Harry Potter and his "Magic Wand"

Last Thursday, I came home from a Rock Band session at my dad's, and dinner with my mom, to find my dog in the yard. She saw me and made a b-line for the gate. Then she ran back to the house and back to me in a floppy, clumsy excitement. I unlocked the door and she ran all through the house and back to me and to the door and to me again. The one joy in that dog's life. I grabbed her leash and she rolled into the grass, face first.

It was an absolutely lovely walk. We walked through the North End where everyone smiles at you as you walk past and all the houses have open windows. Some 60 degrees and the sun finally came out. Boise is drenched in green. The only word I could think of was pleasant.

I almost didn't go. I was a little tired and I'm not good at walking my dog regularly. But this walk was perfect. Sometimes my dog has a better insight to my life than I do.

And I love my job.

My phone rang at 11:3o this morning.

"Hello?" I said, trying to make it sound like I wasn't asleep. I never sleep so late.

"Jessica? It's Josh. Did I wake you up?"

I love waking up to the sound of your voice, I told him.

Every day I wear cute dresses and smile at people. Rant about how good The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo is. Keep myself busy with little projects and make an adventure out of finding obscure DVDs for customers. Customers who still buy DVDs.

"Music is the red-headed step child of Barnes and Noble" and we are all so stylish.

Today someone called to ask if we sell adult movies. At Barnes and Noble.

"No," I said, and then I walked around the shelves thinking up possible alternative porn titles for Harry Potter. Harry Potter and the Polipenis Potion. Harry Potter Fucks Hermione Granger and Ron Weisley at the Same Time While Draco Malfoy Sucks on his Balls in the Hidden Corridor of Sexy.

I apologize for that. I didn't know I had it in me.

The best part of my job is the drive home every day. I roll the windows down and soar along the freeway, going the opposite direction of traffic, and thinking about how much I love my job and listening to my favorite music.

I'm excited for Phoenix, only four days away. But I learned something from the past year; after living every day waiting for this summer, and hating every day that wasn't this summer, I learned to look forward to things, but still enjoy the present moment.

I enjoy this present moment.

Dead guys and me.

You could call it a first day initiation if you wanted.

This enthusiastic and cutely awkward girl who can't stop smiling and chatting about this book and that. And there was that old man who called me cute and then started acting funny.

"Could you sign this, please?" I asked, setting his receipt and a pen beside him. He tried to sign the slip with his fingernail.

"Your pen's out of ink," he said.

That's because you aren't using a pen.

And then he started to fall over a bit, and his arm frantically waved over the counter, hand grasping for the scanner, the pen cup, something to hold on to. Mandy and I looked at each other with wide eyes and asked if he was okay. He collapses on the counter now.

"Go get a chair," and I'm running across Barnes and Noble in dress shoes and a brand new shirt, grabbing a chair and sprinting back.

It took Mandy, a manager, and a customer standing by to get him off the counter and into the chair. Mandy and I looked at each other again, both of us sure he had died on the counter. He had passed out. Paramedics on the way. Trying to maintain composure and ring up other customers while he got sick. Not my specialty. I fought the urge to run out of the music department.

Mr. Stamps came in I tried to hold a conversation while other customers stared at the sick man surrounded by EMTs. I helped him find a DVD. The stretcher was gone and in ten minutes, it was as if nothing happened at all.

That was yesterday. Today, Mrs. Keeney happened to stop in.

"How was your first year?"

Please don't ask about Brian.

"Did you have fun?"

Please don't ask about Brian.

"And did you take any writing classes?"

Please don't ask about Brian.

Anymore, it really only hits at the end of the shift, when I go to clock out and walk past the end cap devoted to Chuck Palahniuk. The stacks of Tell All and Pygmy in paperback now. When I drive home on the freeway, and remember counting lanes on Phoenix's freeways. When we were both enthralled to be on a seven or eight lane roadway. Those little quirks we had in common. That of a cork-like nature. When the newness wears off and I only want to be with the people I feel most comfortable with. The person who says "I know" to everything I say.

19 hours logged at the new job. New outfits, new friends, new hair, new style, new Jessica, new life. But I'm tired right now.

When I'm tired. But you aren't the same person anymore. And anymore, I'm all but myself, too. "Yeah I fucked up good and well and you put me through fucking hell, but good luck finding someone who can love you better than I."

Than I.

