, I was asked to get some details on a major fire we were covering. Had I called the local fire station as a concerned resident I would have probably been given some information. But, after telling the office I was press I was directed to the press office. But it was closed. I then called the cops. They in-turn directed me back to the fire department, who refused to even confirm a fire we were on the scene watching had taken place.

Because of this British journalists have more developed imaginations, something that makes them valuable to American publications such as "The National Enquirer." If you can't find a good story or some quotes, invent them. You just have to look at "The Sun's" March 25 front page Serbian War salvo to see a story with fatal flaws of fantasy making it almost obscene considering the seriousness of the situation. The same was true of page two and page three. But then, page three is normally reserved for fantasists.

I'll never forget once doing a public reaction piece on the Falklands War for the "San Francisco Examiner." After stopping several people on the street I called a friend on a British national tabloid. When I told him what I was doing he laughed. "You aren't actually stopping people and asking them questions, are you?"

Oddly enough, over here is you want quotes you're more likely to get them from the "Sun" than the "Times." Tabloids exist on quotes. Quality broadsheets use quotes as an embellishment to the thoughts of the writer, unless it's a wire story.

This and sensationalism, or a lack of it, are the main differences between most US and UK newspapers. The idea of running a news story without at least two directly quoted sources is taboo at most American sheets but it's commonplace here. And that's because many UK papers hire reporters reputed to be authorities, those with university degrees, on specifics subjects.

However, important of all, the system seems to me to be heads and tails above the US print media. Unfettered by advertisers and politically correct thought control, British reporters naturally write more lively and interestingly than their American counterparts. Their main concern isn't with filling space but telling a story, informing and/or entertaining their readers.

This coupled with the extreme media competition means the British press is actually more open and free on a daily basis than America's with it's much praised constitutional guarantee. I know this is hard to believe and when I first began writing here 24 years-ago laughed at this thought. Your lack of statutory press protection along with occasional court and government interference isn't a plus point. Yet, even with this, more useful news is still reported more intelligently here than in the USA. And that's because the prime concern of UK newspapers is news. In America, as is the case with everything else, its making money. The reality for most local US papers is the news has become packaging for the real business--- advertising. However, since the UK tends to follow most American trends, is this becoming the new reality here?

Just look at the "Los Angeles Times," for example. Not just one of the most boring papers in the country (I believe it holds the record for the number of jumps in a single story), its size on Sunday, is twice that of the UK's "Sunday Times." It's an environmental crime, killing so many tress for an area that's the spiritual home for America's functionally illiterate. Yet, gargantuan Sunday sheets are commonplace across the nation.

Compare that with a European version of an American paper, "The International Herald Tribune," which offers enough hard news to choke a horse in less space the LA Times automotive section.

But, this hasn't stopped UK journalists making their way to America for big bucks and bright lights. And the climate is right for their being hired by the media in general. Chalk this up to the declining educational and reportorial skills of young US journalists. Americans think the British are better educated and better trained. Word has't yet reached America that UK state schools are turning out students of similar standard to those in America---unable to place Kosovo on a map.

Still, after the thrill is gone, the expat UK hack might be wishing for a job back home. He may be sorely disappointed by a press system that's dull, insular and largely non competitive. And, what's more, the power structure likes it that way despite what its claims about wanting to bring new blood into the industry.

In those days I would find being an American in London had certain advantages, not inside the media which was almost Yank free, but outside. Certain public officials would open up to an American reporter while cold-shouldering the British. For example, whenever the agency was having trouble getting information from public officials about stories of international interest, I would be asked to call saying I was from the New York Times or Washington Post. It usually worked. Of course there were some monumental screw-ups, too. The most memorable was my attempt to cover the tragic Moorgate Tube (subway) crash of February 28, 1975 in which more than 45 people either died at the scene or later in hospitals. I had just come to work at about 8:30 a.m. when we got a phone call from Rogers that there had been a crash at Moorgate Station, a bit less than a mile from the office. In a story such as this photos are the main event. Even though I was not a photographer, I had a camera and knew how to take pictures. Since no photographer had yet come to work, I took it upon myself to grab my Canon and head for Moorgate on foot. That was because it might take too long to get a cab or bus.

I didn’t know what was up or what to expect. What I did know was I didn’t have a flash for my camera, just high speed Tri X film. So when I finally got to the station, there was chaos, with ambulances and cops everywhere. I walked inside and found that all access to the train platform was sealed. However, I was able to get some shots of the injured being brought up the stairs. But, it was so poorly lit inside I wondered if anything would develop.

I had been hoping by the time I got to the scene that one of our regular photographers would have arrived. But, I was the lone FSNA guy there. After an hour or so, I headed back to the office. Getting exclusives or stories first was the life blood of the news operation. If we could beat the major media on a story, any number of publications would be forced to buy our stuff.

However, it was rotten luck for me that day with most of the photos either too dark or boring background shots. Needless to say, John Rogers was not amused. But, the only thing that kept me from getting the sack was that it wasn’t my normal job and I took it upon myself to cover the incident because no one else was around. I could honestly utter that classic working-class phrase, “It’s got nothun to do with me mate. It’s more than my job’s worth.”

And my job’s worth was mainly writing features. I figured that was because I hadn’t been imbued with the fact digging against all obstacles mentality that separated UK and US hard news journalists. Being a Yank had advantages when setting up showbiz interviews. The local press agents assumed I could place stories in American, as well as British, publications, which of course they were correct.

For example, legendary rockers Led Zeppelin were throwing a party at the ancient Druid hangout, the Chislehurst Caves, outside of London. Len, a junior reporter at the agency bet me I couldn’t get invited to the party. He lost that one big time. When the party bus left central London, Len and I were on it. And after he had a chance to talk to his idols, Jimmy Paige and Robert Plant, he could have been my lifelong slave.

Doing celebrity interviews were quite easy. Setting them up was the only difficult part. You had to play ball with a variety of press agents, whose demands would become greater as their power and the cult of celebrity grew through the years. But, in those days, there were scores of PR firms, big and little, all vying for clients. They could only keep their clients by showing results, first setting up interviews for them and then having major stories appear in major publications.

Two of my most memorable interviews were with the same person and took place two years apart. I first met the late British actor Oliver Reed through the auspices of his PR agent and brother Simon at the time I was about to leave FSNA. And, even though he may have been acting it up, his hell-raising reputation was well deserved when I talked to him.

His home at the time was a large estate called Broom Hall, near Dorking in Surrey, about a 45-minute drive from London. The manor house, surmounting a knoll overlooking the spacious grounds, seemed suitable for a man who could easily fit the bill of Mr. Rochester in Jane Eyre.

Reed met my photographer and me at the door and showed us the grounds. We then drove to his local pub, the Cricketers Arms, for some lunch. But, first there were some drinks. I recall he ordered a starter of oxtail soup and when the bowls arrived he poured a whole schooner of sherry in each.

He bragged how he could out-drink anyone around, telling a story of how he knobbled one challenger. Well, I wasn’t trying to out-drink him. But, I found myself going toe to toe with him for a while since he kept buying and I kept drinking. Everything was hazy after that. And this presented a problem, since I had another assignment that evening.

I had started freelancing for Boats Weekly Magazine and I was scheduled to cover the annual Pin Mill Thames River barge race near Ipswich the next day. But I was set to meet the crew of the Northdown, the barge on which I would be sailing, at a City of London pub that evening and would drive up with them, staying overnight on the 112- foot-long boat.

As I said, I have trouble remembering how my meeting with Reed ended and how I got to the pub in London. I do recall slogging my way at low tide to where the Northdown was berthed and sailing the next morning with somewhat of a hangover.

My next meeting with Reed happened in 1977, also at his estate. This time, as a freelance writer, his brother drove me there. It was about 11 a.m. and I was ushered into a small study at which time Reed walked in and greeted me like an old friend. We sat and before we could begin the interview a servant wheeled in a drinks cart.

We both began on gin and tonics and the interview went well, or at least I think it did. Before lunch Ollie showed me around the house, which curiously included climbing into his attic. I was hoping he liked the first story I did on him. Actually his attic seemed more like a stable, the floor covered with hay. Or that’s what I thought until Reed picked up a handful and rolled a smoke, beckoning me to do the same. I had to be drunk to think nothing of an attic filled with grass. A few puffs and I was away…away to his pub again. This time to a sumptuous feast of roast beef, new potatoes and an English treat, mushy peas. Oh, and there was plenty of wine, too.

You see the previous piece I did on Ollie had been published in UK and US publications as well as Screen International’s Cannes Film Festival edition. So he liked me enough to even give me a gift as I was leaving, or should I say being helped to Simon’s car for the drive back to London. Luckily, the car was a Triumph Spitfire, very low to the ground. Because it wasn’t long before I told Simon to pull over so I could bend over to let that great lunch and booze up out at the side of a country road. A Technicolor yawn is what the Aussies call it.

Simon left me off at a tube station. I staggered in and the next thing I knew, I was at the end of the line. I had crashed out for about 35 minutes. Numb and dizzy, I made my way back to my stop and my Manor House pad, where I crashed for the next two days. And talk about the mother of all hangovers. I felt my head was going to explode from the sound of the hair growing on my teeth.

After vomiting and shitting my guts out, I began regaining some normality. That was until I reached into my camera bag and pulled out my bloody hand. What was in there besides my camera and tape recorder? Ollie’s gift, that’s what. Reed had given me a frozen Scottish haggis, a sheep’s bladder filled with animal offal and blood. However, it had been sitting un-refrigerated for two days. What a mess and what an interview. RIP Ollie.

But, I’ve zoomed ahead with my Ollie Reed stories. Back to 1975 and FSNA. Normally press agents would tell me where the interviews would take place. But, once in awhile they would ask me to set up a meeting. Since I had no expense account, I hit upon what must be an early example of product placement. This came about when the late Alan Bates’ agent called me about my interview request. He said Bates wanted to do it, but where? I didn’t know elegant London at all and I suggested the first thing that came to mind, The Playboy Club.

I called the club, talked to the PR representative and he had us over as his guests. A story on a distinguished actor such as Bates, dining at the club, would be good for business. A photographer accompanied me on all my celeb interviews for FSNA. Aside from my less than stellar camera work, having a photographer along makes for a better interview and a better illustrated story.

I did stories on celebs as diverse as Rod Stewart and the Carry On films team. And the office would sell them to anyone with the money, even girly mags such as Playboy and down market titles such as Knave and Fiesta. This is when I met Ben Goldsworth, a girly mag editor who would wind up a life-long pal…at least I always thought of us as pals. Chapter 12 Now the Heartbreak Part

Shortly after I started working at FSNA, I moved from my B&B to a flat share by Battersea Park. But, that wasn’t very satisfactory since it took two buses and about an hour to get over to the Exmouth Market. So, I wound up living in a tourist hotel within walking distance of the office. It was at this time I encountered a woman who would be my second serious involvement.

In the UK you normally met women two ways: at pubs or at dance halls…remember Brenda? Well, I soon discovered a good way to meet women was at dances advertised weekly in the Jewish Chronicle newspaper. This didn’t mean I had a wish to meet only Jewish women. But, for me it was a ready market.

At one such event I spotted a cute young lady sitting alone. Her name was Carol. She was 28. I asked her if she would like to dance. She replied she would like to, but didn’t know if she could. At the time I had no idea of what she really meant. After I assured her I wasn’t a great dancer either, she got up, rising hesitantly, unsteadily, as if she were drunk. But she wasn’t. I knew then something was wrong with her. Later I would learn what I suspected was correct, Carol was in the early stages of multiple sclerosis.

But that evening I just knew she was, at 5ft. 2 in., cute as a button and it was fun to talk with her. Later, when she and a girlfriend were ready to get a cab home, she told me, and I can remember this as if it were yesterday, “I suppose you won’t want to see me again?” What could I say? “Why would you say that? Of course I’ll see you again.” And that was that. I was involved. Yet, even though I grew to care deeply for her, it was an involvement I never should have begun.

Carol came from a Jewish upbringing somewhat alien to mine. It was very organized and far more religious than the life I had known. Except, like me, she lived with her parents. For example, her Saturday routine was going to the hairdresser with her mother. On Sundays they would usually visit relatives or have relatives visit them. And I must admit, this was nice and civilized, reminding me a bit of my early childhood. But, it was hardly the vagabond life of my young adult years, a lifestyle that would follow me into old age. After all, that was the lot of a trench coat clad foreign correspondent, wasn’t it?

Carol lived way, way over on the east side of London in Forest Gate. Just to get to her place required a tube, train and bus ride. It took at least an hour. For that reason, our dates at first were limited to her area. Carol had to walk with a cane and/or with my arm around her. She was at a point where her leg muscles and stamina were weakening.

Yet, she worked in central London, not too far from my hotel. This made it convenient once we became intimate. Her parents, obviously realizing her dire situation, never commented on her sleepovers. Still, I must admit feeling uneasy escorting her home afterwards.

As the weeks flew by, I got used to her condition and I actually felt I was playing the strong hero, helping the little lady down the street. In the age of female aggressiveness and self-reliance, it was refreshing to find a woman who actually depended on a man. On the other hand, there were a few times when my first urge was to run for a bus, but holding myself back, knowing that Carol had trouble just walking. For an instant I would think, “What the hell am I doing here?” Then, looking at her lovely petite presence, I knew.

Our relationship began to sour a bit during a somewhat romantic weekend we spent at a hotel in Chichester. The train was about to leave from London and we would have missed it if I hadn’t, in my haste, picked her up and hurriedly carried her onto the car. She wasn’t happy with that and I felt bad about it.

I was in Britain on a six-month tourist visa. In fact, I really wasn’t supposed to be working there. However, freelance work was allowed and I was listed as a freelance worker at FSNA. But when my visa was near expiration, I explained my situation to Carol. We had talked about marriage already and I suggested we have a civil ceremony of convenience in advance of a proper wedding, just so I could get a permanent visa. She agreed as long as we kept it a secret from her parents. So on a nice spring day in 1975, we tied the knot at the Islington Town Hall. The only hitch was it was in front of half the news agency. But, they were in on the deal and kept mum about it. In other words, there was no announcement in any paper. On the other hand, we did tell her parents we wanted to get married. And Carol had the engagement ring to prove it. She was overjoyed when I gave it to her. What I didn’t tell her was it was the ring I gave to Noreen a few years earlier, the one she mailed back to me. I had been carrying it around ever since.

Her parents were overjoyed and started arranging a traditional Jewish wedding, including posting bands and newspaper announcements, all the while having no idea we were already married. Meanwhile back in L.A., my folks were over the moon. My father was beginning to think I would never find a partner and actually suggested I try Japan. But, I hadn’t told them about Carol’s condition.

Being a local news agency hack wasn’t all work. As was tradition in the UK, we had a local pub as a hangout and I spent considerable time there. But now that I was engaged (married), I began spending more time with Carol and her family, which was great. Yet, I still had my mates at the agency and after work one day we hit the pub for a knees- up. I eventually called Carol to tell her where I was. In her case, it was a big mistake. She suddenly became a JEP (Jewish English Princess), indignant that I would go out on her without telling her in advance. It has become legend how controlling Jewish women are over their men and I was experiencing it first-hand.

Well, I had a few beers under my belt and wasn’t in the mood for a childish argument over the phone in a noisy pub. I wound up calling her a “twit” for being so childish and she hung up on me. The next thing I knew I was summoned to her house by her parents. Carol had told them of our secret marriage and now wanted nothing of me. In her words, “I don’t want to be married to someone who is loud.” Well, her mom was disgusted by the news, yet was somewhat reserved in dealing with me. Her father was rather quiet about the break-up…how typical.

I was floored, totally shocked. Yet, in the cold light of day, I must admit while I thought I was in love with her, or at least the image of her, another side of me was relieved that a relationship so alien to my being was ending. Still, I couldn’t work and was heartsick for a while. My stock response: I quit my job and returned to L.A. where I had to answer to my parents, which was far more difficult than dealing with Carol’s folks. For one thing, my dad had a Victorian belief that women could do no wrong in a relationship. You see what I mean -- on both sides of the world, Jewish men have similar attitudes towards women drummed into them by their mothers and wives. I mean you just have to look who many of the top feminists during the 60s and 70s were.

But from another perspective, I lasted a year in London, had a serious involvement which went to the wire and I gained something else that would impact my career…media contacts.

------

Chapter 13 Self-Motivation

My time at Fleet Street News Agency was useful in two ways, I learned how to write tabloid stories and I gained some valuable media contacts that would launch me into a freelance writing career.

For example, while in London I met George Kirvay, a top public relations man for Rogers & Cowan, one of the biggest showbiz PR firms of the day. He, like me, was an American in London, working at his firm’s UK office. I recall he set-up some of my first celebrity interviews: James Caan and Tony Curtis. We developed a professional relationship that would last until his untimely death 20 years later.

Or there was Ingrid Cheek, the London publicity representative for Warner Brothers. Ingrid, a tall blonde American, arranged interviews, screenings and on film set visits for me. She would marry and leave Warner’s, all too soon for me. But on a personal side, we at first stayed in touch, then lost contact for about 15 years, until one day she heard me on a London radio station. She and her hubby Jack have remained close ever since.

The key element to my career, at the time, was becoming known to feature editors at the London Evening Standard, London Evening News, a few of the national newspapers such as the Daily Mail and magazines such as My Weekly, Titbits, Weekend, and Woman’s Weekly. These titles were always hungry for Hollywood showbiz stories. And back then, they were much easier to get because of the greater competition between PR firms and a star’s contractual obligation to promote their films. Also, major UK studios such Pinewood and Shepperton were busy with productions that demanded pre-release publicity.

And because I was hired as a freelance reporter for FSNA, I held on to my stories, old and new, and was free to sell them to whomever I chose. For example, Ben Goldsworth, who was editor of some tatty, sexist and female denigrating magazines, saw my stories and me as a socially redeeming value to keep the law at bay.

To me, the major play I got in full color slick-back magazines made me feel, for a brief moment, that I had arrived. That feeling usually ended when the article did, segueing into a nude buxom woman being screwed by a well-hung man who was also arriving. But, the money was welcome now that I was in business for myself. You see, being a freelance anything usually means you are self- employed or hire yourself out for specific jobs. It also means more than likely, you won’t be getting expenses. So you have to watch what you spend in both money and work hours on each project.

I learned this through the patience of an Australian stockman turned journalist who originally arrived in America on a leaky sailboat he helmed over the Atlantic from South Africa. Colin Dangaard was the Hollywood bureau chief for media mogul Rupert Murdoch’s fledgling personality based scandal sheet the National Star, later the Star. And my story pales in comparison to his, a largely self taught newsman, who learned the trade working his way around the world on various newspapers. So, when I came into his office with a few stories to market, he was all ears. He first bought a piece or two from me and then gave me some good advice regarding some of my weather worn unsold stories. “There comes a time when you have to say to yourself: I’ve done all I can to sell this story. And, now I have to move on. There’s a point where it’s not economically realistic to keep trying to sell something no one will buy.” Those words, like other advice I received over the decades, have been etched into my mind.

Colin began giving me assignments. One that comes to mind was being asked to get a story on the exclusive high stakes poker games being played at the MGM Grand Hotel in Las Vegas. For me, this meant the tedious drive too and from the desert oasis.

Now I had no idea how secretive and discreet the hotel wanted to keep this operation. When I approached the press rep, I was given a polite brush-off in the form of free room and board plus an interview with the hotel’s current headliner Florence Henderson. This, and another interview I managed to get with actor Jack Albertson, made the trip worthwhile even though I didn’t accomplish what I was sent to do.

Colin left the Star to pursue his dream of working in the equestrian industry by starting the Australian Stock Saddle Company in the hills above swank Malibu, Ca. But we’ve remained friends ever since.

It was 1976, my showbiz writing was proceeding along in good order. Eventually I began getting assignments from Colin’s replacement, Piers Ackerman. I was making money. Much of this was due to the decent reputation I had built in Britain. Most of the press agents there either had offices or tie-in with Hollywood agencies. Aside from the Star, I did an occasional item for the National Enquirer, the L.A. Herald Examiner, the Greensheet and a host of personality based publications. And to keep one of my benefactor’s sweet, I even managed to have a feature done on George Kirvay. He had been reassigned from London to Rogers & Cowan’s head office in Beverly Hills.

It was about then that George suggested I go really big-time and cover the annual Cannes Film Festival. He would have several clients there looking for breaks in major publications. I knew he felt I could help him. And, I quite liked the idea of being amidst a heaven of stars. What pickings there would be for the event’s two- week run.

But going to Cannes took planning months in advance. I had to get credentials, airline tickets and line-up publications who might like to have me be their guy at the festival. In L.A., I had lined-up the Star and Herald Examiner. However, I was hoping for an even better response in London by virtue of the numbers of tabs and London’s closer proximity to Cannes.

Why have me? I was cheaper than a paper sending a full-time staffer to the festival. They only pay me for what they use. That, for the most part, is how freelance newspaper and magazine writing worked then and still does now. The only time expenses are involved is if a publication gives you an assignment. Then you are working for that publication and they are obliged to pay expenses you incur on the assignment. Yet, even this may not be the case if a publication or other media outlet tells you in advance that you will not be getting expenses.

The way most of the outlets I dealt with handled freelancers such as me was by being non-committal. Rarely would an editor tell me, “We are interested in having you do a story on her.” Or, they wouldn’t say, “Yes, we will buy it” without seeing it. They would tell me, over and over, “We would be interested in seeing what you have.” Or, they might say, “When you have it, let us see it,” “Can we take a look at it?” and the most non-committal of all, “We’re always interested in looking at new stories.”

From my viewpoint, my first goal was to make enough money to cover my expenses. I wasn’t a tourist looking to spend money. So in addition to hitting the feature editors, I would also contact the diary or gossip editors. They paid decent money for a paragraph-long item and great money for a major item.

On this occasion I remember lining up the Sunday Mirror, Daily Mail and London Evening News to look at my stuff. Then when I actually got to Cannes, I found trade papers such as the Hollywood Reporter and Screen International producing special daily editions for and at the festival. I had my bag full of interviews with me, many of which were of stars with films being marketed at Cannes.

All I had to do was rewrite the leads and a graph or two as updates and the trades, especially SI, would buy them from me. In fact, I sold so many to the trades, my expenses were nearly covered. And a plus factor -- the press agents there loved these stories, which resulted in invites for me to many top parties.

I flew to London in early May of 1976. Ben Goldsworth and I at this point had become business friends. So, he offered me his stylish Putney home as a crash pad before and after the festival. Aside from me providing him with some good laughs, he knew I might come back from Cannes with a few good stories for his girly mags.

I flew from London to Nice Airport, about 20 miles from Cannes, and took a bus to the Hotel du Nord, a pension on the Cannes back streets. A short time later, I visited the Palais du Festival on the lavish and lovely Croisette du Cannes to receive the first of six press festival credentials I would hold over the next decade. And to be honest, they’ve all blended together so completely I can only recall highlights from them as a group.

This first outing was sort of a test for me, not only in my mind but also in the minds of the various PR people. They wanted to see who and what I could publicize. As I said, I got Oliver Reed placed in SI. So, seeing this, Rogers & Cowan set me up with Alexander Salkind who was announcing his director for the first Superman movie.

I must explain something at this point. I was doing this before there were shows such as Entertainment Tonight and Access Hollywood and decades before computer blogging. But the methodology was the same. We, as journalists, were doing the work of the PR people, getting their clients placed in the legitimate media. We knew this. And for me, it was great fun and excitement meeting and eating with the stars. As I said, it was better than getting celeb autographs. Yet, I knew it was just showbiz. And I never took it seriously as the media apparently now does. To me, it was just a job in fantasyland.

As the decades rolled by, the cult of celebrity became a worldwide phenomenon where the source of the news and the media outlets found themselves in bed with one another. Take the News Corporation or Time-Warner as examples. They both own major film studios and media outlets to promote their products, if they wish. This is very serious business now. If, for nothing else, it brings in billions, distracting entire populations from the real world problems they face.

But back then in the mid 70s, when most major market staff entertainment writers were banned from accepting freebies and perks, as a self-employed freelancer, it was the only thing I could do if I wanted to cover certain stories. The downside was I was largely at the mercy of press agents. They called the shots and I could take it or leave it.

Yet, even that was a far cry from the lot of today’s showbiz writers. Be they staff or freelance, the studio and personal PR agents hold enormous power over who gets to talk to their clients. I never had to sign agreements of how and where something would be published, as is the practice today.

As veteran Hollywood PR man Jerry Pam, explained, "In the past PR meant PRotect--today PR really means any publicity one can get. The problem with PR today is very simply -- it hardly exists in the entertainment world. There are no teachers to show the relevance of being represented by a publicist who a) knows how to write, b) has great contacts to journalists and c) understands that with the diminution of the nation's daily newspapers there has to be a new way of communicating to the public.

In the old days publicists learned their craft either at the studios or TV stations and were assigned to the hundreds of journalists covering the entertainment industry. When I was at MGM, there were 40 odd press agents covering the 4 or 5 films that were always in production and we learned how to write a press release, visited the sound stages seeking film news information from the cast and crew. This was then written and passed to a "planter" who disseminated the stories to the media.

As there were very few independent movies in those days, the main work of a publicist had to be one who was employed by a studio/distributor. Independent publicists mainly represented talent not films and they had to be on excellent terms with the studio system to visit the sets and meet with their clients.

All this came to an end in the 1950's with the inroads of TV, and as the years passed the studio system vaporized with actors, no longer under contract, becoming independent contractors working anywhere and everywhere. All publicity used to be tightly controlled by the studios and those stars under contract were not allowed a personal publicist--the only exceptions being the mega-stars.

In the old days the studios controlled the contents of fan magazines which through the years developed into today's gossip and scandal periodicals. Any violation of ethics in those days and news was subsequently withheld from said violators.

Today's showbiz writer has NO limits on what to say and thus we now have a complete independent market with no censorship. Of course, if today's writer went too far, he would find a lack of cooperation from any independent production company both in film and TV.”

So, at Cannes in 1976 I talked to 13-year-old Jodie Foster about her controversial hooker role in Taxi Driver, had a drink with Kung Fu’s David Carradine and an interview with Dennis Hopper. I had lunch with author Harold Robbins on his yacht and met Joan Collins, there, as well, for her Stud photo-call. Then there was talking to Kurt Russell about his role as Elvis and John Hurt about Midnight Express.

But, the highlight of the festival for me was that dinner at Moulin de Mougins. I had been so effective in placing plant stories in the trades, George Kirvay and his boss, Rogers and Cowan’s London supremo Margaret Gardiner, invited me to the bash. No, it wasn’t some sort of perk. They wanted me to write it up and place it somewhere. There were several other journalists there such as Rex Reed and Alexander Walker. Kirvay and Gardiner figured all this media would mean considerable coverage.

Then there were the phony interviews. Some of the major PR firms would be handling a few less than stellar clients. They could have been tie-ins to other movies or clients that had VIP benefactors. The PR firms would approach legitimate showbiz writers to interview the person just to make them feel that they were being interviewed, yet with no guarantee of publication. It was a short-term ploy to satisfy the client or the producers that the PR firms were doing their jobs.

Amazingly, on more than one occasion I did this and startled the agents by actually selling the stories to publications. Yes, the perks they offered me at the festival were nice, but for a freelance showbiz writer, nothing is more satisfying, save an evening in the sack with a hot starlet, than selling an un-saleable story. Yet today, this bundling of clients has become commonplace in showbiz. It is now to the point that if a freelancer writes something negative about one client he may be banned from all that agency’s clients.

My first festival ended well, showing a slight profit after costs. I flew back to London and again stayed with Ben and his wife Sloan. It gave me a chance to write-up the stories I had left from Cannes, offering Ben first pick. To be honest, he didn’t pay nearly as much as the UK nationals. But, there was minimal work involved. He was right there so there was no slogging around Fleet Street like a journalistic hairbrush salesman.

Then one late spring day, I received a call from veteran UK PR agent Laurie Bellew asking me if I would like to be a jury member at the Irish National Film Festival in Cork. I have to admit I was startled. Bellew explained that the American judge they had set for the job had cancelled and they needed a last minute replacement. He thought of me. I thought how tactful it was to maintain good relations with PR agents. I accepted immediately.

The next thing I knew, I was on a first-class, all expenses paid trip to Cork, Ireland as a guest of the Irish Government. From June 5 to 12, I ceased to be a freelance journalist and became a short film critic. The Cork Film Festival was an event showcasing short films, yet to the people of this southern Irish town it was as important as Cannes and the Oscars rolled into one.

And for me, it was something I had never experienced before or since. Daily, we jury members were picked up at our hotel in two ornate open horse drawn carriages for a journey to the screening room and eventually, the main event, the awards presentation at the city’s largest theater. It seemed as though much of Cork had lined the procession route the day of the award ceremony.

Yet, the route to the awards wasn’t quite that simple. We were daily sequestered in a screening room, along with a drinks trolley and a few trays of sandwiches. We had to watch scores of varied shorts from all over the world. We discussed them, argued for or against some and then short-listed the finalists. I recall I was adamant about the bravura dramatic performance of English actor Michael Gough in a moving film called Romeo and the Spirits.

But, it wasn’t all work. Each juror had his own personal assistant to answer all questions Irish. Mine was a lovely colleen named Francis. As a group, we were given a tour of the local hot spots such as Blarney Castle and the lovely port of Kinsale. The final night of the event there was a mammoth Irish party at the festival hall. I recall the late actors Robert Shaw and Kenneth More were at our table. Even though we all were feeling no pain from the Guinness and Jameson’s that was flowing, I recall what a good- natured man More was, telling me about his excursion to Hollywood. And we of course discussed his classic film, Genevieve.

It was all over too soon, the way of fun things. I said goodbye to Francis and lined-up for my flight back to London. Yet, to my amazement, standing in front of me was none other than Douglas Fairbanks Jr. I looked at him and without cracking a smile I simply uttered quizzically Gunga Din? He broke out in a chuckle and we had a brief conversation. Fairbanks, who was a wealthy man and on the boards of a few corporations, then viewed acting as a hobby. He had been in Ireland as part of a touring stage company doing The Pleasure of His Company. ------

Chapter 14 Bonding

Needless to say, the Cork experience gave me a bit of gravitas with the media and PR industry. So, I decided to stay in London a bit longer and continue marketing my Cannes stories.

Eventually, I moved out of the Goldsworth residence, taking a short let at London House, a student residence hall I had once stayed at for a couple of months in 1975. No, it wasn’t a dorm. In fact, it was quite pleasant having my own room in a park like setting.

Then, Ben hit me with an idea. He had never been to America and wanted to see the place from a Greyhound Bus. It’s true. He wanted me to accompany him from New York to L.A. using Greyhound America Passes. What could I say but “yes” after all the hospitality he had shown me. And even though I already had done the trip a couple of times, it promised to be fun.

Ben was a happy-go-lucky guy, rather shallow and superficial, with only one annoying vice, he was a compulsive smoker. But not just a heavy smoker, he was the bull elephant of all smokers, having a cigarette between his fingers almost all of his waking hours. And they had to be Marlboros…nothing else would do. Of course he would pay for this in his later life, a possibility then that never deterred him.

Our first chore was getting the bus passes. After wasting half the day in Thomas Cook Travel and with no tickets in hand because its system was so archaic and inefficient, I suggested American Express across the street. Within a half-hour we were all squared away.

We flew to New York and checked in to the Pickwick Arms Hotel, which had become my regular Big Apple hostelry. Not only was it reasonable, but at 51st Street and 2nd Avenue it was part of fashionable Sutton Place. Ben’s first order of business was to call Sloan and tell her how much he missed her. The most revealing thing I, a single guy, would learn on this trip is how much Ben depended on his wife. Yet, it would be several years before I would understand how being that close was perfectly normal. After all, I had become a somewhat self- sufficient vagabond, as long as I wasn’t living with my parents.

For Ben and me a highlight of the trip was shaking hands with presidential candidate Jimmy Carter, who had been campaigning in New York. We just joined the crowd on the street and were lucky enough to grab his hand and he passed by us.

The sightseeing done, we boarded “the big dog” and began heading west. Our first stop was Columbus, Ohio, the home of Hustler Magazine and its publisher Larry Flynt. Ben had just launched a UK magazine similar to Hustler and wanted to see Flynt about doing a tie- in deal. It was a bit of an eye-opener when we dropped in at the Hustler office, only to be given the brush-off, something Ben hadn’t expected. I, on the other hand, had become used to rejection and took it in stride. Besides, it wasn’t my magazine.

On the bus again, heading west, our next stop was Chicago and an evening with an old friend. Ingrid Cheek had left Warner Brothers and married American petro-geologist Jack Van Wagner. They were living in Chicago. Ben and I stopped by their posh Lakeshore Drive home, had a few drinks, while talking mainly about London and then left. It would be about 15 years before I would see Ingrid again.

I recall it was the usual hot and muggy weather in Chicago. Ben and I were walking down by the Lake when we came to the Chicago Yacht Club. He felt a pressing need to relieve himself and walked inside the club. Met by the secretary, Ben, in his most posh English accent, asked if he could use the men’s room. Well, the secretary thought we were visiting yachtsmen and showed us the way. To this day, Ben refers to the Chicago Yacht Club as his club.

On the bus again, I recall waking Ben during the night as we were about to cross the Mississippi. He had a look and went back to sleep. Sleeping on a bus with decent legroom and comfortable seats isn’t so difficult if you’re tired.

The next day we arrived in Denver and realized through our mutual pong, that we hadn’t had a shower in two days. We found a rustic hotel nearby, the kind of place that wasn’t even big when it was big back in the 1920s. It had a colorful assortment of locals sitting around the lobby.

The female receptionist greeted us with the traditional western welcome, “Howdy Boys.” We could hardly keep from laughing. But Ben replied, again in his best English accent, “I don’t suppose you have a shower we could use? We are willing to pay.” “You want a shower, not a room?” “That’s right,” Ben responded. I guess it wasn’t so surprising when she directed us upstairs.

We found the communal shower, a rather dilapidated cubicle size room, with plaster peeling off the moldy walls, and wondered if we would be dirtier after having the wash. It wasn’t a pleasant experience. But, we were somewhat cleaner and odor free.

From Denver we headed north to Cheyenne, Wyoming and then on to Salt Lake City, Utah. All this bus touring was becoming too much for Ben and he insisted we get a motel room after we reached Reno, Nevada. It was a welcome break, even though we didn’t try our luck at the casinos.

But when we reached San Francisco, Ben wanted to rent a car for the scenic drive to L.A. via the Big Sur Coast road. We reached Monterey at sundown and began looking around for a motel. But, being a Saturday and summer, all we saw were “no vacancy” signs. One thing I didn’t mention about Ben, the married father of two sons, was he had the infamous juvenile, “I want what I want when I want it” attitude. Since he couldn’t find a place in Monterey, he wanted to drive down the windy and dangerous Highway One at night, missing the very scenery we had driven this route to see.

