1992 - Medford, Oregon

I'd been on the air in Medford about a month when the blondes started protesting.

The station owner tilted back in his buttery leather office chair and cackled when he heard about the plans of some area women to set up camp in front of the building, which was located in a high-visibility cow pasture outside of town. "I need to send a statement to the TV stations. You can't buy this kind of publicity!"

Good as their threats, that afternoon a group of women with hair ranging from blinding white to yolk yellow were standing outside the station with signs that said "BEAT 92 BEATS DOWN WOMEN" and "BLONDES BOYCOTT THE BEAT". Since there'd been no car stereo thefts or record-breaking bake sales that day, it was the top story on all three local TV outlets. The incident also made the second page of the Medford Mail Tribune, complete with a picture of protesters standing in front of a strategically-placed station banner.

And what had I done to deserve such attention? Simply indulged my listeners' overwhelming desire to broadcast their favorite blonde jokes. As far as I was concerned, it was a public service after what had happened to me the night before.

I was the host of happy hour at Club Tropic, a brick hole decorated with plastic palm trees and Dollar Store leis that passed for a dance club. The majority of the station staff was there: The station owner, his wife with the stand-alone breasts, various sales people and--because the drinks and buffet were free--all of the full-time jocks. Also making an appearance was Carli, a dishwater blonde mother of two who had been doing weekends on the station for years. She plopped herself down next to me, almost missing the seat.

"You sound pretty good on the air," she slurred. "Got that sweet little southern accent goin' on." She threw back a big gulp of Jack & Coke and held up her glass to the bored waitress, who obviously knew the night's tips wouldn't be worth walking around for hours in a sarong and 4-inch heels.

"Thanks," I said. "But I'm working on sounding a little less like Ellie Mae." An instinct for self-preservation coaxed me to try and turn away, but as I shifted around in the off-kilter chair I felt a tug. The back of my sweater was caught on the ripped vinyl, and I couldn't see to unhook it because of the premature strobe lighting on the empty dance floor. I was stuck.

"Why would you wanna change it? Guys love that stuff. It's why Matt hired you instead of me," she said.

"Really? I didn't know you were up for the job. I just answered an ad." Smiling at her, I made a show of trying to release myself from the seat.

"Yeah, he promised it to me but said that Phil made him interview other people," she said. "But it didn't really piss me off that he gave it to somebody else until I saw you."

"Oh yeah?" I asked. "Why is that?"

She drained what was left of her drink and stood up. " 'Cause he swore to me he would never hire a fat chick."

Posted: Thursday, Mar 25 2010 at 3:22 PM

Comments: