It was Thursday, October 13, 1988. 

My roommate?  Still drugged out of his mind.

Me?  Didn’t care.

As I got ready to go to New York in just a couple of days, I had another couple of contacts to work.

I’d called a station in White Plains, somewhere up north of the Bronx.  The guy sounded like he was seriously trying to manage expectations – “White Plains is the most expensive place in the world to live, and I’m not going to pay a whole lot” was his constant refrain – but he was interested in talking. 

And today, I talked with a guy who was starting up a very interesting talk network proposition.  It was going to be based out of Manhattan, and he sounded thrilled that I was going to be in town to talk.

So I had four appointments for interviews.

The trip was shaping up nicely. 

I worked at Wallaby’s bar in Columbia Heights.  “But not for long“, I thought, a genuine spring coming back to my step for the first time since…

…well, since I could remember.

Four days ’til takeoff.