Friday, April 17, 2009

Is the chain link weak or the elements missing from your dreams?

The radio intern looked on with wandering bewilderment while dedicating his willingness to continue searching for any or all connections that may or may not lead him to better understanding what I mean when discussing hunger.



Mom always told me, “Radio hunger is no different than banking hunger. If the drive to succeed is so strong you can’t drop it from your plate, conversation and lost in love heart…you indeed have been bitten by the hunger bug.”



The owner of an extremely small radio station anciently located in the rolling hills of North Carolina once said to me, “I knew you were a radio guy the moment you jumped out of your car.” What? Did I have a big nose and forehead like Major Dan Miller of KOOK in Billings? Was I round as round can be like Paul Damon in Lewistown? I’ve never had a mustache and beard like Bill Conway and lord knows my ego is large but not as can be!



Bankers know bankers. Veterinarians know who’s willing to put forth the effort of truly taking care of animals during the darkest of times. I’ve always believed your profession is picked before you’re born. The clothes fit before you open your first book.



Legendary radio on-air talent Larry Lujack caught onto this in his mid-twenties while locked in a forest rangers hut high atop the mountains of Idaho. It was a job! We all need jobs to get cable television, video games and giant thick steaks to grill on the backyard BBQ. Like eighty five percent of this nation, he hated his job and wouldn’t stop talking about one day locating something he truly enjoyed.



Being alone in a forest with skyscraping sun sucking trees, wild bears and deer seems like paradise until you’re caught in the act of having to do it not just daily but hourly. Keeping him from going postal…a tiny black plastic box with a long silver thingy thing attached to its backside…it would squelch, sound overcrowded, bleed in and bleed out, pour into the imagination of a bored mind something as simple as a favorite song. What he held wasn’t an Ipod, laptop computer or cell phone…nope; Mr. Lujack had a transistor radio.



What? Stop! Breathe! Holy cow! No air in my lungs! I, I, I can’t seem to picture this! A lonely forest ranger high atop a mountain in Idaho finding enjoyment in something that pulled sound to it rather than pushing it away…where’s Howie Mandel? I’m on candid camera right?



The vibrations that fell from that single speaker, bounced on the wooden hand shaped floor then squeezed past his lengthy hair into a pair of ears that barely picked up anything spoke directly to Larry Lujack in a way that would fine tune not just his life long plans but over the next three decades millions or more.



Labeling himself Super Jock…Lujack made his way down the mountain, shot over to Spokane, Seattle, California, the east coast then Chicago…creating such a wave that today the mere mention of his name generates enough energy to torch up a station antenna. He didn’t reach this pivotal place in lost history by doing a job…he was hungry enough to create a path leading straight into the lost dreams of anyone…someone…seeking something more than a lame everyday presentation. They required a supreme product delivered not daily, not hourly but thoroughly second by second through the efforts of a vision to affect a client by means of becoming part of their life.



Curtis stood staring into my stories, lost like most. Totally my fault, I tend to talk way above peoples heads in hopes that something said will ignite their calves to leap upward and grab a word, inflection a pieces part that once belonged to a chicken…and do nothing but pull it toward them.



Realizing the effort was completely out of tune and Simon Cowell was set to come knocking on my door…being saved by the judges was an already performed stunt. Vividly I sat, as if to be alone on a mountain top, the wind so cold my lips became blue, my second degree black belt in martial arts returning to white.



“Hunger…” I softly shared with Curtis while rubbing my eyes then tossing my production disc jockey fingers through my lengthy multicolored hair. “What is the absolute worst food you hate?”



“Liver…”came his reply.



“I invite you to purchase two cans of it on your way back to Asheville. Tonight, you will open one of those cans and eat it. Not just one bite, every bite must be swished around inside your mouth so no corner is missed.”



Shocked by my higher than a kite way of explaining hunger, Curtis shrugged his shoulders and confidently said, “Ok…sure.”



“I want you to know the taste of that liver. I want you to tell your stomach and your brain how much you hate that flavor. Your entire being must become well aware of how you absolutely without a doubt can’t stand to eat that stuff.”



“Aaaa, I’m lost…” Curtis interrupted me. “If I stand here and tell you that I’m hungry for radio…what does eating something I can’t stand have to do with me making this business a major part of my life?”



“It’s all in the second can,” I quickly shot in his direction. “Place it in your food pantry or unopened in the refrigerator in plain sight. Each time you see it I want your stomach to become sick and twisted. I want your body to react in negative ways.”



“I’m so lost…” Curtis popped in.



“Know in your heart that if you don’t put your entire effort into these self described radio dreams, doing all you can to reach farther than maps already created…the only thing you’re going to have to eat is that can of liver that’s been waiting very patiently for a day, a week, year or three decades to be opened then devoured.”



Destinations come with success and failure. To set free a dream expecting it to soar through storms without proper loyalties does nothing but fuel fate. Native American’s do not believe in fate…to hear someone speak of their time being in the hands of fate is nothing more than letting go, you’ve given up on gaining access to the origin of the dream.



I believe in Curtis and truly believe he has the ingredients required to make radio more than a job. Why do I believe? Careers are given to us before birth…to get there requires a helpful hand to help shape and or put faith in a plan fully capable of affecting people lives. Just like the grocery store clerk…the banana sold just fortified the body that just became the Olympian just elected President of the United States who created a plan to invite peace to places of war which invited music to your great grand child’s grand child’s fortieth birthday.



Steal my art…



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

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