You better listen to the radio

There’s an amazing weekly program on public radio that is consuming my life.

I discovered it about eleven months ago, and since then I’ve listened to all seventeen years of archived episodes. The show made it into my Christmas letter as one of the six most notable features of my year.

Every week on the program they pick a theme and present a variety of different kinds of stories on that theme, ranging from personal essays about Israeli poultry to investigative reporting on the juvenile drug court system to interviews with embittered professional Santas. It’s difficult to convey the show’s huge range, though my attempts to do so can be measured in the number of people who now run away when I start sentences with, “I heard on the radio….”

The subjects jump back and forth from public figures and major events to ordinary people who just happen to be fascinating. Naturally, since day one I’ve been imagining future episodes in which I could feature.

It doesn’t hurt that the show has helped launch the careers of essayists such as David Sedaris, Sarah Vowell, and David Rakoff, all writing frequently in my preferred genre of “I’m rather awkward; here’s how that’s working out.”

For months, then, the voice in my head has been host Ira Glass asking insightful, journalistic questions to turn my perpetual internal monologue into an intriguing radio story.

These self-congratulatory interviews don’t stop at illuminating my creative process, of course. Frequently they spill over into examining the compelling intricacies of my everyday activities.

It turns out that imaginary journalists shadowing you, just like real ones, can bring uncomfortable truths to light. All the hard-hitting nonexistent reporting is leaving me less and less sure of my own striking newsworthiness, and gradually I’m adjusting my vision of episode themes that might apply to me.

Searching the show’s contributor list for comparisons indicates that I am not among the philosophers issuing expressions of such shattering profundity that the only possible reply is a muted monosyllable.

Instead, I’m one of the people who keep eating foods they know will trigger their severe allergies, or at least the guy moved to tears by an American Express commercial on an airplane. The appropriate journalistic response to my statements is, “Wait, what?”

Luckily, like I said, this show tackles an amazing range of topics. They made an hour of compelling radio from an all-night interstate rest stop. Maybe there’s hope for me yet.

P.S.—If you would like to cultivate your own informative, entertaining, and potentially self-doubt-inducing radio habit, you can stream every episode ever at the This American Life web site. If you need more cool stuff to do, I also suggest giving them money for being so awesome.

Things That Seem Like a Good Idea at First

Bubble Baths

People take luxurious baths on TV all the time, and it looks so relaxing and delightful. It’s like having your own personal hot tub. This will be amazing! Also, people keep giving you scented salts and bottles of fancy lady bubble stuff, and the cabinet under the sink is getting full.

The initial bubble stage is indeed pretty fabulous.

Eventually, though, you come to realize that you are lounging in a tank of lukewarm water that was recently occupied by your pre-bathing self.

Face Painting

Welcome to the state fair! Just look at all the little children full of joy and excitement. You would be that happy, too, if someone made you look like Spiderman!

More Cake

Cake itself is, obviously, an unconditionally good idea. The problem arrives when additional cake comes into play.

The human brain’s primal quest more frosting is, tragically, much more powerful than the human gag reflex’s capacity for refusing it.

I Am the Internet's Leading Expert on Voldemort Syphilis

If you pay an inordinate amount of attention to my sidebar, you may have noticed that I enabled ads on this site. I’m pretty sure this does not count as “selling out,” because I think you actually have to make any money to do that.

Mostly I was interested to see what ads Google would deem appropriate for my content. So far it’s been pretty disappointing—a little coffee, a lot of exterminators, and some totally legit online psychology classes. Then again, I guess ice cream isn’t a major player in the online marketplace.

Much more satisfying is my StatCounter account, which tracks my site visits and gives me the tools I need to become a creepy cyber-stalker. My favorite feature is Keyword Analysis, which lets me see what search terms have led people to this blog.

On the one hand, it’s exciting that people actually find me via search engines. On the other hand, I’m a little concerned about some of the phrases that lead to me.

In the above case, it’s not really the phrase that worries me so much as the URGENCY expressed. The next one, meanwhile, is less disturbing and more pitiful:

This keyword feature let me discover that I am the go-to source for information on He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s unsafe sex practices.

That’s right: Google “voldemort syphilis,” and my page comes up as the first result. Now I can rest assured that I’ve made a meaningful contribution to society.

While you’re at it, I’m also uniquely qualified to answer your questions on canned pasta impurities and the odds of making it through the night undigested.

Apparently I can provide expertise for other Dark Lord-related needs as well, though other sites have beaten me to the top slot.

Feel free to call on me for snot questions, too.

Then we have the topics where I’m glad that someone else has been selected champion.

These results are also the reason behind my incriminating Google search history for this evening, left over from trying to find out if I’m the top match. You all are my witnesses for when Big Brother stops by with a few questions about my surfing habits.

P.S. It appears that a good third of my search engine traffic comes from people who are promptly disappointed that I’m not providing an encyclopedic My Little Pony database, and another 40% is from the time I titled a post with an insanely popular Charlie Sheen quotation. I didn’t piggyback off of Charlie’s tailspin on purpose, but if I do sell out in the future, this is the form it will take.

The Naked Time

I am a big fan of clothes.

That’s not to say that I enjoy shopping for them or have any inkling of fashion sense, but rather that I staunchly advocate wearing clothing as frequently as possible.

That old stage fright technique of picturing the audience naked has always struck me as horrifyingly bad advice. If you already have a large crowd of potentially intimidating strangers, how could a dose of nudity possibly make anyone involved more comfortable?

The most unsettling thing about the underclothed is the way they tend to crop up unexpectedly, just when I’m feeling safe. One reason I’m fond of winter, along with the increase in available baked goods, is the drastically reduced chance of sudden exposure to Speedos.

Admittedly, I knowingly set myself up for an above-average risk of surprise naked people by belonging to a gym with locker rooms. Then again, this is not the YMCA. The showers all have individual stalls, and there’s a row of little curtained cubbies for changing clothes.

That’s why I was so startled to walk into the room one day and discover a woman lounging against the wall, carrying on a phone conversation while very, very naked.

I suppose conversations like this are the reason that video phones still aren’t very popular. I couldn’t help wondering if the other party knew where this woman was, and I felt a strong urge to help clarify the situation.




What struck me was the mundane nature of her conversation. I’m pretty sure it could have waited, at least for underwear. In the hierarchy of phone call importance, some admittedly rank above clothing, but not the majority. However, perhaps this poor woman does not have an internal gauge for nudity-appropriate conversations. If that’s true, she can use this helpful chart:

For any of you in the UK please substitute “trousers” where appropriate—or don’t, since that kind of pants are also pretty vital to success in the wider world.

Extra Credit: Variations on a theme, old, medium, and new.