I insisted it was pointless and dangerous in our condition to drive this route at night and we would be better off sleeping in the car. Yet, he wasn’t having that. So, since I was at the wheel, I went to plan C by driving 20 miles east to Salinas where we found a Motel 6 with vacancies. Needless to say, we had a sound sleep.

The next day we retraced our steps to Monterey and drove the 120 miles to Morro Bay, giving me a chance to see what I had sailed and surfed down a few years earlier. I must admit I felt a bit thankful as we passed the Point Sur lighthouse.

When we reached L.A., Ben checked into Steele’s Lodge motel, only two hundred yards from my parents’ place. They would have loved for him to stay their apartment, but there wasn’t a spare room. In any case, Ben’s spirits were the highest they had been the entire trip. That’s because we were in L.A.’s San Fernando Valley, the economic home of world pornography. He had arranged meetings with a godfather or two, which was obviously part of his plan.

Yet, there was another high point for him -- driving to Mexico. I drove Ben down to Tijuana, warning him not to eat anything, which of course he did. Also, there was the fact he wasn’t American. Although he was in America on a tourist visa, he might not be able to get back in if he went to Mexico. But, he didn’t seem to care until we came back and were stopped at American customs. When they asked us our nationality, he said “American,” and they waved us through. It was a good thing, too. The taco I warned him against eating in Tijuana was ready to burst out of him at a Bob’s restaurant a few miles back inside the USA. In a few days, he flew back to London. Yet, we established a relationship that would last more than 35 years.

Chapter 15 Perks and Freelancing

Back in L.A, I got to work on more stories and continued marketing my Cannes stuff. There are two key elements to a film festival as far as a freelancer is concerned: the immediate news angle of a story and the somewhat timeless feature angle.

The news angle has to be exploited a.s.a.p. So it still is news and you can sell it before someone else does. These stories often have no relationship to length. It’s the news angle that counts. Remember, the sharp tip of the pyramid. So, a writer can often make big bucks from a hot story only a few paragraphs long.

The feature angle is another matter. There may not be a time element involved. And, even if there were when you did the story, you may be able to update it so it seems new. My Cannes stories were now more than two-months old and yet I was able to rewrite some of them as if the subjects had just talked to me. I mean, I’m not going to say, “Two-months ago at Cannes, Harold Robbins talked to me.” In a “timeless” feature you try to leave the time and location as vague as possible, unless necessary to the story.

I was making enough money now to again afford my own place, on Coldwater Canyon, about a mile from my parent’s home. It was a comfortable studio with a great recliner chair and a view of the Hollywood Hills. And, I wasn’t in it for more than two months when I got a call from Ben saying he was bringing his family over and was looking forward to seeing me.

I recall, he had arranged a package deal and had booked his family into a motel in Hollywood, just a short distance from my old school, Hollywood High. Every time I pass by it, I have to think of my naïve youth and the jolly times we had cracking jokes around the old quad bench. About 20 years later, I would have a feature published in the UK Guardian newspaper reminiscing about Hollywood High’s past and present. (See “Hollywood Lows” in appendix).

But in 1976, the Goldworths just wanted to see the sights, have a hot dog at Pink’s, visit Disneyland and take a day trip to Vegas, staying there only four hours. Ben insisted on driving back the same night…his usual spoiled child persona…I want what I want when I want it. The main trouble with that during this occasion was Ben, besides being tired, had never driven on a desert road at night. It’s just not British. He started freaking out at the wheel, eventually asking me to take over, which I did, getting them safely back to their motel.

One of the more enjoyable times we all had was a dinner put on by my parents. In addition to the Goldsworth clan, my sister was there with her first husband, as well as my cousin Bennett. This gathering made it necessary to turn my folks’ living room into a dining room.

The menu entrée was barbequed T-bone steak, the size of which had Ben’s eyes bulging. The English didn’t eat that much beef in a month. Yet, even the steaks didn’t make the impression my father did. After talking about his World War II exploits, he suddenly appeared in his old army uniform, helmet and all. Ben could hardly stay in his seat. And Sloan broke out in laughter.

During the winter of 1977, after bashing around the local ski slopes for a couple of years, I wanted to try my luck in the Alps again. So, I got a six-week TWA excursion fare to London, where I booked onto a chalet holiday in Verbier, Switzerland with the same travel firm that took me to Zermatt two years earlier. This would be the last time I would ever pay for a ski trip.

Being in London allowed me to again stay at the Goldsworth’s large and somewhat aristocratic Putney home. By this time, Ben and I had become “old pals.” At least I always thought of us as pals. And Sloan, plus his two well-behaved boys, were always glad to see me…I think.

But I never expected what came next. Ben introduced me to a female friend of his and the next thing I knew we were having it off in his living room while they were out for the evening. Still, sadly, although satisfying, the fling was too short. After all, I was heading to the Alps.

Verbier is regarded as one of the tougher skiing resorts in the Alps. I can’t think of any area with more long black runs than this place. And one of the toughest was Mt. Gele, the backside of which is a steep semi-circular cornice wall that is fun in powder, but can be deadly in ice. Most of my chalet compatriots were good skiers and some went down this run. I, keeping American pride high, also tried to go down it. A half-hour later, I emerged unscathed.

When I got back to L.A., I wrote the story from the chalet experience angle and it was published in the Los Angeles Times. The final touch was sending a copy to the head of the London travel agency. This was the beginning of the most lucrative journalistic sideline I had and one that would shape my life. ======

Chapter 16 It Just Gets Better

I continued with my showbiz stuff, but to be honest I found getting good interviews much more difficult in Hollywood than in London. The British agents and studios wanted American publicity and I was seen as someone who could get it for them. But more than this, my experience at Fleet Street News Agency made me aware of a fabulous competitive UK press system, the type that had long been gone from America. On the other hand, its inbuilt inefficiency made the use of non- staff freelance contributors mandatory. This was a time when the unions still ruled the media and overstaffing was the norm from the newsroom to the pressroom.

I somehow felt that by doing some good stories over there, I would be able to get a staff job on a national publication. While I would be let down on this score, the next couple of years would be my most productive feature writing period. So, in the summer of ’77, I finally decided to settle in London, long-term. After all, the one positive thing to come out of my abortive relationship with Carol was a UK permanent residency stamp in my passport. I could come and go as long as I had the money for plane fare.

Back in London, I rented a small flat opposite Finsbury Park, just north of the West End. As was the case then and now with many London apartment complexes, it was originally a single house divided into units. Mine was a ground floor reception room with a bathroom, in what once was part of the cellar. This always seemed cold, even with the bar heater going full blast. Oh, and dark mold crept in around the loo walls. It seemed to thrive in the cold and damp. Upstairs, however, thanks to a space heater and my tiny electric cooker, which doubled as a heater, I was quite warm during the bleak winter months.

The flat had a wall mounted hide-a-bed which I normally kept down because it also became the office chair for the small foldable table that served as my creative center…the home of my venerable Olympia portable typewriter….no computers yet. I was served well by both the Finsbury Park and Manor House tube stations and there was good bus service, as well. This meant I had no trouble going to and from Fleet Street, eventually becoming a regular story hawker at most of the national papers and a few national magazines. I didn’t know it then, but the days of this dirty, rough, yet vibrant, fiercely competitive and heady press system were numbered. (Read Fleet Street Memories in Chap.15)

I had returned to London at the right time to attempt having my ski story published. The national publications tended to plan their travel stories upwards of a year in advance. So, a winter ski story would normally appear the following autumn. This was because vacations in Britain are, also, often planned from six months to a year in advance. And that was because, unlike America where workers only get from one to two weeks vacation yearly, most British workers got a month, often paid, yearly vacation. For many of them, planning proper vacations was more important than their jobs.

I used to joke the British climate was so bad, that most of the population tried to leave the country at least once a year. Also, it should be noted the British, generally, didn’t have the love of work that Americans had. Here work was something you did to make a living and that’s all.

On this occasion, I managed to strike gold at the Daily Express. Travel editor Peter Chambers took the story, which I rewrote in tabloid style, on speculation and used it. For the next 20 years, I was able to add travel writing to my resume and enjoy more and more perks as my clipping portfolio grew and grew.

Before I left L.A., I met the editor of Gambling Times magazine who said he would be interested in some stories on European casinos. With this in mind, through my contacts in some of the UK casinos run by the Coral Leisure Group, I was able to write some features on a side of London unknown to most tourists.

London’s casinos are a world apart from those found in Las Vegas. They look almost anonymous from the outside and often elegant on the inside. These, after all, were James Bond’s playgrounds where he could meet his next femme fatale at the baccarat table. And the most elegant of them all was Crockford’s off Pall Mall, only a stone’s throw from Buckingham Palace. It’s plush interiors, immense crystal chandelier and sweeping spiral staircase leading to the gaming room, was a world away from the Silver Slipper in Vegas.

Since the vast majority of gamblers there were men (there were no slot machines), most of the card dealers were attractive women. I, of course, just observed, a brandy Alexander often in my hand. I was always a sucker for sweet sticky drinks. But, I was wise enough to stay away from games of chance. That’s because 90 percent of the time when I put on a t-shirt, it would be back-to- front. Luck that bad has taught me to avoid gambling.

But, my luck was good when it came to eating. Most London casinos had luxurious French style restaurants on the premises, the ones I would occasionally take a film star to for an interview and lunch.

While Gambling Times was mainly interested in the gaming aspects of these casinos, I saw an opportunity for a travel story on a side of London little known in America. It was published in the L.A. Times.

This type of exposure helped me score a major coup -- being invited to Monaco to do a story on its fabled casino. At the time, things weren’t so rosy in the postage stamp country. Competition from modern casinos in France, and even a new one being built in Monaco, was leaving the Grand Casino a bit short of punters. The Societe des Bains de Mer, which runs it, needed some publicity and I came along at the right moment.

I decide to travel there by train, a 24-hour plus journey. But, it was scenic and cheap back then. However, when I arrived at Monte Carlo, I was met by a chauffeured limo and driven to my complimentary room at the luxurious Hotel Hermitage, with meal arrangements provided to me at the even more lavish Hotel de Paris. As I peered out from my balcony at the swank boat marina and harbor, I thought to myself, “It’s great to be a foreign correspondent.” Still, it wasn’t that great. I never got to see Princess Grace. Yes, she was very much alive then.

I was in Monte two days and the trip back provided an extra bonus for me. I met a cute American tourist on the train from Paris. We hit it off and I wound up holding and kissing her on the deck of the cross channel ferry. This was another of my romantic idylls instilled in me from watching movies… Meeting a woman on a train, embracing on a ship’s deck as we peered out to sea and, suddenly, its morning. In this case it was morning. We continued into London together and she agreed to come to my place for coffee, it being too early to check into her hotel.

I was beginning to think I really had struck gold with her, especially when she asked if she could take a bath and we hadn’t even been in the sack yet. Was she Miss Right? When she came up from my basement loo, hair still wet, we just seemed to fall into each other’s arms. Like I said, “It’s great to be a foreign correspondent.”

Well, not exactly, after what happened next. She admitted she was engaged to a guy in New Jersey and was in the process of heading back there to get married. Was this de’ja vue Mary Sue or maybe she was just saying that because I was lousy in bed.

With that wet blanket and the advancing hour, I took her to lunch and then to her Russell Square hotel, where she invited me up to her room. I, of course, acquiesced and before long we were at it again, until her phone rang. Guess who? She was so overjoyed at hearing from her Mister Right she forgot all about me. I wished her good luck and left. Goodbye Mary Sue.

As for the Monte Carlo story, I wrote it up from two angles, as I did with my piece on London gambling. One was sold to Gambling Times and the other to the UK Daily Telegraph, a top British sheet that would figure greatly in my future travel stories.

During my 1974-75 stay in London, I discovered an activity that would develop into the longest involvement in my life…playing softball in Hyde Park. Hypisco, the Hyde Park International Softball and Canoeing Organization, was made up mainly of American businessmen, ex-patriots and a few actors. It was a regular pick up game that was played every Sunday from April into October. In fact, one year of great weather we played until Thanksgiving. But, back in ’75 I only played in a game or two. It wasn’t until my return in 1977 that I made this weekly fixture my Sunday highpoint.

Yet, in those days, the game was so popular you often had to be a superstar to get in. There were so many players that a double header was played in order to allow the extra aspirants a chance at glory in London.

======

Chapter 17 Luck and Exclusives

During 1977 and 1978, I had firmly established myself as a successful subsistence freelance writer, mainly serving the British national press. In other words, I wasn’t getting rich, just doing well enough to pay the bills and have enough cash for partying.

This was rather unique in a couple of ways. At the time, I was possibly the only American writing for the tabs while actually in London. You may recall, when I joined Fleet Street News Agency it was like going back to school. Americans weren’t supposed to be able to write tab stories. In fact, US scandal sheets such as the National Enquirer and the National Star would recruit their staff and editors from Britain and Australia.

Of course, any student of journalism would know that America invented pop journalism back in the early 20th Century with 80 point banners headlines, when the UK’s Daily Mail was lucky to have 36 point heads on hard to read stories.

Be that as it may, being a novelty on Fleet Street had its advantages, as I mentioned. In the end I became a regular fixture and frequent contributor to the Daily Mirror, Sunday Mirror, Sunday People, Daily Mail, Mail-on-Sunday, Daily Express, London Evening Standard, London Evening News, Weekend Magazine, Titbits Magazine, Bella Magazine, My Weekly Magazine, several top IPC Group women’s mags and even occasionally Britain’s biggest and wildest daily, the Sun. But, I feel that was mainly because its then features editor Roy Greenslade took pity on me with my persistent efforts. My stuff, while good, was normally rather tame for the Sun.

On top of this, I increased my travel story output and built a North American network of major newspapers that were taking my features. This included the L.A. Times, San Francisco Examiner, New York Daily News, Boston Globe, Toronto Star, Baltimore Sun, Chicago Tribune and the Miami Herald. Later, I added on Germany’s top selling Ski Magzin, which translated my stories into German. It seems I couldn’t give this publication enough.

The secret of my success was twofold: First, I never set minimum fees or out-priced myself. Every publication, large or small, has a budget for what it can buy. They are all different. I simply accepted what was on offer. If I didn’t like it, I wouldn’t try to sell to them in the future. This guaranteed that editors would always be interested in seeing what I had. On the other hand, it also guaranteed I would probably never get rich, since they knew I wouldn’t hit them up for large fees.

Second, I quickly learned getting and writing a story was the easy part. Marketing it took most of the effort. And the initial part of this effort happened before I ever wrote the story. It was in developing an angle or news hook that was fresh and strong, something that would sell. I mean, I couldn’t approach an editor saying, “I have a story about Shelley Winters’ new movie. It’s really great.”

No, after taking the late actress to lunch at the Curson House Club, and being mistaken for her toy-boy, I came up with a dynamite quote from my tape recording: Shelley Admits: “I fiddled the Emmy Award.” According to the late actress, she was presenting a best series award at the Emmy ceremony and read out “Upstairs, Downstairs” even though the real winner was All in the Family. She said she swallowed the slip of paper the real winner was on and that was that. Well, that immediately got the attention of Daily Mail showbiz editor Rod Gilchrist, who took my tape recording and was planning a page lead story.

However, after the paper contacted her agent, Winters recanted her story. So, in the end, there was no story, at least at the Daily Mail. The Daily Star went for a new angle, “Food’s Her First Love Now,” about Winters’ losing waistline battle. However, several months later, the Daily Mirror bought it from me and ran the same story the Mail rejected. Hacks Gone, Fleet Street Buttons Up For Business By DAN EHRLICH Publication: Editor & Publisher Date: Saturday, April 18 1998

Talk about irony, 24-years-ago when I first set my Los Angeles eyes on Fleet Street, its most amazing aspect, other than being home to a phenomenally dynamic and competitive press system, was the amount of time its members spent getting pissed at lunch.

Well, with the national journals long since gone, the only paper left in the immediate area being the "Jewish Chronicle," boozing has become of such a low priority, this once sacred lunchtime practice can now get you sacked.

The Street of Shame, formerly the western world's greatest watering hole, where news was spread and dreams made into news over liquid petite' dejeuner has been transformed into an avenue of trendy coffee bars and sandwich shops designed for the enforced tastes its new 9 to 5 "no drinking while on duty" City worker army. Just another example of American cultural imperialism? If so, I'm sure it won't be the last one. That's because Americans seem to be taking over the street.

I somehow find it hard to fathom people like the then "Daily Mirror's" Paul Callan or the "Sun's" Roy Greenslade nipping down to the Cafe Rouge or Coffee Republic for the standard two to three hour hack libation. "I believe its your round old man. Yes, quite...the same? Oh, garcon, cinq cappuccino, si'l vous plais. And can we have another round of those yummy croissants. Merci."

From a quick outward glance, today's Fleet Street looks just as dull and gloomy as its did when I first saw it. Of course bleak rainy winter days will do that to most places in London. Upon closer examination, however, evidence of the post media rot is everywhere, lowlighted by that universal symbol of America's international reach, a Macdonalds hamburger bar. It's true, Big Mac on the Street of Shame, an unbeatable combo available for an unlimited time. Too bad it came too late for the press crowd.

Sandwiched between the law courts and and the City, as the retreating Roman legions of hacks vacated the street, other more respectable people moved in...you know those whose only paper is the FT. But worse was yet to come---"Wall Street Journal" readers. That's right, Americans.

They took over and rebuilt the "Daily Telegraph" building into a sparkling and shining art deco edifice that Superman could mistake for the "Daily Planet," but whose real name is Goldman-Sachs. And, now this mega investment bank is set to, at long last rescue "The Black Lubijanka." Looking more gray than its former glistening black appearance, the old Express Newspapers building will get the complete American treatment, the finishing touches being no booze during working hours. Again, too bad it came too late for the press crowd.

Across the way, the old Bouverie Street headquarters of News International has been beautifully redeveloped by the Freshman legal firm into a British version of "L.A. Law." How appropriate that the former home of so much business to the legal community in the form of libel suits should wind up an office building for lawyers.

But these developments are still few and far between. The trendy snack bars can't conceal the widespread graveyard atmosphere, exhibited only a short distance down Whitefriars Street. Deserted and boarded up, the former home of the Associated Newspapers, Northcliffe House, looks more like the haunted house ride at Disneyland. But come to think of it, it didn't look much different when it was in use. The corner of Tudor and Whitefriars always seemed to have a dirty and seedy atmosphere. Maybe for me that was its romantic charm.

A dark brown Harris Tweed sports coat, matching hat, a cheap pair of dark green trousers, black boots, a traditional, but cheap Oxford Street, gents umbrella and a brief case full of showbiz and travel stories....in the mid 1970s this was my idea of a Fleet Street reporter. I didn't know I looked more like a bookie's runner. Yet, amazingly it opened doors for me to most of the national newspapers and several magazines. Or maybe it wasn't so amazing given the fast moving betting shop predilection of journos then.

First, its important to point out, to those not in the know, when I hit the scene, Fleet Street was already in decline. And, as is the case with Hollywood, it was more a state of mind and name-tag for an industry than the actual home to all the national publications. For example, the "Guardian" was about a mile away on Farringdon Street and the "Times" and "Sunday Times" were about to move to their new home over on Gray's Inn Road, now the location of ITN.

But generally speaking, the area bordered by Blackfriars on the south, Holborn Circus on the north, Fetter Lane on the West and Ludgate Circus on the East was considered the heart and soul of British journalism. It's also an area in which I wore out several pairs of high street shoes as a literary Fuller Brush man.

It was a time when London had two daily newspapers, each selling more than the surviving one does today. The "Daily Mirror" was in the midst of a losing battle to hold onto its top selling position against an onslaught from the Murdoch transformed "Sun," then seen as an extreme right wing, often racist rag. Curiously it attracted loads of Black and Asian readers...the power of the Page Three Girl exposed I suppose.

As for the "quality" press, the "Times" was running third behind the "Guardian" and its Canadian owner Lord Thompson was dying to unload it on some sucker.

But more than anything it was a time when an outsider like me, not even working through an agent, could gain entrance to as many national publications as humanly possible in a single day. Without appointments I could manage see any number of editors and personally pitch stories, some already written others about to be written. Try doing that now.

I was an American journalist in London writing the kind of crap the British always maintained Americans couldn't write...pedantic tabloid human interest stories...highlighted, for example, by two simultaneous yet completely different Richard Gere pieces, one pop version in the "Sunday Mirror" and a full page straight splash over in Paris at the "International Herald Tribune." Or there was my interview with ballet star Rudolph Nureyev....one version running in the "Sunday Times" and another in the "Sunday People" showbiz diary.

What can I say other than I was hooked on it all. I used to think Los Angeles was the centre of the universe and that I probaby would find my ultimate destination to be the editor some little suburban weekly newspaper. And, to tell you the truth I wouldn't mind doing that today. But then, I couldn't adequately take in the size of the British national press . It was mind boggling, mainly because its was so huge, yet so centralized and, as far as the tabloids went, so accessible and personable.

Of course, the key element was gaining entrance to the publications. And that was largely a matter of making the commissionaires, who I initially thought were part of some sort of paramilitary police force, believe I belonged there, which itself was mainly knowing where I wanted to go and simply going for it.

Very few guards would try to stop me. And if they did, my accent and some vintage bullshit would see me through every time. For example, I recall once being challenged in the Express Building. My response: "Oh! I wonder if you could help me. I was seeing Mr. Smith in features. I stepped out to look for a loo and got lost. I can't remember if I was on the first or second floor. The floors are different here than in America." The helpful commissionaire would not only let me pass, he would tell me where I wanted to go.

But the real beauty of the system was after I came and departed a couple of times, they thought I worked there and never gave me a second glance. In fact, my presence became so normal at the old Mirror Group Holborn Circus Building, I used to chit chat to the guards.

However, I soon learned most papers had more than one entrance, some which were easier to navigate than others. For example, with the Mirror Group papers, the trades entrance on New Fetter Lane was always awash with people and guards who could care less. Across the street, it wasn't much different for the "Sunday People" entrance.

For the the "Daily Mail" and "Evening News" the Northcliffe House often unguarded staff entrance on Tudor Street was preferable to the main entrance whose commissionaires seemed as serious the the newspapers being produced there.

Over at the Black Lubijanka not only were there two separate entrances on Fleet Street, but in an unlikely fit of desperation I could slip in unchallenged through the wide-open news print bay. News International was also a cinch as was gaining entrance to the old "Evening Standard" building on St. Andrews Place.

I could have never contemplated doing at the "Los Angeles Times" what I had been doing in London. Even then, the editorial offices of American newspapers were inaccessible to the increasingly troublesome and violent public.

However, today, I can say with a degree of certainty, what I did then couldn't be done now. The de centralisation and sterilization of the newspaper industry coupled with "information technology" makes multiple ad hoc business meetings impossible and, in fact, unnecessary. Now, trying to swan into the new ivory tower encased publications is about as difficult as a rag and bone man getting into Number 10.

But even more depressing is the effect the death of Fleet Street has had on the national press. The creativity and cross fertilisation brought on by a close knit journalistic community, its members mingling with each other and with the adjoining legal establishment, was unique.

Now it's lost, with the fax replacing personal contact, E-Mail replacing the fax and televised internet conversations about to replace the lot. Britain, once again, appears to be going American, with the quality of stories declining, giving more and more power to sub editors. And what's the hot industry debate today? Are women better editors than men?

The favourite hang-out for gossip and debate between the journalistic and legal professions was the "El Vino" wine bar, a place that was hit hard when the hacks left. According to manager Daniel Thorold, "The legal people really mourned the loss of the journalists. The combination of reporters and lawyers created the lively, conversational and amusing situation you get when good minds are at work." He pointed out that old habits die hard. "We still get some of the older crowd dropping by here for dinner. But its not like it used to be." It sure isn't. For one one thing, women are now common in this spa where once they were barred.

How was it? It was busy, dynamic, competitive, exciting, frustrating and a system that was grossly over manned and inefficient. For one thing, I could never understand why papers with such big staffs needed so many freelance writers and casual shift workers. It wouldn't have happened it America, something the media bosses would learn a few years down the line.

Now, I just didn't get off a boat and start writing for the national press. Considering I was a traditional American "who, what, where, why, when and how" broadsheet reporter, writing for the tabs was something that had to be learned. And my school was Fleet Street News Agency, a legendary hack-paparazzi hang-out mainly for those on the way up or those on the way down, its honour graduate being the BBC's Anne Robinson.

Sadly, it too, recently closed. There I learned the one great tabloid rule: No matter how big a story, it only has one hook, based on one thing, human interest...something to be milked dry.

Most weeks I would make from two to four visits to the street. I normally had standard route that would allow me to hit as many publications as needed....the Chancery Lane tube to Holborn Circus, Fetter Lane to Fleet Street, Bouverie Street to Whitefriars, Blackfriars to Kings Reach Tower (home of IPC womens magazines) and returning to my tiny Finsbury Park flat via the Blackfriars tube station. Or I could reverse this route if I first had business with say, the "Daily Mail."

Retracing that route today, seeing the lifeless and weatherworn shells that used to be home to the national press, I can't say its sad. It's like something out of "The Twighlight Zone," as if no publications ever existed there, with all traces of past identification removed. Only the Telegraph's old building, with its listed clock, is there there to readilly inform a tourist of what this area once meant to the nation. Of course, Reuters corporate Hq. is still on the street, but all news services are keeping company with ITN over on Gray's Inn Road. Thinking back, my first recollection was of gray rain soaked days, wet shoes and cold feet, punctuated by endless traffic jams on Whitefriars and Bouverie Streets. As usual the cause was an infinite numbers of newsprint trucks blocking roads originally laid for horse drawn beer wagons.

Once on my own, it didn't take long to realise which news rooms were more receptive to a loud and aggressive American with cold, wet feet. And of equal importance was which publications had large and anonymous gents rooms I could use.

On aggregate, the Mirror Group won hands down. Big secluded loos, you know the type you could camp-out in for a whole day if needed, and lots of friendly people...not neccesarily in the loos however. I'm sure this had a lot to do with the socialist bent of the papers, meaning the staffs were unprententious, less up-tight and less hostile to foreigners than some of the other sheets. Or, it could have been they were just trying to appear that way because that's the way they were supposed to appear.

My personal favourite was the "Sunday People." The staff members, besides being the most relaxed and earthy on Fleet Street, were basically Sunday people, having two or three days during the week when they could take time to bullshit with me.

I owe a debt of gratitude to people such as David Farrar and the late Bill Doran, Tony Purnell, Mervyn Pamment, Frank Jeffries and Graham Ball, just for letting me hang-out. And over at the "Sunday Mirror" deputy editor Chris Ward, womens editor Eve Pollard and a sub editor named David Montgomery bore witness to my frequent presence in their midst.

After all, it was just across the the street from the "Sunday People." And the reason they and other editors wanted to do that was because they were hungry journalists in a tightly competitive arena. They were gamblers working for me, betting on me. They were waging every so often I would come in with a good story that no one else would have. And, thankfully I didn't disappoint them. Hell, I'm still here. Fleet Street is gone.

Getting interviews with most celebs is a matter of what’s in it for them. It’s also how you present yourself.

Cannes, 1978, I was walking down the main drag when I noticed the routine paparazzi scrum curbside at a hotel entrance. I pushed my way in to the mess and saw ballet legend Rudolph Nureyev being hustled towards a waiting cab. This normally reclusive dancer rarely gave interviews. Through the noise and pleadings of the snappers I yelled out, “Rudi, I’m with the Sunday People in London. I would like to talk to you about helping get your mother out of Russia.”

Those were the magic words. Say no more. Nureyev, in self imposed exile from the Soviet Union, had been trying in vain to get his mother out of the USSR. So, when a journalist from a major paper offers to help, what could he say? “Meet me at Roselle Hightower’s Ballet School tomorrow at noon.” I wound up with the rare privilege of being allowed to watch him at practice and did the interview with him in the locker room.

This resulted in two stories, one in the Sunday People and one in the Sunday Times Atticus column,

A lot of this is luck and the nerve to make the first move. I found this lacking in many British news people. Their cool exteriors and senses of propriety would keep them from approaching people. Instead they would often opt for existing clippings or making up quotes.

Again, Cannes 1978. I’m at the Carlton Hotel bar with a British colleague when he spots screen legend Marcello Mastroianni at the bar. We look at each other and I see he isn’t going to make a move, so I do. “Ciao Maestro. Sono Ehrlich del Dan, un giornalista. Posso comunicare con voi circa la vostra pellicola a Cannes?” I wish. No, I simply said in English, “Hello Maestro Mastroianni. I’m an American journalist and would like to talk to you about your films at Cannes.” He responded in decent English, “How about 2 p.m. tomorrow in my hotel room.” Needless to say, I was there and wound up with a nice interview with someone I had long admired.

The Cannes Film Festival, as is the case with most film festivals, is divided into two parts, the official festival of films in competition, which is very small when compared to the much larger Market. The market takes over much of the town for two weeks. It’s where hundreds of films are sold and in terms of money, far more important than the competition.

So, an actor such as Mastroianni may have been at the festival to help promote films he may have made years earlier. There are times when you may see a film where the star looks different or younger than his current appearance. That’s often because the film, made years earlier, hasn’t been able to find a distributor until the present.

Chapter 18 My Favorite Year?

It had just turned 1979 and I was in L.A. visiting my parents and driving my 1967 Pontiac Firebird convertible they had been keeping for me. An old Valley College chum, Jeff Hansen had recently broken up with one of his many girl friends and needed a change of scene. I suggested coming back to London with me. I actually didn’t think he would do it, and was overjoyed when he agreed.

I was set to visit the Italian Dolomites with John Morgan Travel for a ski vacation story. And, Jeff asked if he could come along. No, problem, except he had to pay.

This was an exceptionally cold winter in London, with frequent snow showers. And L.A. Jeff tried to take it all in stride. But he initially looked shocked as the tube train from Heathrow Airport burst forth from a tunnel to a gray day accented by ice and snow all around the tracks. What a difference from the bright sunlight of our bon voyage brunch at L.A.’s Marina del Rey, several hours earlier.

In the days before our departure to Italy, I took Jeff, who was also a journalist, around to some of the publications and editors that knew me. His reaction to Fleet Street was similar to mine when I first saw it…disbelief. This was the home of real newspapers and news people. For Jeff, all this excitement had raised his adrenalin level but suppressed his immune system. He came down with a nasty cold.

Still he was game to travel. We flew from Gatwick Airport to Treviso, Italy, where we bused to our chalet in the little village of Campitello. Now, the most noteworthy aspect of this trip was that Jeff’s cold had him laid up for most of the time, a fact which didn’t seem to bother him since he was being waited on hand and foot by our Scottish chalet girl/nurse. For my part I met a chick called “Crazy Robbie.” She was one of the fabled upper crust English ski bunnies, the type who hit the slopes all properly dressed and with loads of make-up on her face. Jeff wound-up inviting his chalet nurse to visit him in the US. She never did. I had better luck. After returning to London, I got Jeff on a plane back to L.A. and I was on the phone to Robbie.

We had a lover’s tryst at my place. She must have felt she was slumming. I just felt, “What a nice body.” And we agreed to meet again on my next ski trip to Tignes in France in a couple of weeks.

The reason for these details is that they lead to the key point in my life, the one I mentioned back when I was talking about my first skiing experience in Las Vegas. I was at Tignes on a Supertravel Holiday doing a story for the Daily Express. I met Robbie at her apartment, one she was apparently sharing with a man. We talked for awhile and hit the slopes, which by the way were great. Tignes was part of the Val d’ Isere ski area and it was super. It’s also where Robbie could show me her stuff. She, being much faster than me, simply skied off and I never saw her again. It’s true.

That evening I thought I might see her at the weekly welcome party hosted by the Ski Club of Great Britain. She was a no show…probably exhibiting her wares to her blond ski bum. However, I did spot an attractive woman, with cute curly red hair, sitting alone, went over and tried one of the most trite ice-breakers ever. “If you’re as bored with this party as I am, why don’t we split and go to Paris for the weekend.” You would expect laughter or indifference to such a stupid opener, right? “Okay, let’s go,” she said. Man was I shocked. What could I say? “On second thought, I think we should know each other better,” is how I responded. We eventually did. Three months later we were married and my wandering eye was fitted with blinkers for the next 25 years.

Still, in between Tignes and my June marriage two weeks away from my 38th birthday, was another Cannes Film Festival to cover. And for an extra added attraction, there was the Monaco Grand Prix as well, with me the guest of the Societe des Bains de Mer, a perk from the gaming stories I had previously done on this postage stamp size country.

Cannes was fun in two ways. I scored some decent interviews with the likes of Roman Polanski, Alan Parker, Lee Strasburg, Jon Voight, Bruce Dern and Gene Kelley and I also scored my last pre-nuptial fling, a one night stand with comic overtones. On one hand, my new fiancé decided at the last minute to fly down to see me on the job and, on the other hand, I then had to tell another young woman in London, who also wanted to visit me, not to come. In between all this, I met Paula, a shapely American freelance journalist, who wound up with me playing the famous “From Here to Eternity” beach love-making scene. Oh, and let me tell you, there’s nothing worse or less romantic than making love on a sandy beach. The sand gets everywhere, and I do mean everywhere, with your only salvation being a nearby shower.

Then my fiancé flew in to see the journalist in action. It was blind luck she missed my final performance. A shock was walking down the Cannes main street with her and being accosted by my serendipitous friend, who took me aside to ask if I had seen her panties. “No, I don’t know where they are.”

The Monaco Grand Prix was being run a few days after Cannes. So, I used the dead time to write up my interviews. But I continued staying at the Hotel Amiraute in Cannes, commuting by train to Monaco.

Cherry, my fiancé, had left Cannes for London and would wind up meeting me later in Paris, taking her car with her on the ferry.

The Societe officials had arranged for me to view the race from the casino terrace overlooking the track and harbor. And, while the event was both exciting and picturesque, it didn’t compare to the sudden appearance, on the terrace, of Mick Jagger. Even after all the interviews I had done, after sitting next to The Who on the flight to Nice, talking face to face with Jagger had me almost at a loss for words.

With that done, I flew to Paris and was met by Cherry, who had booked us in to a down market hotel, perfect for Lost Generation writers. But, since this wasn’t that generation, we both found it smelly and made it back to London the next day.

It was near the end of May and we set June 15th for the big day. I recall saying I wanted to be married before I was 38 on June 27, 1979. We spent what little time we had until the ceremony visiting each other’s friends, which meant seeing her friends since I had few close English friends. However, we did make the tedious journey to Putney at the invitation of the Goldsworths. How typical of Ben to live way over on the other side of town. I recall Cherry’s puzzlement at how I became involved with a person in Ben’s profession. I could tell she didn’t exactly approve. But, she was obviously in love with the fact that she was finally getting married and making her parents happy. So, details such as my having a porn king as a pal were insignificant.

