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anti-press ezine 1999 10 11
ANTI-PRESS EZINE #10
"We're Positive About The Negative"
An October E-dition
(C) Copyright 1999 Anti-Press
Unless indicated otherwise, all articles by Anti-Press. Articles
submitted by others do not necessarily express or reflect the opinions
or beliefs of Anti-Press.
Anti-Press Ezine radiates from our Reality Center. We're presently
entrapped in the alleged city of Plattsburgh, northeastern New York
State, USA. (We treat Plattsburgh the same way it treats us: sometimes
we give it a good kick in its teeth.)
THIS E-DITION'S LINE-UP:
*FAIRY-DUCK FORECASTS WEATHER?
*HOT BLONDE MEETS HOWARD STERN By Viki Reed
*VITAMINS ARE BAD? HOW ASSTUTE!
*CANADIAN VD A PLAGUE TO THE WORLD
=============================================================
ROBO-VOX VEXES WX
If it's not broken, they'll "fix" it with the latest gee-whiz
technology.
"THIS-IS-THE-VOICE-OF-THE-NA-TION-AL-WEATH-ER-SER- VICE. O-PEN
WAT-TOUR-FORE-CAST... AT-THE-BUR-LING-TON-FAIRY-DUCK--"
What the fug? Usually we would hit the WX button on our scanner radio
and instantly connect to the regional transmitter of the National
Weather Service. We would listen to a pleasant-voiced human who would
repeat via a tape-loop the latest forecast.
But what was this-- the Robot Voice of Hell? We kept our scanner tuned
to the weather frequency, trying to figure out what the government had
done to screw up a good thing. We liked tapping the WX button and
getting a forecast without all the ads and nonsense that clog the local
TeeVee news. Also, the TeeVee weather report features an ever-smiling
knob who delivers his guesses, not predictions.
So after hearing the same mechanical WX forecast a few hundred times,
the robot voice finally explained in a special statement that his name
was AR-NULD, the new voice of the weather radio for the region.
Supposedly to improve service and give the organic forecasters more time
to track changing conditions, the humans wouldn't be recording a spoken
tape-loop as before. Instead they would now type their forecasts into a
computer and its synthesized voice would try to translate the printed
words into some semblance of English.
Hey, we've got nothing against human-like computers per se. We told you
before in another e-dition about the chat-bot named A.L.I.C.E. We had
some fun "talking" with her by typing and sending messages to her Web
site. She had been programmed to respond with answers like "You don't
mind if I tell other people you said that?" and "I liked the movie
'Starship Troopers'". She would fake a conversation. (Yes, even on the
Net, some female cyber-entities "fake it".) But "hooking up" with
A.L.I.C.E. was voluntary; we weren't forced to use her to get a freakin'
forecast.
The new WX voice, AR-NULD, said the technicians would be adjusting his
voice to sound more human. He added,
"WHO-KNOWS-YOU-MIGHT-GROW-TO-LIKE-ME."
Sorry, pal. We've got better things to do than to figure out
WAT-TOUR-TOUN is supposed to be "Watertown" or that FAIRY-DUCK means the
"ferry dock" in Burlington, Vermont (unless gay mallards now have their
own special forecast). Also, Mr. Robo-Vox, what do you mean when a
storm system is "PRANK-ING" across the region? Is that system dumping
ping-pong balls instead of hail?
We must say that the name AR-NULD is appropriate. At times he does
sound like Arnold Schwarzenegger with a combination head cold and head
injury.
But what's this crap about AR-NULD providing better service, i.e. the
humans will have more time to analyze weather patterns? Sure. What the
humans probably do now for a six-figure salary is sit around the
transmitter site and re-type the reports from the Weather Channel on
cable TeeVee. More time for doughnuts and coffee. In a couple of years
double-wide doors will be installed at the station so that the
under-utilized humans can waddle in.
