With all my recent frustrations and rants over the state of the nation and the FCC have led me to write beyond the scope of my beloved blog. I'm still not 100% sure where I'm going with this, but I have a general layout (and purpose) with the root of the following excerpt. I hope to complete it sometime within the next couple of years, and I intend on making it a full novel. Not just a short story or novella this time. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated, and if you're good little seamonkeys, I might just put some more snippets up here for you.

Bon apetit...

After getting out of college, I was anxious to try and bring the Morning Wood Experience to another outlet. It was relatively easy to get a radio show back at old Dormsike, you just had to be persistent. Sooner or later they were gonna have to acknowledge you unless you were batting a double digit IQ and/or had rotten musical taste. And even then your odds were decent.

At any rate, I wanted to test the waters, see what I was worth. So when I made the trip from college to grad school, I made a beeline for station tryouts. Due to my class schedule, I could only stay in training classes for half the allotted time, but I did make a connection with the station manager, Gil Loeb. I’ll never be sure how impressed he was, if at all, since his expression never changed. He was an older fella, probably in his mid 50s, with a full head of white and a sizeable paunch. He never removed his sport coat, not once, even during the residual summer humidity of early September. Had he ever peeled that second skin of a jacket from his torso, you would’ve seen a button-down shirt that was unable to hide his belly jutting over his beltline.

Herein laid the key difference between WCCH and New Haven College’s WNHC. My old stomping grounds had been run by the students. This strange new world was also run by the students.

But supervised by the faculty. Even a eunuch would’ve wound up in the fetal position after this boot to the junk.

So here I am, trying to play down my beloved A.M. antics to Gargantuan Gil Loeb. I felt like I was about to spar with a boxing champion. It was a feeling I would become very familiar with after grad school, when going on job interviews.

“So,” he started. “You obviously have a great deal of experience, having done four years at college. To be truthful, we don’t often get grad students trying out for the station… We like to reserve on-air slots for undergraduates.”

“I assumed that was the typical scenario, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to give it a shot.”

“You’re going for your MBA in… what was it now, finance?” Not even close.

“Marketing, actually.”

“Oh, right. Marketing. And you’re a full time student, correct?”

“Yep, three classes a week from 5:30 to 8:30 at night.”

“And you commute from Waterbury? What is that, about a half-hour drive?”

“Forty-five minutes with evening traffic.”

“Hmm.” Gil had this way of analyzing and contemplating every response you offered. “Hmm” would’ve been his response if I answered a question on what color my socks were.

They were white, for the record.

“Quite a hike to do a radio show, isn’t it?” he pried. This made me uncomfortable. The question was borderline accusatory, and I felt like this went from a purportedly casual chat to an interrogation. I realized it sounded a little outlandish, driving nearly an hour to do a simple radio show, but Gil made me feel like I was bound for Bellevue, padded cell and all. I did my best to hide the sinking feeling in my gut and just shrugged with a grin.

“I loved doing radio. It’s something I want to keep up with, if possible.”

“Hmm.” This particular monosyllabic pondering segued into Gil reviewing my show proposal. Every instinct was telling me that this was now officially a lost cause and I should bolt to the door. A word of advice, true believer: in any interview situation, whenever someone pauses from a line of questioning to review anything written on paper, it is not a good sign. Proceed with caution. “Your show was pretty risqué, no?” My mental Magic 8-Ball was reading “Outlook Not Good” by now. I could offer Gil the Holy Grail at this point and it wouldn’t have made a different.

“It was harmless fun. College students like a good laugh or two while getting ready for an 8:00 AM class.” This comment didn’t even warrant the requisite “Hmm.” Gil went right for the jugular.

