Comrades, I have gone where I never dared dream go: right into the beating, red heart of corporate radio. To whit, Sirius XM, that bastion of commercial radio. It has subsumed me body and soul, for I sacrificed to it my Thursdays and Fridays from here until May 1st. I am, in a word, a musical programming intern. What this as yet entails, I have only the faintest clue. I seem consigned to editing the radio programming and making sure that the musical tracks do not mush together or exist too far apart; I am to “ingest” music into the system and fix old, broken files, but much beyond that I do not know. I plan to pitch them the idea that the performer Astronautalis -who shall be coming here in the next month- deserves an interview, but do not hold my breath. I am only a minnow swimming in the pond of the corporation, and doubtless there are sea bass that will wander in from time to time looking for quick snacks.

What will I be doing with and about music? It is impossible to say. I do not reckon on much. I expect only that I will be placed on “intern” row and left to peck away at a keyboard, correcting track information so the subscribers do not complain. There exists a chance to rub shoulders with a number of guest artists, but I do not hold my breath or expect much of anything to come of this. Indeed, should all go as planned I may not even be attending this job beyond day two. Gears are turning, wheels are in motion and I sense the call of cold,harsh and stupid freedom pulling me on to New York City. On some level I favor simply disappearing into the wilds of that concrete jungle following Saturday’s performance, slithering away into the occult underground to become as they are, those members of a self-styled Ultraculture. The life of a journalist, I am quickly learning, is not for me, as I do not have the heart to pursue the nation’s “leaders” and the mass of dogs that gather yapping at their heels. Neither do I enjoy being told to find a story only to receive no help with actually finding one; I am quite capable of writing, professor, but writing is only a portion of the process. Finally, I detest the idea being perpetuated that the only news in this nation is that which deals with the hidden doings of the rich and powerful and that the journalist is a “watchdog” against the system (if only they realized for two seconds that they are themselves responsible for propping up this very same system with their shortsighted behavior, no matter how much they expose the wrong-doings of the elite)!

This concludes my ranting for the evening. I will try to refrain from such outbursts in the future, but you, dear readers, are the only audience I have from the heart of this ice city. God speed in your lives; until Thursday!