To me, Cherry’s parents were an American’s vision of an upper crust British couple. The truth was, her father was an Australian doctor who was educated in New Zealand and gained notoriety as the physician on the HMS Achilles during the WW2 hunt for the German battleship Graf Spee. Her mother, on the other hand, was born in India, a daughter of the British Raj. Yet, together they couldn’t be more traditionally English. I must admit that I loved it. Our ensuing get togethers were almost like an Ealing Comedy.

The happy event took place at the Marleybone Town Hall in the center of London. It wasn’t a big affair. But, it wasn’t that small either. Maybe about 15 people present, among them were my in-laws to be, Doctor and Mrs. Colin Hunter, Cherry’s brother Toby, the Goldsworths, John Rogers and his wife, along with some of Cherry’s friends. I was so nervous beforehand I took a valium tablet that morning and almost overslept, arriving by cab just in time.

Afterwards, there was the standard wedding reception at her old flat, complete with the traditional English fruitcake so sweet and tart no one seemed to eat it. The British have to be one of the few people who invent deserts that even kids hate, you know stuff with bits in it -- spotted dick, bread pudding, rice pudding, mince pies and fruit cake that’s as hard as cement and guaranteed to rot your teeth providing you manage to actually eat some.

But, the reception was just the start of the evening. We sped off in my new wife’s old Renault 5, festooned with best wishes and balloons. The drive wasn’t too far, just to the lavish Crockford’s Club. The Coral Leisure people had laid on a carte blanche wedding dinner for us, complete with Champagne. Was she impressed? I guess.

When I left my Finsbury Park flat that afternoon, it was for a final time. The two years I spent there were among my most productive as a general freelance journalist. I had established myself with the UK national press, was stringing for the prestigious International Herald-Tribune in Paris and was writing travel pieces for several North American newspapers. Now I was a married man and ready for new chapters in my life and career. ======

Chapter 19 Money and Marriage

We had rented a house on Highview Road in West Ealing, a London suburb. At last I felt I was living a normal life, the type of life I had as a child, with a nice home and backyard. Only this time, I was the man of the house. Or was I?

The main problem with our marriage from the start, aside from rushing into it, was that my wife, a staff personnel officer with the BBC, made considerably more money than me. It was a situation that would last for 25 years. As a single guy, I made enough as a freelance writer to take care of all my needs and then some. But, as a married man looking to start a family, I found it difficult to raise my game enough to keep the little woman happy. For me, it was simply business as usual, except I was married.

My association with the International Herald Tribune was instrumental in gaining me an interview with rising young star Richard Gere, who was promoting his new film, “Yanks.” I flew to New York and was received by Gere in his apartment near Columbus Circle. I found him quite a friendly and rather down-to-earth guy who had time to say a civil hello to a few young female fans who somehow got his phone number.

To make these junkets worth-while, I also had lined-up some stories with the cast of Dallas over in L.A., which would also give me a chance to see my parents. First, I met the late Jim Davis, who played Jock Ewing, at a Sherman Oaks restaurant. A lot of stars lived in the San Fernando Valley. For me, Davis really played the part in life that he did on the tube. I recall his order to the waitress, “Let’s have some beef here.”

But my most unusual interview ever was with J.R. or should I say Larry Hagman. We had two things in common. We both served in the Air Force and we both lived in England. As I entered his Malibu Beach home, I was ushered by a servant to his terrace. Hagman was cordial and we seemed to hit it off straight away. He ordered a couple of Pastrami sandwiches from a local deli and we lunched on those along with bottles of strong Mexican beer.

Then, just as the interview is gaining some momentum, he half ordered, “Let’s take a bath.” “What?” I thought. “I want to show you the Jacuzzi my wife designed,” he explained. And the next thing I knew, we were both stripping off and walking into the rough-cut rocky bubbling cauldron.

I mean, there I was a naked journalist immersed in a bath with a then mega star, also naked, hoping he wasn’t gay. Not that it mattered, with all the booze we were drinking. Beside the bath was my running tape recorder, a finger of Tequila and a bottle of beer. Luckily, unlike Hagman, I didn’t wind up needing a liver transplant.

After talking for awhile in the bath, we got out, put on full length monk robes and dried off. My how the day had flown by. And, for me it wasn’t yet done. I had to drive home over winding Malibu Canyon Road.

In a few days, Cherry flew to L.A. to meet the family. Yet, what she didn’t fully realize was that she was flying into another wedding. My parents didn’t want to be robbed of a wedding in the family, so they arranged for a reform Jewish ceremony to take place at their apartment. I must admit, it was a very happy occasion and one of the last times our extended family was together in life.

After touring around the California coastline, we flew back to London. We had only been married a couple of months when we made this trip. Luckily, Cherry had vacation time accrued.

As for the interviews, stories on Gere appeared in the UK Sunday Mirror and I had a full page spread in the International Herald Tribune. Larry Hagman ran in the Sunday Mirror and Jim Davis in the UK Daily Express.

From autumn to winter of 1979, I carried on my showbiz and travel writing from our West London love nest. It’s also where my son was conceived. During January, the wife, about three-months pregnant, agreed to accompany me on a three center Swiss ski trip, first to Zermatt, where we tried out the new Kleine Matterhorn lift and run, At 12, 542 feet, it was the Alps highest lift. That was followed by a few days at Bad Scuol, near Austria and finally a look at picturesque Murren, providing one of the Alps most striking landscapes.

When we returned to London, I received a tentative job offer from the Philadelphia Journal, a new British style daily tabloid in that American city. Being married, I had wanted to return to the US where I felt I would have better job prospects. And I must admit, I never appreciated the sacrifice my wife made by quitting her secure BBC job to go flying off with me to a strange land.

But, that’s what we did. Our short-term lease on the house was about to expire and it was a good time to make the move. It would also prove to be a bad decision in the long run of things. However, one of my big problems being married was never realizing what it meant and what raising a family entailed. I was still an adventurer at heart, while a soon to be family man, in fact.

Prior to starting the Philly job, we visited my parents and drove up the California coast staying at the romantic Ragged Point Inn near Big Sur, drove to San Francisco and then down the east side of the Sierras where we stopped as Heavenly Valley so I could have a ski…Cherry being a few months pregnant didn’t want to take any more chances…pulling stakes from London was the biggest gamble she ever made, besides marrying me.

Chapter 20 Brotherly Love

We flew from L.A. to New York in early spring and Cherry stayed with her college chumette Roz. She and her German banker husband Heiko Dingler were living in the depths of New Jersey. It was a welcome rest for the mother-to-be while I went ahead to Philadelphia, began work and found a suitable apartment in Center City.

The job seemed to be everything I had been working to achieve. I was editor of a daily entertainment section, taking in the arts, dining and showbiz. The Journal was an upstart paper in a competitive market, against three other dailies. And I was earmarked to be one of its star attractions. Initially my section was called Out and About, then Star Treking. And I had my mug shot on it, too.

Needless to say, I soon became well known among the Philly press agents. Show tickets and diner invites began flooding in. Yet, since the Journal budget was rather small, Managing Editor Walt Herring encouraged us to take freebies, something forbidden at most sanctimonious American newspapers. Well, after working in the UK, I knew all about press perks. And these perks would help my budding family make ends meet and a little extra.

This was 1980 and I was making $400 a week. Yet, I was able to afford a roomy studio apartment at a modern complex on JFK Boulevard. Aside from being a security building, it had a nice view and would be our home for the better part of a year. I was responsible for two to four entertainment pages six-days-per-week. My main job was covering events and local nightlife in two areas, Philly and the new gambling spa, Atlantic City, New Jersey.

Two guys who helped make this possible were veteran press agents Morris Utter and Sam Bushman. They knew everybody who was anybody in Philly and AC. Bushman, who seemed to be an incarnation of Zero Mostel, was an alter kocher who seemed to have no trouble meeting young women. But, most of all, I felt Sam and Mory had become my friends. Remember, I had learned being nice to PR people was good sense and good business. Yet, it was different with these two guys, who I felt were genuinely nice people. Doing this job wasn’t too much different from my freelance work, but a lot more fun and satisfying since I became a locally known name. Once, I even signed an autograph for a cab driver. From my viewpoint, the most rewarding story I did was from an informal interview with opera legend Luciano Pavirotti. He was in Philly to announce a master class he was sponsoring and we talked over a fruit de mere plate at the Fairmont Hotel.

The most tragic stories I wrote-up were the death of comic actor Peter Sellers and the imminent cancer death of cinema idol Steve McQueen. But, professionally, my triumph came in an entertainment of another sort… baseball.

Just in case you’re not a sports fan, 1980 was the year the Phillies won the World Series. But to do that, they had to beat the Expos in the playoffs. This meant that the Vet Stadium was awash with media people.

To the envy and anger of the sports department, I managed to get interviews with play-by-play network TV announcers and sports greats, Don Drysdale and Fran Tarkenton. You see, while this normally would be a sports story, the TV spectacle and glitz of playoff and World Series made it an entertainment story.

I recall, the sports guys goading me on with a challenge. “If you’re so good, let’s see you get an interview with Howard Cosell,” they said. Well, they got me on that one. I couldn’t actually get an interview, but I was invited to have dinner with him and Tarkenton at the Vet’s Stadium Club. It was just an informal get together and gab session.

Talk about tight jaws when my spread came out the next day, “Dinner with Howard.” The sports boys didn’t say a word.

When we moved to Philly, my wife was several months pregnant with my son. And because of this, the company insurance wouldn’t cover a pre existing condition. I was left to pay for her maternity care. Yet, luckily we found a maternity hospital run by the Salvation Army offering low cost care all the way through the actual birth. This proved to be a godsend. Because after taking natural childbirth classes with her, she wound up having a caesarian section. This was handled by a veteran gynecologist who normally charged twice as much at his primary hospital. Looking back, rather guiltily, even though my wife was almost full-term, I jumped at the assignment to fly out to Los Angeles for a studio junket promoting films such as The Blue Lagoon and Seems Like Old Times. I felt like a jerk when I got word at my Beverly Hilton room that her blood pressure had become so high she had been admitted to the hospital where labor was being induced. I mean, I should have been there. Instead, I waited another day until my flight back.

Yet, I was still in time. The inducement wasn’t working. I sat with Cherry through the humid night, an air conditioning unit rumbling all that time. Then, in the morning, the doctor said her blood pressure was still too high and they had to get my son out of her. I was told to suit up and join the party. Within a few minutes a new life, my son Daniel, was placed in my arms. I was totally numb from this entire experience. When I sobered up, I wrote a thank you piece in my column.

We didn’t have a car. So, a few days later, a colleague at the Journal Chuck Darrow gave us a ride back to our apartment. Yet, I was still on the job and that meant an assignment that very night, seeing the late Ginger Rogers perform at the Valley Forge Theater. Even though Cherry took this in stride as part of my job, I could tell she wasn’t pleased.

The best thing about this job was all the perks and goodies it afforded us, a new family of modest means. After the birth, we were inundated with baby gifts from people we had come to know, especially a few public relations agents. But, more than that, we never had to buy loads of groceries since we were frequently invited to dine at local restaurants.

Philadelphia had a large Italian community and some of the restaurants were superb. But, our personal favorite was a super-club right out of the Goodfellows. Palumbo’s had been a Philadelphia landmark for decades serving great Sicillian food and varied entertainment, from unknowns to all- time greats. It was where I interviewed Eddie Fisher, James Darren and Frankie Avalon.

Now, it would be hard to top my Cosell coupe, but two events came close…not just for the events but for the circumstances. I was invited by the Resorts Hotel in Atlantic City to cover one of the last concerts given by Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin together on stage. But, since I was a new dad I took mamma and baby along with me in the limo that was laid on for us. The only trouble was, Cherry couldn’t take my infant son into the theater. So, she sat outside while I did my job. I didn’t like it, but what could I do?

For Philadelphia, the biggest thing to happen there since the Declaration of Independence came about in October when the Phillys won the World Series. What made this so momentous for us was that we had to leave the final game during the eighth inning to pick junior up from his baby sitter. Talk about celebrations. The entire city went into party mode as we were coming out of the subway with Daniel in his stroller.

There were other high points such as covering the Miss America Pageant and my exclusive interviews with Bill Cosby, Red Skelton, Carol Channing and Ed Asner, who actually came to the newsroom and briefly went into his Lou Grant TV role as a newspaper city editor. Oh, and the Goldsworth family paid us a welcome visit much to our complete surprise. Ben was showing his brood some of what we did and didn’t see during our 1976- road-trip.

But, sadly, all these fun and games were not to last. The paper was losing money and I wasn’t one of the editor’s favorite guys. They could do without me, but not without the money they were paying me. We had words and I went from being a star to a nobody looking for work. Suddenly, all that brotherly love disappeared. “Dan, you’re not a celebrity anymore.”

We hung around Philly for a couple of months, left on New Year’s Eve 1981, with John Genzale, a colleague and pal at the paper, giving us a ride to the airport for a flight to London, but eventually wound up, yes, in L.A. living with my parents. ======

Chapter 21 Out of Work, In Love

One of the main plus points of Jewish parents is that they are always glad to have their adult kids stay with them. It doesn’t matter how old you are. You’re always welcome. And, when you add a grandchild to the family, the welcome is open-ended.

So, we made ourselves at home in the spare room and on a queen size bed that had seen better days. We had shipped a few baby things back to L.A. and were set-up quickly. Daniel was about seven-months old and Cherry wasted no time in enrolling in mother-and-child swimming lessons at the local YMCA. Since I had a long association there, I was able to get a greatly reduced fee.

Luckily, my folks had been caring for my 1967 Pontiac Firebird convertible which was a godsend now that we were in car oriented L.A. We fitted it with a baby seat and we were a family on the move, which suited the wife, who, while grateful, wasn’t overjoyed at staying with my parents. Breaks away from Sherman Oaks and our listing bed were welcome.

But, being unemployed, I couldn’t toss money around and we soon learned about one or two local bars offering tempting happy hours, complete with endless free appetizers. One in particular, Rive Gauche, on Ventura Boulevard, was a favorite of ours. We could literally eat for the price of a couple of beers.

However, my main reason for being in L.A. was to regroup and attempt to get another job. What about freelancing? I had been out of it for a year. Things had moved on including most of my contacts. My mindset was on finding another editorial position.

Which brings me to Frances. I had answered an ad for a reporter at the Burbank Review newspaper, for which I was overqualified but I wasn’t in a position to be choosy. The editor, Frances Fernandes, had me in for a chat. I took Cherry and Daniel with me so she could see what the Burbank Mall looked like while I talked to the editor. I quickly noticed she was English and told her how I had lived in London and married an English woman. We talked about a common pub we had frequented and she explained how it was near Westfield College, where she was enrolled. I blurted out, “What a coincidence, my wife went to Westfield, too.”

“What’s her name?” Frances asked. “Cherry. It would have been Cherry Hunter then. Do you know her?” With a smirk on her face, Frances replied, “Yes, I think I do. I think we were classmates.” “Would you like to see her I asked. She’s outside.”

I went outside to search for my wife and child. It wasn’t hard to spot a lone stroller being pushed nearby. Now, in a scene that could have been taken from the This is Your Life TV show, I told her the editor wanted to meet her. She was curious as to why, but came along. Yet, when the two came face to face, Cherry took a long quizzical look and said, “My Lord, Frances.” The two embraced and one of the most high odds coincidences was explained to me.

Frances and Cherry were part of a group of friends who were quite close at college and then went their own ways. All except Frances remained in England. She married, had a kid and then split from her husband, winding up running a small local daily newspaper.

For us, what this amazing coincidence meant was Cherry had a friend in L.A. For me, it meant I didn’t get the job. How could she hire the overqualified husband of her friend?

Other than this, our life in L.A was rather uneventful and shortly after Daniel’s first birthday, we decided to head back to London where hopefully I could resurrect my freelance career and Cherry could find work.

In late summer, we left my parents, my car and sunny L.A. to spend a few days with another of my wife’s school chums, Roz Dingler who, with her banker husband Heiko, still lived in New Jersey. Then, I went ahead to London and stayed with the Goldsworths while I looked for an apartment in Ealing.

That proved to be rather easy, as was finding a large baby bed for Daniel. I had it all in place at our rented flat on Pittshanger Lane and ready for him to arrive

Chapter 22 Deja’vu? Not Qute

So, there we were, back where we started...Well, not quite. We were about a half mile from our first home on Highview Road. And, of course, there was Daniel, who was a bit more than a year-old.

We had rented a two bedroom ground floor flat which was at the end of the quaint little Pittshanger Lane shopping precinct. We really had all we needed, except jobs. Due to her prior good reputation with the BBC, Cherry had little trouble getting back her old position. But, she never really forgave me for having dragged her off to America, leaving her career behind, now having to resurrect it.

I also had to try picking up where I left off more than 18 months earlier; which wasn’t very easy. Even though I soon had some work, I quickly noticed a change was taking place on the showbiz front. As I said earlier, PR agents were becoming more powerful and demanding more of freelance journalists, such as guaranteeing cover stories for their clients. The trouble was no freelance writer could guarantee anything. This put pressure on me from both ends. I mean I had to tell an editor that I could get him a certain star, but only if it was for a cover story. More than not he would say “to hell with it.”

Yet, once in awhile the answer would be yes. This left me wondering if I was being suckered in by the editor. A few stories that I thought were cover pieces wound up inside the book. Admittedly, some of these were stories that, for one reason or another, weren’t good enough for a cover. I mean I had people such as David Carradine and Hermione Gingold, who were good interviews, but not cover material. For example, Kung Fu star Carradine saying the spirit of the late Bruce Lee lived in him was interesting, but not good enough for the cover of the Sunday People, as it was called then. It ran as a page inside. I recall about this time that I managed to get a rare assignment from the Sunday People. I was to find some gossip about actress Ava Gardner who had been spending her retirement years in London. To do this, I was asked to interview the veteran British actor Charles Grey who had been Gardner’s neighbor. From my viewpoint, I was happy to simply interview Gray, who I found a fascinating character actor. But, Gardner was the target and Grey was just a way of sighting in on her…to have him spill the beans on the reclusive actress. We met at a wine bar near Grey’s Knightbridge home. However, I had no way of knowing this was an actor with a pension for wine that could rival Oliver Reed’s. And he had a nature every bit as convivial and welcoming. Of course, some of that may have been due to his character actor status, not the hottest people in demand by the tabloids. Much of my usefulness to the British media was my being an American. Many British actors and producers were anxious for publicity that would attract Hollywood attention. Someone such as me might be the ticket, with them guessing I was connected to the media scene over there. You may recall me mentioning the American masquerades I carried on for Fleet Street News Agency years earlier. And, many years in the future my being an American in London would develop into a career of its own, providing loads of work and money. But at that specific instance, my job was to smooze up to Grey to get news about Gardner. In truth, it would be a booze- up with Grey and very little revealed about the actress. All I can remember is that we started on one wine and went to another and another with assorted snacks thrown in. After a couple of hours or so, we stumbled out of the bar and bid our farewells. The next thing I can rermember was a terrible two day-long hangover, with my wife looking on in amazement. As far as the newspaper was concerned, I didn’t come up with the goods. It was about this time that I decided showbiz and travel writing weren’t big enough money makers for a family man. Besides, the days of the easy interview seemed to be numbered and PR agents exacted more and more power over who got to talk to the stars. I had to switch tracks and become a general news correspondent for American publications. This didn’t mean I was giving up on showbiz writing, but simply expanding my reach. Yet, initially for the most part, it proved a futile effort. I sent out more than 100 offer letters to American newspapers and very few even bothered answering me. But I did get one positive response from the Hearst flagship sheet, the San Francisco Examiner. This would develop into an eight-year-long relationship. The paper’s foreign editor Bobbie Hess was interested in getting some original stories from Europe. This came about during the time a war was brewing between Britain and Argentina over the Falkland Islands. I provided some home front reaction pieces which were appreciated by the foreign desk. I recall asking a Fleet Street editor what he thought of the quick British victory. He replied in bemusement, “You’re not actually asking people questions, are you? We normally just make up the answers.” With these breaks, a snowballing effect took place with me sending more and more stories to the paper. Of course, in those days, computers were not in widespread use. To get a story to the Examiner, I would first type it out and then take the hard copy all the way to the United Press International bureau off Fleet Street. There it was retyped onto the Telex machine and sent to the paper. This was a routine I carried out for years until the Radio Shack 100 laptop computer with built- in phone modem was available. From my viewpoint, this revolutionized all of journalism. I not only could throw away all my typewriter correction fluid and Tip Ex, but I had my own simple means of sending copy anywhere in the world. And this was only the beginning of the media revolution. But I’m digressing and jumping ahead. The key to being a successful stringer for an American paper was coming up with stories that were either local in nature and slant or were unusual, yet not covered by the wire services. For example, there was San Francisco Mayor Diane Feinstein visiting London or a Bay Area businessman buying an English soccer team. Then, on an international level, there was Bay Area resident Shirley Temple Black, who, as ambassador to Chechoslovakia, gave me an exclusive interview in Prague during that country’s revolutionary break from the crumbling Soviet Union. During this eight year stint, I was able to join the prestigious Association of American Correspondents in London, which allowed me to greet and meet UK leaders such as Margaret Thatcher and John Major. I mean I was able to stand so close to Baroness Thatcher that I could see she had fine hairs on her face. I must admit this was a highpoint for me…no, not seeing hair on Thatcher’s face …but being a member of this exclusive journalistic society. It made me feel that I had finally made it…regularly writing showbiz and travel for the UK press and working as a general news correspondent for the US media. Some of the benefits of belonging to the AACL were getting invitations to garden parties given by the Queen at Buckingham Palace and first crack at scarce tickets to the annual Trooping the Color ceremony This was made possible through the interest shown me from Hess and then her successor John Kirkpatrick and with the approval of Examiner editor Jim Willse. In fact, Willse went so far as to send me Examiner business cards. That really impressed me: Examiner correspondent. Had I arrived or was I again fooling myself. Chapter 23 Home Sweet Home

Returning to 1981, after less than a year at our Pittshanger Lane flat, we found a house to buy on the other side of Ealing. Fifty-three Devonshire Road would be the start of a 22-year love affair with the borough’s Northfield’s District. It was a basic three bedroom two story terrace house purchased at the now unbelievable price of £29,000 ($55,000). It was here our family finally found roots and I was able to show the wife what a great do-it-yourself home improvement guy I was. There was a lot to do.

For me a bright spot was having my own office. The very small third bedroom, routine in row houses of this vintage, was perfect for an office. I soon bought a used desk and large metal filing cabinet and my European News Service was in business, as indicated by a rubber ink stamp I had made. Yet, decades later, what I remember most about that room was playing the Superman soundtrack on my stereo and flying my red cape adorned little son, who was about four at the time, around it and the hallway. Oh, yes, I also had a dart board on the wall.

Without breaking stride from our old rented flat, I immersed myself in work. By this time, my San Francisco Examiner gig was going great guns and I was also keeping the UK showbiz and ski writing alive.

The ski stories, in particular, turned into money spinners once I started selling them to papers all over America. At one time, I had stories appearing in the Examiner, L.A. Times, Chicago Tribune, Toronto Star, Boston Globe, N.Y. Daily News, Baltimore Sun, and even the Miami Herald. In London I was having travel pieces in the Daily Mail, Daily Express, Mail-on-Sunday, the London Evening Standard, and the Daily Telegraph, which regularly published my stories over a seven-year period. Then there were several assignments from Executive Travel and Business Traveller magazines.

On the Continent, Germany’s biggest skiing magazine, appropriately entitled Ski Magazin, took just about anything I could send them. And, way over in Australia, Powder Hound Magazine published several stories.

Well, all this action put me in tight with some ski tour operators and especially the Swiss National Tourist Office. Pricey Switzerland was overjoyed at having a journalist who could place its resort stories in the USA as well as the UK. And for a few years, it was almost as if I was working for them and on expenses. They offered to send me to any place I wanted in that mountainous nation. And, they also offered freebies to my wife and son. But more than this, these expensive yet free family outings took some of the sting out of my wife’s routine winge about her making so much money and me so little.

The fact was, I just couldn’t raise my game enough to meet her executive staff salary. We maintained our one-third/two-third formula. This is where she would pay the mortgage and insurance and I would pay for most household expenses, ie., food, utilities, entertainment, as well as playing Mr. Mom after a few years, when I was home more often than not. So, a free $4,000 family vacation once or twice a year was a blessing for all of us, especially me.

Then there were the rare special occasions that, for a short time at least, made the little woman feel I was actually somebody doing something useful. For example, my return to Cannes in 1983 was highlighted by one of those. Rogers and Cowan was handling the singer-actress Pia Zadora. My main man there, George Kirvay, asked me to interview Pia, whose husband happened to be Rik Riklis, a hotel and liquor tycoon.

We had drinks on the famed terrace of the Carlton Hotel. And, I got along so well with Pia, that she invited me to the set of movie she was making in Rome. I remember telling her jokingly to send me two plane tickets and I would be there. A month or so went by and I was back at my home sweet Ealing home when I got a call from a strange man who identified himself as Rick. I questioned jokingly, “Rick as the Rick of the Café American?” “No, Rik, Pia’s husband.” Then about the story I didn’t do on her. “Listen, I’m flying into London in a couple of days en route to Rome. Would you like to fly with me to see Pia on the set?” I was taken aback by this. My mind went back to my comment to her at Cannes. And now she actually sent her husband to take me to Rome. But, at that point I had no idea he had his own plane.

“Sounds great. But I will have to check with my wife.” To which he responded, “That’s okay, bring her along, too.” “But what about my son?” “Bring him, too.” What could I say but “yes.” After all, if Cherry said no, I could go solo.

I called her at the BBC and blurted out, “How would you like to go to Rome next week?” “What?” Which prompted a rather lengthy explanation of who our benefactor was and why Rome. “Ok,” she said. After which I called Rik and was told to be at Heathrow Terminal One at 3 p.m. where we would be whisked through immigration and taken to his private Grumman G2 jetliner. “Private jet,” I thought to myself. When I told Cherry, she seemed rather bemused.

So picture this. Two suburban parents of modest means and a young child trundling down the road to the nearby tube station where they got a train to the airport and were eventually picked up by a limo for a ride to an executive jet way over at the other end of the tarmac.

Once on the plane, a steward offered us drinks and snacks after which Rik, an elderly man with a thick crop of blondish hair, made an almost regal appearance from the restroom. Whether it was his own hair, I didn’t know. I introduced the family and a few minutes later we were on our way to Rome.

I can’t forget the feeling of being met at Rome’s Ciampino Airport by a black limo and two husky Israelis. Had I pissed-off Pia?…where were we heading? These thoughts crossed my mind as my wife gave me a curious look. It turned out we were heading to the exclusive Hotel Lord Byron near the Borghesi Gardens. We were dropped off at the hotel, with me being told to be ready the next morning for a visit to the film set. We were given a mini suite, which meant my son could have his own bed. What was also nice was a fully stocked mini bar. And, as it turned out, our entire stay was on the house, because this house belonged to Rik.

Pia was making a film of the Harold Robbins novel The Lonely Lady, set in Los Angeles, but being shot in Rome…Go figure…with the final action taking place in Roman gardens supposed to resemble an L.A park. I knew this was going to bomb, even before the lavish wrap party we attended at a country taverna. But it was all fun and games then. After all, it was being paid for with Rik’s money.

So, I played my role as a showbiz journalist, interviewed her again and wrote a story, which wound up appearing in a tatty UK magazine called Tidbits. But, while in Rome, we made the most of our good fortune. We visited as many places as we could in four days. This was Cherry’s first visit to the Eternal City and at the top of her list was a trip to the art treasures of the Vatican. Meanwhile, I took Daniel to the zoo and the Trevi Fountain.

The holiday was capped-off by a traditional Hollywood style wrap party given to celebrate the end of filming. Rik had hired a local taverna for partying until the early hours, while Daniel was cared for by a nanny at a villa Rik was renting.

The next day, we were picked up by limo, driven to the airport and on our way back to London. For Rik and Pia, the stop at Heathrow was just for refuelling. They had to be back in New York. We were met on the runway by another limo, this time one that took us all the way back to our Ealing home. How’s that for a Rome adventure? That was a big plus mark in the wife’s tally sheet. Chapter 24 Great News Amidst a Big Winter

In fact it was so big a plus mark with her, by late autumn 1983 she was pregnant again. I guess she figured it was about as good as it would get with me, so let’s get another child.

Meanwhile, my Examiner work was still growing. Being a member of the Association of American Correspondents helped a bit in getting invites to major events, such as attending the Queen’s garden parties at Buckingham Palace. I went to two of those, once with the wife. But on the major news front, there were the growing anti nuclear protests associated with the American Air Force base at Greenham Common.

Going to the encampment, I somehow got the feeling the hundreds of women camped out there protesting US cruise missiles were more interested in the camp-out than the protest. And when it was finally over, some didn’t want to leave…sisterhood forever. Women have long held a notion about male camaraderie…this legendary Damon and Pythias style bond men have for each other. But, to me, women seem to have a greater rapport with each other than men have with other men, a possible reason for growing numbers of lesbian couples.

But, back to heterosexuality. Probably one of the most adventurous things I did in my mainly soft news career was covering the Winter Olympic Games in Sarajevo, Bosnia-Herzegovina, which was then part of Yugoslavia.

Being a ski vacation writer also provided me with inroads into World Cup Skiing. I simply would plan ski trip stories at the same times and venues as World Cup races. After that, it was relatively simple to get interviews with major players, such as Franz Klammer, the Mahre Brothers or Steve Podborsky. Also, being a member of the press I had the thrill and spills of course inspections before the races. I recall snaking my way down Wengen’s Lauberhorn run, the Val Gardena course in Italy and the very steep Hannenkham at Kitzbuhel, Austria.

So, when the Sarajevo Winter Games were at hand, I made it my goal not to pass-up this possibly once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. But, it took some planning, since flying directly to that somewhat remote city was pricey. Being mid winter, I had already been to the Alps that season doing some more destination ski holiday stories.

I had arranged a ski trip to San Cassiano in the Italian Dolomites during late March, immediately after the Olympics. It involved flights from London to Venice and back. Venice was also a jump-off point for a train ride through Yugoslavia. The trick was to get the travel company to arrange my outbound flight two weeks earlier than my trip to San Casiano. No problemo. Well, that’s not really true. I would find, as I often have in life, trying to save money as a freelance writer would be a two edged sword.

While my flight to Venice was simple, the complexities began with a bus ride to the center of town, not the Venice of history and travel books, but to less romantic Venice-Mestre, where the train station was. This meant a two block schlep with my luggage after the bus ride ended.

My train, the Rome to Moscow run, was direct as far as Zagreb, in Croatia. Then after a three-hour wait, a change to the “Sarajevo Express.” Taking the advice of a friend, I bought first-class tickets, which were very cheap on Balkan trains, and was like second-class on most other European trains. Don’t ask what second-class was like. I was sharing a compartment with some African students on the way back to university in Russia. They were laden down with stereo and other electronic gear they couldn’t get in the Soviet Union.

There’s always something mysterious about night train departures. You often don’t know where you are or where you are heading. I recall seeing the Trieste lighthouse beaming its farewell as the train neared the Yugoslavian border.

Now, before I left London, I had obtained proper press credentials from the Yugoslavian government. However, I didn’t feel I would need a visa. Wrong! After we hit the border, I found myself being ushered off the train by a gun toting guard and taken, in the dead of night, to the border post where I had to buy a visa. I don’t mind telling you that I had visions of some cold war scenario. Yet, since I had been to this country before, I remembered what to expect. I was just hoping the train wouldn’t leave without me. Luckily, there were enough African students being rousted about to keep the train stationary for what seemed like hours…

We arrived in Zagreb on a cold foggy morning. I left the train, stored my bags and headed for some breakfast. The center of Zagreb, opposite the station, was a treat for eyes, a vision of the old Austro-Hungarian Empire. As the fog lifted, it was almost as if the lights were shining on a spectre of Hapsburg elegance that had seen better days.

And one of those buildings was a rather opulent period hotel serving a breakfast to match its image. So after a rather interesting night and a very civilized morning, I was stuffed and ready for the third leg of my trip.

The journey to Sarajevo took the better part of the day. When the train arrived, government press representatives bussed us to the press center where we received our press badges. The next stop was the media accommodation block at the Olympic Village. This was a rather austere and grey concrete high rise which was typical of functional communist architecture.

In the event, I wound up sharing a one bedroom apartment, which I was paying for with two or three other hacks. This wasn’t a part of the plan. I had assumed I would have my own room, at least. But, nothing turned out the way you expected in communist nations. Rather than share a bed with anyone other than my wife, I threw some mattresses on the kitchen floor and slept there. No one used the kitchen anyway.

To pay for all this fun I had a few strings lined-up such as the London Evening Standard, Visnews Television and of course, the San Francisco Examiner. Then there hopefully would be some spot news stories I could market to anyone interested. Going back to my Fleet Street days, being a freelance journalist in any genre was a lot like being a door-to-door salesman. Most of the time the answer would be no, but once-in-awhile a yes would be registered. Unlike other winter sports events I attended over the years, Sarajevo’s venues were so far apart and remote that I didn’t have time, or the inclination, to do any skiing myself. Back in London, I felt this would be the case and didn’t bother schlepping any ski gear with me…definitely a smart decision.

During my two weeks there, I was able to see America’s Billy Johnson stun everyone by winning the downhill gold medal, Britain’s ice dancing duo Torvill and Dean take gold with their perfect 6.0 breathtaking Bolero routine and America’s Phil and Steve Mahre took first and second place in the slalom.

But, I must admit, as I look back on this event, the highlight for me was covering Lamine Gue’ye of Senegal the first indigenous African skier to compete in the Winter Olympics. He was the one man Senegalese Ski Team. And even though he didn’t win anything, covering his race proved memorable.

At the time Visnews, which later became Reuters TV, had as clients many Third World countries, one of which was Senegal in equatorial Africa. It’s hard to believe anyone there had ever heard of skiing, let alone actually doing it. But, Gue’ye wasn’t some guy from the bush. He had been educated in Europe and it was there he learned to ski. And Visnews wanted me to tape him on the slopes.

To do this, I was to contact by phone a local camera crew known to Visnews. After repeated attempts, I finally got through and arranged a meeting the next day.

When I told Jorge that I would just need about a half hour shoot he said, “OK, but we will charge you for a whole day,” What could I do but agree.

