He Whose Name Shall Not Be Spoken
I used to listen to him during the afternoon drive on 770 AM on the long commute from Mamaroneck, New York to Waterbury, Connecticut. There was nothing to do and it helped passed the time. And yes, I laughed. He was outrageous. But a lot has happened in the last twenty years and I’m not laughing anymore.
He’s the reason I have to switch radio stations in the morning whenever what little music is still left to play stops and the trash talk of every wannabe DJ begins. I’m not commuting to Mamaroneck anymore, I’m driving my kids to school and they don’t need to hear this crap.
I’m embarrassed for us.
I’m embarrassed that we thought his show was somehow entertaining.
I’m embarrassed that we lost sight of our heroes and made failures and losers like him into deities.
Most of all, I’m embarrassed that I used to listen to him.
Though it owes more to circumstances beyond even his control, I’m sad that somewhere along the line we stopped playing good music on the public airwaves and instead put him and his clones in positions of bully pulpitry. No matter where I go in the country, it’s the same thing. I usually search for the country station. Those are still mostly okay, but I can’t say the kids necessarily like the music.
He killed radio. He killed music.
A half-billion dollars and $12.95 a month for life? Fine, just get him the hell out of here.