My life on NPR
Thanks to a god damn cold, I slept
through the first Presidential debate. Did I miss
anything? Probably some good column fodder, I bet.
Now I'm late with the column and forced to write
about something else.
Fortunately, I was on National
Public Radio's "All Things Considered" last Friday.
That'll do.
Here's what happened: Some crazy
writer from Kansas (see link below) recommended me
to NPR a few weeks ago. Naturally, the sane folks at
NPR took one look at my column and said, "No way. Or
to speak in the vernacular of the author, no fucking
way."
But for some strange cosmic reason,
they checked out my column again, saw that it was
written about a topical subject -- drugs in the
Olympics -- and decided I was the boy for NPR.
Thursday afternoon, I got an e-mail from a guy named
Renaldo (not his real name) as well as a
trimmed-down, edited version of my column. Renaldo
wrote, "We need to move on this fast!" So I moved
fast. I went out and bought a bottle of Jack Daniels
and got drunk.
The next morning I got a call from
Renaldo. He told me if I wanted the gig I'd have to
rush to public radio station KUT at the University
of Texas by noon to read and record his version of
my column. How could I refuse?
The technician at KUT, David,
turned out to be a great guy. He even found a key
mistake in my column, for I had written 100-yard
dash when I meant 100-meter dash. What can I say?
I'm old school.
David placed me before a microphone
and put some earphones on me so I could hear
instructions from Renaldo, who was supervising the
recording from NPR headquarters in Washington, D.C.
Fortunately, I'm no stranger to hearing voices in my
head, so I wasn't bothered by this at all.
The reading went smoothly, but
surreal. I felt like a third grader who was brought
before the class to recite a dirty word he had said
during recess.
"Okay, Mikey. What did you say in
your column?"
"Crack whore."
"Bad, Mikey. Bad, bad Mikey. Okay.
One more time and enunciate."
"Crack whore."
At one point, he wanted me to redo
the words, "Awwww, shut up." I tried several takes.
Finally Renaldo said, "Do it strong and harsh, like
a fed-up Texan." Oh. Why didn't you say so. I can do
that. "Awwwwww, SHUT UP."
When I heard it on the radio, it
sounded like Jay Leno impersonating a Texan. The
rest of it? About a note or two higher than my
normal speaking voice. I sounded like a high school
kid whining about his homework. Or Andy Rooney's
son.
But I'll get better. Yes, they want
me back, even though e-mail responses have been
running 28 to 3 against me. Here are some responses
from people who hate my guts:
"... the comments by Mike Jasper
make me asshamed to even say that I live in the same
town."
(Your spelling makes me ashamed to
say I live in yours.)
"...his idea that Ms. Hymen's
stellar swimming was due to "naked water polo boys"
waiting for her was totally gross, rude, and
degrades a terrific physical feat! You owe Ms. Hymen
an apology."
(You're right. And I definitely
will apologize, once I learn how to say Ms. Hymen
with a straight face.)
"Please don't air another
commentary by Mike Jasper unless he first takes
performance enhancing drugs before writing and
recording his pieces."
(Great idea! You've got a deal.)
Here's my favorite response from
someone who liked me:
"Dude, like, you know. I use drugs
too and, yeah, I'd like to hear more on drugs from
Michael Jackson."
Okay, I made that up. But I'd be
willing to bet the stoner crowd loved me, although
they probably couldn't get it together enough to
write NPR an e-mail.
Speaking of drugs, how did I wind
up on NPR at all? HBO, sure. Politically Incorrect,
yeah I can dream. But NPR? Is that why everyone
warned against the brown acid at Woodstock?
"Don't take the brown acid, man. It
doesn't kick in till the year 2000."
Beats me. But I'll gladly take any
break I can get, and if that's radio time on NPR, so
be it.
Hey, check it out. I just got
e-mail from Chicago. Oprah Winfrey wants me to
appear on her show in the nude.
It could happen.
* * *
I LOVE IRONY: I'm not one to brag, but I do
believe I'm the only Austinite who fulfilled his Olympic
dreams.
* * *
GOODBYE, MR. CHIP: My best regards to Chip
Tait, wife Desiree and son Atticus (no, I'm not making
that name up) as they leave Austin for their new home in
Maryland. Long-time readers will recall that Chip is the
owner of Lovejoy's Pub ($2 pint specials, every night).
We'll be having one last party there, Friday night, Oct.
6. Drop by if you can.
* * *
STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be funny. If you can
read anything else into it, you're on your own.
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