Like Mike

Dad listens to talk radio. I grew up in the passenger seat of a Ford Ranger, cringing each time the stereo was turned on. I spent my life switching to FM when Dad would say, "Wait here, I'll just be a minute," and dash into a store, only for him to snap it back to good ol KTRH 740.

Lori and I drove to Oregon a month or so ago, and on the way back, the highway encased in early morning fog, I found that there wasn't any FM reception. I reluctantly switched to AM and found, to my surprise, a world of commentary and opinion (most of which were given by exciteable, angry, jabbing commentators and opinionaters) waiting for me.

The stereo in my Bronco is broken. But I drive my wife's Civic around from time to time, and somehow I can't help listening to the AM band. Maybe it's morbid fascination with the fact that people have a soapbox but nothing really to say. Or maybe I'm becoming Dad, a possibility that resolves itself more each day. This is what happens to a boy when he grows up, I guess. Ain't so bad.