On the day of the downhill, the buzz was about how Billy Johnson would do. But my mind was on my African no-hoper and what my crew might do. The time of Gue’ye’s run was drawing near, but no camera crew. Wait! There’s Jorge coming into the gray cafeteria next to the ski run. “Where have you been? His run is in 15 minutes or so. We rush back to his van and then the biggest shock since being told I would be sharing a bed with a stranger. Instead of a mni cam his assistant pulled out an ancient 16 mil camera with no sound just a wildly flapping accordian sun guard. “What’s this?” I yelled. “It’s our gear.” “What about VT?” I ask. “No VT.” “What about the sound?”I ask. “Oh, sound,” he answers and hands me a cassette tape recorder.

So, there I was, ready to stand at the downhill finish line amidst the world media looking like an alpine version of a Max Sennett movie shoot. I could see the bemusement on the faces of some hacks.

Well, soldering on I placed the two clowns in my comic act at a point where they just might get a glimpse of Gue’ye, if and when he hit the finish line.

He did finish, way down the list, but we were able to get him for a few words. And with that, I bid farewell to my camera crew, after they assured me the film would be express mailed to London. It actually arrived about two weeks after the games had ended.

Other than this, about the most memorable thing for me, was a piss-up we had at the apartment towards he end of the games…just a bunch of drunk hacks singing old rock classics such as Who Put the Bomp in the bomp a bomp a bomp.

The return trip by train really made me wish I had spent the money on a plane ticket. My first class no smoking compartment was quickly occupied by second class smokers. Rules, it seems, on certain trains in the Balkans, have little value. I must admit they were a happy three guys. But, as a non- smoker (oh I did try a little grass now and then) who never made a big deal out of people smoking, I must admit my tolerance was at its limit.

It’s not that they were smokers. It was what and how they were smoking. These ropes weren’t Marlboros. I mean a fog so thick filled the compartment, we had to open the door and window. One of the smokers, his eyes streaming with tears, had to stick his head out the window to get some air before diving back into his weed. I tried to escape the compartment for a few minutes, but the corridors were also filled with smokers.

Eventually I reached Zagreb. By that time, I was a confirmed passive smoker. I changed trains, as before, but had to change again in Trieste and again in Venice. I was heading towards my ski holiday destination of San Cassiano in the spectacular Dolomite Mountains near the Austrian border. Remember this was on the return half of my plane ticket out to Venice. But most importantly, at last I would have a room of my own in a nice warm chalet, some great food and I would be able to go skiing.

Nineteen-eighty-four may have been a nightmare vision for George Orwell, but for me it was my biggest winter ever. I spent nine weeks in the mountains, two of which were at the winter Olympics. Yet my literal high point came in late spring of ‘84 when the Swiss Tourist Office arranged a press trip for an international group of about 20 journalists. We were to sample the thrill of alpine ski touring by trekking the famed Haute Route, from Saas Fee, Switzerland to Chamonix, France. A key element of this trip is never really coming down to civilization until you reach the end. You stay for days in staffed mountain refuges high in the Alps. During the days you trek, mainly uphill on special skis fitted with animal skins on the bottoms.

During the exhilarating downhill runs, the skins are removed and the skis become just that. It’s a great way to keep in shape. And there were a few treats along the way that no one told us about in advance, such as having to repel on ropes down a cliff face at the Adler Pass, or skiing roped together as we negotiated a crevasse filled glacier.

Well, I should have known better at the start, when they didn’t have touring boots that fitted me properly and I had to settle for an enormous pair of standard ski boots. These were okay for awhile, but their weight and loose fit wound up creating painful blisters on my feet. In the end, about half-way through the trip, our skiing doctor relegated me to the taxi squad of about five no-hopers who, for one reason or another, couldn’t go further.

The rest of the group pressed on, but bad weather eventually forced them to end their attempt prematurely at Verbier, where we all reunited.

There was a non-skiing side note to this adventure. When having a drink at our hotel bar in Zermatt I noticed actor Bill Murray sitting at a table with a couple of people. I just had to go over and find out what he was doing here. He seemed sort of bemused to be in the same bar with several journalists, yet was happy to talk to me and explain he was scouting locations for a remake of the The Razor’s Edge. Since I knew the area, I gave him some tips. They may not have been good ones…His movie eventually bombed at the box office.

Chapter 25 And Baby Makes Four

It was August, the Los Angeles Olympics were running and Cherry’s Dutch friends were staying with us for a few days. I recall we were having dinner and had just brought in the desert course when an extra entrée was served…Cherry’s water broke as she was sitting down. At first, neither of us knew what had happened. After all, our first child’s labor was induced.

Once we realized it was time, we excused ourselves, asked our guests to look after Daniel and I drove Cherry to Hammersmith Hospital where she was checked in and put on a monitor which revealed, that while her water broke, she wasn’t yet actually in labor. I hung around for awhile, but was told by the nurse there was no telling when the real action would take place. She advised me to go home, which I did. After all, there were my guests and son who were wondering what was happening.

The next day the action really moved into high gear. But, once again her labor wasn’t an easy event. This is also where I learned the truth you seldom see in movies where a birth is taking place. Our daughter was a partial breach birth and the doctor had to turn her around with forceps. This and the afterbirth left the delivery looking like an abattoir. I mean the floor was covered in my wife’s blood. It seemed surreal to me, but not in the same sense as was the case with Daniel’s caesarean. I have to say, as a father, I wouldn’t advise other men to see such a sight in those circumstances.

We named her Hannah Louise after my paternal grandmother and Cherry’s mother. And the drama wasn’t over yet. Later, when I was visiting mother and daughter, the tension must have been too much for me. I began feeling faint and the next thing I knew I was being taken into a delivery room, yes the delivery room, and given oxygen. Well, no one can say I didn’t get involved.

Because of the birth trauma, mother and daughter were kept at Hammersmith Hospital a few days. Len had Daniel stay at his house a day, only have him wet his guest bed.

Once back at our Ealing home, the reality of its small size hit us. It was a three-bedroom house, but only the master bedroom was of a decent size. The smaller room was Daniel’s and the tiny bedroom served as my office, the headquarters of European News Service. Well, it sounded good and was good enough to get me loads of invites and interviews.

So, Hannah spent her infancy sharing our bedroom until she was old enough to move in with her big brother, which was okay with him at first… but as time passed, another change would be in the in the offing, with me moving out of my office so Hannah could have it as her bedroom.

It was 1985 and I managed to expand my operation by starting to string for the new national paper USA Today. It was important when writing for multiple publications not to duplicate stories. They had to be completely different. To that extent, there wasn’t much difficulty since USA Today mainly gave me exclusive assignments rather than me suggesting stories.

In the long run, my three year association with that paper was most significant because of my newfound friendship with its then World Editor Donald Kirk, a veteran journalist, author and prize winning war correspondent. Gaining new friends in your senior adult years isn’t too easy, so it was a plus factor to not only work for Don, but to hit it off socially with him as well.

He, like me, was sort of his own man and made his own life, except he was far more productive and adventurous than I would ever be. His was the romantic, yet never fully realized, vision of journalism that I fantasized about when I was travelling around Europe on my old Lambretta. From that time on, Don and I regularly got together, either at my home in London or at his home in Washington, D.C. usually meeting once a year. However, I came to realize that his main reason for the repeated visits to my London home was to scoff up my wife’s signature apple crumble. I used to make sure Cherry had some on hand when he announced he was in town.

Hannah’s birth provided an excuse to take another vacation trip to L.A. so my parents could have a look at the new arrival. Sadly, it would be the last time my father would see our entire family. For me, it was also a chance to see an old friend. Mike had called me in London saying he was diagnosed with brainstem cancer. I was shocked. I agreed to drive up to his northern California home for a visit. After all, it could be the last chance to see my old pal.

The vacation was enjoyable, with Cherry solidifying her friendship with her newfound old chum, Frances. Other than that and the usual family get togethers, the most memorable thing about the trip was Hannah catching one hell of an English cold or flu in L.A. We wound up taking her to a doctor who wasn’t very happy with her having to fly back to London so soon.

Still, he dosed her up with antibiotics and Cherry took off with Hannah. leaving Daniel to stay on with me for a week longer. Mike, who lived up near San Francisco, was anxious to see me. So the plan was to drive up there and fly back to London from San Francisco. I still can recall waving goodbye to my father as we headed north by car. It was the last time I would see him.

Our visit to Mike’s upscale Novato home revealed a guy looking pretty healthy for someone at death’s door. He told us he was trying for a herbal cure in Texas. It must have worked. He didn’t die and eventually revealed a sick side to his personality.

We flew back the next day from San Francisco, after a considerable airport delay. It was great to be back home. ======

Chapter 26 A Double Tragedy

I was still busy writing for the Examiner and USA Today, doing my routine ski stories and even a few normal travel pieces. Then I received a call from Mike. For me it would be momentous. He was coming to London on a new business venture and wanted to see us. Cherry knew Mike and his wife Cathy from a couple of meetings during our trips to the Bay Area. Mike had met Cathy, back in the early 1970s at the same group therapy session they were attending. How appropriate.

He pitched-up at a modest West End hotel and told me he was into finance. Selling cars was a thing of the past, as apparently was his terminal cancer. Yet, because he was who he was, I never really questioned his miracle cure as he played touch football in Hyde Park with my American ex-patriot pals. I mean here was a guy, who only months earlier, was supposedly dying and now he was playing football, with no talk of cancer.

What there was plenty of talk about was high finance. He said he was in the business of arranging loans for people…big loans, loans for people who couldn’t get normal business loans back in America. I went along with him on a meeting or two, always held at an upscale hotel foyer or lounge. And I must admit, some of the people he associated with didn’t seem too kosher to me.

As it eventually transpired, Mike, in his own deluded way, was engaging in a pervasive con known as “advance fee fraud.” He would get referrals from an associate and act as a money broker…the big catch being that his marks had to put up substantial deposits to arrange their loans, loans they probably never received. The problem in trying to get your money back from these people, or prove fraud in court, is that the scammers will always maintain, “He didn’t give us enough time. These things aren’t certainties. They take time.”

So, Mike flew in and out of London a couple of times before he admitted things weren’t going too well and asked if he could stay with us. “Sure,” I said without hesitation. I mean here was probably one of my best pals, a guy who not only got me two or three jobs, but allowed me to stay at his home for months. How could I refuse? Forgotten was that he got me into a four- year Air Force hitch, while he wangled his way out on a medical in less than six months?

He slept on our living room sofa bed and used my office when I wasn’t there. Since these were pre-cell phone days, he also used my phone, something I found to my great displeasure when the bills arrived. What made it so uncomfortable was having him deny all the long distance charges that doubled our normally modest bill. But, eventually he relented and paid his share.

It was about this time that he must have been getting quite desperate. He told me I could help him out on a big deal he was working on. Now, the key element of a good con-man is him passionately making you believe he believes in what he’s selling. That’s why, in the beginning, I was such a good car salesman. I believed in what I was selling and I was an honest young guy trying to make an honest buck. My customers trusted me. It was when I realized the less than ethical parts of the car game that my salesman days were over. Unlike Mike, I couldn’t rationalize being less than honest with people.

But Mike was a consummate salesman and, as it turned out, a pretty good con-man, too. But, we all knew this from high school. He could get people to do things, often spurred on by wild stories of his alleged mob involvement, which proved, like most things he claimed, to be fantasy.

Anyway, he put the bite on me for $5,000, which for a family man of modest means was a good hunk of change back in 1986. Doing a Bernie Madoff even before Madoff began his operation, Mike explained that through the efforts of his boss, one Ron Kambites, my contribution would go into a pot of small investors, the total going to secure a block of Swiss funds in the millions. My end would be to receive a percentage of the interest from the funds that would pay me some extraordinary dividend. In other words, I would be rich.

My wife, playing Alice Cramden, thought I was nuts and should give it a pass, as did Gary Adams…remember my other high school chum that joined the Air Force with us. When Mike was in L.A., he also tried to put the bite on him, who as a gambler and street smart person, knew a good deal from a stupid one. Mike even mounted an impressive sales pitch for Colin Dangaard, who had traded in his press card for a thriving saddlery in Malibu, and was in London on Business. But, Colin was also sceptical.

I, however, ever the trusting and naïve friend, forked over the funds. He told me I would be getting an advance in about a month. I couldn’t wait. But, I would have to and a lot longer than I expected.

Then personal tragedy hit me for the first time in my life. I had a call from my sister one evening telling me my father had died at 72 from an abdominal aortic aneurism. I was stunned. Nothing like this had ever happened to me. Gathering my thoughts, I booked on a flight, left Mike with Cherry and the kids and headed for L.A. Jewish funerals have to take place as soon as possible. The funeral was a quiet affair held at Mt. Sinai Memorial Park, on a hill overlooking the Valley.

Afterwards, the main order of business was seeing to my mother. Alone, she couldn’t remain as the resident manager of the apartment house she and my father had been living in for 18 years. Luckily, my sister and her college professor husband had recently bought a house a short distance up the same street as my mother’s apartment. She soon moved in with them. As for me, I was forced to sell my Firebird since I would have no place to keep it.

When I returned home, Cherry said life was uneventful. Mike was still staying there, sleeping on the sofa bed and using my phone. Oh, and my cash advance hadn’t yet arrived. “These things often happen,” he explained, before he flew back to San Francisco. “It should arrive any time now.”

Months went by and nothing. Mike flew back to London, this time staying in a hotel and sharing a convenience office with his “boss” Ron. I recall, that to allay my fears, he invited me over to a MacDonald’s burger bar in Earls Court. Very impressive. There, he showed me a letter of credit that had arrived. What he revealed was a folded document drawn on some bank in Africa with the payee’s name erased and a new one in its place. That’s when I finally knew that my old pal, my trusted friend, either had a screw loose or was a crook.

Chapter 27 Chasing Rainbows

To be honest, I had other things on my mind besides Mike, such as a weekend job I had secured at ABC News. I could hardly believe it. I was working for a major American network, in charge of the London bureau’s radio news operation during the weekends. I was paid by the 36-second spots I had accepted for airing by the New York headquarters. At $50 per spot, I would make between $100 and $150 per day. This, coupled with my other US and UK strings, made European News Service a going non- business…no one knew about it except me and a few media contacts.

Working for ABC was also important to me because I was able to develop my broadcasting skills. The work was a lot more than simply writing scripts. It was reporting, taping interviews, voicing, and putting together wrap packages, something I never had to do in the past. Yet, it would be of great help to me in the future.

For example, a few months after I started I had the opportunity to cover the 1987 World Alpine Ski Championships at Crans Montana, Switzerland for ABC Sports. This meant covering all the races and sending over my stories ASAP. But to be honest, I can’t recall much about it or who won what. For me, what sticks in my mind about this spectacle was a special torchlight ski run for journalists and officials.

I had only skied at night once before, and that was solely by moonlight at the remote Swiss resort of Disentis. The Crans-Montana ski run was much bigger in scope, with scores of people priming themselves at the summit restaurant on fondue, raclette and Fendant wine, which is Swiss and super. Some ski patrol guys were drinking beer. But I was warned against it because cold beer soaking into the hot cheese in your gut could create one hell of an indigestible knot.

Before we hit the dark slopes, we were given a large flare to hold. Then, in an almost choreographed scene from a James Bond film, our flares were lit and we set out in order one at a time, following, or at least trying to, the person in front of each of us. The scene soon became surreal.

This was great fun and one of the highpoints of my skiing career, part of which was cruising down several thousand feet without falling once. Afterwards, there was a drink and songfest at a local bar. I remember chiming in with the then Ski Magazine Editor Dick Needham.

Yet, as with most enjoyable things, it was over too soon. And it was back to London and my continuing soap opera-like saga with Mike and my investment. Several months had gone by since I shelled out my $5,000 and I still had nothing to show for it except endless excuses from Mike.

When he flew home still again, I was concerned enough to start investigating his activities, first in London and then in the USA. I was able to deduce from conversations with his former associates, and even a friend, that he was not a safe person with whom to invest money. I was shocked. I always knew him to be an honest and reliable friend…except for the Air Force enlistment, that is.

It was about this time my ABC stint suddenly ended. It seems I had been hired to fill in gaps during a protracted labor strike back in New York. The fact is, I was churning out so many useable stories, I became an economic liability. Can you believe this?…This national network hired me to be a minimal mediocre fixture, not a person who would cost them around $200 in story fees per weekend.

With no regular work, my thoughts and anger were directed at my old pal Mike. I flew to L.A. with the excuse to see my mother and Mike. But, I really wanted to do some more investigative work. It was a shame that during my career I had few reporting assignments of such intensity as this.

What, or rather who, I found were four other people who had invested with him for the purpose of obtaining business loans. They, too, apparently were victims of the same type of advance fee fraud, the difference being they gave Mike anywhere from $15,000 to $30,000. With all these people being from the San Francisco Bay Area, I arranged a meeting at a restaurant near Fisherman’s Wharf. And while very illuminating as to the extent of this fraud, we left with no distinct plan of action. After all, what could we do except hope that it would work out in the end.

I drove my rental car back to L.A. and left for London as soon as possible, without seeing or even talking to Mike. Yet no sooner had I arrived home than I got a call from my “good friend” asking why I wasn’t in California. “Mike, I know everything,” I answered, then blurting out the names and amounts contributed by the other marks. He stammered for something to say and the phone went quiet. For once in his life, he was at a loss for words.

And, so was I. I never spoke to him again. But, my investigation continued. First I found that a couple of Mike’s pals had records for fraud in California’s San Mateo County. I notified the local authorities, the FBI and even the Internal Revenue Service about his activities. This wasn’t going to get my money back, but it felt good knowing I may be causing him some displeasure after the pain he caused me and the shock to my wife. Needless to say, when she learned the whole truth she was not a happy woman.

Yet, my quest for the whole truth continued as I learned more bits about Mike’s mysterious aura. It eventually revealed a picture of a guy who, during the times he had a legitimate job, appeared to be a capable manager and team leader. It was when he became a freelance operator that his life of fantasy took flight. At Hollywood High, Mike was always a sharp dresser with a roomy 1948 Cadillac. He told stories of a beautiful young student he was dating. But she attended a high school on the other side of town. Yet, shortly after graduation, she died of cancer. He was broken hearted. He tried to forget by doing good deeds for the mob. In the end, his heartbreak and his mob activity drove him to join the Air Force, taking Gary and me along with him.

Phone chats with his mother and sister cleared up a great deal of the mystery. Mike made up stuff. He was a fantasist. But, he was not really a good one. Much of what he expressed, he plagiarized from movies and books. There was no girlfriend and her imaginary death might have been taken from the top selling book of the day, Love Story. Then it dawned on me, the scam that found me as one of Mike’s victims may have been taken from the widely publicised Banco Ambrosiano scandal of the day.

That summer at our regular Sunday softball game in Hyde Park, a former player, who had moved back to San Francisco, came out to play. He was a prominent lawyer and I asked him if he would try to collect my money for 50 percent of whatever he recovered. He agreed to see what he could do.

Amazingly, after a couple of months, he managed to get Mike to cough-up half the money, meaning I got $1,250. It was better than nothing. Yet a short time later, I found out that Ron Kambites was operating out of Gardena, Ca. I called him and asked for my money. He said sure, mailed me a check, which promptly bounced. Case closed. But, I still wonder how Mike wangled that Air Force discharge.

Chapter 28 Who Would Have Dreamed

Professionally, 1987 also was a year when I put away my trusty old Olympia portable typewriter. Thereafter, I must say that I did use it occasionally to address envelopes. It was my computer age awakening. I finally shelled out the cash to buy a Radio Shack 100 portable computer, possibly the first laptop made with an internal telephone modem, making it as valuable as gold to journalists. This relatively cheap little electronic notebook, with a very limited memory, today could be compared to the Guttenberg press of the Renaissance. I mean, even though personal computers had been around for a few years, it was the advent of the first laptops that demonstrated the new world of communication and publishing that was at hand.

I can’t stress enough how important this was to me. My biggest handicap as a journalist had always been my lousy typing. My copy often had more corrections on it than words. As I said, early on in my career I even lost a job because of my poor typing. Aside from being a traditional hunt-and-peck typist, my fingers were large and I had always been rather clumsy. In fact, when I was at the Air Force station in Newfoundland, my colleagues called me Inspector Clouseau. So, having my little Radio Shack laptop was like the dawning of a new age to me. No more correction fluid or erasing, and no more carbon copies because you could edit your stories right on the computer. Prior to this, if I wanted to change a paragraph or move blocks of copy around, I would either have to cut and paste the hard copies together with glue or worse, I might have to rewrite all the altered pages. Today, the idea of moving or changing text and fonts is second nature to us. But for me, in pre-1987, this was a major operation that I hoped I would seldom have to do.

For example, the ski stories I wrote would often be in two versions: one for the UK papers and one for America. This meant I had to write two separate hard copy versions. But, since I syndicated to several international publications, I had to photocopy, as well as develop and have copies made of any photos, and then post all these stories. This meant a lot of work, trips to the post office and considerable expense.

Compare that to what you do today. You take photos on a digital camera, another tool that has revolutionized publishing. You transfer the photos to you computer. Then you write the story, editing one version for the UK and another for America. You then e-mail your stories with attached photos to your recipients. You spend no money, no travel time. no post office visits and its all neat and Tipex free.

The e-mail aspect of the computer revolution was about as radical as is the text preparation. I rarely sent traditional hard copy letters anymore. E-mail was so easy, convenient and cheap. But, it wasn’t quite so easy when I bought that first Radio Shack 100. It had two main drawbacks: a very limited internal memory and a very, very slow internal modem, 30 characters a second.

Initially, I also had to buy a phone coupler device in which you placed the phone handset when you wanted to send an e-mail, or in my case a story, straight to the recipient publication’s computer. The problem with this arrangement was twofold. First, since it was an acoustic and not an electrical connection, it was subject to frequent bad transmissions, meaning you had to send them over. Second, these early laptops transmitted very, very slowly. Today, we can e-mail an entire novel in a minute or less. Then, it took me five minutes to send over a 700 word story. Eventually, I wired my laptop directly to my phone line eliminating the need for the couplers. But it was still just as slow.

The Radio Shack 100s used an early operating system called Basic, which was just that. You could only save a few megabytes on the hard drive before having to resort to the expense of adding memory chips. Eventually, Radio Shack came out with an external floppy disk drive which plugged into the computer and allowed me to save my stories. Prior to that, I had to print out hard copies.

Yet, even with these drawbacks, the old Radio Shack 100 and then the larger LCD 200 became standard gear for the serious journalist. And I can say with relative certainty that if I had these tools back in 1969 I wouldn’t have lost that UPI job and I may not have lost my first love, either.

Chapter 29 New World Order

From 1989 onwards the world was gripped by revolutionary events, some violent, others peaceful. Yet, they would set the tone for a new world order, as then President George Bush, Sr. called it, or a new world disorder, as others would say of it.

That year, the end of the communist system began with the first free labor union founded in communist Poland. Soviet Premier Mikhail Gorbachev’s reforms, Perestroika and Glasnost, created an opening for dissent.

On August 23, 1989 Hungary opened the iron curtain to Austria. Months before, East German tourists used their chance to escape to Austria from Hungary and in September 1989 more than 13,000 East Germans escaped via Hungary within three days. It was the first mass exodus of East Germans after the erection of the Berlin Wall in 1961.

Thousands of East Berliners went to the border crossings. At Bornholmer Strasse the people demanded to open the border and at 10:30 p.m., November 9th, 1989, the border was opened there. That moment meant the end of the Berlin Wall. Soon other border crossing points opened the gates to the West. The actual end to the Berlin Wall came so suddenly; I was totally unprepared to cover the event. I recall watching it with amazement via BBC TV. However, a few days later, it seemed the entire Warsaw Pact was unraveling. Next, Czechoslovakia was on the verge of an uprising that would come to be known as the Velvet Revolution. This time I saw it coming and bought a cheap plane ticket to Vienna from where I took a train to Prague.

On November 17, 1989, riot police suppressed a peaceful student demonstration in Prague. That event sparked a series of popular demonstrations from November 19 to late December. By November 20, the number of peaceful protesters assembled in Prague had swollen from 200,000 the previous day to an estimated half-million. A two-hour general strike, involving all citizens of Czechoslovakia, was held on November 27.

There was a chaotic atmosphere in this lovely old city, a mixture of the Christmas season and the political upheaval taking place. For one thing, moneychangers were everywhere, openly buying western currency or western cigarettes. Tobacco had long been a top bartering item in the Warsaw Pact.

After getting settled at a hotel in the center of town, I found out most of the action at night took place at a local theater called the Magic Lantern. That evening, famed Czech literary figure and the country’s future president Vaclav Havel was speaking at a meeting of the revolutionary group called Obkanske Forum (Civic Forum). I managed to get in since much of the audience was comprised of journalists.

But this revolutionary council seemed more like a university poly sci class than a traitorous assemblage in the mold of communist firebrands of the 1917 Russian Revolution. There was no shouting or condemnations. Just measured views, often translated into English for the press. Afterwards, we were given English language press releases.

The most difficult part of covering this historic event was actually getting my copy over to the Examiner and New York Daily News. This was the East Block. Decent phones were at a premium and to get an international line wasn’t very easy to arrange.

Computerized journalism was still in its infancy. These were the days when a correspondent’s prime tool was his Radio Shack 100 laptop with built in modem, one of the first such units available. It had very limited memory and a modem that transmitted at 30 bytes a second, often using an acoustic coupler that had to fit over your phone receiver. If you were lucky enough to get a decent connection (sometimes several attempts had to be made) a 600 word story would take three to four minutes to send.

But, there was still another problem in Prague. Our couplers would only fit on certain phones. I recall the frustration at the local AP bureau when finding out these weren’t the correct phones. Yet, veteran newsman Mort Rosenbloom helped me attach wires from my computer to the inner workings of the phone receiver, allowing me to send my stories. But, it wasn’t easy and wasn’t very good.

Still, with all this happening, I must admit the highpoint of this trip wasn’t covering the revolution. Rather it was putting on my showbiz hat and doing a celebrity interview, of sorts. Shirley Temple Black was the American ambassador to the country and she was also a resident of the San Francisco Bay Area, which made her a natural for a story. And with history in the making, her aides seemed happy to have a Bay Area hack in town. I was invited over for a chat with the one-time child film star turned diplomat.

I took a cab to the fortress-like embassy across the Vtlava River from the main section of the city. Seeing the river, I couldn’t help thinking of Czech composer Bedrich Smetana’s Ma Vlast. I long had loved the Moldau section, which was a symphonic portrait of this river. However, I must admit, the dirty soot covering ever square inch of the bridges over the Vtlava hardly fit the pristine picture Smetana had composed. One of the most telling images and lasting legacies of communist nations was the total disregard for environmental concerns. After all, green wasn’t in prior to the 1980s. It took Chernobyl to awaken Warsaw Pact leaders to the dangerous conditions they had created for their countries and the world.

I was welcomed into the building by an aide, who escorted me into a Viennese Rococo room that was straight out of the Hapsburg Austro- Hungarian Empire.

After a few moments Ambassador Black entered and greeted me with the same warmth she exhibited to millions decades earlier on television’s Shirley Temple’s Storybook. We sat and she got down to business explaining how happy she was the Czechoslovak people had finally been able to make their voices heard. She also stated her love for the country on one hand and her love for the San Francisco Bay Area, on the other, designed to please the hometown readership. Our talk was business-like and lasted out 20 minutes. Then it was back to my hotel to transcribe the tape.

The Hotel Europa was a lovely old establishment, which, like most lovely things in the Warsaw Pact, had seen better days. I recall the receptionist bragging about the oval shaped dining room that adjoined the foyer, saying it was designed after the Titanic’s dining salon. I quipped. “I trust it doesn’t sink.” But, among the reception staff, there was an air of joy and anticipation that those better days were about to return. The hotel was on Wenceslas Square, the center of dissident activity, where daily mass freedom rallies were held.

With the collapse of other Communist governments and increasing street protests, the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia announced on November 28 that it would relinquish power and dismantle the single- party state. On December 10, President Gustáv Husák appointed the first largely non-Communist government in Czechoslovakia since 1948, and resigned. Alexander Dubček was elected speaker of the federal parliament on December 28 and Václav Havel the President of Czechoslovakia on December 29, 1989. In June 1990, Czechoslovakia held its first democratic elections since 1946.

I spent my time in Prague digging up other stories, such as the Jewish persecution that went on under the Nazis and then the Communists. The only rabbi left in the city talked to me and explained how there was a treasure trove of Jewish artifacts in the Prague. Apparently it was Hitler’s cynical plan to create a Jewish museum there as a lasting memorial to the race of people he would have destroyed. So, his henchmen transported Jewish religious material and vestments from all over Europe to Prague. And some of the looted booty was still there.

I left the city on a snowy evening. That was the best way to leave an East Block country. It’s often so cold and depressing you can’t wait to get on your overly warm train. Yet, as I passed by lines of box cars gathering snow, it brought up images from movies and photos of trains on the way to concentration camps during the cold and dark east European winter so many decades earlier. I arrived back in London, said hello to the wife and began making plans to return to the Continent. After all, big things were still happening. With the fall of the Berlin Wall, soon the end was at hand for the East German government and possibly East Germany. And Hungary was also in the process of overthrowing its Communist masters.

I managed, as I often did, combining a ski trip with a news assignment. This time my main goal was to cover East German elections, take a break on a ski story in Seefeld, Austria and then cover the Hungarian elections.

I flew into Munich, changed planes and headed for Berlin. Luckily I had booked a hotel in advance. West Berlin was flooded with news people. I was amazed at how western West Berlin looked. The area of my hotel seemed almost like a main street in Beverly Hills.

However, the next day was a big day for me. I finally got to see the Berlin Wall and cross over the East German border at what then was Checkpoint Charlie. But not before talking to some of the many vendors at the wall, selling all manner of souvenirs.

The wall, in its demise, had become a bigger tourist attraction than ever. That may have been because people weren’t afraid, anymore, of being shot if they got too close. The Checkpoint area, which was still in operation as a border crossing, had become a beehive of activity. I was especially impressed by a young American woman who had made jewelry from pieces of the wall. I wound up buying my wife a necklace made of the concrete. I don’t think she ever wore it.

I recall how starkly different East Berlin was from West Berlin. The streets appeared as lifeless as the unadorned cold grey buildings. You could walk for miles and your surroundings seemed the same, except for the massive communications antenna that towered over the area.

The election, to effectively end the Communist government by choosing an interim leader, was almost overshadowed by the presence of former U.S. President Jimmy Carter, there to unofficially act as a monitor. An immediate mob scene ensued when he showed up at election and press headquarters.

I managed to file a story on the poll and color piece on the passing of a less than colorful country, one that would shortly be reunified with the more prosperous West, which would end up making making a united Germany less prosperous.

That done, I flew back to Munich. There, I had a drink with the editor of Ski, whom I had never met before. I then took a train to Seefeld, a rather uninteresting resort. It was geared for beginning skiers or simply people who enjoy drinking the day and night away. I did both and headed for Vienna, changed trains for Budapest, and before I could sleep off a hangover, I was in the twin cities of Bude and Pest.

The first free Hungarian elections were to be held and I figured it was another chance to wear my international foreign correspondent’s hat. But before that I had to find a place to stay. These were the days when I didn’t plan my trip very well. Occasionally, there just wasn’t time. So, I would wind up in a strange city, laden with baggage and no place to stay. However, a friendly cab driver told me of a hotel nearby the train station that turned out to be fine.

As for the election itself, to tell you the truth, I can’t remember much about except it pitted hardline nationalists against moderates. The election headquarters was in Pest, across the less than blue Danube River. Here, as in Prague, soot covered everything, incluiding the river.

But, what I remember the most about Budapest was a restaurant called the Café Hotel New York. You can have the election and the entire country, for that matter, even though my paternal grandmother came from here. Just give me a night at this lavish period dining spot. It was as if I had stepped back in time to the Austro-Hungarian Empire or back into a glamorous Hollywood film of the 1930s.

The neon sign on the outside didn’t give me a hint of what was inside. I walked into a lavish dining room, of the Viennese Rococo style, adorned with gold leaf reliefs and supported by marble columns. In one corner, an orchestra was playing a Strauss waltz, hoping patrons would become animated enough to dance. Since I was alone, dancing wasn’t an option. But, I would have loved to give it a try. I mean, if there were two places in the world where you just had to try ballroom dancing, it would be in an Argentine café for a tango and here for a waltz. And more amazing still, at the time it was dirt cheap, such as $10 for a gourmet feast. This was one of the positive perks for Americans in Warsaw Pact countries. Most things were very inexpensive, with the dollar and American cigarettes being in great demand. In fact, I was able to pay part of my Prague hotel bill with a carton of Marlboro I had bought at the UK duty free shop.

Careerwise, the trip allowed me to break into the New York market by selling a couple of small stories to the Daily News. This would be both a fun and angst filled relationship lasting five years,

Chapter 30 A New Direction

Shortly after my return from the Continent in 1990, I met a colleague, Gareth, who used to work at the Daily Mail. He was into sailing and invited me to the Southampton Boat Show at which time my old love of sailing was reawakened. The outing ended with us being invited on a two week Sunsail flotilla sailing holiday in Turkey. What a perk…We were going to write some travel pieces on this growing fun activity pioneered by the Brits. And the trip was totally gratis.

Flotillas are a great way to sail and have a nice vacation, too, Several Sunsail boats, usually two to four people on a 30 footer, simply agree to meet at a set itinerary of ports each day for afternoons and evenings of fun. It was October, still hot and our course was along Turkey’s Lycian Coast.

We made stops at remote coves and major ports such as Mammaris, which looked like a scene from Sinbad. I wished Cherry had been there to see this…she was at a real job back in London. Yet, even without her, this was a very romantic trip…so many of the sights were straight out of history or Hollywood movies.

The trip was so enjoyable that it was over in a flash. Then it was back to London, writing and selling the story. For my part, I managed to get a page in the Daily Express and a feature in Me Magazine. In a way, the holiday also acted as a transition to my next professional adventure… a job as launch news director of a new radio station concept in London. Spectrum Radio was to be the city’s first multi-cultural station. It was the idea of several business people who had previously backed an illegal pirate station serving the Arabic, Indian, Jewish, Afro Caribbean, Greek and Italian communities. Now, with a legal license to broadcast, they embarked on what would be an overly ambitious, but typically British “pie in the sky” endeavor. They would build and run a metro radio station from the ground- up. This was with little or no advertising revenue in a town not comfortable with radio ads.

My job was to hire a team of ethnically diverse and economically open journalists. In other words, they had to be cheap and different. This was the easy part. Their local ethnic newspapers were fertile hunting grounds for fresh talent. The hard part came later. With the station (located in an enormous loft at Brent Cross) being built around us, my job was to assemble a broadcast news team from mainly print journalists. This meant giving them lessons in broadcast news writing and presentation. Luckily they spoke English, so at least that made things a lot easier.

