Puckering Time

It has been more than three months since a prominent radio station left the airwaves and was replaced by an entirely different format in which one is more or less likely to think whether he had dialed the tuner correctly or he already needs to replace his mini hi-fi system because it is strangely receiving transmission signals from a distant planet. Unlike those truly enlightened beings who can endure a month’s duration without the radio, I need the said equipment in my daily life. One of the first things I do in the morning – aside from rituals inside the bathroom and swigging coffee – is to switch my radio on. I usually tune in to the news first, changing the dial to FM afterwards and maintaining the same frequency all throughout the day. (Now I listen to WRock and Love Radio, the latter I find interesting because I find the loudest and the craziest tandem in that side of the FM band funny and lovable.)

I have this fetish with on-air broadcasting stuff ever since when I was in elementary. My condition was further aggravated when I entered high school; I was picked by our teachers to do a voice-over stint in one of our school programs. Okay, it wasn’t really an actual broadcasting thing but it’s close to that. They gave me a 10-page script which I was supposed to follow as a guide perhaps, but it was so badly written that I had to overhaul every page into something more intelligible not just for me but for everyone concerned (and because I’m also into coherence, although it doesn’t seem evident in my blog but that’s another story). I thought that it was going to be a breakthrough performance until one of our grrrl teachers brilliantly gave me a partner. She said that reading all of the 10-page script could possibly strain my voice so she grabbed me someone with whom I would share the burden. My partner’s voice was bad, and when I say bad I really mean bad. Repulsive, dreadful, ghastly, appalling – these are some of the few appropriate adjectives with which to associate with his voice. Or simply think of fork scraping deeply on blackboard. Call me arrogant but if ever we all had the misfortune to be with him in the same room and he starts to make pompous statements as to his early adult achievements, you’d rather ram your earlobes with a moldy cork.

During intramurals all senior batches have this kind of dinky idea to put up booths near the gymnasium so as to earn extra income to cover the expenses incurred during the entire week, i.e. electricity, props, etc. In our batch we had a kissing booth wherein unwary passersby who ventured too near would be “smacked” by someone with a stamp pad and a cast shaped into something that resembles pouted lips upon which the unlucky smooched must pay two pesos. It’s obligatory to pay the fine, but everyone thought it was fun. Less intellectual beings had always insisted on having a marriage booth and it was the omnipresent booth that opened as early as 7 am. The rationale being, couples, whether in real life or just purely wallowing in unilateral delusion, are dragged towards the booth where a designated priest bestowed by the infinite powers that be simulates the ritual of matrimony. In short, the couples get “married” whether they like it or not. And when the said false prophet utters the line, “You may kiss the bride” to the “groom,” it would always prompt an annoying “Aaayeeeee!” followed by a din of claps. They have once attempted to pair me with a girl whom I barely know, but all their powers of persuasion and strength were proven useless because I was such a prominent figure then that they – the chasers – can’t do anything but bend to my will, ha ha ha. Then we also had a DJ booth where one could request for his favorite song, dedicate all sorts of messages to friends or to their teachers, and rip MP3s to CDs which cost 50 bucks. Since there was no designated DJ, technically anyone who has the gall to grab the microphone and talk gibberish can do the job. The improvised DJ booth consisted of a laptop, two CD players, a mini component, and an old mic that was meant to be shared to all which really freaked me out. Of course it had amps and two powerful speakers that blared noise in the entire universe. I stayed there all the time, taking turns in commanding the “console.” I brought my own mic and a pair of headphones.

That’s when I figuratively heard my calling as radio announcer or any personage in any broadcasting-related job that when I entered college I chose Broadcast Communication as my course, but unfortunately I landed on Speech Communication which is still very much related to BC – for all you know, SC is the “mother” of mass communication. I’ve had previous experiences with radio announcing, some of which you may already know and I will not reiterate it here because I dislike the idea of being associated with freakazoids. Just recently – actually just a few days ago – a friend recommended me to someone who I suppose is an event coordinator, and I was asked if I could do a hosting stint for a certain event which is going to be held probably next month. I was about to accept the offer when I was reminded of an already nailed scheduled trip happening probably on the same tentative dates of the event. I didn’t have any other choice but to turn the offer down. I’m not into letting opportunities pass by, but I believe there’s a lot more out there, just sitting and waiting for the contract signing to begin.

One thing bothered me, though. The problems with having family members who steel themselves into traveling are such that you get involved, you are involved, and you can’t do anything about it. Any attempt at running in the opposite direction would mean being bombarded with highfalutin sermons and such. Kind of makes you wish you were billeted permanently inside the announcer’s booth, carrying out the stuff you aspired to do in the first place. I’m sounding a little bitter here.

Mike allegedly clacked away to post this on Monday, May 28, 2007 at 9:56 PM.