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 David Letterman 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. Apparently.

STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be funny. If you can read anything else into it, you're on your own. Copyright 2000 by Mike Jasper.