I ask you to join me in jumping from the age of twelve to when I went to college. Without hesitation, I can say that I despised 95% of my undergraduate experience. Mostly, this was derived by the fact that I held a huge grudge about where I ended up having to go.
Initially, I had been accepted into the Naval Academy, which was a dream for me — I had fantasized about being a submarine captain since I first read ‘20,000 Leagues Under the Sea’ by Jules Verne when I was a young boy. I couldn’t wait to be able to submerge beneath the surface of the oceans and plunge into this new marine universe. But unfortunately, those dreams would not be realized as, during the medical exam for entry into Annapolis, they detected a curvature in my spine that rendered my candidacy null and void.
While extremely disappointed, my “safety” was an Ivy League school that had captured my imagination ever since I’d learned that two of my childhood idols had matriculated there. I was all set to go, but due to the fact my family’s income didn’t qualify me for any scholarships, I wasn’t able to afford the tuition myself and had to decline the admission’s invitation.
This left me with my last resort: Study at the State University within whose overlooming shadow I grew up. This meant that I wouldn’t be exposed to a new, unknown and exciting environment, one that would present challenges but also life-changing adventures. It also meant that I would likely run into many of the people I went to high school with— most of whom I wanted to get as far away from as possible.
I spent that first semester with a constant reluctance and a begrudgingly uncharacteristic tardiness. I did poorly — academically and socially — the first two years of my undergrad time. It wasn’t until my Junior year that things started to snap in place. I can easily chalk that up to two things that occured: I became a Resident Advisor at the best dormitory on campus, and I managed to land my own show with our on-campus radio station.
I didn’t know it at the time, but both experiences would impact me for the rest of my life.
The radio show was on Friday mornings, for two hours. Now, if you can imagine how many students were listening to the college radio station at 8am the morning after the first “party night” of the week, you might wonder why I accepted this timeslot. I wasn’t looking to be the conventional, popular disc jockey. No. I was excited about the possibilities this obscure crack-of-dawn broadcasting platform would offer me. I got so jazzed at the prospect of being as edgy, experimental, and controversial as I wanted.
Every week, I’d invite a friend to come on the air, and we would endlessly play (what we thought was) the strangest music, and just prattle on about whatever pseudo-philosophical hot potato we were contemplating at the time (we thought we were incredibly clever). Sometimes, we would pull pranks by calling grocery stores pretending like we were an angry customer or some distributor of an obscure South American fruit. We’d also call fellow co-eds we knew to convince them that they had made a complete fool of themselves at the huge bash the night before (again, we thought we were incredibly clever).
One show, in particular, we played the same song for the entire show (The Cardigans’ “Lovefool”) — over 43 times. This stunt did actually end up stirring a reaction from some students. We received several calls with groggy voices PLEADING with us to play ANY.OTHER.SONG.PLEASE. Of course, the customer is always right, and to accommodate their needs we would ask if they had any requests. And then, of course, we’d proceed to play Lovefool
(See? Clever).
While the radio show had an impact on me, it wasn’t the actual show that changed my life. Instead, it was the discovery of a boxset from an unknown stand-up comedian that had just been released, and the station had just received a promotional copy of it. Before I started that show, just like every other episode, I thumbed through the stacks of new releases that the Station Managers required DJ’s to play during their set — also known as “Rotation”. Usually, I’d play the rotation tracks and then talk over them, because I rarely enjoyed the music on these albums. While rifling through the plastic CD cases, I came upon an album cover to a two-disc set that ignited my curiosity. (But truthfully, it was the tracklist on the other side)
I had long been a stand-up comedy aficionado. I owned several LP albums of Bob Newhart, Richard Pryor, George Carlin, Bill Cosby, and listened to them constantly as a kid. Back when Comedy Central was known as the Comedy Channel, I tuned into every stand-up show I could — Caroline’s Comedy Hour, HBO’s Comedy Half Hour, and so on. I knew the names of nearly every comedian to emerge from the Boston scene, the New York scene, the LA scene — but apparently, not the Houston scene.
I had never heard the kind of scalding honesty and rapier wit that came forth from Mr. Bill Hicks. He said things that I’d long thought. He posed questions that I had myself asked. But even further, he spoke about consumerism in ways I was unprepared for. It’s the fourth track on the first compact disc, simply labeled ‘Marketing & Advertising’.
If you have some time, please give it a listen.
Seriously. Do.
