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Fellow radio enthusiasts have, much to my horror, triangulated the station's signal twice.
Two wackos who claimed to be microradio operators also broadcasting on my frequency tracked me down one night. They phoned me from their car,
which was parked across the street from my house and waited for the on-air DJ to leave. Thinking it was me, they followed her down the street but didn't say or do anything to her. Whether their
behavior was a threat or just a socially inept way of making friendly contact, I don't know-they didn't tell me when they left the
voice-mail message boasting about what they'd done.
The second incident involved a middle-aged man who actually walked up to the house and asked to be let in. Not knowing what an FCC agent looks like, it is never fun to open the door and be greated by a smiling stranger who says, "I'm so happy I found you." Fortunately, the DJ on duty at the time claimed he was only house-sitting. The guy didn't believe him but at least he went away. All he said in parting was that he liked what we were doing and to "keep up the good work." Who knows? Still, windowless white FCC vans play but memorable role in my nightmares. I, of course, am the star of these recurring dreams- the one who gets handcuffed, carted away and jailed indefinitely- the one who has to wear the orange jumpsuit. Fortunately, these worries have been unfounded. My biggest problems so far have been my neighbors (who complain about the noise), my cats (who periodically vomit on the record collection) and the DJs (who break my equipment). It used to be just me, but now more than 50 people trek through my house each week to sit in a closet and spin records over the airwaves. Because of the exclusivity I experienced when first getting involved in community radio, I've tried to maintain an open-door DJ policy with my station. What started with a handful of friends now includes people whose only connection to the station is that they listen to it- complete strangers who have called me up and asked me to get involved. I realize there are inherent problems with inviting strangers over to my house and, as part of the DJ training, explaining how they can get in when I'm not around. I know I sound insane to have this much faith in humanity, but I have to believe that people who join the station won't screw it over, because that would hurt them, too. If anything the station's DJs are overprotective of me, so much so that I sometimes feel like a Mafia don. Before bringing guests, most of them call for approval. Some blindfold their friends when bringing them by. It's a little overboard, but charming, and it's especially impressive since most of them don't even know who I really am. The DJ's know intimate details about my domestic life- that my refrigerator holds nothing but condiments and home-brewed beer, and that I use Neutrogena Body Oil and generic toothpaste- but few of them know my real name. Sunday, 6:15 p.m. Indie snob DJ Zamboni posted a notice in the studio asking that people stop playing the Beastie Boys, Beck, the Chemical Brothers and Jon Spencer. The note lasted precisely one week- long enough for people to lob accusations of "dick-tator" and for one disgusted DJ to crumple it up and pin it to the wall. There are no commercials or rules at the station. It's completely free-form. Cursing, while not encouraged, is allowed. DJs can play 2 Live Crew if they want, or anything for that matter- from honky-tonk to digital hardcore, punk and jazz, funk to trip-hop. Segues from show to show can be... well, nonexistent.
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