Despite all sorts of efforts to adjust his voice, AR-NULD is still
annoying, his flat mechanical tone word-by-word driving you insane like
an aural version of Chinese water torture. They've slowed him down,
they varied his pitch, and still we hear distorted words like WAT-TOUR
and FAIRY-DUCK.
Hey, we got a solution to help AR-NULD sound more human. He's too
uptight; he's got to loosen up.
Time for cyber-sex with A.L.I.C.E.
=============================================================
A HOT YOUNG BLONDE MAKIN' LOVE EYES AT HOWARD STERN...
By Viki Reed
It was 1987. I was lucky from the start.
I hated living in the sticks of New Jersey and the opportunity to move
to the Upper East Side of Manhattan came to me.
Then I had to find a waitressing job. Looking all day without a bite
(getting a waiter gig in Manhattan is as hard as getting an acting job)
I finally stopped at a mid-town eatery called The Beanstalk. The
reason I wanted to try them was because I knew their name from listening
to The Howard Stern Radio Show on WNBC in New Jersey and New York. The
omen felt so strong that I sought out the restaurant. It was below
street level in McGraw Hill Plaza, across the street from Radio City
Music Hall and near Rockefeller Center. I was familiar with the area
because I had the dream job of animal wrangler for Radio City's
Christmas show.
You have to walk past an odd fountain, where a chrome and pool water
design represents the solar system. Inside, it's dark, cramped, and the
tables are tiny. It was quiet, save for the horrifying sound of Anita
Baker Muzak. Choosing the rear entrance I met a guy who would instantly
be known to me: Kamal. Looked like Harpo Marx, but as a light-skinned
Egyptian. I was pushing in on the bar-rear entrance, and he was pushing
out. He allowed me to enter and said, "Are you the one looking for the
job?" I knew I wasn't anyone who he was looking for, but he was right
and I said "Yes?"
Within an hour, I was hired. In my instant interview, I told them how I
knew about the place from Stern's show. I ate a free Chicken Kiev,
which was one of 3 items that turned out to be edible in the whole
joint. The Beanstalk Restaurant was so-called because of their alleged
affinity for 'healthful' hot meals. This doesn't explain the cheddar
melts, burgers, fries, and greasy garlic-y pastas their menu featured.
Shortly after I arrived, the magic struck again. I found out that the
owner of the place, some guy named Tony, who looked like a blond
Sicilian Tony with a short man on coke complex and a Sonny Bono
mustache, was hyped about advertising on Stern again. The restaurant
was still getting it's Wednesday theater matinee crowd, and they still
got an okay lunch crowd from the local businesses; but things were
getting thin. When the waiters start complaining and picking up shifts,
you know things are bad. In a last ditch effort to regain their once
huge business, they spent a fortune on an advertising deal with the
Stern Show.
You must remember that in the late eighties, Stern was well known
amongst his east coast fans, but he hadn't gotten huge or even kind of
big yet, though he did shortly thereafter. It was a coup to advertise
on his radio show though because of the huge fan base in Manhattan.
So a promotion was devised between Tony and The Stern Show as a big cap
on the series of radio spots: Howard Stern would broadcast live, from
The Beanstalk, on Grammy Night. They would watch the Grammys on TV and
comment on them while conducting a normal show. They would have a
celebrity guest and the restaurant clientele would be fodder for
improvisation.
I was working that day and hurriedly dressed at the end of my shift to
watch the Stern Show set-up. They commandeered the whole rear of the
joint, the only area with any sort of lighting and floor space. Fred
Norris's massive sound cart files were brought in. You would've thought
it was a super computer. Jackie came in and had a stack of typing paper
and magic markers. Babba Booey arrived and oversaw the sound equipment
installation. In a very short period of time, the show appeared
technically ready. A TV hung over their tables, a TV set which was
never used in the entire time I worked there.
Myself, and the other lunch shift staff sat seven feet away from Stern,
who I had NEVER seen before. I could not have imagined the guy I saw.