At 105.5.

There's something about being suspended in 175 thousand gallons of water. Of floating on my back, and hearing nothing, all noise blocked out. Even thoughts seem to drown. Just floating, feeling the closest I will ever get to a lack of gravity. I never pretended to understand exactly how physics worked. But I feel weightless.

The same weightless I felt driving fast on the freeway, missing the exit, continuing to drive until downtown came into view. Music turned up too loud. Weightless, rapid acceleration. Weightless. Waitless.

I am not waiting.

"We'd like to offer you a job."

In the music department of Barnes and Noble, so that every time someone asks me for something mainstream, I'll have no idea what they are talking about.

And every time someone purchases a CD, I can mumble how they should have just downloaded it online.

And every time someone comes up to the counter with a country album, I can drop it, and say "Oops, I broke it, go get another one. Oops, I broke it, go get another one. Oops, I broke it. Go get another one. What, there's none left? That's okay, the world is better off without country music. How about this other bizarre obscure artist?"

Laid-off executives are looking for jobs right now. Young professionals and parents needing second jobs. And yet, they hired me today. How do I stand apart from everyone else?

I'm weightless these days.

18 days to Phoenix, 24 to InkSpot

You know that feeling where you are glowing and it's like everyone around you knows it? And you feel like you are sharing excitement and happiness with everyone around you? Like everyone can hear the music in your ears, and everyone can feel the warm sun?

I didn't think this would be me one week out from the Awkward Hour. I didn't know my own strength, my own resilience, my own independence.

This independent streak, a jellyfish on my arm, a trip to Phoenix, another flight listing. I still ride along the Greenbelt.

This habit of late night conversation, trailing off into early morning text messages. Tea with Jared. Tattoo parlors. Talk with Jared. Both Jareds. You're both lovely.

I wrote a short story on the back of my resume.

"Why did you name me Stutter?" Stutter McStumblepants asked her mom over a dish of strawberry ice cream.

"Because we wanted to name you Miranda, but your grandma freaked out about Carmen Miranda and the Miranda Rights and stuff like that."

So obviously Stutter was the next logical choice.

It's a job I might get. We'll see.

And a visit to Mr. Daron. Out of all the people in Boise High, it's my math teacher I visit first. Who would have thought? Not newspaper, not art. Not even English. He laughs a lot, and I liked making him laugh. Feeling clever and witty. A visit to Mr. Mendive, who could only remember Brian's name, but not mine. But Mr. Stamps was warm and nice, as always.

Brian was an absolute delight in my life. But now I am finding that life itself is rather delightful.

That pink umbrella I hide under.

Yesterday, I spent some time looking at the car. Sitting outside the Flying M, Orangina poured into a glass with ice. Was it his blue Subaru? Everyone in Boise has a blue Subaru with a rocket box. I couldn't see the back, no way to confirm the bike rack. Everyone in Boise has a blue Subaru with a rocket box. But then he walked to it. Blue shirt, tight jeans, black and white Pumas. Sunglasses that look silly on my face. Polarized. He turned down the street, drove right past me. Didn't even glance in my direction, yet I find it impossible that he didn't see me. Maybe he didn't recognize me with the new hair. Or maybe this will be the next three years.

Walking around all day filling out job applications, all the reasons why these people should hire me. "I can work under pressure, and stay upbeat." "I am reliable, have a focused work ethic." "Editor-in-Chief of my high school newspaper." "70 hours volunteer service for KBGA. 80 hours on-air." All these things to set me a part. All these reasons I stand out.

"If you walked into a grocery store..."

Where is she going with this?

"And could pick out only one item..."

Why would I be in a grocery store if I worked at Barnes and Noble?

"...that best represents yourself, what would it be?"

Well that's not what I was expecting in this job interview.

"One of those little pink umbrellas you can put in your drink," I said because it was the first thing that popped into my mind. A pink umbrella you can put in your drink, seriously Jessica? "Because I am unique and I brighten people's day...and I can shade your drink..."

This is why I called my show The Awkward Hour. This is why my blog is called The Awkward Blog.

My mom asked me, "So how did it go?"

How did it go? Not well, nothing is going well, my best friend is done with me.

And yet Barnes and Noble called today. They want a final interview.

And yet there are still good things. Had I spent all my time with him this summer, I wouldn't have developed a friendship with Jared Lows. A friendship so rapidly developing, it seems ridiculous. Phoenix next month? Might as well, no reason to stay around here.

