free beer and hot wings

One of the many annoyances of a 94-mile commute is that Rice Krispee noise that the radio starts making when I get about 44 miles in and know that I am about to miss the conclusion to the call-in debate over whether or not McDonald’s charges an extra “tax” for dine-in service all over the country or just in Michigan. And while I shouldn’t care about this issue, I am anxious to hear the DJs mock those callers who are particularly passionate.

I have a bond with my morning DJs. I feel like they really get me, you know? They make the most out of the mundane, stretching it across hours with only the limited interruptions of news, weather, and traffic, and commercials about balding, female rejuvenation, and accelerated admissions at Pace. I blog about commuting with only the limited interruptions of, you know, work and stuff. We’re basically soul mates.

It’s hard to let them go, knowing that soon, I’ll have to switch over to either celebrity dirt or some sort of Mexican-Polka fusion that I thought only existed on the Phoenix airways but has apparently followed me here from the desert like the sweat on my back. And while I can appreciate accordions á la Urkel, I’m just not sure if I’m digging the mariachi remix. It’s like beer with Yoo-Hoo. So I just know I’m going to get sucked in to some trash about Lindsay Lohan or Bieber hair; and considering the fuzzed-out rats’ nest on my head, that’s. just. not. fair.

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is, my dearest morning DJs, when I pass that certain exit and you fade away into the pines…I miss you…and I’m dedicating this one to you: