Friday, October 14, 2011


 Way back at the start of January, I wrote a column ( for’s Big Hollywood that tore a new one into the movie “Blue Valentine,” which critics were basically treating as the Second Coming of Jesus in the form of cinema. The story of a couple from the moment they meet, through their marriage and all the way to their breakup six or seven years later, it was well-acted and had some interesting moments, but overall was one of the nastiest portraits of a relationship I’d ever seen committed to celluloid.

I mean, really – by the end of the film, the wife (Michelle Williams) is screaming at her husband (Ryan Gosling) that “I have nothing left for you! NOTHING!!!!” And what was Ryan’s big offense that led to that kind of treatment? He was a simple dude, rather than a rich or smart power figure; he was a doting father to a kid that wasn’t even his, as she got preggers by an ex prior to their marriage; and he was a little immature in his ability to fully relate to his young child. She had been a brilliant student prior to hooking up with him and knew that he was just a working-class Joe who broke a sweat for a living – and so I said it was clearly her fault that she picked a guy she couldn’t really love and gave up her dreams for too-early marriage.

I also said that no one in Middle America – or, hell, ANYwhere – other than critics and hipster knee-jerk liberals would wanna see a movie like that. I mean, who would, after a hard week at work, choose to grab the wife or girlfriend and say “Hey baby, I hear there’s a movie where a couple fall apart over the course of two hours and wind up screaming how much they hate each other, and the guy even questionably date-rapes her. Think that’s worth 20 bucks and two hours of our lives on a Friday?” I predicted that, barring a Best Picture nomination or an Oscar acting win, this movie would never break $10 million at the box office.

Guess what? It was only nominated for Best Actress, didn’t win, and topped out at less than $10 million. Yet along the way, film columnist Patrick Goldstein of the LA Times saw fit to mock me as just not “Getting it”, that it was ridiculous to ask Hollywood for a happy portrait of a stable marriage for once. At the time, I came off looking like I had my idealistic head in the clouds.

Well, I guess in some ways, maybe he was right.

I recently went through a relationship in which everything started off with as great a meet-cute as one could ever find in a classic movie, and banter worthy of “His Girl Friday.” It blazed quickly into what seemed like love. All was great with the universe – until my apparent love suddenly decided without warning that we were through and it was “time to work on our friendship.” ‘

I felt blindsided – just like the guy in “Blue Valentine.” And I was getting whacked romantically after just six weeks, not six years.  I had to give my props  to Ryan’s character for managing to last that long in the movie – a far cry from my initial musings that that or any couple should be able to live happily ever after.

Now, having been dumped after being out of the dating game for quite a while beforehand, I suddenly remembered that YES, it CAN get that bad as in “Blue Valentine” – well, minus the question of whether a rape was involved. The final night out involved her crazed drunkenness, leading to her attempt to videotape an arrest and nearly getting us both arrested as well, her collapsing completely on both an escalator and passing out on the floor of a Red Line subway train, and then her screaming at me that she was fine and that I had to get off the train rather than make sure she made it home alive. In other words, the equivalent of “I have NOTHING left for you! Nothing!!!”

 Ah yes, it was a handy lesson in the fact that the faster, hotter and artificially better a relationship appears to take off, the more likely it is to crash and burn just as quickly.

But then again, movies also err on the side of being too sunny and perfect about love, as well. I had a terrific date last night with a great woman who appears to be incapable of turning into the Medusa my recent ex became.  But yet my recent relationship – my first foray into the dating pool in at least 3 to 4 years, due to battling a chronic medical condition along the way – should also teach me not to assume that the great start to my new hopeful relationship means that things will be perfect at all times for ever.

Just as the movies can sometimes overstate how bad relationships can get or not offer enough ideal portrayals of happy intact families, they also commit the crime of building hope that Mr. or Miss Right is just around the corner, that if you’re lonely today, there’ll be love tomorrow. It’s a nice thought, but not often enough a reality.

Do movies therefore  cause more damage by offering false hope, or soothe the psyche and spirit, giving us the state of mind we need in order to feel  vibrantly alive and happy enough to give love a try?  That’s a question that’s been considered since the days of “why did the chicken cross the road?”

But until I find the answer, would you grab me some Milk Duds and a medium Coke?

Thursday, May 20, 2010


Did you folks hear about the dad who cattle-branded his teenage sons because he wanted to bring his family closer together? Hey, why not try what everyone else does: a nice family game of Monopoly?

Kevin Costner says he can save the Gulf of Mexico oil problem with a machine that can remove oil from water. Now if he'd invent something to remove "Waterworld" from my memory, I'll be happy.

The Gulf of Mexico is getting nasty from all that oil. They just renamed Red Lobster to Black Lobster. And you thought you had to worry about eating peanut oil.

Hey, you know that really gay musical show "Glee"? Fox just announced they're airing a special episode after the Super Bowl next year. So I guess the game won't just be SUPER (SAY IT GAY), but it'll also be FABULOUS! (SAY THAT GAY TOO) And that should be interesting - finally, whether youre a football fan or just really really gay - a party for everyone who likes tight ends.

Nurses at an LA Children's Hospital just got busted for running a hair salon in infant intensive care ward. In their defense, the nurses said "Neglect? Do you KNOW how hard it is to give a baby a weave?! That shit's expensive!"

An Arab-American woman just won MIss USA. The other contestants are protesting. They said how could she win if no one could see her face?

Donald Trump runs the Miss USA pageant, and he said "Fine, she showed no face, but did you see her ankles? Sexy!"

That woman also swept the talent competition with a beautiful rendition of that "Lulululululululululu"

Heard about that movie "The Prince of Persia"? It looks pretty cool but does anyone really wanna pay money to see a guy running around for two hours, going "My Friend!"?

You know what staycations are, folks? THat's when you decide to stay home for your vacation. They say less people are doing that this year. Man, I bet the people in Detroit are happy about that.

A 16 year old Australian girl just became the youngest person ever to sail around the world solo. Australia's president called her a national hero, but her parents were pissed. Yeah, they're grounding her. The girl said "Good luck! I just sailed around the WORLD. Don't think I don't know how to sneak the car down to the mall."


Flyover State of Mind: Hollywood’s Red State Prejudice
by Carl Kozlowski

I grew up in the fairly small city of Little Rock, Arkansas, and from as early as I can remember, I wanted to escape to Los Angeles or New York City and enter the world of showbiz. I watched and read about movies with a passion, viewed David Letterman every night with a mix of jealousy and wonderment (this was ’80s, pre-jaded Letterman), and wrote short stories that I hoped could be turned into movies someday.

Now in my late 30s, I’ve been pursuing those dreams for a long time as an adult. I’ve had some successes but nothing that would make me famous (yet! There’s always a “yet,” right?! Riiiiight). Yet in March, I was able to take back-to-back trips to Hawaii and Alabama that gave me a whole new perspective on showbiz and politics.

I was first flown by Sony Pictures to Hawaii to join several other Christian film journalists on the set of a 2011 film called “Soul Surfer.” (Yes, despite those of you who would like to think I’m a Communist infiltrator to BH because I admitted liking George Clooney’s “Up in the Air,” I am in fact a Catholic Christian who also writes about film for a national Christian magazine.)

Sony’s goal for the trip was to have us take notice of this film, which stars Dennis Quaid, Helen Hunt and “American Idol” champ Carrie Underwood along with rising young actress Anna Sophia Robb in the true story of devoutly Christian surfing champion Bethany Hamilton, who used her faith as the impetus to come back to championship quality after losing her arm in a vicious shark attack in 2003. The four days visiting Hamilton, her family and all the actors except Hunt were relaxing, to be sure, and it was refreshing to see major stars taking on such a profoundly faith-based story for a major studio.

Combine the massive Christian population thirsting for clean, quality entertainment with the excitement of surfing, the tragic-then-triumphant tale of Bethany, exotic locations, and quality actors working from a script by Oscar-winning Ron Bass of “Rainman” fame, and “Soul Surfer” could prove to be “The Blind Side” of 2011. The highlight reel shown to us from mid-production alone proved to be jaw-dropping; this film could really keep the momentum going in showing Hollywood that if you respect Christians, they will respond with by taking their wallets to the theaters.

It escaped my mind that this film was, sadly, still an anomaly amid the great tide of films that don’t respect or represent solid moral values.

Yet, even so I felt a bit awash in the ‘glamour” of Hollywood, of feeling that the cushy on-set atmosphere was “the way” to live, and I couldn’t help thinking that this was the life I wanted so badly to have: on an exotic movie set, with millions of dollars on the line around me. It was already so cool to just be there, meeting the actors, just like I was enthralled regularly back in LA as a film critic and entertainment-profile writer to rub elbows with the biggest stars in the world.

It was when I went to Alabama to see my sister, her husband and their five kids a day after my Hawaiian sojourn, however, that I was reminded that what happens in Hollywood really doesn’t matter in the outside, truly real, world. Ironically, I had missed this year’s Oscar ceremony because it was during my flight to Hawaii. I hadn’t missed one Oscar show since I was 9 or 10 years old and so I was really rattled about it.

When I got to Alabama, however, and told my sister how frustrated I was, she was surprised to hear the Oscars had been on in the first place. As she noted, when you’ve got five kids and your job has nothing to do with Hollywood, you kind of forget to notice those things.

I realized that I was living in a bubble, even though I was on the low end of the ladder out in La La Land. Almost every other entertainment-related friend of mine was caught up in chasing the dream or maintaining it, and had “forgotten” to do such ‘”ordinary” things as having families and buying houses.

As I drifted through six days in the southern Red State of Alabama, I went through withdrawal for a day or from showbiz news and thoughts of box office grosses. I came to realize that it didn’t matter that I’ve met famous actors, directors, writers and comedians. What DID matter were the supposedly average folks who truly make this country run, and who don’t give a damn about the names of actors, instead relating to many of them as “that guy in that sitcom, who does that thing.”

This was still during the amazing box office run of “Avatar,” and I realized that sure, that movie is the highest-grossing film of all time (though I hated it). It’s made well over $700 million in the US alone. But let’s assume that every one who’s seen it has seen it once and that the average price was $11.

Both assumptions are likely way below reality. Yet even so, those assumptions would mean 60 million people had seen it in the U.S. Yes, that’s a staggering 20 percent of our population, but let’s put it in perspective, people. 80 percent have not seen it, and could really give a crap if they ever do.

We think we’re so important in New York and Los Angeles and Chicago, that we regard much of the rest of the nation as “flyover country.” Well, maybe we’d understand how to truly connect and be meaningful to people if we regarded those areas as “fly-INTO country.”

These are people who don’t care if they make it to Hawaii for vacation or work. Instead, we went camping in a state park surrounded by thousands of other RV’s and campers, filled with people who loved just hanging out, barbecuing, fishing, and playing some basketball. They found pleasure and enjoyment just meeting each other, or developing long-held bonds. And on the one night we escaped to a movie theater, we found a second-run dollar house that was still selling out “Blind Side” on a Monday night, 16 weeks after its release.

For years, Democrats have tried to win the presidency with an 18-state Blue State-only strategy – until Barack Obama came along. But as we are only climbing out of the recession now, well more than a year into his presidency, it’s fair to ask what Sarah Palin does at the Tea Party rallies: How’s that hope-y, change-y stuff working out for ya?

Yes, I quote Palin at the risk of mockery from my Left Coast peers. But it is Palin whom the people in the other 32 states, and large pockets of even the 18 Blue ones, relate to. She’s even winning on the Left’s terms and on their turf: The New York Times best seller list. Hollywood wants you to think she still doesn’t matter, but that makes me wonder if THEY’RE even reading the same magazines that Katie Couric pestered her about? Those magazines that are so influential in their world but which only reach a half-million people, if they’re lucky?!

