Tuesday Night

Tuesday night is when the president will outline his plan for future action in Afghanistan. The president is caught between a rock, a war and a hard place for his re-election so his speech has to be carefully crafted and worded in way that is palatable to all sides.

If recent polls are any indication, America has lost her interest in ferreting out terrorists in the Af-Pak war. When we decided to go after Uber-terrorist leader Osama Bin Laden many years ago, it was out of revenge, fueled by the savage attacks on our own soil September 11, 2001.

But the palpable fury has been replaced by grim pessimism. Not because of our lack of will power and determination in our military, but because people are worried about losing their home, their job and the piece of mind that comes with a stable economy. We could stomach two wars a couple years ago. Now people are more concerned about how to get through the week being un- or underemployed.

Also, polls show that people are getting weary of the president’s lack of accomplishment. For the first time in his first term, the president’s approval rating has slipped below 50 percent. Tuesday night he can re-affirm and re-energize the American people and tell the world what his plan has to be, not what he wants it to be.

There is a huge distinction. “Having” is a commitment, a passion and a metaphysical certitude for something to be achieved. “Wanting” leaves room for doubt and distraction. And worst of all, settling. We can’t settle for another long, drawn out conflict in Afghanistan. Nor can the world. Decisive action must happen.

Here is what Barack Obama needs to say to the American people: He needs to be succinct and his conviction must be resolute if he is sending in more troops. For the people who elected him into office, he must steadfastly remind them of why we are fighting and why committing enough of our brave men and women is necessary.

For those who haven’t forgotten why we are in Afghanistan and want more troops, Obama needs to show that he understands the task at hand and has to demonstrate a willingness to win. There is nothing more disheartening than watching a man try to be passionate about something he doesn’t believe in. Look at LBJ during his term during the Viet Nam war. It literally drained him and he didn’t seek a second term.

Obama has to get this speech right if he wants to succeed in Afghanistan. If he doesn’t, the world will know immediately.

It's Not About You, Lou

After meeting Lou Dobbs at the Economic Summit at Baylor University in 2003, I couldn’t help but notice his ego matched his physical stature and girth. He was outside on a break from anchoring on CNN, smoking a cigarette, when I approached him and asked what he thought of the summit. He couldn’t be bothered. He was on his way to marginalizing himself in an industry where you need an ego, but can’t be consumed by it.

So last Wednesday night when Dobbs suddenly announced on his cable news show that it would be his last broadcast on that network, I wasn’t surprised. Lou, like so many who have come before him, made the easily attractive but fatal mistake of believing he was bigger than the network, and more importantly, thought he was bigger than his audience. Here was a man who thought he was a blowtorch, only to realize he was a disposal lighter in the conflagration that is broadcast cable.

Dobbs and CNN president Jon Klein reportedly had been butting heads about the direction Dobbs was taking on his show. It doesn’t matter what the subject matter was; it could have been anything. But Dobbs’ massive ego felt that he knew better than the audience, and even more ludicrous, he knew better than the bosses at CNN.

I’ve been broadcasting for over 15 years and have seen too many times this cautionary tale play itself out. When someone thinks they are bigger than the station, they are doomed to fall.

When I played Top 40 music as a DJ, did I like every song? No. Did I stick to the play list that management created for the station every day? Yes. Why? Because it wasn’t about me – it was about playing the songs that people wanted to hear to maximize the ratings for the station.

If Gaydos and I only myopically talked about stuff that interested us, you’d be listening to four hours of NASCAR, the Yankees, why Gaydos hates parades, why Michael Buble makes my skin crawl, or how I want Regis Philbin’s gig. Actually, you wouldn’t be listening and management would have a serious Stop N Chat about our show.

The show ain’t about us; it’s about ratings. The show is what you, as an audience, want to hear going on in the Valley and the nation.

Lou Dobbs was perennially third in his time slot on CNN. That’s not ratings success. Heck, that’s not even being in the ratings game.

Much research and strategizing go into how to make KTAR or CNN or FOX or NBC 12 successful. Broadcasting is like taming a cobra. It’s always a dance between snake and snake charmer and if the charmer starts believing that he truly he has control, the snake will fatally remind him with one strike.