You know what he looks like now, but if you didn't would you conjure up
an image of a 6'4", lanky, big haired, hawk nosed, sun-glassed,
mystery-man? I got goose-bumps. Couldn't believe I was really in his
presence.
Robin took her seat, soon they were all there with headphones. They
taped their morning show and walked down the street to do a show for
tomorrow about the Grammys and that's when everything just fell flat.
The hours in the late afternoon to early evening are tough business for
most restaurants, but for the Beanstalk, it was a ghost-town. This is
why they bought ad time. But the restaurant didn't promote the live
taping at all; any efforts by The Stern Show went unnoticed and there
was not a soul in the joint eating anything. Not even a happy hour
crowd at the bar. The bartender was doubly pissed because he had to
turn off his bar-side-TV, which got local channels.
Tony thought he'd impress the Stern Show by giving them free food and
drink. They fried-up a couple of appetizer platters and laid them out.
At the time, Stern was going healthy and a plastic tray laid out with
oily sauteed mushrooms, fried and breaded zucchini sticks, greasy
snow-peas, and lardy french fries immediately made him ill. I saw from
afar how the Stern crew picked up the food and dropped it back on the
tray a few feet below. They started giggling. Gross, but there seemed
to be comedy potential already. I was hoping he'd rip the food here.
I sat there, staring like a flashlight from just feet away.
The show started and now it was getting worrisome because there were
only four customers, and they were seated all over the restaurant
because the waiters were complaining that they weren't making tips. So
instead of switching off in one area, they spread out the tables over
the five or so sections of the long, narrow restaurant.
Then the Grammy's were poised to start and in a combination of pure
Babba Booey meets dumb desperate restauranteur, they discovered
immediately that without cable service, that TV wasn't picking up any
signals: the whole place was underground-under street level. So no
curious walk in traffic could even see that Stern was down here, with
us. No TV; no Grammys.
Big problem. How do you fill 4 hours with only one guest and no Grammy
Show? It was big show too. It was the year Madonna rolled around on the
floor singing "Like A Virgin" and Michael Jackson moon-walked across the
Radio City Stage. My boyfriend at the time was a lighting man there and
I could've seen the show up close and personal. I chose to see Stern
instead. Who knew?
Things were bleak. The Stern crew didn't rip the restaurant the way I
thought they would, perhaps it was the conflict of money interests or
simply boredom; but the show was dead.
Their one guest was Phoebe Snow and her guitar. Sure, she has a voice
like an angel, but she's not exactly candy for the eyes and no great
interview. The bulk of her interaction was Stern asking her to sing the
theme song to "It's A Different World" about 18 times.
Jackie was tossing pieces of paper with notes on them at Stern,
constantly feeding jokes, words, and random questions. I saved a few of
those, but threw them out by accident later thinking it was trash.
Silly me. Scraps of paper as trash! Imagine.
Worse, the people in the restaurant were acting as if nothing was going
on. They ate and basically ignored Stern. One table consisted of an
older Midwestern farmer tourist and his wife. Another table was a young
blonde woman and her handsome Asian boyfriend. Another table of two
women made an even smaller impression. That was it. Sure, two tables
sat at the other end of the narrow restaurant, but Stern couldn't get to
them because his wireless mike didn't work.
He couldn't walk to the kitchen, the cashier, nothing. It was a
depressing show. You can work with no material and even guest fall
outs, but when you're technically restricted to sitting at a table with
your gang and Phoebe Snow, it gets sad.
First Stern visited the MidWest couple, who was leaving anyway. Then he
approached the two women and flirted with them, proving that they were
indeed made of wood, and not just acting.
Then he came upon the girl and her boyfriend. He pretended she was
Madonna and he was Sean Penn. They laughed but were so shy they were
barely audible. This was terrible and getting worse every minute and
there were still over two hours to kill. I think Stern talked to our
hostess, Brenda, who was Puerto Rican by birth and a little flirt to
boot. Too bad she didn't shave her mustache. But nothing fun.
