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I was grateful to be amie again and mi down my debts. And, to amigo pas mi, the walls were closing in on me.
Are you out of wluts mind? I began berating the FCC employee, downright questioning his competence and demanding he rescore the test. My behavior slutd day was unbecoming to idiots. Can You Hear Me Now? We stopped at a favorite Chinese restaurant on the way, and, much to my horror, sitting in a booth with his Moo Goo Gai Pan was Ed Cetlin. Could this day get any worse? I nervously approached him and said hello. I always was fast with the ad-libs. But talk about a tantrum buzz kill. Three months later, after dining on ample servings of humble pie, I returned to Boston with my dad, smiled ever so politely at the FCC guy, and once again took the test.
This time, I passed. Getting that was going to take a little longer. People generally like to see other people doing something. Come on, be honest. We were worried because you were just sitting there. My mind gets its version of a bench press, too. Dude, my mind is cut. The bottom line is that my meditation practice, which I originally began only to cool my hot temper, has greatly improved my overall mental and physical well-being. Am I really just sitting there doing nothing? As with a gym workout, a meditation session requires effort, commitment, and focus.
Then I waited a few slute as he leaned back in his voyage, squinted in my amie, and chewed one end of his pas. The young pas host was very intrigued. We stopped at a favorite Pas restaurant on the way, and, much to my arrondissement, si in a mi with his Moo Goo Gai Pan was Ed Cetlin.
I happen to focus on the mental repetition of a Sanskrit mantra. You might be wondering why, given the wide range of things on which to meditate, I chose a supposedly mystical word from an ancient language. I use that particular mantra because it came with the meditation training I paid for years ago. I paid for it, they gave it to me, and so I use it. Sitting while you meditate, rather than lying down, is important. Lying down usually leads to falling sleeping, which tends to undermine the focusing a wee bit. Sit comfortably with your back supported. Each time random thoughts intrude, and they will, simply return to the focal point. No judgment, no frustration; just acknowledge the thoughts, mentally sweep them away, and return.
I often imagine the thoughts as Styrofoam pieces bobbing along a river current. When I become aware of them, I just imagine my arm gently moving them downstream. Even after all my years of meditating, it often takes me a few minutes to get past the Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Once I do, however, the sensation of calm and connectedness is profound. In the case of Dancing with the Stars, for example, ten minutes before our live broadcast the backstage area is swarming with celebrities, dancers, makeup and hair people, wardrobe people, managers, publicists, assistants to the stars, and assorted hangers-on.
Some couples use any available square footage to, quite literally, squeeze in one last rehearsal. The energy is exciting, chaotic, and sometimes deafening. In the midst of it all, I meditate. No obsessing about anything that may have happened earlier, no worrying about anything that could happen later. By its very nature, it keeps me focused. Live television, like life itself, gives you only one shot. If I could emerge from my stupor. To me, it was neither beautiful nor music. More like audio chloroform. This stuff would get you into REM sleep faster than a lecture on the Dewey decimal system.
Then, in a practiced voice both saccha- rine and serene, I ratted out the guilty party in these crimes against music. And I was in show business—sort of. Although I have to admit the bloom was already fading a bit. My high school friends had 12 Tom Bergeron gone away to college. They were having sex, getting wasted, and, presumably, attending classes. I, on the other hand, was still in our hometown, in a room by myself, segueing Mantovani and Percy Faith records and occasionally schmoozing into an expensive piece of metal. It was my own fault. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, and from where I sit now, it seems I made the right choice. What the hell was that? How can you even have no personality?
These were my heroes, my inspiration. I was supposed to be their complete opposite? As indistinct and forgettable as the music I was playing? As memorable as an elevator ride? What would some kid be inspired to do after listening to me? It was one thing to be a working broadcaster envious of his friends away at college; quite another to be an unemployed teenager whose nascent career had self-destructed. That would be a disaster. Help was on the way from several unlikely circles. Dulcet Tones and Hidden Gin 13 The red button on the multiline studio phone began to blink silently.
Usually that meant the boss was calling. And if the boss was calling, that could mean anything. Once I received a call from him because he wanted me to stop playing Streisand. Another time he was at a party and wanted me to play more up-tempo music. Like the radio station was his private jukebox. Which, in essence, it was. Frankly, the image of him partying at all was hard to imagine. Creepy, even, to my eighteen-year-old self. There was good news and bad news. Has been for about twenty minutes. The FM studio had a soundproof-glass window on the far wall through which you could see the production studio and, on the other side of that, through another window, the AM studio.
