“Man, I’m good. Man, This should really be published! Like, Damn!!!”

Other people say that, too.

A girl once said that I have a gift that most guys don’t have. The power to read girls minds, and able to communicate exactly what they need onto paper. It’s true. I do. Back in school – mostly in elementary school – I wrote tons of love letters.

I was so before my years.

While the girls I adored weren’t even thinking having a relationship at the time, I had already named our three kids, picked out a plot for our future dream house, planned our wedding at Canada’s Wonderland and made sure our parents were free on weekends to take care of the kids. The three page long gushy sob stories that should’ve been sold in variety stores – told the girl how much I loved them and how happy I would be if I were to take her out on a date. How the best part of the day is when I see them. Gay. I’ve changed.

I always looked back at these letters and wondered how I could’ve picked up a girl with the mush fest notes. Then I had a conversation with a girl. She had received one of the last letters I ever wrote. I was in grade 8. She in grade 7. We were catching up and talking about all the weddings and engagement parties we’ve been going to lately. Then, She blurted out that she had been cleaning out her room and she found one of these legendary notes. She had to read them. She almost cried. Back then; she said she never knew I how sweet it was. How real I was with what I wrote. How in-touch I was with girls. How good of a writer I was. She said that she had all the letters I ever wrote her. Funny how little notes you’d write in-between shows on Saturday afternoon would still affect peoples’ lives.

Back then when I wrote those letters, everything had passion behind it. Everything had a purpose and it was urgent. We thought the end would soon come and we had to find out if she likes me right away. No time to wait. We’re getting old fast.

 Not that I don’t have passion or have a purpose or have something to say because I do. It’s just nice sometimes to dig up those old letters and see where those passionate moments came from and why I still write today. Not to her, but to you.

“Man, I’m good. Man, This should really be published! Like, Damn!!!”

Other people say that, too.

A girl once said that I have a gift that most guys don’t have. The power to read girls minds, and able to communicate exactly what they need onto paper. It’s true. I do. Back in school – mostly in elementary school – I wrote tons of love letters.

I was so before my years.

While the girls I adored weren’t even thinking having a relationship at the time, I had already named our three kids, picked out a plot for our future dream house, planned our wedding at Canada’s Wonderland and made sure our parents were free on weekends to take care of the kids. The three page long gushy sob stories that should’ve been sold in variety stores – told the girl how much I loved them and how happy I would be if I were to take her out on a date. How the best part of the day is when I see them. Gay. I’ve changed.

I always looked back at these letters and wondered how I could’ve picked up a girl with the mush fest notes. Then I had a conversation with a girl. She had received one of the last letters I ever wrote. I was in grade 8. She in grade 7. We were catching up and talking about all the weddings and engagement parties we’ve been going to lately. Then, She blurted out that she had been cleaning out her room and she found one of these legendary notes. She had to read them. She almost cried. Back then; she said she never knew I how sweet it was. How real I was with what I wrote. How in-touch I was with girls. How good of a writer I was. She said that she had all the letters I ever wrote her. Funny how little notes you’d write in-between shows on Saturday afternoon would still affect peoples’ lives.

Back then when I wrote those letters, everything had passion behind it. Everything had a purpose and it was urgent. We thought the end would soon come and we had to find out if she likes me right away. No time to wait. We’re getting old fast.

 Not that I don’t have passion or have a purpose or have something to say because I do. It’s just nice sometimes to dig up those old letters and see where those passionate moments came from and why I still write today. Not to her, but to you.

Good going, Shane. 

I’m proud of myself. One of those times when it’s good to pat myself on the back. I’m excited. Anxious. Nervous. Creative. Determined.

Reminds me of the Shane from 15 years ago.

The Shane of 15 years ago who made his way for a two-hour commute starting at 5am just to cart a few CD’s, fetch coffee, make some phone calls to the cop stations, edit real-tape and talk about radio stuff.

The girl form Rogers TV said she’d be giving me a call when she knows which holes I’ll be able to fill in terms of writing or being an on-air talent. My orientation is in exactly two weeks.

Obviously, my dreams are starting to reflect my total mindset at the moment. A couple nights ago I had this one dream where I was leaving some huge building. I was walking. Walking up hill. Down hill. Through forests. Through the City. Back into the forest and then up this huge hill. Down the hill. Back up the hill. This is where it gets weird. I jump over some little cracks in the ground for a bit until there’s one huge jump. I made it. All of a sudden, both sides of the ground breaks and I’m there in a little slice of what was once a football field length of country greenery, to only look down and see the long drop. I could jump and try to make it to the other side but it’s a good 30 feet each way for me to jump. I try to climb down. That’s when I wake up.