Like it or not, there IS a REAL America out there. They’re in the middle and south of the country, and it’s not fair to spin that idea as one of racial or gender-related animosity or superiority. The people there are of all races anyway, all more concerned with their real families than the false imagery of Hollywood. It’s the fact that as much as I love “American Idol,” it’s allegedly massive audience of 30 million viewers represent only 10 percent of Americans. Again, 90 percent could care less about who wins.

That’s not to say they don’t want to be entertained or uplifted by a movie sometimes. If Hollywood could just take off its collective blinders and try to see the world through the regular people’s eyes, instead of mocking them, they’d be surprised at just how many people will return the favor and pay to be entertained again.

Monday, March 15, 2010


Governor Schwarzenegger has declared No Cussing Week in California. So, I guess that's the end of tonight's show! Just kidding! Fuck that shit!

Dick Cheney just had his fifth heart attack. He's going for his hospital's special: Have 5 heart surgeries, and the sixth one's free!

And gee, who knew Cheney had a heart?

Man, how about that earthquake that destroyed Chile? Now where the hell am i supposed to go for my baby back ribs?

All these earthquakes - it's hard to keep up! Most people just think Chile's a rerun of Haiti.

We already remade "We Are The World" for Haiti - and now Chile's earthquake's even bigger. Where do you go from here? Bring in the aliens from "Avatar" to sing "We Are the Universe"

The Oscars are coming up this weekend. It's exciting - Monique's up for Best Supporting Actress. And her girdle's up for Best Supporting Undergarment.

The Olympics are over. So where do all the curlers go now? Either they'll take their brooms and be the world's slowest janitors, or our nation's beauty salons are about to be overrun with job applicants.

They just announced that San Bernardino will get the next Winter Olympics. Don't be surprised - everyone knows they've got more snow/powder than Vancouver.

John Mayer says sex with Jessica Simpson was like sexual napalm. Uh, John, that burning sensation you're now feeling isn't something to brag about. You need Valtrex.

Did you hear a man got pistol whipped at Chuck E. Cheese? Most guys just get diarrhea. (OR most guys just get heartburn).

It's not safe anymore: pistol whippings at Chuck E. Cheese and sharks eating trainers at Sea World. What's next, a killer bee swarm at Knott's Berry Farm? A shuttle explosion at Space Mountain?

Man, how about that tsunami warning at Long Beach? Dudes were out there by the thousands: Surf's up!

The tsunami was so bad even Snoop Dogg was helping out. He was sandbagging with giant bags of weed.

How about that Tiger Woods apology? It was longer than the State of the Union address! I was afraid he was gonna wind up apologizing for the Iraq war and the economy too.

Some strip clubs are offering lapdances for Haiti - talk about a bad idea. Solving one natural disaster by creating another one in my pants.

Did you guys see on Facebook that they have a page to see if a pickle is more popular than Nickleback. Hell, K-Fed is more popular than Nickleback these days. And a steaming pile of turd is more popular than K-Fed.

Charlie Sheen's back in rehab again. I know what you're thinking: For sex, or for drugs? I think even HE"S confused about that these days. If he doesn't watch out, CBS is gonna punish him by renaming his show "2 1/2 Inches."

Dick Cheney's in the hospital 'cause he had a heart attack. Gee, who knew he even had a heart?

Obama's got it rough after his first year in office. There's billboards popping up all over with Bush smiling and asking "Miss me yet?" (PAUSE) Um, no. That's like a drunk uncle asking if he can sleep on the couch after peeing on the Thanksgiving turkey.

There was a big NASCAR race in Fontana last week. Who knew Toyota would have the fastest car there? The winning car wasn't a Porsche - it was a Prius. Hell, it's STILL going out there. Someone saw it roaring past Vegas this morning.

The US beat Canada at hockey. That's like beating Mexico at drinking tequila shots.

The US beat Canada at hockey. That's like beating Germany at beer drinking.

They've already made a movie about the Canadian team's loss. It's called "Cop Out."

The Oscars are coming up, and they say "The Hurt Locker" is the favorite for Best Picture. Not MY favorite. I didn't realize it was an Iraq war movie. I thought it was a documentary about the locker bullies shoved me into in junior high.

That movie "Valentine's Day' is a big hit. It's the story of 19 good looking peopel looking for the perfect partner. We just had National Pancake Day, so i predict the next big movie is "Pancake Day": the story of 19 morbidly obese people searching for the perfect pancake.

What else do the Canadians have after losing at hockey? Their bacon is really ham, and their favorite beer is called Moosehead. I'm not sure I wanna know how they brew that - but i have a feeling it violates a few of our animal protection laws.

Tiger Woods just issued another apology to the parents at his daughter's preschool. He promises not to hit on their girls anymore.

Some of these Olympic games are getting violent - like the rive-by-athlon. Sure you win a medal but you also get five to ten.

What is it with all the tight rides anyway in the Olympics? Bobsled, luge..any closer and they'd be calling it the Lube event

These Winter Olympics are getting scary. A guy died on the luge the first day. Used to be, the worst that would happen was you'd get poked in the butt unexpectedly.

The Winter Olympics are so gay Im getting confused. I thought the curling competition took place in a beauty salon between RuPaul and Dolly Parton.

I dont' know if curling should count as an Olympic sport. It looks like something my janitor does on his normal cleaning routine.

Had a rough Valentine's Day. Got stuck watching 'Tyrannosaurus Sex' on the Discovery Channel. ANd you thought YOU had a hard time fitting into a Magnum?

Had a rough Valentine's Day. Got stuck watching 'Tyrannosaurus Sex' on the discovery channel. And I thought I felt inadequate standing next to a donkey.

See the NBA All-star game this weekend? No defense at all. Even Tiger Woods doesn't score that much.

It just keeps getting worse for Tiger Woods. Rumor is he's about to declare bankruptcy. With all his ho's, Valentine's Day was hella expensive.

Could the winter olympics BE any gayer? Seriously, skip the bidding process among cities from now on and just give them to San Francisco from now on.

Are we SURE the Winter OLympics are actual sports? Seriously, i keep waiting for Ashton Kutcher to jump out and yell, "YOu've been PUNK"D!!" to the worldwide TV audience.

Great subway ride home tonight: a crackhead told me i could make good money playing the "Family Guy" dad on Hollywood Boulevard.

I always hate the round the clock Olympic coverage. Almost enough to make me wish they'd bring back The Jay Leno Show. Almost...

The Who played the Super Bowl halftime show. They were so old, all I could think was, “the WHY?” And they're so deaf onstage that they kept asking each other, “The WHAT?” It was like Abbott and Costello all over again: Who's on first...

Pete Townshend's known for breaking his guitar. THis time he had to worry about his breaking his hip.

I couldn't tell if Roger Daltrey was singing, or yelling at people to get off his lawn.

They were moving slower than the Colts defense.

They sang “My Generation”. Which one are they talking about? The first time when they sang it at 20, or now when they sang it at 80?

And even more ridiculous was them singing “Teenage Wasteland.” How about something more relevant, like a song about Alzheimers? That'll leave you pretty wasted.

It's gonna be a crazy time in New Orleans these next few weeks. Go from winning the Super Bowl straight into Mardi Gras. That's great for San Bernardino too: they're sending in even more meth for the parties than usual.

How about those Super Bowl ads? The last couple years they've had some ads in 3D. To which I ask, why didn't they have 3D the year Janet Jackson's boobs fell out?! Gimme 3D boobies and I don't care what you're selling – I'm a customer for life!

I do thank God that that Betty White ad wasn't in 3D. I don't want to take any chances with HER rack.

And then there was Abe Vigoda in that ad. Who even knew he was alive? Looking at him, I thought he was starring in the next mummy movie.

Charlie Sheen's wife wants to drop domestic abuse charges against him, but Gary Coleman just got convicted of beating his wife. It's like they say, they've always got to stick it to the little man.

Howard Stern's stirring up controversy because he's saying he might want to take Simon's place on 'American Idol.” What's the big deal? They've already got Ellen over there, and everyone KNOWS Howard loves lesbians.

How about that global warming? 20 inches of snow are hitting the East Coast. Funny how you don't see Al Gore running his mouth off anymore. I guess he's in hibernation/guess he's hibernating.

First Al told us the world was too hot, now he and his people are saying it's too cold. Why don't they just leave us alone and start their own line of Goldilocks Oatmeal: it's too hot, it's too cold, but it'll never be “just right.”

How about the problems with the toyota Prius? Their new slogan is 80 miles per gallon at 800 miles per hour.

It's Valentine's Day – you know what that means. Time to buy a box of 12 Fantasy brand condoms from the 99 cents store. They always put them right next to the home pregnancy tests. I say, if you're relying on the 99 cents store for your birth control needs, skip the condoms and go directly to the pregnancy test. Then again, if you're shopping at the 99 cents store, it's probably a fantasy that you have a sex life in the first place.

Instead of "Christmas," say "Valentines Day" on this joke - about the sex robot: "Now i know what to get Tiger for Valentine's Day!!"

And "Boy, John Edwards just doesn't get it - he said he was making the sex tape as a Valentine's

Obama’s got us over $3 trillion dollars in debt. Suddenly I don’t feel so ashamed about my Visa bill.

Obama’s got us over $3 trillion dollars in debt. Now I think I can tell Visa to fuck off about the $4000 I owe them.

Obama’s declaring war on childhood obesity. This is one war we can win – after all, fat kids are slow and make easy targets.

Kobe Bryant just became the highest-scoring Laker ever. Gee, who knew it was possible to sleep with more women than Wilt Chamberlain?

We just had Groundhog Day. This year, it was Dr. Phil who showed up to see his shadow. Six more weeks of family therapy. OR Six more years of his shitty show.

Toyota’s recalling 8 million cars because the gas pedal sticks and they go too fast. Funny how that’s a problem for Toyota, but it’d be perfect for Nissan’s slogan: Zoom zoom!

Obama wants to end “don’t ask, don’t tell” and let gays serve in the military. Opponents call gays a security risk, but that’s stupid – what group in the history of the world has proven BETTER able to keep a secret?

Didja hear about the new movie "Dear John"? I thought it was a Valentine's chick flick, but it's really a documentary about the John Edwards divorce proceedings.

Did you hear there's a new $7,000, fully operational sex robot now? I finally know what to get Tiger Woods for Christmas!

That $7,000 sex robot will do anything you want, no complaining. Hell, you could get Snooki from The Jersey Shore to do the same thing for $20 and a couple shots of tequila.

A $7,000, fully operational sex robot? Finally, some high technology I can really get behind!

Today was Groundhog Day. Tiger Woods stuck his head out from hiding and saw his shadow. You know what that means: six more weeks of rehab!

Did you hear about that new movie "Cop Out"? Turns out it's not a buddy cop movie - it's the documentary about Obama's first year in office. OR Turns out it's not a buddy cop movie - it's the story of the Democratic health care plan.

Tiger Woods and Charlie Sheen teamed up for a new sitcom: Two and a Half Inches. They just announced they're working with John Edwards too: the remake of the Three Stooges.

How about that John Edwards sex tape? he's getting it on with his eight months' pregnant mistress. Finally, a sex tape we'll all pay NOT to see!

Did you hear about the new IPad that's coming out from Apple? What are its special features: that it's extra absorbent and has wings?

Everyone’s pissed at Brett Favre for not winning the playoff game. He’s 40 years old. When I was 40, the only thing I could throw was my back out.

President Obama’s had a rough first year in office. If his poll ratings don’t improve, they’re bringing in Leno.

Octomom’s eight kids just celebrated their first birthday this week. One more kid and she wouldn’t have a womb - she’d have a housing project.

Osama bin Laden has come out with a new tape. If he’s the world’s scariest, richest terrorist, why can’t he send us an MP3? Can’t he have Al-Qaeda steal him an IPod?

Osama hasn’t done anything really scary since 9/11. That’s been over 8 years man! Osama bin Laden? More like Osama Been Lazy.

In all his videos, Bin Laden’s wandering around the mountains carrying a giant stick in his hand. I don’t know if he really looks terrifying, or just looks like Gandalf.