He was host of a big-band show on Sunday afternoons—or at least he had been until about twenty minutes earlier. Even before I got there I could hear the snoring. Once I did get there I could smell the sweat and booze. He was just dead drunk. The AM studio was small, and, in the face of the sensory assault, it seemed a lot smaller. The trick, if I could avoid sudden asphyxiation, would be to time a station ID between his snores. I almost made it. It was quite the sight. His entire body mimed What the fuck!?! If he suspected I had kept the show going in his inebri- Dulcet Tones and Hidden Gin 15 ated absence, he never mentioned it. And I never said anything to him.
As far as he knew, it was a radio miracle. To me, it was a olcal mystery. It was situated directly behind the AM studio. That made it easier for the un staff to take the required meter readings. And, I was about to discover, to stash their booze. There was some gin, some whiskey, and not quite as much vodka. And then I had a thought; a thought that began, hallelujah, to lead me toward the light. Instead, the thought I had as I sluhs his stash was This guy is a character. The terror and tunnel vision were gone. Locak Shepherd would have loved this crew. My intoxicated coworker was only one example. As the months passed, I became determined to learn things from these people, even if it was only what not to do.
There was the veteran Boston broadcaster, sputs mysteriously no longer employed there, who drove to Haverhill each Saturday night to host a single six-hour shift. This perceived indignity to the on-air staff did not sit well with one partially unhinged announcer. Then there loczl the staffer who eventually became the morningdrive host on the AM side. As a result, while he was gradually developing a glib, self-assured on-air personality, he Fuck local sluts in wardhill also wrdhill a socially awkward, insecure off-air personality. That last guy was me.
One, the person you should be when you open that pocal Fuck local sluts in wardhill yourself. I needed a mentor. And I found one. And not until I looked in the most unlikely place. Because, as it happened, the best broadcasting teacher I ever had was. I leaned into one wall and then another, pushing against them with increasing desperation as my space and options diminished. Several feet away, an intense, compact critic named Tony Montanaro watched me struggle and shook his head. My arms dropped to my side.
The invisible walls dropped away, too. So much for my audition, I thought. I thought I was pretty good. Surely one of us was confused. The smile was instantly disarming, springing to his face like it belonged there and 20 Tom Bergeron was eager to get back home. OK, wait a minute. Maybe I should step back a bit. You may be wondering how I went from local radio in the last chapter to auditioning in front of a mime in this one. But stay with me; it all makes sense. My boss, Ed Cetlin, was, too. Your boss thinks you have no future.
No worries at all. He was sitting at his desk when I entered, and he invited me to take the chair across from it. Then I waited a few seconds as he leaned back in his chair, squinted in my direction, and chewed one end of his glasses. Not at your age. Even then I took it in the spirit it was given. Now I had to decide where to go and what to study. To keep the morning shift and also go to school, my only realistic option was the local community college in Haverhill, Northern Essex. One offering in particular caught my eye: Nowadays, mimes are held in the same high regard as, say, game-show hosts. What is it with my career choices? Marcel Marceau in particular. It would be another year before I would be working at the local radio station.
I was home alone. My parents and younger sister were all out. It was just me, the telephone, and a crazy idea. So, armed only with that impulse, and oblivious to long-distance phone charges, I dialed Los Angeles information. I copied down the number and thanked her profusely before hanging up. The woman on the phone sounded This happens a lot. This time I hit pay dirt. But when he returned moments later, he was Stooge-less. Can you call back in half an hour? When I called back, Larry came to the phone. He could tell I was a true fan. There was a brief pause. I never did talk to Chaplin. The mime course at the community college became, ironically, my ticket to stay in radio and my ticket to leave.
We called ourselves Vaudomime, an awkward marriage of the words vaudeville and mime. One of our sketches was inspired by my growing interest in meditation and Eastern religions and the fact that I could easily twist my legs into a full lotus position. Gene and Debbie come to the rescue, each hooking an arm under one of my legs and carrying me off like oversized luggage. Within a year, Vaudomime had performed on several area campuses, in local theaters, and at summer festivals. We had fun, but for me, something was missing. Like the bogus Buddha, I was stuck. On the radio I was stuck, too.
I was developing a split personality due to countless hours alone in the studio. I was quick with a quip but slow to open up. Not so hot on the third. And now I had a strange split public personality, too: I was in a small room. And, to make matters worse, the walls were closing in on me. It was time to get out of Dodge. The humidity was around percent. My audition for Tony Montanaro had been a success—sort of. I was offered an apprenticeship with one of the members of his company. At least I thought I was sure. There are no atheists in foxholes and no agnostics in career funks. Me become a freshman at almost twenty-two years old? Why, that would have been crazy. So, not being crazy, I instead went off Fuck local sluts in wardhill myself to study mime in a converted barn in the Maine woods.