As the weeks flew by and the brand new radio shop took shape, the format of the station remained somewhat vague. The broadcast day would be divided into increments for each ethnic group. Each group would have its own news bulletins, while the station would regularly run more general news briefs. The main programming was a mixture of whatever the increment’s ethnic director wanted.

From a news perspective, breaking news was not a priority for two reasons. First, the main mission was to provide ethnic news to the various communities…bulletin board stuff and feature material. But, secondly, we just didn’t have the facilities to cover breaking news. This was when cell phones were just hitting the scene and we had no microwave radio capabilities. To top this off, some members of my five strong news team didn’t even have cars. This took me back to my early LBC days, when reporters took cabs to stories.

To get people around, the station had a team of drivers on call. I was curious about where all this money was coming from. I mean, other than the cars, there was the large facility and numerous employees along with three state of the art broadcast studios.

Well, even though we got on air and made a decent showing for a such a rag-tag outfit, the station concept wasn’t good enough to bring in money. For one thing, each ethnic group’s listenership wasn’t big enough to pull in major ads. This was probably the main flaw in the station concept. The overall potential audience may have been large, but broken down into the various groups, the audiences weren’t anything to write home about. And the advertising was even less impressive.

It soon became apparent that the station management had been overspending on the news budget. This meant cutbacks…one of which was me. Once the crew was trained, I became expendable, especially with my $800 per week salary. But I have to admit it was fun and unusual while it lasted. Besides, by this time, I never counted on anything as being permanent.

One of the freelancer’s strengths is his flexibility and adaptability to ever changing circumstances. For example, I had to keep my US correspondent work going while I was at Spectrum. By this time, my long relationship with the San Francisco Examiner seemed to have run its course, with me doing some stringing for USA Today when the Examiner work became scarcer. However, as I previously said, during my brief time in Prague I managed to do a few things for the New York Daily News. This had been the beginning of a long and fruitful, yet in the end, disappointing relationship. Jim Willse, who had been editor of the Examiner, had taken over the Daily News and was all for having me do for the NYDN what I did for the Examiner.

And as often happens in the freelance game, another opportunity soon came my way in the form of the first Iraq War. You know, Operation Desert Storm where we rescued the freedom loving Kuwait from the evil designs of Saddam Hussein.

Well, Sky TV news, News Corporation’s London arm, asked if I would be available to do on air commentary on the build-up to the conflict. Of course I said YES! This was a key opportunity for me. Even though I had done occasional guest commentator spots on LBC and Capital Radio, this was my first TV gig and on a major international event.

Chapter 31 Bipolar Period

From the start, my appearances on Sky TV seemed welcomed. This was because I frequently offered radically different political and military views from those of the more orthodox US correspondents and UK politicians. My comments had two main thrusts that proved prophetic….we would run into relatively little opposition from Iraqi troops and letting Saddam Hussein escape (while remaining in power) would be a mistake we would come to regret.

The Sky appearances became so numerous that people thought I worked there. And after Desert Storm, I wound up being asked to do on air press reviews and being the colour commentator for two US presidential elections.

My freelance association with Sky lasted about six years. What’s more, it spawned work for me all over the UK. I found my gift of intelligent gab was regularly in demand on Birmingham’s Central Weekend Show, up in Glascow, Scotland, in Liverpool and Manchester. Then there were occasional one-off appearances on regional vox pop type shows.

But, the most influential gig I managed to get was doing a weekly half hour Yank in London spot on LBC’s Frank Bough Show. I would do unscripted commentary and discussion with Frank about something, as an American in London, I found interesting, newsworthy or frustrating. Frank was an easy person to work with. Good chemistry, I guess. And he was a seasoned professional. Oh, and an extra treat from the show, my old PR chum Ingrid, who I hadn’t heard from in 15 years or so, heard me on the air and dropped me a line. After living in far flung worldwide locations, she was back in London. She and her husband Jack have been in touch with me ever since. I stayed with this LBC spot for nearly two years. In addition, I began doing spots for the BBC’s new Radio 5 Live and even BBC Radio 4. Foremost among these was a series of scripted postcards from London. I really enjoyed those.

I must stress, this work, for all the fun it seemed, was not regular and the money minimal, usually between £50 and £100 per spot. Still, cab service was provided. And, I must have taken taxis all over the country. I could see why so many broadcasters were in such bad financial shape after spending a fortune on cabs. On occasion, I would offer to forego a £30 cab ride if the TV or radio station would up my fee £15. Sometimes it worked.

However, I still often had to arrange my own assignments and pay for them, too. Take the Middle East Peace Conference in Madrid on October 30, 1991. While I saw this as a major news story, for most insular American newspapers it wasn’t something that topped their daily budgets. But, with the large Jewish readership in New York, it was a story the Daily News couldn’t avoid. Yet, it could get all the basic copy it needed from the wires. It was up to me to convince National Editor John Rhodes that I could get something extra for the paper. In the end, he agreed to have me cover diary items during the three-day event. What this meant was credentials, but no expenses. I wound up paying for my air fare and hotel bill. No matter, I was dying to cover something big and I did. And to help cover my costs, I also arranged to string radio spots for Standard Radio News in Washington, D.C.

All through my freelance career, a key thing was to first cover my costs and never really worry about profit until everything I did had been sold. And a way I then covered my costs was to switch hit from print to broadcasting.

In the end, the Madrid Conference was more beneficial to me then it was to the Arabs and Israel. I had filed several stories and spots and felt I had done a good job. So good in fact, after only a couple of days back in London I jumped on a plane to New York with the idea of negotiating a better deal for myself with the Daily News. What next happened was one of the major shocks in my career. The first thing I read when I landed at Newark Airport was a headline: Publisher Robert Maxwell dies in boating accident. Less than a year earlier, Maxwell had bought the paper. So his death then, amid the growing storm over the fiscal shape of his publishing empire, came at a very bad time for all concerned. For me, in particular, it destroyed any hope of getting a better deal or any deal from the paper.

Normally my trips to New York had been happy ones, with family, friends or colleagues. But this time, I never felt so alone. Maxwell’s death cast a gloom over the Daily News and its chance for survival. And, I was not immune to this dark pall. At 51, I seemed at a loss to what the future might hold for me. I was quite depressed. But, my spirits were buoyed when on the 42 Street Bus I read an ad from a group called the Chistadelphians: It’s never too late to be what you might have been. I have never forgotten that. There are many things in this journal that are hazy or gone from my memory. But those words have stuck with me and to some extent, for me, the best was yet to come.

The Daily News didn’t die thanks largely to the efforts of editor Willse, who kept its life support attached. Eventually a new buyer, Mort Zuckerman, came along and the paper has been secure ever since.

For my part, aside from being stiffed for about $1,000 in fees due to the bankruptcy wage freeze, eventually work began appearing again. In fact, 1993 to 1995 was my most productive time with the paper.

The summer of 1994 was another high point. It marked the fiftieth anniversary of D Day, the Allied invasion of Normandy and had been touted for a year in advance. For me, it meant two major news stories. The biggest assembly of world leaders that anyone could recall would take part in a mammoth ceremony on Omaha Beach. This was the media event of the year. And later that summer, another gala affair, the golden anniversary of the liberation of Paris would be staged there.

Ingrid’s husband, Jack, wanted to see why all the hullabaloo. He, his son and I took off in his car to Portsmouth for an overnight ferry crossing to Caan. Yet, only I had press credentials and was able to actually see and report on the ceremony. But, just to see how the red carpet was rolled out in a town that was mistakenly bombed to hell by the Allies was worth the trip. “Welcome to our liberators” banners read in streets festooned with French, American and British flags. It was almost as if we were the actual liberators.

Omaha Beach resembled nothing like the scenes pictured in war movies. It had been transformed into a tourist spot, with a paved seafront and manicured beach area. I guess the French figured since there probably won’t be another war there, why not invest in the area, especially at a time when most of the major world leaders would be visiting it. The hundreds of media people attending were seen to under a massive tent which featured an equally massive gratis buffet. I recall talking to one of the returning WW2 GIs, who admitted he didn’t recognize the place. As for me, I scooped up some sand and pebbles for a Daily News staffer who asked me for this favor.

Then in August I travelled to Paris for the gala liberation ceremonies. The city was awash with banners and choked with crowds, most waiting first for the liberation parade and later for a massive fireworks display.

As for me, during the day I based myself at the swank Paris Ritz Hotel’s Hemingway Bar, as this secluded little bar is called. The story goes that when the Allies liberated Paris, war correspondent Ernest Hemingway burst into the bar, a pistol in his hand, declaring he was liberating the Ritz.

I filed a piece for the Daily News and did a live piece for LBC back in London. “It all pays the rent,” I would say. It also helped pay for the non- Ritz hotel nearby that I managed to get for the evening.

Shortly afterwards, I flew to New York with some gifts for the Daily News mob…bottles of commemorative D-Day wine and some sand from Omaha Beach.

By this time, the foreign/national desk had been taken over by Diane Goldie, a good natured woman who had been working in Denver. I say this because the past female editor in that chair was great looking, but had a caustic personality. Diane and I seemed to hit it off, both being skiers and outdoorsy types. Unfortunately the relationship didn’t last as I was about to move on in still another direction.

Chapter 32 It’s Never Too Late

What was more important about this varied work and high exposure was where it led. Talk radio had been growing in leaps and bounds in the USA. But, in the UK it never seemed to take off to such a degree. Speech based radio had been the province of the BBC which had few all talk strands. LBC wound up rotating between talk and all news. There simply were no all talk radio stations in Britain. Then along came Talk Radio UK…a new idea backed initially by Canadian and American money.

Located on Oxford Street in London’s West End, the new national talk station was supposed to break the mold of UK radio and create a new genre here…enter the shock jocks. These were intended to be radio show hosts who, by UK standards, would shock people into listening by the crass angry man approach, so successful in America. But, not everything American transfers well across the Atlantic.

In any case, to my joy, thanks to my regular LBC spot, I was recruited by this group to present a Sunday morning show…it would initially be called The Dangerous Dan Show. But, most importantly it would be my show… the first American talk show host on national UK radio.

Before the station went on air, we endured weeks of preparation… schooling in how to be talk show hosts… but from English managers who knew little about talk radio. Yet, that has long been the way here… new things being hastily arranged without proper thought to what obstacles there may be and the long-term future of the enterprise.

The initial goal was first to gain an audience and then engage that audience in conversation. But, this was easier said than done in the UK. The Brits were known as a reserved, inward people. They were not prone to complaining or debating in public. We had to spur them on to do so, a feat that wasn’t very easy.

My show was a pure current affairs strand, beginning at 7 a.m. Sunday for three hours. The first and third hours were each taken up by a single news topic, with the middle hour, at 8 a.m. reserved for a discussion of various stories in the UK national newspapers. Yet, all three hours often featured either in-studio or phone interviews and debate with prominent guests. As an incentive for people to engage in debate a trunk size box a special red, white and blue “I Beat the Yank” t-shirts were ordered. I would send them out as gifts to people who could best my arguments on air.

I must admit, it all seems a blur now, with the only lasting memory being getting up at 4:30 a.m. and watching the soothing Landscape Channel on TV while I had breakfast and waited for my cab. There was something peaceful, in those early hours, as I was viewing majestic waterfalls and forest scenes to the strains of Vivaldi. This kept me tranquil, yet ready for action.

The show ran for a full year and featured in-studio interviews and comments from many British luminaries, something that branded it as a serious current affairs show. But in the end, it was cut for lack of advertising. This was widespread across the station’s shows. Talk Radio UK was failing to get the ratings and revenue it needed to stay in business. Eventually, it was taken over by new management who transformed it into a sports talk station.

When my talk show ended, I was just about out for the count. My New York Daily News stringing had been taken over by someone else and I found myself looking for work in my mid 50s, something that would prove frustrating and disheartening.

======

\

Chapter 33 Road Trip

After thrashing around London for a while, all the work I could get was my frequent guest pundit spots on UK broadcast stations. As I said earlier, while ego boosting, these weren’t financially rewarding. This was a time before age discrimination laws in the UK. I don’t know if such laws make that much difference now, but back then people out of work in their 50s were just out of luck.

America was another story where ageism laws had long been in force. At least that’s what I had hoped on when I came up with the idea of looking for a job back home. Since my father died I had been trying to visit my mother at least once a year. I often tried to couple these with job hunting expeditions. This way I could justify these costly trips to the wife.

However, this simple plan was to become almost an obsession lasting more than three years that eventually would be one of the coffin nails in my marriage. You see, in an Internet age, looking for and finding possible jobs was easy. Getting to the interviews was another matter, especially in a large country such as the USA. I mean, I had been all over much of America, but never appreciated the size of the place until traversing in a fruitless job hunt.

But more than this my fantasy wasn’t a complete one. It never accounted for the eventuality of me being hired somewhere and my wife again leaving her job and moving the kids to wherever I was. In fact, it’s difficult for me to remember or keep straight all the journeys and stops I made on my seemingly endless road trips. My mode of transport was airline, bus and rental car. Before flying off I had arranged whatever job interviews I could. Even though I was mainly a print journalist, more and more I had been leaning towards broadcasting and I got it into my head that I was qualified to be a small local television station news director. I would have to spend about $15,000 and travel more than 20,000 miles of roads to find out how foolish I was. Yes, in almost all the interviews I had, the expenses were my problem. That was mainly because I wasn’t sought out by the media operations. I was the one applying for the jobs and asking to be interviewed at my own expense.

My first trip involved a tour of the East Coast media operations, from New York to Washington DC and beyond. I had arranged interviews at newspapers, newswires and television stations and reached these via a rental car. I had managed to get cheap deals on car rentals after learning that some firms offered reduced rates to travel trade workers. Being a travel writer, I was able the BS a couple of firms into giving me this rate. But, it still added up after a week or three.

For weeks on end, my life didn’t revolve around the interviews, but simply getting to them. I soon began to know Interstate 95 like the back of my hand. I knew where the rest stops were, where the nearest Motel 6 was and where I could find and Iron Skillet highway restaurant.

My first trip involved a flight to Boston and an interview up in Bangor, Maine, of all places. I can recall the hectic way I left London. I had been called by BBC radio to do a spot for them on Bill Clinton’s problems the morning I was to leave. I accepted the offer, which would mean leaving the house for the BBC before my wife went to work and then coming back to get my bags a trip to the airport. That would be after she had left for work.

Luckily, the limo driver taking me back agreed to wait at my house and then drive me to the airport. Why not, the BBC was paying for it. In the event, the traffic was so heavy, I had him drop me off at Boston Manor tube station and took the train to Heathrow.

I flew to Boston, rented a car and drove up to Bangor, Maine where I had interviews lined up with two television station, one for a news director position and another for an assistant news director job. But, as is the case with most interviews, it ended with he standard, “we’ll let you know.” After the interviews I took a day off to visit nearby Bar Harbor, one of the scenic attractions of the area. I was really impressed with how much it resembled the Scottish coastline.

I drove back past Boston for an interview with the Cape Cod Times in Hyannis. From there I drove to Boston, dropped the car off and took the bus to New York and my cheap flight to Los Angeles. However, my arrival in the Big Apple was rather late in the day and since my flight was at 8 a.m. the next morning, I simply took another bus to the Airport and camped out there until morning with the backpacking kids.

I visited my mother and sister for a few weeks, applied for several jobs. One was as assistant city editor of a paper in San Mateo. It was owned by the MediaNews conglomerate, a firm that seemed to have a high turnover of staff and interchanged people in their publications like flashlight batteries.

I rented a car and drove up to San Mateo, was interviewed for the job, drove back to L.A. and a week or so later was notified that the San Mateo job was given to someone else, but the firm’s paper across the bay in Oakland would like me to try out as an assistant city editor. I couldn’t believe it, a real job.

Before I knew it I was in a rental car again driving back the Bay Area, but to the less than affluent Oakland area and a job at the venerable Oakland Tribune. It would be an adventure that opened my eyes to the changing nature of American print journalism.

I was the opposite number of another assistant city editor, a rather rotund youngish woman, late 30s, who was a product of a new more lax style of journalism that didn’t depend so much on style and form, but on what the reporter wanted to express. You might say it was the precursor to the Blog. I recall a few run-ins with her over stories I shot back to reporters for more work. The young hacks would actually ask her for a second opinion. And I would wind up arguing over these stories.

Since this was only a tryout I couldn’t realistically rent an apartment. So, I wound up staying at a cheap former Motel 6 in Vallejo, about 20 miles away. I mention this because another hallmark of MediaNews was low pay. I didn’t have much to spend after basic expenses. This was okay since I didn’t know any up there and had no real desire to meet new people or party. I always kept in mind I was a family man…even though my family was 6,000 miles away.

Eventually the tension between me and the other ACE was too much for me or the managing editor to handle. I guess I was just too salty for the new journalism. But they liked my work and shipped me off the regional office copy desk over the hill in Pleasanton. This was the second chapter of a shock treatment that allowed me to see what newspapers were becoming. I was assigned to the foreign desk of the Tri Valley Herald. Its sounds like nice job at a normal suburban newspaper. Think again. MediaNews had been buying up papers all over California and this was the marshalling yard where many were put together and published. The Herald was literally a battery farm for newspapers. (read the following Editor & Publisher story) The once nice little local sheets with strong community ties had been replaced by regional papers with one big composing room divided up into neat areas for each title. There sections for the various towns and communities would be assembled and inserted.

After a few days there of my tryout I got over the shock, drove to my sister’s place for Thanksgiving and then did something I never did before. I called the editor to tell him I didn’t want the job…that I would go nuts in a place like that.

Who, What, Why, When Where Am I? Published in Editor & Publisher by Dan Ehrlich

Returning to the American news market after more than two decades abro ad was something akin to being suspended in time and waking up in a brave new world, where editor’s no longer raise their voices and reporters call the shots. What ever happened to who, what, where, why, when and how? When I left the California in the early 70’s for the romance of covering foreign news, that was the one journalistic maxim needed for all news stories. Not today. Young reporters, progressively lacking the firm hands of “old pros” tend to think of themselves more as authors or scriptwriters. The news lead is now the feature lead, with the hook often buried six graphs into the story. On the other hand, I’m going by what I experienced at one newspaper group and other horror stories that periodically turn-up in “Editor&Publisher and “The American Journalism Review.” So, while many editors complain about the present calibre of reporters, from my perspective, they don’t seem to be doing much about it in an age of market oriented plastic identikit chain sheets, where filling space and soothing egos is more important than scoops and tightly written stories. That’s mainly because in today’s media scene, cost effectiveness is more important that an editor’s ideals. In both the print and broadcasting, news chiefs decry falling standards. But do they really want to change things? That would mean taking a step backwards, something unfathomable to publishers. More and more, news to American papers is a mere embellishment to the publication’s real purpose, advertising revenue. And ad revenue versus overheads more and more is spelling the end to independent individually owned sheets. Of course this is a broad statement, but as fewer and fewer independent papers survive endless consolidation, the danger to quality journalism and even to the free flow of information in a free press will become more and more apparent. Twenty-three-years-ago local daily papers in the San Francisco Bay Area had their own identity. They printed all the local news around, had mainly local sports pages and the “Fremont Argus” looked totally different from the neighbouring “Hayward Daily Review.” Today, they and four other dailies are part of the expanding ANG Group, which is part of Dean Singleton’s even larger Media News organisation. The purpose of such mega groups, as far as anyone can determine, isn’t to educate or an inform, but to make money. The titles are produced just like any high tech equipment, on an assembly line. The individual newsrooms are merely staging areas. The papers are actually assembled at the “Tri Valley Herald” office in Pleasanton, complete with a 65-strong copy and make-up desk. It’s where the wire fill is added, the sports pages are made-up, photos are placed and all foreign and national news finds its way into the budget. It all seemed very logical and yet shocking to me when I had the opportunity to do some sick leave fill-in work as an assistant regional editor for ANG at its “Oakland Tribune” office and later was offered a job as a copy editor at the head office…..which I didn’t take. Looking ahead, as the few surviving mega empires spread their uniformity from coast to coast, America may finally achieve what Britain has, a national press. But, will choice be a thing of the past? Will media empires be Hearst style power centers based on propaganda? Or will competition between the super groups create better journalism? It was 1972 when I last worked in the area as sports editor of` a small daily. I had a staff of two full-time and one part time reporters. At ANG there are no individual sports editors, just one or two local sports writers per paper who keep tabs on school events. Somewhere along the line it was decided that, while local news is what the American press is all about, when its comes to sports, having little Johnny’s name in the paper these days doesn’t matter as much as covering major league pro teams. That’s handled by a central group sports department. Yet, since sport has long been the most read section of US papers, minimising local sport coverage is a contradiction of local news philosophy. Philosophy, hypocrisy, its all irrelevant when confronted by capitalism. Market research has shown that Bay Area people want to read about their pro teams. So, why have individual sports departments, when you can satisfy your readership and save money with a single consolidated department. It makes sense, but is it good community journalism? On a personal level, doing a short stint at a paper such as the “Oakland Tribune,” is something I shall never forget—for its dullness. Gone was the hustle and bustle of the city room. It has been replaced by the silence of the newsroom, something occasionally interrupted by a giggles associated with a daring paper wad fight between two or three reporters. Editors aren’t allowed such fun or stress relief. You apparently can’t talk above a whisper at today’s newspapers because reporters can no longer create in a noisy atmosphere. Blame this on the demise of the teletype machine and typewriters whose deafening clatter molded a tougher breed of hack, one able to talk and write at the same time. Initially I saw my relief work positively: “At last, my chance to shake- up American journalism.” What I didn’t know was firms such as ANG don’t want to shake-up things. And, it wants to keep its low paid staff happy so they won’t leave. The group hates staffers leaving because that means hiring new people which isn’t easy since ANG has a policy of not bankolling travel or lodging for job applicants and paying considerably less than the going area salary norms. “Over at the “San Jose Mercury” (Knight-Ridder),” a senior editor explained, “They fly in job applicants, and house them in corporate guest accommodation….and if they’re hired, they stay for as long as it takes them to find a place. “Here, we mainly have to depend on local applicants. We can’t pay for anyone’s expenses.” I was working as senior editor and wound-up netting $100 per week after paying my own motel bills and car rental, something I needed since the only affordable motel was in Vallejo, 25 miles from Oakland. Yet, it was all worth it, just to see how papers have changed and to realise these days there’s little, if any, romance and fun left in print journalism, at least not at high tech groups. The experience of having reporters either indignant or near to tears because I made constructive criticism of their work is something I found hard to take, as I did having reporters dictate to me what they would and wouldn’t cover on their beats. It’s hard to believe the practice of keeping staffers happy at all costs is widespread across America. The practice here seemed to be: Check the content but be understandingly permissive about style. In today’s climate of media consolidation amidst an air of cost effective efficiency, mediocrity is often the by-product. With little or no editorial competition among sheets and advertising the real reason for a chain paper’s existence, who needs to spend money on great reporters chasing great stories. Just let’em write what they want as long as it stands-up. It took me a few days to realize the regional desk mission was mainly to supervise the massive tree wasting weekend feature packages, like the overblown play on the 20th anniversary of the Jonestown mass suicide. It took two full-time reporters, and two managing editors, a regional editor and several copy editors, as well as several weeks labor to get this regurgitated story just right. The crew acted as if it was breaking news. But it’s right in-line-with company policy…. Plentiful and , under normal circumstances, cheap journalism. After all, it had already been written and consigned to history. Luckily, one of the reporters assembling it managed to get interviews with Jim Jones’ children, thereby instilling some news value to the package. According to reporters and editors, nostalgia is big in the Bay Area. Which is good news for the region’s publishers….just have to keep track of memorable dates and wait for 10th, 20th, 25th and 30th anniversary. Things such as the 1967 Summer of Love Festival, Woodstock, even the first time the Grateful Dead appeared at the Fillmore Auditorium either have already been packaged and published or are sure bets for the future. So, here I am, back in London, home of old fashioned newspapers, unfortunately, in a few cases, run by pompous, self promoting editors. But, you can’t expect perfection, can you? Just look at broadcasting.

-30- After few days I headed to Las Vegas, which I found to be a cheap and comfortable place to stay. I could chill-out and forget about my failure up north. It’s a wonder what bright lights and cheap food will do for you.

Unfortunately, my funds being limited, meant even at the bargain Vegas rates, I could only stay a few days before leaving on an equally bargain air ticket to Providence, Rhode Island, from where I took a bus to Boston’s Logan Airport and a flight back to London.

My return, as with most of my subsequent job hunts, would be greeted with silence from my wife. But, I knew she didn’t approve.

Still I wasn’t giving up…at least then. Trying to find work in London at my age was near impossible, unless I was ready to be a school crossing guard. Yet I had the feeling my better half would have been happier if I had settled for that. I didn’t.

Chapter 34 Will I Ever Learn?

After a few months and a few job application bites I was ready to try again. But, this was no simple visit to L.A. I would be four months in America, much of that time on the road to job interviews.

I flew into Chicago’s O’Hare Airport, rented a car and my, in hindsight, idiotic odyssey began. I drove first to a radio news director interview in Lafayette, Indiana and then on to a TV news director job interview in Bowling Green, Kentucky. Since prospective employers don’t tell you anything at the time, I continued my journey. My next stop was up north at Moline, Illinois where I was to be interviewed for a TV station assistant news director’s job. The only positive thing about that was a free lunch I had with the news director.

I would learn the hard way that speculative job interviews in America offered little or no fringe benefits. I was lucky to get a cup of coffee with most news managers I would meet.

After Moline I drove up to Rockford, Illinois and a completely forgettable interview there possibly because the town was so forgettable and then back to Chicago where I got rid of the car and hopped a Greyhound bus for the major part of my trip. Greyhound offered what it called an Ameripass allowing unlimited travel over certain periods, such a week or 10 days. The more days the more expensive was the pass. But there was one catch, the pass was valid for the specific time period from that first use of the pass. For example, I would have to do all my travelling in a week.

I know this may seem strange, especially for a guy then in his late 50s, but I liked travelling long distances by bus. Aside from not having to worry about driving, I always felt secure on one hand, yet adventurous on the other. However, I didn’t like changing buses. I got used to one bus and one seat I seemed to have broken in after a few hundred miles. I loved it when the bus was half full, meaning I had a seat to myself. And, I eagerly awaited for daytime rest stops just to see where we were. Also, it was after a few hundred miles, refreshing to take a leak in a proper toilet.

So, it was onward from Chicago, through the afternoon and night. I recall we crossed the Mississippi River late that evening. The next morning somewhere in Nebraska we picked up a mother and her young junk food gorged child who proceeded to puke all over his seat after travelling only 50 miles. Luckily it missed me and I quickly changed to a new seat. But, the great outpouring and ensuing odor made a rest stop an extra treat for all the passengers. It also allowed the driver to do the unenviable task of cleaning the affected area, which was a short-term measure until we could reach a station where the bus could be changed.

My initial destination was Grand Junction, Colorado on the west side of the Rocky Mountains. There were two news director jobs open there and on seeing the place I knew this might be a place where I could move the family. It was beautiful, appearing like a scene from a John Ford western movie. Grand Junction is where the Green River joins the Colorado for its long winding trip to the Gulf of California. The town is surrounded by buttes and an enormous mesa carved from red sandstone.

I spent a couple of days there at a cheap motel, had my interviews and then got back on the bus for my long trip to Seattle. From there I took a local bus to the airport, rented a car and found a motel en route to my destination, Port Angeles, Washington. This small town was the last major settlement on the northwestern U.S. mainland.

The local paper was looking for a city editor, another position I felt was a good fit for me. And, the editor actually put me up in a motel for the night. As I said, those things didn’t happen very often. The next day I had talks with the editor and publisher and the usual “we will let you know” in parting.

That over, I had scheduled clear back on the other side of the country an interview for an TV news director job in Hagerstown, Maryland. That’s right, I was going to travel clear across America this time. That would be followed by a few other interviews on the East Coast.

But, before I drove back to Seattle and got on a bus for a 3,000-mile road trip I called the station manager to ask him if he saw me as a serious candidate for the job. “I wouldn’t be talking to you if I didn’t think you were a serious candidate,” he replied. That was all I needed to hear. I was off again, heading back east, but this time I was taking the more direct northern route via Interstate 90.

The journey through Washington, Idaho, Montana, North Dakota, Minnesota and Illinois, right to Chicago was made on the same bus. It took two whole days to get to Chicago and I found you could actually make “ships passing in the night” temporary friends on such trips, providing they stayed on the bus with you long enough. We would wind up chatting to each other about where we were heading and why and how great the scenery was as opposed to how cold the weather was.

After changing buses in Chicago there were just three of us continuing on our journeys together, a young man, a young woman and myself. The woman got off in Cleveland and I remember how she gave me a kiss goodbye. It was an act of affection I seldom received from anyone in my life…the type of thing that made me wish I had been 30 years younger. I swear I would have suddenly found an interview to go to in Cleveland.

When we reached Hagerstown I got off and the young man with me said goodbye and continued his trip to Washington D.C. But for me, that was the end of that lengthy journey and the start of still another one.

However, for such a long trip one might think the reward would justify it. Unfortunately, in this instance, that didn’t turn out to be the case. The TV station general manager was a liar and a complete asshole. He didn’t offer me anything except a quick lunch with him. I wound up paying for my motel and car rental, hardly the treatment a serious candidate could expect. At least that’s what I thought. And, in the end he wound up giving the job to his assignment editor.

By this point having just about crossed the country twice I was starting to realize things weren’t going to be so easy. But, it’s hard to explain what kept me going. If I wanted I could have returned to my family in L.A. or better still, my family in London.

Yet, I have to admit, this type of job hunt became a lesson in success or failure on one hand and was addictive on the other. I couldn’t call it quits until I could no longer line up job interviews. I was convinced I had was it took to get a decent news managerial job and obsessed with searching for one. But I never took in what would happen if I actually were hired somewhere. Would my London family move to America? Or would I be an absentee father, sending some money home every month?

Maybe this is why so many creative or career driven people have such trouble with close personal relationships. They can’t do what they have to do to be fulfilled and yet maintain a happy home as well. I wasn’t some Beat Generation poet with an existential personality. And my career, in some ways, surpassed my wildest dreams, yet was never fully realized on another level.

I mean take away the hoopla of Cannes and Hollywood or skiing at St. Moritz, all I ever aspired to be was a daily newspaper city editor, sort of Lou Grant type guy, working with young reporters on breaking the next big story. Why I was crisscrossing the country at 55 looking for work can be traced back to those early mistakes I made in my career. Still, it was those errors in judgement that lead me to a freelance life in Europe and the family I would never have had if I remained at the Valley News or San Jose Mercury. So, on a personal level I was successful, at least for 25 years. As I said, job- hunting adventures such as this didn’t ad to my capital as a responsible family man.

From Hagerstown I hopped back on the grey dog and headed north to Scranton, Pennsylvania and an interview for a TV station assignment manager’s job. I had a nice lunch and the next morning I was on the road again, stopping at Binghamton, New York for another two interviews and another way up in Albany. I rented a car did my now routine bits over a two day period and boarded the bus again in Binghamton and headed back west, through Cleveland, St. Louis, Okalahoma City and Amarillo, Texas where I had another interview for a TV news director job.

By this time I was somewhat frustrated with this whole idea of an American job, yet my addiction hadn’t been quelled, just sublimated for awhile at Las Vegas, where I wound up staying a few days before heading back to my sister’s house in L.A. Vegas’ buzz, 24 hour lifestyle and cheap living somehow gave me a false sense of security. I even went on a couple of job interviews there without effect. In fact the only thing I noticed was how much this bustling and expanding desert city had grown since I had worked there in 1973.

Still, after a few days I was back on the bus to L.A. followed by the usual warm greeting from my sister. She had recently converted her garage into a library for her college professor husband. But, in the coming years its main use to me would be as a guesthouse…. a place where I could always hang my hat.

I should have been writing all this down at the time the way a good journalist would. And I knew this. But I didn’t and had to admit perhaps I wasn’t as good as I thought. I had always held war correspondent in awe. People such as Don Kirk, who would risk their lives for a story, had my deepest respect. I knew I could never do that. Aside from fearing loud noises that are a part of warfare, I didn’t think it was worth it.

As I grew older I became that much more cynical of people risking their lives to tell a relatively few interested citizens how a war is being waged. Also, as TV news became the predominant information medium, I found more and more reporters covering world conflict and tragedy from news slants that they develop, tailoring stories to fit a pre conceived angle and ending. This was bad journalism or propaganda developed by the reporters to comply with their network policy or their own particular views.

This practice became more and more apparent as new TV news operations, especially cable stations, went on air. Little by little the idea of objective journalism went out the window, as the nation was polarized, largely by the media, into liberal and conservative areas and viewerships. As far as ratings and argument were concerned, there was no more middle ground or moderate arguments. Yet, this was in the future. Then, I was in Los Angeles and wanting to return to London, but not until some more job interviews…three to be exact, all in the Midwest, which was how I had planned it since my flight to London left from Chicago.

So after a few weeks in L.A. I bought another bus pass and was again heading east, through Vegas, where I couldn’t resist stopping at for two more days and then all the way to Springfield, Missouri for a TV news director interview. I wasn’t impressed with the town or the job interview.

My next stop was way up at Madison, Wisconsin, which was a treat even though I didn’t get a job there as TV station assignment manager. Madison was very pretty town in a peaceful looking green and pleasant area. This is the type of place I wished I could have lived in as a kid.

Finally, the manager of a new TV station over in Rochester, Minnesota, wanted to see me about running his news shop. But, it turned out to be the most difficult job interview I had. How appropriate for such a lame brained odyssey.

I was set to fly back to London from Chicago late the next afternoon. He was also going to be in Chicago that day and wanted to see me at 9:30 the morning of my departure. But, I was still in Madison, a three-hour bus ride from Chicago. With my shrinking cash reserve in mind, my task was to make the interview without staying at an expensive Chicago hotel. The trick was to leave as late as possible from Madison, ideally on a long circuitous bus trip that would arrive in the windy city at daybreak.

As it turned out, however, I arrived in the wee small hours and had to nap at the routinely seedy bus terminal. I figured it would at least give me plenty of time to change and make the interview. At about 8 a.m I rented a locker, changed into my English business suit and stowed my bags. Not familiar with the public transport system there I took a cab to the Hyatt Hotel, arriving well ahead of my appointment

The interview in the hotel lobby went well in as much as I received a free continental breakfast, which was more than I could say about 90 percent of the interviews I had attended. That over and with the usual “we will let you know,” I headed back to the bus terminal, changed into my travelling clothes, or should I say my well travelled clothes and took the subway train to O’Hare Airport, arriving several hours before my flight. But, to me, just getting to O’Hare was almost like being back home in London. Boy, was I tired.