I checked out what being on a cliff meant. It said the that I “have arrived to an increased level of understanding, new awareness, and a fresh point of view.” It went on. “You may have reached a critical point of life and may fear losing control”.

It’s True.

Again, last night I had an unusual dream. I was leaving the TV studio but I was happy because I made a bunch of `sales’. I don’t know where this came from, as I don’t see myself being in sales when I head to Rogers. Anyway, I start to walk away from the building. Home? Out to meet friends? I didn’t know. I arrived at this bar that looked like this bar I frequent in Richmond Hill. I enter. Some of the same staff is working and some familiar regulars are sitting at the bar. I head to the back of the bar and say Hello to my mom. My mom? She doesn’t work there. Why is she doing the bar? I start to work with my mom – packing away plates, glasses and ordering more beer for the bar flies. I then wake up.

I look up what it means to dream about being in a bar. I got this. “You are seeking acceptance in some aspect of your life”. I can see this, too. But which part? Am I looking for more acceptances with this new gig? Is there something else coming up that I’m looking to gain more love for?

 I really don’t know.

  Hopefully this whole puzzle will make sense, soon.

In those days, the disk jockeys were celebrities. The radio show was like a TV Show. If you met one of those guys on the radio, you better have your autograph book out because you’d need proof when you tell your friends you met a real life Dick Jockey from the Radio!

I met a few that day. First it was in master control to meet my pal, Rivers. We chatted on and off air. I looked around examining how he would answer the phones, talk to the producer, and get into the mood before going on air. I drank my orange juice slowly taking everything in and practicing any bits that Riv would pass my way. Then, it was a break. Rivers got up and told me I was taking `a trip around the Force’. He and show producer, Dave Tooke gave me the tour. First, the Music Library where I learned that Rick Deez never did a show from the downtown studios, but it was pre-recorded and put on record. Second, it was other production rooms where the commercials were made. I took a quick peak inside the some offices of “the suits” – as Riv would call them – and then it was time to head into the newsroom. Three of my favourite all time news people were working, that morning. Evelyn Macko, Gloria Martin and the legendary Dick Smythe.

“He was the guy from TV,” I thought. Both my Dad and I were memorized as I remembered how I made fun of the broadcasting vet just a few weeks prior. After a Jays game one Sunday, I saw Smythe walking out and throwing something into the fountain. As the good RAF correspondent that I was, I called Rivers the next morning to tell him the eyewitness report of the events that went down the day before. Earlier on that morning, Dick remarked during a commentary that he had spent most of his time at the bar because the game of baseball was getting boring. As Tom and I were waiting to record the bit, Tom advised me to say something as the punch line. I agreed. Seconds later, we’re on. Tom and I talked about the Jays win and my new box seats that my father had just bought earlier on that season. I then told him of the Smythe sighting. I told him that I saw newsman throw what looked like a penny or a dime into the fountain after the game. Tom asked if Smythe said anything when he did it. I promptly replied, “Yeah. He said to keep the change, bartender”.

I quickly zoomed back to the present day. I heard someone talk to me. It was he. Smythe asked me if I was the little guy who is always on the radio with Tom. I replied, “Yes I was, sir”. He asked me if I liked news. I said, “kinda”. He asked me if I wanted to replace him. I said “someday”. He laughed and went on with his work.

People you look up to always seem bigger and have this light surrounding them when you first meet them. Dick had the light. He seemed huge. Moments later, I would see him in his realm. In the newsroom reading the news. His shaking head would move from left to right constantly looking up for the time check. Confident. Determined. Passionate. He was the Dan Rather of Toronto radio news. The Paul Harvey of Toronto radio Commentaries.

Always controversial, Dick was the best at delivering his own opinions. Sometimes it sounded like how he just wanted to get through the news just so he could tell the listeners what was on his mind – much like how a kid had to clean his room before going to play tag. The commentaries were Dick’s game of tag.

In Toronto, some people were fans of Brian Henderson. Some were fans of John Gilbert. I was a Smythe supporter.  Like how a “bad-guy” wrestler knows he did a good job after a match when the whole venue wants to kick his butt, Smythe knew he did a good job when he got calls about what he said during the 8 o’clock commentary. Fans would’ve gotten into the ring with him after each morning show in a steal cage match.

The passion Smythe carried into the newsroom every morning is missed. We still do have the Oakley’s, the Richards’, the Stafford’s, the Carroll’s, but like how every year the grade nine class looks up to someone in grade 12, the kids looked up to the vets of the school. They paved the way, after all. Smythe was the rebellious one. The one in the leather jacket, smoking his cigar in the middle of class – but still scoring top grades because he had intelligence.

Watch out Barkeep, your talking to a wise one there.

