As I grew up, I moved on to National Public Radio. First, it was Morning Edition in the mornings to keep me awake when I had to rise at 5:00 a.m. for high school, then it was whatever was playing on the station in Gainesville (Science Friday was and is a personal favorite). Now, I listen whenever I think about it since they did away with classical music and switched to jazz in the evenings on WUSF.

Either way, though, I don’t listen as much as I should. It’s not because of a lack of relevant and interesting programming; it’s because they ask for money all the damn time and I’m sick of it.

When one of the weekly pledge drives crops up on my radio, it’s an instant turn off. Whenever one of these events in monotony arrives, it’s all I can do not to imagine Ira Glass in his big, dumb hipster glasses with a tin cup begging for change outside of a 7-11.

I love public radio, but I think there should be a way to give those who actually donate a way to listen to all of their fine programming without degrading yourself and selling tote bags and DVDs for hundreds of dollars. It’s unbecoming.

A few pieces of necessary background information:

Our friend, Rhiannon, just moved to North Carolina to become a doctor.

It was recently her birthday.

She and my brother have an ongoing joke about the nonexistant “Pericardial Artery.”

My brother and I jokingly call each other gay (in a completely non-offensive way with no ill intent toward folks of that persuasion).

She cooked us Cuban food when she lived in Alachua County.

This is the most complex song I could think of. I threw an Em and D7 in there just to make it not comprised of G, C, and D.

Ian holds the microphone too close to his mouth.

Every bloody thing in Chicago is named after Mayor Daley or his dad. The Richard M. Daley Building, the Richard J. Daley Center, the Richard M. Daley Public Restroom (A Richard J. Daley Project). You get the idea.

Chicago has public transportation down, man. We took the train from our hotel to Wrigley and back in a snap, all for the low price of two dollars. (I will have to get used to public transportation this coming fall, because I think I’m taking the bus to campus if I can’t find someone to sell me a red parking decal. This is a not-so-subtle hint.)

I felt sort of like a traitor when I clapped for Cubs hits. Oh well, I balanced that out by wearing the right cap:

My cousin Scott is a dirty, funny, old man. He burned a bunch of bootleg and compilation CDs and brought them to Buffett tailgating, where he offered them to old drunk ladies in exchange for a good view of their funbags. I have photos. They are disturbing.

Finally, I think I fill out a coconut bra quite well, don’t you think?

If you’ll recall, I tried learning the mandolin. I learned a few chords and things, but this attempt for love was born in futility. I guess chicks don’t dig an instrument that I play only because it’s small and I have tiny hands. And I guess, at least subconsciously, they know what tiny hands mean and they flock to the nearest regular-sized guy.

Then, I tried lifting weights. It worked out for a while, but then I went home for Christmas and didn’t take home my miracles of muscle making. And man, that stuff is heavy. It didn’t really act as a chick magnet either, though. I assume this is the case because notwithstanding my somewhat increased arm size, I remained short. Chicks dig tall guys.

Well, I am trying again. This time, however, I’m doing it the right way: I’m learning to play the guitar. I’m getting kind of good at it too, even with my gnomelike hands. This has got to be the clincher that makes the women of the world show up at my doorstep in herds wanting to be my bride, right?

So, tell your friends that their wildest dreams can soon come true: I can serenade girls until they fall madly in love with me.

At least after I learn more chords than A, C, D, E, F, and G.

So, I guess that would be attractive to some girls, right? Maybe little midget women or something.