Beating Up the Radio Part One

GenePool Humor

Beating Up The Radio, Part One

It's my own fault, really.

This all started because I had the temerity to slap together a few of these columns and call them a book. That was over a year ago. Now I imagine for most writers getting a contract with a publisher means a great deal of work is coming their way, especially if they haven't actually finished the book they've just sold. I didn't have that problem. The only problem I had was figuring out which columns were going to be in the book, and I didn't even have to make that decision myself, so I mainly sat around, wrote other columns, stared at my navel, and played a lot of Tetris in the intervening months.

My publisher was kind enough to provide me with plenty of warnings along the lines of "you're going to be doing some radio interviews" and "get used to talking to people on the radio" and "boy, you're gonna be soooo sick of this by the time it's over." I ignored them, mostly, because let's face it, how many times in my life am I going to have the opportunity to talk about myself in earshot of a large quantity of people? Other than in bars?

At one point-- I'm not sure when-- the publisher approached me with a series of Sample Questions. This was for the site from which the radio stations were going to find me. There's this web site called guestfinder.com, which is a feeding ground for desperate radio producers. At that site important information about me is listed, including Why I'm Important Enough To Talk To and Whether Or Not I Still Have My Appendix. It also lists questions that theoretically I have good answers to. We had to supply ten of them. This meant we had to think of ten questions that a total stranger could ask of me that would result in an amusing anecdote. Here's what the real problem is. You might think I'm chock full of anecdotes, but actually, I have a very economical brain. Once I tell a story I immediately purge it from my memory banks. It leaves a lot of room for other important information such as where I parked my car and whether or not I bathed the children recently. So we came up with these ten questions that may or may not have led eventually to an amusing story that may or may not have actually been contained in the book, and then I promptly forgot what those questions were and worse, what the anecdotes were. You might think it would have been prudent of me to actually revisit guestfinder.com to determine what exactly was going to be asked of me, but of course I'm not nearly that organized.

Some time in May, the book actually came out. This was a good thing. I spent several days gazing admiringly at my own book while simultaneously burning dinner and playing a lot more Tetris. What didn't occur to me at that time, and wouldn't occur to me until it was much too late to do anything except grab something heavy and close my eyes, was that the release date for Beating Up Daddy coincided neatly with Father's Day.

You would better understand how I could miss noticing something like this if you understood how Father's Day is typically celebrated in my family. We don't really DO much celebrating, actually. This is partly because my father's actual birthday is June 3, and since I'm a traditionally cheap person I usually end up getting something for him on only one of those two occasions. The other reason is that Becky's birthday is June 15. In fact, when she was originally born, Father's Day fell on the 16th, meaning that I was wandering around the maternity ward on the first year in which Father's Day meant more to me than remembering to buy something for my own father. People kept walking up to me and, seeing the hollow look in my eyes, wishing me a happy Father's Day, and I had no idea whatsoever that they were even speaking to me. (Of course, they could have also stuck a pin three inches into my arm and I would not have noticed.) Having Becky's birthday fall so close to Father's Day meant that the bulk of my free time, along with whatever free time my wife and parents and son had, were always spent planning her party.

Consequently, Father's Day has almost always been announced in my family preceded by the words "Oh, I forgot, its." This is why the entire thing snuck up on me.

Thursday, June 3rd

I receive the first indication that someone out there in radio land actually has a desire to speak to me. It's a radio station in San Antonio, and they want me on the Saturday before Father's Day, which is of course far too late for anyone to rush out and actually buy my book for the occasion, especially since one can't really find it on the shelves of bookstores. Still, I'm fairly excited. I'm also convinced this will be the only interview I give, possibly the only one in my entire life, so I proceed to announce it to everyone on my mailing list. Now over 150 people know I have no life.

Friday, June 4th

In less than two full days I've gone from being excited about having one whole interview scheduled to being disappointed that I don't have any others. One particular reader of my mailing list who happens to live in the same area I do asks me if I have anything local scheduled and I think, by God, I SHOULD have something local scheduled, dammit. I could, I suppose, sit around and wait for them to notice me on guestfinder.com, but I'm going to be PROACTIVE. I'm going to MARCH right into their radio stations and I'm going to DEMAND that they give me air time. So what if I'll have to strap a BOMB to my chest to get some attention, because I'm a STAR.

I vow to stop drinking so much on Fridays.

Saturday, June 5th

Having gotten the notion into my head that I was going to get a local interview scheduled, bomb threat or not, I march right on over to the nearest library and photocopy a few dozen pages out of Burrell's Media Guide. I had no idea this book existed until a kind writer found me sobbing quietly in the corner of a chat room on Friday night and offered me advice on how to send out a press release, and also how to spin gold from wool. I unfortunately forgot the second bit of info because the first bit was really what I was looking for.

The Media Guide lists every single damn radio station in Massachusetts, even the little tiny ones. I know they list the little tiny ones because the radio station for my former high school is listed, and I remember when I worked at that station the only place you could actually pick up the signal was on top of the bell tower a hundred yards from the actual transmitter. I dutifully read the description for every single station, make a list that ends up including 82 stations, type up a press release, enter all the fax numbers into my computer, and then start faxing. Then I scrap the whole thing and start again, because I forgot to put a 1 in front of all the fax numbers in different area codes. I resolve to stop drinking so much on Saturdays.

Sunday, June 6th

The first thing I do when I wake up is examine the fax log to discover that I successfully sent my press release to 56 faxes. The remaining 28 numbers did not work for some reason, but hey, 56 radio stations now know I exist. Good enough.

