A FACE FOR RADIO

Let there be rock.

He has a face for radio.

That is an old code for calling someone ugly. I was a disc jockey for a brief time in college at WCVM Morrisville. Draw any conclusion you’d like.

My on-air shift was every Thursday, 6-9 p.m. Todd, who followed me, had half a face, well, maybe two-thirds. There were a ton of rumors—a botched suicide by shotgun topped the list. Or maybe a hunting accident. The story went that his parents didn’t want to pony up for decent plastic surgery, because they needed a new truck, so he sported a heavy flap of waxy flesh, a downturned mouth, and perpetual tearing from his left eye. His ear was also mangled.

I never lingered for small talk.

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I played a variety of music but never strayed too far from the soundtrack of my youth—the sonic booming that pulsated the windshield of John’s Lincoln Continental, our Sherman tank. He had actual house speakers in the back seat. We were in the amps—AC/DC, Aerosmith, Black Sabbath, lots of Black Sabbath, Judas Priest, Rush, Scorpions, Zep, Skynyrd, Deep Purple, a little Hendrix CCR and The Doors, and Uncle Ted, the opening riff to Stranglehold scratching holes in the leather upholstery and our brains as we barreled down the back roads of Hebron, chasing who-the-fuck knows, the testosterone pouring from the tailpipe.

Turn that motherfucking shit up. Stomp on it. We were out of our fucking minds, feral.

Yeah, fairies wear boots and you gotta believe me

Yeah I saw it, I saw it, I tell you no lies

Yeah, fairies wear boots and you gotta believe me

I saw it, I saw it with my own two eyes, all right now!

So I went to the doctor, see what he could give me

He said, "Son, son, you've gone too far.

`cause smokin' and trippin' is all that you do."

Yeah......

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I would sit in the dim control booth, my quiet womb. My responsibilities were simple—hit the post on time at the top and bottom of the hour, avoid dead air at all possible costs, and read the news, which I loved. We’d rip the latest updates from UPI and AP off the teletype, do a quick edit, and spit it into the mic—a little world and local news, some weather, and campus updates.  Rip, write and read. How beautifully distilled. Even an evolving Neanderthal could understand. Its purity is undeniable.

…and that’s the weather, so bundle up. This one is from Steppenwolf. Enjoy your magic carpet ride…

The boys are down at The Fort slamming Alabama Slammers and nickel drafts of Matt’s lager—regular prices kick in at midnight. We were a bunch of sweaty, smoke-soaked meat-eaters. The vegetarians studied at Hamilton College, just down the road, binoculars always trained on us, hoping our adolescent foraging would peter out before the town limits—but they also wanted us to breach the ramparts, and wreak a little havoc. So young and so conflicted and so Izod, they were.

We knew nothing and everything. We were working out critical thinking and individuality and instinct in real-time. New boundaries were set and erased daily, some for the good and some not. We all knew one of the pack would do something imminently stupid on any given night, and over time, we knew who it would likely be. If anyone was going to shit on the hood of a car on the way back to the dorm or cause a ruckus at East Side Pizza at 2 a.m., all odds were are on Mike, a wiry kid from Smyrna, who blasted The Who at 3 a.m., passed out at 4 a.m., and missed class at 9 a.m. He slept on a waterbed, as absurd as that sounds, and woke up one morning in a small lake—slumbering with a lit cigarette swamped his soft canoe. Everyone took it in stride. It didn’t take a biology major to know that every maturing organism often offers a cautionary tale. We never saw Mike after Christmas break, but it was Ok. There was always another Mike pushing through the sticky walls of his cocoon. And we’d welcome him with open arms.

Talkin’ ‘bout my generation—I hope I die before I get old. I wonder if Mike made it.

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It's pushing against 9 p.m., so I put on a favorite and pack up. A howling, metallic wind kicks up and Robin Trower launches his sludgy intro and heavy blues lamentation.

Cold wind blows

And Gods look down in anger,

On this poor child

Why so unforgiving and why so cold

Been a long-time crossing Bridge of Sighs

Here comes Todd.

Right on time.