I’ve never been the type to go at something without first thinking it to death. Blogging is no exception to this. While I’m still trying to figure out where Syntax of Things is going, I’ve also been contemplating the nature of blogs. Lately, this public address seems to be doing the same thing.
There are two things I don't do much of anymore (well, more like thirty-eight, but for the sake of this post I'll stick to just a couple). First of all, I don't read the signs, handbills, advertisements, etc., on telephone/power poles anymore. Occasionally I'll take a quick glance and see that someone is looking for a lost cat (good luck), having a yard sale for the third weekend in a row, or recently, protesting the war in Iraq. Always the same sign only with a different cat/address/issue. Since the sight of a lost pet depresses me, I don't do yard sales, and the desire to protest anything other than the fact that they closed the Kentucky Fried Chicken around the corner just isn't there, telephone ads that target me are just a waste of staples.
The other thing I find myself doing a lot less of these days is listening to the radio while driving. Not that I’ve ever been a huge fan of commercial radio, but there was a time when you could find at least one decent station in a fair-sized radio market to listen to where you actually heard originality, where the DJ’s added at least a modicum of entertainment value to go along with the music. Today you’ll be hard-pressed to find either a DJ or music that doesn’t a) sound exactly the same and b) hasn’t been programmed by a corporate shill in an office in New York (or New Jersey) and c) isn’t owned by a mega-corporation. Often a vast majority of the stations in your local market can trace their ownership back to the same place. Now the Bush administration seeks to relax some of the regulations that prevent corporations from completely monopolizing a city’s airwaves. The poor media giants claim that these draconian rules are hurting business.
And if you’re thinking that this is another rant against corporations, you’d be half right. Mostly, this is about serendipity.
The other day as I made my weekly trip to the IGA to pick up groceries (pot roast night), I spotted a telephone pole ad that seemed a bit different—all black with white lettering screaming out: Free Radio. 96.9. My finger immediately sought out the TUNE button and sure enough, through a constant hum and a bit of static, a ska song I’d never heard issued from my speakers. I didn’t want to leave my car so I sat in the parking lot for a few more minutes before the static finally won out over the horns and white-boy reggae.
I’ve had some experience with pirate radio in the past. During my foggy Pensacola days, my little brother Scott and his friend Michelle made several attempts to launch a station from Scott’s wife’s pottery shed in his backyard. I remember one night in particular. At the time I was serving my required post-English degree internship in the service industry as a bartender. The bar I worked at was only a few blocks from Scott’s house and they felt confident that the signal would travel beyond the two-house radius they had achieved a few times before. He called me up with the frequency and to the disappointment of the regulars who seemed to be enjoying their Eagles, I flipped the switch, turned the dial, and nothing. Although I preferred the static to another “Hotel California” sing-along, the complaining over lost quarters wasn’t worth leaving the radio on to see if Scott and Michelle could get the station going.
I had the next night off, so I was able to watch as they made yet another attempt. We could pick up the station inside Scott’s house, but when I took a portable radio to the front porch, the Stiff Little Fingers song faded away. I stayed on the porch for some time waiting for a signal and watching out for an official looking, undercover black van (or a helicopter; Scott and I always seemed to be on the look-out for helicopters, but that’s another story). But neither the signal nor the van ever came. They were never able to get S&M radio on the air, blaming both tall oaks and a cheap Radio Shack transmitter for their failure. {Just think, Scott, if only you’d had this.}
This morning found another useless yard sale ad on the telephone pole in front of my house. Instead of wasting my time and seventy-five cents buying that hard-to-find cheese grater I so desperately need, I think I’ll tune in to Free Radio and see if I can pick it up.
For a taste of what pirate radio broadcasters go through in order to get out their signal, read this.
For further evidence that commercial radio sucks, read this.