“You are familiar with station policy in compliance with FCC regulations, correct?” The FCC. This was my first run-in with those three cursed consonants. While WCCH was legally bound to their regulations, it was still easy to get away with murder on the air (especially between 10:00 PM and 6:00 AM; safe harbor hours). Every new DJ viewed those letters while skimming the station rules, but no one at the station ever made a fuss over it. Why would a great white like the FCC bother with a guppy like WCCH? Or WNHC for that matter? To Gil’s query, I simply nodded. “Because of the prevalence of so-called ‘shock jocks,’ the FCC has strict laws regarding on-air content, and we make it a point to abide by these laws. I am very concerned about what is broadcast on my station. I don’t even want to hear the word ‘sucks’ on my station.”

I bit my tongue, trying to keep my jaw in place and not hit the floor. How in the hell do you ban such a timid word? I mean, don’t misunderstand me, I know full well the origin of the word. To say “this sucks” is an abbreviation of the derogatory phrase “this sucks dick.” Or “cock,” whichever tickles your fancy. But I mean, despite where the term derives from, we are talking about 2002 here. The twenty-first century, new millennium and all that. By this point in time, hell by the mid 90’s, “sucks’ had become so distilled through extensive use that its suggestive origins had been all but forgotten by the general public. In fact, the phrase had pretty much been fully assimilated by the vernacular lexicon of our culture.

To this day, I wonder if Gil ever felt that Prohibition was still a good idea.

I also wonder if he knew the fact that the word “jerk” was originally used to describe someone who masturbated too much. Or that a “geek” really meant someone who bit the heads off of chickens. That was where the words started, but where they finished was an altogether different story, much like “sucks.” Kurtz and I had had several discussions over the English language, and how sooner or later, there would be no such thing as a truly taboo word. By this time, “damn,” “hell,” “ass,” and “bitch” had already become acceptable on most television and radio broadcasts, which were the two mediums that were and still are largely unregulated in terms of content. After all, a 12-year-old can get turned away at an R-rated movie, but there’s no authority figure with the exception of parents to bar them from turning the channel to a program that’s rated TV-MA. And by the turn of the century, anything rated TV-MA got a little extra dose of freedom in terms of content. Shows like “Playmakers” and “NYPD Blue” were freely exposing bare bottoms and dropping the word “shit” freely. In fact, “South Park” got away with saying “shit” more than 150 times in one episode without a single bleep. Granted, the geniuses that Trey Parker and Matt Stone are, they did so to prove a point. But nonetheless, it was evident that the reigns of censorship were being gradually loosened by this time in history.

“Words are just words,” Kurtz once said to me. “They mean different things to different people and always will. For you, ‘happiness’ might mean a good job, a loving wife, a nice house and two kids. For me, ‘happiness’ might be a good porno movie that inspires a round of wondrous masturbatory antics. It’s all relative. One day swears will be relative, too. They’re halfway there already. ‘Shit’ could mean a pile of feces or a mere synonym for ‘stuff.’ Trust me when I tell you there will come a point in time where they just won’t be regarded as forbidden.”

“Fuckin’ A,” I remember responding. But as much as I agreed with the good Colonel’s reasoning, I very quickly realized that there would be no convincing Gil that “sucks” was perfectly kosher. Because no matter how much the public had accepted the term, it wasn’t the public’s station. It was Gil’s. If he didn’t want to hear it, he didn’t want to hear it, end of story. He was sitting before me, leaning forward as much as his hefty frame would allow him to without his gut being restricted by his desk. I nodded, fingers in a steeple following his restrictive edict. “Well Gil, it’s your station.” What passed for a smile crossed his face. I had acknowledged his illusion of power, and that had made him happy. It was an in. Maybe not a big one, but an in nonetheless. I could use that to my advantage if I wanted to. I could kiss his ass until a tube of Chapstick the size of Ron Jeremy’s legendary penis would be needed to cure my parched lips. I could still get to do a toned down version of my show, despite the traffic and invisible watchdogs keeping an eye on me at all times. I could swing it.

“Well, then,” Gil began. “Would you be interested in recording a demo?” His entire demeanor had changed. He was no longer hunched forward. He had leaned back, seeming very comfortable and proud of himself as his weight caused the seat to creak loudly. My in grew larger; there was an offer on the table.

