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just-out-of-junior-college geeks who’ve majored in radio and TV and see themselves on my side of the glass someday. Not Rod. He’s a fortysomething guy still fighting acne whose father was on the board of directors at MML&J, the Bible thumpers who owned WRGT. Rod liked to tell people that he had “applied” to work in Tampa. My ass. I’d had no choice but to take him when the new ownership took control. As if I would ever have hired a guy who shows up for the early shift wearing a fucking bow tie. But like father like son, I am told—his old man was known to strut around the Atlanta headquarters in three-piece suits. The buzz was that he was light in the loafers, so to speak. Not that I give ashit. But don’t hit me with the self-righteousness if you’re hiding more than a few skeletons in your own closet.
    Typical of many I’d met in radio, Rod was both the consummate professional and more than a bit off. He was never late, never absent and rarely fucked up the board. He never played the wrong cart, or let dead air be broadcast. For all this, I was grateful. But he also had more idiosyncrasies than I could count, like the clockwork schedule with which he’d use the bathroom every shift. I could set my watch by him needing to piss when I went to break at 6:30, 7:15, and 8:30 a.m. He was also a true believer in the conservative talk brand, who (correctly) suspected I was not really down with the program. But he was hardcore. He drove some late model American-made car to work each morning (way over the pay grade for a board op) sporting a tricorn hat on the rear window dash that symbolized his support for the Tea Party. He once asked me why I didn’t have likewise in my Lexus.
    â€œI have one in my other car,” I’d deadpanned. “The Volvo.”
    He had zero sense of humor and whereas I could always push the intercom button and joke with Alex, my executive producer, about the topics and guests during commercial breaks, Rod would have none of it. He would sit there, stone-faced, and take to heart his responsibility of riding the “dump button,” which would mute anything inappropriate for the air as long as it got pushed within seven seconds of the utterance. Sometimes callers would get worked into a lather and let fly with a “shit” or “pussy” and Rod would spring into action. One expletive drowned out by the “dumper” and he’d glare for the rest of the morning like somebody had farted in church.
    But Alex was an entirely different story.
    Alex Hausen had proven herself to be the best surprise at WRGT. When Steve Bernson, the VP from MML&J whobrought me to Tampa, first told me they planned to hire a proven talk producer because all they had in the a.m. was a woman who was a “wannabe classic rock DJ,” I’d asked to meet her before he made a move. I knew a little something about wannabe classic rock DJs. Not surprisingly, we clicked immediately.
    â€œLook, I know more about AC/DC than Afghanistan,” I told her when I began, which made her laugh.
    I also told her that I did not expect to last, that I was trying talk on a flier, so she could look at the next 30 days as a paying experiment while searching for a more suitable job. As far as I know, she never did. Since then, no shortage of politicians have arrived at WRGT for interviews and prejudged her based on the color of her hair (that day) or her multiple piercings, not to mention the ink and the way she swings (assuming they can tell). But if they spend any time with her, they quickly realize that she is an extraordinarily able radio producer. Several of our competitors have even tried to hire her away. She is a type A, organizational freak and news junkie who has a knack for knowing exactly when it’s appropriate to speak without interrupting my flow. She quickly learned how to play the role of an on-air foil in a way that was both challenging and