Radio Rant
[ 2 Comments ] Posted on 08.19.04 in complaints, music
For the past three years, I have been a loyal listener to 107.3 FM, casting aside all the talk radio and low quality Mexican fiesta hour on AM radio along with the newer styles of the 9X.X stations and the deep, philosophical reasoning on the 8X.X waves. It used to be 107.3: The Bay. Back when The Bay was in business, they promised to name every song and artist of the greatest hits of the 60s, 70s, and 80s, never mind the fact that their repetitive playlists sometimes gave me a desire to switch it on over to WDUV, The Dove, if only for a mere change of tune. But I stuck with my good friends at 107.3 because on rare occasions, I would hear something totally new to me that I really, truly liked.
But the first of this year, as I woke up from a night of blissful slumber following my annual revelry with Dick Clark, I turned on the radio to something I did not recognize: 107.3 The Eagle.
The Eagle!? How? Why? 107.3 has had many names in the past, from the Coast to the Bay. But never something so influenced by the trendy patriotism that has enveloped our country in the past few years. But it’s okay – different name, same music. I can deal with that. Alas, I was mistaken.
There are now only two radio personalities, Nick Van Cleve, who works the morning shift, and John Moore, who takes care of the ride home from 3:00-7:00. This leaves sixteen hours of abandoned radio, time when there is not a soul around to tell me what song I just heard and who sang it to me; time when not a soul is around to play disc jockey, leaving all the grease work to a computer that randomly selects the song.
I’m sorry, HAL, but you are a sucky DJ. Within a 24 hour time frame, it is quite possible that you hear the same song at least twice, if not three times. And for some reason, the AI in the studio has an Elton John fetish. Don’t get me wrong, I like Elton John’s music as much as the next guy. But when I’m driving to the store and I’m pelted with the same old wails of “Tiny Dancer,” the broken-record sounding “Bennie and the Jets,” and Elton’s homoerotic recollections of the “Crocodile Rock,” I become utterly disappointed in the musical variety down on the end of the radio dial.
So, after three years of loyal listening, The Bay and I have gone our separate ways. We were just too incompatible, one of us wanting to pursue his professional career, and the other wanting to live in the past, when four vinyl albums and plenty of drugs would keep the crowd unaware of the fact that the same music is filling their ears and draining their souls. So to you, 107.3, I say, “Adieu, adieu; parting is such sweet sorrow.”
I need some mental floss
[ 2 Comments ] Posted on 05.31.04 in complaints, music
It’s super annoying when you get songs stuck in your head. It could happen because of any influence; I find it to occur when I hear a song right before I go to sleep or as I get off of the bus going to school. And all day (or until another nestles itself within the friendly confines of your memory), you’re whistling and singing that bloody song over and over again. Even when you have to be quiet, respectful, or the like – there you are, gently humming it until someone hits you on the back of your head. It is as if your head is a broken jukebox hit too hard by the Fonz that unceasingly permeates that one song.
It wouldn’t be so bad if you knew the song, either. But you just have a general idea of the chorus and a vague recollection of the tune. So you hum the tune and think the lyrics until you get to the point of the song that you don’t know; then you start again, as if you were given the holy power to alter, nay, completely slaughter the song in question. This process goes on for hours, in some cases days, until one of two things happens: you die, or another stupid song stages a coup and throws the currently domineering ditty from power within the realm of your consciousness.
And so I leave you now, wishing to purge Kansas’ Carry On My Wayward Son from my mind.
No Boat Drinks
[ 1 Comment ] Posted on 04.25.04 in complaints, music
We were on the floor, so we had to use a special entrance, which they opened up a little over an hour before show time. We went in right when they opened it, and the man in front of us was the most obese man alive.
No, not the same kind of obesity people are suing McDonald’s over, but the sort that affects the Earth’s rotation and tides. I was telling this story to a group of three friends as we walked to pre-calculus class in a line (sort of West Side Story-esque), and the man had a girth that spanned longer than our line of Spic-hating Jets. He was so insanely large, I sort of pitied him.
We figured, “Hey, the floor seats thousands of people – this guy won’t cause us any trouble.”
We figured wrong.
We walked up to our seats and what do you know, the man (who we shall refer to from now on as Roger the Last Surviving Wooly Mammoth on Earth) is sitting there and greets us with a smile. Luckily for me, Ian sat next to him. Unluckily for me, problem number two was waiting to show itself.
If you’ve ever been to a Buffett show, then you know how it is pre-concert in the arena. Beach balls, loads of drunks, and people who don’t come to their seats until two minutes into the first set.
I swear, two seats in front of me came Dikembe Mutombo, painted white and heavily intoxicated. I think it was God punishing me for making fun of Roger the Last Surviving Wooly Mammoth on Earth. In any case, my 5″6′ self was a bit miffed.
No worries though, Roger the Last Surviving Wooly Mammoth on Earth didn’t intrude much on our parade (except for taking up 1½ seats) and the Jolly Drunk Giant was dancing and left every 2 songs to get another cold one, so the show was prime viewing. Jimmy had an awesome set list (not that it matters to any of my non-parrothead friends that may be reading this) and during Fins they launched a giant inflatable RC shark that flew into the rafters of the St. Petersburg Times Forum and got stuck.
Love,
Casey
P.S. Sorry to the dude in front of me who got his beer knocked out of his hand by a beach ball hit by yours truly.
P.S.S. Sorry to the people in front of him who got doused with Corona. Don’t blame me, blame the moron who held his beer up above his head at a Jimmy Buffett Concert.
P.S.S.S. I would like to officially retract my apology to the man whose beer I spilled. You’re an idiot; drink it – don’t flail it around.