Summer of 1987

Only during one period in my life have I ever been the recipient of fan mail. I had almost forgotten about my summer job of ’87 until recently when family members were going through the worldly belongings of a departed relative. Tucked in the back of a bureau were forgotten boxes of letters from admirers of my performance as a rock-and-roll disc jockey during the time between my junior and senior year of high school. (At some point, I had given this stuff to my granny for safekeeping.) In Hopkinsville, KY, I was the voice of the night (to borrow from “Phantom of the Opera”) from May until August at Z100, the Midsouth’s “Hot FM.” Being a regional celebrity had its advantages. Free movie tickets, not getting carded at area bars, discounted or free food, and, yes, fan mail. As my mother read back to me some of the letters, I was shocked at what young ladies of the time would confess on pen and paper. These young ladies may have seen me at various events, but it was not likely. In radio, daytime appearance duties often fell to the person who worked evenings. In the summer of 1987, that was me. Young ladies who wrote to me should have been at the mall or the lake or something. Perhaps that is my naiveté or just pure sexism rearing its untamed head.

I never responded to the letters. As a 16-year-old, I was still getting to know myself. And as each day passed, I realized what a stranger I was to me. I still am in many ways.

This recent tiptoe through the tulips of history brought two old buddies to mind. I can’t even remember their names, but I remember hanging out with them nearly every night that summer. I suspect they might have been homosexuals. We never discussed chicks or breasts or any such things that should be on the minds of virile, young high school boys. Our connection was that we all worked a summer job that ended at midnight for each of us. We all knew how to get our hands on beer and we all knew fun places to watch nature as we pondered the meaning of life. I miss those simple times and I miss those fellas. Maybe I can find a note somewhere in the boxes that has their names on it so I can track them down.

Finally, a piece of excitement that I almost hesitate to consider is in the rediscovered boxes: audiotapes from my days as a radio personality. It is not uncommon for people on the radio to record themselves for the purpose of self-critiquing and self-improvement. For some reason, I kept a few of those tapes. The challenge is now to find a reel-to-reel audio player.

And for what it’s worth, half a block from the studios of Z100 is a little burger joint called Ferrell’s. It ain’t healthy, but damn it’s good. It is the only place I have ever been where they actually deep fry the hamburger meat. At 12:10am, after a few hours of entertaining rock-and-roll fans from Ft. Campbell and its surrounding towns, a Ferrell’s cheeseburger (or three) truly hits the spot.

Yeah, but can you do it INVERTED?

A big news item I have been trying to follow the last couple of days has been the disappearance of an Indiana man who seems to have jumped out of his super-fine airplane (Piper Malibu) and perhaps faked his death....but now seems still alive.

Among the links you can find are a video on youtube that shows this guy flying underneath a bridge in the Bahamas. No easy feat, I assure you.

But he's no LTC Dewey Patton (USAF, Ret.), who was an instructor at Middle Tennessee State University while I was a student there.

Colonel Patton told us that when he was in flight training, they would take a Boeing Stearman and fly it under a bridge. INVERTED. The particularly skillful pilot candidates would bounce the tires off the underside of a bridge.

When pilots get to telling stories, put your boots on and get comfortable, because the BS gets deep and the stories get long! But this Hoosier whippersnapper is no Dewey Patton.