"Too soon?"
Authors note: I've been urged by my posse to write this, despite the fact that it makes me lose all credibility.
I don’t really like to admit just how big of a dork I am. I can admit the small stuff. Everyone watches The Daily Show and Colbert Report (my “power hour”), and watching CNN can be excused, and Al Franken is cool because he’s on Letterman all the time, but listening to Discovery Radio on Sirius in your car, when you could be listening to Cavino and Rich talk about “nussies” and “knobbers” on Maxim radio, or even Howard Stern on one of his 800 stations is… well it’s a tad on the Chess Club President side (but to set the record straight, I was only their secretary).
The thing is, I really like Discovery Radio. I really like learning about rare monkeys in Africa and then, later, about the American Civil War. It is so totally my thing.
Which is why I listen slash am completely ass over head in love with Mo Rocca and his Discovery Radio show.
And I shouldn’t be. He is what I dated in high school. That Elvis Costello-glasses wearing-cardigan sporting-drama nerd in the honors program is exactly what screwed me up back in the day.
But I love him.
Even if we could only ever be just friends.
That’s why I called into his show. I never thought I was one of those people who call into radio stations… even satellite pay radio stations. I never thought I would be. Truckers listen to those stations. I never expected it to happen. I didn’t know what I was doing. “Call in now to talk to Mo!” his producer urged. And, I could blame it on lack of sleep or dehydration, but something inside of me made me pick up my cell phone and dial. Something inside me whispered “today is your day to win a When Dinosaurs Roamed America DVD.”
I expected a busy signal. I never expected him to pick up. Actually, I never expected him to not screen calls either.
“Hello?” He wants to know who’s calling.
Big. Fucking. Pause.
“Hello?”
“Um,”
“Hello?”
“Oh. Hi?”
Um. Oh. Hi. Fuck.
“Hi, and who’s calling?”
Oh shit.
“Stephanie?”
“From where?”
“Arizona?”
I have forgotten my purpose for calling, my name, my state, I think also my address and phone number... no I know I've forgotten my address and phone number. I am completely disoriented. And I am driving. Where am I? I begin to think, If I crash my car and die on air… could that get me face time on ET? Probably not, but maybe Extra? They’re sorta slutty… is Mo still talking? Should I be listening? I have to concentrate. Concentrate… concentrate… MO!
“Oh yeah! What part?”
Oh fuck me.
“Phoenix? Paradise Valley area?”
This is where I black out. Just as the conversation was about over, I can vaguely recall spitting out (after a sarcastic rant about… football and Navy Seals? What?), “But, no, seriously, I love you and your show!”
“Oh, well… great! Thanks! And congratulations!”
Wait… Did I win something?
“I need your address so I can send the DVD,” his producer is now on the line with me.
I’m brazen, “Can you get Mo to send me an autograph too, please?”
Big. Fucking. Pause.
“Uh, I’ll see what I can do.”
Quote of the day:
"Mmm girl, you smell gooood. What you wearin'? Speed stick?"
- My psych professor
I don’t really like to admit just how big of a dork I am. I can admit the small stuff. Everyone watches The Daily Show and Colbert Report (my “power hour”), and watching CNN can be excused, and Al Franken is cool because he’s on Letterman all the time, but listening to Discovery Radio on Sirius in your car, when you could be listening to Cavino and Rich talk about “nussies” and “knobbers” on Maxim radio, or even Howard Stern on one of his 800 stations is… well it’s a tad on the Chess Club President side (but to set the record straight, I was only their secretary).
The thing is, I really like Discovery Radio. I really like learning about rare monkeys in Africa and then, later, about the American Civil War. It is so totally my thing.
Which is why I listen slash am completely ass over head in love with Mo Rocca and his Discovery Radio show.
And I shouldn’t be. He is what I dated in high school. That Elvis Costello-glasses wearing-cardigan sporting-drama nerd in the honors program is exactly what screwed me up back in the day.
But I love him.
Even if we could only ever be just friends.
That’s why I called into his show. I never thought I was one of those people who call into radio stations… even satellite pay radio stations. I never thought I would be. Truckers listen to those stations. I never expected it to happen. I didn’t know what I was doing. “Call in now to talk to Mo!” his producer urged. And, I could blame it on lack of sleep or dehydration, but something inside of me made me pick up my cell phone and dial. Something inside me whispered “today is your day to win a When Dinosaurs Roamed America DVD.”
I expected a busy signal. I never expected him to pick up. Actually, I never expected him to not screen calls either.
“Hello?” He wants to know who’s calling.
Big. Fucking. Pause.
“Hello?”
“Um,”
“Hello?”
“Oh. Hi?”
Um. Oh. Hi. Fuck.
“Hi, and who’s calling?”
Oh shit.
“Stephanie?”
“From where?”
“Arizona?”
I have forgotten my purpose for calling, my name, my state, I think also my address and phone number... no I know I've forgotten my address and phone number. I am completely disoriented. And I am driving. Where am I? I begin to think, If I crash my car and die on air… could that get me face time on ET? Probably not, but maybe Extra? They’re sorta slutty… is Mo still talking? Should I be listening? I have to concentrate. Concentrate… concentrate… MO!
“Oh yeah! What part?”
Oh fuck me.
“Phoenix? Paradise Valley area?”
This is where I black out. Just as the conversation was about over, I can vaguely recall spitting out (after a sarcastic rant about… football and Navy Seals? What?), “But, no, seriously, I love you and your show!”
“Oh, well… great! Thanks! And congratulations!”
Wait… Did I win something?
“I need your address so I can send the DVD,” his producer is now on the line with me.
I’m brazen, “Can you get Mo to send me an autograph too, please?”
Big. Fucking. Pause.
“Uh, I’ll see what I can do.”
Quote of the day:
"Mmm girl, you smell gooood. What you wearin'? Speed stick?"
- My psych professor