Once a host thinks they’re bigger than the network or station that gives them a paycheck, it’s over. Ask Imus, ask Stern, ask Dan Rather how it feels to marginalize one’s self in an industry called Broadcasting. Not Ego casting.

Last Wednesday, Lou Dobbs corpulent corpse was thrown on the bone yard of previous hosts and talents who are now vague and irrelevant afterthoughts because their own ego ultimately undid their successful careers.

Tragedy Strikes HOT...Again

When the tragic events happened last week at Fort Hood, I watched intently on what was unfolding. Not only because of the horrific nature of a lone serviceman shooting his brothers in arms, but also because I lived and worked in Central Texas (also called the Heart of Texas) for six years.

Fort Hood is an Army post that borders small, close-knit towns in Texas you’ve probably never heard of: Harker Heights, Copperas Cove, Belton. Like so many small towns in Texas, they are filled with good people just trying to make a living and raise their kids the best they can.

But last week, I was reminded of small towns I lived and worked in that have suffered through horrendous tragedies just like what happened at Fort Hood.

Killeen, Texas, is due west next to Fort Hood and was the scene of the largest mass-shooting rampage in United States history until the Virginia Tech shootings. In 1991, George Jo Hennard, took his pickup and slammed it into the front of a Luby’s Restaurant. He then proceeded to shoot 43 people, 23 of whom died, before committing suicide.

Waco, Texas, is 30 miles to the north of Fort Hood, and now synonymous with a man named David Koresh. In 1993, Waco suffered through the events that unfolded between the Branch Davidians and the FBI. It doesn’t matter whose side you’re on, people died under tragic circumstances.

If you also count the tower shooting on the University of Texas campus back in 1966 where 13 people were shot dead, you quickly realize that Central Texas has seen it’s share of tragic shootings.

What is so ironic is that after living there for so many years, it’s the last place where such horrific crimes should happen. It’s beyond comprehension how this small, simple, bucolic area of our country has witnessed so much catastrophic, murderous rampage.

The people in these towns that dot the flat, green patchwork landscape along I-35 are good, honest, and God-fearing. Last week we were unfortunately and lugubriously brought back to Central Texas to witness another tragedy.

As we learn more about the disconsolate circumstances surrounding the Fort Hood Massacre, I feel fortunate to have so many good memories of that part of the country, even when tragedy invades.

One Year Later

Last year this month, this country made history. We elected an African American to the highest office in the land.

Already the word “failure” has seeped into the media about this president. Failure? Even college coaches get more time be a total and complete “failure.”

Barack Obama was ushered into the White House on a momentous wave of a simple, audacious, and ephemeral mantra: “Hope and Change.”

“Hope” has given way to pragmatism. “Change” has stagnated to political gridlock. The recession has shown signs of abatement, but consumer confidence is still lower than the APR on a regular savings account.

When Barack inherited the crushing economic recession, the housing market avalanche, as well as two long and entrenched wars, his approval ratings were above 70 percent.

A year later the president’s approval ratings have precipitously fallen. Obama’s approval rating has fallen farther and fast than his predecessor in the same time frame of GWB’s first year in office.

But has Barack Obama’s first year as president been a failure? Political hacks that get paid to yammer on cable news shows will say yes. They’re idiots. Plain and simple.

There is no way any person, man or woman, could have changed the course of our economic downturn. It wouldn’t have mattered if John McCain were elected president. Ronald Reagan inherited a worse recession, stagflation, gas lines, a long-standing Cold War as well as the Iranian Hostage Crisis. His approval numbers didn’t start to tick up until his second year in office. And we were still in a recession.

The economy is its own entity, a juggernaut of prosperity in good times, the grim reaper of jobs, GDP and investments in a downturn. No one man can control it; even the Fed Chairman has a Herculean task, trying to change its direction, sometimes with catastrophic results.

Now I do not agree with Obama’s politics, and I have been outspoken about his positions, decisions and issues like reforming health care. I have denigrated his Czar appointments, his repetitive and unnecessary press conferences as well as his style-without-substance speeches.

But has he failed? Even I won’t go there.

Meghan, Please Stop!

Ok. Seriously. You need to stop.

Meghan, I kept my mouth shut when you appeared on The View with all the other cackling hens. I didn’t say anything about the Twitpic controversy (see above), but after last night, Meghan, someone needs to pull you over for a "stop-n-chat."

