So here we were, writer/editor Jack C. Harris and myself, caught in a warp of eternity. Had we committed some hideous transgression to be doomed to this Purgatory? Well, no. What we’d done is agree to be guests on a radio call-in program about 30 years ago. Subject, of course: comic books.
We arrived at the small, shadowy studio early, earlier than the host, who breezed in a minute or so before air time and then, without notes, he was speaking into a microphone, introducing Jack and me, urging listeners to ask us questions and giving a phone number they could call if they wanted to speak to one or both of us.
We waited for that ol’ switchboard to light up. And waited. And waited. And waited. It seemed that nobody was interested in comic books, not that night in that city. We waited, and tried to make small talk, which I do not include in my skill set, and waited and waited.
Then there was a call! Hallelujah! Oh joy, oh happiness – a call! For us? Unfortunately, no. Some guy wanted to tout a community event of some sort, and fine, say I – more power to him.
There may have been one or two more calls – as noted, this was 30 years ago and I had no reason to cherish the memories – but basically, Jack, Mr. Radio Man, and I sat in that studio for two hours and then Jack and I left and I got on a train back to New York.
Got on the Amtrak, did I, little knowing that Jack, Radio Man and I were pioneers. What we’d done was fill up airtime without imparting any information, without saying anything anyone wanted or needed to hear
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