At around noon I get a phone call from a fairly friendly person, given the circumstances, who wants to know why I kept trying to call her at 1:00 A.M. This was not the response I'd really been hoping for.

Monday, June 7th

I actually get contacted by two radio stations in the Boston area looking for interviews. That's two out of the 56 which originally began with 82 stations. One of those two stations wants to interview me tomorrow, and more, they want me to drive out to Haverhill, MA, to sit in the booth with the DJ so we can tape an interview to air on Sunday morning at 7:30. The good news is, my first interview is going to be in person, and frankly, this is a much easier way to give an interview, especially since I've done radio before and am relatively comfortable in front of a microphone. The bad news is I don't know a single person over the age of nine who is awake at 7:30 A.M. on Sunday morning. The other radio station is looking for a free copy. I comply, but only because that particular radio station is fairly large and has a very impressive, brightly colored demographic (I have no idea what "demographic" means.)

Tuesday, June 8th

I'm supposed to be in Haverhill at 6:00 P.M. for the interview. I've taken down instructions for how to get there from the producer, but this gives me no good idea of exactly how far I actually have to travel. Worse, my mental map of Massachusetts is extremely sparse. I know precisely where a large variety of malls are, and if pressed I could probably drive to my old high school and back (this is more impressive than it sounds; it's a two hour drive) but that's about it. I consult two co-workers who may or may not live somewhere in the approximate vicinity of Haverhill. I don't really KNOW where they live, because my mental map also does not include their towns, but I do know they take the highway every day. I am informed that Haverhill is a great distance away, and it is suggested that I perhaps might just want to leave at 4:30 to get there.

It turns out an hour and a half isn't long enough.

Let me explain something about Massachusetts highways to those of you who have not had the pleasure of experiencing the near-death experience that our highways routinely represent. Generally speaking, your average Massachusetts highway is three or four lanes and a breakdown lane that actually is considered an extra lane by the majority of residents. The best way to drive on our highways is to wait for a large truck to pass at eighty MPH and get sucked into the wake. (Actually, this part is sort of mandatory.) You will find, no matter how fast you go, that everyone else on the road is always driving faster than you are, with the sole exception of the car directly in front of you. There is also a requisite slow-down every three miles due to an accident that got cleaned up several hours earlier. Also, according to the rules, if you drive more than two miles in the same lane, you lose the game.

I leave Waltham at 4:40 P.M. and head for Rte. 128, which is also Rte. 95, but it isn't ALWAYS Rte. 95. Only in certain parts. (I CAN'T make this stuff up.) On this particular day we have set a new heat record, as it is in the mid-nineties and terribly humid. I am coming from work, so I'm dressed in long pants, long sleeve shirt, and tie, and, being the "artiste" (correct pronunciation: "snob") that I am, everything I'm wearing is black. Just to put a cap on the whole thing, my 1992 Plymouth Expletive Deleted has no air conditioning that doesn't involve opening a window.

So to recap, on my way to The Most Important Interview Of My Life (it would be followed by several more Most Important Interviews, of course) I had to get on a road where everyone was actively trying to kill me while I fought wind shear resulting from having both windows open, which nonetheless did nothing to change the fact that I was sweating madly and in fact, only worstened my already jumbled head of hair, to get to a town I'd never been to before.

Then I get lost. I could have gotten lost a lot sooner than I actually did, because the directions I was working off of weren't exactly stellar. I was told to take Rte. 93 to Rte. 495, which would have made sense had I been coming from Cambridge. When I told the producer I was coming from Waltham and would be taking Rte. 95, AKA Rte. 128 (but not ALWAYS) she said "oh, great, you can just take 95 to 495 then." This leads one to assume that perhaps Rte. 95 meets up with Rte. 495 at some point. When I got to the junction in which Rte. 95 meets Rte. 93, I found myself pondering the possibility that 95 did not in fact meet 495, although the two are clearly related and come from the same family, and may in fact, at one time in their lives as major thoroughfares, spent some time together. This could be problematic, as it would take me a very very long time to discover that 95 and 495 were not speaking to one another. However, I knew 93 and 495 had a relationship with one another, but I could not determine for certain whether that relationship preceded or postceded (not a word) the brief union of 95/128 and 93. I ultimately opted to get onto 93 North, and hoped that 93 had grown dissatisfied with its relationship with the dichotomous 95/128 and had sought out 495 for solace, rather than having dumped 495 early in the relationship and then caught the conjoined twin 95/128 on the rebound.

This turned out to be the right choice, and this is not where I actually end up getting lost. I actually get lost in downtown Haverhill, which is funny in its own right when you consider that downtown Haverhill is no larger than your average municipal parking lot. It's also just about as charming. Nonetheless, I shoot right past the street I'm supposed to turn on and continue on my merry way until I reach a gas station on the edge of town at exactly 6:00 P.M. I know it's the edge of town because I can see the sign announcing that I'm about to enter the next town, which is also a town I've never heard of before, which is why I can't provide you the name of it here.

I walk from my car (which is quietly pleading "please shoot me") and to the payphone where I'm redirected by someone other than the producer who gave me the original directions, as she does not know where I am either at this point.

This time I succeed in locating the station. I walk in, exhausted, sweaty, and wearing Cosmo Kramer's hair style. They are kind enough to sit me down in air conditioning and patiently wait for my ability to form sentences to return.

The interview goes pretty well. I have no idea how funny I am one way or another because the DJ has developed his pity laugh to the level of high art. I'm pretty sure a couple of times I hear the producer laughing from behind the glass, but I'm also hallucinating pretty badly, so there's no way to be sure.

To Be Continued