Still on vacation. I’m heading back to Toronto in T-minus-3 hours. Its
3:14am in mild early morning suburban Detroit. Clouds are out. Its sixty
degrees. Looks like rain.

I had a dream. I was writing something to someone. Don’t know who. I
remember I was in an upscale café and I had to write something to some
blond girl. I don’t know who she was, but from what I remember from what I
wrote, we were romantically involved once.

I remember writing down a few things in the dream,  but the thing that got
me out of my sleep, springing out of my Dad’s comfy cotton couch to only
open up his laptop and break-in his Microsoft Word program are these
following words.

“Maybe more people should let themselves not ‘move on’ and get over the
love of their life by not moving on, and not having that major break of
communication after the break-up….”

Paraphrased, that’s what I dreamed I wrote down.

Don’t you ever wonder what one little feeling if executed properly and its
results in the future?

Like this little splurge of early morning thought, for example. If I
hadn’t written this, what would’ve been the results? What will happen now
that I did wake up to write down that line of dream discussion?

Back to the line from the dream. I think I was trying to say that more
people should be able to `move on` without `moving on`. Not having to
loose all ties from the ex-girlfriend for that set amount of time but able
to let the ex help you out as a friend with the grieving process. Make
sense?

A friend once told me after a break-up you must use alternate pathways
just so memories from the relationship don’t affect your mindset. Turn
that left instead of the right on the way to the bar. Don’t go to that
café on Wednesday when you know she’ll be there. Watch Friends instead of
Cosby Show if that was your show with her. Don’t hang out with Jimmy if he
introduced you two. Same rules apply as quitting smoking. Should a long or
short term romantic jig just wind up being diagnosed the same as harming
your body with a substance that kills you? Or is this how we as human
beings just deal with getting rid of bad habits or making us forget what
once was?

We never forget. We just avoid thinking about it.

More Radio Stuff: I’m sorry. There couldn’t be one blog that has gone by
this summer without any mention on the latest trials on Toronto Radio.
Summer usually does this to me. So much
moving-and-shaking-format-flipping-advertising-ass-kicking-radio ramblin’
going on, I just have to put in my two cents.

Flow recently repositioned themselves and fired a bunch of on-air people.
Namely, the morning run and the mid-day guy. Industry whispers say that
the station is flipping over to Top 40 radio very soon. Other sources say
the opposite.

I wonder.

The source that denies the rumor works at the station. In this kind of
case I tend to go with the ones outside of the building. You don’t need me
to remind you of the many stories of employees not knowing anything about
a format flip until upper-management invites them out for dinner only to
return to radio ranch and have all the locks changed and a new logo at the
stations front desk

“Why doesn’t my pass card work and why doesn’t it say JACK on top of
Donna’s desk? Is it April 1?

”Because we’ve been canned and it’s September 3rd, stupid”.

Many conversations like this have occurred over the years in the local
radio hallways. Even though I’m not too surprised about Flow’s sudden
change of mind, it’s sad. So many years of the urban community fighting to
get the first all-black station in Canada only to have it switched off due
to bad use of format which resulted in a low number of ears tuning in.

The fans won’t believe it though. The radio stations fan is loyal. Like
the way a kid son looks up to his father, the listener looks up to their
favorite radio station. They’ll always be Number One. Usually not the
case, it’s great to have the listener think so. See, people usually hang
out with others with similar tastes. When Barb goes into Nat’s car, she’ll
often hear the same station she listeners to in her car. Great minds think
alike. Therefore, Barb says wherever she goes; she hears that station
which therefore, must be the number one radio station in town. Nada. It’s
the number one radio station to the people who you associate yourself
with. You’re just feeding the stations demo. If you want the number one
radio station in town, listen to what’s on in the doctors’ offices or on
the loudspeakers when doing your groceries. Most of the time, it’s the
same station and most of the time (in this market anyway) its soft rock.
Hint, Hint.

FLOW is a heritage station. They should’ve fed off that. Instead of
pushing an urban image and using African based art as billboards and bus
ads, they should’ve used the listeners’ loyalty to their advantage. Cue up
ads  quotes from Martin Luther King or Malcolm or Spike talking about
overcoming and being the first in the community and being a leader. Use
references from classic black films to describe your on-air talent. Have
the audience make up different logos for the station to make it feel like
it was their station, too. They could’ve even made it local. Have your
talent do spots talking about what they used to do to catch the latest
tunes when there wasn’t any black station in Toronto. The stations top
talent came from community radio and helped build the urban music scene in
Toronto. Talk to them. Get their input.

