Radio Is Dead

Every weekday for five years I heard Eric Slayter's voice in my head-set, “Amarilloooooo's Rock Station, Rock 108! This is Eric Slayter OF The Morning Rock,” followed by my sometimes unenthusiastic and usually hung-over, “And this is The Shea.”

Ever since I was a kid, I imagined what it would be like to be on the radio. Throughout elementary school, a pal of mine since kindergarten and I would jumble mixed tapes and record introductions to every song just to hear our voices emitting from the crackled speakers. Most of it was a warning not to continue listening to the tape because there was “dirty” stuff on it like Samantha Fox. She wore leather and must've been a sinner, therefore, I was fascinated.

One day, the new General Manager of the Cumulus stations decided The Morning Rock needed a new feel. He told the guys on the show they needed to find a chick – smart, funny, and able to hold her own in a mostly male format. Since he'd known me as quite the girl about town, Slayter said, “I know someone we can call.” He took me to lunch and explained they usually got their interns from the local college but it never really worked out. “You can teach any idiot how to push the buttons but you can't teach 'em personality. We thought maybe if we found someone who fit in well, we could teach them how to push the buttons later.” Radio had finally come to ME. Sign me up.

On May 16 of 2006 I started out as a street-monkey, working two days a week. They'd send me out in the Rockmobile with sign up slips for concerts or other trinkets, Rock 108 bumper stickers, and occasionally a box of donuts. I didn't think my job was very important at the time but I was super stoked about it. I got very little air-time but the guys in the studio started getting calls. “Who's that girl out there? She's great!” I wondered how they could possibly be impressed by the unfamiliar voice on a random street-corner; I wasn't doing anything but handing out donuts.

Before I knew it, I was working four days a week but still just on the morning show. I had also been working the switchboard for a car dealership and finally got fed up with it. Five years of “Thank you for calling Shit-Hole Chevrolet,” immediately followed by “hold please,” had finally taken its toll. I quit there and told the radio station I needed to work full time with them. They added “Promotions Director” to my list of duties and gave me an office which I immediately decorated like a teenage boy's clubhouse, complete with movie posters, collectible tin lunch boxes, and Cat Butt Gum.

I turned into Slayter's right-hand-man. He pushed the buttons to make everything go and built the spreadsheets to document the necessities, and whatever he couldn't handle was put on my plate. Filing random paperwork, scheduling interviews, helping to corral people at backstage meet-n-greets for concerts, taking pictures of the bands, and all the rest of the what-not.

I loved my job. But just as with most things you love, that relationship can turn to hate real fuckin' quick. Every time I had a complaint, Slayter was quick to remind me, “Shea, we're not out there digging ditches; we talk into a stick for a living.” Point noted.

Sometimes I'd go on benders and show up still drunk the next morning. Slayter tolerated it (to an extent) but for some reason, the people who listened to us every day LOVED it. I think it helped a lot of people on their way to work with a hangover when they knew I was feeling it too. Most of our fans don't know who Tom Waits is but when I came in sounding like him in the morning, they knew I was gonna have a story to tell about the night before. I eventually recognized I was living up to a caricature I'd built of myself and knew I needed to pull in the reins before it killed me.

One day, everything changed. It was Friday, June 10 and I was trying to carry myself through another 4 star hangover. Wearing no make-up and a hat had pretty much become a standard but I was lucky I made it in with pants that day. It had been a while since I'd done that to myself but I was probably angry about something and had once again taken my most logical route – just drink it away.

At 9:00 that day when the show ended, I went outside to have a cigarette just as I did after every other show on every other day. When I came back into the jock lounge, I noticed two members of upper management talking to Slayter and everyone had an unsettling look on their faces. No one would look me in the eye. No one would tell me what was going on. I thought, “Ohmigod... do we have another funeral to go to?” Kind of.

Slayter started putting his things from the studio into boxes. He still didn't want to tell me but the pieces were starting to come together. I said, “Holy shit. Is THAT what just happened?” He said, “Yeah. I just got told there's no more morning show come Monday.” I froze. I didn't know what to think or do. It wasn't sinking in. This couldn't possibly be happening. Slayter came over to me and wrapped his arms around me and I began to sob. Hard. My knees went weak and I fell to the ground in an uncontrollable heap of shit. It can't be over. It just can't.