“Hmm,” I said as I now leaned back. I rested my elbows on the armrests and folded my hands, looking down at the cluttered desk and nodding to myself. After a few seconds I got up from the chair, shook Gil’s hand, and turned promptly around toward the door. Standing in the doorway, I looked over my shoulder and uttered what have got to be the greatest lie and the greatest truth I have ever told consecutively: “You’re a nice guy Gil, but your policy sucks.”

I’m going on damn near two years I’ve been ranting on this thing, and I think everyone can agree that one common theme throughout the bulk of my writings would be the general stupidity of people. I mean, it never ceases to fascinate me how truly idiotic most humanoids actually are. In one respect, I suppose it’s amusing in a sad, bizarre way. But in another respect, it is freakin’ heart breaking to realize that the overwhelming majority of us hairless apes out there are batting double digit IQs.

And I’m talking beyond everyday stupidity. I’m talking beyond the feeling you get when you’re killing time at the office by playing checkers online and the cat you’re sparring with leaves such a blatantly obvious triple-jump/”king me” situation open, your jaw can’t help but drop in sheer disbelief.

OK, so maybe I take my in-office procrastination habits a little too seriously (and believe me, you would too if you had my job), but you get the picture. Sometimes people just don’t make any apologies for their idiocy. It’s like playing Texas Hold’Em with a rounder and grinning when you’re dealt a pair of bullets. You don’t leave yourself open! You put your best poker face on and let him scratch his head.

OK, I’ve already churned out two tangential analogies, so you’re probably wondering where I’m going. Well, in this instance, I’m going to Wichita. No, wait… I meant Florida. ‘Cause I cannot fathom the sheer incompetence of people who decide, “Yeah, Florida seems like a good place to set up camp.”

You dolts.

Now, let’s clear the air right now. I’m not bashing America’s geographical shlong because of old people, obscene humidity, the cost of living, crappy drivers, rednecks, recounts, or even Bubba the Love Sponge.

You people get too many fuckin’ hurricanes.

When are you simpletons gonna finally realize that your house has been without a roof for the last two weeks because you’ve been double-teamed by Category 4s. Sakes. I mean, let’s be practical, kids. When two major storms nail your home state in as many weeks, and a third is on the way, you really should consider getting the fuck outta there. Charley, Frances and Ivan just don’t make great neighbors, so doesn’t it make sense to book before they move into that condo you call Miami and tear the place a new one?

And I don’t know about the rest of my fellow bipeds, but I am getting sick and tired of all the support that is going to you people just because you’re too simple to pack a friggin’ suitcase. For the love of Bruce Campbell, show some common sense for once. Evacuate the area permanently and take an express flight to Vermont or something. I have never condoned the concept of rewarding people for their shortcomings, especially when they make the same mistake over and over despite always obtaining an identical end result.

So, in conclusion, while Charley, Frances, Ivan, and Mother Nature all take turns playing with the nation’s wang, I am more than content to be resting comfortably in the nipple region, relatively safe from any and all such masturbatory catastrophes. You really should join me.

Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.

I’m well aware that I’ve been out of the loop with ye olde blog, and with good reason, I might add. Before you get all huffy puffy with li’l ol’ moi, I’d just like to say in my defense that I have been in and out of jobs, continually on the prowl for employment.

Baby, it’s a friggin’ jungle out there. I hate to resort to clichés, but it’s the damned truth. I didn’t believe it either until I jumped in headfirst to start swimming with the sharks. Of course, when you’re constantly dog-paddling, trying to get adjusted to the water, those big-ass great whites are either A) waiting to devour your ass, or B) disregarding you because you’re way too miniscule for their time.

The job market is desperate right now. I could go on and on about who’s to blame, but I would just be spinning my wheels. The bottom line is that it’s ugly right now. Any of you who have just recently graduated know this. Hell, some of you who graduated a couple years ago (like myself) know this as well. And I’m one of the select that has gone on to pursue a postgraduate education. I have a Bachelor of Arts in English with a focus in Creative Writing and a minor in Business, and a Masters in Business Administration in Marketing.