Scott Brown shocked everyone by winning the senate seat in Massachusetts. He also once posed nude for Cosmo – Finally! A politician who gets his sex scandal out of the way BEFORE he takes office!

When Brown offered to give the voters naked honesty, they didn’t realize he’d go THAT far!

That movie “Up in the Air” isn’t doing so hot. It’s a sweet romantic comedy with George Clooney, but people keep thinking it’s a movie about the Undie Bomber.

Mel Gibson’s back with something called “Edge of Darkness.” He spends the whole time beating people up all over Los Angeles. I couldn’t tell if it was an action movie or a reality series.

Boy, people in San Bernardino are really excited about the Super Bowl! Of course, that could just be the meth.

A new study reveals that teenage boys and young adult men lie about how often they have sex. That’s in the new issue of “Duh!” magazine.

What's the Rock doing as "The Tooth Fairy"? Looks like he needs to make a wish - for better scripts. a few seconds ago • Comment •LikeUnlike

Carl Kozlowski Anyone see the commercials for the new "Wolfman" movie yet? They've got Benicio del Toro screaming "I will kill ALL of you!" It really looks like "Scarface" with facial hair.

Carl Kozlowski Tiger Woods is in treatment for sex addiction. Man, even his problems are better than mine.

That show “24” just started up again. Kiefer Sutherland’s getting old – he’s less excited about saving the world than he is about saving 15 percent on his car insurance.

They’re trying a lot of new things on “24” since everyone thinks Kiefer’s getting old. This year, he actually takes a nap. And a crap. That guy’s gone eight seasons without using the toilet once – he’s got bowels of steel!

Things are crazy these days – Tiger Woods is in sex rehab and Arenas got busted for bringing a gun to a basketball game. Remember when rehab was for a knee injury and athletes shot baskets instead of their teammates?

Boy, this NBC late night mess is getting ugly. Jay Leno’s coming back to take over “The Tonight Show.” That’s like coming back to fuck your ex-wife after she’s already got a new husband.

Boy, it’s raining like crazy out there. I got tired of driving halfway over here and swam the rest of the way.

There’s some advantages to all the rain falling. Jesus the bartender washed his beard for the first time in six months.

The rain’s so bad that the bar’s throwing a special tonight: all mudslide drinks come with flood insurance. OR come with house insurance.

It’s raining so much out that when a hooker puts on your rubbers she’s covering your feet.

That rain is like giving the city a shower. Now if it would only work on the guy sitting next to be on the bus over here…

That rain’s making Los Angeles unrecognizable. I can’t even smell the urine on the sidewalks anymore.

See the Golden Globes? Monique won Best Supporting Actress for “Precious.” That movie confused me – I thought it was another “Lord of the Rings” movie, not the story of a 500-pound black girl on welfare.

The founder of Taco Bell just died. He ate 7 layer burritos until he went 6 feet under.

The founder of Taco Bell just died. Imagine his surprise when he learned the Supreme Being isn’t just made out of 89 cents worth of refried beans and sour cream. He’ll be running for the border - of heaven.

The creator of the Quarter Pounder died – though at his final weigh-in, he was more like a quarter ton.

First the Taco Bell guy, then the Quarter Pounder dude died – all I’m saying is Burger King better watch his ass. Who needs a coup to take him out when you’ve got cholesterol?

Pope Benedict met with the woman who tackled him at the Christmas Eve Mass. He figures if she wants to jump his bones, who’s he to stop her?

Charlie Sheen lost his gig selling Hanes underwear. The underwear bomber said "Hey, I'm available."

Charlie Sheen lost his gig selling Hanes underwear. They're hiring the underwear bomber instead. Their new slogan is "I wear Hanes, 'cause it's the bomb."

Charlie lost his gig appearing with Michael Jordan 'cause he beat his wife. He's got a new ad, though: selling Ginsu knives with OJ.

I'm tired of hearing everyone mangle that Muslim bomber's name. Can't we just call him the Undiebomber?

They're coming out with a porn version of "Avatar." I dunno, though - it's just two hours of blue balls. Bet you didn't see that coming!

MTV's come up with a new show for Jay and Conan: "Celebrity Deathmatch."

Mel Gibson's defending Tiger Woods. That's like Pee Wee Herman defending Michael Jackson. That's like Mariah Carey speaking to an Alcoholics Anonymous group. That's like Chris Dodd hosting a financial advice show.

The Obama administration is considering an array of national security measures. The President said "I'm all ears!"

The president said "the buck stops here" on national security. It should. His ears are a personal radar system.

Hear about Gilbert Arenas bringing guns to the locker room? What's everyone worried about? He's only shooting 28 percent!

His coach doesn't mind the guns though. He said "Anything that gets him shooting practice."

Arenas is part of the NBA's new players' program: "If you don't have a gun, we'll give you one."

Mark McGwire admitted he's using steroids. He said, "What's the big deal? I shot steroids, not my teammates."

Tourism is dropping in Jersey - who knew the people were nastier than the water on the Jersey shore?

Did you hear Nicole Richie's new movie? "The Lovely Bones."

There's a new book out saying Warren Beatty slept with 13,000 women. And you know there's some skank out there going "Hey, I was 13,001!"

California has just banned trans fats from all restaurants. Now if they'd just ban fat trannies too.

Jennifer Lopez says she apprecaiates the deep, meaningful love Marc Anthony gives her. He says he appreciates her deep, meaningful tush.

It’s getting scary at the airports. You have to show your underwear to everyone. America’s moms have released a statement saying “I told you so.”

Did you hear about the guy who passed out in his car for an hour and the cops found a meth lab in his back seat? Doesn’t the mayor of San Bernardino have anything better to do?

A new book says that Warren Beatty slept with nearly 13,000 women. Even Tiger’s impressed. He gets tired after 18 holes.

ESPN just announced its launching a 3D sports network this summer. I don’t know – if I wanted to get hit in the face with balls for two hours at a time, I’d just go over to West Hollywood.

3D ESPN is scary: You’d REALLY have to ask tiger to keep his pants zipped.

Former Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich – that guy with the crazy hair – is going to be on the next “Celebrity Apprentice”. He’ll be competing with Donald Trump in a fight to the death for his barber.

Pee Wee Herman’s coming back with a new stage show. Remember when he got caught whacking off in a porno theater? I say keep him onstage and away from the seat next to me.

That new movie "Avatar" is out. I don't know about it though - why pay $10.50 just to watch two hours of Facebook photos?

Tiger Woods has quit golfing indefinitely. That's a wise decision - he's gotta conserve his energy for the ladies. Besides, where's he got the time?

Tiger's quit golfing for a while, but he's got a new gig - VH1's "Celebrity Sex Rehab."

We're sure far out here in the Inland Empire. Even Santa's saying "Fuck it" this year. No, just kidding. Santa will always come out to San Bernardino. He needs the meth to get around the rest of the planet quick.

Steven Seagal's got that new show "Lawman" out where he claims to be a real-life cop.

a) I know where I'd be moving if I was a criminal. Have you SEEN Seagal lately? Not like he can chase anyone.

b) He's one cop who's eating all the donuts.

c) I'm sweating like Steven Seagal eating donuts.

Seagal's so big now i'm looking at his movies in a whole new way...

d) He's Marked for Death - by his physician!

e) He's not Marked for Death - He's Marked for Diet

f) He's gone from "hard to Kill" to Hard to Breathe.

g) He's gone from "Hard to Kill" to "Hard to Run"

h) He's gone from "Above the Law" to "Above the Scale Limit"

Tuesday, February 23, 2010


Odds of winning an Olympic medal: 662,000 to 1.

Odds of winning an Academy Awards: 11,500 to 1.

I'm going for the Oscar. Clearly, it's the path of least resistance.

I'm living a nightmare right now. It's called the Winter Olympics.

Imagine hating sports – nearly every single form of them – and yet having to watch them 24 hours a day for 14 days on end.

Al-Qaeda might consider waterboarding a worse form of torture. But not for me – for me, torture is seeing snowboarding, luge riders, curlers, and oh- worst of all! - figure skaters. All playing their hearts out to win medals and endorsement deals.

Why do I hate sports so? Look at me! Do I look like a competitor, a svelte athlete ready to stun the world with my feats of speed and grace?!

No, but I've tried.

I first imagined myself as a sports car driver while riding a tricycle at the age of 4. But as my best friend Joey egged me on with the best Howard Cosell impersonation a 4-year-old could offer, I pedaled too fast to take a turn in my circular parking lot safely and careened on 2 of my 3 wheels into the back of a 1974 Buick, getting my nose stuck in the tiny crevice of space between the bumper and its chrome cover. I fireman had to get me free in front of 50 of my laughing neighborhood peers, and I'm still a legend – for all the wrong reasons – on the streets of the Chicago suburb of Broadview, Illinois.

Cut to 4th grade and playing soccer. Soccer was a game my dad – an immigrant from Poland – could relate to. I, on the other hand, wanted to play baseball. Instead, I was stuck playing fullback each week in YMCA soccer. It was already lame playing Y ball – in fact, I think the Y really referred to saying “Why bother?” They never really pused competition, and no matter how crappy your team was, it got a trophy. How does that prepare you for the non-stop, inevitable asskicking rat race the real-life adult world has to offer? It took me years before I realized you don't get a trophy for screwing up on the job, and that a boss might tell me I'm the weakest link and throw a folder at my head rather than hand me an award the next time I missed a deadline.

And so it went, on and on: my spiral of sports-related shame!

Next came YMCA basketball, where I was so hopeless and my team so pathetic that I remember a Y ref secretly tapping a ball I was chasing back in-bounds to me.

“Don't worry,” he whispered with a smile. “You can shoot it again.”

Sure, he was trying to be nice, but all I could think was, every kid on that court and their parents – not to mention MY parents – had to see the ref help me.

It was like having my dad buy me a presidential election by stacking the Supreme Court and having me declared the winner. No one would ever respect me again – so I let the basketball just sit there anyway.

I had my pride.

Flash forward to baseball – again at the damn Y – and I'm 10 going on 111 with another crappy team on its way to an 0-7 record. EVERY team I played on, from soccer to basketball to baseball, was 0-7. But we still got trophies!

The memories I have from that baseball season are good and bad. I got 1 hit in 11 at-bats, after cowering from fast pitches on my other 10 attempts. That hit was a fast grounder that slipped by a 2nd baseman, but IT WAS GLORIOUS! It ensured that at least one of my lifetime stats didn't have a 0 attached to it.

The other was in my last game, playing right field of course – the no man's land that balls were never hit to and where the lamest players went to die. In my final game, though, a player hit a rocket line drive out to right, and in a completely uncharacteristic – and some say, miraculous – display of ability, I caught that sucker!

I ran in to my team, screaming for joy, highfiving, a hero for cone in my Godforsaken life. And then, as I grabbed a bat, knowing my turn was next and that for once I had the confidence to pound a homer...the ump called “Time!”

Not time out. Time! As in “out of time, game over” - in the one sport devised by mankind that wasn't supposed to have a clock! There was no “time” in baseball! It was supposed to last 9 non-timed innings, period – that was its hidden magic! You never knew WHAT you were getting into with baseball, a 2 hour boredom-inducing low-scorer or an action-paced, seemingly unending 4 hour barnstormer. To this day, that's what I love about baseball – the fact that the game and its details rarely matter as much as the loose vibe of a drunken afternoon in which the universe and everything in it can be discussed, debated and evaluated in 9 glorious innings.

All these memories flood my mind, but the thing that broke my Olympic spirit most was the summer of 1992 – when my brother Lud won the Olympic Triplecast from a morning radio show.

Now, the Olympic Triplecast was designed for those human beings who felt around the clock coverage of the Olympics on just ONE network wasn't enough. Rather, it was THREE satellite networks of Olympic coverage – making sure you didn't miss a damn minute of any sport known to man, from soccer to the shot put.