Summarizing this insane trip: Chicago to Kentucky to Seattle to Maryland to New York State to Los Angeles to Wisconsin to Chicago totally about 12,000 miles.

Chapter 35 At Last, a Lucky Break

Back in London, I wasted no time first arranging all my follow up calls to the interviews I had in America. This proved a total waste of effort, energy and especially money. Yet, amazingly, I still wasn’t cured. In fact, as the Internet became more entrenched as the main business tool for the “Now Generation,” the more I grew to depend on the web. It was almost like looking at a candy store through a window. It all seemed so good and so close, yet it was untouchable. My wife, a “traditional” human resources professional, thought I was wasting a lot of time and money. “You will never get a job on the Internet,” she told me. At the time, I began to feel she was right. Later, she would be proven wrong many times.

It was the autumn of 1997 when my old Philly colleague and pal John Genzale contacted me about a new venture he was launching with American Cities Business Journals. It would be called the Sports Business Journal, and dedicated totally to the business side of sports. He asked if I would be interested in doing a weekly column on European sports business news. Of course I accepted and was invited to the firm’s head office in Charlotte, North Carolina for some training and dry run sessions. The actual first issue launch, however, wasn’t for two months

The visit was scheduled for early February and I used the trip as a springboard for a family ski holiday in California. I flew to Charlotte for a week, with the local expenses picked up by the company, and met Cherry and the kids a few days later in Los Angeles. I had worked long hours arranging the trip -- flights, hotels, etc. I’m convinced that in another life I could be a travel agent. Normally, upon arriving in L.A., we would rent a car and head straight for my family’s home. Not this time. Since I had been in Los Angeles for a few days in advance, I already had a rental car and after picking up the brood, we headed straight onto our 500-mile journey to the Lake Tahoe area. We would stay with my sister when we got back from skiing.

We stayed overnight at a motel en route and visited the old gold prospecting country above Sacramento the next day. This was just before driving up to Donner Lake. We were set to stay at the Loch Levin Lodge, a rather austere group of fishing cottages on the banks of the lake, the body of water on which the infamous and ill fated Donner Party of settlers became trapped during the bitter winter of 1846. Here we were, in late winter, enjoying a vacation where, in the past, an entire wagon train was decimated because of the cold and lack of food.

Our digs were small, but adequate, a sort of junior one bedroom apartment that could sleep four people. But, the main attraction was a wood deck at the rear that afforded a panoramic view of the lake and surrounding mountains.

At night we could see the lights from a train or two, about two miles away, chugging its way over the pass. The deck also featured a sunken hot tub that proved to be popular with Cherry and Hannah, who found it novel seeing snow piled all around a steaming tub.

We stayed at the lake for four days, skiing at some of the many resorts in the area, such as Alpine Meadow and Boreal Ridge. But, for an added treat, the second part of the trip would be a stop at famed Yosemite National Park. But to get there meant driving down out of the mountains, heading south a bit and then back up into the Sierra Nevada’s. But this did enable the kids to see massive Lake Tahoe, which dwarfed Donner Lake.

Once back into the Sierras, we stayed at a rustic motel on the banks of the Merced River, not too far from Yosemite. The rapids were spectacular to look at. The only drawback to the motel was having no café nearby. I recall we had to drive about 15 miles to the nearest grocery store because we never counted on not finding some place to eat. The room had a lovely terrace with a barbeque, where we roasted hot dogs. The next day we drove into Yosemite. We had visited the park once before when the kids were much younger. And even though I had been here a few times as a youth, this was the first time I had seen Yosemite with its white winter mantle. It was lovely and there were far fewer tourists such as us. We only stayed in the valley a couple of hours and then embarked on a snowy drive out, catching a parting glance from the Portal of Grandeur as we headed through the valley tunnel. It always amazes me how stark the change is, from this heavenly country to the urban fast food blight of Fresno down the mountain. From there, it was simply a matter of heading over the Grapevine stretch of Interstate 5 and into my sister’s Sherman Oaks home that evening.

After a week in L.A., it was back to London where I started preparing for my weekly Sports Business Journal column debuting in April ‘98. The idea was to do a round-up of European sports commerce. On occasion, if I did an interview with a top personality, I would do a stand-alone story. In any case, the money was welcome.

But more than this, the gig gave me an appreciation for the big, big bucks business side of sporting activities formerly unknown to me. I mean I was researching the Nike-Adidas promotional war for the World Cup soccer tournament in Paris or, closer to my home, the price of strawberries and cream at the annual Wimbledon tennis competition.

I was able to talk to the head of Formula One Racing and the directors of UK soccer clubs. Things appeared to be swimming along nicely. But, I had learned over the decades as a freelance writer, nothing is certain. Being a new publication, the Sports Business Journal had routine teething pains and equally routine treatment in such cases. The management decided it was way over budget and had to make cuts…memories of Spectrum Radio. I was one of them. So, in the midst of what I found to be an enjoyable and lucrative venture, it just ended. And once again, I was completely out of work.

But why not go back to freelancing showbiz stories you may ask? A main reason I dropped showbiz writing was the difficulty in working with a new breed of press agents. These people were part of large firms and wielded an inordinate amount of power. They were, and still are, part of the ever growing celebrity cult that has gripped much of the world. But more than this, they made demands of journalists that were almost impossible to meet, such as guaranteeing a cover story and copy approval. Eventually, these firms had a group of writers to regularly deal with whomever they knew and trusted. I was no longer one of these people since, in my usual headstrong and stupid manner, I went my own way. Trying to get back in the loop as a freelance writer then was more trouble than it was worth. And besides, I had my obsession to tend: Finding a job in America. ======

Chapter 36 Lucky Break Pt. 2: CNN

It was Christmas time 1998 when I lucked out at the CNN bureau. I had applied for holiday work on the teletext desk and the editor Graham Jones asked me down for a chat. Now, here’s where doing a good turn for someone can result in a reward later.

A year or so earlier, Jones had been sacked from his job as deputy editor of the Sunday Express, mainly for being too senior. I took up his cause with an opinion piece in the UK Press Gazette, one senior to another. He apparently remembered my name and offered me work when I met him.

The teletext desk, as with all of CNN, was a 24 hour operation, with three shifts, 6 a.m. to 2 p.m., 2 p.m. to 10 p.m. and 10 p.m. to 6 a.m. I grew to love the graveyard shift, mainly because it was so quiet. I was the only person on the floor. Of course, if I craved some human contact I just had to go one floor up to the main newsroom. All I had to do was constantly update our menus of stories and drink gallons of coffee. The only depressing part of this shift was going home in the morning. It seemed that once I left the building, I became weary and tired, as I headed for the Tottenham Court Road tube station and that long trip back to Ealing.

I found the 6 a.m. shift somewhat unpleasant, in that I had to get up and into the West End by 6. I have always been a night person. I can stay up very late with no trouble. But, getting up early in the morning was another matter. Luckily, cabs were provided for that one shift to make sure we got to the office. London may be a world capital, but its famed subway doesn’t run all night-long.

In this venture, I was so good at posting loads of stories that Graham kept me on after Christmas in a work experience that wound up lasting more than two years. And eventually, I began doing sports desk shifts as well. Even though the work was dead easy and somewhat routine, I found CNN a very pleasant place to work. The people were friendly and helpful and the working conditions were top rate. Also, the fact we were often at or near where big stories evolved made CNN a prime job location. I loved writing on my resume: Producing stories for an estimated 57 million households internationally.

The new millennium celebrations took place during my time at CNN, as did the disastrous 2000 American election, eventually decided months later by the Supreme Court. In 2000, my son took a year-off from college, as was custom in Britain, and spent six months in Israel at a kibbutz. At first I was a bit apprehensive about this due to his diabetes. But, he managed to cope well.

Hannah, Cherry and I used this time to take what would be our last family trip to America. The most notable thing about it was being able to have a day’s skiing in the mountains surrounding Los Angeles. Most strangers to L.A. don’t know that much of Southern California is shielded from the Mojave Desert by alpine mountains as high as 10,000 feet. They are the home to several day-trip ski areas. Our destination was Mt.Waterman on the Angeles Crest Highway, and an hour’s drive from Sherman Oaks.

This wasn’t a planned trip, so we rented gear on the slopes. My main memories of the day were skiing with Cherry down the steep face and then worrying about why we hadn’t seen Hannah for quite a while on the nursery slopes. I skied the area looking for her and we even alerted some of the patrol guys. But finally she appeared, unfazed by our concern. In fact, her only complaint was that the snack bar was closed. Our family holiday finale only lasted nine days since Hannah had to be back at school.

But, what I most remember about 2000 is a little trip I took on my days off during late June. I had never given up hope of getting a job back in America, anywhere in America. So, when I read an ad for a managing editor at the Juneau Empire up in Alaska, I applied, asking for copies of the paper to critique.

The publisher sent me a few and I was amazed at how bad it was. From photos and heads running off the page to poor writing and page layout, it was terrible and I said so. Well, he apparently felt my candour made me a hot prospect for the job and the next thing I knew I was on an all expenses paid trip from London to Alaska. I could scarcely believe it. After all this time, someone was finally paying for me to attend a job interview. To take it, I had to rearrange my schedule, getting most of the week off and returning to work on Sunday.

The Alaska adventure lasted four days and was more a holiday than a job interview. This was because, in the end, I didn’t get the job. But while there, I saw the Mendenhall Glacier and the bustling cruise ship terminal. One of the reporters even let me use his car for a day. I should point out Juneau has no road in or out…you either fly or sail to the town. So there aren’t many places to drive except on roads to nowhere, which seems to be routine for Alaska. Yet, what I remember the most was a bald eagle flying to the top of a telephone poll as I was walking by, on my way to the motel. I never thought I would see something such as that.

I flew back to London the way I came, Seattle, Chicago, London and within a week I got the news they had chosen someone else. But, since I still had steady work at CNN, the disappointment was minimal and tempered further by the memory of that great trip.

Big changes were happening in 2001 at CNN. Time-Warner, CNN’s parent, had merged with AOL and the relationship proved a major loss maker, so much so that CNN started cutting back. First on the chopping block was the text operation. A way had been developed to automate the text stories with CNN’s online service, thereby eliminating the need for text staff.

However, sports stories, which were constantly evolving, couldn’t be automated and a few sports people were kept on to maintain the sports text. My work and reliability had been so good that I stayed on to help with sports. The only problem with this, other than trying to fit Sri Lankan cricket player names on the text screen, was the same number of shifts were now divided among many more people. I was lucky to get one or two every two weeks. Still, that amounted to at least $200 or more, enough to buy groceries and keep the wife from complaining too much.

A few months into the new routine and I got a call from my sister that my mother had fallen and broken some bones. I completed my month of shifts at CNN, which would be my farewell to the organization, and flew to L.A.

Chapter 37 Back on the Road

When I arrived in L.A., I found my mother’s condition was steadily improving, now that she was out of the hospital and back home, with my sister. She was moving around readily and she had a minor cast on her left arm. In any case, I molded right back into my L.A. identity. This is probably the most difficult part of a trans-Atlantic life…having to adjust to different lifestyles. I mean living in London is like being in another world, especially with my family there and my other family in L.A. Yet, for me, other than the jetlag, I seem to take up where I left off at either location.

Once installed in Susan’s guest quarter, I got down to serious job hunting business. But, since I had been out of action for a couple of years, I was a bit rusty. The reality that I was pushing 60 was not yet high in my thought pattern. To me, I was what journalism needed… a guy with wide ranging cross-media experience and I hailed from possibly America’s last fully literate generation. The destructive multiple choice tick box school examinations were just coming in when I was going out…of school. It had been estimated by some educators that a pre-1960 high school diploma had the worth of a college liberal arts degree a generation or more later.

So, it was about this time that I learned the hard reality of the computer age -- knowledge and traditional experience weren’t enough. Technology proved heaven sent for a high overhead media industry, but almost a KO for me. I grew into an industry that was on the verge of a technical revolution. For me, it actually began with my crude Radio Shack 100 laptop. When I put away my typewriter for good, I had no idea how the industry would change to what I saw as the good, the bad and the ugly.

I was now at an experience level, at least on paper, as a news manager, a senior news manager at that. In my frame of reference, this meant I could be a newspaper city editor, section editor or even a small daily managing editor. As for broadcasting, I felt qualified to be a small market radio or TV station news director.

The problem, which was gradually hurting my chances along these lines, was the new definitions and job responsibilities. Traditionally on newspapers an editor was a supervisor, an assignment developer, a quality control person, and even a mentor. Yet, with the advent of desktop publishing, more and more small to mid-size publications began dismantling their copy composing rooms, laying off much of their staffs, and often dumping all that work onto the shoulders of a single editor. A journalist who rose to management status was no longer simply a content honcho. He had to be a graphic designer as well, which meant knowing how to use complex computer graphics programs.

As time passed, more and more management jobs specified: Must know Quark Express, PageMaker and In-Design. I scarcely knew what they meant. This was an entirely new field in which I either had to get some training or give-up the idea of rounding out my career as a news manager on some small publication.

The weeks and months passed quickly in my sister’s guesthouse. My mother, who had lived with my sister since my father passed-away in 1987, was by then living at a nearby retirement home, which was really a hospice of sorts for seniors. It seemed pleasant enough for someone with limited mobility. She had that fabled room with a loo, which she shared with another woman. This, plus three meals a day and a regular schedule of activities actually seemed quite practical and appreciated by someone in her 90s. If nothing else, she was able to talk, to have some sort of social interaction with other seniors.

Trying to be the good son, I visited her several times a week, helping her in and out of her wheelchair. Even though my mother could still walk, it was becoming more and more difficult for her. A chair was the best way for her to safely move around the corridors and dining room. My visits were a big help for my sister who didn’t drive. This made getting to the retirement home problematic for her even though it was only about a half mile from her house. And that was because she had an unresolved painful foot ailment. So I would drive her or go alone to the home.

My stays in L.A. usually meant a protracted use of rental cars that were costly. On one trip, however, instead of renting I bought an old used Mercury Grand Marquis for $800 from my cousin Arlene. I figured it was small cost for a good investment. I drove the car for four months and sold it to my cousin Bennett for $500.

On one trip, it was nearing Christmas. I convinced my daughter Hannah to pay a solo visit to her other family in L.A. I was hoping it would be a real treat for both of us and my chance to re-bond with her. This was something I felt I had badly neglected. Through the years I had taken my son with me on travel story assignments, movie screenings and father and son events. This was mainly because he was older and could travel. Most of my time with Hannah was spent during family trips and events, rarely just dad and daughter.

However, before I knew it she was 18 and flying by herself to L.A. I was especially glad she made the trip because it turned out to be the last occasion she was able to spend time with her grandmother, who was in her mid 90s.

It’s sort of a trans-Atlantic irony that my kids, living in England, wound up spending more time, through the years, with their American grandparents than with my wife’s parents in England. This pointed out a major ethnic difference in social graces. At Jewish households, parents and grandparents never want their visiting offspring to leave. If it were up to them, they would have a permanent guesthouse for their kids and grandkids.

The legendary cold English, on the other hand, often can’t wait for you to leave after you and your brood arrive. You may have the feeling you have only a limited time until that infamous final phrase ends your visit: “Must you be leaving so soon?”

When Hannah finally arrived in early December, my sister and I couldn’t believe how trim, slim and healthy she looked. She had started university that autumn and began to diet about the same time. After a few days in L.A., seeing all the relatives, she agreed to take a drive up north with me. I had an interview lined up for an assignment editor slot at a Fresno TV station. From there, we would head further north driving through Sacramento, up into Marin County, down to San Francisco, Salinas, Monterey and finally a drive down the Big Sur coast on our way back to L.A. This may seem a bit rushed. In fact it was more than a bit. I had also made arrangements for us to drive to Las Vegas, spend two days there, and then fly to New York to see the Christmas festivities. Following this, we would travel to Washington DC for our flight back to London. All this had to be done in the space of three weeks.

As usual I was back using a rental car, which cost plenty but was trouble free. We drove up Highway 99 to Fresno, where I had the job interview. That ended with the usual, “we will let you know” and we were again travelling north to Sacramento, staying the night at a Motel 6.

The next day, we stopped by Vallejo to look at San Francisco Bay, stayed in Petaluma, then paid a quick visit to San Francisco and Berkeley, stopping for the night in Salinas. This was a prelude to our final day, spending the morning at Monterey before driving down the beautiful Big Sur coast route to San Luis Obispo, Santa Barbara and finally back to Sherman Oaks.

Then, after a few days of rest, we said goodbye to my sister and headed to Las Vegas. I had booked us into the Plaza Hotel, which had become my budget priced hostelry of choice. It had all the luxury and trappings of a Strip hotel, but at half the price. And, as a treat for Hannah, she had her own room with a panoramic view of the Las Vegas Strip.

It was Mid December and Vegas in winter is the only time you can really enjoy the outdoors there. I took this opportunity to show Hannah how I got into skiing, leading to eventually meeting her mother at a French ski resort. We took a short drive north, headed into the mountains and sure enough, a Christmas scene unfolded with snow and pine trees as far as you could see. Hannah was amazed and impressed.

The next day, I tried to impress her again with a trip to famous Hoover Dam and Lake Mead. We spent most of the day there and then headed back to the hotel. We, in fact, were set to leave late that night on a cheap Spirit Airline flight to Atlantic City, New Jersey, with a plane change in Detroit, Michigan. The brief alpine snow experience we had in Vegas would be a mere foretaste of what we would experience on the East Coast.

After our plane change, we landed during a snowstorm in Atlantic City. I recall us having to wade through knee high snow to get a taxi that would take us to the Greyhound Bus station. Once there, at about noon, we were able to catch the last bus that day to New York. That was because service was about to be cut short due to the hazardous road conditions.

Needless to say, this was quite sharp contrast with sunny California. Yet, I couldn’t have asked for anything better. It was as if the snow was made to order for our Christmas trip to the Big Apple. Even the drive in on the bus was fun, watching cars skidding out on the parkway and hoping we wouldn’t have similar trouble.

When we reached the bus terminal, I hailed a cab and we drove to my regular NY haunt, the budget priced, yet centrally located hotel The Pickwick Arms on 51st Street off of 2nd Avenue. This was easy walking distance to one of the trip’s main attractions, Rockefeller Center in an almost fairytale Christmas setting, complete with fresh snow falling.

The only trouble was it seems that everyone else on the East Coast had the same idea. There were massive lines of people filing by the holiday display at Saks, as they headed towards Rockefeller Center. Still it was a lovely sight to see and Hannah seemed thrilled by it all,

The next day, we met my old Air Force pal George Osley, who even though from a small village in New England claimed to know New York like the back of his hand. “This is my town,” he said. But then the Go Child, as he called himself, claimed many less than accurate things. This was proven by his lack of knowledge of the New York subway system. But, it was nice seeing George again.

It was during our last morning in New York that I got a call from the News Director of KGPE TV in Fresno telling me that I had the assignment editor’s job if I wanted it, which I did. It would require me to start January 7th, 2002. This meant a quick trip back to London, saying hello to the wife and then flying back to California in a week or so. So, after an obligatory and tedious trip to the top of the Empire State Building, our Big Apple experience ended with an evening drive to Cherry Hill, New Jersey in a rental car. The next day we headed to Washington DC and our flight back to London. ======

Chapter 38 Back and Forth

We arrived back in time for Christmas with family and friends. Yet before I knew it, I would be flying off again, at age 61, to start my new job. Chalk up one for American equal opportunities. Much later I couldn’t help thinking how wrong my wife, the career personnel officer, was about my job hunting technique. She made it clear I could never get a job over the Internet. As it transpired, I would eventually wind up getting three jobs via the web as well as my job interview in Alaska.

It had long been our plan that if I could get and hold a job in the USA, Cherry would join me there. This was all the more timely with her nearing retirement at the BBC. So, after spending Christmas at home, I took yet another tedious flight to California and an assignment editor’s job at KGPE.

Fresno is about 250 miles from Sherman Oaks and I drove there in a rental car…what else. The news director put me up in a local motel until I could find a place to rent. The city is located in the center of California’s fertile San Joaquin Valley and is an agricultural hub, with an emphasis on grapes for raisins processing. Other than that, its main attraction is being a jump off point for resort areas of the Sierra-Nevada Mountains.

A TV assignment editor is similar to a newspaper city editor, in that he finds and assigns stories to reporters. But, at TV stations, there is a great deal more technology that enters the job description, something I ignored. Things such as having to call up satellite feeds and assign remote broadcast vans were tasks I never had experienced. This is where my job seeking desperation finally caught up with me. I was in a position that on one level was below my general news experience, and yet on another was way over my head. It was then I first felt I was being left in the technology dust…something that would increase during the ensuing years.

Also, I didn’t realize it then but my marriage was suffering. Being honest, Cherry and I never were that close, never really in-love and being away for long stretches didn’t help the bonding process. On the other hand, maybe that’s why it didn’t bother me so much. Most men, who for one reason or another stray away from their families, do so because they are missing something at home. With Hannah and Daniel at college, I was no longer needed to play house husband. And, the wife no longer objected to my wanderings.

In any case, the job quickly proved too much for me and I was sacked in a very official way. I should have listened to a veteran news director a few years earlier who warned me against taking an assignment desk job. Being unemployed in Fresno wasn’t an option since I didn’t care for the sprawling mass of fast food stands and convenience stores. So, it was back to Sherman Oaks living in my sister’s guest house.

This went on for a few months and before I knew it summer had arrived. I also received the news that a friend and former Talk Radio UK host Gary Jacobs, a top lawyer, had died while undergoing a back operation. This was shocking since Gary and I had become somewhat close since our days on the station. His death came as I was preparing to leave for London. And immediately upon my arrival, Cherry whisked me to a Jewish memorial service being held for him clear on the other side of London. The experience was something one doesn’t wish to repeat on any level, especially when it involves a friend. Gary was a genuinely nice person, respected by people all over the UK. He had a deep sense of social responsibility and concern for the “little guy. “

It was the summer of 2002, the most non-productive time I can recall, aside from frequent guest appearances on the BBC and Sky News. Yet I kept on applying for jobs, much to the dismay of my wife. Even though I managed to get my short-lived Fresno job over the web, she still insisted I wouldn’t get work over the Internet. This was largely a bigoted view, embedded in her by 25 years in corporate human resources. Months passed and my lucky number came up again. I applied for a news director opening at a small TV station in Hopkinsville, Kentucky. And wonder of wonders, the station manager, Eddie Owen, was interested in my news philosophy and me. After several weeks of e-mails and phone calls, I was hired unseen. Amazingly, this good fortune happened when I was nearing 62 and shortly after I had applied for Social Security. Chalk up another one against my wife’s view about Internet job searching.

But, this time I knew better than to run off to some hick town in Kentucky without her blessing. By mutual agreement, and with the wife’s love and best wishes, I prepared to leave the bright lights and big news of London for a small red neck Kentucky city, whose main economy seemed to be based on a gut wrenching and waist expanding array of all-you-can-eat buffets. I mean, talk about culture shock and indigestion.

So, a few days after my birthday, I flew off on what I figured might be my last chance at a news management job. Had I finally made it when I was on the verge of collecting Social Security?

Chapter 39 Old Man River

I was met at Nashville Airport by WKAG manager Eddie Owen and his wife. The closest major airport to Hopkinsville, Kentucky was in Tennessee. They drove me the 90 miles or so to the station at which time I was treated, by surprise, to a welcome party given in my honor at a small park in back of the office. Most of the station staff was there and even though I had been traveling for about 13 hours, I managed to maintain a happy and lively face. Afterwards, I was introduced to the Roadway Inn, the local motel that would be my home for my first couple of weeks in town.

WKAG was a low power station, the only terrestrial one serving the Hopkinsville, Kentucky---Clarksville, Tennessee areas. Most of the major stations were transmitted to local residents via cable. But WKAG was on both cable and the transmitter. Because the area was mainly rural and its close proximity to Nashville, WKAG was included in the Nashville demographic which was a 30 market, when in truth it was really a 200- market station. In this regard, WKAG was boxing way above its proper weight.

When I arrived, there were 13 people in the news department, all first time jobbers fresh out a college. That number soon became 12 with one departure. This proved to be a plus factor for me, since I took over the lease on her two-bedroom townhouse. The operation televised three hours of local news daily, which included evening repeats and with separate newscasts for Hopkinsville and Clarksville. To do this, there was a three-person bureau in Clarksville. However, all news was anchored from Hopkinsville. Admittedly the Clarksville trio had a pretty good number…working mainly on their own, even though I kept in phone contact with them and would occasionally make the 40 mile drive over there. Their main challenge was self-motivation, which proved to be one of my challenges, too… motivating them to be self-motivated.

When I took over the department, it was without a news director and the staff had reverted to a somewhat feral state, with no guidance or direction. By the time I left the station a year later, the Newswatch Team was producing nearly twice the output they had been when I arrived.

A 62-Year-Old Rookie

I spent five years, $17,000 and about 15,000 miles traveling to job interviews on a Greyhound bus to finally land a news director’s job where a young reporter could tell her boss, she couldn't cover a story because she had an appointment to get her eyebrows waxed.

For an entire year, at 62, I had the distinction of being America's oldest rookie television news director.

But, more than this, my latter-day fling in news management was an eye opener about the TV news industry and the quality of many young people in it. Despite claims of falling journalistic standards and academic achievement, the first-time jobbers who worked for me were exceptional. It left me with new respect for the younger generation.

To my staff I was Old Man River…. A new senior citizen who somehow got disoriented on the way to the Social Security office and wound up the News Director of television station in Hopkinsville, Ky., of all places.

Someone once said the greatest cause of death among the elderly isn’t age but boredom. If this is true, it’s a good thing I left WKAG after a year. Any longer and I might have been one of those fatalities. But, it wasn’t the station's fault.

The problem I had might seem like a blessing to some other news managers…but not for me. I assembled a staff that was so good, once they began working as a team and covering their beats properly, there simply wasn’t much to do during my daily 11-hour shifts except hand out some assignments, critique the shows and keep the male staffers from horseplay in the newsroom.

This eventually lead me to advise the station manager that when my year was up, he should replace me with a young news director/anchor as a cost effective measure.

Lead by a hard working and zealous jack-of-all-trades producer, whom I also hired, the team’s work quality and work output exceeded my expectations.

But, you first have to know my background and what I had been trying to get for more than five years.

Normally a small station such as WKAG, serving Hopkinsville and the much larger Clarksville, Tn. would have had a 30-year-old news director- anchor with a resume showing seven years experience---not a 62-year-old well traveled journalist, with a career mainly spent as foreign correspondent.

I soon became known to the young staff as “Old Man River,”…. A senior journalist who went back to his local news roots for my first television management outing in what could very possibly be my last job, too. And what a way to go---from the big news and bright lights of London to the mind boggling, stomach churning array of all-you-can eat buffets in Hopkinsville.

It was lucky for me that the staffers at the WKAG news department were also first-time jobbers. It proved to be a seemingly never ending scenario mixing mirth, youthful high jinx with frustration, nail biting nerves and rebellion against authority.

These were talented young people, a third my age, most just out of university. They were filled with the zeal and frenetic behavior common on one’s first news job. Yet, on a personal level, there was little in common among any of this ditzy dozen.

It didn’t take me long to realize that this wasn’t a normal professional news operation, but in reality a post graduate paid internship for novices, the selling point being: Spend a year at WKAG and be set for the rest of your life.

And what of my role? I was more like a college media advisor than a news director. My main concerns were wiping runny noses and making sure the staffers could raise their less than satisfactory command of English grammar.

I’m an American from Los Angeles who had been living and working in London for 27 years. One day I realized I was near retirement age…you never think it’s going to happen, but it does…. and I found that working in Europe had not contributed to my future Social Security income. At 62 I stood to receive $525 per month, barely grocery money in London.

A job stateside to build up more Social Security cash was the only answer and Hopkinsville was the only option. I had also applied for a job in Hawaii, but unfortunately that didn’t happen. Either way, had I not been a well traveled journalist, along with access to cable TV, culture shock could have been a big problem.

Still, the important thing is that I actually hung on to complete my year commitment (I was considering chucking it all at six months) and my main mission. Yes, my SS payments will be higher. But, that turned out to be a secondary goal. It was replaced by a quest for journalistic excellence and assisting staffers finding better jobs.

I feel I achieved considerable success in all these areas, yet in the face of initial opposition from some staffers who had become lazy, unreceptive to the new order and unhappily, often exhibited a lack of respect for age and experience, something I fear has become widespread across the country.

I was hired mainly to increase the local news output of a small station specializing in local news…. not depending, as the staff had, on CNN Pathfire stories to fill the daily manifest.

For example, there was the coven of three young reporters at our Montgomery County, Tn. bureau, who came to be known by one and all, as the “Bitches of Clarksville.” The previous news director had never pushed them nor had they worked as a team. They seemed to exist as an independent unit…resentful of the new man at the reins.

Eventually the coven and its spells were gone, replaced by a slimmed down two person bureau that daily produced more stories than the three. In fact, the entire news department daily produced between 50 and 100 percent more stories than the old crew did. And, on my watch, the department won two Associated Press awards and two Community Broadcast Association Awards, as well as having a crew in Iraq with the 101st Airborne.

My success formula was both standard and risky. Effective beat coverage and realizing that in a small town all news is potentially big news…. This is a situation that was complicated by our separate coverage and broadcasts for Clarksville, Tn. and much smaller Hopkinsville, Ky.

However, after staff resistance continued, something less orthodox and more politically incorrect was used. One of the very few advantages of being an old fart in broadcasting is that you’re probably not thinking about your next move up the market ladder. As for me, I didn’t have to play the P.C. game anymore.

So, I called a general news meeting and laid it all out in no uncertain terms. I recall it went something like this: "I’m at the end of my career ladder. For me this is overtime. There’s nothing you can really do that will hurt me. But, you people, however, are just starting your climb. And you will need all the help you can get.

"As I see it, you have two choices you can be my buddy and I will guarantee to help you get out of here and to a good station or you can be my adversary and get screwed.”

Then Hanna chimed in with her usual brand of spoiled brat insolence: ”We just won’t list you as a reference.”

Now, let me explain a bit about Hanna, who epitomized one of the two types of people who worked at WKAG. Hanna, one of three reporters at the Clarksville bureau, was about 27, lived by herself in a luxury three bedroom apartment, had a maid drop by once a week and drove a late model Mercedes hardtop after selling her Range Rover. This would stretch anyone’s budget considering the $14,800 annual salary most staffers received. Yet, the salary is the one thing about which she seldom complained.

However, she had one saving grace…. being a pretty good journalist when on a big story. Unfortunately for her, there hadn’t been many big stories in Clarksville ever since the last train left.

Hanna and several other people on the news staff were being supported by their parents. While, others had left the nest completely and were scraping by on their own, often living in sub standard lodging.

And, what I found was that the self-sufficient people had a stronger work ethic and complained less than the pampered staffers, even though they had more cause considering the absurd salaries they earned.

In the end, the unit was clicking along, often producing so many local stories there wasn’t room for some in the daily rundowns. This was a stark contrast to my early days here.

A year later, at the end of my stay, I only wished I had started in television news 20 years earlier. Maybe then I wouldn’t have had to contend with the enormous technological and even greater generational obstacles at WKAG TV. The sad fact of life of today’s journalism, with contracting staffs and multiple jobs, is you have to know so much more than before. Doyens of American broadcasting such as Edward R. Murrow and Walter Cronkite, first breaking into television from radio and print, might have trouble finding jobs today. They simply wouldn’t have the production experience expected of young recruits.

But don’t get me wrong. This was fantastic experience; coming at a time when I had thought my 35-year-long news career was finished.

Still, there was a bill to pay? My wife back in England left me for another guy at the end of my contract with WKAG. I was our 25th anniversary. It seems career obsession has its limit. Still, Old Man River just keeps rolling along. Oh, and my reporter, Mona, did, indeed get her eyebrows waxed. But, she covered the story, too.

Note: This story is true, but some of the names have been changed to avoid embarrassment…but they know who they are.

That was largely due to the rebuilding of the team and getting them working as a unit.

When a new person takes over a small operation such as this, where everyone seems to depend on one another for assistance, there often is initial friction, confrontation and hurt feelings. These issues are usually resolved through discussion, compromise or personnel departing to greener pastures. My year at WKAG afforded me all of these things, with several staffers leaving and opening the door for me to hire more and more staff loyal to me, largely because I was a job seeker’s dream come true. After the hell I had experienced looking for work, I had long promised myself that if I were again in position to hire people, I would never make them go through what I had endured. So going against all hiring practice, I would dip into my barrels full of tapes and applications, in the manner of a lottery. I pulled out a few at a time until I found someone I liked. Then, almost as if the MC on Let’s Make a Deal, I would phone the unsuspecting applicant and tell her or him, “If you want the job, come on down.” Of course, much of this depended on how desperate I was for a replacement, especially if someone took off without proper notice. But, generally prospective hires would come to the station for a brief tryout, if any. After which they would almost always be offered a job at a salary so low I often felt embarrassed offering it. But, I had no say in the matter since wages were set by the New Era management.

Another thing I always did was take calls from job seekers. I had long felt that the human element was leaving journalism, something that’s far more prevalent and relevant today. I firmly believed if a journalist wouldn’t take time to communicate with a colleague, how good would he be talking to the public? And besides, it’s just being civil to someone.

I would even advise job seekers to ignore the “no phone calls” phrase included in job ads. From my experience, where I often received dozens of applications per week, the people who would stand out were the ones who called me. My reasoning to applicants and my own senior staff members was, “What do you have to lose? Chances are if you do call, the boss will talk to you and remember you one way or another.” This meant, odds-wise, that applicants would still have a better chance of being shortlisted for a job.

Roughly about 80 percent of my applicants through the year I was at WKAG were young women, most fresh out of journalism schools. As films such as Drop Dead Gorgeous and To Die For pointed out, TV news had become the new and more accessible path to fame and fortune for these aspirants, some of whom might have previously set their sights on the more distant goal of Hollywood stardom.

I recall my producer was leaving and I needed someone rather quickly. So, I dipped into my bin of tapes and applications and called several women, who listed production experience on their resumes. Now, you might think someone just out of college would jump at any job opportunity. Ah, but that was during my youth. This was the so-called “Entitlement Generation,” where wet behind the ear grads expected to jump right to the top jobs they wanted. And the job 95 percent of all my female applicants wanted was to be on-air…a reporter position leading to that pinnacle of success and fame – being a news anchor.

The four applicants I contacted turned down my job offer, which I found hard to believe. Then my lucky dip technique came up with a guy, Clint Bennett, who actually wanted to be a producer. I was shocked and overjoyed at the same time. “How soon can you get down here?” I asked. “I’m on my way,” he replied. And the rest is history being made…Clint proved to be a super young man who knew his job and did it in a no-nonsense fashion. The last I heard, he was working as a producer in Anchorage, Alaska. I’m sure, if he stays in the business he will develop into a top news director.

