I was scanning around the dial on Sunday morning when I came across an obscure cable station running The Brady Bunch.  There was nothing else on so I ended up watching most of the show.

In the episode, Marcia, who at that time would have been 15 or 16 years old, has a crush on her dentist, an attractive middle-aged guy who sports a vintage 70s perm.

The dentist asked Marcia if she would like to go to the ballet with him and she accepts, in the process breaking off a date with a friend of her brother’s.

Hilarity ensues as Marcia fantasizes about becoming Mrs Dentist, but she ends up  breaking off the date when she learns that he is already married.

As I watched the show I began to have this strange, nagging feeling that something wasn’t quite right.  The episode had all of the normal sitcom trappings — the bad jokes, the double entendres, and  the pat ending, but something about the plot seemed a little off to me.

All of a sudden it hit me.  The moral dilemma was not presented as a middle-aged, married dentist asking a high school student on a date, but rather that Marcia had to break off an already existing date.

Continuing to extrapolate, I have come to the conclusion that in the Brady-universe it would have been OK for Marcia to date a man twenty years or more her senior, providing he was single.  Heck, she could date Sam the Butcher, should be ever decide to break it off with Alice.

Marcia's future suitor?

In 1994 Paramount released the first Next Generation Star Trek film, entitled, appropriately enough, Generations.  It was a good film, not a great film, but one that I enjoyed when I saw it in its original release, as well in subsequent viewings on cable.  It featured the epic meeting between Captains Kirk and Picard, as well as the destruction of the original Enterprise.  What’s not to like?

For this post, however, I’m going to focus on a small portion of the film — a five-minute sequence in which Kirk and Picard find themselves marooned in the Nexus; an extra-dimensional realm in which ones thoughts and desires shape reality.

For Picard this meant re-discovering a love interest from his youth whom he had abandoned for the sake of his career.  For Kirk it basically boiled down to going horseback riding.

No matter, though, they were happy, at least for five minutes.  Once they realized that they had to get back to saving the universe they left the Nexus and  returned to reality, or at least what passed for it in the Star Trek universe.

Which brings me to the jazz portion of this post.  It is my belief that there exists a jazz nexus.  That is to say that there is a zone that can be entered in which the beat becomes wide enough so that the musician possesses unlimited powers.  While in the jazz nexus he can do no wrong and so is capable of executing an unlimited amount of ideas with effortless fluidity.

It’s not an easy place to get to.  It takes a symbiotic and cohesive unit, as well as a nurturing performance space with a sympathetic audience.  It’s not somewhere you can get to on your own.  I believe that’s why musicians have chosen this life, which at best is a non-lucrative existence that comes with years of dues paying and struggle.

As for me, I believe that at some point in my youth — I can almost remember the exact night  – I stumbled into the nexus and was given a brief glimpse of what it had to offer.  Once I had the bug I dedicated my life to trying to get back there.

Musicians such as Wynton Kelley and Hank Mobley lived in the nexus.  Mortals such as I are allowed in for a brief taste every so often —  long enough to keep me going playing $50.00 gigs secure in the knowledge that I will return.

Giddyup

Then there was the Jeremy Lin sensation, which was actually kind of fun, but then came the All Star break, killing any accrued basketball-watching momentum.

Did I mention the NHL All Star game and the Pro Bowl?  No?

Here is what the KNBR sports talk radio drive-time hosts have been talking about for the past two days:

Yesterday I was treated to an in-depth analysis of the NFL Combine workouts, where I learned about the inevitability of ESPN televising the event in future years.  You see, it wasn’t a question of if, but when.  Be still my beating heart…

Today I was held rapt (or was it hostage?) with NASCAR extra, as I learned that Danica Patrik’s tour debut consisted of four crashes.  Four!

February, you are a cruel wench.

Danica Patrick

Oh Manica!

These Orwellian scum have my utmost contempt.  The bar hasn’t been invented that’s low enough to prevent them from going under it.