And maybe I'll get that job at Barnes and Noble. And maybe I'll get that job at the Sun Ray Cafe. And this summer won't turn out as I planned for the past year, but it won't be terrible either.

Maybe it really is what it is. Maybe it's time to just ride the fucking board.

You are home now.

I thought I had a pretty good grasp on the reality of the situation. But it wasn't so easy driving into Boise, overlooking Surprise Valley, and ten thousand other memories not to be repeated.

Last night, my dog and I went for a long walk, and I watched how other people live their lives on a beautiful, warm evening. We walked past the park where some people slack lined, and one guy read with his bike tipped over beside him. Other people living happily. Other people with the ones they love.

I know I need to make the changes I was so certain I would make in Brian's company. Enjoying every moment, living in it. But God, it's been harder than anticipated.

I got a hair cut and a job interview to be pretty and employed. Maybe something this summer will turn out.

"I guess I'll just spend it reading and hanging out with my dog," I said.

"Well maybe that's exactly what you need," said my hair dresser.

Maybe that's exactly what I need.

Thank you.

I can't be angry and I can't resent him, so the easiest thing to do at this point is just to move on. There's been a chain link fence on the other side of the sidewalk by my dorm since I got here. They look it down today and something about that felt strangely liberating.

My last radio show, and the phone rang once.

"I'm really sad to see you go, Jessica," said a guy, I didn't know who it was. "I've really enjoyed your show, but you seem like a really optimistic person, so I'm sure all your future endeavors will be great."

How is it that strangers have more insight on my life than I do? How did he know to say that to me today, not any other day, but today? I didn't want to be rude and ask who it was, so I'll never know. But it's powerful and significant to me.

"It only makes sense," I said, "to play the very first song I ever played on KBGA." I turned on "In the Hot Hot Rays" by the Fleet Foxes. "Missoula, this has been great. Thanks for listening, I have had the most fun time."

On radio, no one can see you, but can they hear it in your voice if you are about to cry? I cannot think of a title for this blog to sum up everything I've learned in the past year, and the experiences I've had, and the person I've become. Everything that KBGA has taught me, the way it has shaped my life. There's no single set of words that could sum such a thing up...except thank you.

"Are you regretting the decision, then?" Clark asked.

"No, not at all. I'm excited," I said. "I spent some three hours last night talking to a guy who works at KJACK, the nicest guy ever, I swear. And he said everyone there is so cool and he'll introduce me to everyone and he's excited to have me. So no. There'll be tons of cool people there."

I didn't know how true it was when I said my decision was independent of Brian. I was pretty sure at the time, but I didn't know how right I was.

Those three months I worked, the progress I made was all for this moment right now. It's an opportunity to be strong and resilient. This is the situation I am in, and I intent to handle it with as much grace and openness as I can.

"You look older," Clark said to me.

"I've been through a lot in the past twelve hours," I said.

Sunday mornings, six to nine.

In early February, Clark came into the studio during a show I was covering. I didn't have a permanant show yet, and didn't think I was likely to get one in the near future. He asked if we could take a walk when I finished up. My stomach turned over with butterflies, but I tried not to let the thought of him offering me a show manifest. Trying not to get my hopes up. He came in again towards the end to remind me of our walk. He was smiling. Again, I told myself, no, it's not that, don't get your hopes up. Of course they already were. Of course I was hoping this was it.

After the show, I went into the office and we started walking around the UC. He asked me what I think about when I talk into the mic. My smile sort of slid off my face. This wasn't about offering me a show, this was about how I needed to work on live radio. I could hardly get through a newscast without slaughtering it and screwing it up. That's what this was about. Clark gave me some advice on how to overcome that anxiety and how to have a smoother, better sounding presence.

"I think of the mic like a person, like I'm talking to a person," he said. "It sounds silly, but it helps."

A few weeks later, I sat on the couch, and Clark was talking to another DJ, writing him up for missing too many shifts.

"If that time just doesn't work for you, we'll have to give it to someone else. We have other times, if that would help you." He listed a few. "Sunday six to nine AM just opened up."

"Oh, no, I can't do that," the other DJ said. My ears pricked up and I waited until the guy left when I said to Clark - very bashfully - "I could fill that six to nine."