WKAG was an entry-level station for first time jobbers. I used to say, “Spend a year here and you can go anywhere.” That was mainly because the management didn’t want higher salary multi year employees. The station was geared to be a revolving door for staffers at a paltry $14,000 per year. It was a place where they could get some hard practical experience and have that all-important first job on their resumes. With this, they could then move on to their second job.

My position there was mainly two-fold: that of an assignment editor and of a quality control person. But, it really went further than those…because I was the boss and easily old enough to be everyone’s father, I often had to nurse hurt feelings, homesickness and staff disputes. This went with the territory at such a small local station. On the other hand, I made more than twice their salary for doing less real work.

One of the time consuming chores was breaking-in new people and getting them acquainted with the area. Most had never been further away from their homes than college, so this was a new experience. That’s when I decided to write and print a guide to the station and area appropriately titled: Welcome to Newswatch 43. The 30-page booklet relieved me of giving guided tours to new staffers.

But, the biggest ongoing problem I had was news writing. Many of these university grads from good schools didn’t have a proper grasp of English grammar. As I pointed out earlier in this book, for me this was ironic…the news director who got into journalism to avoid taking high school English, winding up teaching his staff proper grammar.

I recall one of my hires, a Temple University grad who was an Indian girl raised in Dubai, continually made the same grammar and usage mistakes. Frustrated, I used the one sure cure for all obstinate young news people… threaten to cut her stories from the daily run downs. That did the trick. She went on to a successful long stint at a station in Michigan and married a guy she met there.

Hopkinsville was a town of 32,000 and like so many American cities was spread out over a large area, which as was the case with WKAG, made it seem much bigger than it actually was. Yet, it didn’t resemble many other rural areas highlighted only by a grain elevator, train track and a drive-in restaurant. Oh, all those things were there, but the town was composed of mainly middle to upper class homes, as well as plenty of down-market houses, too. And, what really marked its importance was a Wal-Mart superstore, which seemed to be packed day and night.

Since Hopkinsville was primarily a semi rural bedroom community there wasn’t much for my 20-something crew to do après’ work, aside from hanging around Wal-Mart or cruising the Sonic drive-ins. But there was one bar in this town that rocked, mainly because the Loose Floor was the only bar in town.

The Loose Floor was a place where young and old congregated for games, karaoke evenings or just drinking. One of my minor triumphs in Hopkinsville took place there. It had a basket hoop for free throws and we would gather around and challenge each other. I recall one of my crew, Seth Bauguess betting me I couldn’t make five or 10 free throws in a row. I can’t remember how many. Well, after I won the bet, he claimed I was a hustler.

Seth seemed a bit more mature or well grounded than most of the Newswatch Team. And he looked like an on-campus Young Republicans poster boy. In truth, he was the token male liberal in a sea of red. He once asked me: What are you doing here? It was the most profound question I was ever asked during that year. Of course that excludes Mona Nair’s thought provoking question asking if she had to cover a story that conflicted with her eyebrow waxing appointment.

The Loose Floor was especially welcoming on holidays, when it seemed half the town packed into the frame structure. I recall I spent New Year’s Eve 2004 there with my then wife who was visiting for a couple of weeks. The management provided free phony Champagne.

In fact, that holiday season was probably my happiest time there. Since we all were strangers in town, we had the same loneliness and alienation feelings. So, a visit from Cherry was really what I needed to complete the second half of my year at WKAG. But more than that, with the staff by that time largely composed of my hires, the holidays seemed to mold us into a cohesive unit…sort of an artificial family.

That feeling and seeing how hard these young people worked at their jobs moved me to sort of say “thanks” by organizing and paying for Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners at the station, as well as a New Year dinner at a local restaurant, attended by my wife, appropriately during a snowfall. I mean I could have asked Eddie to reimburse me, but somehow I didn’t bother doing that.

Chapter 40 The Home Stretch

Cherry, who originally said she would come to stay with me if I was successful, only stayed two weeks. Hannah was struggling at university and Daniel had just graduated with more than just his degree. So, she was needed in London. But, we agreed that I try to return home by mid June in time for the wife’s first art show at Chelsea College. That coincided with our 25th wedding anniversary, a coincidence that girded me up for the long home stretch of my year in buffetland.

College journalist interns were always welcome at a low budget shop such as WKAG. One such person was an attractive blonde Anne Petraeus, the daughter of then Fort Campbell commander General David Petraeus. She was a good worker and learned fast. Yet, she was gone in not time at all. Then came Johnny Kane, Clint Bennett’s frat brother from Ohio U. He was a natural broadcaster, also learned fast and never left. After he completed his internship I hired him as a full time sports reporter and spare time tennis partner.

The biggest worry I had was someone leaving rather quickly. To be perfectly frank, the fast pace of TV news, especially at a small local station, meant a news director looking for someone wanted that person to start yesterday. This was because some staffers would leave with only a few days notice. “Dan, I have been offered a job in Nashville I have to be there next week,” is how it went. This meant I often didn’t have time for a normal applicant search. Remember, I said I was a job hunter’s dream come true.

Her name was Kelli Carlisle, a young woman from Salt Lake City who had been working in administrative department of a Nashville TV station. The moment I watched her tape I was on the phone to her. She had a good delivery, poise, was attractive and a bit older than most others on the staff….maturity for a news anchor is a plus factor. Oh, and better yet, she was only 90 miles away.

Once again I had the opportunity to do my Price Is Right call: Kelli Carlise, come on down! And she did, staying there long after I had left. Aside from an initial screw up of forgetting to take tapes along on an assignment at Fort Campbell, Kelli moved right into an anchor position, as I figured she would. Eventually, I advised Eddie to appoint her news director after I left. That’s the most realistic scenario for such a small operation. Kelli’s maturity and no nonsense style made her a natural for such a role.

Yet, the highlight of my year at WKAG had to be our distinction and honor being invited by the US Army to send two staffers to cover the 101st Airborne Division for a month in Iraq. That’s right, our little local news station was suddenly an international player: thanks to our proximity to Fort Campbell, home of the 101st and our good relations with its honcho, Gen. Petraeus, whose daughter was one of my interns.

The feat was deemed good enough for a feature story in the November 2003 issue of the Radio and Television News Directors Association’s Communicator Magazine.

Yet, on the surface this seemed a lot easier than it was. There were security checks, waivers of responsibility and vaccinations for the lucky crew of Hannah and Josh. But the best part was that it was a free ride, courtesy of Uncle Sam. Our threadbare news operation could hardly afford such an assignment.

The plan was simple: Hannah and Josh would fly with the Army to Kuwait, drive with the Army from Kuwait to Iraq and up to the 101st headquarters at Mosul. From there, they would do spot stories when they could get some satellite time to file them via CNN. However, their main job was talking to as many troops as possible, giving them a chance to say hello to their relatives back home.

Things worked out fairly well. We had hoped to get more on-scene reports than we did…but our minimal resources and small station size meant receiving equally minimal media treatment regarding satellite usage. In the end, we had to pin our hopes on what Hannah and Josh brought back. Which leads me to the most amazing part of the adventure…getting them back home.

After their month with the 101st, they were driven back to Kuwait and what they thought would be a flight home. But, getting back with the Army was another matter. Most flights were bringing troops in, not out. The pair was told their wait would be indefinite. And to make matters worse, the Army couldn’t provide accommodation for them longer than a few days. Just fine…a couple of young employees stranded in Kuwait… Well, not quite.

Hannah knew what to do when she got into trouble…call her wealthy parents. Without telling us, or Josh, she had her parents get her a ticket back to Washington DC….one ticket. She effectively deserted her crewmember… something that isn’t just bad form, but pretty bad anyway you look at it. The first I heard of this was a call on my mobile phone from Josh’s tearful wife. I recall I was driving back from showing Clint, who had just started, the Clarksville bureau…where Hannah normally worked. Josh’s wife was beside herself with worry: “Hannah just left him there,” she said.

I rushed in to see Eddie, angry as hell, telling him I would fire her the moment she arrived. However, I was informed that Hannah had us over a proverbial barrel. Not only is she the star in this mammoth ongoing assignment, but also when she left Josh she took the tapes with her, a masterstroke of sorts. If we caused her grief, she might not give us the tapes. Hannah compounded her unprofessionalism after she arrived back by taking a few unauthorized days off to see her parents and pick up her dog. This was happening while we were spending lots of money getting Josh back on his own, all part of the day to day trials at a small town TV station…it probably could make a good sit-com. But, it wasn’t over yet. Once Hannah arrived back to experience my fury, she didn’t think she did anything wrong. She couldn’t, in her sociopathic mentality, fathom why we were so angry with her, a budding major market anchor in the making. I mean you couldn’t have scripted this any better. I recall her daydreaming out loud about all the job offers she was going to get as a result of this assignment. Yet when I left WKAG, she was still there sending out resumes. To be fair, she did win an AP award for her work.

Time moved on swiftly. Eddie wound up buying the station from the New Era, which had been trying to unload it as a costly addition it didn’t need. In an instant, he became a local media mogul. I recall having a meeting with him about cost cutting measures. These included cutting a staffer from the Clarksville bureau. I also gave him my written recommendation, the main one being to get rid of me when my year was done.

I told him, something he probably knew, that a small news operation such as his didn’t need the expense of a full-time news director. Many similar stations had a combination news director/anchor position, which was more efficient and cost effective. That’s when I suggested that Kelli, as the most mature staffer, should take over the job.

Cutting one staffer from Clarksville was rough for me. It was the only time I had to sack someone. And, amazingly, the decision wasn’t made on the basis of merit, but on longevity. Remember I said the station was a first step in the career process. And when staffers reached their first anniversary, we encouraged them to move on, mainly to avoid having to pay them higher salaries. Keisha had outstayed her administrative welcome. But, what initially seemed like bad luck for my ultimate minority reporter, a black woman with a Hispanic name, turned out to be a stroke of good fortune. I managed to get her a better job at a new TV station close to her home in Arkansas. That made me feel good and turned her gloom to total joy.

Spring ended with me winning a first place and three third places at the annual Hopkinsville Senior Games. My first was in the mile walk, where I set a blistering pace. I must admit this seemed almost as rewarding as working at the station. Before I knew, it was June and my time at WKAG was almost at an end….this swansong to my long and checkered news career.

------Chapter 41 Moving On

Kelli agreed to drive me to Nashville Airport and pick me up on my return from London. This was a very nice gesture, which I partly attributed to gratitude for giving her a career that she had been trying in vain to have. It was June 10th. I had planned my departure to arrive in ample time to take Cherry out for our 25th wedding anniversary celebration on June 15th. I arrived back June 11th and instead of me surprising her, a day after my arrival I was treated to a garden party she had organized in my honor.

I must admit I was bowled over by a sign across our rather small backyard reading: “Welcome Home Dan.” About 25 of our friends attended this shindig, which went on until the evening. And, to make things near perfect, the weather was great. Yet, in light of what would transpire two months later, this would seem like a very cynical event in my life.

Three days later I took the wife out for a dinner and show on the South Bank. That was followed the next day with a look at her long awaited art showing at Chelsea College. Yes, while I was away, she had been occupying her time studying art and also marine navigation, which proved to have a special interest for her.

I had to return to Hopkinsville for a final work week. Cherry agreed to fly out there in a month, help me pack up and leave with me on what should have been a second honeymoon trip across America. Well, at least that’s what I thought it should have been.

Kelli picked me up at the airport as planned. I could tell from talking to her she had already begun moving into my shoes. Still, I had 10 days to go and only a week to my 63rd birthday. That was a chance to throw a little party for myself at my apartment, attended by my loyal staff. Then a few days later, we all drove to a pizza parlor near Ft. Campbell and went on to Hooters, in Clarksville, for some serious beer drinking. And that was it… the end…my year at WKAG was over. But would I miss those $6 buffets and morning trivia wins on a local radio station? The next difficult part was waiting for my loving wife to arrive in three weeks. I occupied my time by doing something I thought I wouldn’t have to do again…hitting the help wanted ads. I still hadn’t had enough. I couldn’t accept the fact that at 63 I was deemed unemployable too much of the news industry. I figured, coming off a successful management job, that I might be a valuable asset some place. But I would find being the honcho at a small news shop carried little or no weight at my age. You see, had I been even 10 years younger, employers could envision a future with me.

So, this time I was able to find my way to the Social Security office and the unemployment line, as well. In fact, all that my stay at WKAG did for me was to satisfy my own ego and increase my old age benefit amounts, which were welcomed.

I met Cherry at Nashville and we took a long leisurely drive back to Hopkinsville, hitting some of the scenic spots along the way. When we arrived at my apartment, she noticed I had already begun packing my belongings. Even though I came with only a couple of bags, I had acquired a few pieces of furniture and household goods during the year. And the final job was getting rid of most of it. Some went to my staff and some to the Salvation Army.

I can’t remember the exact date, but it was a day, late in July, when I dropped off my apartment keys and we headed north out of Hopkinsville. The plan was to head up through Illinois, Wisconsin, Minnesota, South Dakota, and eventually arriving in Seattle, Washington. Then we would drive down the scenic coast route to Los Angeles. But, the most daunting part of this adventure was doing this long trip in my 1991 Ford Probe, a car that had seen better days. Still, it had seen me though a year in Hoptown without many problems, so with luck it wouldn’t let us down on our continuing mission, to explore new worlds and go where no couple had gone before.

Our first major stop was Madison, Wisconsin, which I fell in love with during my endless Greyhound odyssey a few years earlier. And we acted just like other tourists, visiting the state capital building and having lunch on State Street. We had our northern route planned to hit as many low cost motels as possible. Yet, until we got to the South Dakota Badlands, the scenery was less than memorable. Things got real interesting when we drove through Rapid City and into the gorgeous Black Hills region, an area that travelogues don’t do justice. Just because it lacks the elevation of the Rockies didn’t make it any less rustic and arboreal. And, of course, we had to stop at Mt. Rushmore. We then spent the night in a town appropriately named Custer, after the 7th Cavalry commander who illegally invaded the region to drive out the Sioux Native American tribe in a quest for gold. And we all know what eventually happened to him.

Continuing on, we drove through the hills and high plains of Wyoming and were left almost breathless when we first viewed the Grand Tetons. Unfortunately, our time schedule and plans mandated that we stop only briefly at Jackson and skip Yellowstone. Our big adventure was driving over the mountain pass from Jackson to Idaho. Would the car make it? Yes, it did!

We were seeing so much, yet doing so much driving, we decided to skip Seattle and head for Bend, Oregon, from where we would drive south to California and eventually Sherman Oaks. Bend was a lovely town, almost idyllic with a village lake, a ski resort nearby all in a rustic atmosphere. Yet for me it was more than a picturesque romantic stop on our second honeymoon trip…it would be a life changing experience.

I recall it was a sunny morning in early August when Cherry got up in our motel room and out of the blue proclaimed, “Dan I’m moving on in my life and I want to move on without you.” “What are you talking about?” I asked. To which she replied, “I want to go places you won’t go. I want to go sailing with someone who really knows how to sail.” And, although I didn’t fully take in what she was saying at the time, which seemed like a line from an old Woody Allen film, this was the end of my 25-year marriage.

A couple of weeks later, I was 63-years-old and back in London, where the late summer gloom was indicative of my own emotional state. Gone was any sense of the euphoria I experienced just two months earlier with that “Welcome Home Dan” banner. Now I was there negotiating my divorce with my soon to be ex-wife who made that banner. In a few months, I would evolve from being co-owner of a million dollar London house to the status of vagabond, a latter day “boomer” as the old roving hacks were called. And, to add a large dose of salt to my festering wound, the same time my divorce was being finalized, my mother passed-away. I was never there at the end for either of my parents. And I felt my mom might have lived even longer than 95 had I been around more.

======

Chapter 42 Is That It?

I flew back to L.A. for the funeral and then on to a town called Hopewell, Virginia. Why there? The one brief bright spot I had during this sad time was getting another job, one my ex-wife, years earlier, maintained I couldn’t get, over the Internet….Remember? At 63 I was hired as managing editor of a small local daily newspaper in Hopewell, a rather non-descript southern town on the Appomattox River. I didn’t know it at the time, but this was a paper in trouble (a normal state for the print media) and the job would be another of those poison chalices from which I had managed to drink.

The publisher never mentioned a declining circulation of about 5,000 five days per week, a declining staff and the fact I would be the backstop man in case the layout person couldn’t be found. You see, while I knew how to lay out pages, technology had moved ahead so fast, I also was responsible to do the actual desktop computer layout. This was via a program known as Quark Express. I didn’t know how to do this. Still, the experience taught me a latter day lesson about the new journalism. Rapidly, the emphasis was shifting from content to presentation. An editor was becoming more a page designer than remaining a traditional journalist in the cost cutting publishing revolution.

No matter, for a brief interlude, I had achieved another goal: to be a newspaper editor. Unfortunately, it was in a town not many people had heard of, at a paper not that many people in Hopewell read, and in a dying industry. My first challenge was to set the coverage with the limited resources I had. I mean I wound up using my miniature digital camera to take photos for the paper. Shortly after I arrived, we lost one staff reporter and a stringer. In the end, I was left in the position of being an editor covering stories such as dog shows and school parent evenings.

A main problem was the paper’s parent company didn’t want to spend any money on staff or equipment. It’s almost as if they wanted the paper to fail. This and the desktop layout problem, along with some cruel sniping from the publisher’s wife, moved me to send an e-mail to the boss, telling him to get another guy.

Thus, ended my short-lived editorship and my job. I was alone in a small apartment in Virginia, once again looking for work. Could things get any worse? Yes…It was about this time I developed a persistent irregular heartbeat called atrial fibrillation, which doctors attributed to the stress I had been under since my divorce. This would prove to be somewhat of a debilitating condition for an active person such as me. Aside from having to take a beta blocker daily, I just didn’t have the strength and stamina of old and it suddenly made me aware that I was old.

So, in the summer of 2005, one year after my disastrous “second honeymoon” trip across America, I packed up the red 1991 Toyota Celica I had bought at an auction for $1,200 and set out from Virginia, first to my sister in Sherman Oaks and then north to Seattle, Washington. I had decided if I was going to start a new life anywhere, it had to be in a place that had a climate similar to London.

Once in Seattle, I hooked up with Andy Ryan, a long lost colleague from my days at the Philadelphia Journal who was working as a public relations rep for the city. He helped me find my way around. Eventually, I found my way to Hilltop House, a high-rise apartment complex for seniors appropriately surrounded by Seattle’s top hospitals. They called the area “Pill Hill.”

The advantages of Hilltop were many: a modern studio apartment with all utilities included plus an evening meal for less than $500 per month, a security building and parking for my car for an extra $50 per month. I kept my place for 13 months. During this time, I managed to get some part-time work running a website for Law Seminars International Also, I embarked on online dating, something that would become so habit forming that I eventually would write a book about my experiences as a single senior looking for love.

The Law Seminars gig was my introduction to editing a website, as such. The firm was concerned with the legal aspects of green issues and my job was to daily maintain a site filled with environmental news. The pay was just beer money, but the work was easy and enlightening as far as acquainting me with telecommuting.

When I flew to London for a month, I was able to maintain the site from there without missing a beat. Sadly, the gig only lasted about 10 months, ending due to lack of interest and revenue production. But the experience taught me that age was no real barrier in getting and doing telecommuting jobs. However, finding them would be another matter.

After about six months at Hilltop, I needed more outside activities to occupy my time. I had romantic fantasies about sailing around Puget Sound and its many picturesque islands. So, I bought a boat…a 1974 Challenger 32 for the low price of $12,500. I had been looking for a boat just like this blue water craft with plenty of headroom and a wide beam. In other words, a boat I could live on. So, I left my apartment and the walker brigade at Hilltop, took another long vacation in London and moved onto the boat when I got back to Seattle.

My address switched to the South Park Marina. This was a comparatively low cost facility given the facts it was up the polluted Duwamish River and was overshadowed by the 16th Street Drawbridge. Plus, its main scenic attractions were being on the Sea-Tac Airport landing path and across the river from an abandoned Boeing plant where WWII B-17s bombers were made. But, all these scenic plus points didn’t mean a high berth fee. It was quite low.

I named my strangely nameless craft Daydream Believer after the 60s Monkees song and got to work on a journal of sorts on my adventures in senior dating-land. This proved to be a work in progress because I seemed to learn something new with every female encounter. I had never intended to do anything other than a long essay, until my old mentor Colin Dangaard read it, loved it and prodded me almost every step of the way into writing a book, Across a Crowded Room, which I had published in 2007. Writing this was a challenge for a guy used to doing 700 word, page-lead tabloid stories or 200 word broadcasting spots. But more than anything, researching the book, which meant going on endless dates in a search for Miss Right, made me realize how old I was becoming by the company I was keeping -- women whose tummies were often larger and more wobbly than their breasts. In some cases, they were simply a mirror image of my figure, which I attributed in part to doctors messing up my thyroid gland in trying to control my heart rate and to endless munching in my TV watching solitude.

There were a couple of semi-serious affairs...but nothing that lasted. It was often a case of them not liking me or me not liking them. I must admit to being rather shallow in this respect.

Shortly after having the book published, I was an unemployed vagabond and had temporarily moved back in London. I was living in a small bedsit apartment, an 11 ft. by 12ft room with a tiny kitchenette and a bath. My yearly routine was travelling from my boat in Seattle to a visit with my sister in L.A. and, then, on to London, to spend time with my kids and friends. The London leg was quite costly for an unemployed person. But, my savings and divorce settlement kept me afloat.

Peering out the window, over endless terrace house rooftops, accented by an elevated highway flyover, I asked myself: Is this how it ends, in a room with a loo? My kids had their own lives, the few friends I had left were scattered all over the world. Even my old buddy Ben became distant with age.

Ben had left porn, to become a minor London rental property baron of sorts, rebranding himself from skin merchant to the urban gentry. Why hadn’t he offered me a place to stay when I was willing to pay him rent? “Sorry Dan…You won’t pay what I ask for my flats,” he told me in his characteristic half-joking manner. It brought back a discussion we had decades earlier. It went something like, “People use other people… friendship has nothing to do with it…everyone uses someone.” And when they are of no further use, they are expendable. I just didn’t fit in with his new pretentious upmarket life.

And on top of everything else, the online journalistic revolution meant only a lucky elite actually got paid for writing. In the so-called Blogosphere, most people did things for free or next to nothing. For me, it was my current affairs website, Hard Truths ( www.hard-truths.blogspot.com). Other than being an ego high and giving me something to do, it was just literary masturbation. But, it kept my brain and typing fingers working. On the other hand it also led to regular blogging for the UK version of the Huffington Post (https://huffingtonpost.co.uk/dan-ehrlich/ .

What about teaching journalism, or as it’s more commonly referred to now communications or media studies? This appeared to be my new direction, especially after going over a few college newspapers. Some were terrible. I didn’t know who was teaching these students, if they were being taught anything at all. I mean it really was as simple as 5 Ws and an H. Yet, apparently you need a doctorate or at least a master’s degree to teach kids this maxim. And there’s a bit of irony here.

You work 40 years at a career thinking you will end up a mentor, only to be told by dilettantes that you’re not qualified. But not always.

======

Chapter 43- What Did I Get Myself Into?

There was one time when I thought my late-in-life ship had arrived in the San Francisco Bay Area, and of all places, Fremont. I was hired online, sight-unseenn, as the student media adviser for Ohlone Community College. At first this seemed as if it was perfect for my needs...a well paying part- time job. I described this ‘dream job’ below:

Teaching is one area where age may have an advantage, but seniors thinking of a late-in-life stab at education work may want to think again.

People are living longer and working longer. The idea of retirement for some isn't just a prospect of less income to spend, but boredom, as well. Besides, how many Saga cruises can you afford to take? So, if you're a living member of the rapidly declining WWII generation or even a baby boomer, the biggest challenge you may face is fitting into this Brave New World where just being friendly and doing your job can be one's undoing in a time of petulant entitled young people whose feelings are easily bruised and take to the streets when an election doesn't go their way.

I was a 75-year-old London based American journalist with the self deluded idea of spending my golden years teaching the younger generation about the career field that had given me so much. But, I made the mistake of ignoring today's reality that the journalism I practiced for more than 50 years had changed and broadened into something out my skill set.

I had to travel 6,000 miles to Ohlone Community College in Fremont, California for what was billed as a part-time job as a student newspaper adviser to learn this hard lesson and a couple of present day realities: Today the inmates are running the asylum. No, that's not PC...Today in America the students are running the schools in the classic “customer is always right” working environment, the end result of growing competition among colleges for students. And, as an adjunct instructor I would actually be at the mercy of those students.

Fremont is sort of an annex to Silicon Valley a few miles across San Francisco Bay. But with a salary quoted to me of 13,900 dollars for a 17 week semester, why not? After all, I had taught some survey courses at a London university and had been a frequent guest journalism lecturer at various colleges.

I'll tell you why not. For a newbie to college teaching in the USA there are pitfalls, one of which is the fine print on your contract. It's one thing when the dean's assistant writes you what your salary will be and another after a week or two of classes, when students begin dropping those classes and that assured salary begins to disappear. In my case, I wasn't alerted to this until five weeks after the start of the semester. But that's for later.

My initial problems were not knowing exactly what my duties would be and about the students whom I would be advising. Being a WWII kid, I had absolutely no experience of the current generation, which is a key to success in teaching now. Gone are the days of boisterous students standing in a metaphorical corner or being sent to the dean's office. I hate to say this but today there's something vaguely reminiscent about the Soviet Union where students are quick to report you to the department heads for any actions or language that deviates from the millennial PC handbook. https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/trump-and-academia-actually- have-a-lot-in-common/2017/01/27/34123034-e3fc-11e6-a453- 19ec4b3d09ba_story.html?wpisrc=nl_opinionsA&wpmm=1

And how do you inspire or relate to some students at a two-year college who had been attending four or more years, using the school mainly as a safe comfort zone rather than a step towards a university degree or a career? http://nypost.com/2016/11/20/college-kids-are-proving-trumps- point/ I recall one student saying after four years there she was thinking of leaving because students weren't given personal Ohlone email addresses.

My idea of the job was that of a watchdog and guide making sure the students didn't produce libelous stories and kept the school newspaper, The Monitor, running smoothly. And, yes I was also eager to coach, even mentor some aspiring journalists.

Aspiring journalists, a term I found rare at Ohlone since the college didn't have a well developed journalism program, just one course in news writing. Most of the staffers were pickups from related majors looking for an easy and fun-filled three units. Things became so tough for the Monitor it had to advertise for writers. And that was a major part of the problems I encountered.

When, as with many college and university newspapers, the staff is populated solely by journalism majors who have to work for the paper as part of their degree, they usually make a strong effort to follow instructions, knowing that their grade may depend on how they react to the instructor.

Yet, since the Monitor was being composed mainly by non journalism students who had no intention of a career in the news media, their strongest motivation when hit with criticism of their work was to drop the class and complain to the dean about the instruction or course content. No student ever complained to me about anything even though I verbally encouraged feedback. http://www.facultyfocus.com/articles/teaching-and- learning/the-five-rs-of-engaging-millennial-students/

Now this didn't apply to everyone, just a few students, but enough to cause concern at the dean's office, which was another curve ball thrown at me. The dean who negotiated my contract and hired me was not the person to whom I would depend on for support, something that would complicate my salary.

When I heard which department I would be under I could only think of Woody Allen's lines from his film Annie Hall: “Those who can, do, those who can't, teach. Those who can't teach, teach gym.” Yes, the dean was a gym teacher. For some bizarre reason the same day I arrived the news media classes were transferred from humanities to the athletics department. This was my first warning shot of things to come. Who in their right academic mind would place a creative communications class in the athletics department?

I began the semester with 16 regular students and three so-called special projects students, people who couldn't attend what was a workshop class, usually because of other work, but contributed stories to the paper for class credit. After a few weeks that number fell to 11 regulars and two specials. In fact, I never even met or saw some of those who dropped. They were like phantoms on the class roster. My worries were dampened by knowing the former adviser had only seven students on the staff.

Still, the main problem was having those students attend the Monday, Wednesday, Friday workshops. Normally between nine or 12 would show up. These sessions were mainly to assign stories and allow the staff members to work on them. But, since so many students had to work at outside jobs, for some attending every session was a premium. Recent studies show that most community college students have outside jobs that keep them from full-time attendance. http ://gawker.com/5844224/most- college-students-are-part-time-and-none-of-them-graduate

To help Monitor staff members have access to the newsroom, what was billed as a part-time job instantly became a full-time one with me in attendance from 10 am. to around 3 pm. or 4 pm. five-days per week, with the exception of Wednesday, the paper's layout day, which meant around a 13 hour stint ending at midnight or even later and all of this without any additional pay. This was not what I was expecting from retirement work.

As I said, I came from a different generation when a journalist was a reporter/writer and an editor supervised reporters. In an age of media convergence, all that is out the window as are the teaming publication composing rooms staffed by numerous layout artists. Today, it's all done upstairs by journalists skilled in desktop publishing. I wasn't one of those people. And in hindsight, I can't see how or why I was hired for this “part- time” job. As a noted educationalist explained, millennial students tend to rate a teacher by his or her techno knowledge. I can only guess I received a D grade on this score.

Aside from helping the students with their Monitor assignments, I was supposed to help them layout pages via the Adobe InDesign computer desktop publishing program, which I have never seen before and on iMac computers which I had never before used... On top this I was also expected handle the paid and unpaid advertising in the paper.

When I took over the Monitor class, all but two of the staff from the previous semester had left. The two remaining students were the core of the paper, in as much as one was the editor and both were skilled in the desktop publishing program. Luckily a few of the 14 new staffers were computer design majors and had some knowledge of InDesign.

But I wasn't out of the woods. It turned out the editor worked during the day and could only attend the class Friday, after the paper had already been published, with her using a green 19 year-old student as her deputy during her absence. In essence, for much of the time the editor became one of the phantom staff members, seldom seen but whose presence was known. This was another curve ball that I hadn't expected.

I, myself, had hoped to be sort of a phantom, allowing the staff to have total editorial freedom except when I was needed for advice, instruction and the all important post mortem Friday critique of the Monitor. Dream on...The absence of the 22-year-old editor meant I had to be more visible during class hours, including maintaining order at the late Wednesday sessions. What I found bemusing was that in high school it usually was the fabled jock guys who created havoc in class, yet at college it was a few young women, often acting in class as if they were at a sorority mixer,while the male students worked quietly and diligently. This placed me in the position of a traditional grade school teacher, attempting maintain order and a work atmosphere which some students would dispute. They felt they had the right to behave as they wished. And the customer is always right, with the instructor relegated to the posture of restaurant waiter, there to suggest and explain, but never to criticize.

Part of the Monitor experience was teaching students about the workings of a professional news media operation. My attempts to press this idea were apparently rejected by a few staff members who objected to my “heavy handed” methods and the fact I appeared to be taking control of the paper.

What I failed to realize was the power individual students have in a nation where colleges and universities are have sprouted up like weeds. Today the ethos appears to be keeping students happy at all costs. That's one reason why some students are allowed to endlessly change their majors in an almost eternal attendance at Ohlone. The school can't afford to lose students. In such a competitive environment the student, while not always right, often has power over the teacher. They can dictate the manner in which they receive instruction and then rate the instructor.

Ohlone College is one of four community colleges within a 12 mile radius. The campus is literally being rebuilt and currently has an enrollment shortfall. This means intense competition for students. So when a few students dropped the class it caused concern among the administration. And when a few of those few complained, not to me, but to the dean, it meant an investigation by the Campus Gestapo, the Human Resources Department.

This probe coincided with the even more shocking revelation that the salary I was supposed to receive was subject to conditions of which, largely due to being a novice adjunct, I wasn't aware. When I originally applied for this job I was under the impression it was to be for one class, three days a week, part-time lasting 17 weeks. It wasn't until some time after I was hired that I saw the school course listing as having me advising eight classes...that's right, eight classes...But reading the fine print I learned most of the classes were combined. This still left me with three or four classes, the newspaper, photography and an advertising course, a subject of which I knew little. Ohlone, to enhance its media course offerings, had obviously padded up the classes ascribed to me, classes that, as with some of my students, were phantoms.

“No worry,” is what faculty members told me...They assured me I would only be advising the Monitor class and I left it at that. I left it at that until I was told I wouldn't be receiving a second paycheck for my second month. What I didn't know was my gross $13,900 salary was based on teaching two classes, one real one and one phantom class.

My first check netted me $2,299, which was fine...I could pay the rent, expenses and put money in the bank. A month later I was told there had been an error during the departmental change to Athletics. I had been paid double since I was now only teaching one course. I wouldn't be getting a check at all that month with my ensuing checks for $1,150...meaning after rent I would have $150 per month for living expenses.

It worked like this: If the 16 students I originally had were divided up in two classes, I would be receiving the salary originally quoted to me in writing. But, since most of my students wound up in one class, I would now be getting half of that salary. Had I known better I might have been able to make sure students registered in two different classes.

According to the latest stats, while colleges keep charging students higher tuition fees, they have been drastically cutting back on full-time tenured professors in favor of part-time adjunct instructors. Current figures place tenured full-time instructors at only 35 percent. With a majority of non tenured part-time instructors, schools such as Ohlone can play fast and loose with such faculty. http://www.forbes.com/sites/noodleeducation/2015/05/28/more-than-half- of-college-faculty-are-adjuncts-should-you-care/#67f4d7711d9b

Looking back at my experience I can't help thinking of the faculty union rep's amazement that had I traveled 350 miles from Los Angeles for a temporary “part-time” job. Well, again I guess there's no fool like and old fool, especially in a job dealing with millennial brats who have little respect for their elders, yet expect the world from these very people. One of the late-in-life problems facing my generation is realizing our self- reliance, straight-talk and social interaction isn't necessarily compatible with today's entitled youth.

On one hand I wound up doing something I didn't expect doing for students who complained of my behavior (raising my voice to stop them from raising hell in class) and on the other hand to be told my salary would be half of what I was expecting for doing almost double the work, with no overtime pay or relocation expenses.

Elder abuse is a crime in California. It's physical or emotional abuse of elderly people. In the millennial parlance I felt somewhat emotionally abused by my altruistic experience. I was literally thrown in the deep end without any coaching in how to deal with today's students and the workings of the school.

Given all this, with the new reality I would be losing money and my savings staying at Ohlone, I decided to cut and run with a quick contract buyout, a sad lesson learned: I should have taken an AARP ocean cruise. It would have been cheaper and a lot more fun. On the other hand, financially, with the buyout, I wound up in clover...enough to finance my trip back to London and more work.

