I thi
nk TwangCity needs DJs. Probably ain't gonna happen, but it would be cool.
Radio isn't a jukebox or an iPod. Radio, even Internet radio, needs a human touch to really make that amazing connection that I know is possible.
Or so I tell myself.
For a lot of years, creating that human touch was my art. I would get up every morning way the hell too early in the morning, and tell stories on the radio. Talk about the weather. Talk about the news. Talk about the music. Create, on a good day, a damned good illusion of a real one-to-one connection.
Then there was Bob St. Bob. On those mornings when I never really woke up, Bob would take over my mouth and run the show and I would wake up and take over around 10am. Bob got me in trouble more than once. Bob is still there. I'll be groggily staring at my coffee cup at breakfast, and I'll make some wiseass comment in my radio voice . . . and my wife Lark says "put Bob back where he belongs!"
We all have, I think, our autopilots. And to hear the doctors tell it, we have a bunch of different areas of our brain all talking to each other, a clamorous internal discussion. Ever get in your car and drive off, and end up somewhere different than your destination? Ever find yourself at work, daydreaming while your body and maybe even your brain goes through the motions? Yeah, well, you have your own Bob St. Bob in there.
Funny thing is, in his own way, Bob St. Bob is even a pretty good radio guy. He got a lot of practice, because I had a lot of rough mornings over the years. He's kind of a puker, but nobody's perfect.
nk TwangCity needs DJs. Probably ain't gonna happen, but it would be cool.Radio isn't a jukebox or an iPod. Radio, even Internet radio, needs a human touch to really make that amazing connection that I know is possible.
Or so I tell myself.
For a lot of years, creating that human touch was my art. I would get up every morning way the hell too early in the morning, and tell stories on the radio. Talk about the weather. Talk about the news. Talk about the music. Create, on a good day, a damned good illusion of a real one-to-one connection.
Then there was Bob St. Bob. On those mornings when I never really woke up, Bob would take over my mouth and run the show and I would wake up and take over around 10am. Bob got me in trouble more than once. Bob is still there. I'll be groggily staring at my coffee cup at breakfast, and I'll make some wiseass comment in my radio voice . . . and my wife Lark says "put Bob back where he belongs!"
We all have, I think, our autopilots. And to hear the doctors tell it, we have a bunch of different areas of our brain all talking to each other, a clamorous internal discussion. Ever get in your car and drive off, and end up somewhere different than your destination? Ever find yourself at work, daydreaming while your body and maybe even your brain goes through the motions? Yeah, well, you have your own Bob St. Bob in there.
Funny thing is, in his own way, Bob St. Bob is even a pretty good radio guy. He got a lot of practice, because I had a lot of rough mornings over the years. He's kind of a puker, but nobody's perfect.
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