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.