My advice to seniors who would like to work in education: Be sure you know what the job entails Be sure you have all the skills needed Be sure you know the type of people with whom you will be dealing Be sure you know the conditions of your salary

Chapter 44

The Room Became Brighter

I've got to think again of the joke that London is the only place where you get up on a cold gloomy morning, pull open the curtains and the room becomes darker.

But that doesn’t stop me from looking for work when most people my age are happy collecting Social Security checks and going on ocean cruises. I firmly believe old age doesn’t kill old people, brain dead boredom does.

Looking for work is a lot like playing a slot machine, if you’re lucky your number will come up once in awhile. The trouble is the older you become the more the odds against you of hitting any sort of jackpot. Yet, for an employment addict such as me, I never tired of playing, hoping there would be that one late-in-life job to keep my brain alive.

Luckily, my year with Law Seminars International gave me some needed experience and appreciation for online web publishing as a telecommuter. Because of that in 2018 I hit a small jackpot when an application for a part- time job came through as the online editor of the St. Kitts and Nevis Observer, in the Caribbean. It didn’t matter that I was in London, or had never been to the Caribbean. That’s the joy of telecommuting. You can be anywhere as long as you have a laptop.

St. Kitts and Nevis (SKN) is the smallest country in the Western Hemisphere with about 55,000 citizens. The twin island nation has a weekly newspaper, the Observer and the Observer news website.

I must admit the Observer was the most unique employment situation I had encountered, one geared for the Internet. The paper’s office was on Nevis, but the main town, Basseterre, and seat of government was on St. Kitts, also where the chief reporter was stationed. Yet, the editor and publisher, an SKN citizen, lived in Florida and never seemed to even visit his homeland. On top of this, none of his staff, including me, had ever met him. He hired and fired people online. Salaries were paid by direct bank deposit. The situation was stranger than Charlie's Angels. Yet it worked, to a degree.

Not having a competent editor of the site meant no guidance and supervision for the two or three reporters covering SKN. That’s where I came in. My normal work consisted of searching the Internet for news stories, most of which had a Caribbean angle, to post on the Observer website. After a few months I was also asked by the boss to copy edit the reporters work for the weekly hard copy paper. Again, another advantage of Internet telecommuting.

My only contact with staff members was via e-mail, where I often had to critique the their work. They would e-mail copy to me, I would edit it and ship it back to the reporters. To be honest the work, while not well paying, in fact below the minimum US wage, was easy, enjoyable and kept me busy during the coronavirus pandemic.

You might say |I was ahead of the game when the killer virus struck. During the four month lockdown people were being encouraged to work from their homes, something I had been doing for a year by then. Unfortunately the pandemic was an economic disaster for the tourist dependent Caribbean. The Observer, starved of advertising revenue had to make cutbacks and I was one of them. But, it was fun while it lasted.

So, here I am out of work again at 79 and, of course, again looking for that one last job or assignment. Will there be one? I live in eternal hope, and in my room with a loo.

-30 -

Appendix

Hollywood Lows…high school memories by Dan Ehrlich Published in the Guardian (UK) 1997

Americans have long found it hard to deal with reality. Television is our time machine. Shows such as Baywatch and Beverly Hills 90210 are teenage fantasies created for a post-Cold War recession rocked nation going though an identity crisis.

For a country that has promised so much to everyone, contemporary America has no way of dealing with the long-negated and immense social problems threatening the fading veneer of national civility.

Hollywood is where America's international image is molded and packaged. Yet, the area itself is rarely depicted in realistic contemporary scenes. It's normally shown as the Hollywood of opulent bygone days, days of glamorous stars and luxurious cars.

Tinsel Town's very own and very real high school more accurately reflects the evolving nightmare of Hollywood today. It's an area in transition from glitz to vice, from tourism to urban terrorism, from the zenith of escapism to the reality of the street.

Hollywood is about six miles from the cloistered environs of Beverly Hills. The connection with the film industry remains, even if only in spirit. Today, the only thing they have in common is that Sunset Boulevard runs through both. For me, a visit to L.A. inevitably involves a drive by my old school. And even though its 1950s persona is now barely recognizable, waves of nostalgia still cover my body like a sudden bout of malaria.

This wasn't just any American high school, filled with hit cars and kids too match. This was Happy Days, Grease and Back to the Future rolled into one. This was the place where the ideas for many of these films actually took shape. And, it that sense, this was America itself, located in the center of world's dream factory. This was Hollywood High School. And we were the Sheiks, our team name, and also the name of a popular condom which proved the centerpiece to many jokes.

Yet, as I pass the graffiti-covered buildings surrounded by high wire and iron-bayonet fencing, offering no concealment to the ugly parking lot that used to be a green lawn, it becomes that much more difficult conjuring up a mental picture of what the school used to be like. That was in 1956 when, at 15, I walked onto the Campus for the first time.

Then I could never have imagined signs over the various entrances reading: "Metal detectors in operation. Don't bring firearms or other weapons on campus."

It was the beginning of what many musicians consider rock's greatest period. Chuck Berry, Elvis Presley, Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis, Buddy Holly, the Coasters, the Diamonds, the Platters, the Flamingos and the Fleetwoods, to name only a few, were setting the national tone.

The school had its own roll of honor. Stars such as Lana Turner, Carol Burnett, Linda Evans, Ricky Nelson, Sue Lyons and James Garner at one time attended.

So, HHS was maintained as an oasis of academia and greenery at the corner of Sunset Boulevard and Highland Avenue. It was the showbiz capital's showpiece 200 yards from the famed Chinese Theater and in sight of the Hollywood sign, lending it an official nature.

There were no fences or even teachers on patrol to keep kids from shooting-up or shooting each other. We didn't do those things, in any case. This was an "open campus." But, there was an "honor system." This allowed all students free access to all parts of the campus, to talk, mingle, eat lunch where they wished, as long as they were back in class when the bell rang. Try doing that today.

True, there were some breaches of this code, but most kids played by the rules. That's why Hollywood had one of the best academic records in Southern California.

On hot spring days students covered the lawns from Highland and Sunset, some studying, others eating. But the class-break beehive was always the quadrangle area where most of the kids would congregate. As in the film "Grease" we had special benches: neutral territory where teachers seldom ventured.

Seeing the school awakens images of people, some of whom I haven't heard from since. Guys such as stoned faced Gary Adams, goofy Steve Gordon, amiable and affluent Mike Ceraso, brainy and regal Spencer Hall, wise guy Mike Risdell, good natured Joe Fay and Steve Fine, the clown.

I remember male YMCA sponsored clubs such as the Athenians and Spartans attracted most of the female attention from such people at the future actress Linda Evans, mainly because they had most of the top athletes at members. While non-clubbers, like myself, found satisfaction with fellow soul-mates, hoping someday our true qualities would be realized and appreciated.

If you had the courage and money, you could try dining at the malt shop, or milk bar, across the street. But, it had a bad reputation. Most of the no- hopes would go there. People with nothing to lose, no grade-point average of note, no real ambition except to see what 'chick' they could pull and how far they could go. Saying this, some of these people may have wound up industrialists and professional people.

But, then there was the ultimate macho challenge---the Universal Studio Tour. Long before there was an official studio tour---one for which you had to pay---mainly senior class students and recent grads from Hollywood conducted their own albeit, unlawful excursions. They took place at night and usually involved a select group of us, with the occasional girl taken along so her 'man' could prove how macho he was.

The entry point was in the hills off Barham Boulevard a couple of miles from Hollywood's heart. The studio overlooked another famous studio, Warner Brothers. Our first challenge was to hurdle a barbed wire fence at a spot where its had grown close to the ground, obviously due to repeated use.

Once over the top, the goal was to have as much fun as possible, acting out scenes from films without being spotted by security guards.

Eventually the cops caught up with us. I think it must have been me blowing a cavalry charge on my mail order eight dollar bugle that did it. We scattered into the darkness.

Later, we regrouped and found the only casualty was none other than straight-At student and class valedictorian Spencer Hall. His shocked mother later collected him from the cops. Spencer his now the head of a graduate English programmer at a major East Coast university. I still have my bugle.

This was a time when American affluence was matched by our puritanical morality and sexual stupidity, exemplified by the top rated TV show of the day, Ozzie and Harriet. It depicted a model American couple, Ozzie and Harriet Nelson, with two clean-cut kids, David and Ricky Nelson, the antithesis of Beverly Hills 90210.

To me it seemed every boy would have sold his soul to have lived in that household, where life was just a series of harmless and good natured games. How appropriate, the, for Ricky Nelson to have actually attended Hollywood. We all knew that because of his name, carved into a wooden desk in Miss Miller's room, was clearly visible. But, he had since moved on to a private school.

I lived over the pass in North Hollywood. This meant taking the bus to and from school. The bus stop was on Highland Avenue, then a busy but a relatively safe street. Today, the bus stop is still there. But the kids have been replaced buy drug pushers, prostitutes, street people and all manner of sleaze normally associated with some seedy sections of New York. Hollywood Boulevard, from where that famed sign can be seen in the hills behind, looks something like New York's 42nd Street, except more dangerous. The star studded Walk of Fame has become the walk of shame.

But worse, the school reflects what the area itself has become. It's no longer an institution to prepare students for university, but to keep kids out of jail or the morgue---hopefully until they're 18.

Hollywood High has devolved into a hotbed racial strife, gun-running and drug dealing. Stupidly innocent excursions to Universal Studios have been replaced by the serious challenge of staying alive. "You got to watch out who you talk to or who you mess with here. Because there's a lot of shit going down all the time," Rudy, a student, sitting on the auditorium steps said, before the campus guards interrupted him.

There aren't many kids visible at lunchtime now. Most of the spacious front lawn has long since pave over. Even if they were still there, it would be too dangerous of a place to lounge. The fear of drive by shooters trying to even a score is always a possibility. Besides shooting-up dope or sniffing coke are things best done in private. Anyone lying on the remaining lawn these days will more than likely be on of L.A.'s down-and-outs, probably sleeping-off booze and drugs.

"There's a 10-strong full-time security force here," a humorless guard said, his upper body covered with the word 'Staff'. But he's no teacher and the large electric gates that seal off the school are to keep people out as well as to keep students in.

"This is a closed campus," he bellowed. "You can't come in here without permission." I couldn't help smiling a bit, thinking how times have changed. This was graphically illustrated by groups of students huddled against the fencing, as if in a penal colony.

These days Hollywood has what it takes for campus warfare, an ethnic mix of lower middle class and poverty level whites, blacks and Hispanics, many of whom not only hate each other but can't even understand each others language. Yet, most are trying for the same goal, to prove they exist and that life has meaning. And what's even more depressing, as bad as Hollywood High has become, it isn't as dangerous as some other LA inner city schools. Yet, it's part of the changing face of Los Angeles, of which Hollywood is only one area.

Crime and the high cost of property in Southern California is creating America's first eastward migration. As more and more affluent white, blacks and Hispanics flee Los Angeles for more secure areas to the north and northeast, a vacuum is being created. They leave behind a 500-square mile megalopolis with a rapidly declining tax base and expanding welfare roles.

It can be argued that from Hollywood eastward, and from the south of once fashionable Wilshire Boulevard, a socio-economic iron curtain has descended across Los Angeles. To make matters worse, the city is beginning to disintegrate like a water soluble aspirin tablet. LA, after all, is a rather artificial city, created like so many boom towns, with a largely transient population.

Now that the boom is over, the population is rotating, with low income minorities replacing upwardly and outwardly mobile whites. As for Hollywood, today you're more likely to see junkies and prostitutes along the star-studded walk of fame than the stars themselves.

Back in those happy days life was simple because we had few choices and few problems. America's 'classless society' was epitomized by Hollywood High....only five miles and yet light years away from the other Los Angeles, the one which, then, was rarely seen on television shows. This was the past that has shaped present-day America, an era when there was no time for thoughts about social injustice and deprivation at home. Of course, that was largely due to the paranoia about the Soviet threat abroad and the worst thing anyone could be branded was being a 'communist.'

We at HHS could only look in disbelief at TV pictures showing troops being called in to forcibly integrate Little Rock, Arkansas' Central High School. Such thing were alien to us on the 'liberal' West Coast.

America may be the most powerful nation since Rome, but like Rome it is decaying from within. It has the largest underclass, the most uninhabitable inner cities, the greatest socio-economic deprivation, greatest drug culture, largest teenage pregnancy rate, largest prison population and greatest murder rate of any major developed nation.

However, unlike Rome, I doubt if the US will last 1,000 years. It has taken us only 45 years to reach this sorry point.

So, as I once again drive by the old school, I can at least look back to those few good years of ignorant self indulgence and paraphrasing Humphrey Bogart mumble: "We'll always have Hollywood." But like Bogart and Ricky Nelson, the Hollywood of my youth, of what most things America was supposed to symbolize, is dead and buried.

-ends-

From Hard-Truths.blogspot.com Don't Hold Your Breath for Democracy in the Middle East by Dan Ehrlich

The protests and upheavals throughout the Middle East are more symptomatic of people realizing they have been ripped-off for generations by dictators and finally want a better deal, not necessarily better government, based on democracy and the rule of law.

Remember the Arabs are a timeless people to whom autocratic and theocratic rule has been a way of life for centuries. The idea of self-rule is an alien concept. The only reason it has worked so far in Iraq is because the US organized and im- plemented a democratic process there. The test will come after we leave.

The developed world should not place too much hope that the results of all these protests will be more democratic and humanitarian governments that will seek to live in peace with Israel and tribal nations in the region such as Palestinians and Christian Arabs. The rise of Arab nationalism after the fall of the Ottoman Em- pire in 1918 has been at the root of the Arab-Israeli conflict and has strengthened ancient tribal divisions in the region.

Whereas Muslim nations overall reject non Muslims in positions of power on their turf, individual Arab countries have hard and fast loyalties to the predomi- nant tribe or religious group in their countries. This may cause hostility towards anyone seen as an outsider.

A good example is Lebanon when it was the lone predominantly Christian Arab nation. During a brief period in the 1950s and 60s its French orientation and moderate views allowed it to develop into the Middle East banking and resort center. Then came the influx of Palestinians after the failed PLO coup in Jordan. The arrival of so many Muslims tipped the balance away from the Christians with Lebanon slipping into internecine conflict and civil war.

Palestinian workers in other Arab countries have been subject to prejudice and even attack. To this day the Arab League edict still stands that Palestinians can’t gain citizenship in other Arab countries. Yet this has been standard procedure since 1948. Arab nations have refused to accept Palestinian refugees from wars waged by these same Arab nations.

For their part, the Palestinians would like to do to Israel what they helped do to Lebanon…cause it to disintegrate into cantons, a partition similar to the one the Arabs rejected in 1948. But that still wouldn’t help the Arabs.

Several surveys of living standards reveal Arab nations woefully behind all devel- oped nations and even below most lower end Latin American nations. The United Nation’s Human Development Survey shows Norway Number 1, the USA 4, Israel 15 and the closest Arab country, the UAE at 32. Libya, which is now in utter chaos, was rated 53, Tunisia is 81, Jordan 82 and Turkey, a non Arabic Muslim nation that wants to join the European Union is 83. Way down the list is Egypt at 101 at Yemen at 133.

The Arab world is similar to the USA in one key geopolitical area. It needs an en- emy or scapegoat for its economic shortcomings and the excesses of its poten- tates. For decades America had Communism as an all-purpose enemy. With that gone, and the fact we are an economic hostage to the world’s biggest nation, one that’s Communist, we had to find another adversary…terrorism…we are in a never-ending war of terror.

But, for the Arabs that enemy has been Israel…the simple fact is, if Israel never existed they and the West would most probably face the same problems. The West would still be fighting to control Middle East oil until it runs out and the Arabs would be blaming each other and the West for their problems.

Remember, the displaced Palestinians are products of wars waged by the Arab world against Israel in attempts to destroy that country. But, for their part, many Arab rulers were just as happy to see Israel survive as an all-purpose scapegoat for their shortcomings. And the reason given for Jewish victories against the di- vine forces of Islam sounds like a retelling of Christian mythology. They were in league with Satan’s servant, the USA. And, like some Christian fundamentalists, the Arabs are waiting for the day of their salvation.

The revolution now sweeping the Middle East is part and parcel of Arab national- ism they gained after WW1…It’s just now, thanks to television and the Internet, they can see more clearly who has been selling then short. Yet, they still have their bigoted attitudes, prejudices and hatreds for perceived enemies of Islam.

However, things may be changing a bit. Years-ago many Arab citizens of Israel expressed a desire to live among their own people even though they had better living standards in the Jewish state. However, a recent survey revealed a majority of Arab residents of old Jerusalem would choose to remain Israeli citizens regard- less of any Palestinian state that emerges. They cite better living standards and public services.

Posted by Dan at 2/22/2011 03:17:00 PM 0 comment

US Foreign Policy: Lessons in Hypo- critical Pragmatism by Dan Ehrlich

What’s happening in Egypt and America’s response to it, are examples of the muddled, short sighted and even hypocritical stance the US exhibits in its less than laudable foreign policy since the end of World War 2.

On the other hand, America’s lack of support for Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak has other Middle East leaders questioning the reliability of President Obama if similar uprisings occur in their countries. Realistically, however, Amer- ica’s main concern lies with the major oil producing nations such as Saudi Arabia and Kuwait. But, what the growing domino effect among the region’s repressive autocracies has highlighted, or low lighted, is the continuous self-delusion and/or hypocrisy in which America has immersed itself for generations. It trumpets freedom and democracy around the world while propping up undemocratic repressive dicta- tors who will protect US interests. This is as true in the Middle East as it has been in Central and South America.

In the long run this is a shortsighted game plan, because as we see in Egypt, the people have little love for the main nation that has kept their oppressor in power. This is what happened in Iran after our client the Shah was overthrown.

But, as long as the oil keeps flowing and Israel isn’t fighting a war with the Arabs America is happy. Part of this shortsighted thinking is based on US political term limits. Politicians don’t concern themselves with issues lasting longer than four or eight years into the future.

Back in 1948 when the UN, pushed by the US, to approve the re establishment of a Jewish homeland in Palestine, they had no concern or idea that wars would rage between Israel and the Arabs into the 21st Century. In fact, the UN approval was rather cynical. Most member nations did so feeling nothing would come of it since the massing Arabs armies would crush the Jews is short order.

But the Jews then, as the Egyptians now, didn’t follow the international game plan and won war after war, infuriating the Arabs and setting in motion a Cold War tug-of-war between the US and Soviets for positioning and power in the Middle East.

It was this positioning that largely set in motion the US alliance with the dictators we support today, even though the Soviet Union and Russian influence are no more.

There is a widespread perception American interest in the Middle East is cen- tered on its concern for Israel’s security. This is a smokescreen for domestic con- sumption and a rationale for anti American sentiments among the Arabs. The main reason we are there, now and always, has been oil and free passage through the Suez Canal.

Israel, while a valuable ally, has served to complicate and endanger Western oil and commerce by simply being a persistent thorn in the Arab’s paw. Yet, America originally had hope Israel’s progressive democracy would serve as an example to the feudal Arab states. This, however, hasn’t stopped the US from backing ex- tremely repressive nations such as Saudi Arabia. Oil counts for more than human rights and democracy.

“We have an addiction to dictators," said Brian Katulis, a Middle East expert at the Center for American Progress. "We know that it's bad for us, but because this is the way we've done business for so long, we don't know any other way."

Oddly enough, the so-called liberal Obama Administration, prior to the Egyptian uprising, had been less strident about human rights and democracy in the region than the conservative Bush Administration.

On the other hand, decades of Israel’s presence and economic strides may have finally seeped into the Arab psyche along with the unbridled wealth of the Gulf Emirates. The uprisings taking place aren’t about religious fundamentalism. They’re about people wanting material wealth and security in this world, not in the next.

It will be interesting to see how the US will handle a possible toppling of succes- sive client dictators. Will we try to cushion their fall with golden parachutes or will we attempt to keep them in power? And what contingency have we planned in case unfriendly elements stop the flow of oil and shipping through the canal?

Then there’s Iran, with its atomic program and designs on being the Middle East superpower. The main thing that dulls this quest is the enmity between the Shiite Iran and the largely Sunni Arab world. And it is the fear of Iran that is a main rea- son America may retain its influence in the region regardless of our hypocritical foreign policy.

Posted by Dan at 2/06/2011 04:51:00 AM 0

Arab Revolution: Reaction To Rich-Poor Middle East Divide? by Dan Ehrlich

Repression + Poverty = Regime Change... Sometimes The revolution that appears to be building steam through much of the Arab world is largely a response to the realization of a two tier socio-economic structure that has developed in the Middle East…one rich and one poor. For generations the Arab world, held in check by its strict faith, had dismissed the growing economic well-being and relatively affluent lifestyle in Israel as a mix- ture of Infidel decadence and American power projection.

However, with the even greater affluence, lavish living and decadence openly on display in the oil rich Arab Gulf Emirates, Arab populations west of Suez want to know why none of the wealth has come their way. They want know why tiny Dubai can run up a $60 billion debt building pleasure palaces, while they have no pleasure, and in many cases, no jobs.

And, don’t be surprised if some Palestinians also begin demanding that their leaders open their account books to reveal where the billions in donations to their cause have been going.

Throughout history the Arab people have had to be severely hard pressed to re- volt against their betters. It appears one of those times is now. A combination of the European Union recession (which affects the Middle East), growing poverty and mass communication, highlighted by the Internet, has moved people in sev- eral nations to demand change…in their autocratic and corrupt governments and their lives.

What type of change will be dependent on what the people want and whom their militaries support. The fear of Islamic extremists taking control may be over- stated at this point. The people in Egypt aren’t revolting to have an even more re- strictive government in charge. That could happen. But, in a climate where peo- ple at long last want to enter the present day world, Islamic fundamentalism may not be an option. And any group trying to install such a government may have short sell by date.

But there is another dimension to this revolution…The Infidel dimension based on oil…So far the rebellions have been in non oil producing nations. Egypt has a little oil, but is not a major player. However, if a major conflict took place there that resulted in closing the Suez Canal, all bets would be off with oil prices sky- rocketing.

There has long been a view that the Iraq War was really about securing the mas- sive oil fields there. Well, that’s been done and the oil will remain secure for the time being or as long a US troops are n the country.

But, there is one country, the biggest oil producer of all, that could be ripe for rev- olution. Saudi Arabia may be sitting on top of enormous, yet dwindling oil re- serves, but its people, for the most part, live humbly. The average income is about $15,000 per year, less than the US poverty level.

The Saudis are Wahhabist Muslims, an extreme sect that believes in the literal word of the Koran and Sharia Law. Yet, here too, the magic of global television and the Internet is giving Saudis ideas that are forbidden fruit. Will they take a bite of the apple? There are reports of rumblings.

This is the biggest fear for the industrial world, that a revolution in a major oil producer such as Saudi Arabia will stop the oil supply. And the world can't have that. The spice must flow at all costs. The order of the known universe depends on it.

You must remember Iran was a wealthy oil rich nation that developed a privi- leged middle class at the expense of masses of poor people. It became a funda- mentalist state as a reaction against the excesses of the Shah and the middle class. But, that was a different time and under particular circumstances.

Yemen, for example, is one of the world’s poorest countries. The revolt against the president wasn’t to install a harsher ruler. These people want better lives. Each country in this region has its own special character and set of needs that may dictate if it becomes a progressive democracy or trades one dictator for an- other.

Historically, what is happening in the Middle East in monumental. People, re- garded has having the most unchanging societies on earth, are trying to change.

Posted by Dan at 2/04/2011 12:42:00 AM 0

US Business Boom Abroad Masks Domestic Mediocrity by Dan Ehrlich

Rise and Fall of Middle Class Here and There Profits at major American corporations are up, the stock market is soaring and our leaders repeatedly tell us the great recession of 2008 is history. When in fact it will still be with us in 2011. That’s because the nation is carrying record high unemployment of 9.8 percent, or 17 percent in real terms.

The “recession is over” claim is a feel good attempt designed to divert our attention from high unemployment, the declining middle class and the fact that the bulk of American industry is anything but patriotic.

The Economic Policy Institute, a Washington think tank, says American companies have created 1.4 million jobs overseas this year, compared with less than 1 million in the U.S. Robert Scott, the institute's senior international economist says the additional 1.4 million jobs would have lowered the U.S. unemployment rate to 8.9 percent.

“There's a huge difference between what is good for American companies versus what is good for the American economy," Scott says. The fact is: American jobs have been moving overseas for more than two decades. But now, the products being made are high tech goods as well as clothes and toys.

On top of this, much of what US firms are making abroad is staying abroad… being bought by foreigners while the US domestic market still is in a subdued recession mode.

“It’s the economy stupid,” that Clinton era rallying cry is what today’s politicians keep skirting around, diverting us with a few key side issues, such as gays in the military, abortion, women’s rights and the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, from the reality of globalization… that vague locale where the political Right and Left meet.

The Left sees the global market as the death of the nation state, which it loathes, and the birth of a global society of growing equality, where the lion will lie down with the lamb. The Right sees it as the normal progression of free market capitalism with new markets for American industry, the end result being world economic zones controlled largely by super banks.

So far the Right is far ahead of the Left. Much of the world has been divided into economic and political zones, including NAFTA, the EU, SEATO and the African Union. And globalization has allowed, or forced, American firms to open up profitable operations abroad, while leaving their home country in the dust.

The main success the Left can claim is a growing middle class, if you can call it that, in overpopulated developing nations. By 2015, for the first time, the number of consumers in Asia's middle class will equal those in Europe and North America combined. Which is understandable since the American Middle Class has been in decline for several years and the Asian version is growing by virtue of the West's appetite for its cheap goods and services.

"All of the growth over the next 10 years is happening in Asia," says Homi Kharas, a senior fellow at the Brookings Institute and formerly the World Bank's chief economist for East Asia and the Pacific. And, who serves these new consumers? US firms do, such as that most all- American icon Coca Cola. Of Coke's 93,000 global employees, less than 13 percent were in the U.S. in 2009, down from 19 percent five years ago. More than half of the 15,000 people that Caterpillar Inc. has hired this year were outside the U.S. The tractor maker from Moline, Ill. has opened two plants in China.

So, while Bill Gates and Warren Buffet are busy backing America with their millions, other major players are backing the very people that are helping to impoverish America. There may come a time when we won’t be able to afford the stuff China makes. But that won’t matter so much if China develops its domestic market…which will be a neat trick given the repressive nature of the Communist nation.

Yet, we know little of this back home. We are more likely to know the finalists on Dancing with the Stars or America’s Got Talent, the latter show pointing out an irony of the times as to who really has the talent these days.

We have been involved in three major conflicts, all of which had no concrete relationship to America’s security. Vietnam wasn’t about Communism. It was about maintaining American economic and military hegemony in the region. Iraq wasn’t about weapons of mass destruction. It was about an Arab leader our leader didn’t like and the oil and fat military contracts he did like.

Afghanistan isn’t about terrorism so much as being a reaction to 9/11, as was Iraq, as well. These conflicts also serve to justify maintaining an ever more costly Military Industrial Complex. However, even this has limits. If the nation continues to decline economically, we will have to make military cutbacks.

But, the con job of all con jobs was our 50-year-long Cold War with the Soviets and the fantasy of a planned Communist takeover of America. What makes this a supreme irony is the fact our own capitalist system has led us into an economic straight jacket with the biggest commie nation of them all.

Still, no conflict arguably continually garners more headlines and comments than the Israeli-Palestinian mess, a situation that doesn’t even directly involve America. Yet, when Israel builds a few houses on the West Bank it’s like the darkest days of the Cuban Missile Crisis.

This plus more light entertaining such as Olympic Games, sports, social networking, the cult of celebrity and entertainment help blind us to real issues such as the economy, poverty, pollution, global warming, overpopulation, dwindling energy and other essential resources that are becoming more serious with each passing year.

Underpinning much of this is the growing lack of quality education among America’s young. During a recent interview with a major university journalism department, one of the students asked me: “How would you integrate Twitter into the school newspaper?”

Posted by Dan at 12/29/2010 02:15:00 AM 0 comments

Afghan Fantasy Masks Failing to Protect Our Own Borders by Dan Ehrlich Afghan President Hamid Karzai longs for a Bush era fantasy golden time of American military involvement in his country, while Americans wonder how we again became involved in a seemingly endless war now into its 10th year.

Karzai points to a time when US soldiers were greeted and treated as liberators from Taliban brutality. Yet, at the time of his retrospective view, which was July 2009, US Ambassador Karl Eikenberry told Karzai Americans weren’t there to become popular. Our job was to help make Karzai’s government popular.

The problem with any foreign liberation invasion is you can easily overstay your welcome, especially if you are not accomplishing your mission. And that’s basically what’s happening with the NATO war on terror. This is a war whose validity is almost on a par with the claim of Iraqi atomic weapons being aimed at Western Europe.

Our rationale for war against the Taliban was they were allowing Al Qaeda to base itself in Afghanistan and were even its ally. But, as we have seen,Osama bin Laden’s gang is now based mainly on the home turf of our ally Pakistan.

As for the Taliban…we shouldn't be fighting this totally disagreeable and extreme Islamic group…a group we initially armed to fight the Soviets in the 1970s. They’re the ones we really should be dealing with to get Bin Laden. But we won’t because we have to have a pseudo democratic leader as our puppet. Driven partly by revulsion to the treatment of Afghan women under Taliban rule, the US led NATO force is barking up the wrong tree.

Americans keep thinking they can impress their political and value systems on people who have no idea of democracy and reject western morality. Still, for awhile this plays well back home, until the body bags become so numerous in a war without end that Americans ask: Why the hell are we there?

This question is becoming louder each day. And President Obama, who while opposing the Iraq war, has long supported our Afghan involvement. This means he has to put on a braver face with each new American death in that largely desolate nation. First, the Taliban weren’t behind 9/11…Bin Laden’s gang were…and they’re Saudis….from another one of our most favored nations. They may have been based in Afghanistan, but they didn't launch their attack on America from there.

Second, even after the Pan Am Lockerbie disaster and one previous deadly attempt on the World Trade Center, these Saudi terrorists were able to cruise into the USA more easily than illegals crossing the Mexican border. They launched their attack, after being allowed to take flying lessons here, from the USA.

Third, instead of spending billions on what will end up a fruitless war costing thousands of NATO lives, we should be investing that money in defending our porous borders…something no President has yet deemed a priority. It seems more acceptable to wage a war. Is that because they are afraid such a defense would also stop the flow of badly needed low wage illegal labor?

There will always be terrorists of some sort, if not in Afghanistan somewhere else. It should be perfectly clear by now, the first line of defense isn't over there, it's right here at home.

Fourth, rather than fighting the Taliban, which controls much of their mountainous tribal nation, we should have attempted to engage them in dialogue and offered them aid if they helped us wipe out Al Qaeda. The Taliban has no love affair with Bin Laden. They may all be Muslims, but from different nations and people.

President Karzai, fantasizing about some golden time when he felt more secure, sees our resolve slipping as we enter the 10th year of the war, as he sees our backing of his reportedly corrupt government becoming lessening. More and more the specter of Vietnam appears in Afghanistan.

Posted by Dan at 1/03/2011 02:28:00 AM 0 comments

Is Debating a People's Right to Exist a Lesson in Veiled Racism? By Dan Ehrlich

One of the basic conditions of all American sponsored Arab-Israeli peace negotiations has been an Arab acceptance of Israel’s “right to exist.” This is almost an oxymoron since Israel fulfils the prime criteria for existence just by being there. “I think, therefore I am.”

But this criteria for nationhood, a right to exist, if carried further than Israel sets up some even more glaring examples and the realities they present in the world power game of pick and choose.

Israel bases its legal right to exist on world history and the history of the Jewish people. One could rightly say it weren’t for the Italians they would have never lost their homeland in the First and 11th Centuries AD. And subsequently they wouldn’t have had to fight to re establish it since the early 20th Century.

So, they have shown both a priori and posteriori evidence for a right to exist. Still, Israel’s actual right to exist is simply because it’s there. But what about other much larger nations?

What right do the USA, Canada, Australia and New Zealand have to exist? None of these nations were founded by people with any racial or ethnic ties to the indigenous populations of the lands. These lands were actually taken, often by force and bloodshed, from their native inhabitants. And, to make matters worse, the defeated and depleted indigenous populations were often persecuted and even destroyed by the settlers.

In America, for example, European diseases such as smallpox, devastated entire native tribes. Over in Jamaica the native Arawaks of that island nation were totally wiped out by such diseases. So, what qualifies all these nations for the right to exist? In the cases of America, Canada and Australia, their sizes, power and the fact no one is strong enough to dispute ownership. In South Africa there was no dispute about its right to exist, just about who should run it and how it should be run.

Simply put: Land belongs to those who can hold it. This was as true for the American homesteader as it was for the Spanish conquistador. Things might have been quite different in America if the native tribes were united in an effort to expel the invading white men. But they weren’t and had the nation been a lot smaller, might have gone the way of Jamaica’s Arawaks.

The case of Israel, although far more complex, has the same bottom line: Land belongs to those who can hold it. Through ancient history the Hebrews who eventually became the Jews held and lost their land over and over again. Yet, unlike scores of other decimated ancient people, the Jews wouldn’t disappear into history. This has presented a dilemma for the modern world.

In the late 19th and early 20th Century Europe’s persecuted Jews began legally buying beachfront property in Palestine from the Turks. After WW1 the Arabs became alarmed at the gradually increasing Jewish presence and staged bloody attacks on them. The Jews of Palestine at a basic pre statehood level had to prove they had a right to exist right then and there…It was almost like the Hollywood western movie scenario of the settlers being attacked by Indians. Yet these settlers were natives returning home 1,000 years after the first Crusade began ethnic cleansing, which was a repeat event for this land. One can argue the mere proposition of a so-called right to exist or worse, challenging a specific people’s right to exist is out and out racism. Yet, for the sake of political expediency or liberal faddism, Israel is the only place on earth where this proposition is posed, but not just to Arabs, also to western people who have grown tired, bored and increasingly ignorant about this endless conflict.

I have said in the past one of the main problems liberals have is little care or concept of how their actions will impact the future. They see a perceived injustice and they want to attack it now.

After WW2 American and European guilt over the Nazi Holocaust spurred liberals into pressing for the creation of Israel. They had no thoughts then of the endless conflict it would create in the world’s main oil region.

Now, generations later, some lefties are changing their tune. The Palestinians are their new underdogs to champion, people who offer a better fit for the Left. Since most Arabs are not upwardly mobile they will always remain the eternal downtrodden proletariat much loved by the Left. Jews, on the other hand, are upwardly mobile, become successful, part of the establishment and therefore have no right to exist.

I have long found that liberals in America are quick to condemn other nations or run off to help the starving in Africa, while forgetting about the injustices and poverty among native tribes in our own country…a country that has no right, other than its military might, to exist. But as I said, land belongs to those who can hold it.