FM Read Free Page B

him.
    “Sorry, he’s in a meeting. Leave your number.” No acknowledgment of our shared intimacies.
    At that point, we were thinking of going public with the Beach Boys story, but our thoughts of vengeance soon subsided into a sad acceptance of the fact that we hadn’t measured up to New York standards, whatever they were. Were we not ready for prime time? Had someone else gotten the job? But as we listened to the station, we heard a college radio guy on overnight. We knew we were better than he was. And Alison was definitely a creature of the night. Her sensual style seemed merely an annoying distraction during the lunch hour. They
couldn’t
be happy with this lineup.
    One more call, a week later. We decided that this was it—if there was no response to this one, we were flogging a dead horse and it was time to move on to greener pastures. Trouble was, our pastures all seemed a wintry gray. No leads, no hope.
    This time our secretary friend seemed in a better mood. “Let me see if he’s in.” She put us on hold, displaying a coyness on the phone that belied her frankness in person. Had she unburdened herself too much during our visit and was now too embarrassed to be friendly?
    “He says ‘Can you come in tomorrow morning at ten?’ ”
    Michael was too excited to play the game of pretending to check his book. “We’ll see you at ten,” he said, hanging up before she could change her mind.
    “Wooooooo!!!” we yelped in unison. “We’re not dead yet.” And you thought Monty Python invented that line.
    The next morning, we had another shapeless session with Muni, punctuated by another visit from Tammy. We were prepared for him this time, even extending a hand and introducing ourselves to save Scott the embarrassment of having to remember our names. After Tammy left, we heard more about Muni’s radio philosophy, but were able to respond with precious little of our own. When we started to, he’d interrupt with another story and we grew frustrated by our inability to plead our case. As noon rolled around and the interview faded, it seemed obvious he wasn’t interested in us. Was he using the sessions to pick our brains about WLIR? That might have made sense if he allowed us a word edgewise. We noticed our audition tapes and résumés laying exactly where he’d placed them after our last visit, untouched. Clearly, we hadn’t made much of an impression. Even Alison was too busy to come in and say hello.
    But as we were leaving, Muni glanced at his calendar. “Our GM is away today. Could you guys come in Thursday? I’d like you to meet him.”
    A radio GM, or general manager, is the boss of all bosses at the local level. He presides over the sales manager and program director, and in most cases, his word on new hires is the final one. Michael gulped down his surprise at this bit of unexpected good news. “Sure, Mr. Muni. By the way, would you like another tape? Anything in particular you’d like us to bring?”
    “No, Fats, we have a guy out on the Island. If I need a tape, he can get it.”
    Since Michael and I each weighed no more than 170 pounds, the word “Fats” didn’t offend. This is one of Muni’s quirks: If he likes you, he calls you Fats. And his friends call him Fats. I got the feeling that he employed it like Babe Ruth used the moniker “Kid,” or “Keeyid,” as he pronounced it. Since both men were known to many more people than they could be expected to keep track of, it saved them from having to remember all those names. It had the added bonus of sounding like a term of endearment.
    He had similar nicknames for other things that the FCC demanded be kept off the radio by their more commonly used colloquialisms. He called the sex act “hooky-dooky,” an expression he picked up from a Turkish friend at Atlantic Records. He often used the term on the air to the befuddlement of many of the artists he was interviewing. He referred to male genitalia as “the little guy.” Frequently,