And my brother reveled in the fact he'd won it, taking over our kitchen TV to watch as much as humanly possible because he couldn't let this alleged $199 “value” go to waste.

While he drove my mom's blood pressure sky high and forced the rest of my family into eating out for nearly every meal of the Olympics' two weeks rather than watch another second, he and I DID bond over one thing: Snickering awkwardly at Greco-Roman wrestling.

Yes, I came running anytime he yelled to tell me it was on. The chance to watch two guys in tights hold each other in place on the floor in a variety of positions that were too close for comfort was a hilarious pasttime when he was 16 and I was 21 and we were too young and dumb to realize we were being homophobic and un-PC.

For my brother was an uncoordinated klutz too. And in those 1992 Summer Olympic games, fueled by Triplecast and too much wrestling, we finallly laughed our athletic frustrations out of our system. We snickered as if were superior even though these wrestlers could have kicked our asses 6 ways to Sunday.

You could point out that I don't NEED to watch the Olympics these days – that rather than just the 5 channels of my youth there's 500 available now.

But I say that some things – even things you hate – are too compelling to turn away from. Like rubbernecking a traffic accident or staring at a transvestite on a subway train, some things in the universe esxert an unbreakable tractor beam on our psyches.

For me, the Olympics are one of those things. I've hated them too long to stop bitching about them now.

Friday, January 29, 2010


"Time" heals all
With “Angel Time,” Anne Rice continues her quest for truths hidden amid eternal mysteries

By Carl Kozlowski

Anne Rice has spent her entire life caught up in a spiritual quest for truth. Yet she has carried on that search in a highly public and creative fashion, creating novels rooted in indelible portraits of evil and lost souls throughout her 11-novel series about the Vampire Lestat before tossing that vastly lucrative path aside to write novels in which Jesus and holy angels are the heroes.

Rice will be signing her latest novel, “Angel Time,” in a free 1 p.m. Saturday event at Vroman’s Bookstore. Following the story of Toby O’Dare, a contract killer assigned to yet another murder who is visited by a mysterious stranger – an angel who offers him a chance to save rather than destroy lives. When he agrees to take that chance, he is whisked back to 13th-Century England, amid an era in which children suddenly die or disappear and accusations of ritual murder have been made against Jews – a dark world in which he is determined to bring light.

“Both vampires and angels challenge the imagination. You have to live up to a classic concept, with angels they’re a creature who’s a messenger of God who comes from Heaven ,” explains Rice. “So you think: ‘what’s he going to sound like when he talks, what’s he going to say?’ It’s exciting to me, to write about angel Malchiah and make him believable to my audience.

“We have to respect what they are. Angels are messengers of God and live in the presence of God, but over and over in Hollywood movies, they’re made into sad figures who want to be on earth instead of Heaven. My angels want to be in Heaven. It’s kind of thrilling and very similar to writing about vampires.”

It’s been a rather unique full-circle journey for Rice, who grew up in a devout Roman Catholic family in New Orleans before questioning her beliefs upon attending college out of state in Texas. Yet Anne didn’t rebel in the conventional sense of those around her in the heyday of hippiedom; she was a few years older than that generation and decided to question things on an intellectual and philosophical level rather than through the use of drugs.

She reached her professional breakthrough in 1976 with the release of her first novel, Interview with the Vampire, a full three years after she finished writing it. Following the illicit deeds of an immortal vampire, the book was an extremely dark exploration of the very questions Rice was harboring in her real life. While writing the remaining ten books in the vampire series, which went on to sell tens of millions of copies worldwide, she also wrote three erotic novels under the pen name of A.N. Roquelaure.

But even as she eventually came to describe herself as an atheist and had great wealth and adulation surrounding her, Rice wasn’t truly happy. In 1998, she started to rediscover her strong faith in the Catholic Church, and by 2004, she announced that she would no longer write about vampires. Instead, she was devoting herself to “what the Lord wanted” in her writing.

“The answer to why I switched is my personal conversion. I didn’t really have the same worldview after that conversion,” Rice explained in an exclusive interview from her home in Rancho Mirage. “I didn’t have any more tales to tell with Lestat because I now saw the world through different eyes and the vampires didn’t make a connection for me.

“Vampires were people groping for faith, living through darkness, and I personally found the change those characters were looking for,” Rice adds. “I came to the end of my quest. The last two [Lestat books] reflected the split in me and were written after I’d been writing in faith.”

Rice’s shift away from faith was one that is common on the nation’s college campuses, even though she now feels it was “tragic” for her life. For despite her vast wealth and a happy 41-year marriage to Stan Rice, a lifelong atheist who died in 2002, she wishes she had never walked away from her beloved mother church.

“I went through a crisis at 18. I was at a secular college campus in Texas, away from my Catholic roots and had a whole host of new influences,” recalls Rice. “I rejected the faith of my childhood as too limited. I wanted to learn what the modern world was about. I ended up styling myself as an atheist, but was really agnostic. As Catholics we encounter a whole lot of new information, and we don’t know how to incorporate that into our faith.”

Rice particularly recalls her first readings of existentialist writers like Jean-Paul Sartre and Albert Camus as leading her astray, but with the wisdom of time now says “it isn’t necessary to leave your church in order to read Sartre or Camus, but when I was 18 it didn’t seem that way and that I had to leave and seek knowledge a different way. It was a tragedy.”

Rice ultimately decided to return to the Catholic Church but also came back with a strong sense that she was supposed to write about Jesus Christ now and devote all her future work to Him. She feels that even her vampire novels were reflections of the search for the great truths of existence, just from the dark flipside of the path she walks now.

“There was not a specific incident that sparked my return to the church. I’d been thinking a long time and one day I made decision to go back, and realized I didn’t need answers to all the sociological questions I had,” explains Rice. “God had the answers for what was the meaning of the Holocaust or why was there a Second World War? – and that was enough. That burden was not for us. It was a release to let it go but it was also intellectual. Americans tend to believe in that story that you turn towards or against faith due to tragic loss, but that never happened for me. They’re always casting my story in those terms but it didn’t fit.”

Ultimately, Rice has been pleased that some of her old fans have followed her new direction and tries not to concern herself too much with those who haven’t been as kind about it. She drew particular ire from some fans on for her Christ-centered novel Blood Canticle, and wound up attempting to defend herself in writing – only to find Amazon pull her response down without explanation.

“I don’t disavow my past books at all. I have communication with my followers everyday, and love their feedback and comments,” says Rice. “I hear a lot from fans who are curious and searching for faith. I get a lot of emails about my conversion – how did you do it, what do you believe in? I spoke at a synagogue about “Christ the Lord” outside of Birmingham, and people asked how did faith get back to you? Sometimes it’s hard to express how complicated it is.”

Sunday, December 20, 2009



Copyright (and that's no bull- it IS copyrighted, DO NOT reprint or steal this!) 2009
Christmas. That's one word that seems to make everybody light up with a smile. At least if they live in the Western world and don't worship Buddha or something - but even then, you know they'd dig on Santa since both those dudes have got bellies full of jelly.

But me? I've always hated Christmas.

Why, you ask? Spend five minutes with me in a bar on Christmas Day, and you'll be asking why NOT.

Take the fact that I was one of 17 kids. That's right, my mom was a regular baby factory, and I had to be 16th off the assembly line. So I didn't get the honor of being first, or the last, or even really being part of the middle. I was almost an afterthought.

But I try to put it in perspective. After all, I was only 16th out of 17. That jerk Osama bin Laden was like one of 55 kids. No wonder he grew up to be so angry. You never get any good presents when you're way down the list like us.

Then again, I'm not sayin' I don't miss those guys. I think about 'em every Christmas. It's hard not to, considering Momma and Daddy drove the family van over that cliff in the snowstorm when 15 of 'em were on board. They were going to sing in our town's Christmas pageant, and I happened to have a cold that day. So they left me with Grandma, and I survived. Just me and my baby sister.

So it's hard to get cheery over the Big Day. In fact, I don't even believe in it anymore. Not in Christmas, or Christ, or Hanukkah, or Kwanzaa, Ramadan, Passover, Eid, or anything the Hindus might be into. If there was a Big Man out there watching over us all, why would he let so much crap happen to one little guy like me?

And that's why it was so weird that I was called in for this job interview. I was about to be hired to play 36 straight hours of Christmas carols, from noon on Christmas Eve clear through Christmas Day, on a station called KCHR - otherwise known as "K-Christ," Chicago's number one Christian music station.

In other words, I'm hardly the perfect candidate for the job. But do you know anyone else who would do it? Working Christmas in radio is the ultimate sign that your career is in the toilet. It means you've got no one to spend it with, no one who cares, and an infinite amount of patience for songs about jing-jing-jingling and taking sleigh rides. Not to mention, trudging to work in Chicago, where it's always a white Christmas, whether Bing Crosby dreams of it or not.

But hey, I'm Travis Koback, and I'm a commodity. I used to be somebody. In fact, I was the #1 morning DJ in the city until that unfortunate incident involving the mayor's wife, a hotel suite and some unexpected news photographers. I never realized the mayor could have the power to get a guy like me fired, but hey, you learn something new every day.

I learned a few other things after that. Like if you're gonna rob a bank while dressed as Santa, make sure you have his shirt on right, so you don't have a bunch of witnesses describing you to the police as "a guy in a Santa suit, but his shirt was on backwards." That made it hard to claim they had the wrong guy when they caught me three blocks away.

I learned that even though we pay a lot of lip service in this country to getting second chances, making comebacks, and being "born again," most people really do hold grudges. No station would touch me with a ten-foot pole once everyone found out I was a convicted felon. But didn't they realize if they'd just give me a job again, I wouldn't have to steal?

But somehow I lucked out with the fine folks at K-Christ. The word was out on the street that nobody would take their Christmas gig, 'cause not only would you have to be cooped up in a glass booth for 36 hours, but you also would have to play their idea of traditional Christmas carols. No rock. No country, amazingly. Definitely no rap versions of "Away in a Manger." Nope, you were stuck with glorified elevator music that would put the Mormon Tabernacle Choir to sleep.

But hey, I needed the dough. They were actually paying pretty good - $5000 for it. I mean, DJing on Christmas is about as much fun as kissing your sister, so they've gotta pay. And since they were paying, I decided to make the most of my interview and info session. I actually dressed up.

I suppose, getting "dressed up" is relative. The chick at the K-Christ reception desk didn't seem that impressed with my black pleather suit jacket, shirt and pants combo.

"Um.So you're the DJ?" she asked, her eyes wide open with wonder. Or, maybe it was a combination of fear and disgust. You never can really tell these days.

But nonetheless, she had a nameplate on her desk, and I scored points by calling her Maria before she could realize I was just reading it off the sign in front of her.

"Wow, you know my name? Cool. How'd you do that?" she asked, smiling like a sorority girl who just landed the perfect homecoming date.

"I'm, uh..psychic. It's a gift." I was kidding, of course, but she bought it hook, line and sinker. Within seconds, I was sent through to the manager's office.

The guy in charge at the station was typical management: suit, tie, perfect hair, and way uptight. I could tell he wasn't thrilled to meet me, and especially to hire me at this holiest of times.

"Do we need to refresh you on, um, FCC decency rules?" he asked, staring me straight in the eyes.

"I know, I know, there's seven words I can't say, like…" I replied, trying to appear confident. Instead, he almost jumped out of his seat while waving his hands at me.

"Stop, stop, no need to recite them," he said, looking like he was afraid of losing his job if he even heard a single one of those words even off the air.

He stood up and paced to his window, trying to impress me with his view of the Sears Tower. It was kinda strange, considering we and the station were in the JC Penney Building, which was only half the Sears Tower's size. It was like staring at success, right in our faces, and realizing we were only halfway there. Story of my life.

"Look, just to be safe, why don't you not say much of anything at all? Just say the time and who the song is by occasionally, maybe read the weather off, and say a Merry Christmas at the top of the hour," said the bossman. "Think you can be a good boy and handle that? We're paying you a lot of money to just play by the rules."

