Radio Sweethearts

Much like Mark Sanford, I have some apologies to make.

I’ve been cheating.

Now, before anyone pulls me aside and starts lecturing me about ’sacred bonds of trust’ or something, I should clarify:

I’ve been cheating on public radio.

It started innocently enough. I was unpacking some boxes last weekend, and you know how it goes, you find some book or CD you’d forgotten about, and one thing leads to another, and, well…. Yeah.

If you knew what I found, you’d do just the same. I was unpacking a box of desk supplies and I found December’s issue of The Oxford American. The 10th anniversary music issue.

I was only curious when I slid the first disk of its included 2-CD set gingerly into the side of my computer. I was only going to hang out for a little bit, but somewhere I crossed a line.

I was only going to listen to a few songs. There’s an Ella Fitzgerald cover of “Sunshine of Your Love” on that disc that I just had to hear, and some good Furry Lewis. But when Morgan Freeman’s voice came in on that first track and implored me to boogie with him, I was lost. I listened to that whole disc right then. It was magical – all the garage rock, southern pop, bluegrass, and vintage country.

I knew it was wrong when I decided to start my work week off by listening to that CD instead of Morning Edition on my way in to work. But I just couldn’t get it off my mind. I couldn’t eat at lunch; I just sat in my car the whole time and listened.

And I really crossed a line, I know, when I put the second disc in. It just wasn’t the same. Yeah, all the same elements were there, but it just didn’t match up. Maybe I was just expecting too much. The first disc was so illicit, and so dirty, that I just couldn’t get enough. But the second just felt empty, joyless to me.

I tried to stop it; I wanted to go back to public radio, I really did. I hit “eject,” and it wouldn’t budge. Sure, maybe it went quiet for a second, but then the car’s track display just said “Err” and it tried to play the CD again.

So I ignored it. I hit the AM/FM button, hoping to hear the familiar sounds of All Things Considered. I did, and it was good. For a few miles. Soon, the CD wanted my attention again. It spat out a little further, but then went back into the CD player, and the radio switched back to CD. But it wasn’t working, so the same thing happened again.

The CD’s tantrum happened to the sound of nothing. The CD wanted me all or nothing. If it couldn’t have my full, undivided attention, it seemed, nobody could.

I was scared.

I pulled over to the side of the road to make it stop. I tried turning the radio off. The whole eject-pull-in process kept happening, regardless. I was in tears at this point, really believing I’d never hear Steve Inskeep, Terry Gross, or – God forbid – Ira Glass again.

Once I was home, I tried pulling the tan fake leather console off the dashboard to get at the CD player. I dug in with the CD booklet and tried to pull it out. I prayed to the many Gods of the obscure culture I only knew about because that poor radio – god bless its soul – had played me so much public radio.

Eventually, I gave up and went inside. I guess the CD got over the rejection, because when I got back in the car yesterday morning, it was there, hanging out of the car stereo, ready to be put away in its case, without further incident.

I know I went too far, and I have more than apology as my penance for such cruel and wanton behavior and how it hurt my dear, dear public radio, which is my joy, my strength.

I can only hope that one day soon, I can repay this debt, and pledge renewed loyalty. My primary commitment is to public radio, and the dear, dear tote bags – raising whom must now take center stage.

I’m sorry. Thank you. There will be no questions as of this time.

(True story.)

Just a few minutes ago, I watched Kerry tease the cat with a ribbon. It’s one of my favorite things in the world to watch cats try to hunt their toys.

The best part of all is when the cat hangs out underneath the couch waiting for just the right moment to take two careful steps before rocketing out at the ribbon, ambushing the tail of the thing and using every ounce of strength and cleverness in her tiny body to utterly destroy that ribbon.

It reminds me slightly of an ambush “journalist,” that most lowly of low positions in the news industry. Now, keep in mind that I’m not criticising ambush reportage – occassionally, if a newsworthy person refuses to speak in person to the reporter, it might be necessary – if the story is important enough. No, I’m thinking of the people who do these stakeout/ambushes for a living.

Of course, as I’ve mentioned before, ambush journalism in its most egregious form is the characteristic purview of Fox’s Bill O’Reilly. It’s a sleazy tactic employed in unnecessary situations by a sleazy, sleazy man.

Which is why On the Media this week completely owned the genre of ambush journalism, when OTM producer PJ Vogt, along with Gawker’s investigations editor John Cook decided to ambush an ambush journalist.

It’s a beautiful thing, really, to have this kind of taste-of-his-0wn-medicine vigilante justice journalism. It’s too bad that Vogt’s tape makes clear that it’s bungled beyond any recognition from Cook’s hyping to Bob Garfield.

I’d say Fox’s pro ambusher, Jesse Waters, didn’t know what hit him, except – y’know – it’s what he does for a living.

Apparently, Cook considers this semi-failure a success. If anyone at Gawker reads us, please pass on this message: “Dude, that was major FAIL.” But while it’s not the most moving, informative, or even funny thing I’ve heard on public radio, it is one of the most refreshingly goofy.

And I’ve listened to it, like, six times by now.

It keeps me occupied like that slippery tiny snake end of the ribbon dangling in front of the cat.

–

This week’s On the Media highlights reel was written by Matthew with little participation from Kerry, but mostly because his earnest, good-hearted, but ultimately foolhardy attempts at helping her master some roller derby moves earned both of them shin-bruises and him a night on the couch.

My life is noise. Between this blog, music projects, living near an airport’s landing flight path, and driving interstates with the windows down (and if I’m not doing that, then the a/c fans are blasting in my face). I live in the middle of a car-focused city, three or four streets over from the interstate.

My life is noise; noise is my life.

Even right now, while I write this, I’m listening to an Evan Dando cover of Big Star’s ”Ballad of El Goodo.” It’s a great cover of a great song, but unless I make a point to listen to it, it’s just noise.

Similarly, unless I sit down to listen to it specifically, the distinctly public radio style of reportage, editing, storytelling, and sound design - and the love of said style is this blog’s bread and butter - is reduced to mere noise.

Right now I’m hearing it as though it’s noise. I realized this on the way to work the other morning, when, speeding down one of the main thoroughfares through town, I turned up Morning Edition to hear it, but I wasn’t listening. I was, instead, singing ”Total Eclipse of the Heart,” because that damn Hurrah Torpedo version won’t get out of my head.

I’m not hearing like the active listener that you guys know I can be. So I’m going to try something here.

I recently updated my iPhone, and they’ve included a quite nice Voice Memos app. (Nevermind that I already have a four-track recorder for my phone, for these purposes, Voice Memos is better suited.)

So what I’m going to do is begin to document, in very short sound bites, the noises that keep me from paying full attention. Any time i realize there’s too much noise, I’ll bust out the app and document it.

I’m hoping this will achieve at least two things:

1. Make me a better listener by forcing me to recognize when I’m getting distracted.
2. Make me pay attention to silence. It’s not always noise that distracts me. It might be a thought or a splash of light.

So here’s my first attempt.

Talking to myself while listening to Paul Westerberg