With their recent ‘talking points’ attack on Planned Parenthood —  an organization that provides birth control, cancer screening, STD testing and abortions to 3 million women a year —  they have outdone themselves.  It’s as if, knowing that the White House is unattainable, their intent is to create as much racism, homophobia, and misogyny within their pathetic base, so as to yield a divided populous.

I’m no great fan of Obama.  His staff is chock full of people who are responsible for the financial meltdown, he dropped the ball on illegal detention, and he missed the chance to prosecute Bush administration war criminals.

In the end, Obama, like most politicians is beholden to big business, and hence, special interests.  Still, even allowing that he is a corporatist, he has managed to do some good.  He avoided a depression, got Detroit up on its feet, and took steps towards fixing health care.

My inclination has often been to say that there is not that much difference between the parties, but at this point how can anyone with half a brain not see the difference?  One party courts a progressive base, but is essentially just to the left of the center.  The other, at best is bat shit crazy, and at worst is a desperate, rabble-rousing, homophobic, racist, pack of miscreants.

When it comes to matters of the radio the ultimate source to turn to is my best friend, and occasional guest-blogger, Jeff Mazzei.  Jeff was the program director for WCBS FM for over thirty years, and he knows radio like Charles Dickens knew adjectives.

Enough of my needless prattling.  I give you…Mr. Mazzei.

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Guest blogging for Keith Saunders is like going to a concert expecting Cedar Walton to play only to find out that it’s Bill Walton.  But I’m here to expand on the subject of scanning for distant AM signals which is a subject dear to my heart having spent decades in the business.

Growing up in New York City, nighttime scanning for distant AM signals was great sport in the Marble Hill Projects.  For music, we loved WKBW from Buffalo which had an out-of-control nighttime disc jockey named Jack Armstrong.  But the real thrill was CKLW from Detroit which understandably had the inside track to all the new Motown releases, and we all felt as if we had the underground r & b pipeline to Motown a week ahead of everyone else.  In the summer, we scanned baseball games from Boston, Baltimore, Cleveland, and Cincinnati to go with the Mets & Yankees.

But on the west coast, they had a unique scanning experience.  In the U.S. & Canada, the legal power limit for an AM station is 50, 000 watts in order to protect stations from interfering with each other within a reasonable distance.  Mexico was never interested in such good will, so their legal limit is 250,000 watts.

One such station was XERB in Rosarito Beach with a 250,000 watt transmitter near San Diego.  This was the station that hired Wolfman Jack who became a radio icon with his unique brand of announcing.  He was not only a wild man on the air, but he exposed the west coast audience to r & b records that were never played on most west coast top 40 stations, and it was not uncommon for Wolfman to say hello to his listeners in Portland and Vancouver.

XERB actually had offices in Chula Vista, California and on Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles.  They also made money by selling time to pentecostal preachers who solicited donations.  One such preacher, Reverend Ike, had the sales pitch, “The worst thing you can do for the poor people is to be one of them, so send me your donations!”

I had the pleasure of working with Wolfman Jack (or as his co-workers called him, “Wolfie”) in New York at WNBC.  The real life Wolfman Jack was not unlike his on-air persona, but it was more low-key.  It alway amused me that this wild man of the airways with the zany moniker of Wolfman Jack actually had the most mundane of real names—–Bob Smith.

Sadly, both Wolfman Jack and XERB have passed from the scene, and CKLW in Detroit no longer is spinning Motown exclusives, but scanning never dies.  There are still baseball games hiding up there somewhere on a hot summer night.  It just takes a little patience and a talented wrist.  Scan it!!

Bill Walton

Cedar Walton

This is the third time I’ve made the drive from the Bay Area to Vegas.  It is a deceptively long drive.  If you could drive on a direct angle from Berkeley to Vegas it would probably be a six or seven hour trip.  Thanks to the Sierra Nevada range, however, this is impossible.  You have to drive south to Bakersfield on I 5, cut over east on a 150 mile mountain pass road — rt 58 — and finally, at Barstow, turn North onto I 15.  It is a nine-hour drive, that is if you don’t stop.

