Listening to more words than music while driving

There was a time in my life — about 30 years ago — when I couldn’t stand to hear folks talking on the radio. Of course, my first car was a 1978 Toyota Celica with nothing but an AM radio, and the only station I could pick up was in Montezuma, Ga.

Back then, a fellow named Junior Blizzard manned the microphone, and he was a wonderful guy with one of the most amazing radio voices I’ve ever heard. But as a teenager, I wasn’t too enthralled with news about upcoming revival services or hog reports. I mean, yes, that stuff is fascinating now — and Junior’s son Danny now mans the mic and does an equally fine job — but I couldn’t exactly wow the girls by rolling down my windows and blasting hog prices from my 10-watt speakers.

I wanted music on my radio. See, kids, back then we didn’t have smart phones with apps like Spotify, iTunes or Pandora. We had dumb phones that were connected to the wall by a 25-foot cord that got tangled up until it was just a 2-foot cord. The only music I got on that was when Uncle Joe called to wish me a happy birthday about five times a year:

“I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die ...”

“Um, Uncle Joe, that’s NOT the birthday song.”

“Shut up! You’re just 7 years old! What do you know?!”

“I’m 11, and I know what drunk dialing is.”

But my future cars all had semi-adequate capability of providing driving music. In the early 1990s, I was a sportswriter, which meant I traveled to every podunk high school football and baseball stadium, looking for the lights because there was no GPS or MapQuest back then. If the radio station went to commercial, I’d move on to one with more music. Or I’d pop in an AC/DC or Bocephus cassette and sing along at the top of my lungs. It kept me entertained and probably scared all the deer away on those backroads near towns like Homerville, Zebulon and Hawkinsville.

But these days I’ve found myself listening to folks talking on the radio a lot more. It’s not so much that I hate so much of today’s music and would rather jab screwdrivers in my ears than listen to Kanye West, Luke Bryan or Coldplay. After all, I can easily load Spotify and hear about 180 randomly played tunes from my Jimmy Buffett playlist.

While I still might not care about the hog report, I do enjoy catching the news from NPR. And I like to hear the folks on right-wing radio talk about how America’s going to hell in a handbasket — which seems like an awfully inconvenient way to go to hell. The producers once had me lined up to speak on Bill Bennett’s old “Morning in America” radio show, but I couldn’t handle 10 minutes on hold.

I like to hear Ike answer letters on “John Boy & Billy” and Guy Noir try to solve a case on “Prairie Home Companion.” And I now care when someone interrupts the music to tell me whether or not it’s going to rain. I’ve gotten that age where that matters for some reason.

Of course, I still go scanning for anything other than a commercial. That’s the only talking I can’t handle.

Eventually, I do reach my limit for hearing any more talking about Clinton’s emails or news about the latest cancer breakthrough that we’ll never hear about again. When I get to that point on an hourlong drive, I just cut off the radio and roll down the windows. That rushing air through the cab of my truck may be my favorite song of all.

If they’ll just let me take off my headphones and roll down the windows on a jet, air travel will be a whole lot better, too.

This story was originally published June 11, 2016 at 6:05 PM with the headline "Listening to more words than music while driving."