The rain is hammering the windows, the fire’s going, and my voice is hanging on by a thread—perfect conditions to tell a story about why radio still matters when you feel crummy. I open with a short check‑in from the couch, then take you straight into the sonic time machine: the 1970s News Blimp, that wild, witty, and perfectly stitched blend of narration, sound bites, and songs that matched the moment. Hearing a classic “end of the world” segment again—equal parts science and satire—rekindles the spark that shaped how I build shows today: go thematic, score the topic, and let music carry the meaning.

From there, we map that influence onto modern craft. I talk through why a playlist with purpose works better than a stack of hits: songs become chapters, jokes turn data into memory, and a smart clip can teach faster than a lecture. You’ll hear how free‑form FM, deep cuts, and FCC‑era constraints sparked a generation of creative producers who used humor and hooks to make facts stick. It’s media history with a pulse, and a case study in storytelling any podcaster or radio fan can use.

Then we pivot to the villain of the night: the common cold. I walk through symptoms, timelines, and the stubborn truth that a virus doesn’t care about airtime. To break the fog, we weave in comedy about office germs and a handful of gloriously retro cold‑medicine ads, the kind that promise atom‑traced relief and time‑released serenity. Some myths get poked, some advice still holds, and all of it reminds us that tone is everything when you’re trying to help people feel better. We close with a few musical nods—because when your head is stuffed and your patience is thin, a good song can be the best medicine you can actually take.

If this blend of nostalgia, craft, and sick‑day honesty hits home, tap follow, share it with a friend who loves old‑school radio, and leave a quick review. Your notes help me keep the lights on, the fire warm, and the playlists tuned just right.

A rainy Northern California morning sets the scene for a fast-moving journey through history, sport, music, and food lore—proof that one small idea can spark a chain of discovery. We start with storms, travel disruptions, and the practical realities of wind advisories before turning to the surprise heartbeat of the day: Presidents Day and the long arc of George Washington’s legacy. From there, the thread snaps to a century-old mystery—was the Baby Ruth bar named for Ruth Cleveland or a clever dodge to avoid paying Babe Ruth? We unpack the legal chess, the parachute candy drops that stunned cities, and the glowing sign near Wrigley Field that teased a truth the company wouldn’t say out loud.

The “Ruth” motif keeps running. A 16-year-old phenom, Sam Ruth, clocks a blistering 3:48.88 indoor mile, vaulting into the record books and reminding us how names echo across time. Then the dots reach the stage lights: Ruth Underwood’s leap from conservatory precision to Frank Zappa’s wild, uncategorizable genius. Her story captures the thrill of leaving safe lanes for a fearless sound where xylophones sprint, harmonies collide, and labels fall away. It’s a salute to the artists who know the rules and choose to build new ones.

“Underwood” turns one more corner into the pantry. We trace Underwood Deviled Ham, the oldest food trademark in the United States, and explore how “deviled” became culinary shorthand for bold spice. That history lands right on the plate with deviled eggs—paprika-dusted proof that everyday food can carry centuries of language, memory, and family ritual. By the time the Grateful Dead’s Friend of the Devil plays us out, the map is clear: weather alerts, Washington, candy bar folklore, track records, Zappa brilliance, and the quiet power of a shared snack all live on the same line when curiosity leads.

Join us for a lively, link-by-link ride that blends storytelling with sharp facts, from FAA delays to trademark drama, from stadium legends to kitchen classics. If you enjoyed the journey, follow the show, share it with a friend, and leave a quick review—what dot would you add to the chain?

A quiet plan to tidy the upstairs office turns into a milestone celebration and an unexpected time machine. We hit 400 episodes and crack open a plastic pouch of 45s—no sleeves, plenty of stories—and let the music score a candid look at memory, clutter, and what deserves to stay. As dust lifts, labels gleam: Columbia Hall of Fame, Motown Yesteryear, Starline, Reprise. Each record becomes a little biography of taste and time.

