On the Radio

is where I will be tomorrow at 5 pm

Soundtrack to this short missive: On the Radio by Regina Spektor. (How many times did I listen to this song while living in Barcelona junior year? Impossible to estimate.)

News I am telling you in this missive: I’ll be on Central Vermont Community Radio tomorrow (Sunday, May 19th) at 5 pm EST, on a poetry show called Bon Mot. It’s an hour long and I’m going to read poems, talk about poetry/myself, and chat with Rick, the host. You can stream it here. If you listen to it, live or otherwise (it’ll be up for 2 weeks after we air, in the Archives), please text me to let me know!!

Fact: I trained to be a DJ on my college radio station freshman year, with my friend Jacob Kovner (hi, Jacob! Love you miss you!). Jacob ended up transferring after freshman year (he needed to go back to NYC, I get it) so I didn’t continue with my radio training. I remember us trying not to laugh while reading public service announcements during training sessions.

Poem fact: I wrote a poem about my friend Connor that takes place in a radio station. I am just remembering this now; I wrote this poem about 12+ years ago. I’ll include it below.

Fact: If I’m in the car, I’m generally listening to the radio. I can only access two stations that have music I’d listen to here where I live, so it’s either pop music or “yesterday’s favorites and today’s hits.” I like not having to choose the music—I can’t bother with scrolling through Apple Music playlists before driving 12 minutes to pick up Linden! I leave my soundtrack up to the fates. But, this does mean I listen to a lot more Miley Cyrus than I would otherwise.

Tell me: What comes up for you when you hear the word RADIO? I didn’t know I’d have so much to say on the topic!

Poem:

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But he works here Friday nights

In my dream he was dead all days but Fridays, 
when he worked at the college radio station. 

A late evening shift that asked him to sit 
at a computer and book the guests who sometimes said yes

to interviews. I stood in the well-lit closet of a room 
and watched him in his chair, typing fast and grinning, 

telling me “One sec” and laughing intermittently 
at something on the screen. He only seemed upset 

that he didn’t have a cell phone, couldn’t call
the girls whose rooms he said he’d visit when his shift 

was done. I was there as an assistant to a guest 
who warranted a party, so we tried to plan one. 

Gung-ho as ever, Connor started talking posters 
and the wine she’d likely like. Incredulous but trying 

to be cool, I took an old professor to the side outside 
the building, asked him, “Remember Connor Donohue?” 

“Oh yes,” he said, “So sad about that boy.” 
“But he works here Friday nights,” I nearly-yelled,

“He enters data in a spreadsheet then leaves to walk alone 
across the green.” The professor nodded slowly, glancing 

at the stack of party fliers I clenched against my chest 
as proof and said, “Seems like a good gig to me.”

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Current radio setup at my home:

This is how it works: you’re young until you’re not,
Taylor Mardis Katz Honeymeadow