He smiled and said he'd have to talk to Ben. I went to class and came back and they both turned their chairs to face me when I sat down. They had talked about it. They didn't think I had enough experience. They didn't think I had enough face time. The dozen other shows I'd already covered, the 120 million hours I'd spent in that office. They smiled and said it was mine. And I couldn't stop smiling. Kyle walked in and looked down and asked what I was so happy about.

"You are looking at the new six to nine Sunday morning DJ," Clark said.

"Congratulations," Kyle said and I couldn't stop smiling.

I just finished my last six to nine Sunday morning show.

It's not that I am terribly sad. A little, only because I was so attached to it. When Clark offered me the Monday mornings six to nine, I turned it down, even though I would have had more listeners. I just liked the Sunday morning. I don't care about getting up at 5:30, it's always worth it. It was always worth it.

I'm a little sad, but this is just the beginning. This is a new opportunity. Besides, this year has had a very strong impact on me. I never had any idea that radio would be what I would fall in love with. DJing at that. I would have never guessed that would become my second home, that I would pour my heart and passion into it. At the end of every show I did, I would think, man, what a great show. There was never a bad one. This has been one of the best experiences of my life, and it has shaped what I'd like to do with the rest of it.

KJACK will be an opportunity to apply what I have learned, and spread a standard of college radio, striving to give other people the opportunities KBGA has given me. I have learned an incredible amount. I can't thank KBGA and all the people involved enough. I'll miss it, but this is just the beginning.

"I think of my life as a series of projects," Clark said.

Well this is one hell of a project ahead of me.

The bus.

There's a limit, a threshold I reached, the moment I realized I have to listen to the music blaring in front of me rather than the song I can't get out of my head.

Robert and I ate dinner at Biga Pizza, I drank a huckleberry-vanilla Italian soda. I bought a ring from Betty's Divine, asked if it looked cheesy - no - asked how much it was - five dollars - and haven't taken it off yet. Clark picked us up in the bus and then went on a mission to clean it from front to back. I sat exhausted on his futon, Robert showing Ben and his wife talk-over music for his new show, Erik sitting next to me. We were both glad to have each other so we didn't feel like losers sitting alone.

"You haven't seen Star Wars? That's blasphemy. What about the Matrix?"

What is it with guys.

In seven hours, the bus sat outside my dorm, and we set off garage saling around Missoula. Kyle bought his dog a bald eagle stuffed animal and within a matter of minutes, the face was chewed off. I bought two blue mugs for a dime and gave one to Clark, who doesn't use mugs. We found a box of thirty French erotic novels, the oldest from 1889, the newest from 1923, at an estate sale. The box, along with the old view-finder with slides of a creepy boy named How-dee-do smiling back at you, the record of FDR fireside chats, and the hand-wired cowhide AM radio made me wonder who died.

Kyle, Brandon, Chris, Erik, Robert, Whitney, me, and Clark sat around a table in a dark casino and ordered breakfast food - except for Kyle, who pounded down a whisky and coke. Clark said something harsh to Chris and the table fell silent.

I thought back to Robert's advertising campaign for KBGA. It's right behind you, it's penetrating the minds of your children, it's inside your wife while you're at work, it's in your food. I wondered then if Clark felt tired of these radio waves he can't escape. The same group of twelve people, the same sleep deprivation every week.

Last week, he laid out two bottle caps on the table at The Bridge, a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup, and a paper plate with a slice of pizza on it.

"KBGA," he said, "is more like a cult." He used his diagram to explain what he meant, his fingers tracing from one object to the next.

You take an FM transmitter, a low power, say, 600 Watt - costing maybe 1,500 dollars - and you take an FM tower. The tower has an exciter on it. It's not as sexual as it sounds, although with KBGA, you never know. The exciter amplifies the radio signal. That's what we do. We amplify ourselves across the city.

"1000 watts in Missoula will not be the same as 1000 watts in Arizona," he said. FM signals depend entirely on landscape. It may reach a wider distance, it may do just the opposite. It's like line of sight more than anything. It's infatuating.

We ride around in the bus, pick up a couch on the side of the road with half a pizza box sitting on it, black Sharpie reading FREE. It has an ominous stain on one cushion, which I automatically assume to be vomit, and don't sit anywhere near it. We scavenge yard sales and tell people this is our job. All wearing the same hoodies, in four or five different colors.

Stop saving the picture frame for something that only might happen, and use it for something that's already happened instead.