"Sure." I'm not stupid. I knew when to keep my mouth shut. Or at least I learned after the first million bucks in FCC fines. This guy had good reason to be scared based on my track record, but this was going to be two months of living money for a day and a half of work. My intentions, at least, were the best.

But as somebody smart once said, or wrote, or something, the best laid plans of mice and men often…um….well, they get smashed in a mousetrap.

The station's booth was a lot more advanced than I ever expected. I thought I'd be dealing with a station with a budget determined by bake sales and a lame-o turntable with a bunch of scratchy records that were one inch away from being dumped forever into a Salvation Army thrift store. But instead, it had a big ol' touchscreen computer that gave DJ's the chance to pick up to the next ten songs just by pushing a bunch of buttons on a screen.

Other than the fact I hated the music with my very existence, this would be a piece of cake. I hit the station's promo button the second I took my seat.

"K!C!H!R! K-Christ!"

The funny thing was, those plastic radio chorus voices actually sounded good, even if I didn't particularly care for the call letters or what they stood for. The important thing was that I was back on the air, even if they didn't promote it in any way. I was still in the heart of Chicago, and I knew that if I decided to give a damn, building an audience would be no sweat.

I gave myself a second to clear my throat and suck in my breath. Had to get rid of the rasp in my voice, and put my cigarette throat on their precious, wholesome wavelength. And I was gonna try and make it through this without relying on my good friends Jack Daniels and Johnnie Walker.

Besides, I could afford to take a few moments - who the hell would be listening to a Christian station nowadays, besides a few hundred old ladies who couldn't hear well enough to notice whether I talked or was silent anyway?

But then again, it was Christmas Eve. If anyone with a pulse was ever going to tune in, it would be today.

"Good afternoon to ya, Chicago. It's that holiest of holidays, Christmas! And with Christmas comes Christmas Eve, and you know what that means."

Yeah, I knew they knew what that meant. It meant that some shmuck was gonna have to lock himself in a radio station and play every Christmas song known to man for the next 36 hours. But I couldn't actually SAY that.

"IT means we'll be playing those most precious of songs, Christmas carols! And OHHH, we've got lots of 'em, folks, so call in your requests now!"

Yeah, right. Piece of cake. No one was gonna call in. I mean, don't you forget how to use the phone after age 73?

"Here we go now, with a personal favorite of mine, 'Silent Night,' in that ever-popular Muzak format." I looked at the computer screen for a moment and finally hit the song's button. Whadaya know? It worked. Let there be crap!

God, I remembered when stations actually used records on the air. I mean, I'm only 45, but I've been on the air for 22 years. The mayor threw me a congratulations dinner party even. If only I hadn't tried to make his wife my dessert, I wouldn't be sitting here.

But I hadn't seen records in over a decade, except at Christmastime. Everyone used records for carols during the holiday season, 'cause it somehow made you feel a downhome warmth even if were an old Grinch like me. All things considered, though, this was gonna be kinda nice. I coulda been listening to my own record collection back home, but without this gig I woulda been living outdoors by New Year's.

Just then, a phone line had to light up.

Damn! I couldn't kick back for a second, could I? It was only 12:02 p.m. But I now realized my eight listeners wouldn't be hitting the sack just yet, and picked up the receiver.

"K-Christ. This is Travis. Merry Christmas," I droned.

'Yes, could you play 'Christmas in Killarney' by Bing Crosby for me?" Bingo. Some old bag over age 75. What a nightmare.

"I don't know, lady. Why do you wanna hear that? It's Christmas in Chicago, for cryin' out loud."

I really didn't wanna deal with this. But as the old lady released a startled gasp, I thought maybe I was being too harsh on her. It was Christmas, after all, and she believed in it even if I didn't.

"Awright, awright," I said. "At least it's not religious."

Another gasp from her. Then, a question.

"Who are you?"

"I told ya, lady. My name is Travis."

"Last name, I mean. I'm reporting you!"

"Good. I won't be here. I got this stupid, stinkin' shift as a one-shot deal. Ya think anyone else would work 36 hours straight on the most precious holiday of the year? Song's ending. I gotta run. Call's over."

Time to stare at the computer again and find a song that wouldn't make me want to kill myself. What a stupid frickin' life.

5:23 p.m. Over five hours of carols, carols, carols, CAROLS. Carols sung, carols spoken , carols in Muzak. It would've killed a lesser man by now. I knew I had to do something to protect my sanity.

When I signed the contract for this gig, I knew they wanted me to play every Christmas carol known to man. Problem was, the man who made the songlist didn't know too many carols.

It was time to hit the vaults, or at least dig through my own Superbox O'Christmas. Despite my aversion to all things Christmas on a personal level, I had built quite a collection of holiday tunes on vinyl over my years of having to play nice on the radio. And being the city's craziest DJ, a lot of 'em were WAY off from normal. I brought a big box of 'em over to the station with me just in case. After all, anything that would keep me from drinking had to be seen as helpful.

I slipped on "O Come All Ye Faithful" for the 23rd time. It was the perfect long song to go searching to.

But just that moment, I saw that the keychain they gave me had an extra key besides the one for the front door. It was one of those antique keys you see in haunted house movies, and it didn't seem to match any of the doors in the place - except for this one closet behind the booth.

I headed for that door and rattled that key like crazy. I also gave the door a good solid kick but we don't have to mention that, do we? Oops, just did.

Anywho, that door opened into a huge closet that.voila.was packed with tons of records, stacked high as the eye could see. Even higher, man, 'cause I had to climb up on a chair to see them all. Turns out they were left over from the previous station, which actually played good tunes.

Suddenly, my 36 hours wouldn't feel like another night in the drunk tank downtown. I couldn't take my eyes off the records, or keep my hands off them - until I realized that the last song had ended and I had accidentally left the station silent for over a minute now. Not that I had to worry, since everyone was probably sitting down to dinner right then.

I couldn't help cackling, though, as I realized one thing while running back into the booth with my hands full of vinyl: tonight, this city was gonna be dancing.

"OK, folks. Enough with the dead people's music. Screw the Perry Como, the Frank Sinatra and the Johnny Mathis Christmas albums. Forget about 'Sing Along with Mitch Miller.' It's time to dance along with Travis. We'll start slow and ease into a full night of frenzy. Ladies and gentlemen, it's time for CHA-CHA CHRISTMAS !!!"

I plunked down the needle, spun out of my chair and burst into a dancing frenzy as the switchboard lit up again.

"GOOOOOOOD evening. Or should I say God evening? You're feelin' nice with K-Christ."

"What do you think you're doing?" Another old woman, complaining because her heart was just jump-started by some Latin American carols.

"Spreading Christmas cheer. That's what I'm here for."

"Well, Perry Como was cheery enough for me. And I want to sing along with Mitch.'

"Well, too bad, you dried-up old…" Click on the other end. Conversation over.

Call on line two.

"Feliz Navidad!" I cried into the receiver.

"Yeah, right.You sound a lot nerdier on the air tha n a guy who would play cha-cha music during Christmas dinner."

Whoa. This was another lady, but at least she sounded like she might have a pulse and a heartbeat that wasn't regulated by medication. Stay cool, I thought, we could be onto something. Like a mattress, sometime soon.

"YOU sound alive." Cover up the surprise, man, I realized. "..with the Christmas spirit. What's going on at your place?"

"Let's just say I've never had my family dancing at the dinner table - especially not at Christmas." She sounded tentative, afraid of how to express her surprise, and most likely her thanks.

"So, is that good? Your parents are dancing?" I asked, leadingly.

"No, my kids!..And me," she said, embarrassed.

Hmmm. Could she be divorced, or singlle?

"And your husband?"

"He wants to know if you have 'Cumbia Christmas."

OK, what did I expect anyway? Even if she were single, she was most likely Christian. And that didn't fit with my game plan.

"I'll have to hunt for that one," I teased. "Are you regular, ardent supporters of K-Christ?"

"No, actually. It was the weirdest thing. My kids were flipping the dial, and they just thought it was the goofiest music they'd ever heard. We love it!"

Take a Valium, lady. Apparently, you don't listen to the Ramones.

"Well, I'll see what I can do, if you just do me a favor."

"Oh, sure. Anything, for bringing some life to Christmas."

Anything? Watch what you say, man.

"Call all of your friends for just a second and tell them to tune me in. Get your kids to call their friends, too. I wanna have more than just eight listeners out there. I wanna throw a party for Chicago. Got it?"

She laughed goofily. "OK, I guess so."

"I mean it now. Call them."

"OK, you got it."

"Whoa. 'Cha-Cha Christmas' is ending. You got your request too, then. Catch ya later."

I flipped smoothly through the records before making a perfect switch of the albums.

"It's Cumbia Christmas time, Chicago!"

8:54 p.m.

That lady must have a lot of friends. I hadn't been able to rest from answering the switchboard for hours. In fact, it was almost like the old days in the morning, when I was riding at KKOZ, #1 in the city. Those bastards. I was beginning to feel that maybe the city's radio fans - the true judges of talent - hadn't forgotten me. But then again, eighteen months without a job had been a mighty long time.

Trouble was brewing again. I'd already gone through all of the cha-cha stuff, and the mambo, samba and tango carols as well."Polka Christmas" was one album I really dreaded playing, but even that nightmare had come true. You can't avoid polka in Chicago. They might as well have a 24-hour polka station on the dial. Maybe a polka video channel, too.

All that was left to play were Christmas opera tunes. I leaned back in my chair as Jose Feliciano wailed "Feliz Navidad" for what must have been the 52nd time.

No way, man. I'd rather kill myself than play opera carols. Time to rock'n'roll. Time to reach into the old Christmas collection from KKOZ.

The needle was rising. OK, it was now or never. I reached down under the table and fumbled through the records. ANYTHING would do to get the party started. Switch!

"OK." Oh no, not that" I realized, but plowed forward with my next selection. "Here's somethin' for all you metalheads out there. ‘Back Door Santa’ by Bon Jovi. Rock on!” I switched off my mike for a second. I was about to gag.


10:07 p.m. Well, who woulda thought? Rock’n’roll carols were a success! The bluehairs were fast asleep after seven, and everyone else was ready for something to break the monotony. Sure, the station owners were upset about it, but what could they do? Skip church to come and remove me?

The first call after “Back Door Santa” had set off a tidal wave.

“K-Christ! How are ya?”

“Hey, man! This is like, fucking awesome!” Oh great, just the kind of call I was praying for all night – one that could get me thrown off the air. It was Attack of the Teenage Metalheads time.

“I’m your back door Santa, guaranteed to satisfy’??? Now you know why I’m an atheist, kid.” I couldn’t believe how that stupid song could get such wild popularity every Christmas. Why didn’t the band members’ moms break their instruments when they were kids?

“So, what are you doing listening to K-Christ, man? Shouldn’t you be listening to K-Metal?”

“Yeah, but they started getting a little mushy for my tastes, man. Playin’ “White Christmas” by a band like The Skinheads adds a whole new meaning to the song, ya know? I had to change the channel or wind up crying.”

“I know what you mean, man.” What the hell is wrong with America now? I knew every generation says that about the next one, but dammit -= I meant it.

“Tell all your friends, man. I’ll start taking requests no. I used to be at KKOZ. We had everything there, man.”

“Awesome! You got ‘Safety Pin Santa’, man? It’s off the ‘Punk Rock Christmas’ collection. It should complement the Bon Jovi quit nicely, don’tcha think?!”

“Lovely, my man. You got it.”

Christmas in Chicago would never be the same.

“Safety Pin Santa” might have gone too far, I realized, as I stared at the switchboard. The calls were running two-to-one against the tune. It seemed harmless enough. Who ever actually sees Santa anyway? How would they know he’s not into puncture wounds? But that was beside the point- the ones in favor were the kids, lots of them. Of course, not the little ones – they were traumatized. But the teens, the ones who really counted in the ratings, were back. They were mine again.