I guess that has to be me because no one else has or no one cares.

Meghan, you don’t need to do the Leno Show, you don’t need to be hanging with D celebs like the faux-liberal Arianna Huffington, the least popular Baldwin brother (Stephen, or as he likes to be called, “Stevie B.”) and a comedian who can only make pedophile jokes to get a laugh.

Even though your father is a senior senator from Arizona, a former POW, and a graduate of the Naval Academy, you need to learn a lesson from dad and know how to do damage control. Instead of posting pouty, petulant pieces on Twitter, or throwing tempest-on-a-Twitter retorts to people who take pot shots at you, pull back. Even your father knew when to bail out instead of going down in flames.

You’ve chosen this life, this mock mash-up of pop culture and serious politics. But it’s become like a cheap ride at the Arizona State Fair and the only thing that separates you from careening is the toothless carnie whose fingers are too sticky from eating cotton candy to stop the ride in time.

Just because you grew up in the “Valley” doesn’t mean you have to be that “Girl.”

You’ve decided that you want it all and when people call you out, you lash out like a reality star claiming you didn’t bring this on yourself. That’s total horse-spit and you know it.

You are the best and worst of your parents combined. You’ve got your father’s quick temper, steadfast resolve, and passion for politics. But you also possess your mom’s insight, intelligence and sophisticated visage.

But you have to learn to harness both and stop this precipitous descent into a has-been, washed-up celeb-utante by the time you’re 30. Hello, Paris Hilton anyone?

Personally, I want you to succeed. I want people to know the person who has wonderfully insightfully, challenging ideas for the GOP. I want you to invigorate and rally young people to be more politically active and invest in the future of this country. I love the Meghan McCain that I read, not the ditz on television or the petulant child that erupts with venomous, sophomoric tweets.

Leave that to Perez Hilton or Bill Maher.

More Promises From Obama

Barack Obama can’t win.

In the past few months of his new administration, the president’s health care reform bill has stalled, the closing of Gitmo has been as mired as his plans for what to do in Afghanistan, and he went to Denmark thinking he was the lynch-pin in securing Chicago’s bid for the 2016 Olympics. America (and thusly, the Obama Administration) was slapped across the face by the IOC with a first round dismissal.

And I won’t even get into the whole Nobel Peace Prize award, contending it was not his doing and he was going to be criticized for taking or declining the award.

But when the president accepted the Nobel Peace prize, he said it was a “call to action.”

That quote got me thinking. Barack has called all of us to higher action, more involvement in our communities, etc., but we’ve really not seen any action since his historic election last year.

Saturday was another example. Speaking at the Human Rights Campaign annual dinner in DC, the president received a standing ovation when he reasserted his campaign promise to revoke the gutless and shameful military policy that Bill Clinton initiated in 1993 of homosexuals’ service in our military.

Obama, eloquent as usual, stated that he will, “end ‘don’t ask-don’t tell. I appreciate that many of you don’t believe progress has come fast enough. Do not doubt the direction we are heading and the destination we will reach.”

Once again, the president made no clear, decisive remarks on a timetable and never stated a goal of when the ban would be lifted on gays who proudly serve in the military. This is just another example of what the president’s term has been about: great ideas, no real sense of urgency or direction, and no end date. One gay activist said that although the speech was brilliant, “it lacked the answer to our most pressing question, which is when.”

Stand in line, sir. That has been a major complaint of not only partisan hacks who want this administration to fail, but also of key Dems who are tired of sitting on their hands and waiting for a timeline…for anything.

Obama’s Achilles heel in his administration has been his unwillingness or vague realization that anyone can have ideas; it’s the decisive execution that counts. If Thomas Edison, Ludwig Van Beethoven, Bill Gates, Thomas Jefferson or even Jesse James had all these ideas and never took action and made them realities, they would not be famous (or in James’ case, infamous).

The time for pretty prose and inspirational oratory is over. Barack Obama has got to roll his shirt sleeves up, get his hands dirty, and take decisive action.