1000 Watts

The last DJ meeting I'll attend. We went in a circle and introduced ourselves. I was last.

"I'm Jessica. I have the Awkward Hour every Sunday morning, six to nine. And for all you new people," I said, looking around and the new group of trainees. "I haven't been here that long, but this is the best group of people, and the greatest thing, so don't leave it so quickly."

I had to look down and away to keep from crying. Clark and Ben and Robert and Kyle and Duane and Chris and everyone else started clapping. Clark and Chris and Tom and Robert and a few other people came to my reading. I read the end of "1000 Watts" and nothing else could have been more fitting.

At the end, I got a giant KBGA hug. In the middle of Duane and Chris and Robert and Clark and Ben and Tom and I kept myself again from crying.

Holly lay awake for what felt like an hour. She listened to Chris breathe heavily beside her. Rhythmic, steady. Undisturbed, and untroubled. She listened to rain beating on the window, on the roof. She thought of nothing, the sheets above her, the rain, and Chris’s breath.

She rolled to the side and her eyes fell upon the digital clock beside her. Red numbers blared into her eyes. 7:40. She watched the colon between the numbers blink to show the passing seconds. She counted 36 blinks. 7:41. Holly closed her eyes and dug the side of her face deeper into the pillow. Her hand gripped its softness. She smothered herself, feeling tears seep into its fabric.

She uncovered herself and quietly got dressed. Holly lifted a canvas bag off the counter, groping it to make sure a thin, square was within. She didn’t look back at Chris, her focus only on pulling open the door and closing it gently behind her.

She was hit with an unexpected burst of cold. Barely 60 degrees in late June. She pulled her hood up and tugged the jacket tighter around herself. The fabric was thin at best.

Holly started her walk to the station, the bag swaying around her arm with each step she took. In a matter of minutes, the cold rain soaked and penetrated her clothes. Flip flops weren’t ideal in this weather, but they were a mindless habit this time of year. Besides, her thoughts weren’t on shoes and rain when she got dressed this morning. Her feet ached with cold, turning pale from the water and chill in the air, but it was with ease that she ignored these details right now.

Holly lifted her hood and looked up at the studio’s window. Rain pelted her face, ran down her neck and inside her sweatshirt. Strands of hair turned dark as they grew wet. Her fingers tightened around the strap of her canvas bag and she followed the steps up to the station.

Once inside, each step felt so overwhelmingly familiar to her, so normal, so routine and so comfortable. The underlying knowledge of these being her last weighed heavily on her. Walking to the studio slowly now, she could herself tracing all her past steps. She felt the memory of her first time here rise from the floor, through her feet, her body, to her mind. She remembered being scared, nervous, excited, intimidated, self-conscious. She fixed her hair and clothes over and over again, forcing them to lay exactly as she wanted them to, her fingers nervously fixated with the chain around her neck. And now, this final time, she walked calmly, a mess, soaked.

It was Sunday morning, so the station remained deserted except for the on-air DJ that had taken over Holly’s permanent show. Holly carefully and quietly opened the glass door as little as she could, and slipped inside the studio. The DJ turned around, a look of surprise on her face, and then a smile of acknowledgment.

“Hi,” Holly said in a small voice.

“Hi there,” the other girl said, pulling the headphones from her neck and setting them on the countertop. They stood in silence for a few awkward moments, until the girl piped up again. “Oh, do you, um, want a minute?”

“Oh, no, that’s okay,” Holly said quickly, attempting to cut her off, turning red from embarrassment at her situation.

“No, really, no, it’s no problem,” the other DJ said, getting ready to leave the studio for a few minutes, and Holly talked over her at the same time, “Really, don’t worry about it, please stay,” and the other girl talked as well, “I can go, only for a few minutes,” and Holly made gestures with her hands to show her leave was unnecessary. The girls fell silent again. The DJ made the executive decision to leave Holly in the studio alone, a final good bye, and slipped past Holly before she could protest. She looked around her, looked up at the colorful posters, the soft light coming from the old fashioned lamp, the rows upon rows of CDs.