The problem was, I also was starting to catch some attention I didn’t want. From the mayor, for one. How was I supposed to know he listened to K-Christ every Christmas while hosting a major fundraising dinner? And how did I know his guests would get so damn upset over a song like “Elves in Bondage”?

Of course, I guess I could’ve put myself in the mayor’s shoes. Think about it – you’re opening your house on the most sacred day of the year to a houseful of donors, you set up what you think is gonna be some nice background music on the most Christian station in town, and then suddenly everyone notices that the songs are making thinly veiled references to Santa being quite naughty himself. .

Of course the guests are going to get upset. And of course, the mayor’s gonna want to know who the hell is on the radio, playing those songs in the first place. And then, when he figures out it’s the guy who was responsible for a front-page scandal involving his wife, he’s going to want to exact some revenge.

After all, he had the police department at his disposal. And as he dialed up the chief, he was ready to declare war.

“Travis Koback is back on the air. And I want you to take him off,” he told the chief. “Forever.”

Of course I knew i was crossing the line when I played “Elves in Bondage,” and obliterated it when I played “Santa Wants A Spanking,” but it was such an adrenaline rush that I just couldn’t stop! This was life on the edge, even more so since it wasn’t KKOZ with its high-priced ad campaigns. Here, I was really making people listen. A couple more hours, and it would be time for me to try my ultimate experiment. But for now, I told folks who were complaining that I would back off, and even played “White Christmas” for them. As an extra gesture of goodwill, I dug out the Bing Crosby version, instead of going for The Skinheads’ rendition.

I still couldn’t resist a dig, though.

”This is for all the folks who are dreaming of a white Christmas. What planet are you on, guys? I’ve lived in Chicago all 45 years of my life! When have we ever gone without snow on Christmas in this friggin’ city?”

That sealed it. Even crooks don’t work on Christmas Eve, so for lack of anything better to do, the city’s cops were tuned to that dial. And when their chief put out the call to take me down, they sprang into action. The playlist had truly strayed too far for the flock long ago, but now I’d angered the boys in blue.

It is often said that Christmas is the loneliest time of the year, that if you don’t have family or friends to share it with you really can feel like a loser. Well, I was supposed to abandon my friends Jack Daniels and Johnnie Walker a few years ago, before I went into AA, but this night I knew I’d be facing a long dark time of the soul – and I sought out their company at a liquor store on the way into the station.

I had started to share my troubles with them slowly, with shots around 9 p.m. That wasn’t so bad – I had waited through 9 full hours of musical horrors before I finally succumbed to temptation. The problem was, they kept calling my name and asking me to join them for another glass, to pour another drink and then another and another...

And as I started to play wilder and wilder songs, and started to slur my words on air, i had unexpectedly drawn the attention of another “friend” besides the mayor. I didn’t know it, but Maria the station receptionist had decided it was time to help keep me under control – and, by extension, make sure I didn’t destroy the station.

“So, having a good time, Mr. Koback?”

I spun around so fast in my chair that I almost fell out of my seat. I still managed to throw up inside my mouth. I don’t recommend trying it.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked, after somehow managing to swallow.

“You sound like you could use a friend. Or at least a supervisor.” She was leaning against the side of the booth door – wearing a checkered skirt that looked like a Catholic schoolgirl’s uniform. Since it was Christmas, I refrained from making a pass. But still – she just radiated with confidence, something I never noticed when I assumed she was a dumb peon the other day.

I was impressed.

“Don’t you have someone you’re leaving really, really lonely right now?” I asked.

“Nope. Christmas kinda sucks for me.”

“Join the club. What’s your story? Dead family?”

She flinched in shock.


I realized I better explain, or she’d think I was laughing at the saddest thing imaginable.

“I’ve got dead family. Fifteen siblings. All died on Christmas when i was a kid.”

She was stunned. I guess anyone would be.

“But...I know you have a sister.”

“Come on, Maria. I can call you Maria, right?”

She nodded. “That’s still my name.”

“Well, my sister and I might as well be dead to each other. We don’t talk. She thinks I’m the worst possible influence imaginable for her kids,” I said, taking another deep swig of Johnnie Walker. “I don’t know what gave her that impression. A real bug up her butt. I think it’s her husband, actually.”

“Come on. Surely you can find something to blame yourself for.”

“My whole life is a blame game, sister. I’m 45 with no kids, I’ve been banned from radio, the one thing I love doing, for years, I’m stuck playing holiday tunes for a holiday I don’t even believe in, and I just can’t seem to get a handle on how to stop drinking.” I took another swig. “I’m a real catch, babydoll.”

“You used to be. I heard about you. Nothing says you can’t be again.”

“You hittin’ on me, sugar?”

“Ewww, no!” I think she was serious, not just covering up for truly having an interest in me. You don’t yell “Ewwww” that loudly without meaning it.

“Well, it’s up to you if you wanna change,” she said.

“Yeah, yeah. I can do anything I set my mind to. I went to the meetings for years, so spare me the advice portion of today’s little talk.”

“I can make it happen right now.”

“Yeah, so can I. Watch me.”

If Maria had really wanted to avoid all the trouble that followed, she could have stopped me from what I said next. But looking back now, all these years later, I realize she was secretly getting a thrill from the moment.

It was 12:54 a.m. by then, as I leaned into the mic and really started to stir up some trouble.

“That was the incomparable ‘Christmas in Hollis’ by my absolute favorite holiday artist ever, Run-DMC.”

The needle lifted out of the groove. I hunched forward and stared at it as it slid back into its resting position. I started to talk, actually trying to sound quiet and subtle.

“Folks, fellow Chicagoans, this is your good buddy Travis. I’ve been here almost 13 hours, working very hard to bring some spice, some originality to your Christmas festivities. You’ve allowed me to enter your homes and your hearts, but in turn, you’ve made me suffer a lot of things – Madonna squealing her way through ‘Santa Baby,’ the Ramones’ ‘I Killed Santa Claus Because He Screwed My Girlfriend’....Don’t make me go on listing the atrocities to the Christmas spirit.

“Now ‘Punk Rock Christmas’ is finished, ‘Christmas Rap’ is tapped out, and I’ve even played all the way through ‘Tiny Tim’s Christmas Surprise.’ Folks, I’m OUT. My collection is finished, the station’s vaults have been emptied, and I am done. We are scraping the bottom of the barrel for your Christmas caroling pleasure.

“That why I need you,” I implored, my voice plumbing the depths of false emotion. “I know you all have some special record of carols that’s dear to your heart, that maybe no one else remembers.”

Or cares about.

“But in your special way, I want you to show that you care for my efforts, my spent energy. I want you to stand up for once and show New York City that they don’t have a thing on us! If they can throw a part in Times Square on New Year’s Eve, why can’t we rock on Christmas Eve? Let’s start our own tradition! Come on down to the J.C. Penney Building and we’ll party!”

The switchboard lit up again. I had known in my gut that people were still listening. A metalhead was on the line.

“Hey man, like where IS the JC Penney Building? I’ve never even heard of it!”

Figures, I thought. KKOZ was on top of the Sears Tower, and everyone knew where that was. But not K-Christ. It had to be on top of a building less than half as tall and which no one even knew existed.

“OK folks, it’s really quite simple. You had downtown on Addison Street and turn off onto Hayes Boulevard.”

“How do we know which building it is, man?”

“it says JC Penney on it, butthead. Merry Christmas.”

Click. The studio was silent. Maria was just staring at me like I was crazy for inviting the whole city down. Maybe I was. It was the last quiet moment of my shift, but then, i always hated silence.


Speaking of crazy, I knew there was one other person I had to get involved in this mess. It was pure instinct that led me to make my next move. Hell, I’d been accepting calls for thirteen hours, so why couldn’t I make one?

It was time to call my best buddy “Crazy Larry” Waterston. He’d been my partner for eight years at KKOZ, flying a helicopter over Chicago’s streets and highways to give a verbal picture of the traffic jams each morning. But working together always involved more than that. Everything was ratings, listeners, teens, power.

Almost every morning required another publicity stunt – another low swoop to virtually scrape the paint off some car roofs, or pulling zig-zag, side-to-side maneuvers through the sky. He lived for the excitement, and he had the cojones to actually fly, while I locked myself away – king of a switchboard, master of the radio dial.

So when I got canned after that whole incident with the mayor’s wife (sorry, I still can’t explain it to you. Court orders!!!) Larry lost his gig too. He would’ve quit to show his solidarity with me anyway, ‘cause if he learned one thing in ‘Nam, it was the essence of teamwork. And as my phone call throttled his eardrums and shook him awake in the wee hours of Christmas, he was ready to act on the few principles he had left.

“What?!” he groaned into the receiver. I could hear a crowd in the background. Damn, even on Christmas morning, he had gone to the Off-Track Betting parlor to drink himself to sleep. Well, I told you he was asleep – I didn’t say where.

“This is Travis, man. How’s it going?”

“For God’s sake! Whaddaya think you’re doing, calling me at this hour?”

“What?! You? Asleep? At any hour? Much less before dawn on Christmas morning? I know you’re at the OTB, man. Probably wearing the same Santa suit you’ve been bumming money with the last few years.”

There was a pause on the line. I knew he was staring at his clothes, wondering how I always knew how to guess right. He indeed was in his Santa suit, although it was one decorated in Technicolor hurl. Not his Technicolor, mind you – but that of one of the 500 kids he’d seen that day as they sat on his lap outside Marshall Fields, where he was able to spare parents the hourlong wait for the “real” Santa inside the store and talk to their rugrats for a buck apiece.

“I’m gonna hafta get you back in fighting shape,” I said. “I’ve got a mission for ya.”

“Christ, man.” Larry’s head was rocked by the gelatinous mass within.

“No, K-Christ!”

“K-Christ?” Larry rolled his seat round and managed somehow to stand on his own two feet. “Have ya lost all your principles? Man, you’re in the JC Penney Building!”

“It’s a job, which is more than you can say for yourself. Just listen to me. I’ve got just a LEETLE favor for you.”

Watch out, Larry thought. Think, man.

“What?” I recognized his tone; it was the height of skepticism.

“Steal the KKOZ copter from the top of the Sears Tower.”

The words tumbled out of my mouth, quietly, so that Maria couldn’t hear me as she stepped outside the booth and disappeared into some file cabinets. I also was hoping to win him over by confusing him. No dice.

“Are you crazy?!”

“No, but you are, Larry. Remember how it felt? Crazy Larry! Crazy Larry! Crazy Larry!” I chanted, beating out a rhythm with my hands on the countertop.

Larry sat quietly. I could tell he was thinking, adding it all up. He didn’t have a woman around to piss off if he left on the spur of the moment. In fact, he hadn’t had a woman in his life since the day he was fired and his wife left him after the stunt with the mayor’s wife almost eight years ago.

Now the thought shook him even further awake. It would be great for him to get that old adrenaline rush back, the thrill of flying coursing through his veins. Not only flying, but breaking into the Sears Tower on Christmas Eve, of all nights, and stealing his old copter back. Whoa. Back on the airwaves?

“You betcha,” he cackled.


The second I hung up, I realized Maria had been standing behind me and listening. She just wouldn’t stop pushing my buttons. Couldn’t she see that my entire goal right then was to get plastered and be left alone with the sound of music and the low buzz of the phones?

Instead, she picked that moment to surprise me.

“I think I found you something you’ll like for Christmas.”

“Umm, I really don’t think I should be messing around with you while I’m still having to play the music…”

She rolled her eyes again.

“Take a look behind me, Travis. If that doesn’t make you feel better, then, well.. I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do.”

And just then, I saw what she was talking about. My sister Jenny came walking into the booth. She looked a little sad, but more importantly she looked like she was ready to just see me. Me. No one had come by to visit me at work, home, or anywhere in...well, just so long.

“How’d you…? You know…?” I asked.

Maria waved a folder she had in her hands.

