Reflections on a Radio Career

I'm still here, despite the occasional interruptions.

1982. On the front page of the local section of the town newspaper. A turntable to the left of me. A turntable to the right. My feet up on the desk—careful not to touch the pots and switches. Leaning back in my chair while the newspaper photographer takes a picture of the “teen deejay who says his job is real groovy.”

I didn’t say that. But it didn’t stop the writer from putting those words in my mouth. I also didn’t like being called a “teen deejay.” I was nineteen. Technically a teen, sure—but the term felt patronizing. A subtle cut.

I didn’t plan to work in radio, which, if you believe the media experts, is nearly dead. I don’t know if I entirely agree, but it’s true that radio broadcasting’s vitality is much reduced from its former glory. That long, slow slide began when Americans started buying TVs by the truckload. It was Howdy Doody time then. It’s Howdy Doody time now—just with more fear and loathing.

I filled out my first job application on June 30, 1980, to be an announcer at the small-town AM-FM combo in Belle Glade. I was still in high school and needed to start earning money. Sitting in a studio spinning records sounded better than stocking shelves in the local drugstore.

Forty-five years later, I’m still here, despite the occasional interruptions due to corporate downsizing (remember when that’s what it was called?). News—another thing I never set out to do—turned out to be something I love. I relish it. I’m a little disappointed it’s not quite like Phil Hartman in NewsRadio, but close enough.

I also write poetry—another fading form on the ash heap of literature. And literature itself? Don’t even get me started. Some say poetry is a rotting corpse because nobody reads it. Nobody cares.

I write short stories, too. They meet with about the same level of enthusiasm. Once, a movie and TV producer expressed brief interest in a few of them. He liked some, didn’t like others. But ultimately, not enough to ever call me back. I haven’t decided if I want to chase that rabbit again.

So why do I still write?

Good gods, what a great question.

Easier to answer why I’m still in radio: I like talking into a microphone. That’s the root. Everything else I love about radio branches off from there. Put me behind a microphone, and I come alive.

Also, it’s the only paying job I’ve ever had. As long as someone wants to keep paying me to talk, I’ll keep talking... until Howdy Doody shows up to take me away.

If my broadcast waves are still moving through space, they’ve reached out about 45 light-years by now, just around the galactic neighborhood. I wonder what the aliens out there think of the music I played, or the imaging I used.

Of course, some of them have also seen our television—and how fast will they want to wipe us out after watching us scream at each other over paternity tests?

Not too worried. I have a feeling our galactic neighborhood isn’t a popular one. Probably the kind of areas they avoid. Good news for us.

So while I wait hopelessly for the spacefaring Tralfamadorians to notice us and fix our planet, I reflect on four and a half decades in this crazy business. The main thing that comes to mind: the incredible people I’ve gotten to work with and learn from.

(I won’t name names—they might not think as highly of me as I do of them. I wouldn’t want to tarnish their reputations.)

Other highlights: an afternoon-drive shift in Miami at a station that was way ahead of its time, where I got to be exactly who I wanted to be on the air. Later, a programming role at a national satellite network, where I created a format from scratch and ran it the way I believed it should be run.

I’m sensing a pattern here.

From small-town Belle Glade, to Stuart, to Orlando, to Miami, to Los Angeles—the big time. I’ve spent most of my career here in L.A.

And like most of the important turns in my life, I didn’t plan it. I followed the river where it flowed, happy to enjoy the view. Happy to find my place in this absurd universe.

I’ve got a rickety raft for this river. But it’s mine. And I’ve made the best of it.