Her body wandered over to the wall of shelves, and her fingers slid across the CD covers, touching their spines, the familiar plastic. She stopped at the end of the “D” section. She bit her lip and glanced at the phone. It sat still, unringing, mute. She sighed and walked to the soundboard, looking down at the glowing keys. The yellows and reds began to blur in her vision into one beautiful mess of luminescence. She blinked back the tears, and looked up to the window, speckled in clear water drops. Rain ran down the window, collecting gobs of water droplets in long streams. The sky was unforgivingly grey, harsh, heavy. The tips of her fingers unconsciously felt the sliders, followed the tracks they slid on. She touched the CD players, ran her fingers over the open/close button, the fourteen lights that lit up in a neat row to signify the seven-second delay. This was a lovely place, Holly thought over and over. This was a lovely place.

She stood there for a long time lost in her own reflections and memories. She remembered the first time she touched these instruments, how intimidated she was, how afraid she was of messing up and looking like an idiot. How live air felt like such a monumental thing, and how she walked home from her first show, thinking the whole way, I was on the radio. People heard me. They don’t even know who I am, but they heard me. The sun was unseasonably warm on her walk home that day. She had that stupid smile that she couldn’t keep off her face, even though she walked alone.

Holly watched the nanoseconds pass on CD Player One. The yellow numbers started flashing to signify only ten seconds left of the current song. Holly picked up the headphones and hesitantly slipped into them, bringing her face close to the mic. As the song ended, she switched it on.

“You are listening to,” she said slowly, feeling each word circle through her mouth and out her lips. “KBGA, Missoula.” She paused. “Thank you.” She took the headphones off gently, resting them on the counter beside her and listening to the last song she’d pick fall from the speakers, as the rain fell from the sky. Both seemed to soak her in the same way, a cold feeling that wasn’t totally unpleasant. By this time, though, Holly felt eyes on her back. She came back to reality, quietly apologizing for intruding, for being here. She didn’t look up. She couldn’t look up.

Instead, she grabbed her canvas back and pulled out the thin square wrapped in plastic, the vinyl record safely inside its cardboard sleeve. The Best of Mozart. She left a note, simply saying, “For Dustin,” and carefully placed it beside the collection of other records for him. Holly glanced at the DJ and gave a quick and forced smile before turning to leave.

Once into fresh air, Holly took a breath, and sighed, standing a moment to reassess her life, and at the same time, wishing she didn’t have to think at all. The rain stopped. She looked up at the sky and found a very thin strip of blue. She started her walk home, flip flops squishing under her feet, waterlogged. As she walked, she suddenly felt the same heat of the sun on her neck. She stopped at this, and looked back at the station, but the sun caught in her eye and she saw nothing. She turned, and kept walking.

Dumpster diving for wet cardboard

It's a little ironic, if we want to see it that way.

Last night I thought about how Missoula disappointed me. This was supposed to be the place where I would fit in and be happy and have one million friends and have a great time. Our happiness depends greatly on our expectations, that's what my mom always says. Missoula didn't disappoint me. I'm more disappointed in myself for not making it the place where I belong. Because I could have. But now I'll make Flagstaff the place where I belong and that will be that. And it'll be great, it will.

When Clark questions me and he looks at me through those really intense blue eyes, I have to look away because I am talking myself in circles, like some research paper without a well-defined thesis. Why am I moving? Here's my list, and here's the things not on my list, and here's the reasons why I don't want to stay, and here's the reasons why I want to go.

There's some things I will do differently there, things I learned here. There's things I'll learn there that I will do differently afterwards wherever I am.

It feels like I am just trying to figure out what song to play next on the radio. Which will go well after the last. Only right now I feel like I am talking in the mic, talking in circles, not knowing where to begin or where to end and trying not to say "before that" even though I said it anyway. Twice. I don't know how to end or where to end it and I earn my DJ name, and it is The Awkward Hour. That's how I feel right now.

It's like looking back at my Spinitron playlist when I get home, just as the morning sun touches the courtyard. I pick out the songs I like, and I assess the show overall. It's like wanting to put on Bose headphones to block out the sound of my thoughts. It's like knowing but not really truly knowing I won't touch KBGA's soundboard anymore. Knowing it like a fact, like that there are starving children in Africa, but not actually understanding it.

It's like when something comes on way louder than you expect it and it hurts your ears and makes you jump and your heart rate takes some time to come back down, only that relief of the silence afterwards hasn't happened yet. So don't ask me why it's too late, it just is. But it's okay. KBGA will be fine without Stutter McStumblepants...and Stutter McStumblepants will be alright without KBGA, too. We'll write letters.