Fortunately I love driving.  I’m an animal behind the wheel and can drive great distances without tiring.  All I need are some good sounds to spur me on and I’m happy.  I’ve driven cross-country on two consecutive years, with a third trip looming this summer as my oldest boy is going to be going to school back east.

After the game (and what a game!) I decided to drive home rather than have to wake up at 5AM the next morning.  I had to be back by Monday night for a gig and I knew I could make great time at night.

I know enough to pull over when I’m tired.  It’s amazing how effective a ten minute cat nap can be.  I ended up needing to take two of them — one at 2Am, and the other at 4AM.  I arrived home safe and sound at 5:30.

About halfway through the drive I decided to take a break from my ipod and tune in to some right-wing radio.  I expected to become upset while listening to their vitriol, but in the end I only felt a sense of bemusement and pity.

I mean, they’ve got nothing.  Literally nothing.   All they have to talk about is their hatred of Obama, and their love of the lord.  Obama is a socialist, and the lord is their savior.

I feel sorry for them.  They don’t want to talk about Romney — they hate him.  They’re embarrassed by Gingrich, because

a) he’s too smart for them

and

b) his checkered history disturbs them.

Ron Paul is too liberal for them, and even these nutcases realize that Santorum has no shot.

One host claimed to know exactly when Armageddon was coming, but you had to buy his book to find out when and how.  I’m sure it would be a great read but I’m going to save my thirty bucks.

I ended up staying with right-wing radio for a good hundred miles.  I couldn’t turn away.  It was extremely entertaining.

When you go to a movie, even before the trailers begin, there are commercials playing at an uncomfortable volume.  Forget the feature, which is deafening.

When I lived in New York I used to dread walking by the Peruvian folk bands playing on the street, or in the subway stations.  You know those guys:  They’re  the ones with the amplified pan flute players.  What is it with the pan flute anyway?  First of all, the instrument itself is an abomination.  Second of all, nobody wants to hear it.  And third of all, they are particularly offensive when PLAYED THROUGH MARSHALL STACKS!

Closer to home, I am distressed about how loud jazz music has become.  In the old days bass players didn’t have amps — they were felt more than heard.  Perhaps this explains why they felt so good!  These days you have bass players playing through amplification at uncomfortably loud levels.  The drummer ends up having to play louder, and the horns and piano require micing.  Ultimately, unless you’re playing at a serious listening venue,  the audience talks louder.  It’s a vicious cycle.   Or is it a vicious circle?

Whatever.

It’s vicious.

Have I mentioned that these west coasters are out of their minds?!  They were already printing their Super Bowl tickets even before they beat the Saints.  Then last Saturday’s mass jubilation after their improbably victory — carrying on like it was the final scene from Hoosiers.  (my world war two metaphor was better, I know.  Sue me!)

The sports radio guys, as usual, were out of control, going on about east coast bias, and the ghosts of Candlestick Park.  

First of all…east coast bias?!  The last time I looked it’s the same no-neck guys who play on both coasts.  Also, as my friend and co-blogging blogger, Jeff Mazzei pointed out, the western teams, with the exception of this year’s 49ers squad, basically suck.

And…the ghosts of Candlestick?!  What ghosts?  John Brodie?!  All those guys from the ’80s are still alive!   Is it possible that Joe Montana has a ghost that we don’t know about?  That guy truly is amazing.

Go Giants!

Is it the real Joe Montana, or his ghost?

On Saturday I settled into my living room to watch the 49ers/Saints game.  Living in the Bay Area and being a sports talk-radio devotee, I had spent the previous week being hyped into a frenzy, and by midday Saturday I was frothing at the mouth awaiting the game.

The radio hosts and the callers had confounded me with their near unanimous confidence in the 49ers ability to take down the scoring machine that is the Saints offense.  To me it seemed like homer-ism run amok.  Their team has a mediocre quarterback and had played a soft schedule.

In New York, even when the Giants have great teams, this kind of blanket cockiness never exists.  There is always a healthy dose of skepticism and people more or less expect the worst to happen.