Finally Stern started really studying the room. Looking around for
opportunity. There was a group of 5 or 6 waiters sitting just feet
away. Babba Booey was hovering with headphones. Howard looked directly
at me, which I couldn't tell because of his dark shades.
"Hey, there's some blonde over there, giving me love eyes; come here,
sweetheart."
ME? Babba Booey rushed over to me gesturing furiously, he planted fat
headphones on me and Stern again said, "Hey, I saw you making love eyes
at me over there, what's your name?"
I don't recall anything we said except this: "I had the chance to see
The Grammy's tonight from the lighting booth, but I turned it down to
see you!"
"You're an idiot." The headphones practically jumped off my head and I
was wildly motioned to sit back down. That was it.
That was it? You would think he'd want to riff and abuse me more, but
he ended it.
I don't know what he thought: "Man, she turned out to see us over The
Grammy's I can't be mean."; "She just reminded me that the show is
sucking because we can't see The Grammy's, get her out of my face.";
"You are an idiot, The Grammy's are way cooler than my show."; or
merely, "Insult her. More material will come."
But nothing else happened the rest of the show. He asked Phoebe about
her input ratio, and her breasts, but it wasn't as relentless as the
show is now about sexuality. There were no people to riff off of, no
more waiters, no Grammys, eventually Stern just said, "Forget it. Let's
end this."
The show fizzled to a stop. Things were broken down, leaving only the
ground-cover of Jackie The Jokeman's paper gags and cues.
I listened all the next day for my moment with Stern, but after a while
I realized that they were airing a rerun. I was unable to listen the
rest of the week so I never did discover if there was more to the show.
Now, there's no way to get close to Stern or the show, it's so huge.
Like I said, it was 1987 and I was lucky.
Now it's 1999 and my brother recently ventured to Boston, where a
coworker's family runs a Harley Davidson dealership. Babba Booey was
making a paid appearance. My brother was given the assignment of asking
Babba Booey about that Beanstalk Show.
First, my brother did was he was told to do: stick his camera five
inches from Babba Booey's face and surprise him and snap the picture.
Then he asked him about the show. Booey thought hard for a moment, then
dismissed my brother with, "Oh, that was fifteen-twenty years ago."
That was it.
When I heard his response, I thought, "What an idiot." Okay it was
twelve, not fifteen years ago. It's a great story of a disastrous
night. Never mentioned it and didn't have the sense to make a note of
it. Typical.
Now it's 1999 and I await the opportunity to be lucky enough to ask
Stern about that night again. I'll need luck to stay awake until 3 am
in Los Angeles and call a radio station in New York.
***Viki Reed on Viki Reed: "I've worked in entertainment full-time since
1986. I've worked below and above the line-- that's no pun, it's the
truth... I perform in Los Angeles in venues as diverse as The Comedy
Store and Little Frieda's Coffee Shop of West Hollywood."
=============================================================
THE ASSTUTE HALL OF FAME
*A Loose "Nut" About Health*
Some people are so concerned about health that it's unhealthy.
Like the time we were sitting in a bar near Syracuse University. Just
hanging around, shooting the breeze with a friend and one of his
acquaintances. Somehow the topic of taking vitamins came up.
"Well," said the long-haired hippie-type dude, "I don't take vitamins."
"Why not?" we asked.
"Because all of those vitamins are concentrated into one little pill-- I
think that causes cancer."
And then he took another drag on his cigarette. He chain-smoked
throughout our conversation.
Horns blare, drums boom, lung patients cough. For such ironic acumen,
this health nut is now an inductee of Anti-Press's Asstute Hall of Fame.
=============================================================
CONCERNED ABOUT THE SPREAD OF VD?
Details at www.disobey.com/low/listings/viewer_discretion.htm . Check
out issue #5, Volume 2. Your health depends upon it.
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