“I checked out your personnel records before I walked in here tonight. You listed your sister as your next of kin on your contract.”

“You’re crafty. But…That’s good.”

“Just shut up and hug each other,” she winked, looking at both of us.

A dance remix of Lou Rawls singing “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” echoed through the booth. He had just died a few days before, and he sounded like he was singing from the beyond – and right just then, he may as well have been. I had grown up hearing that song without the creepy dance beats over it, and just then it was the perfect song to take me back to the perfect Christmases before that damn van accident ruined everything.

Jenny looked good, though she did have a bit of middle-aged-mom pudge and she had turned into one of those PTA ladies I used to laugh at when i was about twelve. But hey, we all get older, and I wasn’t so easy to look at myself. It was instinct to wanna hug each other, and so I stood up and threw my arms open.

She came towards me, ready to return the hug, but I could tell the moment she flinched and decided just to shake my hand instead. She got a little too close to the bad-breath residue i had from almost yakking a few minutes before, and besides I had the whiskey breath and hadn’t showered yesterday, and my coat, well, it smelled what you could charitably describe as “ripe.”

“That’s OK, Jenny, i understand I’m a bit, well, ripe. Kinda like old Swiss cheese I guess,” i said as i took a quick whiff.

“Um, yeah...Don’t worry about it. It’s just nice to see you, Trav.” She smiled. It was sincere. And it was just what i needed. We both looked over at Maria to show her our thanks for hooking this up. It wasn’t necessary to say anything, she was a smart gal and could tell by looking us in the eyes that this meant something. A lot, actually.

“So, where are the kids?” I asked. She had five of ‘em, like I told ya, and damned if I wasn’t going to see them too.

That made her a little bit nervous, but hey.

“They’re outside, in the SUV. With Jack.”

Oh boy, her husband. We never really got along, ever since I poked fun at the fact he made a living marketing tampons. He didn’t think it was appropriate humor at a Thanksgiving dinner in front of his children. But then again, we all have our opinions.

“At least he’s here, I guess. Even the Cold War ended, I guess it’s our turn.”

“So, call ‘em in?”

”Sure.” We smiled at each other again. I hadn’t really smiled, i mean genuinely smiled, in so long.

“Hey, why not? He’s already got the whole rest of the city coming,” Maria said, rolling her eyes.

“Yeah...I noticed a crowd out there...Didn’t really know why,” said Jenny as she dialed her cell. “Yeah, bring ‘em up....Um, yeah. Kinda ripe.”

Great. I could tell she was describing my condition to Jack. Then again, it would have to be up to me to make a better impression tonight.

But I still didn’t really believe I’d convinced anyone to show up downtown. I was just talking out of my ass, lonely, speculating, wondering if i had any DJ superpowers left.

“So, you say there’s a crowd out there?” I asked Jenny, my disbelief coating every syllable.

She grabbed ahold of the cords that controlled the window blinds, and told me to look outside. Maria came up to the glass with me, and we both had the same reaction.

“Holy crap!”

I looked at her like we had a magic psychic moment between us. She just looked at me like “Dude, you better control this situation.”

The situation had indeed occurred. There were at least 2000 people down below, waiting outside to see what I’d do next. And there were thousands more driving in on the streets, as far as the eye could see. The police were NOT going to be happy with me.

But I’d gone too far to head back now.


1:42 a.m. The streets below were filling up as I looked down from the rooftop of the JC Penney Building. I had held the city’s attention before, but never quite like this. Before, it had been calls on the switchboard, letters after my firing. Supportive letters, mostly. The kids usually saw anything unusual as cool, regardless of the politics behind it. The whole world had been altered for them by Jon Stewart and David Letterman; every experience was filtered through his sarcastic vision.; All of America was a friggin’ TV show to them.

But hell, this would make a heck of a gag on the Dave show, though I was sure this would be even bigger. All the local channels would cover it, then maybe feed it to the networks. Not just a Letterman skit, but a joke on the opening monologue, maybe even a guest spot on there – and with Jay, Craig and Conan too.

“Yeah, baby, you’ve got ‘em. Bigger than ever,” I told myself. But it was time to get back in the studio. God only knows what Jenny’s little rugrats were doing in there. And besides, I still didn’t trust Jack not to sabotage every piece of equipment he could get his hands on.

********************************************************************************************”Hey, hey, hey! Merry Christmas, Chicago! Looks like you’re really giving a damn about your city for once. Screw New York! Here come the headlines!”

And the KKOZ copter. I recognized the sounds of its blades, slicing the air over the horizon. Too long, baby! It had been too long since I’d heard that helicopter getting set to land and touching down on a rooftop above me. And even better, I now knew that Crazy Larry could still come through.

With a floor-shaking thud, Larry had landed. The wind from the propellers always whipped his hair into a frenzy, making him look like a white guy with Don King’s hair, as he made the dash from the copter to my studio. As he pounded on the studio door, I almost choked up. And this time, without any puke. It was just pure emotion I was feeling.

It almost made me forget the fact that Jenny, Jack and their kids were running helter skelter through the station offices, playing the most destructive game of tag I’d ever seen. But what did I care? It wasn’t my workplace past midnight on Christmas, so I let Maria hopelessly attempt to play sheriff.

I had more important things to deal with – like getting Larry into the studio.

“Tada! Boys and girls, ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages!” I boomed into my hand-held mic, throwing my hands out and feeling for all the world like a Ringling Bros. ringmaster as everyone froze and stared at me like I’d just gone loco. “We’ve got an extra special treat for you now – the return of Crazy Larry!”

He burst through the door, further stunning Maria and my entire remaining family.

“Why yes, folks! The crowd below was just going wild!” Larry screamed into the mic, back in his element. “I’m going to be here to help direct traffic for all of you as you race through the city to come see us. So come on down!”

Little did we realize, even more of Chicago’s finest boys in blue were about to take Larry up on that offer. KKOZ’s DJ had just regained consciousness and called to report a stolen copter.


2:18 a.m. Back on the rooftop, hop hop hopping – to fight off the brutal cold. Looking down, the crowd just kept getting bigger and bigger, and it was now turning into a lightning rod for every bizarre group of people in the city. There were clusters of teens out there – ones who wouldn’t stay home on even this most allegedly holy of nights. But that was just the tip of the iceberg.

There were other groups, too – pro and antiwar protesters pushing up against each other, fighting for room and slogan-shouting attention against civil rights groups and neo-Nazi skinheads, and even whole families bringing their kids to see a spectacle of activity unseen in Chicago since the police busted down the Democratic Convention of 1968.

This could get ugly, I realized. I didn’t expect this to actually HAPPEN. I didn’t really think anyone would come down to the station and expect to get in, especially early Christmas morning. And apparently, I wasn’t the only one surprised by it all – because just then the K-Christ Listeners Board showed up to have their own protest. A protest against me !

But frankly, that’s what thrilled me most of all. If old folks were rousing themselves from sleep and onto the streets with a collective battlecry, I knew I was onto something.

And Crazy Larry was out trying to rev up the escapade, flying over the city and directing the miles of traffic that were forming on the expressways. This was turning into the biggest mess of his career. But he was also helping me create a little diversionary tactic to fend off the police and a takeover of the studio by their own copter patrols.

“This is Crazy Larry Waterston on K-Christ 103! This city’s a madhouse! Who woulda thunk it? I’m flying over Lake Michigan now, and holy cow! Some idio’ts pulled a ‘Risky Business’ move with his car and drove it right into the lake!. It’s sinking, and he’s going down with it. Good Lord! There’s a baby there too! Get some choppers down here, now!”

Larry pulled away into the night sky so the cops wouldn’t be able to catch him too quickly for lying, while I had to act quickly myself to keep people moving towards the JC Penney Building instead of towards the fake accident. I ran back inside to the control booth.

“Kinda rough about the family there, huh? Nothing you can do ‘bout it, though. But we got some incredible door prizes here!”

2:31 a.m. The first wave of squad cars had arrived. I could hear the sirens below as Larry zoomed in just over them for a closeup sound check.

“Whoa! You should see the officers duck! I wouldn’t be too sure of their confidence in a crisis situation, folks. Heh, heh, heh!” Larry cackled. For him, it was almost like doing a treetop run over the Vietnamese jungle again.

Maria and Jenny weren’t being too helpful, though. This wasn’t the time I needed to hear doubting, but they were freaking out – to put it kindly.

“Travis Koback, you’d better leave this station in one piece, or it’s my head that’s rolling on Monday!” I always liked to see a woman get tough, and right now Maria was putting the “grrrr” in aggressive. It was kinda hot, to tell you the truth. But with Jenny, her kids and her tool of a husband there, it was impossible to do anything with the moment.

“Calm down!” was the only thing I could think of blurting out.

“She’s right, Trav. I’ve got kids here to worry about!” Jenny was yelling, and that was the last thing I wanted to hear. Not that I blamed her at that moment. I imagine I would’ve been protective if I had kids in a situation like this. But then, that’s a big hypothetical – because how many people ever find themselves in a situation like this?!

But I did feel bad about her being worried. I grabbed Jenny’s shoulders firmly and looked her right in the eyes.

“We’re going to get through this,” I said.

She started to calm down, and I looked around for her kids. Turns out they were fine little troopers, just sitting in swivel chairs and spinning each other around. They didn’t even know what was going on. All they cared about was seeing who would wind up puking first from all the motion sickness they were giving themselves.

Jenny’s husband Jack, on the other hand, was cowering in a corner in the fetal position. I couldn’t deal with that. I knew the officers would be storming the building the second they recovered from the shock of Crazy Larry’s flyover. So I put the Sex Pistols’ rendition of “O Come All Ye Faithful” on the turntable and ran for the elevators.

Well, first I kicked him a little to get him up.

“Come on, man! Grow some stones!”

“Eeyow!” he squealed.

“Dude, I don’t have time for pussyfootin’ around! You’re an electrician, right?”

“Um…yeah?” He sounded REALLY worried.

“Then you’re coming with me!”

“Jenny?!” He squealed again.

She actually crossed her arms and stood her ground while towering over Jack as he lay on the floor.

“He’s right, Jack. Go with him. What could he possibly do that could hurt you?”.

I looked at her funny. “Oh, gee, thanks, sis.”

“Hey, don’t forget who gave you a wedgie anytime you tried to snag the TV remote.”

“Touche,” I replied.

It didn’t take me too long to find a way. Jack did actually get up and followed me as I handed the booth controls over to Maria. We were heading for the elevators.

But we weren’t going for a ride. In fact, we were about to stop the cops from taking one either.

‘We could get arrested for this,” said Jack, as he fidgeted with the wires.

“Like they’re not gonna take us in to the county jail already,” I scoffed.

It didn’t take Jack long to disconnect the elevators. He was one of those guys you see in the movies who actually know what each color of wire means, meaning he could defuse or disconnect anything from a bomb to a car ignition. And the second I saw the cars’ power go out, I cackled.

I could just picture a hundred of our fine city’s overweight donut jockeys going into shock at the realization they might have to break a sweat by climbing the stairwells to the top. Now that was a feeling of control.

I thought I could get used to this. How little I knew it would all (well, mostly) go away before sunrise> But for that short time, I knew the Chicago police force was in for more exercise than a triathlon could provide. I walked back into the sound booth cocky as hell. Everything was in place.

3:18 a.m. I had given up on playing records half an hour ago. I had to focus on my in-person audience of my adoring fans now, not to mention catching up with my sister, her kids, Jack and all the while laying the groundwork to hit on Maria when all this was over. Who has time for music?!

So we threw an on-the-spot studio party for everyone, standing on the JC Penney Building rooftop with a helluva mic in my hand and my sis, nieces and nephews bundled up around me as I led the crowd down below in a live, on-air singalong.