I went outside to smoke again and just paced the parking lot, up and down the alley. As I began to hack/sob/vomit against the wall of the building a friend of ours who sometimes cuts commercials for us pulled up into a parking spot. Not knowing this was a couple octaves above my normal disgusting behavior, he shouted, “Cough it up, Shea!” I ran up to his truck with tears streaming down my red, puffy face and said, “Jeff, it's over. We're done. We gotta pack our shit. Slayter too. There's no more morning show.” He, too, sat frozen in disbelief. He finally stuttered, “I'm so sorry, Shea.” It all kicked in a little harder as I stumbled to the median and fell in the grass. I couldn't stop crying. I could hardly breathe. There was snot running down my face and I was now sitting in a puddle of my own vomit. And not from the hangover.

Once I collected myself as best I could, I headed back inside. It was time to find some boxes. I met Slayter in the hallway and he said, “We had a good ride, kid. I know it hurts like hell and I hate to leave it too, but I'm glad that when I walk out that door it's gonna be with you.”

It took me a while to gather all my posters and trinkets. I didn't know whether to pack my “Employee of the Month” plaque and take it with me or throw it through the glass doors of the building. Getting arrested that day wasn't gonna make anything better so I tossed it in the back of the car and waved goodbye for the last time to the Rock 108 studios.

I came home and drank away the weekend in solitary confinement. Monday rolled around and people started calling and sending texts. “Where ARE you? What is this shit on the radio?” I didn't know how to answer any questions, especially the latter since I was NOT turning on my radio for any reason whatsoever. Turns out, we got replaced with “The Free Beer and Hot Wings Show” out of Michigan. Fucking Michigan. Who the hell gives a shit about what's going on in Michigan? And what the hell is free beer and hot wings? People started thinking if they called in, that's what they were gonna get. Nope. It's just a stupid name for a stupid show. My people say they hate it. I really don't know the extent of its alleged stupidity because I'm still not gonna turn it on. Ever.

I didn't leave my house for what seemed like weeks. I paced the floor and cried and drank. I most likely eventually started crying tears of pure Shiner Bock. You're gonna drink this pity parade right into a ditch if you keep this shit up. Pull it together, woman.

I never really had a plan as to what I was going to do past radio. I knew in the back of my head it wouldn't last forever but I had gotten too comfortable. I couldn't depend on my book sales to keep me afloat because it's a novelty at best. I'm barely selling enough of them to make the payments on the loan for the paper I took out to get them printed. (By the way, “The History of My Vagina and Other Sordid Tales” is now available on Amazon.com – digital downloads coming soon.)

As I paced the floor and cried and snotted on myself some more, I called my BFF, Hope. “I have to figure out what the hell I'm doing with the rest of my life. NOW.” She talked me off the ledge as she often does when I'm at my most critical moments. Sometimes it just helps to have some logic on the other end of the phone. She's good at that. I don't remember most of our conversation but it started leaning toward “What else do you love, more than entertaining people?” My dogs. It seemed silly and pointless right that second but my pacing became more rapid and my thoughts quickly evolved into, “I want to learn how to teach dogs. I want to learn how to teach people how to teach their dogs. My heart's never gonna not be in that. THAT is how I'm going to make the world a better place.” “Well, then, that's what you should do.”

It took me a long time to shift my train of thought from the loss of radio being a tragedy and turning it into an opportunity to do something else I really loved. I was bored. I needed something new. In hind-sight, it was actually a gift. It wasn't the end of my life – it's the beginning of a new one.

I am now enrolled in Animal Behavior College to become a Certified Dog Trainer which is really just the beginning of my studies. I want to do SO many things beyond this now and have a solid vision for the future. I will eventually become a Canine Behavior Specialist. Teaching. Rescue. Rehabilitation. Managing aggression. Making better homes with happier lives. I finally found my place in life.

Radio is dead.

And I am calm.