It was Friday, August 5, 1988.
I’d been job-hunting almost a year and half.
I had called – or at least tried to call – every talk radio station in the United States, or at least every one I could find evidence of.
With a few exceptions.
I figured there were a couple of markets into which there was no chance in hell I’d land; Los Angeles, San Francisco, Chicago, Philly, and of course New York. Maybe I could get a producer gig – but even those, I figured, would hardly be worth the effort.
I was working in bars. I was living with a stoner sex addict and a speed metal singer. I was in a house where sewage oozed from the ceiling, and the landlord couldn’t be bothered.
I woke up this morning, and figured “what do I have to lose?”
I opened up my ratty, disintegrating copy of the SRDS, and called WMCA Radio in New York – a talk radio station.
To my amazement, I got through to the program director.
I did my patter. It was a short conversation…
“Send me a tape”, he said.
…but a good one.
Exhilarated – and not really expecting much – I picked out an audition tape, typed up a cover letter, and biked to the post office.
I actually had a spring in my step as I drove out to City Limits that night.