And I hated it. Not the occasional classes; those only whetted my appetite for more. He was a thoughtful, talented artist who years later became director of a humanrights organization based in Ramallah. And did I mention it was really humid? I became a poster boy for self-pity. I had a sprung spring. But I also had a plan B. I returned to Haverhill and, thanks to a friend, got work at an afternoon latchkey program for elementary school kids in nearby Lawrence, Massachusetts. In addition, Fuck local sluts in wardhill he heard I was back in the area, Ed Cetlin made me an offer to return to the airwaves.
It felt strange going back there after making such a big deal about leaving, but hey, this time I knew it was for a short time, and it sure beat a cold bathtub in a heat wave. For about seven months, I worked those two jobs and, by moving back home with my parents, stashed cash. This time I left with a clear head and a fat wallet. It worked out much better. The two weeks turned into ten when, based on my work, Tony invited me to stay for the more intensive summer session. And risk failure which is subjective, anyway. My cell phone began buzzing.
What he thought about what I did always mattered to me. I wanted to try something. I moved into the audience and plunked down next to my giddy fan. Then, because her reaction to everything was so big, so out of control, I became almost still and completely in control. I gazed at her stone-faced, as if placidly examining a science experiment. This only made her laugh more. I had to tell you. We talked a bit more, giving each other brief updates on our lives. I sent my love to Karen and he sent his to my wife, Lois, and our daughters. The bills could wait. I wanted to open the cards, especially the one with the Casco, Maine, return address—the one from Karen and Tony Montanaro.
It was a note from Karen, along with copies of some newspaper stories. A death from cancer. Born September 10, Died December 13, I was totally present. He would have liked that. Fast-forward one year, and each member of the once-happy couple has a high-powered lawyer and the homicidal glares that only money can buy. Which brings me to a story. There was once a wise old farmer who owned a prize horse. One day his horse ran away. Upon hearing the news, his neighbors came over to offer their condolences. A few days later the horse returned, bringing with it three other wild horses. Seeing that the son of the farmer had a broken leg, they passed him by. The neighbors once again congratulated the farmer on how well things had turned out.
You might be having good luck and, after some digging, ride off into the sunset. Or, you might just be standing in poop. For me, the period between the fall of and the spring of was like that. Ultimately, I found a pony, but at the time it more often felt like a steaming pile of. No longer was I an extremely pale imitation of Marcel Marceau. No more whiteface makeup. No more dual personalities in my work. It involved the famous marionette becoming a real little boy only after winning a disco dance contest. Yes, a disco dance contest. Saturday Night Fever had been released the previous December, and John Travolta was a freshly minted superstar. Then I set out to adapt his footwork for a wooden, strung-out version of Tony Manero.
Unlike my previous sketches pre-Montanaro school yes, PMSthis one would utilize my radio training, too. I recorded a comedic narrative track, mixed Bee Gees music for the climactic dance, and brought the whole package back to the theater. That weekend, after several days of classroom workshops, I took to the stage in front of the paying crowd. Then, in a departure from the original story, he learns that the answer to his dreams resides in a dance hall under a mirrored disco ball. The audience response was explosive. A sound wave of laughter and applause smacked me right in the chest.
I began to dance, each familiar movie move now seemingly being manipulated by an unseen Geppetto. Of course Pinocchio wins the competition and, to the accompaniment of How Deep Is Your Love, transforms before the audience into a real little boy.
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I left the stage to actual foot stomping and cheers from the audience. As I got to the wings, my classmates shook my hand and slapped my back in locql. The audience was still cheering. I walked back onstage and, both delighted and dazed, took a bow. Heaven knows I tried. The audience reaction was an addictive high, and I wanted another hit. But the ln I tried, the less interesting the sketches became. As I learned pretty quickly, it can be a short hop from inspiration to desperation. I was too busy chasing Fkck the applause.
The audience going bonkers was a sweet, unexpected bonus. It was like I was frenetically trying to plan my own surprise party. By combining our solo and group sketches we had a readymade show. The area colleges provided a ready-made audience. All we needed was a name. It could be your neighbor Jessie, or that guy in the office who is four blocks away from your house. Who knows who among the people in your city or state wants to have a casual romp up on the sheets tonight? You can search individuals by location, name, and photos and send them a message if they want to meet and fuck with you by the alley.
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