Transmission: Impossible

Dave is a sweet guy, witty as hell in a manic sort of way. He talks too fast, smokes too much, and laments his late start in life. He's 32 and lives with his parents. He earns five bucks an hour manning the soundboard and prepares a morning sports report that is far better than it needs to be. Like us, he has his own radio dreams. "Where else can a guy like me get into a business like this?" he asks, talking menthol smoke into the damp air. "I do something that most people in this country can't say they do. I'm on the air. And that counts for something."

Dave confesses his love for the talk format. Like any gab junkie, he lives barb-to-barb, from one in-your-face opinion to the next. Talk is his way of life, whether shooting the shit among friends or scanning the AM band for a voice of provocation.

So on this hopeful morning, sensing a kinship with us bigmouths, he leans closer to revel in the struggling station's higher mission: to prick the conscience of our apathetic citizenry, to poke playfully at its funny bone, perhaps to reinvigorate the oral tradition flagging in this TV-addicted age.

He does not mention the rumor currently making the rounds at WMBM: that the whole talk-show gig is a tax write-off.