Joe Solmonese, president of Human Rights Campaign, says that his group has, “never had a stronger ally in the White House.” Careful what you wish for. Sometimes allies can make you stronger, helping you to reach your goal, (e.g., the Brits in WWII) or they bring inaction and ultimately become your enemy (e.g., the Soviet Union during and post WWII).

Barack Obama was ushered into the White House on a message of Hope and Change.

Hope is theoretical construct with no onus, no accountability. It’s all based on “if.” Change is a hard, steady grind that doesn’t come easy. Let’s hope Obama learns how to grind out some victories for this country instead of wishing for “ifs.”

Hot Doc

Some listeners have asked me to re-tell the story of my hot doctor story. Here it is:

For the past twenty-some years, I’ve had a lump in my leg right near my groin. I went to the doctor when I when I first noticed it and he told me to not worry about it, it was something called a lipoma. It wasn’t cancerous, it wasn’t going to hurt, but if I wanted to have it cut out, he could do it. I declined and haven’t thought about until I visited my primary care doctor about a month ago and he said that I should have it removed before it actually started to interstitially grow into the muscle.

So, on his recommendation, I made an appointment to see a specialist who could take care of my lump that has grown from a pea-sized annoyance to a golf-ball sized distraction. And that’s all I am going to say about my nasty lump since HIPPA laws preclude me from divulging any more information – and I’ve already gone into the realm of “TMI.”

Now I have never really been keen on doctors. Ever-so-lucky, i've inherited all the weak, recessive genes in my family tree. As a three year old, I was diagnosed with asthma/allergies to anything with fur, pollen or spores. For the next 11 years, instead of watching Captain Caveman, School House Rock, Jabberjaw or Scooby Doo cartoons, I spent every Saturday morning going to different doctors, getting numerous allergy shots to build up my immunity.

So anytime I see a person in a white coat with a stethoscope, my eye starts to twitch as I break out in a sweat. I’ve gotten better in my old age, but nothing prepared me for what happened when I visited the specialist for a consultation on my lipoma.

As you get older, you learn what to expect in professional situations. When you go onto a car lot, you’re ready for the car shark; when you go to church, you speak in low, whispered tones out of respect.

Before I go to the doctor, I make a list of questions, trying not to remember the trauma of being held down when i was three years old on an examination table, getting poked by dozens of needles as the allergist tried to determine what I was allergic to and the severity of my reacion. My mother said it took two nurses and my father to keep me down. I guess that makes me a fighter.

Doctors are usually plain, medically neat people who come in with prescription pad and lollipop handy.

Not this doctor. As I was sitting in the chair, reading my magazine, a woman came into the room and introduced herself as my doctor. I looked up from my Sports Illustrated to see a tall, statuesque woman in a tight black dress instead of a white lab coat. Instead of running shoes or those ugly crocs which are de rigueur in most doctor’s office and hospitals, she had black stiletto heels. Her long, blonde hair was perfect, not pulled back with a pragmatic, solid-colored scrunchee. She wore pearls instead of stethoscope around her neck.

So when she opened my folder and asked how she could help me, I did something I’ve never done to a doctor before. I couldn’t remember why I was in the doctor’s office in the first place.

When I finally fumbled and stumbled for the words to describe that I had a bump on my leg, she looked in my folder again and said something that made me forgot my lump, my list and my name. Smiling with perfect, white teeth, she told me that I needed to show her where the lump was located.

Gulp.

Unlike my radio persona, I am very self conscious and rather shy. I hate pulling my pants down for any reason, but especially an exam, whether it be for a man doctor or a female nurse or vice versa. But she insisted, saying “I need to see the diameter and location so we can proceed.”

Gulp.

She smelled my fear which had overtaken her fragrant, scent; sweat beaded on my forehead. All I kept thinking was, “Where is the androgynous white coat, the loose, billowy scrubs that hide any kind of sexiness? I’ve watched ER and Grey’s Anatomy and those TV doctors don’t dress like this! What kind of doctor wears stilettos in the office?”

She does. And it was killing me.

Finally, I gathered enough courage to pull my pants down, showing her exactly where the location of the benign growth. She examined it, touched it with her manicured fingers, made some notes in my folder, and said that I needed to schedule another appointment to get it removed.

I wonder what she wears for surgery?

Thank goodness she didn’t ask me to turn my head and cough, I would’ve passed out.