We start with Bob Dylan’s Lay Lady Lay and its aching flip I Threw It All Away, then stumble into David Seville and the Chipmunks for a reminder that every collection has a wild card. The vibe swings back with The Lovin’ Spoonful’s Do You Believe in Magic before Junior Walker and the All-Stars roar in with How Sweet It Is and the propulsive Nothing But Soul. Gordon Lightfoot’s If You Could Read My Mind slows the room to a hush, only for the Kinks to light it back up with All Day and All of the Night and a swaggering B-side, I Gotta Move. The Outsiders punch through with Time Won’t Let Me, and Motown’s engine purrs with the Four Tops’ I Can’t Help Myself and Stevie Wonder’s Uptight. Smokey Robinson and the Miracles close the loop with The Tracks of My Tears, the perfect smile-through-it sendoff.

Between spins, we talk about spring cleaning, sentimental cards with handwriting we can’t toss, jackets from vanished stores, and the gentle art of letting go. The takeaway is simple: keep what changes your next hour for the better—what makes you move, call, sing, or finally hang that print. Everything else can find a new story with someone else. Thanks for being part of this 400-episode ride and for letting these songs ring a little louder.

If this resonated, follow the show, share it with a friend who loves vinyl, and leave a quick review—what record would you save first?

A championship Monday feels different when the air still hums with confetti and questions. We open with the Seahawks’ 29–13 win over the Patriots, then trace an unlikely arc: Sam Darnold’s journey from castoff to Super Bowl–winning quarterback, finally ending USC’s long, strange drought at the position. Wins and losses live on the field, but legacies grow in the spaces between doubt and another shot—Darnold’s story brings that home.

From there, we tackle the messier headline: the so-called halftime “ratings war.” Bad Bunny’s broadcast performance reportedly drew colossal numbers, while Turning Point USA’s counter-show pulled millions of concurrent streamers and tens of millions of replays. What do those figures really mean? We sort out passive TV audience versus intentional streaming, the friction of switching platforms, and why comparing network reach to YouTube concurrence is apples to a different kind of fruit. It is not about picking a side; it is about reading numbers with context and resisting the easy spin that treats culture like a scoreboard.

Of course, the spectacle refuses to stay quiet. A streaker sprints into the spotlight, the anthem sparks another round of outrage, and social feeds light up faster than a two-minute drill. We talk about how leagues handle disruptions, why viral clips outpace policies, and how attention keeps drifting from the game to the circus around it. Then we change the channel—literally—to a record pulled from the shelf: Jackie DeShannon’s Put a Little Love in Your Heart. That song anchors a memory of Tom Petty pausing a set to stop a fight, then melting the tension with an impromptu cover. One moment of shared music beats a hundred shouting matches, on or off the field.

If you love sports, media, and the fault lines where culture splits, you will feel at home here. Hit play, then tell us what you watched, why you chose it, and how you read the numbers. Subscribe, share with a friend who argues about halftime shows, and leave a review with your take—we’ll feature the sharpest ones next time.

Sun on the foothills, a free leather couch on the fifth floor, and an elevator with a hard no—what could go wrong? We kick off with the studio’s furniture giveaway before demolition and follow the chain reaction as a gorgeous sofa turns into a ten-flight riddle of angles, tight turns, and reality checks. With cushions stripped and gloves on, we try to outthink a door frame, record the attempt in real time, and eventually call the only sensible play: abort. A quick breather, a “perfect” lobby nook, and then the phone rings—a violation notice that sends us back through the maze to undo the shortcut we thought we earned.

Along the way, we talk about the real price of “free”: time, sweat, and the favors that always find the person with the truck. If you’ve ever been cornered by a casual “what are you doing this weekend,” you know how fast a beer chat becomes a moving contract. We share the tactics that would have saved us—measure first, scout the route, bring the right tools, and know when the geometry wins. It’s part comedy of errors, part field guide for anyone tempted by a beautiful couch with a bad plan.

We pivot to a broader frustration: public trust in media hitting 28 percent. As radio people, that number isn’t abstract; it’s a call to tighten our work, keep language clean, and show our homework. The thread between a stairwell and a newsroom is simple: respect the path, be honest about the constraints, and don’t force what doesn’t fit. To cap the day, we pull a 1971 John Lennon Plastic Ono Band single that divided opinions then and now—proof that art, like furniture moves, works best when it owns the mess.

If this saga made you laugh, wince, or nod in recognition, hit follow, share it with the friend who always gets roped into moving, and drop your worst moving story in a review. Subscribe so you don’t miss the on-air follow-up and the next adventure we probably should think through twice.