I have a theory about this.  New York has largest Jewish population of any metropolitan area in the world.  Nobody knows suffering like the Jews do, and the feeling of facing insurmountable hardships seeps into the collective psyche of the city.  Every gentile in New York knows a little Yiddish.

The Hebraically challenged Bay Area does not know from such suffering, ergo they are blithely spared such bouts of negative thinking.  They can’t imagine anything bad happening.

Contrarian that I am, I was quietly savoring watching the ‘Friscans being served a generous helping of humble pie.  The game began and you could see immediately that the 49ers defense was all that it was advertised.  Still the Saints defense held their own, shutting down the Niners offense for most of the second and third quarter.

By the fourth quarter two things were painfully apparent:  First, it was going to be a great ending, and second, because of my Saturday night gig, I would have to leave sometime during the fourth quarter.

I left with the 49ers ahead with six minutes to go in the fourth quarter.  By the time I had reached the Bay Bridge the Saints had taken their first lead of the game.  Midway across the bridge the 49ers grabbed the lead back with a brilliant Harbaugh call of an Alex Smith bootleg.

By now I was beginning to do the slow burn, grinding my teeth and muttering the name, Joe Carter under my breath.  (In 1993 I missed the one of the greatest World Series ending of all time — a Joe Carter walk-off home run)

I was over the bridge and driving south on Folsom when the Saints retook the lead on a 66 yard Drew Brees pass to tight end, Jimmy Graham.

“Shit!”

By now I was desperately searching for a bar where I could pull over and watch the final minute and a half of the game.  The sports gods rewarded me with a bar and a parking spot, and I ran in to see the winning 49er drive.  At least I can say I saw the end of what will surely be remembered as one of the greatest playoff games of all time.

I was unprepared for what would happen next.  It was more of a delayed reaction, really, as if the city was on seven second delay.  It was as if the city took a collective deep breath and held it for five minutes.

Then bedlam.  People began streaming out of bars shouting with delight, cars were honking and drunk girls were screaming like banshees.  This went on for two hours.  It was like V-J day.  I realize it was a game for the ages, but come on,  San Francisco, act like you’ve been there before.  It’s not even the championship game!

The thing is, they have been there — THEY’VE WON FIVE SUPER BOWLS!

Now the 49ers will face my team, the Giants.  I have no doubt that every Bay Area resident is rubbing his or her palms together in glee, thinking, “Oh baby, it’s in the bag!”  But unless I miss my guess, I think they’re in for a rude awakening come Sunday.  Talmud, after all, is a dish best served cold.

Don’t forget to pray today, because God didn’t forget to wake you up this morning.

I’ll say this about Jews and Muslims:  They do not proselytize.  Even if I was receptive to religion, the last thing I would want is for some righteous fanatic to shove it in my face.  I suspect that these are the people who are most repressed.  What are they trying to hide? 

Tim Tebow finally had a good game last Sunday against the Steelers.  I have to admit that he is clutch.  I’ll also say this:  You could have driven a Mac truck through those Pittsburgh safetys.  Even I would have scored with those holes.

Now we’ve got another week of hearing about how Tebow does nothing but win.  Until the Patriots send him a one-way ticket to heathen-town.

I love it when Christians get all huffy about being tamped down due to political correctness.  There’s only 224 million of them in the U.S. — I think they have a voice. 

Would Tebow be a household name if he didn’t interject God into every other sentence?  He’s a mediocre quarterback who had one good game and a bunch of lucky ones.  America loves sanctimony, and Tebow has it in spades.    

Can you imagine the outrage if Tebow was a Muslim and he used his post game interviews to thank Allah?  He would be tarred and feathered faster than you could say war on Christmas. 

I get nervous around devout people.  When I think about devout Christians the first word that comes to mind is intolerance.  Intolerance of gays and minorities and a myopic world view.  I think about their propensity for supporting capital punishment, as well as their love of guns and their narrow view of civil rights.   

That’s religion to me.