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.)