I took my cues from tradition, and began by copying the Beatles’ famous rooftop concert and led the crowd through rockin’ renditions of “I Get By With A Little Help from My Friends” and “Ob La Di, Ob La Da.” Then on top of it all, was “Hey Jude” – there’s nothing like hearing the “Na Na Na Na” chorus sung by 100,000 Chicagoans. It would have brought a tear to my eye, if I believed in tears. But seeing all these groups that usually hated each other together was pretty amazing.

I then leaped into U2 mode, ripping off their ripoff of the Beatles by howling my way through “Where The Streets Have No Name” while the crowd contributed a riveting “OW OH UH” at the chorus. Pure magic. It was time to get to the point. The officers might be halfway up the stairs by now, and the helicopter squad probably already had figured out the Lake Michigan disaster report for the scam that it was.

“OK, folks. You’ve been great so far. I never thought I’d see the Ku Klux Klan and the NAACP members locked arm in arm, swaying side-by-side singing ‘Kumbaya,’ and the same for all you war mongering soldiers hugging your peacenik brothers while grunting “OW OH UH.” Even you, the K-Christ board members, singing along to ‘Let It Be.’ You might wanna remember those three words when ya leave here, though. It’ll save you a lot of grief and the money from your ulcer medications.

“But what we’re going to do here may seem silly. I want you to join in, though. When I yell out something, I want you to call it back to me and maybe act it out a little. OK?”

One hundred thousand people screamed out their agreement as one. Whatta city.

“Run!” I yelled, trotting along the edge of the building.

“RUN!” The crowd yelled back in a thundering roar. They ran, too. It was like seeing a cattle stampede. Problem was, they kept running, even after I stopped.

For a moment, I thought about just letting them run. This was incredible. But letting 100,000 people hurtle through ice-covered streets with no clear direction, goal or end point could have resulted in more sheer carnage than running the bulls at Pamplona. Not a good idea, in other words.

“Come back!” I yelled, and they just stopped and stared up at me for a second. I realized I was actually going to have to lead them every step of the way. This was getting scary, but I ran back a few feet the other way along the roof’s edge.

“COME BACK!” the crowd finally replied, and ran back to their original positions.

What morons, I thought to myself in stunned silence. I had just wanted them to come back, not yell the command back to me.

“Your fans are the stupidest people I’ve ever seen!” Maria blurted.

Frankly, at that moment, I agreed with her. But to admit they were stupid was to admit that I was, too. I had to defend their honor.

“Hey, they’re your station’s fans too.”

Good one, Travis. Now I had just taken things all the way down to a 7-year-old, I’m rubber and you’re glue, level of namecalling. But I couldn’t keep it up.

Maria was bundled up in her coat, her face bright red from freezing, and she was still adorable as hell. I liked women who spoke their minds. I wanted to go over and hug her tight. But then my sister had to pile it on too.

“She’s right, you know,” said Jenny.

“Yeah…thanks, sis.” I looked back at her rugrats. They had the biggest grins I’d ever seen, and were jumping up and down waiting to see what my next command was gonna be. Jack was just wheezing for air and had a look on his face like he was pleading for me to stop – meaning he was following me too. I felt justified.

“Look, your kids are following me too…” I said, daring my sister to challenge me.

“They’re all under ten years old, Travis! God!” She had a point. But then, there WAS the matter of Jack, her own husband, following me.

“He’s a sheep, Travis. Like the rest of them,” said Jenny, frustration in every note of her voice.

Jack and I blurted out a reply at the same time. “What are you talking about?” We had never thought on anywhere NEAR the same wavelength before. So now we were stared at each other and did what two guys had to do in that situation: we slapped hands and cackled, “Jinx! Buy me a Coke!”

Jenny just headed for the studio and a break from the madness around her. If I’d really thought about things, I probably would have realized how screwed up things were when I was getting along with Jack better than Jenny, but hey, I had 100,000 people to look out for. And maybe I could cut the guy a break after all. It was Christmas, after all. It may not have meant much to me, but it did seem to be a pretty good time to make peace. We stuck out our arms and pumped fists again while his kids just laughed.

I looked back down at the crowd, and saw that they were staring back up at me too, like I was a god. Just because of the stupid microphone and a radio tower to broadcast what I had to say. I could say anything now, but I decided to have a little more fun.

“Sit!” They dropped in place like boulders. Too good to be believed.

“Stand!” They jumped up at once. I oughta tell them to bark like a dog, I thought.

There wasn’t time for that, though. I could hear the police SWAT team breaking through the rooftop door now.

Larry was also veering back in over the horizon. Maybe he could figure out how to save me.

Another ten seconds or so and the cops would be across the rooftop, next to me, grabbing me and dragging my body down 55 flights of stairs. And this time, I knew they wouldn’t just let me go. Truly speaking your mind and using it to lead 100,000 people in any time or place was too dangerous for them. Free speech was longer free.

I didn’t want them to take me, but I certainly didn’t expect what happened next. As the lead officer threw open the rooftop door, I ordered everyone on the roof to get away from me. This was gonna have to be my standoff, my fight.

“FREEZE!” yelled the lead officer.

“No problem, man! I’m frozen already!” I snapped back.

So it had come to this. I had gotten the whole city riled up again, broke through decades of bad blood with my sister and especially with Jack, and felt like I was The MAN again…All to be told to calm down and go inside, where they wouldn’t just calm me down, but would take me to jail for 7 to 10 years.

The cops would have to come get me if they wanted me. I didn’t budge an inch. But as I shared one last glance at the crowd and then looked at the faces of my sister’s kids, my sister and her husband, with a final stolen glance at Maria, the officers eased ever closer across the ice towards me.

And then, just before they tried to cuff me, Maria jumped out and gave me a hug.

She didn’t even flinch at my ripeness.

“You did good,” she said.

“Whadaya mean? I made a mess of this city.”

“No, you showed 100,000 people that they weren’t alone on Christmas Eve. They might’ve been stuck on their own, or families might’ve been miserable even if they were together, but you gave them a place to go and be part of something bigger.”

“Oh, don’t go all deep on me now.”

“Fine. You did it for me, then. I had nowhere else to go either.”

She pulled back and looked at me then, and I realized I could really dig this girl. Maybe even get to know her better and wind up having rugrats of my own with her someday.

But before I could get all drippy with visions of happily ever after, the craziest, most amazing thing of all happened: the lead officer was just about to split us up and arrest me, but he slipped. And as he slid towards us, he knocked Maria and me clear off the rooftop and out into the night sky.

I could only imagine the shock waves that were running through Crazy Larry’s mind at that moment. I was pretty shocked myself. And Maria, well, she wasn’t exactly talking. More like shrieking, while grabbing me so tight her fingers were practically tearing straight through my coat.

I must say, Larry tried his best to help us. He had seen plenty of dangerous things happen back in his ‘Nam days, and he’d saved plenty of guys from plenty of dangerous situations. But no matter how fast he tried to speed his chopper towards us, in the hopes of us catching onto his landing gear, he just couldn’t get close enough. Too many damn skyscrapers in the way.

Besides, he’d heard me talk plenty the last few years about wishing I could just jump off a roof somewhere and go out with one last blast of publicity. He figured there was no stopping me from doing that, but he really wasn’t thinking straight – I would never take a beautiful woman like Maria down with me.

Even so, Larry opted not to watch. He turned the chopper away from me after offering one last wave goodbye, and flew off into the night, crying. He had never even cried in ‘Nam.

Meanwhile, the entire group of police officers had run up to the edge of the rooftop, looking down at us as if we were just floating gracefully through the Windy City’s night sky.

“Look at ‘em go,” said a young officer in awe – well at least according to the lawsuit transcripts. And I must admit, even as we seemed to be hurtling towards certain death, Maria and I were a rather spectacular sight.

And for a few moments, there did seem to be gusts of wind strong enough to almost hold us in place mid-air or even lifting us back up a little bit at a time. It gave me more of a chance to notice things, that’s for sure.. Like the fact that my sister was on the rooftop also, waving while her husband tried to take one last picture of us.

“Cheese!” he yelled, and I did my best to crack a smile. But I was really smiling at Jenny. She had made me so happy by showing up. And her kids…Well, they were there too, and I had to give ‘em some advice to remember me with.

“Listen to your mom and dad, brush your teeth twice a day…and….don’t be afraid to take chances in life!” I yelled. That last part made Maria speak up. She had finally stopped shrieking and had fallen into stunned silence, but apparently she still had an opinion.

“Take chances?! Are you KIDDING?! That’s how we wound up here!”

Well, that was true. But I felt if I was gonna die early, at least I was going out with a bang.

As the wind tossed us around and made me face the sidewalk below, I decided to just accept my fate. Spinning through the Christmas morning air was magical, in a way. I was finally flying. Now I knew I shoulda taken up Larry’s offers of flight lessons.

But people were so stupid, though. Nowadays they seemed to listen to anything you said, whether in politics or the news or the media. If your face was on a screen or your voice was on the airwaves, you were nothing less than a god.

Ooh, I noticed Channel 4’s cameras now! Should I wave, or just do the “4-is-#1” sign with my fingers like the rest of the city does at the end of each night’s newscast? Wow! I realized we were sure to make the 6 o’clock news now.

But it was kinda sad, though. I could have changed “Seig, heil!” up there and they woulda listened. A Nazi rally in downtown Chicago, and they wouldn’t have even noticed.

“I hate you!” Maria yelled, just to get in one last dig.

And then I said it: the seemingly Craziest Thought Ever, at least coming from an atheist like me. But then they always say there are no atheists in foxholes. And I suppose that applies to when you’re falling 55 stories down onto concrete.

“Let go and let God, sugar,” I replied. And she tucked her head in my chest even tighter.

And that’s when I realized I had thousands of people down there, willing to do whatever I said. And if there were really enough of them, maybe we could all save each other.

“Raise your hands!” I screamed.

The crowd below each shot up one arm, as if I was calling on them to answer a question in the world’s largest third grade classroom. Morons.


And they did it. And we hurtled towards them, the world’s biggest mosh pit. And thanks to a couple of miraculously placed fat people, we suddenly had cushioning in place.

“HALLELUJAH!” I shrieked. Then I closed my eyes and just let it happen.

It’s funny how different things can turn out from what you expect. I expected to slowly lose my sanity while playing those Christmas songs, and at some point either that night or a night soon after to pop a few pills or a shotgun in my mouth and end it all. And I assumed my sister had no interest in ever speaking to me again, that her kids wouldn’t either, and her husband…well, I didn’t care about him speaking to me either.

And that night, that moment as I shrieked to the heavens in what I thought was my last moment of pure, unbridled joy, I thought I was making a last kamikaze dive into a next world I hadn’t believed existed a mere 18 hours before.

And because I believed, God suddenly decided to really show me a sign.

We didn’t die. OF course, you might’ve figured that out by now considering I’m telling you the story, but it was still a surprise to me, Channel 4, 100,000 Chicagoans, the Chicago PD and especially, the mayor. All those people raising their hands caught us, and any resistance from all the people sharing the brunt of it was absorbed by them falling into the fatties.

They still put Maria and me into the hospital for observation. Ya know, to prove I wasn’t crazy and she hadn’t broken any bones. But cooped up next to each other, divided only by a curtain for four days, me and Maria got to know each other pretty well. And she did turn out to be everything I thought of that night as I got to know her: funny, sophisticated, innocent yet sexy all at the same time. And she came to dig me too: enough to marry me, even.

The wedding made plenty of news too, but the totally good kind this time. It was a nice one, but what do you expect when the City of Chicago was paying for it through the settlement I negotiated with them for knocking me and Maria off the roof? We made enough bank off the whole thing and from all the talk-show appearances to never have to work again. It drove the mayor crazy, but then he was forced to resign once it came out he was responsible for the city’s overheated response, and that it was all part of an attempt at revenge.

But work we did. If there was one thing that night taught me – other than the existence of God and miracles – it was that people still loved me out there in Chicago. And that lesson rubbed off on the folks at K-CHRist, who just happened to be looking for a morning man who could make people under 80 listen.

And miracle of miracles: they do.

And now, so do I. .