We'll write letters.

What a mess of a blog post.

I work at a radio station; it's a very sexy occupation

I should be working on my term paper, but instead, I am eating a muffin, drinking tea, and blogging. These are the perks of getting up at 5:30 in the morning on a Sunday.

The first time Dustin called me, and I could hardly understand him, he requested Mozart. This was my first ever show. I was pretty excited to be fulfilling his request, I mean, the guy is practically famous at KBGA. So I started looking for our classical section, assuming we had a classical section. Which we do, it just happens to be buried in a drawer somewhere not in the studio. I wasn't aware of this.

So I pretty frantically ran around the studio looking for the classical section, panicking only a little bit. And then I sort of looked up in exasperation, and there was a record sleeve sitting on top of the CD shelves, the Best of Mozart record. So I got all excited again and pulled it down.

When I was doing my training, I never really listened to how to use the turntables. Vinyls? Dude, I have an iPod. And a laptop. I don't have vinyls. But I'm hoping that I can figure it out...which I couldn't. I hit TT1 (turntable 1, incase that wasn't obvious) on the soundboard, and I hit "START" on the record player. And nothing happens.

Let me tell you something about silence on the radio. Nothing compares to silence on the radio. You know when you are sitting with a date or a new friend or whatever and things go all awkward and quiet and the silence is a little painful? Yeah, that is nothing compared to this. To knowing that every single person tuned in (which actually is relatively few at 6am on Sunday) is hearing your pitiful mistake, or rather, hearing nothing at all.

I very ungracefully threw on another song, SOMETHING to kill the awful silence.

And then I saw the "ON/OFF" switch on the turntable. Did you know there's an "ON/OFF" switch on the turntable? Did you know it has to be turned ON in order to play? You would have known this if you paid attention in training.

So even more ungracefully than the first time, I switched BACK to the turn tables and Mozart started flooding the studio and my God was it an ordeal.

I tell you this story out of a sort of irony that happened to me today. I have two shifts left, so today was one of my last. You'll never guess who called and you'll never guess what he requested. Well after having some 70 hours plus of on-air time, I'm a frickin' genius at running the turntable (as in, I switch the thing on first).

Only today, even after turning it on, the damn thing wouldn't work. And that horrible silence came over the air once again. It's like, if silence could eat you alive, I was breakfast. Bad analogy. Anyway, it was nostalgic and ironic and catastrophic and I turned on a CD of Brahm instead. Still don't know why the turntables weren't working.

And so Dustin calls back about an hour and a half later and asks me to play Mozart, and I'm like, yeah, about that, the turntables aren't working. I played you something else though, didn't you hear? I played you Brahm.

Dustin didn't hear. He wasn't listening to the radio after he made his request. Facepalm.

It's important to note that in this conversation with Dustin, I pronounced Brahm "Braam." Dustin then went on to correct me for the next five minutes, telling me it is "Brawm," not "Braam." He doesn't know why it is pronounced that way, and he sees how I could think it was the other way, but it is actually "Brawm," not "Braam."

So for the love of God, just call him "Brawm." Live radio is a great place to make a fool of yourself.

Just sayin.

The Awkward Hour

I never really can sleep well the night before I do a radio show. Something about knowing I have to get up at 5:30 and do something always messes with me. My brain sets an alarm clock to go off once an hour from the time I go to bed until the time I get up, just to make sure there's no mistake.

1 AM. 2AM. 3AM. 4:30 AM.

And then I have those dreams that are so convincingly real, and you are positive you are actually awake and living your day. In my dream last night, I went to the studio to find the power out. This is surprisingly creepy, as everything in a radio station, believe it or not, runs on electricity. There is never a time when something isn't humming or blinking or glowing in that room. Yet it was completely dark, and naturally, there was a dead girl in there as well. Couldn't see her right away due to the lack of power. I couldn't have been more convinced that all this really happened, right up until my alarm clock actually did go off this morning, of course.

So I went and did my show. And then the next DJ didn't show up for his show at nine, and it was a lot like deja vous, since this is exactly what happened last week, and I ended up staying until noon. A six to noon shift is long even by my standards. Lucky, though, I escaped by ten today.

While I rode my bike home, I thought, what will KBGA do without me? But then I thought, what will I do without KBGA? Get more sleep, I guess.

I'm just sayin.

PS,

Here's Dustin: