My dad drives a big ass truck. It’s a Ford 150 King Ranch edition. It’s way too luxurious to be a pickup truck. The interior has dark brown leather seats, heated AND cooled. We call it “The Steakhouse” because sitting in it feels like a booth in a restaurant.
Of the many gizmos in his truck, the one thing my dad loves the most is his satellite radio. He listens to the 30s channel on it because it plays those old radio shows with goofy names like “Fibber McGee.” He makes us all listen to them when he drives, because rules are rules, driver gets to pick. When I ask him if we can listen to something else, he just says, “this is theater of the mind.”
I know people like to wax nostalgic about those radio shows, but I’m sorry, I’m not buying it. When I hear those shows, I don’t the Lone Ranger riding the range. All I can picture are people in suits yakking into of big old microphones, holding scripts, while a guy bangs coconut shells on a table.
He laments the days before television, which for him at his age, was probably 3 weeks. He’s not THAT old. I love how people judge the radio age like it was so great. When I was a kid, my brother and I used to get harangued by my parents and grandparents about staring at the TV. But whenever you see old pictures of the days before TV, what did you see? The whole family, staring like a bunch of morons at a radio, and it didn’t even have a screen.