CHUM and CFRB are great at pulling on the hearts of loyal fans. However,
they’ve been in the market for so long, they know what Toronto wants to
see and hear. As a newcomer, FLOW didn’t. They didn’t get it. Get the
audience. This was the downfall. Hopefully, they’ll know how to work it as
they move ahead with plan B. Good luck

Weird.

By definition, the word is used to “address an older man, especially by children.”

I’m not THAT old – Am I?

Advisor. Aide. Attorney. Backseat Driver. Clubhouse Lawyer. Coach. Confident. Friend. Some other words you can define the word uncle by. Guide. Helper. Mentor. Right-hand-man. These are the words I can get with.

Friend Shane. Or get this one – My Right-Hand-Man Shane. My man Shane for short.

Yeah.

I like these. 

I recently told my parents that I’m going to have the new kid in town call me anything. Just Shane is fine enough for me, Thank you very much.

For my kids, I think I’ll have them choose if they want to call me Dad later on in life. It’ll be their choice.

 Back to my point.

Uncle.

What’s a cooler way to address someone older, preferably male and the brother of the proud parent?

I was thinking Roketman (and No, that has nothing to do with the fact I’m listening to Elton right at this second) or Superman or something like He-Man.

Yeah.

He-Man Shane.

 I have a few months to think about it. Well, 6 to be exact to come up with the almighty name or alias that my future niece or nephew will know me by.

I know with my family, throughout the years, the kids were the ones who made the nicknames for the uncles and aunts. Just things they would call the elders when they were younger because they couldn’t pronounce their proper name correctly. The names just stuck, since they sounded better. Younger. Hipper. Cooler.

Kids make up the best names.

Maybe I’ll leave it up to them to name me.

With my luck I’d be crowed Prince Pink Shane by the forth year. Or Shawn-John Man by the sixth.

 Can’t wait to find out, though.

My weekly dose of random thoughts, verbal barfs, intoxicating written farts and mental drunken dots on the great big white paper that we call the Internet blog.

Writers block sucks: Here’s a little secret: When I have writers block, I tend to refrain from picking up one subject and running with it, but I instead pick various subjects and make little snappy quirks about them. It works, most of the time. Sometimes, I can’t even make a sentence about anything and decide to just stop for the day and come back to it tomorrow. What inspires me to write? Other people, mostly. When I know I’m going to write a blog (usually on Tuesdays) I frequent some other blogers and see what they’re writing about. My favourites are usually from the same kind of mind-frame as I. Music, Media, Television, and Sociological issues. Life. Anything that sparks my imagination and creativity. Lately, I’ve been hooked on the latest trend of Hollywood gossip pages like Parez Hilton and Socialites Life. They make me feel like I’m a ten year old again, reading the latest happenings of Cory Haim and Alyssa Milano in Tiger Beat Magazine. I do it for shit and giggles for the most part. And yes. Maybe there’s this tiny part of me that really wants to know which guy Tara Reid was walking around with last night at some tiny LA café/bar/nightclub/drug dealer hangout.  Just a tiny bit. Okay. Maybe this much. But that’s the most. I swear.

A Mixed Feeling: Someone asked me how do I know that MIX will be changing formats come fall. Or maybe even sooner? You don’t really have to be a media expert or anything but when a station fires the whole morning team, asks the listeners what that want the station to sound like and even remove all on-air talent from the stations web-page, you know SOMETHING is up. Top40 Gabber? Smooth Jazz? Country? We don’t know. Some media nerds did some research, though. Standard seems to own a wack-load of Top 40 stations out west and are bringing in decent numbers. Maybe that’s what they’ve been looking for since the MIX format has slowly fallen to the heap of demolished formats and lost listeners. Could this also confirm that Madd Dog and Billie could be fronting the morning rush? Reunite the same due that took TOP40 jukebox KISS92 into glory and then for a quick fast fall into the ground?  I think we might have a new station, Mr. Slaight. Oh by the way. Breaking news. Z103’s own gossip queen, Pina will be running across the street come fall to the MIX. She joins EZ Rock’s Ron Young who have been both hired by the Standard station.

Lance likes it in the A^%: Who knew? I did. The ex-boy band play-toy Lance Bass has come out of the closet. I sure did get the hints way back when his former Nsync band mate Justin Timberlake broke up with Britney Spears. I mean, you’d think Justin would get a hint when Bass was the first one to ask out for dinner.

Seriously, though. I can see this being the beginning of a new road for the old pop star. A new solo album. Doing a cover with Elton John. Interviews galore. A candid talk with Oprah. This really does smell familiar. Oh wait. We’re missing one thing to make it sound exactly like George Michael’s career. Yeah. That whole washroom thing.

Nevermind. Maybe he could do something risqué in an adult cinema and then push for a top rated Saturday morning kids show talking to furniture and wear a red bowtie with a grey suit.