And I’m only working part time.

I haven’t been here for that long. Just shy of a month, in fact. My first job out of the box was essentially a sales position (although the company was billed as a “promotional marketing firm”). Long story short, I was driving 45 minutes from Waterbury to Hartford to be in the office by 7:30 AM, and then after an hour and a half of meetings, workshops, and the like, it was off to Greenfield, MA; more than an hour northward of the office. I was doing this five days a week. I trained for one week, and then did it by myself for one week. At the end of that fortnight stint, I called it quits. I wasn’t even paid for my training, which I was lied to about.

So why did I take this job? Well, chalk it up to naïve optimism, as I was promised everything from a six-figure income in six months to running my own business in a year. I am not exaggerating, that is what was set on the table in only my second interview. When you’re 23, fresh out of school and having never worked a full time job before, that sounds pretty tempting. Well, needless to say I took the bait, and boy, did I pay for it. I never claimed to know it all, and I am more than willing to admit my shortcomings and mistakes. This, needless to say, was a big one. One that, in all honesty, I have yet to get over.

I won’t go into the gory details of my two-week-stint, but I will say that it set me back about a month for various reasons. And in the weeks that followed that month, I began to realize how bone dry the well is.

Now when I went for my MBA, I was fully aware of the difficulties in the job market, and the contemporary economic state. I figured that by the time I finished my studies, the market would have shown some significant signs of improvement. I wish I could have a definitive yes or no to my presumption, but all I can say is that if it has improved, it’s been by baby steps rather than the leaps and bounds I’d prayed for.

At the rate things are going in this nation, the amount of education a young person will have to have in order to get a reasonable entry level job will take the individual well into his or her early 30’s. I simply can’t fathom that. We put so much pressure on ourselves as a nation and as a people to succeed that we feel the need to push one another and ourselves to the furthest imaginable limits in order attain that level of accomplishment. And personally, I think it’s getting more than a little bit out of control. My cousin and I are the only two in the family that have our MBAs, and we have had several conversations about how nowadays, such a degree is being regarded as the bare minimum one needs to get a decent job. In another fifteen or twenty years, the bar will be raised up to a Ph. D.

I feel like we just push ourselves, and our children way too hard. I mean, my old grammar school has computers now. Shee-it, back in the early 80s, we did it with a pencil and paper. What are these schools trying to do? Ensure that all of our future doctors will have crappy writing by never making them use a writing utensil? Kids should be kids. Let them roam free and have fun, the rest will come in due time.

Perfect example: I have a cousin living in the Dominican Republic with his wife and one-year-old son. The kid isn’t even out of diapers yet and he’s already being tossed headfirst into school. He already has language and music lessons lined up for him on a weekly basis. Language and music lessons at a year old? Whatever happened to playtime, naptime, recess, that stuff? Did that just get tossed out the window? At what point did we say, “Our children don’t deserve to appreciate their childhood like we did, so let’s deprive them of fun and shove them straight into school”?

My parents often bust my stones for being a big kid at heart, but I can’t help it. I wish I could go back to my youth. That’s why I write about so much “kiddy” stuff here. That’s why I still watch cartoons, read comic books and play video games. I really don’t think that’s a crime.

Look, I’m all for education, don’t get me wrong, but there’s a fine line that is very slowly being crossed. There’s another aspect to life. It’s called “living.” You should try it, and you should encourage your kids to try it, too. There is plenty of time for education, work, and all that business, trust me. Let them enjoy their childhood, for Pete’s sake. It’s only fair to them.

Personally, I like George Carlin’s philosophy on children: “I think that every child should be allowed three hours a day of daydreaming. That’s all, just daydreaming. And you could probably use some, yourself. Just turn off the video games, the TV, the stereo, and just sit and look at a fucking tree for a little while.”

And on that note, I’m gonna neglect the rest of my duties at the office for the remainder of the day so I can stare out the window.

Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.