If I’ve learned anything in the almost sixty-one years I’ve been on this planet—and it’s doubtful I have—it’s that I’m destined to be the guy who gets everything dumped in his lap. I don’t just mean coffee and soup, though I’ve lately remarked on my irredeemable clumsiness. It’s more that I somehow always end up as the sole auteur, the one-man band, the fool single-handedly moving the piano after his helpers decide their backs aren’t up to it.
I dodged a bullet of that particular sort about 20 years ago when a community radio station was proposed. I had some enthusiasm for the project until I saw that all fingers suddenly pointed to me as its prospective operator. Of course, while I had the honor of sitting in the stifling control booth getting irradiated by the high-tension electronics, every other person in the club would get to go before the microphone. And, it being a club, I would have to pay dues like the rest of them. No, thank you.
Happily, I was later able to realize my long-held desire to blab on the airwaves and create my own radio program. This was through the auspices of Hamilton College in Clinton, New York, via their radio station, WHCL-FM. I joked and opined and pressed buttons and played music. I discovered that I was good at it. I’ll always be grateful for the experience—and for not having to do everything else.
I reverted to my status as
